Sister Edeva opened her eyes and looked to Bradecote, instinctively reaching out a hand towards him, but then pulling back. ‘You said, my lord, that any information was to be given only to you or your serjeant here. I reminded her of that, and told her to seek you out after eating if she had thought of something. If I had said nothing, the others might have thought her mind was just wandering as it often did, or she would have told everyone. Either way, she would not have put herself into danger. This is my fault, all my fault.’ She bit her lip.
Bradecote said nothing, but shook his head.
‘Did you see her come this way?’ Catchpoll was like a hound on the scent, disregarding her actions and his superior, and concentrating on the problem.
‘No, for Father Abbot saw me as I was leaving the guest hall and detained me, wanting to be sure that the reliquary we brought with us had a good lining, and suggesting we pad it out for the journey home with wool. He even suggested Mistress Weaver might provide a small amount from the wool clip she is taking back to Winchester. So I did not see where everyone went, and then came to the garden simply to be alone with my thoughts. I did not expect to see anyone here, least of all the lady Courtney, for if she was seeking you out, why should she have imagined you would be here and not in the abbot’s parlour? As soon as I saw her man lying upon the ground I feared …’ The nun halted.
It was a perfectly sensible answer, and also appeared to be an excellent excuse, unless she had killed the woman only moments before raising the alarm, and if she had, then she had also laid out the massive ox that was Ulf. How? With what?
‘Yes. Of course. I wonder why she came here?’ Hugh Bradecote was thinking rapidly, and spoke almost to himself. An almost revolutionary thought was sinking into his brain. Sister Edeva really was innocent. He had become so convinced that she must be the killer, and that they only required evidence to confront her, that her own evidence had been cast aside. But if she was an honest witness, then everything else took on a new perspective, and the real murderer became clear.
He was about to ask Serjeant Catchpoll to escort the nun back to the guest hall, but caught sight of two brothers dithering by the garden archway, unwilling to enter but curious enough not to pass by. Bradecote called them into the garden. Both skirted the groaning Ulf, glanced briefly at the body, crossed themselves and took great care not to look again. The bulging eyes and livid marks upon the throat were not for the squeamish. He sent one to fetch prior or abbot, and instructed the other to escort Sister Edeva to her chamber. A command was certainly required, because the monk’s eyes rolled in horrified surprise, as if he were being asked to escort a dangerous beast. Typical, thought Bradecote, that it should be one of those religious who were fearful of women. The man waved his arm in a general way, determinedly avoiding contact of body or eye. In more normal circumstances Sister Edeva would, thought Bradecote, have been amused, but she now departed with a frowning, pale countenance, although whether that was entirely because of the corpse at his feet, he could not judge.
The acting undersheriff let out a deep breath, and Catchpoll pulled a wry face. He was studying the face of Emma Courtney, and crouched down to draw the lids over the staring eyes.
‘A pity.’ He shook his head. ‘The sister was quite right. If only she had come direct to us, we could have saved her from this. There could be no reason why she would think we would be here, unless …’ His face, so capable of immobility and absence of expression before witness or suspect, was moving again, as he set his mind to the problem. He studied the ground in the vicinity of the body, and then nodded.
‘Well, there’s our answer, of course.’
‘Which is?’ Bradecote’s voice was weary. He knew he was being shown up, but no longer cared.
‘She was not strangled right here, for there is no sign of struggle. Even a weak woman like that would have struggled and there would be footmarks in the dewy grass. She was laid here, but was murdered elsewhere.’
‘I can’t see that it would have been in her chamber, otherwise the corpse would have to be carried, or dragged, in open view and there is Ulf to consider.’
‘It was carried, my lord. And I would expect she was grabbed and pulled into the garden swiftly, quicker than her “mastiff” could react, and as soon as he did so he was felled. She would be easy to silence. Let’s see.’
Catchpoll retraced his steps towards the side of the abbot’s lodging, which was a blank wall. Bradecote followed dumbly.
‘Yes, here we are. Definite scuffing marks in the ground here.’ Two paces from Ulf the ground was disturbed. He sighed. ‘It means we know now who did it, of course.’
