‘You are saying that one of us is the killer, my lord.’ Mistress Weaver’s voice was matter of fact.
‘I am saying,’ Bradecote replied with emphasis, ‘that nobody who was not within the walls of this abbey is under suspicion.’
Sister Edeva gave him a cool, slightly mocking look. ‘Much more circumspect, but the same thing underneath. Do you expect us to lie quaking in our beds, and screeching at shadows? Are you perhaps going to confiscate Sister Ursula’s darning needle?’
Sister Ursula looked horrified, but the sheriff’s officer permitted himself a fleeting smile and his eyes, for all their weariness, flashed understanding. Sister Edeva was not one to be daunted by his words, and saw no benefit in spreading panic. She clearly thought his pronouncement over dramatic.
‘I hardly think so, Sister Sacrist. Just be on your guard, all of you, and show sense. I do not desire you to “quake” but nor do I desire any further fatalities.’
‘Heaven forfend.’ Abbot William crossed himself and his cheeks paled. He had clearly not considered such an awful possibility.
‘Then I will bid you all a safe goodnight. Father Abbot. Ladies.’ Bradecote made a small obeisance that took in all present, and departed with a firm step. He was conscious of the gesture, and also that it would be understood and appreciated by the Benedictine sister. If he wished to be dramatic, he would be so, regardless of her opinion.
Isabelle d’Achelie was not cold, for the evening was warm, and so she had no excuse to request Waleran de Grismont’s arms about her except perturbation. They stood in the long shadow of the wall to the abbot’s garden as the heavy scent of herb and flower lay contained within its bounds, conversing in low voices.
‘I am frightened, my lord.’
‘Surely not here and now, my love.’ His voice was honeyed, soothing.
‘I might be murdered in my bed.’
‘I have an answer to that, my lady. Share mine. I can promise to protect your body with my own.’
‘My lord!’ She blushed, outraged yet flattered. ‘We are within the confines of the cloistered.’
‘You do not ask me to let you go, though.’ His hold tightened, and he lifted her chin. ‘You would be safe with me.’
‘I am not sure any woman is safe with you, my lord.’
‘Let us say, safe from danger.’ He kissed her, slowly, seductively. Why wait for a king’s agreement if she would give herself now?
She fought the urge to relax into the seduction. Of all her animal instincts, self-preservation was still the most honed.
‘Mmm, my lord, this is not the time for love.’
‘When better? The night is warm, and I am hot for you.’
She pushed her hands against his chest.
‘Waleran, this is not the time. There is a murderer in this place.’
‘Why assume that anyone else must die? You and I both know the snivelling Eudo was the sort none love and many must have wanted silenced. I am not afraid. I just sleep with a dagger beneath my blanket, and I am not playing with words.’ He was serious now. ‘My offer stands, and if you will not accept it, keep your eating knife by your bed.’
‘I could not kill a man, my lord.’
‘If you feared enough, you could, my lady. I offer you the choice of sleeping with a warm body or cold steel, and I know which I would prefer you to select, but it is your choice.’
‘I … I cannot … Not here. It would curse us to do so within the abbey walls.’ She crossed herself.
He frowned. He did not think her an overly religious woman.
‘And lies are sins also, my heart. You fear that if you say yes, I shall not bother with wedding you? You are the most beautiful woman I have ever encountered, but a wife is not just a woman, she is also a dowry, and the provision of sons. I would wed you, and delight in all three.’
His words took her aback. They were true enough, and yet vaguely shocking.
‘I shall bed with the steel tonight, my lord, and hope to come to you with the second, and, God willing, provide you with the third.’ She took his face between her hands, kissed him as if to seal the promise, and flitted away.
Waleran de Grismont leant against the wall and pondered long on the inconsistencies of the weaker sex.
Hugh Bradecote returned to the guest hall after personally checking the guards set to duty. He went first to Messire FitzHugh’s chamber, which was nearest the entrance. He knocked, but there was no answer. He was about to pass on when a suspicion crossed his mind, and so he raised the latch and eased open the door. The room was scarcely bigger than a cell, and FitzHugh lay already beneath his blanket, a vague covered figure in the dimness. Bradecote began to withdraw softly, as the young man sat bolt upright, challenging whoever stood in the dark in a voice not quite steady.
