Sword of Shame

I

Poitiers, France: September 1356

Matthew de Curterne lay under the hedge near Nouaille Wood, praying no one would notice him. He covered his ears with his hands, trying to block out the clash of arms and the screams of wounded men, and closed his eyes so he would not see the ground churned into bloody mud by the combatants’ feet. When the Black Prince had called for men to fight the French, Curterne had been proud to rally, retrieving the old sword from under his bed in Down St Mary, and selling his family’s silver to purchase armour and a horse. Brave men made their fortunes in war, and Curterne intended to return home wealthy.

But the campaign had been a misery of torrential rain, burning heat, scant supplies and disease. And now the Black Prince was trapped at Poitiers by a French force far stronger than his own. Curterne scrambled away when a pair of desperate skirmishers came too close, and raised his sword to protect himself. When they had gone, he gazed at the weapon’s tempered steel blade and its dog-headed cross, hating it for making him think he could be a warrior when he had known all his life that he was nothing of the kind. He had always loathed any kind of conflict, and even the sight of blood made him sick to his stomach. It was the sword’s fault, of course. When he was a small child it had cut him badly-he still bore the scar across his palm-but the incident had made him nervous and hesitant with weapons, much to his tutors’ dismay and disgust.

He glared at the blade, recalling how he had sensed it almost taunting him for his faint-heartedness when he had pulled it from its dusty hiding place all those months ago. He should have known it would bring him bad luck, and he should have resisted the urge to prove it was wrong about him. He ducked down again when a horse galloped past, its rider’s shield raised against a sudden hail of arrows. He fought back bitter tears, frightened to keep the weapon, but even more afraid to toss it away from him and leave himself defenceless. He curled into a tight ball and tried to picture the cool green Devonshire hills, and the peace of home.

Just when he thought all was lost and the entire English army would be slaughtered, the enemy began to retreat, first as a trickle, then as a rout. Curterne crawled out from under the hedge, scarcely believing his luck-he had survived and the English had won against overwhelming odds! His four companions-men who had shared his campfire these last few months-came to join him, torn and bloodied from the encounter. Elias Askyl was first, his handsome face lit with savage joy, and his fair curls limp with sweat and dirt. Then came Philip Lymbury, the oldest, who had declared himself unwell that morning, but who had still fought with a courage Curterne found impossible to comprehend. Behind Lymbury was the sly Geoffrey Dole, his face awash with blood; Curterne felt queasy when he saw the injury that had deprived Dole of most of his nose. And lastly, there was William, plump and always cheerful.

‘What a victory!’ cried Askyl, elated. ‘This day will be remembered for all eternity, and so will the names of those who fought bravely.’

‘While those who skulked under hedges will be lost in ignominy,’ said Dole, his voice muffled through the cloth he held to his ravaged face. ‘We needed you, Curterne, but you ran away and hid.’

‘What were you thinking, man?’ demanded Lymbury furiously. ‘Your timidity might have seen us all killed.’

‘And you with that fine sword, too,’ added William. His normally smiling face was cold and unfriendly. ‘You disgust me.’

They walked away and Curterne began to sob, feeling shame burning inside him like a wound. He was still weeping an hour later when he heard footsteps behind him. He fumbled for his sword, but the other man reached it first, and there was a sudden pain between his shoulder blades.

‘Stabbed in the back,’ said a soft voice. It was familiar-one of his companions, perhaps-but Curterne’s senses were reeling, and he could not remember the name. ‘It is a fitting end for a coward. You have brought shame on this fine weapon, but I have avenged it.’

II

Ickleton, Cambridgeshire: July 1357

The rich agricultural land south of Cambridge was burned yellow by the summer sun. Crops swayed in the afternoon breeze, and a robin trilled in a nearby wood. The horses’ hoofs thumped gently on the baked mud of the path, punctuated by the occasional creak of leather and the jingle of metal. Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Fellow of Michaelhouse at the University of Cambridge, closed his eyes, relishing the peace after the frantic bustle associated with the end of term.

‘This is a nasty place,’ said his travelling companion, Brother Michael, looking around him disparagingly. ‘It is all trees, fields and water-meadows, and we have not passed a proper building in hours. I wish Master Langelee had not sent us on this errand. The rent we receive from the manor at Ickleton is not worth this inconvenience, and my time could be better spent on other matters.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew drowsily; Michael had been saying the same thing since they had started their journey at dawn that morning. Personally, the physician was quite happy to spend a few days away. Not only did it mean a respite from examining corpses-part of his duties at the University entailed inspecting the bodies of scholars who had died unexpectedly or violently-but Cambridge reeked in hot weather, and it was good to exchange the noxious stench of sun-seared sewage for grain-scented air. He began to relax for the first time in weeks. The previous term had been desperately busy, and it was a relief to be free of clamouring students.

‘I dislike haring around the country on second-rate nags,’ continued the Benedictine irritably, eyeing his horse with rank disapproval. ‘It is an outrage to provide a rider of my calibre with an animal like this. Langelee thinks of nothing but saving money these days.’

‘He does,’ said Bartholomew, resisting the urge to point out that Michael’s horse was far better than his own. The monk was fat, and Bartholomew had let him take the stronger of the two palfreys on the grounds that he did not think the other could have carried his large friend for the ten miles to Ickleton and then home again. It would have collapsed.

‘Our College owns Valence Manor in the parish of Ickleton,’ Michael rambled on. ‘And the man who lives there, Sir Philip Lymbury, pays us rent each spring. But this year, we have had nothing-except a letter informing us that he has donated our money to Ickleton Priory instead.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew, recalling his colleagues’ outrage when the missive had arrived. He was more sanguine about the matter: Michaelhouse possessed the relevant deeds of ownership, and the courts would eventually order Lymbury to pay the outstanding debt. But lawyers were expensive, so instead, Master Langelee had decided to send two of his senior Fellows to find out what Lymbury thought he was doing. Bartholomew and Michael were to collect the outstanding ten marks-either from Lymbury or the priory-and return with it immediately. The money was earmarked to pay for new latrines, and Langelee did not need to stress the urgency of the situation to his two scholars: they had been complaining about the state of the old ones for months.

Michael twisted around in his saddle. ‘Are you going to agree with everything I say, or do you actually possess a mind of your own?’

‘If I voice an opinion you will argue-but I presided over seventeen student disputations last week and I am tired of debate. Here is the ford across the Cam-barely ankle deep after all this dry weather-and Langelee said our manor lies just beyond that wood.’

Michael led the way along a narrow track lined with ancient trees. ‘According to him, this copse is also part of our manor.’

Bartholomew was about to acknowledge him with another monosyllabic answer, when there was a shout, followed by a lot of crashing. Suddenly, a deer burst from the vegetation in front of them, then tore away into the undergrowth to their right. It was a beautiful animal, with a coat of russet red. Moments later, three horsemen hurtled from the trees, and the leading one was obliged to rein in sharply to avoid colliding with Bartholomew.

‘Watch out!’ The rider was a sturdy man with a slashing scar across his face that rendered him all but nose-less.

Bartholomew wanted to point out that he had not been the one careening wildly across a public highway, but his nag had been frightened by the abrupt commotion, and it started to buck. He was a poor horseman, and trying to control the beast took all his concentration.

‘Be careful, Dole!’ shouted the second man, directing his own horse in a tight circle to avoid the melee. He wore the half-armour of a knight at ease, and rode as if he had been born in the saddle. He was tall and strong, and his blue eyes and mane of golden curls rendered him extraordinarily handsome. ‘Lymbury’s peasants do not know how to ride.’

‘We are not peasants,’ objected Michael, moving forward to take the reins of Bartholomew’s horse before the struggling physician could embarrass him further. ‘We are scholars from the University at Cambridge.’

‘Have you seen a deer?’ asked the last of the three, trotting up with a smile. He was plump, genial and dressed in the dark habit of a priest. A domed hat kept the sun from his eyes. ‘A red one?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew curtly, dismounting as soon as Michael stopped his horse from prancing. He felt a good deal safer once on solid ground.

‘It definitely came this way,’ said the fat priest. ‘I saw it myself.’

‘It must be over there,’ said Dole, flinging out a hand to encompass a vast swathe of woodland. He also wore robes that showed he had taken holy orders, although they were tempered by good boots and spurs. ‘It does not matter-the stag we caught yesterday will provide us with meat for a few days yet. And it is too hot for chasing around the countryside today. Shall we go home?’

‘Already?’ asked the second man-the knight. ‘We came out to practise our skills with weapons, and all we have done so far is wave our lances at the crows eating Lymbury’s corn.’

‘I did not enjoy using his sword to spar with you yesterday, William,’ said Dole to the chubby priest. ‘It may have fine balance and a good grip, but it is overly heavy for my taste.’

‘It is an excellent weapon,’ countered William. ‘It is a pity it was not put to better use last summer. That battle would have been over in half the time had it been wielded by a true warrior and not left in the hands of a coward.’

The good-looking knight turned to the scholars when Dole responded with a tart comment and the two clerics began to bicker. ‘We three-and Lymbury-were at the Battle of Poitiers,’ he explained.

‘So was he,’ said Michael, nodding at Bartholomew, who looked anything but soldierly as he gripped his horse’s reins with obvious unease. Michael could see the knight did not believe him, so added, ‘He fought on foot.’

‘Why are you so far from your University?’ asked William, raising a plump hand to indicate he had had enough of his quarrel with Dole. Dole looked angry to be cut off mid-sentence. ‘Are you lost?’

Michael gave a pained smile. ‘No, we have come to visit our manor. These woods belong to us-that is, to Michaelhouse.’

William nodded in a way that suggested he was annoyed with himself. ‘You must forgive us, Brother. Of course we know Michaelhouse owns Valence Manor-and that our friend Philip Lymbury pays you rent each year. But we were so engrossed with the hunt that our wits were elsewhere. We shall take you to Lymbury immediately. I am William the Vicar, priest of Ickleton church. My companion here is Sir Elias Askyl, knighted for his courage at Poitiers.’

The handsome knight nodded a polite greeting. ‘But I do not think Lymbury is expecting you. He said nothing this morning.’

‘You did not write, to tell him you were coming,’ said William, frowning his puzzlement. ‘I am his clerk, as well as his parish priest, and I read all his correspondence.’

‘He wrote to us, though,’ said Michael acidly. ‘He said he was donating our rent to the priory.’

William raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘He told me he was thinking about deferring payment, in order to raise enough to establish a chantry for his soul, but he did not say he had actually done it. He must have dictated your letter to the nuns’ chaplain.’ He waved a dismissive hand at his fellow cleric.

‘That is me-Geoffrey Dole,’ said the scarred man, shooting William a sour look for the unflattering introduction. ‘After we fought at Poitiers together, Lymbury arranged for me to be appointed chaplain to Ickleton Priory. I did not scribe your letter, though. One of the nuns must have done it.’

‘Lymbury gave me my Ickleton appointment, too,’ said William to Michael. ‘He is a man who knows how to treat old companions-at-arms.’

‘Here comes Sister Rose,’ said Dole, looking behind the scholars. He smiled politely and rather longingly at the woman who emerged from the undergrowth.

Bartholomew turned to see a woman sitting astride a horse with an ease he immediately envied. She wore the habit of a Benedictine nun, but it had been shaped to show off the slender lines of her figure, and she had abandoned the matronly wimple in favour of a gold fret that kept her saffron-coloured plaits in place. Her eyes were black and her skin dusky, and Bartholomew wondered whether her ancestors had hailed from the hot lands of the south. Behind her, draped across the saddle, was a red deer with an arrow through its neck.

