The Latin inscription carved on the gleaming blade read "He who lives in falsehood slays his soul; he who lies, his honor." If only they had known how true those words would prove to be. The Sword of Shame was lovingly crafted by a Saxon swordsmith shortly before the Norman invasion, and its constant companions are treachery and deceit. From the Norman Conquest of 1066, to an election-rigging scandal in 13th-century Venice, to the bloody battlefield of Poitiers in 1356at the heart of every treasonous plot, every murder and betrayal, is the malign influence of the cursed sword. And as it passes from owner to owner, ill-fortune and disgrace befall all who wield the deadly blade. The Medieval Murders are Philip Gooden; Susanna Gregory, author of the Matthew Bartholomew series; Michael Jecks, author of the Templar series; Bernard Knight, author of the Crowner John series; and Ian Morson, author of the Falconer mystery series.

ACT ONE Exeter, April 1195 There was a thunderous crash as the roof fell in and a fountain of sparks erupted into the night sky. The air became filled with specks of black ash and fragments of burning straw floated from the flaming thatch of the cottage. With a crackling roar, Gwyn's home of twelve years was destroyed in as many minutes. The big Cornishman stood impotently in the road outside, watching the destruction in company with his neighbours, who although sympathetic to his loss, were more concerned over the threat to their own roofs by the flying sparks. They had carried leather buckets of turbid water from the well, but there was nothing they could do to save the little building, made of wood-framed wattle plastered with cob - a mixture of clay, straw and dung. The villagers of St Sidwell, a hamlet just outside Exeter's city walls, had helped Gwyn of Polruan to save what he could of the family's possessions, few that they were, but most of what was in the single-room had gone up in flames. In the plot behind, the hut that his wife Agnes used for her cooking was emptied before it also fell prey to the flying embers - and their three goats, the fowls and a pair of pigs were also taken to safety in a nearby croft. 'How did it start, Gwyn?' asked the man from next door, a mournful fellow who always stank, as he worked in the tannery. 'That bloody roof again! A chunk of withies and straw as big as my head fell down into the firepit. By the time the smoke woke me up, it was too late!' The thatch had been laid on woven hazel withies supported by the rafters, always a hazard in dwellings where the fire was in the centre of the floor beneath. 'Thank God that Agnes and the boys weren't here,' said the tanner, relishing the drama that was enlivening the humdrum life of the village. 'Nothing but damned trouble, this week,' grunted Gwyn. 'Both lads are sickening for something, so she took them down to stay with her sister in Milk Lane. She's good with herbs and potions and suchlike.' As they spoke, the front wall fell in with a crash and fresh streamers of fire spewed up into the night sky. 'What's our landlord going to say about losing his house?' asked another neighbour with ill-concealed satisfaction. He rented his own dwelling from the same man, the owner of several fulling-mills on the river, which processed raw wool for the spinners and weavers of the city. 'Sod him, the tight-fisted bastard!' growled Gwyn. 'If he won't mend a rotten roof, he has to put up with the consequences.' The tanner nudged him. 'Talk of the devil! Here he is.' The fire made the midnight scene as bright as day and in its glare, they saw a dark-haired man hurrying towards them, his whole demeanour suggesting pent-up anger. 'What have you done to my house, you Cornish savage?' he yelled as he came close. 'This is all your fault!' Though Gwyn, like many large men, was normally of a placid nature, this unjust accusation coming so soon after the loss of his home, made him lose his temper. 'Don't give me that, Walter Tyrell!' he boomed. 'Your lousy roof collapsed on to my fire. God knows I've asked you often enough to get it mended!' A shouting match soon developed, each man vociferously denying the claims of the other. Surrounded by a circle of neighbours, whose sympathies were totally with Gwyn, the pair squared up to each other, as red-faced as the fire behind them. The two antagonists were as unlike as could be imagined. Gwyn of Polruan was a huge, ginger-haired giant, with long moustaches of the same hue hanging down each side of his chin. Walter Tyrell was of average height, but looked small alongside the coroner's officer. About forty years old, he was coarsely handsome, with dark wavy hair and a rim of black beard around his face. Where Gwyn wore a shabby leather jerkin over his serge breeches, hastily pulled on b