‘I am sorry, messire. I had not thought you would be asleep as yet. I have been warning the guests that if they discover anything, or have suspicions, they must reveal them only to myself or Serjeant Catchpoll.’
‘You think the killer will strike again?’
‘It cannot be ruled out. If they feel threatened, yes. Having killed once, killing again becomes easier.’
‘Yet you incarcerate us here, expose us to the threat.’
‘I keep you all here, messire, because one of you is a murderer. I give you good night. Sleep well.’ His last words were delivered in a sepulchral tone.
Bradecote was not impressed by the squire’s nervousness, and still surprised at his taking to his bed before it was even dusk. He next knocked at the door of the chamber occupied by the lady d’Achelie, but resolved not to enter if there was no response.
A soft voice bade him enter, and he opened the door to find the lady seated upon her bed, with her tirewoman combing out her long brown hair. A pair of best beeswax candles illuminated the scene and gave her hair a rich lustre. Ladies did not display their hair loose in public, it was not seemly, but she seemed unabashed at being found in such a state. Bradecote was embarrassed and dropped his gaze for a moment, flushing, but could not resist raising his eyes to observe her. She smiled, but there was a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. He felt that she had been anticipating the arrival of a different male visitor.
‘I am sorry to disturb you, my lady.’
She gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment and feigned coyness. In truth, he was not altogether dissimilar from her lover; a little taller and leaner, younger certainly, but a paler version; not so dark of visage, without the lines of dissipation and with blue grey eyes that lacked the look of the calculating hunter that entranced her in de Grismont – there was a man who always stood out, attracting attention merely by his existence. This sheriff’s officer had shown he could be commanding, but she felt that, if he chose, he could be perfectly anonymous despite his inches. Here, she decided, was an earnest man whose passions, if any, were too mild for her taste. Putting him out of countenance, however, would be enjoyable.
‘Indeed, my lord, you choose your time and place for questions most oddly. I was shortly to retire to my bed.’ She gave the word an almost imperceptible significance, patted the palliasse significantly, and opened her eyes more widely.
Bradecote reddened further, now both embarrassed and vaguely shocked. The lady was not to his liking, despite her very obvious attractions, but a man would be a liar if he said he was unaffected by her.
Isabelle d’Achelie regarded his discomfiture with amusement and a touch of triumph. So he had thought he could ignore her, or treat her like that sad ghost of a woman, Emma Courtney. Well, now he knew he could not. She laughed. It was a warm, sensuous sound, and she watched a muscle in his cheek twitch. It was so very, very easy. Then she took pity on him.
‘My apologies, my lord. I should not have teased you so. Come, tell me why you have arrived on my threshold at this hour.’
Bradecote cleared his throat. ‘It was my fault. I came because I wanted all the guests to know that their safety may depend on them keeping their own counsel if they
think of anything which might assist us, and telling only Serjeant Catchpoll or myself.’
She stared at him, and then a crease appeared between her prettily arched brows. ‘You think that whoever killed the clerk would kill one of us?’ She concealed the thought that she had believed this for the better part of the last twenty-four hours.
‘If it risked the killer’s identity being discovered, yes. I should have thought of this before, but I am not experienced in such matters.’
‘Thank you for the warning, my lord. I will be careful, though I am sure it will prove unnecessary, and,’ she could not resist making him uncomfortable one more time, ‘it does you credit that you admit your lack of experience. Men so very rarely do. They tend to prefer to boast of their prowess …’ she paused just long enough ‘… in everything.’ The accompanying smile, and lowered eyelids, spoke volumes.
Bradecote’s jaw nearly dropped, and he coughed and looked away. When he spoke, there was a hesitancy. ‘Right, er, well then.’ He paused, and coughed again. ‘I would wish to see you in the abbot’s parlour when the monks go to Chapter in the morning, my lady, as part of my investigation.’ Bradecote listened to himself, sounding official and officious.