‘God’s teeth!’ exclaimed Askyl, regarding the animal in astonishment. ‘That is the beast we were chasing; I recognize its markings. Did you shoot it?’

‘Well, it did not jump on my saddle of its own accord,’ said Sister Rose with a coquettish smirk. She suddenly became aware of Michael, and the grin faded somewhat. ‘Damn! A Benedictine!’

Bartholomew understood her discomfort, given the way she was dressed-and he could hear a distant bell announcing the office of nones; Rose was breaking several of her Order’s rules.

Michael’s expression was stern. ‘My Bishop deposed a prioress of Ickleton five years ago for permitting licentious behaviour among her nuns. Perhaps her successor’s morals are no better.’

Rose pouted prettily. ‘Sir Philip Lymbury invited me to hunt-to give me an opportunity to exercise his horses and provide fresh meat for my sisters. What is wrong with that? Besides, the party includes Chaplain Dole and William the Vicar, so it is all perfectly respectable.’

Michael’s expression said there was a very great deal wrong with that, particularly since he was not convinced that the clerics in question were particularly righteous ones. But before he could speak, there was another thud of hoofs, and two more people appeared. One was a large lady in a tight green kirtle. Her head-dress was in disarray, and she made a hasty attempt to straighten it when she spotted Askyl. The second was an elderly nun on a mule, who looked as though she heartily wished she were somewhere else, and who winced as though riding caused her pain.

‘You should have waited,’ said the woman in green, regarding Sister Rose angrily. ‘It was unkind to ask us to put the deer on your horse, then canter off alone. Tell her, Sir Elias.’

‘Very mischievous,’ said the knight uncomfortably, not looking at either woman. ‘You should probably apologize.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Sister Rose coolly. She turned to Michael again. ‘This is Lady Joan Lymbury, wife to the lord of several local manors, which she thinks makes her better than the rest of us. And my escort, to keep me free from sin on this wicked outing, is Dame Pauline de Gras.’

Pauline looked Michael up and down with sharp black eyes. ‘The Bishop is always sending spies to learn why our priory is poor, and you have the portly look of an Ely monk about you. Have you come to paw through our accounts again-my accounts, since I am the only one there who can write?’

Bartholomew struggled not to laugh. He had visited Ely Abbey, and had never seen so many well-fed men; Michael had appeared positively slender beside some of the monstrous girths that waddled through its cloisters. Michael regarded her icily, he disliked people commenting on his weight.

‘I may inspect them, if I feel it necessary,’ he replied stiffly. ‘However, the main reason for our visit is to collect the rent from Valence Manor.’

‘That may be difficult,’ said Pauline defiantly. ‘Lymbury gave it to our priory, and we are in desperate need.’

‘So is Michaelhouse,’ said Michael tartly. ‘And if you saw our latrines, you would know why.’

‘But we need the money for food,’ argued Pauline. She eyed Michael’s paunch meaningfully.

‘Ah,’ said Dole, ‘you wrote the letter to the scholars, did you, madam? Telling them that Lymbury had given Michaelhouse’s rent to-’

‘What letter?’ demanded Pauline. ‘I have scribed no letters-especially ones that bring greedy men here in an attempt to deprive us of something that was freely given. Do you think me a fool?’

‘You are in an awkward position,’ muttered Bartholomew in an aside to Michael, when Sister Rose and Lady Joan started to quarrel about who had shot the deer, both vying for the attention of the god-like Askyl. ‘You have your College on one hand, and a house of your Order on the other. You may find your loyalties conflict. Do you want to return to Cambridge, and leave me to deal with this?’

‘You are not sufficiently cunning,’ replied Michael in a whisper. ‘And sly nuns will take advantage of you. I do not like the look of their companions, either-those dubious clerics or that pretty knight. We should stick together if we want to best them.’

‘I want to go home,’ announced Dame Pauline, flailing with her heels in an attempt to move the mule. It snickered angrily and continued to eat grass. ‘My bones ache from all this bouncing about-just as I told the prioress they would. Is this any way to treat the only literate woman in her convent?’

‘Perhaps Lady Joan will give you ten marks from her clothing allowance, Brother,’ said Sister Rose, abandoning her row with the lady of the manor, and turning to Michael. She smiled alluringly as she adjusted her low neckline. ‘She and Sir Philip are very wealthy-they rent Valence Manor from Michaelhouse, but they own other estates, too.’

Joan pulled a face at her as she addressed Michael. ‘This nun foisted herself on our hunt, but my real companions are these gentlemen. There are the two priests, and then there is Sir Elias Askyl.’

Even Bartholomew, not always astute when it came to romantic entanglements, could not fail to notice the smouldering glance she shot in the knight’s direction. Askyl returned the look with an expression the physician found hard to interpret. Was it pleasure that he had captured the affections of his host’s wife, or an indication that the attraction was shared? He found the latter hard to believe: Joan was heavily built and plain-faced. However, he knew there was no accounting for taste.

‘Sir Elias is a very brave knight,’ added Rose, treating Askyl to a simper of her own. Askyl bowed in a way that was flirtatious, and Bartholomew wondered what was going on. He glanced at the two clerics, to see if he could gauge anything from their reactions. William was laughing, but his amusement seemed to derive from the fact that Dole’s ravaged face was as black as thunder. Did Chaplain Dole hold a fancy for the nun, and resent the fact that she preferred Askyl? But why should William find pleasure in an old comrade’s discomfort?

‘Sister Rose has taken the veil,’ gloated Joan. ‘Therefore, most things are forbidden to her, including very brave knights.’

‘I am not a nun yet,’ said Rose. ‘I may not take my vows-it depends on what else comes along.’

‘You have a true sense of vocation, then,’ remarked Michael caustically.

‘I have one,’ said old Pauline, still trying to drag her mule away from its grass. ‘And it involves an afternoon doze in a cool dormitory before supper. If I do not get it, I shall be vexed.’

‘You are always vexed,’ said Rose with a sigh. ‘Prioress Christiana was cruel to foist you on me-you have done nothing but whine all day. Go home then, and leave Sir Elias and me to take this carcass to the manor-house. Perhaps Sir Philip will spare you its hooves for a soothing broth.’

‘He had better not,’ declared Pauline venomously. ‘Not when I was promised a haunch. Sir Philip is always forcing me out on these vile jaunts-he likes your company and the prioress will not let you go alone. But she should put a stop to it.’

‘Prioress Christiana is afraid of losing Sir Philip’s good will,’ explained Sister Rose smugly to Michael, trying to annoy the old nun by revealing confidences the priory would probably prefer kept to itself. ‘He supplies the priory with eggs, and she dares not risk such a valuable resource. She knows my company pleases him, so she lets me go to him whenever he asks.’

She shot Lady Joan a spiteful glance, to see whether the comment had aggravated her rival, too.

It had. Joan glowered sullenly. ‘I tell my husband I dislike hunting with nuns, but he always says the priory needs the fresh meat Sister Rose provides. It is not fair because, more often than not, he does not hunt himself, which leaves me in the company of dull monastic ladies.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew, when the hunting party began to debate whether meat was of any use to women who knelt around praying all day. ‘What is going on? Joan is married to Lymbury, but clearly adores Askyl. Sister Rose also admires Askyl, but seems to have some sort of understanding with Lymbury. Not surprisingly, the two women detest each other. I cannot decide which of the pair Askyl prefers, but Chaplain Dole has a definite hankering for Rose.’

‘Meanwhile, Dole and William the Vicar are at loggerheads,’ added Bartholomew. ‘And Dame Pauline seems to hate everyone. We have walked into a war.’

Askyl sighed, indicating he was bored with the discussion, and steered his horse towards home. Bartholomew watched fascinated, as Joan and Rose jostled each other to ride next to him. Joan emerged the victor, because her horse was larger, and Rose was livid when she was forced to drop behind. William and Dole hastened to join her, and the former shot a triumphant glance at the latter when he got there first. Chaplain Dole fingered the dagger in his belt as he watched them go, an expression of dark resentment on his face.

‘I had better engage Dole in polite conversation before we witness a murder,’ said Michael. ‘And you should help Pauline: her mule will still be eating grass tomorrow unless someone steps in.’

Bartholomew led his horse and Pauline’s mule along the woodland track, well behind the others. The old nun began a litany of complaints about everything-from her painful hips to the muddy taste of river trout-and he reflected wryly that her conversation was no more edifying than Michael’s had been.

Eventually, they emerged from the trees and followed a brook through pretty water-meadows. As they approached the village, Bartholomew saw people hoeing the fields. The labourers stopped work to watch the little cavalcade pass, but none returned the physician’s friendly greetings.

The village comprised small crofts scattered along a winding road. A large and unusually beautiful church nestled in the heart of the settlement; Michaelhouse’s manor lay to its south-east, and the priory to its west. The land was flat, and most trees had been felled for building or firewood, so Bartholomew could see for a considerable distance. He commented to Pauline that some houses were larger than the others. She told him there were several manors in the parish, some of which were owned by Lymbury, although he preferred to live in the one he rented from Michaelhouse because of its central location and its new tiled roof. She pointed to it-a fine hall set amid a range of thatched outbuildings. A track fringed with young oaks led to its front door, and Askyl, who was in the lead, was just about to turn down it, when a youth stumbled towards them. The boy’s face was red, and he was panting so hard he could barely breathe. He wore a fine new tunic, so white it hurt the eyes in the strong sunlight.

‘There you are, Father,’ he gasped to William. ‘I have been looking for you ever since this morning-I must have run miles! Sir Philip says please come straight away. He is composing his new will, and wants you to write it down for him.’

‘Lymbury is unwell?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing mortal illness might explain the man’s unusual attitude towards paying the rent.

William shook his head. ‘He is always making wills. I have scribed at least six since Poitiers.’

‘My husband always leaves me well provided for, though,’ said Joan smugly. ‘I am no poor nun. If he dies, I shall have plenty with which to satisfy a new husband.’

Rose’s expression was resentful. ‘Except beauty, of course. Still, a man could always have his daily bread from you, and go elsewhere for his meat. But my throat is dry, and I imagine Dame Pauline will appreciate a cup of wine before returning to the priory. We shall avail ourselves of Sir Philip’s hospitality, and listen to him dictating his latest will at the same time.’

Pauline glared at her. ‘I am tired, and want to go-’

‘It is very good wine,’ said Rose firmly. She slid off her horse and marched towards the house before the nun could object further. Since Askyl was aiming for the door, too, Joan hurried to catch up with him, and Michael sniggered as all three became jammed in the entrance. William gave them a shove to relieve the blockage, and the entire contingent shot through in a rush, leaving the two scholars standing alone outside. Suddenly, there was a piercing scream. Michael and Bartholomew stared at each other for a moment, then entered the manor at a run-up the spiral stairs to the main hall on the first floor.

Valence Manor’s chief room was a handsome solar, which smelled of wood smoke and the honeyed beeswax that had been used to polish its fine oaken floor-someone obviously took a great deal of trouble over it. The hunting party and the red-faced boy had gathered around a grey-haired man who sat in a chair near the hearth. At first, Bartholomew thought the fellow was asleep, but then he saw blood. When he looked at the back of the chair, he saw a sword had been thrust through the wooden panels with such force that it had skewered its victim from behind.

‘Stabbed in the back,’ breathed William, appalled. ‘Lord have mercy on his soul.’

When no one did more than gaze at the corpse, Bartholomew went to inspect it. The sword had sliced through the soft tissues below the ribs, probably bringing instant death. The physician rested his hand on the man’s neck, and felt the cool skin beneath his fingers. He also noted the blood was beginning to congeal. The dead man clutched a gold coin in his clawed fingers, which Bartholomew showed to Michael. He expected the others to notice, too, but they were more intent on fixing each other with accusing stares.

