Sword of Shame (35 page)

‘I shall be in the kitchens,' said Pauline sullenly, hurling her hoe into the cabbages and moving away with a limp Bartholomew knew was contrived, ‘scouring pans.'

Christiana allowed herself a smile of satisfaction, then turned to Rose. ‘You said you are with child. When did you first realize you were in this predicament? This morning, when you confided in me?'

‘I have known since the beginning of summer. I hoped Sir Elias Askyl might take me as his bride, but he has proven remarkably difficult to pin down. He leers and winks, but politely declines my favours when I catch him alone.'

‘Perhaps he prefers Joan,' suggested Michael baldly. ‘He leers and winks at her, too, and she is no penniless novice.'

‘Perhaps he does,' acknowledged Rose with a resigned scowl. ‘Despite the fact that she is ugly and I am beautiful. No one can deny that wealth is powerful asset.'

‘If Askyl rejects your offers, then he is not the father of your child,' said Christiana. ‘So who is?'

‘I told you: I do not know. It might be James–a sweet boy, although inclined to fumble. It might be Chaplain Dole, who is a kinder man than his warrior friends. Hog comforted me one night when Sir Elias failed to arrive for a tryst. Then there are several villagers who are fine fellows…'

‘Lord!' exclaimed Michael, regarding her with round eyes. ‘Perhaps it would be quicker to give us a list of the men who have
not
lain with you.'

‘Askyl,' supplied Bartholomew helpfully. ‘And you did not mention Lymbury, Sister.'

‘Sir Philip thought himself a great lover, but he was not very effective with his weaponry, if you take my meaning.'

‘No,' said Michael, puzzled and intrigued. ‘I do not.'

‘Did Lymbury know about the child?' interrupted Bartholomew, not wanting Rose to go into those sort of details in front of Christiana. The poor woman was already pale with mortification.

Rose shook her head. ‘I was going to tell him yesterday–I know he would have looked after us both. But the killer got there first.'

Christiana rubbed her eyes tiredly. ‘I should eject you today. You have brought my priory into disrepute with your wanton behaviour. What will the Bishop say, when he hears one of my nuns is pregnant, and half the men in the county might be the father?'

‘I am not a nun,' said Rose defiantly. ‘And I never intended to become one. I escaped after vespers last night, to tell Sir Elias about my predicament–I thought it might melt his heart. But I could not find him–he was not at the manor-house. Neither was Joan. I hope they were not…together.'

‘Askyl does wander about a lot,' said Christiana. ‘He
was supposed to be hunting yesterday, but I saw him at the manor-house, arguing with Lymbury. I could not hear what they were saying, because I was too far away, but Lymbury had that horrible sword and was holding it in a very threatening manner.'

‘When did this happen?' asked Michael.

Christiana shook her head. ‘It was after everyone had gone hunting, because the house was otherwise deserted. I have a standing offer of free eggs, so I collected them from the hen-coop myself. Later, I came across James, who offered to carry them home for me.'

‘James said he had met you,' said Michael. ‘And we knew Lymbury had quarrelled with his friends, although we were not told that Askyl's most recent spat was when he claimed to be out hunting.'

‘If Sir Elias had told you that, it would have been
asking
for everyone to accuse him of murder,' said Rose, defensive of the man she had a hankering for. ‘So who can blame him for not telling you? But what will happen to me? My hopes of escorting him to the altar are fading–although I intend to persist until I know for certain my efforts are in vain–and I can hardly stay here.'

Michael was unsympathetic. ‘Your predicament is generally known as the “wages of sin”, madam. Perhaps I should ask the Bishop to send
you
to Chatteris.'

She gave a wan smile. ‘I might go. It is better than being a vagrant, and there are handsome farmers near Chatteris, who might enjoy my company.'

Christiana grabbed her arm and marched her away, presumably to give her a lecture about morals that would be like water off a duck's back.

Bartholomew watched them go. ‘Last night, Rose was my favourite suspect for Lymbury's murder, but I think she was right when she said he would have looked after her and her child. His death has put her in an awkward
position, and I am inclined to believe she wishes he were still alive.'

