Servant of Death

by Sarah Hawkswood

  Brother Remigius took his accustomed place in the file of cowled figures assembling for Vespers with a face clouded by worry, and began the chant of prayer without conscious thought. The action had long ago become instinctive, and sometimes he chastised himself for failing to concentrate on the service, dwelling instead on vague distractions. Today, however, his mind was such a swirling mass of confusion, fear and rising anger that to have given himself up to the spirituality of the office would have been beyond him, however much he tried. The words still came, as they always did, but he was clearly distracted, and Brother Simon, the most irreverent of the novices, later described him to his fellows as looking like a landed trout from the abbey fishponds.

  Below the crossing, the lady Courtney stood apart from the citizens of Pershore who had come to hear Vespers. All the other secular guests were about their worldly business, but she came nearest to being at peace within the church, and her devotions occupied her so deeply that even had they been present, she would not have been aware of them. She made her responses in a thin voice made tremulous with religious fervour, and occasionally entirely suspended by emotion. Her bulky protector made no responses at all, but then he had no tongue.

  The Sisters of Romsey stood side by side, incongruous among the laity. Sister Ursula felt awkward and out of place. Normally they would have been in the choir, but in this house of monks their sex meant that they were not part of that select number. The younger nun sensed her superior taut as a bowstring beside her, and wondered if Sister Edeva resented their exclusion.

  Sister Edeva was staring blindly ahead of her, the Latin tripping from her lips without her needing to think. Unconsciously, her fingers closed upon the amber cross that lay upon her breast beneath the scapular. Her breath felt constricted in her chest, as if she had been winded. After all this time, when she had come to believe she had gained a form of peace, a single moment had brought everything welling up in her thoughts, as bright as if it was all yesterday; as bright as blood. There had been times recently when she had castigated herself for forgetting, for allowing his very face to become a hazy memory, something which could only be caught in the edge of vision. If looked upon fully it lost all form. Now she knew that she had not forgotten; would never forget. It was peace and acceptance which were illusory. A tremor ran through her, and Sister Ursula glanced at her companion, now pale and faltering in her responses, with obvious concern. At the conclusion of the service, the sacrist of Romsey remained long after it was needful, and eventually headed for the south door with Sister Ursula hovering solicitously at her side. The golden, afternoon sunlight flooded the eastern range of the cloister, and both women blinked in the unaccustomed brightness. The air was warm, yet another shiver ran through Sister Edeva. They had not got as far as the doorway from the cloister to the courtyard and guest range when the older woman halted.

  ‘Sister Ursula, I confess that the thought of dining with Father Abbot is too much. My head is throbbing as if beaten with cudgels. I am no fit guest tonight.’

  ‘Oh dear. I am sorry, Sister. I thought that you were unwell during the office. A headache is indeed a sore trial. Perhaps the journey has been overtiring.’ The young religeuse regarded her companion, who must be nearly twice her age, with the unconscious pity of the young for the old. ‘Would you have me fetch something from the herbalist, some lavender water for your temples perhaps, or some easing draught, and bring it to our chamber?’

  Sister Edeva gave a wan smile, genuinely touched by Sister Ursula’s concern. ‘No, I thank you, though it is a most charitable offer, Sister. I think I will spend the time in St Eadburga’s chapel. It is cool there, and prayer is always efficacious, for matters of the body as well as the soul.’

  She turned and retraced her steps, her pace as ever measured and composed, betraying nothing of her troubled thoughts. Sister Ursula watched her until she re-entered the church, and sighed. She tried very hard to be pious, humble and dutiful, but she would have been weak and chosen rest upon her cot rather than the discipline of prayer. She admired Sister Edeva’s devotion and obedience and reflected that it would be many years before she achieved such self-discipline. Had she been privy to the sacrist of Romsey’s demeanour in the soft silence of St Eadburga’s chapel, she would have been astounded. Sister Edeva sank to her knees and covered her face with her hands rather than linking them in the conventional pose of prayer, and her shoulders shook as she wept silently. When the tears no longer fell, she heaved a great sigh, straightened her back and began her orisons, commencing with a plea for forgiveness of a lie.

  Brother Eudo knelt before the altar of the Lady chapel, head bowed and hands clasped, the very picture of tonsured piety. He knelt, however, because it was a position in which years of experience enabled him to relax, and because anyone entering the chapel would not wish to disturb his prayers and would probably withdraw; unless, of course, they were expecting to meet him there. Eudo had been engaged upon covert meetings for longer than he could recall, but the anticipation still gave him a surge of adrenalin. He was not the sort of man who had ever sought excitement from the clash of swords, but an engagement of wits was another matter. He made it his business to gather more information than he gave, and to put the other person, who was frequently nervous anyway, at a disadvantage. It was an added pleasure to leave them with the belief that he would disclose their identity and secret, without having to reveal his own, at the slightest provocation, or indeed, none at all. This evening he had two assignations, although it was the first that promised to be especially entertaining, and he had arrived early. He liked to feel master of the situation, and being already in possession of the ground, so to speak, gave him an edge. Besides, he was going through permutations of how the interview would progress.