Joan, who did not seem particularly distressed by the discovery of her husband stabbed in his own solar, rounded on the flushed youth. ‘I hope he did not destroy his previous wills before he started composing the new one.’

‘You poor thing,’ said Rose, her voice contemptuous. ‘I see you are grief-stricken by your loss.’

Joan composed her face into an expression that approximated sorrow. ‘I am devastated,’ she declared, taking Askyl’s arm and clinging to it rather hard. ‘So I shall need my husband’s friends around me, to console me in my time of need.’

‘You need a priest, not a soldier,’ said Rose tartly. ‘Put Sir Elias down, and let Father William comfort you instead. It would be more seemly.’

‘How did he die?’ asked Dole, aghast. The pallor of shock made his scar more prominent-a raw, vivid slash across a face that had probably once been comely. Uncharitably, Bartholomew wondered whether Lymbury’s death might mean the loss of Dole’s post as priory chaplain.

‘I think it might have something to do with the sword in his back,’ whispered William. He addressed the others more loudly. ‘I have seen enough death on the battlefield to know this terrible thing probably happened this morning, when we were out hunting.’

‘I mean how did he come to be speared in his own home?’ snapped Dole angrily. ‘I can see he died by that damned sword.’

‘Father William is right: we were all off hunting,’ said Joan. She turned to the youth and a heavyset man who had come to stand beside him. Their looks and ages suggested they were father and son.

‘Are you saying a servant did it?’ asked Dole, following the direction of her accusing gaze.

The burly man glowered. ‘She had better not be-every last man, woman and child on this estate has been busy in the fields since first light. It is a hectic time of year, and there is hard work to be done.’ His disapproving tone indicated what he thought about a frivolous activity like hunting.

‘Not every last child, Hog,’ said Joan, her eyes fixed on the boy. ‘James was ordered to remain behind, in case Sir Philip needed anything.’

The lad became alarmed when everyone looked at him. ‘But I did not see anyone kill him!’ he squeaked. His father rested a comforting hand on his shoulder.

‘Actually, I was thinking of you not as a witness, but as a culprit,’ elaborated Joan.

Old Dame Pauline gave an irritable sigh. ‘Do not spout nonsense, woman! Of course James did not kill your husband. Why would he? His father is Lymbury’s bailiff, and with Lymbury dead, Hog may find himself without profitable work. James would be a fool to bite the hand that feeds him.’

James gazed at his father in alarm. ‘Is it true? Will we be cast out, to live like vagrants?’

‘Sir Philip’s death is a bitter blow,’ admitted Bailiff Hog. His expression was defiant. ‘But there are still crops in the fields and sheep on the hills. We shall stay here, and hope his heirs will hire us. However, because we have so much to lose from his death, it means we cannot be suspects for his murder.’

‘Well someone killed him,’ said Sister Rose. ‘He obviously did not stab himself in the back.’

Michael addressed the gathering, silencing the mounting accusations and recriminations. ‘It is too late fetch the Sheriff from Cambridge today, so we shall send word of what has happened first thing in the morning. But meanwhile, I am the University’s Senior Proctor and Bartholomew is my Corpse Examiner. Between us, we have solved many murders. Since this death occurred on College land, we are under an obligation to investigate it. The Sheriff is an old friend, and will appreciate our help.’

‘Yes, do explore the matter, Brother,’ said Rose maliciously. ‘Sir Philip had a wife who is now free to take a younger, more comely husband; friends who argued with him-excepting dear Sir Elias, of course; servants who despised him for sitting indoors when he was needed in the fields; and a prioress who was afraid he might withhold donations of eggs. You have a wealth of suspects to choose from.’

‘I feel sorry for Lymbury,’ said Bartholomew in a low voice to Michael, when everyone started to shout again. ‘No one seems very upset by his death, with the possible exception of Dole.’

‘Was his killer a man?’ asked Michael. ‘It must have taken a lot of power to drive a blade through the back of a chair and then into a body.’

Bartholomew did not think so. ‘It was pushed through a gap in the panelling. The killer struck hard, but it was not a demonic kind of strength. Anyone could have done it-including Lady Joan and Sister Rose, who are fit, healthy women.’

‘But it was not my son,’ shouted Hog, his furious voice silencing the others by sheer dint of its volume. ‘Not James. Whoever killed Sir Philip will be covered in blood, and you can see for yourselves that there is not a spot on James. You also know he is not a cunning boy-it would never have occurred to him to rid himself of incriminating stains if he had committed this crime. You know this, because you know James.’

James hung his head. ‘A while after you had all gone hunting, Sir Philip sent me to fetch William the Vicar, because he said he was finally ready to dictate his new will. He was alive when I left, and I did not see anyone else nearby. Every villager is out in the fields, as my father said.’

‘I do not think this case will greatly tax your scholarly wits, Brother,’ said Lady Joan spitefully. ‘This morning, I went to escort Sir Elias to his destrier, and I left Rose alone with Philip.’

‘Not alone,’ corrected Rose. ‘Dame Pauline was with us-and it was only a matter of moments anyway, because I did not want to be left behind. Sir Philip asked after my health and I told him I was well. That was the full extent of our conversation.’

‘I can vouch for that,’ said the old nun bitterly. ‘I was hoping she might linger, to reduce the time I was obliged to spend astride that horrible mule-you all know how it pains my hips to ride the thing-but she rushed out far too quickly.’

‘And it is irrelevant anyway,’ added Rose loftily. ‘James saw Sir Philip alive after all this had happened and we had gone.’

‘That is true,’ acknowledged James. He looked frightened. ‘But that does not mean I killed him.’ He appealed to Michael. ‘Please, Brother! You have to believe me!’

‘Well, my husband was hale and hearty this morning-’ began Joan angrily.

‘He was not,’ contradicted Rose. ‘He said he was unwell.’

‘He often claimed he was ailing,’ said William. ‘But it meant nothing-he said he was feverish before Poitiers, but that did not stop him from killing a dozen Frenchmen.’

‘He had my trouble,’ agreed Pauline. ‘Aching joints. What happened to this claret I was promised? And none of that slop you feed the servants, either. I want the good stuff.’

Hog tapped his son on the shoulder, and James escaped to fetch the wine with some relief. Bartholomew wondered whether he would come back: the manor’s residents were eager for a culprit, and it would not be the first time innocent blood was spilled in the rush to secure an explanation.

‘Shall we remove the sword?’ asked Hog in the silence that followed his boy’s departure. ‘It is not right to leave the thing where it is.’

‘That damned blade,’ said Dole unhappily. ‘It brought him nothing but trouble. Yes, pull it out, Hog. It distresses me to see it there.’

Bartholomew watched Hog extricate the weapon from Lymbury, then helped him lay the body on the floor. Dole muttered a few prayers before asking William to see about its removal to the church. William, however, was more interested in the sword than in the mortal remains of its owner.

‘It is magnificent,’ he said, taking one or two practise sweeps. ‘Look at the elegant dog-head carvings on the cross and this perfectly balanced blade. It belonged to a fellow called Matthew de Curterne from Down St Mary. Remember how Lymbury found it with his corpse after Poitiers? We drew lots for it, and Lymbury won.’

‘You did not return it to Curterne’s family?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. It was the usual custom in such a situation.

William shook his head. ‘Lymbury sent them a silver chalice instead. A fine weapon like this belongs in the hands of a warrior, and Curterne told us all his kin were farmers.’

‘It is old and heavy,’ said Dole disagreeably, watching William prance. ‘And I did not like the tales Curterne told us about its origins-how it brought bad luck and shame to its owners. I particularly did not like the story about the coroner’s man in Exeter, who was hanged for a crime he did not commit.’

‘He was not hanged,’ said William, his priestly robes swinging as he feinted and parried with an imaginary foe. ‘Curterne said the fellow’s master secured his freedom through some clever thinking. You know how sharp these coroners can be.’

‘And there was that business in Venice,’ Dole went on, unconvinced. ‘It was hurled into the sea, but contrived to have itself hauled out again. Very sinister. Curterne also told me it has the ability to fly through the air and embed itself in people it does not like.’

‘Does it, indeed?’ murmured Michael. ‘That would be a convenient solution for someone here.’

‘It cut his hand when he was a child,’ insisted Dole. ‘He bore the scar to prove it-he said it came out of nowhere and almost severed his thumb. And he mentioned a servant who tried to steal it from him, who ended up breaking his neck when he tried to escape over the roof.’

‘So why did Curterne take it to Poitiers, then?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘It sounds as though he thought it might be cursed in some way.’

‘He had no choice,’ explained William. ‘He had spent all his available money on horse and armour, and had no means to buy a different weapon. But perhaps he exaggerated his concerns, thought it was less likely to be stolen if folk believed it might bring them bad luck.’

‘No, he should have left it in Devonshire,’ argued Dole. ‘He said the first time we met him that there was something odd about it.’

‘Those were stories he invented around the campfire to entertain us,’ said William dismissively. ‘I am surprised at you, Dole, unsettled by silly tales with no truth or basis.’

‘Then why did Lymbury’s luck change the moment he acquired the thing,’ demanded Dole, unconvinced. ‘A wife unable to give him an heir-’

‘It has only been a year,’ objected William, laughing. ‘Give the poor woman a chance!’

‘-sheep killed by mad dogs, fires in his granaries,’ Dole went on, cutting across Joan’s indignant response. ‘And Curterne told me it was called the Sword of Shame, and only a fool would willingly take charge of a weapon with that sort of name.’

‘So, why did you draw lots for it after Curterne’s death, then?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘It does not sound as though it is the kind of weapon most men would want to own.’

‘Superstition is for the feeble minded,’ said William, smiling fondly at the blade. ‘I am not afraid of ghosts, and neither was Lymbury. I imagine Dole-and perhaps Askyl-would have sold it, had they won the draw. But I would have kept it. These ridiculous tales are a nonsense, and besides, the inscriptions carved into its blade suggest it is a thing of honour.’

Bartholomew took the sword from him. He was no soldier, but even he could tell it was a fine one. He studied the words etched into the steel: qui falsitate vivit, animam occidit. Falsus in ore, caret honore. There was too much blood to read the second inscription, but it seemed to condemn miserly men.

‘It warns against telling lies,’ translated Michael, rather loosely. ‘A man who lives out his days in defiance of the truth will lose his soul, as well as his honour. So, let that be a warning to anyone who might be tempted to mislead my investigation.’

‘We should start from the beginning if we want to reduce the length of Sister Rose’s list of suspects,’ said Bartholomew, setting the weapon carefully on a nearby bench. ‘When was the decision made for everyone-except Lymbury-to go hunting?’

Lady Joan indicated with an imperious flick of her hand that Hog was to wipe Lymbury’s chair clean of blood. Then she sat in it, shuffling and testing it for size. A satisfied smile indicated she found the fit a good one. ‘The decision was made last night, by dear Sir Elias. He is an honoured and most welcome guest, so my husband was pleased to oblige him.’

‘I dislike being idle,’ explained Askyl. He watched William take the weapon from the bench and begin to admire it again. ‘A man who haunts the dinner table will find his military edge blunted, and we never know when the Black Prince might need warriors again.’

‘My husband sent word to the priory, to invite Sister Rose to take part,’ Joan went on. ‘I did not approve. The likes of Sister Rose should be on her knees, confessing her sins. Perhaps she should ask absolution for the crime of murder right now.’

Rose did not dignify the accusation with a response, and, aware that both women were looking at him for a reaction, Askyl kept his face carefully neutral.