Michael agreed. ‘I do not think she is the killer, either. However, the man of her dreams–Askyl–did not tell us he had returned to the manor and argued with Lymbury, which in itself smacks of suspicion. Perhaps he would not make such a good husband after all.'

They turned at the sound of a shout. It was James, crimson-faced and panting furiously yet again.

‘I think there is something wrong with him,' said Bartholomew. ‘It is not normal for a young man to be red all the time–nor to gasp after a run. He works outside and should be fit.'

‘Lady Joan asks if you will go to the hall,' the boy gulped. ‘She says William the Vicar is dead.'

 

For the second time, Bartholomew knelt next to a corpse in Valence Manor. William lay in a pool of gore and had been stabbed in the back. From the size of the wound, Bartholomew suspected the vicar had been killed with the same sword as had Lymbury. A good deal of blood had splattered across the floor, covering such a large area that Bartholomew could only suppose that William had staggered around before succumbing to his injury. When he examined the priest's hands, they were red, but not excessively so.

‘I think he grappled with his attacker,' he said to Michael. ‘Probably trying to wrest away the weapon that killed him. The blood on his hands was transferred to him by the killer–it did not come directly from his wound, because he would not have been able to reach that high up his back.'

‘Are you sure?' asked Michael, thinking it an odd conclusion to have drawn.

‘Not really. I would have suggested you looked for
tell-tale stains on your suspects' hands, but the killer will have scrubbed them clean by now.'

‘Just as you are about to do,' said Michael. ‘Here comes James with the water you ordered.'

James had gone from red to white, and after he had delivered the jug to the physician, he stood close to his father, as though he expected Joan to accuse him of another crime. Joan was sitting next to Askyl, who was weeping softly, while Dole stood near the hearth, kicking the ashes with the toe of his boot. Hog sighed angrily when some scattered across the polished floor.

‘Stop that, Father,' he barked. ‘It takes a lot of work to keep the wood looking nice. And I have asked you before to remove your spurs when you come in here. The metal makes dents, and I have to file down the planks with a special chisel to remove them.' He waved the tool in a way that made Bartholomew suspect the bailiff would dearly like to plunge it into Dole's chest–or back.

‘When did you last see William?' asked Michael, when Dole seemed ready to retort with a sharp comment that would antagonize the bailiff. He did not want to waste time with yet another spat.

Askyl raised a tear-stained face. ‘After you went to the nunnery last night, William and I practised our swordplay in the yard. He used Lymbury's blade, and I had my own; Dole watched. Then William went to his house, and Dole and I stayed here, talking. When I woke this morning, I came downstairs to find…'

‘William is cold and a little stiff,' said Bartholomew to Michael in the silence that followed the knight's faltering explanation. ‘He probably did die during the night.'

‘I have a house near Ickleton Priory,' said Dole, taking up the tale. ‘I went there when I had finished chatting to Askyl, but I live on my own, so no one can vouch
for me. And I left Askyl alone, so no one can vouch for him, either. I can only tell you that we do not murder comrades-in-arms. We did not kill Lymbury, and we did not kill William.'

‘But you disliked William,' said Michael, regarding him intently. ‘You bickered constantly.'

‘I did dislike him,' admitted Dole. ‘Lymbury should never have made him Ickleton's vicar. He had no vocation as a priest, and the villagers deserve better.'

‘You
do
have a vocation?' asked Michael. ‘Even though you hanker after Sister Rose, and would marry her in a trice, were she to show any interest in you? You may even be the father of her child.'

Dole regarded him contemptuously. ‘I wondered how long it would be before accusations were levelled from that quarter. Yes, I admire Rose, and yes, I would have taken her as my wife, had she not been repelled by my injury. But it was not to be, and I only broke my vows with her once. I guessed she was with child, but the baby is unlikely to be mine. Others serviced her far more often than I.'

‘It will not be my husband's, either,' said Joan spitefully. ‘As Rose will tell you. Oh yes, I knew what they did when I went to visit my mother. But why do you think we have no children of our own? Everyone blames the woman for being barren in such situations, but Philip was married twice before and had mistresses aplenty. And not one has borne him a brat. That should tell you something.'