‘But she didn’t do it.’ Bradecote could not help the urgency in his voice.
‘She, my lord?’ Catchpoll gazed at his superior in amazement. ‘Of course she didn’t. For a start how would she have dropped that ox?’ He pointed at Ulf. ‘I never thought your Romsey Sister was a likely killer …’
‘She’s not “my” sister at all, Serjeant, as I told you before,’ interjected Bradecote.
‘And,’ Catchpoll continued, ignoring the comment, ‘discounted her entirely when the apprentice was done away with. All that you said this morning, well you know it didn’t sit well with me, but I couldn’t counter it. I couldn’t give you a real alternative. But now, of course …’ He sighed, and then rose, slapping his knees in an action of decision.
‘Right then, we had best be swift, my lord.’
Bradecote felt as if his brain belonged to someone else whom he was watching from a distance, but this brought him back to reality with a lurch.
‘De Grismont must have realised we have found the body by now. I’ll go to his chamber, you go to the stables, Catchpoll, and pray he hasn’t bolted, because that horse of his would outstrip mine in a race six days out of seven.’
Bradecote was about to set off at a run, but suddenly thought of the body lying in the grass. ‘But what about her?’ He jerked his head towards Emma Courtney.
Catchpoll was already running, and didn’t bother to stop, or even turn his head. ‘The dead don’t run away.’
As they crossed towards the guest buildings a great roar of distress was heard behind them. Ulf had come to his senses.
De Grismont’s chamber was empty, though a cap was lying forlorn and abandoned on the floor, and there were signs of swift departure. Bradecote swore and turned on his heel. As he emerged from the guest hall there came the sound of a commotion from the direction of the stables, and a big bay horse slewed round the corner, wild-eyed and gathering speed as spur jabbed hard into flank. Bradecote lunged in a futile gesture to grab at the bridle, and went sprawling in the dirt.
He looked up and towards the gatehouse. A donkey pulling a small cart was coming in, and the gate, so often shut, was open wide.
‘Bar the gate,’ he yelled, as he picked himself up. ‘Bar the gate!’
Brother Porter had been exchanging a friendly greeting with the carter and stood transfixed for a moment, mouth open. Then he roused himself to push the nearest door so that the entrance was completely filled by the donkey cart. The bay stallion was pulled up sharply, wheeling round at the insistence of the bit, and de Grismont vaulted from the saddle. If he could not escape mounted, he had no intention of being pulled down from his horse. He turned to assess his opposition. Bradecote was up now, and running to apprehend him. He was confident he could take Bradecote, but there was not only him to consider. Two men-at-arms had emerged from the direction of the stables, followed by the grim serjeant, who was holding his head and swaying a little. Jesu, the man must have a thick skull. He had had to leap aside to avoid being run down, and as he had made a grab for the mounted man, de Grismont had caught him in the head with a purposeful kick from his boot, which felled him instantly. The bulk of Ulf appeared from the garden, still bellowing, and assorted Benedictines had succumbed to the sin of secular curiosity. De Grismont thought fast.
Neither religious nor peasant had moved; the carter wa
s standing by his cart in vacuous bewilderment. The fugitive took two long strides and made a grab for the gatekeeper. The monk was surprisingly strong for a man of his short stature, although he was hampered by his habit, but de Grismont, drawing his dagger, had no difficulty in grappling him so that he made an effective shield.
The monk noticed, out of the corner of his eye, and in a peculiarly detached way, that the dagger whose point was pricking his throbbing jugular was not a nobleman’s pretty decoration, but rather a most serviceable weapon that had clearly seen good use. It was not heartening, and the little Benedictine attempted to ready himself to meet his Maker as calmly as circumstance permitted. It proved remarkably difficult to compose oneself to humble prayer and acceptance, the current world proving more immediately attractive than the world to come.
‘Stand back, all of you!’ De Grismont’s voice was clear, calm, and commanding. ‘Or more blood will be spilt on this very pious ground.’
Catchpoll, although dizzy, managed to grab Ulf’s arm, and, ducking a swinging blow, twisted the arm up his back.