‘I will be ready, my lord, whenever you … want me. The sooner all this is over the better.’ Her words were as formal but the tone teased him again. She inclined her head in gracious dismissal and Bradecote withdrew, almost stepping back into Waleran de Grismont, who viewed him with surprise tinged with mild amusement.
‘Do your duties involve disturbing attractive women in their chambers? I confess I had never thought of the role of sheriff’s man very appealing, but I see now that it has its advantages. Perhaps I should offer my services to de Beauchamp.’
Bradecote pulled a wry face. ‘You could have the task tomorrow, my lord, but I fear you would find the opportunities you envisage sadly lacking.’
‘And I would have to work with that gallows-faced serjeant of yours. Hmm, you are probably right, Bradecote.’ He paused, and resumed his natural air of vague boredom. ‘Was there a reason for your visit?’
‘I wanted to give the lady d’Achelie some advice.’
‘Ah,’ de Grismont dropped his voice conspiratorially. ‘Women never take kindly to advice in my experience. They have a remarkable habit of doing just the opposite.’ He cast the lady a very swift glance.
There was just a hint of the patronising man of the world in de Grismont’s tone that set Bradecote on edge.
‘And your experience is of course very wide.’ The barb was obvious, but rather than take offence, de Grismont laughed openly.
‘Naturally, or I would not have made mention of it. Come, Bradecote, it is too late of an evening to be at odds. Let us cry “pax”.’
Bradecote smiled ruefully. ‘You are right, my lord. I was, in fact, warning the lady to confide any suspicions she might have only to Catchpoll or myself.’
Waleran de Grismont grew serious. ‘You do not think she is at risk?’
‘I think everyone is at risk who remains within these walls.’
‘Then the answer is simple. Let us go about our business.’ He saw Bradecote’s mouth open to expostulate, and raised a hand. ‘Yes, I know that would mean losing your murderer, but I have seen many deaths, as I am sure you have. It comes to us all, and often unexpectedly, especially in times like these. It seems a waste of the many innocent lives cooped up here while the law, forgive me, scrabbles around to find out who sent a monk to the hereafter the tonsured anticipate with such hope.’
Bradecote shook his head. ‘Murder is murder, and cannot be ignored.’
De Grismont stifled a yawn. ‘Then I will see you on the morrow, no doubt. Sleep soundly. I certainly shall.’ With that he passed on to his own chamber, and Bradecote sought his own bed.
Sleep, however sound, did not come quickly. Thoughts jumbled and tossed within his brain, weaving weird and illogical patterns. At one moment Bradecote thought he had made a fine deduction, only for an objection to rise up and pull it to shreds, and woven throughout was the disturbing presence of the Romsey sacrist. He had never come across a woman like her, with a sharp mind and willing to cross swords at every opportunity. In her own way she was far more bold than the lady d’Achelie. Beautiful women used their beauty; it was understood. But it was a rare woman who used her intelligence, treating men as her equal. His wife Ela, mild, loyal Ela, would not for a moment challenge any pronouncement he might make. In truth, she was not a clever woman, but even if he said something wildly impossible, she would merely blink and nod agreement with him. No, the Benedictine nun was something quite new and dangerously fascinating, and he should force her from his thoughts. Yet she was inextricably mixed up in them because she was part of the investigation … a more viable suspect than he would have wished.
Bradecote eventually fell asleep only to dream that Eudo the Clerk had been killed by his own mule, tired of travelling the length and breadth of the country, and egged on by Sister Edeva prodding it with a bone from St Eadburga.
Bradecote’s night was further disturbed by an insistent knocking at his door, and the arrival of a man-at-arms, breathing heavily. The acting undersheriff fumbled to ignite the rushlight in the embrasure by his bed, and strove to focus both eyes and brain. The man was flustered, and sporting what looked very like the beginnings of a black eye.
‘Could you come, my lord? Something’s happened.’
For an awful moment Bradecote thought there had been another killing, but then why did the man-at-arms have a blossoming black eye?
‘Right. I’m coming. What is it?’ He tried to sound fully awake, which he was not, and his voice was thick with sleep.