‘I own some small skill with weapons,’ said Rose modestly, shooting Askyl a sultry smile. ‘My father was a soldier, and he thought women should know how to defend their virtue.’ She ignored Joan’s snort of derision. ‘Sir Philip was impressed with my talents, and always included me on his hunts-so I could provide meat for my sisters at the priory.’

‘I am impressed with your talents, too,’ gushed Dole, regarding her admiringly. ‘We could have done with you in France.’

She inclined her head, then addressed Michael. ‘I came to Ickleton Priory three years ago, and I am still deciding whether to devote my life to God. My family say they do not mind waiting.’

‘That is because you have no dowry,’ said Joan immediately. ‘So, it does not matter to them what you do. I, of course, am a wealthy widow, and so I am highly desirable.’ She looked hard at Askyl, to make sure he had taken the comment on board.

‘Wealth and desirability do not always go together,’ remarked Rose cuttingly. ‘But we are talking about me, not you. It was Sir Elias who brought the invitation to me last night.’

‘I did-but not with any intention of securing your company for myself,’ said Askyl, earning a hurt look from Rose and a triumphant grin from Joan. Bartholomew wondered whether money was already winning the battle against beauty. Askyl saw he had caused offence, and hastened to explain. ‘I mean I did not intend to entice nuns from their devotions on my behalf.’

‘But you did just that,’ said old Dame Pauline sulkily. ‘And I was forced to pay the price. Racing around after deer at my age! It is all wrong, and I shall write to the Bishop about it. Prioress Christiana is not fit to rule our house-she cannot even read. I am the only literate woman there.’

‘So you remind us day and night,’ sighed Rose, stepping smartly to one side when William made a trial sweep with the sword that came perilously close to her elegantly tailored habit.

‘You say you are visiting Lymbury,’ said Michael to Askyl. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘A few weeks,’ replied the knight. ‘I have no family of my own, so it is good to be among friends-Lymbury, William and Dole. Lymbury has been very generous with his hospitality.’

‘You are both priests?’ asked Bartholomew of the chaplain and vicar, wondering whether William had been ordained; an interest in weapons was something he should have forsworn.

Dole nodded. ‘We took holy orders when we returned from Poitiers. I did it out of a conviction that I had killed too many Frenchmen-along with the fact that I am unlikely to secure a bride with no nose. War has made me ugly, I fear.’

‘That is not true,’ said Rose. Dole’s eyes blazed with sudden hope. ‘Joan will have no trouble getting a suitor-now her husband has left her a fortune-and she is ugly.’

Dole’s eager expectation faded abruptly, while hot colour rose in Joan’s cheeks.

‘We shall see who secures the better husband,’ said Joan coldly. ‘You regard yourself a beauty, but you are swarthy and you dye your hair. Mine is naturally fair.’

‘Ladies, please!’ snapped Michael, when the altercation looked set to continue for some time. ‘A man lies dead, and you should be ashamed of yourselves, quarrelling over hair. Now, Dole: you were telling us why you decided to become a priest.’

Dole nodded again, and looked at Bartholomew. ‘If you were at Poitiers, you do not need me to tell you that while it was a glorious victory for England, there was something deeply distasteful about so much killing. I was detailed to help bury the dead afterwards, and it took days. When Lymbury told me it was in his power to appoint me as chaplain to Ickleton’s nuns, it seemed right to accept.’

‘And you?’ asked Michael of William, who was removing Lymbury’s blood from the sword with some spit and his sleeve.

‘Ickleton needed a vicar, and I needed somewhere to live,’ replied William. ‘Priests have been in short supply since the plague, and villages are grateful for whoever they can get.’

‘That is true,’ said Michael. ‘But there are some standards, even so.’

‘Dole and I both know Latin,’ said William, as if he imagined this to be the sole criterion. ‘And Lymbury liked me to write out his various wills and manage his domestic accounts in addition to my parish duties. Like most military men, he was illiterate.’

‘Lymbury offered you and Dole comfortable posts, but gave nothing to Askyl?’ asked Michael, turning to the knight.

Askyl shrugged. He was standing by the hearth, poking the ashes with a stick and careful to stand precisely equidistant from his two female admirers. Bartholomew wondered whether he knew how fine a figure he cut in his half-armour and nonchalant pose.

‘I am a knight, not a priest,’ said Askyl. ‘He asked me to be his bailiff, but I think Hog might have had something to say about that.’

‘Yes, I would,’ said Hog firmly. ‘My family have served his for generations, and I would not have stood by while I was ousted.’

‘Nor would I,’ said James, who had returned with Dame Pauline’s wine. ‘It would not have been right. My family has always been loyal to the Lymburys.’

‘What will happen now he is dead?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Is Joan his sole heir?’

‘I shall have to dig out his most recent testament and see,’ said William. ‘He kept changing his mind, and I cannot recall what he said the last time.’

‘It will leave everything to me,’ cried Joan, suddenly alarmed. Rose started to laugh.

‘I do remember that his friends were remembered, though,’ said William, still polishing the sword. He smiled, rather nastily. ‘Call it self-interest, if you will, but that little detail stuck in my mind.’

The discussion quickly degenerated into another row, and this time even the two servants joined in. Michael rubbed his temples, letting the furious voices wash over him, while Bartholomew went to sit next to him and wished he was back at Michaelhouse. His restful jaunt was becoming unpleasant.

‘We are unlikely to get our ten marks now Lymbury is dead,’ said the physician to Michael. ‘And if several wills exist, all contradicting each other, we shall have to wait for lawyers to sort them out.’

‘That could take months, and we need new latrines now,’ grumbled the monk. ‘Besides, a man has been murdered, and I doubt these people will see justice done-they are too wrapped up in their own concerns. I do not think I have ever encountered so many blazing hatreds under one roof. At least we scholars keep our dislikes decently concealed under a veneer of civility.’

‘Then you had better resume your questioning, or you will have another death on your hands. Dole’s surliness has finally shaken William’s equanimity-and William is holding that sword.’

‘The so-called Sword of Shame,’ said Michael thoughtfully, watching the vicar grip the hilt. ‘Is it valuable, do you think? It looks to me as if William intends to keep it for himself.’

‘All good weapons are expensive, and that one is better than most. Perhaps he knows Lymbury left it to him-or perhaps he added a codicil without Lymbury’s knowledge, to be sure he inherits it.’

‘We know Lymbury could not read, so a dishonest clerk could write whatever he liked and be sure of having it signed and sealed. Is William dishonest, do you think?’

‘He is not a very devoted priest-he is not rushing to take Lymbury’s body to his church and pray for it. But dishonest? I suppose that depends on how badly he covets that sword.’

While they had been talking, Dole had opened a chest and retrieved several documents. He regarded them with exasperation. ‘Here are his wills, but none is dated, and several are unsigned. Lawyers will be wrangling over these for years.’

‘This is your fault,’ shouted Joan, real tears appearing at last as she glared at William. ‘You were his clerk-you should have made sure they were in order.’

William was smug. His flash of temper with Dole had cooled, and the sword lay on the bench, gleaming from its recent polish. ‘Those are just drafts. The latest will-signed and dated-is in a safe place. Lymbury was fond of his riches, and liked thinking about where to bequeath them.’

‘All this is very interesting, but it is not helping us learn what happened to him this morning,’ said Michael. ‘What time did you all arrive for the hunt?’

‘Sir Elias and I were already here, obviously,’ said Joan, going to stand at the knight’s side, ‘since we live in the manor-house. William arrived next, then Dole, and finally Rose and Pauline.’

‘It was horribly early,’ said Dame Pauline bitterly. ‘Before breakfast. It is not good for elderly-’

‘Hog and James were here, too,’ interrupted Joan. ‘They had already saddled the horses, and came inside to eat a bowl of pottage with us before we left.’

‘When was this?’ asked Michael. ‘Just after dawn?’

‘Much later,’ said Hog icily. ‘Dawn has different meanings for men who need to make the most of daylight hours, and I had been in the fields for some time before I came to prepare the horses. James and I ate the pottage while we waited for the nuns to arrive. Then, eventually, after more valuable time was lost in idle chatter, they all trooped outside and mounted up.’

‘But not Lymbury?’ asked Michael. ‘Why not?’

‘After the pottage, he decided to forgo the pleasures of the kill and think about his last testament instead,’ replied Askyl. ‘It was not the first time. As William says, he enjoyed composing them.’

‘Did anything happen to make him think he might need one soon?’ asked Michael.

‘He had aching bones,’ supplied Pauline, rubbing her hip. ‘Like me. But he was not ill.’

‘Was there an argument, then?’ Michael raised his hands. ‘Forgive me: that was an extremely foolish question, given the present company. What I meant to ask was: was there an argument more bitter than your usual quarrels, which prompted him to alter the terms of his most recent will?’

‘We do not know the terms of his most recent will,’ said Dole, regarding William coolly. ‘Someone will not tell us what they are.’

‘They are confidential,’ said William. ‘But you will all know tomorrow, because I shall read them to you. I refuse to do it today, while the poor man is still warm. It would be disrespectful.’

‘Unlike playing with his sword,’ muttered Dole.

Michael tried to steer the conversation back to that morning, and was obliged to raise his voice when everyone started to yell at William for his hypocrisy.

‘So,’ said the Benedictine, once he had silenced everyone by picking up the sword and dropping it to the floor with a metallic clang. William squeaked in horror, while Hog was furious about the damage to the highly polished floorboards. ‘You all rode away to hunt.’

‘James did not,’ said Joan. ‘He stayed here to make sure Philip had everything he needed.’

The boy swallowed. ‘Sir Philip sat in his chair and stared out of the window. Eventually, he said he had thought long enough, and told me to fetch William the Vicar. I looked in the meadows, then down by the river, but there was no sign of him. Then I met Prioress Christiana, who asked me to carry eggs to the convent for her. But by then I was hungry, so I went home for some bread.’

‘You were eating, when you should have been following orders?’ asked Joan accusingly.

James blushed and stared at his feet. ‘I am sorry, My Lady, but I did not linger at home long. I finished the food, then ran to the upper pastures. But William was not there, either. It was only when the whole hunt was coming back to the manor-house that our paths finally crossed. By then, I had been racing around for hours.’

Bartholomew recalled the boy’s flushed face when they had first met, and imagined the Lord of the Manor must have been growing impatient, being forced to wait so long for the priest to arrive.

‘Did you go back inside the house at all after Lymbury had sent you to fetch William?’ he asked.

James shook his head vehemently. ‘No, I did not. He would have been angry to see me without the vicar, and I am not a fool. I just told you everything I did.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘So, no one can confirm where you were for most of the time?’

‘I saw James leave the manor-house,’ said Hog. ‘We are short-handed from losing men in the French wars, so I was in the top field on my own. But I saw James leave, and I did not see him go inside again until you all arrived back from the hunt. James cannot possibly be the killer.’

‘He can-if Lymbury was dead before James left the house,’ Michael pointed out.

‘Well, he was not,’ said James firmly. He raised his chin defiantly, trying to mask his unease. Bartholomew felt sorry for him-his was an unenviable position. ‘He was alive. I did not kill him.’

‘Of course you did not,’ said Hog soothingly. ‘You have no reason.’

‘Except the possibility of losing a hereditary post to Askyl,’ said Michael. He raised his hand when Hog started to object. ‘I am not saying James did kill Lymbury. I am merely pointing out that he has a motive and he was the last person to see Lymbury alive. And the same goes for you, Hog, as far as motive is concerned. You say you were working alone, so it is possible that you slipped into the house after James had left, and killed the man who was thinking of dismissing you.’