De Grismont edged towards the blocked gateway, where the carter had at long last recognised the danger of his predicament, crawled under his cart, and beat a hasty retreat out into the road. His donkey, which was scrawny and moth-eaten in appearance, was of a particularly irritable and malevolent disposition. When de Grismont and his unwilling companion drew close, the donkey rolled a wild eye and brayed. Ignoring this warning signal, de Grismont reached out to yank on the animal’s bridle, and the donkey promptly tried to bite him. The yellowing teeth only just caught his arm, but the unexpected attack caught him off guard, and Brother Porter, seizing this Heaven-sent opportunity, broke free and nipped smartly back into the gatehouse and barred the door. He then went on his knees and gave thanks, focusing on the fact that his Saviour had ridden upon a donkey, and that the humble beast had been placed there at Heaven’s will.
De Grismont cried out in surprise and anger, and Bradecote took advantage of the distraction to close with him, drawing his sword with a scrape of steel.
‘The only blood which will flow will be yours, if you do not yield, de Grismont.’ There was a cold anger in his tone. This man, whom he still, in part, liked, had killed three people, and if he would be hard pressed to say he would like to see him hang for the clerk, he would have justice for the lad and lady Courtney.
De Grismont smiled, more lupine than ever. He felt his chances against the less experienced Bradecote were good, for he had never heard that the younger man had fought in a pitched battle as he had at Lincoln, or taken on a warrior of his own calibre.
Neither man had considered Ulf, who pulled away from Catchpoll so hard it must have nearly dislocated his shoulder, and blundered rather than ran at his mistress’s killer. If de Grismont did nothing he would be run down. The lord blinked once in surprise, but that look was replaced by one that was dismissive. He still held his knife, and when Ulf was within five paces he threw it with all his force, and then drew his sword. The blade caught Ulf in the throat and he fell as if poleaxed, gurgling.
De Grismont did not even bother to look at him, but focused upon Bradecote. The pair circled each other warily, for they were not dressed for combat, and any stroke that made firm contact could cause irrecoverable harm. The only advantage that Bradecote possessed, and it was a small one, was that he wore a stiff leather jerkin, skirted almost to his knees, which might soften the impact of any deflected, glancing blow.
The courtyard was filling with a rapt audience. The novice sent running to the abbot was sped on his way less by dutiful obedience than a desire not to miss the excitement. The guests had emerged from the guest hall now, fired by the rumour that lady Courtney was dead. Miles FitzHugh stood frowning, arms folded, proclaiming to any that might attend him how he had come swiftly to the conclusion that de Grismont must have been the perpetrator because no woman would have been capable of such crimes. Mistress Weaver spared him one glance indicative of the fact that she, for one, would be happy to show him how capable a woman could be if goaded, and then ignored him. Isabelle d’Achelie was leaning against the guest house wall, shaking, and with her delicate hands spread over her face. She was prey to both the fervent wish that nothing might happen to Waleran de Grismont, and the sickening realisation that she had been about to wed a man calculating enough to murder not only an evil spy and truth-twister, which she could understand, but a youth and a helpless lady.
Serjeant Catchpoll was desperately trying to resolve two Bradecotes and two fugitives into one of each, but he saw, in however blurred a fashion, the opportunity to bring proceedings to a satisfactory conclusion. He grabbed Gyrth by the arm.
‘Fetch your bow, swiftly now, and if you get a good clear shot, bring him down.’ His voice was a little slurred, but Gyrth nodded and departed quickly.
While the two protagonists circled there was still a chance. Catchpoll had no qualms. This was not a trial by combat, proclaimed by a court and between two men only, merely the apprehension of a murderer. If Bradecote was prepared to risk life and limb, fired by some noble ideal, then more fool him. As long as the exits were barred, de Grismont was like a rat in a trap.
De Grismont was a man of limited patience, prepared to make a move as soon as half an opportunity presented itself, which was what Bradecote was anticipating. The donkey, now thoroughly upset, was bucking and kicking the little cart into taper splinters behind it, and scattering produce in all directions.
