The Lord Bishop's Clerk

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Tell me, was he the reason you became a nun?’ His voice had lost its aggressive tone and was almost sympathetic.

  ‘The reason? Not exactly. But without him my life would have taken a very different course.’ Sister Edeva gazed past Bradecote, seeing not the enclave, but a life she had never had, a lost dream of love and contentment, of children about her skirts, of living in the fresh air of the Hampshire downland she knew as home, not within the cold, high walls of Romsey Abbey.

  Bradecote frowned. It still seemed such an unlikely relationship. ‘Did he mean much to you?’ He put the question gently and was surprised at the vehemence of her reply.

  ‘Him? Sweet Heaven, you could not think … Eudo?’ She was outraged, and had stiffened, eyes flashing. He blinked at her vehemence.

  The nun took a deep breath, and looked him straight in the eye. Her voice, very low and deliberate, held the trace of a tremor.

  ‘Until I came here I had not seen Eudo de Meon since the day my betrothed was killed. Eudo was his brother … and Eudo killed him. He killed my Warin.’

  Bradecote gaped at her. He had thought she might have knowledge of the man and concealed it, and then assumed she had been slighted by him, but never had he imagined such a declaration. Suddenly the woman with opportunity and ability had the strongest possible motive for murder, and one which even he could not deny sounded perfectly reasonable. Part of him cried out that he did not want to know, while the other claimed success in his task.

  Sister Edeva continued, gazing through him as if he was not there. ‘Our fathers fought alongside each other at Tinchebrai, and our families held manors in the same district. Fulk de Meon had three sons, and my father had only daughters. William de Meon was the eldest, and was a wild youth who followed in the entourage of Prince William. My father never looked to him, but wanted Warin to succeed him. He was steadier and had only a small manor to inherit from his mother. He would regard our manors as the caput of his honour.’ Her voice softened. ‘I accounted myself very fortunate to be betrothed to Warin. We knew, of course, what was intended for us from an early age. It just so happened that we fell in love. He was everything a girl could have wanted. We were going to be wed at Christmastide, shortly after my fifteenth birthday. He gave me an amber cross as a gift on my natal day.’ Her fingers went unconsciously to the cross hidden beneath her scapular. ‘I had special dispensation to keep it when I gave up worldly goods. Then news came that the White Ship, bearing the king’s son and the heirs of so many noble families, had been lost en route back from Normandy. William was gone, and Warin suddenly stood heir to his father’s lands and title. I would that it had never been so.’

  Sister Edeva halted for a moment, collecting herself. ‘Despite the family’s mourning, it was decided that our wedding would take place as planned. A couple of weeks before Christmas Warin went hunting boar for the wedding feast. Fulk de Meon was lame as I recall, and did not hunt that day. Warin took his younger brother with him and my father also as one of the party. It was unusual, because Eudo did not generally enjoy hunting. I remember seeing him, Warin, laughing with the hunters. The dogs were in full voice, keen to set off. He turned in the saddle and smiled at me. Then they all rode off, and I never saw him alive again.’

  Silent tears were coursing down the Benedictine’s cheeks, though she appeared unaware of them. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  ‘Eudo returned before the others, white-faced and sick. He said there had been a terrible accident. The quarry had broken away right in front of him and Warin, and he had thrown his spear, but Warin’s horse had lunged forward at that moment and the spear caught Warin instead of the boar. The body was brought back shortly afterwards, slung over his horse and with the wound in his back. Everything was in uproar. Nobody had seen what had happened. It was only as the reality sank in that suspicions were raised. The hunters admitted their surprise that the boar had turned that way, for they had believed it had taken the opposite direction. Fulk de Meon said nothing, for it was a ghastly suspicion but nothing more. Besides, Eudo was his only remaining son, or so Eudo must have thought.’

  A tight, mirthless smile appeared on Sister Edeva’s face. ‘It must have been such a nasty shock when William turned up alive. His favourite horse had gone down with colic before the prince’s party even reached the coast, and then he himself had been stricken with an ague. So he arrived home nigh on a month late, to be greeted as a Lazarus. William was no fool. He had no desire to spend his life watching his own back. He and his father packed Eudo off to Winchester and into the novitiate before Epiphany. There was not enough proof for the sheriff, but they knew, as I knew, that Eudo had killed as Cain had.’

  She paused for a moment. ‘I begged my father to permit me to take the veil. He had other daughters, and could see I would be no willing bride to any other man. How could a woman who had been loved by Warin de Meon choose to wed another? So it was that I entered Romsey. I pray for Warin’s soul as my last prayers at night and my first prayers in the morning, and shall do so until they lay me at last beneath the cloister garth. And I hope that his murdering brother burns eternally in Hell.’ She said it as a curse, and her wet eyes flashed a challenge, daring Bradecote to accuse her of a lack of charity, but he said nothing.

  She might be wrong, of course. Perhaps it had just been a cruel accident, but the family clearly had enough doubt and she had none at all. Evidence from other sources showed Eudo capable of evil. To have suddenly seen the man on whom she blamed the blighting of her life must have been a profound shock. In such a state she might well have reacted with violence, not thinking it murder, or even revenge, but justice.

  ‘Did you kill Eudo de Meon?’ He stared unblinking at her, and put the question firmly and without emphasis.

  Her eyes did not waver as she gave her answer. ‘Before God, I have told you and tell you again, I did not.’

  Bradecote desperately wanted to believe her, but that very desperation urged him to caution.

  ‘Then help me find out who did. You were in the church, probably throughout the time of the mur– the killing. If you heard or saw anything, you must reveal it.’