‘It was wicked of Sir Philip,’ said Hog sullenly. ‘I have spent my whole life on this manor, and he had no right to threaten my position. But I did not kill him for it.’

‘So, the hunt eventually comprised Askyl, William and Dole, accompanied by Rose, Joan and Pauline?’ asked Michael thoughtfully. ‘James was searching for William, and Hog was in the fields?’

‘Yes,’ said Askyl. ‘So we six hunters are innocent of this murder, because we were away from the house.’

‘You remained together all day?’ asked Michael.

‘We are not wolves, hunting as a pack,’ said William scornfully. ‘Of course we did not stay together. Sometimes we were in pairs, sometimes in threes, sometimes alone.’

‘The woods are not far from the hall,’ Michael pointed out. ‘So, any of you could have come back, killed Lymbury and returned to your sport with no one any the wiser.’

The six looked at each other. ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ admitted Askyl. ‘But we did not. Someone would have seen us-one of the peasants in the fields.’

‘Not so,’ said Hog, a little smugly. ‘At William’s request, I sent them to the far meadows today-as I informed the hunt as it left. No labourer would have noticed anyone moving between house and woods.’

‘I was concerned for the welfare of my flock,’ declared William defensively, when accusing eyes swivelled towards him. ‘I am their priest. Several of them were ridden down last time, and I did not want it to happen again-I did not direct them to the far meadows for sinister reasons. Besides, if Hog was in the top field, he would have seen the killer leave the woods alone, without the others.’

‘There is a hollow,’ explained Hog. ‘I could not see the manor-house all the time.’

‘That is not what you said when we accused James of being the culprit,’ pounced Michael. Hog glared at him, but made no reply.

‘I was with Dame Pauline,’ said Sister Rose with a triumphant smile. ‘There is my alibi.’

‘Except the hour she spent asleep under a tree,’ countered Joan spitefully. ‘I rode past her, but she did not wake. And there was no sign of you.’

‘I was resting my aching bones,’ snapped Pauline. ‘But I did see you-you were alone, too.’

‘Ha!’ exclaimed Rose. ‘And you and your husband argued bitterly last night. Do not deny it-Pauline heard you when she came to collect the priory’s eggs.’

‘I did,’ agreed Pauline. ‘And I also heard William berating Sir Philip about the cost of the parchment used to write all these wills.’

‘I did recommend prudence,’ admitted William stiffly. He addressed Michael. ‘I am obliged to pay for the stuff myself, and as a scholar, you do not need me to tell you that it is expensive.’

Pauline continued. ‘And Askyl took William’s side in the row, which Sir Philip did not like.’

‘Lymbury was in the wrong,’ stated Askyl dogmatically. ‘All men disagree from time to time-it means nothing. Do not tell me you never squabble with your Corpse Examiner.’

Pauline was not finished. She turned to Dole and pointed a finger. ‘And I heard him antagonizing Sir Philip over that sword. Dole said he should get rid of it, because it brings bad luck.’

Dole shrugged. ‘It ended up in his innards. I would say that was bad luck.’

Joan offered Bartholomew and Michael a room in which to sleep that night, but she did so with such bad grace that neither was inclined to accept. They left her fluffing up cushions behind Askyl’s head and plying him with pastries. Hog and James helped William carry their master’s body to the church, while Dole slunk away on unspecified business of his own.

‘We shall stay at the convent,’ announced Michael, after checking that their horses had been properly stabled. ‘I am a Benedictine, and it is a house of my own Order. They will welcome us.’ The tone of his voice indicated there would be trouble if they did not.

‘You can ask the prioress for Michaelhouse’s ten marks, too,’ suggested Bartholomew.

‘In the morning,’ said Michael. ‘She might be less inclined to generous hospitality, if she thinks I am about to make off with her money. Here come Rose and Pauline. They can lead us there.’

‘We have a cottage for visiting monastics,’ said Rose, hips swaying under her tight habit. She walked more quickly in order to speak to the monk alone, leaving the hobbling Dame Pauline behind. She rested a slender hand on his arm and smiled into his face. ‘But, when the weather is cold, we let special visitors share the fire in our own dormitory.’

‘Is that so?’ said Michael, unmoved. ‘It sounds improper. Should I tell my Bishop about it?’

Rose pouted, not liking her flirtations disregarded. ‘I was only teasing, Brother.’

‘You were not,’ said Michael. ‘You were attempting to use your wiles on me. Why? So I will not look to you as Lymbury’s murderer?’

Rose grimaced. ‘I forgot you are a scholar, and therefore view everything with cold logic. If you must know, I was hoping you would agree to be discreet about my liking for Sir Elias. Since her predecessor was deposed, the prioress has been fussy about what she calls licentious behaviour, and I do not want her to stop me from going to the manor-house.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘Your visits there are clearly leading you along the path to sin.’

Rose gave a heavy sigh. ‘Because how shall I ensnare Sir Elias in marriage, if I never see him? I do not want to be a nun-and I refuse to let Joan beat me to the post. If you say nothing about my intentions to the prioress, I will name my first child after you.’

Michael regarded her askance, and when he made no reply, she fell behind to walk with Pauline. Bartholomew heard them muttering, and supposed Rose was trying to make a similar arrangement with her chaperon. From the gleeful expression on the elderly nun’s face, the offers were being greeted with rather more enthusiasm than the response elicited from the monk.

The sun was setting in a ball of orange, although Pauline claimed her aching bones told her there would be rain by dawn. People were returning from the fields, spades and hoes over their shoulders. They stared at the strangers, but still declined to trade smiles and comments about the weather.

‘They are not very friendly,’ remarked Michael.

‘Lymbury was always telling them how many Frenchmen he had killed at Poitiers,’ explained Pauline. ‘And they live in constant fear that the French king will descend on Ickleton to avenge the slaughter. They will be all beams and pleasantries tomorrow, when they hear Lymbury is dead. They are not naturally sullen.’

‘So Lymbury was unpopular with his people,’ mused Bartholomew, exchanging a significant glance with the monk. Here was yet another motive for the man’s murder. ‘Was there anything that made him especially disliked?’

Rose shrugged. ‘Just his unsettling tales about killing so many men who might have vengeful kin. William the Vicar gave a sermon on “an eye for an eye”, you see, which started them thinking. I doubt it was what William intended them to do, but there is no telling what simple folk might believe once a seed has been planted in their minds.’

Bartholomew glanced sharply at her, and wondered whether she might have done a little sowing herself, although he could not imagine what she might have gained from doing so.

‘Here we are,’ she said, bending to retrieve a black garment from under a bush. When she shook it out and pulled it over her head, she was transformed from a woman in a tight black dress to a nun in a baggy habit. A white veil was donned to hide the gold hair-fret and, with her hands folded in her wide sleeves, she looked the picture of demure modesty. ‘Do not forget, Dame Pauline-a jug of wine if you say nothing about my chasing after Sir Elias today.’

‘Two jugs,’ countered Pauline opportunistically. ‘Or my conscience will prick me about the fact that I left you alone for so long.’ She grimaced at the slip, and glanced at Michael to see if he had noticed. ‘I mean alone with Askyl. And I was with Joan. I do not mean either one of us was unaccompanied and in a position to commit murder.’

Michael said nothing, and allowed the two women to usher him through a door and into the convent, Bartholomew trailing behind. While Rose fetched the prioress and Pauline limped to the kitchens for something to eat, the physician looked around him.

The priory was tiny and clearly poor. The main part comprised a wooden chapel and a two-storeyed hall-the upper floor was a dormitory and the lower one served as refectory and chapter house. There was a separate kitchen block and a massive barn for storing grain, all enclosed within a double ditch and a bank. A bell rang for vespers, and the sound of chanting drifted towards them. The smell of newly cut grass and warm soil mingled with the scent of incense. It was a peaceful scene, and rather more what Bartholomew had expected when he had left Cambridge that morning.

It was not long before a woman with a grey face came scurrying across the yard. Worry lines bit deeply into her forehead and cheeks. ‘Rose tells me you know the Bishop,’ she said unhappily. ‘Are you here because I allow her out from time to time? Lymbury often demands her company-or he did, before his friends arrived from France. Now he summons her less frequently. She minds terribly.’

‘Lymbury used to spend time alone with Rose?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure what the prioress was saying in her gabbling rush of words. ‘But now he does not?’

She paled even further. ‘Oh, damn my loose tongue! I have just told you something the Bishop should not know, and I do not want to be deposed like my predecessor. Chaplain Dole is always telling me to think before I speak, but it is so very difficult. Do you not find, Brother?’

‘Not really,’ replied Michael, amused by the question. ‘Such a failing would be somewhat inconvenient in a scholar-it would see him savaged in the debating halls.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. I am Prioress Christiana. But you have already guessed that, I suppose. Rose tells me you are from Michaelhouse, which probably means you have come to demand the ten marks Lymbury gave me.’

‘We shall discuss it tomorrow,’ said Michael. ‘After a good night’s sleep, preferably in a decent bed. And we have been travelling all day, so a little bread and meat would not go amiss, either.’

‘You cannot have meat, Brother,’ said Christiana, startled. ‘It is a fish day.’

‘So it is,’ said Michael in a voice heavy with resignation. ‘I had forgotten.’

The guesthouse was a tiny cottage on the edge of the convent, separated from it by a line of apple trees. Birds trilled sweet and clear as the sun disappeared in a blaze of copper, and there was a contented lowing as cows were milked and settled in their byre. Bartholomew smiled at Prioress Christiana, who was distressed because the door had been left open and a goat had eaten the blankets.

‘This is a lovely place,’ he said sincerely.

She wrung her hands. ‘It is a grave responsibility, and my predecessor’s fate is never far from my mind-Dame Pauline sees to that. She is always talking about what happened to Alice Lacy, and how she was sent to the priory at Chatteris in disgrace.’

‘Chatteris,’ said Michael in a sepulchral voice. ‘A dreadful place, set deep in the desolate wilderness of the Fens. I have never been, mind you, but I have heard tales of its bitter weather and the way snakes lurk in its mattresses.’

‘Oh, really, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, watching the prioress’s eyes open wide in shock. ‘It was rats in the bedding, not snakes.’ He saw he had not helped when Christiana’s hands flew to her mouth in horror. Rodents were apparently held in greater terror than reptiles.

‘I do my best,’ said Christiana in a wail. ‘But it is not easy when there are women like Rose and Pauline under my care. The others are good, devout souls, but those two are a trial, and Pauline is always challenging my authority because I cannot read. She objects to managing the accounts, but she also complains when I try to relieve her of the burden. I can do nothing right. And now there is trouble with a powerful Cambridge College and a monk who knows the Bishop. What shall I do?’

‘We shall talk tomorrow,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘I am sure we can reach some arrangement that suits us both.’

‘Such as you giving us our ten marks,’ muttered Michael. He spoke a little more loudly. ‘Did you like Lymbury, Mother?’

‘Pauline said he was murdered today,’ Christiana’s eyes filled with compassionate tears. ‘He was a difficult man, but generous in his way. He was fond of Rose, and I felt compelled to let her go to him when he asked, because we need the eggs he always let us have. Rose was always happy to oblige.’

Michael’s eyebrows rose. ‘I am sure she was.’

‘But I did fear he wanted her for immoral purposes,’ confided Christiana unhappily. ‘Especially later, when I learned he only invited Rose to the manor-house at times when Lady Joan was visiting her mother. What would the Bishop say if he found out? But, of course he will find out now-you will tell him, because I have just told you. Damn my clacking tongue!’

‘We already knew,’ said Michael. ‘Rose is not discreet. How long has this been going on?’