Bradecote’s eyes were focused solely on de Grismont, and he trod on an errant cabbage, stumbling as he did so. Seeing his chance, de Grismont brought down his blade in a lunging slash, which Bradecote, off balance, parried as best he could. Steel juddered on steel as the last foot of de Grismont’s sword, which would have sliced open Bradecote’s face, was blocked by his weapon, and sent numbing reverberations down the arms of both men. The undersheriff’s bruised left shoulder ached sickeningly, but the battle-blood coursing through his veins meant that he scarcely acknowledged it.
It was only at this point that the Sisters of Romsey emerged into the courtyard. Sister Ursula gave a muffled cry and shut her eyes in horror. Sister Edeva stood frozen, her lips moving silently, and her hands clasped together before her face, though it was only the whiteness of the knuckles that indicated more than prayer.
Gyrth returned breathless, bow in hand, only for Catchpoll to shake his head. Battle was now properly enjoined, and it would be more than his job was worth to explain to de Beauchamp how he had caused the shooting of the newly appointed acting undersheriff.
Bradecote, having survived the first murderous blow, rolled sideways to avoid a second slash and rose to his feet nimbly enough. He did not have the experience of the older man, but he was fit, agile, and hoped speed and his few extra inches of reach would make up for both that and power. The next attack was a more even match, and a flurry of stroke and counterstroke sent sparks from the glinting steel. De Grismont was the sort of man for whom attack was also defence, but Bradecote simply parried until a chance presented itself. Both men began to breathe heavily, their faces taut with concentration, the world beyond their opponent but a vague blur. De Grismont was still having the better of it, keeping Bradecote on the defensive, but the sheriff’s man was biding his time, hoping for an error that would present the vital opening.
Lady d’Achelie was sobbing now, quietly, and without drawing any attention from the other guests, fixed as they were upon the fight to the death. She had shown the rare facility to be able to summon tears on a whim and remain beautiful, but these tears were no affectation, for beneath her parted fingers, the eyes daring to watch the fight were reddening rapidly.
De Grismont was breathing through his mouth, the lips drawn back in half-snarl, half-smile, and his onslaught was becoming disjointed. He made a poor single-handed parry, with arm and sword at an awkward angle, and Bradecote seized his chance. With a cry, he brought his blade across in a backhand stroke that should have taken sword a
rm and chest, but Waleran de Grismont foresaw the outcome and stepped back ready for instant riposte. Only as his stroke carried through, encountering nothing but air, did Bradecote realise his error. He made a futile attempt to avoid de Grismont’s blade, but succeeded only in turning it from a fatal blow to a wound. The honed edge of the tip that would have eviscerated him struck higher than intended, cleaving the stout leather of Bradecote’s jerkin like linen and bouncing from rib to rib. Bradecote felt the scrape of steel on bone and the sticky warmth of blood before the pain. The sound of a woman’s scream made a vague impression on his brain, and his eyes saw the glitter of victory in those of Waleran de Grismont. He staggered.
‘A pity,’ gasped de Grismont, grinning wolfishly. ‘You would have been a worthy adversary, given a few more years; years you won’t live to enjoy.’ The sweat ran into his eyes, and he blinked. Just once.
Bradecote lunged with all his remaining strength, off balance and more in hope and desperation than in anticipation of success. He almost expected the final, fatal wound, and braced himself for the icy, stabbing bite of the steel. But the blow did not come; the blade did not enter his flesh. His own sword, though more suited to slashing than stabbing, went onward, catching de Grismont below the sternum and meeting no solid opposition until it hit his spine, sickeningly. He wrenched it back.
Waleran de Grismont made a peculiar, hissing grunt, and sank to his knees, his eyes registering surprise, and his mouth opening as a last great exhalation left him. Then he pitched forward to leave a spreading scarlet stain upon the courtyard dirt.
Bradecote collapsed also, leaning on the pommel of his sword. His limbs, no longer forced to act, were as weak as straw stalks, and his chest protested at every laboured breath. He felt strong arms grab him from either side, and was aware of Catchpoll’s voice, chiding like his old nursemaid had been wont to do.
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