  After some time there came the sound of footsteps, not, he acknowledged with some surprise, furtive, but assured and purposeful without being heavy. He turned his head a little so that he could see who entered, and rose, a satisfied smile upon his lips.

  ‘Ah, I did not think you would disappoint me.’

  Chapter Three

  The pace was slow as the weary horsemen descended to cross the Avon, and some of the men-at-arms slouched in their saddles. One who had suffered an injury groaned occasionally, while another whistled tunelessly through gapped teeth until Serjeant Catchpoll bid him shut up in the most colourful terms of his native English.

  Hugh Bradecote smiled to himself. His own first language was the Norman French of the baronage, but he was also perfectly at home in English, and indeed had a good percentage of English blood in his veins. Its imprecations and expressive expletives had been one of his earliest discoveries. This had led to some painful interludes with Father Gerard, who had taught him his letters, but had been most useful in establishing his credentials with his father’s English retainers.

  Bradecote’s manors were not large; all lay within an hour’s ride of the most substantial, Bradecote itself, and neither he nor his father had ever seen Normandy. He held the majority of his lands from William de Beauchamp, Sheriff of Worcester, which accounted for his presence and that of his men on this punitive expedition.

  It was not a very noble task, hunting down law-breakers, but he could see it as a larger-scale version of his duty to protect his manors, and a man with a cudgel was still a man armed, as his bruised shoulder-joint attested. He winced, as much at the thought of the fussing his wife would make over him returning black and blue as the discomfort. There was certainly nothing heroic in admitting that he had nearly been laid out by a lumbering oaf with a lump of ash, even if he had been tackling a man with a sword at the time.

  The ambush had, however, been most successful, despite the fact that he had felt Catchpoll’s beady eye upon every move he made in deploying his men. A dozen bound and bloodied prisoners staggered along, dragged behind mounted men-at-arms, and a further half dozen corpses were slung across pack animals. Only one body was that of a sheriff’s man. There would be plenty to show
the populace that the lord Sheriff of Worcester would not brook such lawlessness, even in a time of civil war. De Beauchamp had lost a man-at-arms, but the casualties among his own men comprised just two with serious injuries and a couple of others nursing fat lips and a few contusions.

  William de Beauchamp, riding at the head of his small column, should have felt pleased, but if he was it did not show upon his heavy-set features. As the late afternoon drifted into evening, and the glare of the sun softened and ceased to pain the eyes, his body, after a long day that had begun with a hot ride and been followed by a brisk fight, began to ache, and his stomach rumbled. He wondered morosely if he would be in time to find good fare at the Abbot of Pershore’s table.

  Master Elias was not in good humour. The masons under him were not given free rein to go out and about within the town. He worked on the principle that any returning obviously inebriated to their temporary wooden lodgings in the enclave would bring heavy looks and harsh words from the clerics, and would thereby do his reputation no good. In addition, a man with a thick head in the morning might be careless with a chisel, and ruin a piece of carving, and he knew from bitter experience that, at best, several would be sluggish about their tasks and bemoaning aching heads. Even worse, there was the risk one would be clumsy with the winches and ladders, causing injury to himself or the death of others. Yet he had given his men unaccustomed permission to go into the town for an hour or so, to free him for his meeting with Eudo the Clerk.

  When he arrived in the workshop his greying brows beetled in annoyance, for he found that even the anticipation of the evening had had a bad effect on the apprentice set to clean the workshop. Master Elias discovered a mallet left dusty and out of its allotted place in the rack, and his brows drew together in a heavy frown. Tools were valuable and could easily be mislaid; only by checking that everything was replaced carefully could losses be avoided. Neatness of workplace also went hand-in-hand with neatness of work, in his book. Arnulf the apprentice would feel the rough edge of his tongue, if not the back of his hand, upon his return.

  The youth in question was not in danger of drowning in ale, though it was possible he might in the Avon. The youngest apprentices found the lure of the cool river more appealing than slaking their thirsts, and it had the advantage of being free. Arnulf, Godfrey and the youngest apprentice, Wulfstan, who thought he numbered fourteen summers, had discarded tunic and hose, and dabbled their toes in the sun-warmed shallows, seeing if the minnows would nibble at them among the green weed. After the initial cool pleasure, they were now goading each other in boyish bravado, to see who would be the first to immerse himself completely. There was much mutual splashing and high spirits, and the chance for lads, who spent their lives under the scrutiny of their elders and were expected to act like men, to let their natural adolescent exuberance bubble to the surface. None of the three could swim, but the river was low and sluggish in the midsummer drought, and they were able to play at swimming, bracing their arms with their palms in the mud while the water floated their bodies in a weightless sensation that was new to Godfrey and Wulfstan, who had grown up near trickling streams only.

  While he waited for his furtive visitor, the master mason toyed with a design for a corbel to make use of a fault in one of the stone blocks; for a time his aggravations were forgotten in the contemplation of the stone, and he was happily occupied. Eventually, however, he pulled a face. His own internal clock told him that it was almost time for Compline, and the clerk had failed to make good the assignation. Master Elias opened the door into the north transept and headed towards the cloister. At least there he could give the man a look that would show just how little he liked having his time wasted. He turned to genuflect towards the high altar as he traversed the crossing, and was surprised to see the figure of a monk lying prone at the base of the altar steps, arms outstretched in the manner of a penitent.