As he rose and pulled on braies and boots, the man explained that he had been on guard duty by the stables and had heard a noise inside. Upon investigation, he said, he had found Messire FitzHugh saddling his horse and muffling its hooves with sacking. He had raised the alarm and went to detain the gentleman, who had hit him. The man-at-arms sounded affronted that anyone should have resisted. Despite this attack he had grappled FitzHugh to the floor and at that point another of the men on duty had arrived and the pair of them had restrained the squire.
Bradecote was assimilating the salient points of this information as they left the guest hall.
‘How did you “restrain” him, Reynald, as a matter of interest?’
‘Hit him on the head with a wooden shovel, my lord, that being the one they use for collecting the midden.’
‘Is he unconscious?’
‘Not any more, my lord. When I left he was dizzy, like, and not very happy.’
‘You surprise me, Reynald. And could you explain how it was that you only discovered Messire FitzHugh inside the stable, not entering it?’
‘Well, just for a moment, I wasn’t concentrating, my lord.’
‘You mean you dozed off.’
Reynald grimaced, expecting to be hauled over the coals, but Bradecote had more important things on his mind.
‘All right, Reynald, I know it happens. At least you discovered him before he made an escape.’
The pair entered the stable and found Miles FitzHugh sat upon the straw, his head between his hands, complaining in a whining and aggrieved voice to Serjeant Catchpoll, who stood above him like a possessive dog of uncertain temper. He looked up as Bradecote entered.
‘I protest, my lord. I have been treated like a common felon and …’
‘Behaving like a “common felon” leads to such treatment, messire. You have attempted to leave the enclave in the middle of the night, although I had forbidden your departure, and you have attacked Reynald here, who is the sheriff’s man.’ Bradecote’s voice was unsympathetic. He would rather be in his bed.
‘But I am the Earl of Leicester’s squire. My father holds four manors in this shire.’
‘And I am sure neither would approve of your current position.’ Bradecote spoke deceptively quietly.
‘Indeed, it is disgrac
eful.’ FitzHugh, misunderstanding him, was relieved that Bradecote realised the position at last, but Bradecote’s next words brought home the truth.
‘I am glad you are so contrite. Now you can tell me exactly why you were trying to leave.’
FitzHugh looked sulky. ‘My father is sick. I have leave of absence from Earl Robert to visit him. I cannot stay here. I am not your murderer, my lord.’
‘I have no proof of that, Messire FitzHugh. In fact, the information in my possession might even lead me to assume you had involvement in the crime. Additionally, I have not yet had the opportunity to question you about the death of Eudo the Clerk, and you might have important information. I had intended to speak with you in the comfort of the Abbot William’s parlour in the morning, but since you have disturbed my rest, I might as well do so here and now.’ He leant, with intentional nonchalance, against the end of a stall.
FitzHugh had ignored much of what the acting undersheriff had said beyond the fact that he considered he could be involved in the murder. He took on a sickly hue, and shook his head, as though trying to clear unpalatable thoughts from it by force. Bradecote’s first question went unanswered until Catchpoll prodded him ungently in the ribs with his boot.
‘You answer the lord Bradecote’s questions or he will go away and I will ask them instead, messire. And I don’t ask so politely.’
Miles FitzHugh rolled a panicky eye at Catchpoll and then Bradecote, and stammered a request for the question to be repeated. Bradecote wanted to know if the squire had ever come across Eudo before, perhaps in communication with Earl Robert. The young man not only denied any previous knowledge of Eudo the Clerk, but became quite agitated.
‘I would have no truck with men like him. He was a spy, I heard it said so, and a man of honour has … should have … no dealings with him.’
Bradecote did not pursue this antipathy to spies, but sought rather to trace FitzHugh’s movements since his arrival and elicit any information about the other guests and the lord Bishop of Winchester’s man. There was not much to be gleaned, for the squire had only arrived late in the morning on the day of the murder. He had only seen Eudo the Clerk twice, once passing the two nuns from Romsey, and the second having speech with the widowed lady d’Achelie, which had struck him as a most unlikely encounter.
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