‘For about a year. But it faltered in the spring, when Askyl, Dole and William arrived. I suppose Lymbury was too busy with his friends for romantic dalliances.’

‘Did Joan know about her husband and Rose?’ asked Bartholomew.

Christiana shrugged. ‘She might have done-perhaps she was relieved that he had foisted his attentions on another woman, because she did not love him herself. But I must go and say prayers for his soul, or he may come and haunt us. And he had a nasty sword that he liked to show off. I would not like to meet a ghost wielding such a vicious, sharp blade.’

It was soon too dark to do anything except go to bed-the cottage was not supplied with candles. Bartholomew lay on a mattress near the window, enjoying the cool breeze that wafted in. It was a sultry night, and he felt thunder in the wind-Dame Pauline’s predictions had been right. Michael complained about the fleas in the bedding and the meagre supper he had been served. Then he moaned about the open window, claiming that a dangerous miasma might enter during the night and poison him.

‘I am not sleepy,’ said Bartholomew, waiting for a break in the litany of grumbles. He settled with his hands behind his head, staring up at the stars and thinking about Ptolemy’s notion that the universe comprised a series of spheres. ‘What do you think of the contention in the Almagest that eccentric and epicyclic circles account for the observed variations in the distances of the planets?’

Michael sighed. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about, and it sounds vaguely heretical to me. Does God have any place in these spheres?’

‘I do not envy you your position,’ said Bartholomew, concluding the monk was not in the mood for scholarly debate. ‘Rose and Pauline were right when they said their priory is poor, and they are fellow Benedictines. But Michaelhouse is equally desperate and you owe us your loyalty, too.’

Michael sighed a second time. ‘That is why I have decided to take you up on your offer and let you decide the issue. I do not want my colleagues at Michaelhouse or my brethren at the abbey clamouring favouritism at me, so I am passing the responsibility to you. I wash my hands of the whole affair.’

‘Very well-as long as you do not argue with me once I have made up my mind.’

‘I shall argue if I feel like it-you may do something foolish. Langelee said we were not to return without his money, and he may not let us back in if you are generous to a handful of penniless nuns.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘You say I am free to make the decision, but in the next breath you tell me what to do. You are abrogating the responsibility, without relinquishing the power.’

Michael chuckled. ‘You know me too well. But Michaelhouse has a legal and moral right to this ten marks, so there is really no decision to make. If you offer to let the nuns keep the money, Langelee will hire lawyers. The sisters will lose it eventually-along with fees they will have to pay their own clerk to contest the case. We will all be the poorer if you elect to be generous to this priory.’

Bartholomew was silent for a while, mulling over the situation. As far as Michaelhouse was concerned, the debt remained Lymbury’s-or his estate’s-and he supposed he could insist it was paid by the manor, and leave the nuns out of it. But it might take months to secure payment if lawyers became involved, and the College needed latrines urgently.

‘I do not think you should look into Lymbury’s death, Brother,’ he said eventually. ‘There are too many suspects-especially now we know he was not popular in the village, either. If he was alone in the manor-house all day, anyone could have crept in and driven that sword through his innards.’

‘We shall ask the prioress tomorrow if any villager has fallen especially foul of him. Or perhaps we are wasting our time looking for a human hand in this. What did the sword’s previous owner-Curterne-tell Dole? That it can fly through the air and kill whomsoever it likes?’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘I am sure it can-particularly if lobbed by a person.’

‘Well, we should concentrate on the suspects we have already met. There are eight of them: Lymbury’s wife, his mistress and his mistress’s “chaperon”; his friends William, Dole and Askyl; and his bailiff Hog-and Hog’s son James. None can prove where they were to my satisfaction, and all had some sort of quarrel with him.’

‘Except Pauline and Rose,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But that may be because we do not know about an argument. He did not sound pleasant, and no one was particularly upset by his death-except Dole.’

‘William is my first choice as the killer.’

Bartholomew tried to look at the monk, but could only see a massive stomach rising like a mountain in the glimmering starlight. ‘Why? Because he sent his parishioners to the far meadows, thus making sure no one would see him if he returned to the manor-house to kill his old comrade-in-arms?’

Michael nodded. ‘And because he has an obvious liking for that sword, and it is clear he intends to have it for himself. When we see Lymbury’s will tomorrow, I shall be very surprised if there is no codicil that does not leave the thing to his parish priest and dear friend.’

‘Would a man kill for a sword? Especially if it brings bad luck, as Dole claims?’

‘I would not want one, but then I have never been to war. Battles do odd things to men, Matt, as you will know from personal experience. William cannot have much money of his own, or he would not have accepted the lowly post of parish vicar, so a valuable sword might be a very tempting prize.’

‘I think Lymbury’s wife is a more likely culprit. Lady Joan showed no sign of grief when he died-it was Rose who screamed at the sight of his corpse. Perhaps Joan objected to him taking a mistress.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Michael. ‘And with Lymbury out of the way, she is free to make a play for the handsome Askyl. Before, she was stuck with an ageing husband, while Rose was making it clear she was available. Now Joan has a sporting chance of snaring a comely mate.’

‘More than a chance, if she inherits the bulk of Lymbury’s estate.’

‘But is Askyl interested? He simpered at both, but I could not tell if he preferred one to the other.’

‘His choice is wealth or beauty, as Rose herself pointed out. I think he will opt for wealth.’

‘Rose is only right if Askyl thinks she is beautiful. Personally, I find her rather ordinary.’

Bartholomew was surprised. ‘Do you? That will not please her. She goes to a good deal of trouble to make herself attractive.’

‘She is wasting her time,’ declared Michael harshly. ‘She does not have the basis for decent looks-she is too swarthy. And her figure is oddly shaped.’

Bartholomew eased himself up on one elbow and stared in the monk’s general direction. ‘To be honest, I thought she might be pregnant.’

He heard Michael’s blanket rustle. ‘Really? I suppose you are trained to notice that sort of thing. I wonder if Lymbury is the father. If so, then surely she would prefer him alive? He cannot pay for the brat’s upkeep if he is dead.’

‘Assuming he is willing to acknowledge it as his own. He might have rejected it-and her at the same time. It is a very good motive for murder. Perhaps I will change my prime suspect from Joan to Rose-especially since I recall her bragging about her skills with weapons when we were in the woods. It was no hollow boast, either: it was she who shot the deer the men could not catch.’

‘The prioress noted a recent cooling in the relationship between Lymbury and Rose,’ mused Michael. ‘I wonder why. Did Rose decline to gratify the plain lord of the manor once she had set eyes on his handsome friend?’

‘Dole admires Rose, too, although he cannot hope to compete with Askyl.’

‘I told you, Rose is too swarthy for beauty, so she does not stand a chance with Askyl, either. Lord, Matt! I cannot believe you are encouraging me to discuss women with you. We are in a nunnery for God’s sake, and I am a monk!’

‘What about Pauline?’

‘She is far too old to interest me.’

‘I meant what about Pauline as a suspect for murder?’ asked Bartholomew impatiently.

‘If it was Pauline, she would have moaned about blood on her clothing or the weight of the sword. She is a malcontent and grumbles about everything. And why would she want Lymbury dead?’

‘She objected to him forcing her out on hunts as an escort for Rose. Perhaps it was the only way she could think of to end it. She had ample opportunity, because Rose abandoned her in order to chase after Askyl.’

‘Meanwhile, Hog and James are also obvious candidates. Lymbury offered Askyl the coveted post of bailiff. Askyl did not say whether he would have accepted, but there is nothing to say he would not. His two friends are happily settled here, and Askyl said he has no family of his own.’

‘What will happen to Hog and James now? Will Lady Joan keep them on?’

‘Who knows? But an estate needs a bailiff-especially at this time of year-and Hog seems competent. Perhaps Michaelhouse will hire him, until a new tenant comes to replace Lymbury.’

‘What about Askyl and Dole? Would either of them have killed their old friend?’

‘Yes,’ replied Michael without hesitation. ‘Dole is complex, and I do not know whether he is telling the truth about his motives for joining the priesthood. And Askyl thinks rather a lot of himself. Perhaps one of them learned he had been designated as Lymbury’s sole heir, and decided to kill the man before he could change his mind and write another will.’

‘We will find out tomorrow, Brother,’ said Bartholomew feeling sleep approaching at last. An owl hooted, and somewhere in the distance a vixen yapped. ‘William the Vicar will read it to us.’

The glorious sunshine of the past few days had gone by the following morning, and there was drizzle in the air. It dampened the thirsty soil, releasing the scent of wet earth, and thunder rolled in the distance. Wisps of mist lay in strips across the fields and in the woods, and a nightingale sang as the land grew lighter. The priory bell chimed for prime, and the nuns made their way to the chapel in silence. Bartholomew stood in the nave with the lay-folk, listening to Michael’s pleasant baritone complement the higher voices of the women.

Breakfast at the priory comprised watered ale, bread and honey, and although it was not exciting fare, there was enough of it to satisfy even Michael’s gargantuan appetite. After the tables had been cleared, Prioress Christiana came to talk again. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she looked as though she had not slept.

‘I had a wretched night,’ she confessed, when Bartholomew asked if she was unwell. ‘You are here to take our money; I must find funds to buy masses for Lymbury’s soul; Pauline tells me she no longer wants to act as Rose’s chaperon; and Rose said this morning that she will leave the priory.’

‘Let us take these troubles one at a time,’ said Michael kindly, taking her arm and leading her to a bench in a sheltered arbour near the refectory. It was full of flowers, bees and dripping vegetation. Bartholomew sat on a wall-seat opposite them. ‘First, let us consider the money Lymbury gave you, which rightfully belongs to Michaelhouse.’

‘Ten marks,’ whispered Christiana, white-faced. ‘A colossal sum! I have already spent most of it on essential supplies for the winter, and I need the rest to repair the dormitory roof. The building will collapse if we do not tackle the problem soon.’

‘William the Vicar is going to read Lymbury’s will this morning, so we shall know the full extent of his assets,’ said Bartholomew. ‘If he has ten marks in other goods, we shall claim those instead.’

Christiana brightened. ‘That would be a relief! I was beginning to think we might have to part with our relic to pay you, although I am not sure whether it is really authentic. It is a splinter of the True Cross, stained with Christ’s blood when-’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bartholomew hastily, recalling the murder and mayhem that had followed when he had last encountered such an item. ‘We do not want any Blood Relics.’

‘Your second concern is funding prayers for Lymbury’s soul,’ said Michael.

Christiana nodded. ‘That is why he gave us the ten marks-to pay a chantry priest to pray for him in perpetuity. Unfortunately, I did not learn the reason for the benefaction until after I had spent it on food. It came with written instructions, but I cannot read and Dame Pauline had a headache, so was unavailable for translation. I was dreading confessing the misunderstanding to Lymbury.’

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance. Was this yet another motive for murder?

‘His soul will have to be satisfied with your daily prayers and a weekly mass from Dole,’ decided Michael. ‘Your chaplain may as well do something for the convent he serves, and I shall ask the Bishop to send him an official order. But Lymbury was miserly-ten marks could never cover the cost of eternal prayers.’

Christiana swallowed hard, touched. ‘You are very understanding, Brother.’

‘Your third problem is Pauline’s refusal to chaperon Rose,’ said Michael. ‘That is disobedience, which runs contrary to the Rule of our Order. You are her superior, so where lies the problem?’

Christiana looked close to tears. ‘If I order her about, she refuses to help me with the convent’s administration. She is the only sister who can read, so it is important I keep on her good side. She says I am unfit to be prioress, and is always threatening to expose my failings to the Bishop-although he did know about my illiteracy when he appointed me.’