  Master Elias was a devout enough man, but some of the religious, he thought, took their calling to extremes. The figure was silent, lost no doubt in contemplation of his sins, perhaps rehearsing in his mind how he would make confession before his brethren at Chapter. It might even be that he planned to pre-empt another brother denouncing him, in all charity of course. The master mason sighed. The conventual life claimed many late converts, who saw how it could assist the passage of their souls, but having seen more of the monastic life than most, he felt that he was unlikely ever to take the cowl, even in extremis.

  It was the buzzing of a fly about the penitent that made Master Elias halt. The annoying insect should have provoked some sort of reaction, but there was none. Intrigued, and with a dull feeling of unease, Elias approached the motionless form. A few paces short, he stopped with a sharp intake of breath. A small, dark pool of blood was spread over the flagged floor. It emanated from the back of the man’s head, or rather what was left of it. The tonsure was indiscernible amidst the mess of blood and bone. Elias crossed himself, and swallowed hard. Even face down, and so battered, he was recognisable. Eudo the Clerk had not been able to meet him in the workshop, because he had a prior engagement … with his Maker.

  After a moment of paralysis, Elias’s brain began to work. Eudo had intended to visit him, so there might be documents in his scrip that would be of use, if not to the empress, then to King Stephen. He dropped to his knees, careful to avoid the dark, sticky stain, and slid his hand beneath the corpse. Feeling around tentatively, he was relieved to find the cords of the monk’s scrip, and followed them to the leather bag, which was still full. Whoever had killed him had not had time or inclination to investigate it. He drew out several sheets of vellum. One bore the king’s seal, one that of his brother, Henri de Blois, Bishop of Winchester, and there were several scraps written in code. There was another, its seal broken, addressed ‘Beloved’.

  ‘So much for your vow of chastity, Brother,’ muttered Elias, with a grim smile, but before he could read further the first bell tolled for Compline. He had to act quickly. He could not afford to take the documents with him, lest they be discovered on his person. Nor was there time to secrete them. The safest thing to do would be to burn everything. If the empress could not have information, well then, nor would Stephen. Taking the votive candle that burnt before the altar, he took the smallest fragment of vellum and held it to the flame, holding it long enough to catch light, and thereby also scorching his fingers. The inks gave fantastic colours to the flames, but Elias could not afford to watch them. The insistent tolling bell warned him of the imminent arrival of abbot and community.

  Checking his slightly trembling hands for traces of blood, he rose and ran, surprisingly swiftly and lightly for one of his age and girth, to the south transept door and out into the cloister.

  His pace and pallor halted those making their way to the last office of the day. The brothers were forming up in pairs behind the prior on the south side of the square, but despite that formality there was a gently relaxed atmosphere among those for whom Compline, simple and short, marked the end of a long day. A novice stifled a yawn. Abbot William approached from the direction of his lodging, and exchanged a quiet word with the Sisters of Romsey. He preceded them through the west door, and halted so quickly that the nuns nearly bumped into him. The abbot, startled by running in the cloister, was about to remonstrate with the master mason, but was forestalled by his blurting out his news.

  ‘My lord abbot, there has been a terrible thing done in the church, before the altar itself … A foul murder. The lord Bishop of Winchester’s clerk has been violently killed.’

  There was a moment of stunned silence, when everyone seemed frozen in time, an echo of the gargoyles Elias so lovingly fashioned. The remorseless bell tolled and broke the spell. One of the ladies from the guest hall broke into hysterics, her voice caught in gasping sobs. The sacrist of Romsey Abbey sank slowly and very gracefully to her knees beside Abbot William, her lips moving in silent prayer. Her companion, as pale as her wimple, dithered momentarily and then knelt beside her. The
abbot knew an overwhelming desire to follow suit; the appearance, at least, of prayer would grant him time to think. He overcame this inclination and made an effort to assert some control over the situation.

  ‘Master Elias, are you sure of what you say? If the lord bishop’s clerk is indeed dead, possibly it was some accident or …’ His voice trailed off as he watched the mason shake his head. ‘Nobody would break the sanctity of our church.’ The tone was beseeching rather than confident.

  Abbot William was not a pusillanimous man. He controlled his abbey with authority, and was confident in his dealings with the secular world. Yet here was something beyond his experience, beyond his imagining, and all at once he was floundering. His mind worked slowly, as if clogged by the honey from the abbey hives, and raised problems rather than solutions.

  He became aware of commotion behind him in the outer court; there came voices and the sound of horses’ hooves. The abbot looked round and his jaw dropped. As if upon instant answer to his prayer, here was the embodiment of the law, with his minions about him.

  Roused at last into movement, Abbot William side-stepped the kneeling nuns and walked into the cloister doorway with his hands outstretched. The lord Sheriff of Worcester looked highly bewildered. The Abbot of Pershore seemed about to greet him like a long-lost brother.