But Michael did not think Lymbury's ability to produce heirs was relevant to the murders. He returned to the matter of the vicar. ‘William was going to read Lymbury's will today. Where is it?'

A search of William's clothing revealed no documents, so Askyl took Bartholomew and Michael to the priest's house, a small, pretty building on the edge of
Ickleton's oak-shaded churchyard. Askyl started in shock when he approached a cupboard in the wall near the fireplace. ‘This is where he kept his valuables, but the lock has been smashed. Someone was here before us.'

‘Someone
has
broken the lock,' acknowledged Michael. ‘But there is a lot of jewellery here. A normal thief would have stolen that, so I conclude the burglar wanted one thing only: the will.'

‘Why would the will be here?' asked Bartholomew. ‘Why would Lymbury not keep it himself?'

Askyl rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘William always stored them for him. I think he believed no one would risk his soul by breaking in to a priest's house, and so they would be safer here.'

Bartholomew inspected the damage to the cupboard. ‘Actually, the lock has not been smashed–it has been prised out of the door. Whoever did this did not strike blindly, but attacked with precision.'

‘How curious,' said Michael, inspecting the marks the physician pointed out. He watched hopefully when Bartholomew leaned down to retrieve something from the floor, then grimaced his disappointment when it was tossed away. Whatever it was had been deemed irrelevant. He turned to the knight, who sat on a bench and made no attempt to wipe away the tears that streamed down his face. ‘You were seen arguing with Lymbury yesterday–during the hunt. What about?'

Askyl sighed. ‘About that damned sword. You see, I slipped back to the manor-house to escape from Rose and Joan. I happened across Lymbury, who was waiting for James to fetch William–to dictate his latest will. He said he intended to leave that sword to William, and I asked him to rethink.'

‘Why?' asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought you liked William–you are certainly more distressed by his death
than you were about Lymbury's. Why should you object to him inheriting a fine weapon?'

‘It brings unhappiness and shame,' explained Askyl unsteadily. ‘And it has a wicked history, as Dole told you. I did not want William tainted with it.'

‘Most men would be flattered by two women lusting after them,' said Michael, curious as to why the knight should have fled their attentions. ‘One is pretty and the other is rich. It is quite a choice.'

‘I do not think Rose is pretty, and I am not sure Joan will be rich once the will is read,' said Askyl with a sniff. ‘I go through the motions, pretending to be honoured by their attentions, but I wish they would just leave me alone.'

‘You prefer William,' said Bartholomew in sudden understanding. ‘He is the reason you came to Ickleton. And you permit Rose and Joan to fawn over you in order to conceal your true feelings. Did William reciprocate?'

Askyl was ashen-faced. ‘I suppose it does not matter now he is dead. Yes, William and I were close and I did use those two ridiculous women to conceal it. I do not know what I shall do now he is gone.'

‘Were you telling the truth when you said William came home alone last night?' asked Bartholomew, once the knight had composed himself again.

Askyl nodded. ‘I wanted him to stay with me after what had happened to Lymbury, but Dole was beginning to be suspicious, so we separated. The next time I saw William, he was dead.'

Bartholomew looked around the house thoughtfully, then pointed to a domed hat that lay on the table. ‘He was wearing that yesterday, so I think he
did
come here after leaving you. Then he must have discovered someone had broken into his cupboard, and returned to the manor-house. Perhaps he confronted the thief and was killed.'

‘I suppose Dole could have done it,' said Askyl, speaking with clear reluctance. ‘After he and I had finished talking about…'

‘About what?' demanded Michael, when the knight trailed off unhappily.

‘About a man called Curterne. He was killed at Poitiers–stabbed in the back with his own sword. Dole and I discussed it, because it was the same weapon that killed Lymbury.'

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Was Curterne killed by a Frenchman?'

Askyl chewed his bottom lip. ‘I do not believe so. Lymbury, William, Dole and I saw him alive after the battle–he spent most of it under a hedge. It was cowardly, but not all men are suited to war.'