‘She will do nothing of the kind,’ said Michael. ‘And I shall tell him you are above reproach, so that will be the end of the matter. Besides, you do not need her, because Dole can act as your scribe.’

‘She told me men are not permitted to dabble in the affairs of nuns,’ said Christiana miserably. ‘She said it is written in the Rule of St Benedict.’

‘She made it up to maintain her hold over you. However, if she does not obey your orders in the future, I shall arrange for her to be sent to Chatteris. But let us turn to your fourth problem: Rose. Why has she decided to leave? Is it because she is with child?’

Christiana gaped at him. ‘How did you guess? She said no one else knows.’

‘Who is the father?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Lymbury?’

Christiana put her head in her hands. ‘She said several men have enjoyed her favours. Her family brought her to us three years ago-they paid two months’ keep, but we have had nothing since. I could not bring myself to force her out, but now I wish I had-she has brought shame on my priory.’

‘Your charity does you credit,’ said Michael. ‘And it was wrong of Rose to have abused it. Will you summon her, and order her to answer our questions? Her liaisons may be relevant to unveiling Lymbury’s killer.’

Christiana spotted Pauline, who was strolling up and down a cabbage patch with a hoe, although she was making no attempt to use it. The old nun opened her mouth to grumble when she was asked to run an errand, but did as she was told when Michael fixed her with a glare. Eventually, she returned with Rose. The younger woman’s saffron hair was tucked decorously under her veil, and her loose robes concealed the tell-tale bulges Bartholomew had noticed the previous day.

‘Anything else?’ Pauline asked impertinently. ‘These weeds will not hoe themselves.’

‘Forget the weeds,’ said Christiana with sudden spirit. ‘Go to the kitchens and scour all the pans.’

‘I certainly shall not,’ said Pauline, regarding her as though she was insane. ‘Cold water is bad for my joints. I shall stay out here, and if the sun comes out, I shall have a doze.’

‘Did you say there are several vacancies for literate nuns at Chatteris, Brother?’ asked Christiana, looking at Michael with wide blue eyes. ‘And the Bishop is very keen to fill them?’

Michael nodded soberly. ‘But no one wants to go, because of the rats-and its tyrannical prioress. The Bishop is always looking for victims…I mean candidates, and I have his ear.’

‘You need me here, Mother Prioress,’ said Pauline sharply. ‘I am your secretarius.’

‘I am to have another,’ said Christiana sweetly. ‘So your services are no longer required. However, Chatteris is-’

‘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.’

‘I felt like hiding under a hedge at Poitiers myself,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I did not do it. It would not have been right to let comrades fight alone.’

‘Obviously someone else felt the same way,’ said Askyl, ‘because I am sure it was an Englishman who killed Curterne-all the enemy had been rounded up by the time he died. After, as William told you yesterday, when we found the sword in his corpse, we drew lots for it. Lymbury won.’

‘Did Lymbury kill Curterne, then?’

‘Possibly. I did not, and neither did William-William would have kept the sword if he had been the killer, since he really wanted to own it. I believe Curterne’s killer was either Lymbury or Dole, although I have no evidence to prove it.’

‘But you are still my main suspect for killing Lymbury,’ said Michael, watching the knight begin to weep again. ‘You lied to us about your whereabouts during the salient time, and innocent men do not fabricate.’

Askyl raised his tear-mottled face. ‘You expect me to admit, in front of all those people, that I was hiding from women? With Dole already suspicious of my fondness for William? I did not kill Lymbury, Brother. Why would I?’

‘Because by making William a vicar, Lymbury ensured he would have to stay in Ickleton,’ suggested Michael. ‘It interfered with your relationship.’

‘But Lymbury invited me to be his bailiff,’ Askyl pointed out. ‘I could have stayed, too.’

‘Speaking of bailiffs, here is Hog,’ said Bartholomew, glancing through the open door.

‘James is ill,’ said Hog, bursting into the house without invitation. ‘You must come at once.’

James was lying on a bench in the manor-house, gasping for breath, his face as scarlet as the setting sun. Bartholomew mixed a potion he prescribed for choleric patients, along with a small dose of poppy syrup to calm him, then wiped the boy’s burning skin with water-cooled cloths. Eventually, James’s face returned to a more normal colour, and his breathing eased.

‘He is young to suffer from a morbid excess of this particular humour,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Such an ailment is more common in older men.’

‘His mother was the same,’ said Hog brokenly. ‘She died before her time.’

Bartholomew suspected James might, too, although nothing would be served by confiding the fact. He did not want the lad’s last days to be tainted by fear.

‘Have you learned who killed my husband yet?’ asked Joan, fanning James with a cabbage leaf.

Michael shook his head. ‘Not yet, but I am coming close.’

‘It was William,’ said Joan, fanning hard enough to make James flinch. ‘Probably because he coveted that damned sword. Philip must have decided to leave it to Sir Elias instead, so William murdered Philip before he could change his will to that end.’

‘Then who killed William?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or do you think there are two murderers in Ickleton?’

Joan’s voice was cold. ‘If William murdered my husband, then he deserved to die-and I shall reward the brave man who dispatched him.’

Bartholomew regarded her thoughtfully. ‘We know a lot about William’s last movements. He practised his swordplay with Askyl, then went home. When he arrived, he discovered that someone had broken into the cupboard where he keeps his valuables and Lymbury’s will had gone. I doubt he would have gone to bed after that, so he probably returned here.’

Michael nodded. ‘He would have wanted to confront the thief and demand the will back.’

‘That assumes he knew who the thief was,’ said Hog.

‘I think he did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I certainly do.’

Everyone stared at him. ‘How?’ asked Hog eventually.

Bartholomew pointed to the floor, where grain had dropped from the bailiff’s clothing onto the polished boards. ‘You have been working in the fields, and corn has fallen into the folds of your tunic. There was corn in William’s house, too, near his cupboard-I picked it up, but discarded it as irrelevant. But it was not. It proves you were in William’s house last night, because no one else worked near corn yesterday.’

Hog regarded him uneasily. ‘That is not true. The hunt went along some of the fields.’

‘But they were on horseback. The grain came from someone walking among it. You.’

Hog was dismissive. ‘That is ludicrous.’

‘Whoever stole the will broke into William’s cupboard with a specific kind of tool,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘Not a knife, but something with a flat end, like a chisel. You have one, because you brandished it at Dole when he walked on your polished floor in his spurs earlier. You used that chisel to break the lock in William’s house-you did it when he was sparring with Askyl and Dole, knowing they were enjoying themselves and that you would have plenty of time.’

Hog’s face was white. ‘And why would I do that?’

‘Does this mean Hog killed William and my husband, too?’ demanded Joan, cutting across Bartholomew’s reply. It was just as well, because the physician did not know why Hog should have stolen the will.

‘No!’ cried James from his bench. ‘My father is not a killer.’

‘No, he is not,’ agreed Bartholomew gently. ‘He is not even a proper thief-no self-respecting robber would have left all that jewellery untouched.’

Suddenly, the door crashed open, and Prioress Christiana marched in, pushing a subdued Dame Pauline before her. Rose had followed, her eyes bright with interest.

‘I have just found this,’ said Christiana furiously, waving an old, time-yellowed garment that was liberally splattered with blood. ‘Dame Pauline was about to burn it.’

‘Pauline is the killer?’ asked Joan, her jaw dropping in shock.

‘Of course not!’ screeched Pauline, clearly frightened. ‘I am a nun! I do not go around jabbing swords into the backs of men sitting in chairs as they count their money.’

‘How do you know Lymbury was counting his money?’ pounced Michael. ‘Matt found a gold coin in his hand, but only he and I knew about that. Your innocence is looking shaky, madam.’

‘Pauline may well have been present when Lymbury died,’ said Bartholomew, watching the old woman flail around for an answer. ‘But she did not deliver the killing blow. That was James.’

Everyone turned to look at the ailing youth, who closed his eyes tightly, as if he could pretend none of them were there.

‘That is a lie,’ said Hog in a whisper. ‘James is ill. He could not have killed Lymbury.’

‘He was not ill yesterday,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He ran all over the manor looking for William to write the new will. And that is his tunic in the prioress’s hand. The one he wears now is new, very clean and so white it dazzles in the sunlight-but what servant dons such a garment when there is so much work to be done in the fields? The truth is that James killed Lymbury, and his clothes were befouled with blood. Hog said James was too dim-witted to think of ridding himself of stained garments, but someone else was not.’

‘I admit I helped him,’ said Pauline in a wheedling voice. ‘But only because he is a good boy, and I do not want to see him hang for a moment of silly temper.’

‘James is not hot tempered,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is soft and malleable. He is upset about the prospect of his father losing his post to Askyl-he loves Hog, and will do anything for him.’

Hog went to kneel next to the boy. ‘Is it true?’

James nodded unhappily, his eyes still screwed closed. ‘Dame Pauline said killing Lymbury would make your position safe. She gave me the sword and said no one would ever know it was me-she said everyone would think one of his friends had done it, because they are warlike.’

‘Lies!’ screeched Pauline, starting to move towards him. Bartholomew blocked her path.

‘I did it for you,’ whispered James to his father. ‘Pauline said Lady Joan would inherit all his property, including the right to rent the manor from Michaelhouse, and all would be well again. You love Ickleton, and I do not want your heart broken by leaving it.’

Hog rested his hand on his son’s forehead, then stood and faced Michael. ‘He is rambling. I killed Lymbury. And last night, I went to William’s house and stole the will. It is in my house-I hid it under the table. James has nothing to do with any of this. It was me.’ He faltered, and gazed uncertainly at Pauline. ‘Although I still do not understand why you ordered me to steal the will and hide it until later.’

Pauline licked dry lips. ‘Do not listen to him, Brother. I did not tell either of them to do anything. Killing Lymbury would not have secured Hog’s post, as any fool would know. Michaelhouse is now free to rent the manor to anyone it chooses, and Hog will be dismissed.’

Bartholomew saw James’s stricken expression. ‘But the boy did not know that. He believed you when you told him murder would save his father from unhappiness. You preyed on his gullibility.’

Pauline’s expression was cold and disdainful. ‘What do you know about what James thinks? Besides, you heard Hog. He admitted everything. He killed Lymbury. I did nothing-except burn…’

‘Except burn James’s tunic,’ finished Michael. ‘Which you would not have done if Hog had killed Lymbury. This murder is just as much your doing as the boy’s. You were like a devil, sitting on his shoulder, whispering evil into his ear.’

‘And it was all for selfishness,’ added Bartholomew. ‘You killed Lymbury so you would not have to play chaperon to Rose on any more hunts.’

‘I hate riding,’ said Pauline in a pitiful whine. ‘It jolts my old joints, and I am often in agony for days afterwards. You are right in that I would do virtually anything to avoid riding-but not murder.’

Bartholomew did not believe her. ‘You need not have troubled yourself. In a few weeks, she will not be able to go out into the woods anyway. She is pregnant.’

Pauline was more angry than shocked. She turned on Rose. ‘You told me your heaviness was down to too much bread. You lied-and that made me take poor decisions. This is your fault!’

‘Do not shirk responsibility,’ said Michael sharply. ‘Take her back to the convent, Prioress Christiana. I shall arrange for her transfer to Chatteris within the week.’

With a screech of outrage, Pauline launched herself at the monk. Bartholomew dived to intercept her, but she was faster than he anticipated and he missed. Joan drew the small knife she carried in her belt, and for a moment, Bartholomew thought she intended to stab the old nun as she hurtled past. But Joan hesitated, and suddenly, the dagger was in Pauline’s gnarled fingers. Rose was made of sterner stuff, however. Calmly, she stretched out a foot as Pauline powered past, and the old woman went sprawling across the wooden floor, dagger skittering from her fingers.

‘She was going to kill you, Brother,’ said Hog in horror, hurrying to grab the weapon and return it to Joan. ‘She is truly a fiend from Hell.’

‘And I saved your life,’ said Rose comfortably. ‘So, you would not be sending me to Chatteris for disobedience, would you, Brother?’

Later that day, Bartholomew and Michael collected their horses and prepared to go home. There were four hours of daylight left, more than enough time to ride to Cambridge before the sun set. In Bartholomew’s saddlebag was a chalice Lymbury had removed from a church near Poitiers, which Dole estimated was worth ten marks. Master Langelee could sell it to pay for the latrines, and the manor’s debt to Michaelhouse would be discharged. The two scholars lingered, waiting for Joan to bring them a parcel of pastries to eat on the journey home.

‘So, it was all Dame Pauline,’ said Michael, rubbing his horse’s neck. ‘She disliked acting as chaperon to Rose and riding was becoming increasingly painful for her, so she decided to murder the lord of the manor so she would not have to do it again.’

‘It does not sound very likely, does it?’ said Bartholomew. ‘A feeble motive for killing.’

‘Perhaps to the likes of you and me, but Dame Pauline is a totally selfish creature, who will do anything for her own comfort. She was willing to see James or Hog hang for the crime she instigated-she cares for nothing and no one but herself.’

Bartholomew thought about how she had achieved her objective. ‘So, during the hunt, she escaped from Rose-who had bribed her to doze under a tree anyway-and slunk back to the manor-house. There was young James, and there was Lymbury, counting his money. She played on James’s fears and his loyalty to his father, by making him believe all would be well if Lymbury was dead. Then she persuaded Hog to steal Lymbury’s will. Why did she do that, Brother? Did she hope she might be a beneficiary?’

‘When I interviewed her, she admitted that she intended to forge a codicil that favoured the priory. She said she is obliged to eat too much bread and not enough meat, and wants better things in her old age. And then she intended to have Prioress Christiana dismissed for incompetence and herself put forward as a suitable replacement. As I said, Matt, she is wholly devoted to herself and her own wants and desires.’

‘Did she kill William, too? I suppose she must have done, so he would not tell anyone what was really in Lymbury’s last testament.’

‘When we recovered Lymbury’s will from Hog’s house, we found it was not as controversial as we were led to believe. He left the bulk of his estate to his wife, and gave his friends Dole, William and Askyl forty marks each. It is not a fortune, but it is a respectable declaration of friendship.’

‘But if Joan dies childless, then Askyl is to have everything,’ elaborated Bartholomew, who had also listened to the reading, ‘on the grounds that William and Dole have received lucrative posts and Askyl has not yet had anything. Joan had better hurry up and bear a son, or we may be called to investigate another murder in Ickleton.’

‘The priory will get nothing, though. I suppose Lymbury thought the ten marks he gave Christiana was sufficient.’

‘But why did he give away money that belonged to Michaelhouse?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It does not sound like something an orderly man would do-and Lymbury was orderly.’

‘That was Pauline again. She persuaded him to donate the money to the priory immediately, and she wrote the letter to Michaelhouse. She denied it when we asked her, but she was not telling the truth.’

Bartholomew snapped his fingers. ‘Of course she wrote it! It is obvious now. William was Lymbury’s clerk, but he said he had scribed no letter to Michaelhouse, and there was no reason for him to lie. And because Lymbury could not read, he had no idea what Pauline had told us.’

‘Precisely, Matt. Christiana told me that Pauline sometimes kept the records of Lymbury’s dealings with the priory when Dole or William were unavailable. Also, I looked through Pauline’s possessions once she was safely incarcerated in Christiana’s cellar, and found an early draft-no doubt the one Lymbury had originally dictated to her. What he had actually asked her to write to us was a polite request for a delay until after the harvest, when the debt would be paid in full with interest. I think she changed the wording from spite.’

‘Or perhaps she intended to keep the interest for herself,’ suggested Bartholomew. He glanced at the monk. ‘What will you tell the Sheriff about James? Unlike Dame Pauline, he cannot claim benefit of clergy. He will hang-although it seems unfair.’

‘You said he will die soon anyway.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘You could tell your Bishop the story, and ask him to advise the Sheriff. He is not very efficient, and it will take him weeks to draw up the proper writs. And by then…’

‘That is a devious solution, Matt. But it is one that has already occurred to me.’

Bartholomew dismounted. ‘I am going to find out what is taking Joan so long. If we do not leave soon, we will be travelling in the dark, and that would be unwise with a silver chalice in our bags. It would be a pity to lose it, after all we have been through.’

He stepped into the solar, but stopped short when he saw Joan lying on Hog’s beautifully polished floor. Askyl stood over her, Lymbury’s sword clutched in both hands. When he saw the physician coming towards him, Askyl hurled the weapon at the hearth. Part of the hilt snapped off on the unyielding stone, and a carved dog-head from the cross bounced away under a bench. A distant part of Bartholomew’s mind thought how William would have deplored the damage.

‘What have you done?’ he asked. ‘Where is Rose?’

‘Gone to the kitchens for a cloth to bind the wound,’ said Askyl in a low voice. ‘She is taking a long time. Dole has gone to fetch his Bible.’

Bartholomew moved forward cautiously. Joan was still alive, but barely. He heard Michael enter the hall behind him.

‘I asked Sir Elias to marry me,’ Joan whispered when the physician knelt next to her. ‘Philip left me a small fortune, and I need a husband. But I wanted no secrets.’

Bartholomew caught one of her fluttering hands and saw blood on her sleeve. It was not her own, because it was dry. ‘You killed William?’ he asked, grappling with the implications. ‘I said he had struggled with his attacker-and that his killer would be stained with his blood.’

She started to cry. ‘I killed William because I believed he had murdered Philip. You and the monk said he had good reason for doing so. But then you deduced that Pauline and James were the culprits. I told Elias about my mistake…’

‘You told him you murdered the man he loved more than anyone in the world,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘And he was not very understanding about it.’

But Joan was dead. There was a clatter of footsteps and Rose appeared, carrying a bowl of water and a bundle of rags.

‘You are too late,’ said Bartholomew.

‘These are not for her,’ said Rose shakily. ‘They are for Sir Elias. After he struck Joan, he made the mistake of turning his back, and she stabbed him with that little dagger she carries. A soldier should have known better.’

Askyl crashed to the floor, and Bartholomew saw a bloody slit in his leather jerkin. ‘I want only one thing now,’ the knight gasped, pushing the physician away when he tried to inspect the injury. ‘I want to marry Sister Rose.’

Bartholomew gaped at him, and so did Rose. ‘Why?’

‘Because it is the only way I can avenge myself on the woman who murdered my dearest friend,’ said Askyl hoarsely. ‘Here is Dole at last, and he has brought Hog and Prioress Christiana with him. They will be witnesses to the rite he is about to perform.’

When Askyl smiled, his teeth were red, and Bartholomew knew the wound was beyond his medical skills. He shrugged helplessly when Rose raised hopeful eyes.

‘You cannot do this,’ said Michael, as Dole struggled into his vestments. ‘It is a ceremony founded in spite and deceit.’

‘It will give Rose a home, and her child a legal name,’ argued Askyl softly. ‘Joan died childless, and Lymbury’s will stipulated that I will inherit under those conditions. And my last testament-which Dole has already written for me-says I will leave all to my wife. Rose will rent this manor from Michaelhouse, with your blessing, and Hog will continue to be her bailiff. What is spiteful and deceitful about that?’

Michael ignored the question. ‘You cannot marry Rose here-this is not a church.’

‘I shall ask the Bishop for special dispensation later,’ said Dole. ‘He will not deny a dying man’s last request. And you are not an unkind man, Brother-you will not stop us.’

‘Hurry, Dole,’ whispered Askyl. ‘My eyes grow dim.’

The chaplain gabbled through the ceremony at a furious lick, while Askyl’s breathing grew more laboured as his lungs filled with blood. Rose cried when it was finished, and kissed his cold hand.

‘And now I shall absolve you of your sins,’ said Dole in a voice that cracked with emotion. ‘But I wish to God none of this had happened.’

‘I killed Curterne after Poitiers,’ breathed Askyl, almost inaudibly. ‘I did not do it because I wanted the sword, but because the sword had made him a coward. I never intended Lymbury to find it, or for us four to draw lots to keep it. I was going to drop it in the nearest river, but I did not have time…’

‘You did not have time because I suggested we search for Curterne’s belongings when his corpse was discovered,’ said Dole, self-disgust and bitterness strong in his voice. ‘I thought his armour and purse might soften the news of his death for his family. But Lymbury found the sword and declared Curterne’s family would have no need of such a weapon. We should never have let him convince us that keeping it was right. It was a shameful thing to have done.’

‘Lymbury and William were stabbed in the back,’ whispered Askyl with the last of his strength. ‘And now the blade has led a knight to slaughter a woman. It is truly a Sword of Shame.’

III

Rose’s child was born on a bitter January night. Prioress Christiana came to sit with her, Hog stood ready to run for the midwife should anything go wrong, and Dole whispered prayers for her safe delivery. Later, when the child lost the anonymity of babyhood, Hog liked to think the boy took after him.

The bailiff was content with his life, although he grieved for James, who had died quietly in his sleep just after the harvest had been gathered. Rose never meddled with his running of the estate, and since Michaelhouse always received prompt payments, their distant landlords did not interfere, either. The villagers were happier once the spectre of vengeful Frenchmen had been erased, and saluted strangers who rode through their parish.

Christiana received many piteous letters from Dame Pauline, begging to be allowed back because she was half-starved and constantly cold, but Christiana could not read, and her new secretary, Chaplain Dole, always told her the old nun was happy at Chatteris.

Dole baptized Rose’s child Elias Askyl. The boy’s mother wanted him to be a warrior, and return home loaded with the spoils of war, but Elias preferred ploughs to weapons, and showed no interest in the broken sword Rose kept hidden in a disused chimney. His son-also Elias, although he preferred the more refined ‘Haskell’ to Askyl-inherited his father’s love of the land, but he paid a smith to repair the sword, although the job was poorly done and the weapon was never the same again. Rose died at a great age bemoaning the fact that she had sired a dynasty of farmers, and the sword was consigned to the chimney again.

Another Elias Haskell found it many years later, when he demolished the old manor house and built himself a larger, grander home. He polished it up and hung it over the fireplace, where it remained until a bitterly cold winter, when a stranger from the Globe Playhouse in Southwark, London arrived cold and weary at Valence Manor.

HISTORICAL NOTE

Michaelhouse was granted the hundred-acre Ickleton estate known as Valence Manor in 1349, and the rent was an important source of income for the College-it funded two fellowships and a chaplain. Joan and Philip Lymbury were lords of Lymburys Manor in the mid-fourteenth century.

Ickleton Priory, a house of Benedictine nuns, was founded in the 1150s. Prioress Alice Lacy was deposed by the Bishop of Ely in 1352, and her successor may have been Christiana Coleman, who was in post by 1361. Other nuns were Pauline de Gras, mentioned in a deed of the 1350s, and Rose Arsyk. William the Vicar was priest of St Mary’s Ickleton after 1353, and the nuns’ chaplain in 1378 was Geoffrey Dole. An Ickleton villager, who destroyed all the convent’s deeds during the Peasants Revolt of 1381, was called James Hog.

The Battle of Poitiers was on 19 September 1356.