  ‘So that whoever avenged Warin may hang?’

  ‘If you did not commit the deed, then whoever did it had no knowledge of what may have happened between the brothers. This was not the act of an avenging angel, lady. This was murder, and in God’s house.’

  Sister Edeva frowned as if this interpretation of events was revelatory. Bradecote made no attempt to rush her response.

  ‘I cannot tell you who did it, my lord. I was at prayer, as I said before, and saw nothing, nor heard any voices.’

  Bradecote’s heart sank, but then she continued.

  ‘I heard footsteps while I was in the chapel. Several sets over the time that I was there, passing the south transept towards, or from, the crossing.’ The nun spoke without hesitation, sure of what she recalled. They continued walking as they spoke, and Bradecote soon needed only to cut across the end of the pease field to reach the herbarium. He thanked her for her information, though he wished it had come earlier, and expected her to turn away, but she continued beside him, matching his pace.

  It was she who spoke again.

  ‘You did not seek this task, my lord, as I believe. Does it interest you, now you have become involved?’ She cast him a swift sideways glance.

  ‘It has given me an evil headache,’ he replied grimly. ‘I was actually on my way to seek relief from the herbalist. Unlike you, I do not find praying an efficacious remedy.’

  ‘Me? I …’ She halted. ‘Oh, yes, of course. I hope he can cure it, though the weather must be making it worse.’ Her voice sounded distant, as though she were thinking something else entirely. Bradecote stopped and turned towards her. She was gazing quite directly at him, and he could have sworn that a faint blush came to her cheek.

  ‘I should return to Sister Ursula. She is nervous alone, and it will be time for Sext shortly. By your leave, my lord.’
>
  She made the slightest of obeisances and turned on her heel, walking faster and with more purpose than before. Bradecote frowned, and went to the herbalist with greater worries than his headache.

  A short time later, with no stomach for food, he returned to Abbot William’s parlour to note the comings and goings and draw little arrows on a sketched plan of the abbey church. He found it hard to concentrate. Although the physical discomfort was beginning to abate at last, thanks to a foul-tasting preparation of Brother Oswald’s own devising, the discomfort in his mind was increased. Sister Edeva seemed to have forgotten that she had said she went to St Eadburga’s chapel to pray because of a headache. If the headache was imaginary, why else had she withdrawn from Abbot William’s supper and gone instead to the church? One answer stood out, however much Hugh Bradecote tried to ignore it. She had motive, indeed reason, opportunity, ability, and had lied. He drew the patterns of movement on the plan, but they seemed a stupid diversion. He knew who had killed Eudo the Clerk.

  Catchpoll did not return early from eating, and Bradecote eventually sent Gyrth in search of him. He arrived, trying to disguise the fact that he was wheezing from his haste. He had been thinking in the shade of a pear tree; with his eyes closed, his mouth open and snoring sounds emanating gently upon inhalation.

  ‘You had need of me, my lord.’ It was a statement, not a question, Bradecote noted.

  ‘I would consider your views useful, Serjeant.’ That ought to depress pretension, he thought. ‘I have had speech with Sister Edeva once more, and learned much, although whether it gets us much closer to the murderer, I haven’t yet decided.’ That was a lie, he thought, but I would rather he came to my conclusion on his own, or better still, not at all.

  Bradecote recounted the nun’s story about the death of Warin de Meon, and paused. Catchpoll’s mobile features moved in a way that reminded his superior of a cow chewing cud. He concluded his deliberations with a sniff.

  ‘As I see it, my lord, I would put nothing beyond the scope of our murdered man, so the story may well be true. Even if isn’t, well, the sister has a remarkably strong motive. Now, it could be that she told the truth when she denied killing Eudo the Clerk. If so, then the information she gave is likely to be the most help we can expect to get. Mind you, if she is clever, and guilty, there would be no better way of throwing us off the track.’

  ‘Thus far had I worked out for myself, Serjeant Catchpoll.’

  ‘Well done, my lord.’ The face and tone were impassive and respectful, but Bradecote knew he was being mocked. To rise to the bait would only please the man, so he held his tongue and pretended not to have noticed the undercurrent of disrespect.

  ‘I have marked out the comings and goings, and I am sure there is something here we need to take heed of.’ He pointed to his sketch and recited the movements for the serjeant’s benefit.

  ‘The first footfalls were light but firm, she said, and a sound she knew without thinking. They were the sound night shoes make on stone flags. The monks change into their night shoes after supper, ready for the offices they attend from the dortoir.’

  ‘Therefore the first person to enter was a monk, and quite possibly the victim, since we can account for certain for nearly every other brother.’ Catchpoll was thinking aloud rather than commenting.

  ‘Indeed. I am going to assume that was the case unless evidence turns up to the contrary. A short while afterwards, there came the sound of another person entering the church. The footsteps were light but came in short bursts, showing that whoever it was entered hesitantly. Sister Edeva said that she felt, though could not say for certain, that they were the footsteps of a woman.’

  ‘That’s better, my lord. That ties in with the lady Courtney coming to light her candle. She has that mousey, nervous way of going about, as though she would prefer to skirt about the edge of a room rather than cross it.’

  ‘It could not possibly be the clerk, not in night shoes, and following someone who wore them?’ Bradecote thought it unlikely, but wanted confirmation.

  Catchpoll shook his head. ‘I don’t see him creeping about. He had too many years’ experience to do that.’ The serjeant grinned at Bradecote’s incomprehension. ‘If you don’t want to attract attention, always go about as if what you was doing was perfectly normal, even if it isn’t. Amazing the odd things you can do if you act normal. I know a’cos I have done plenty of them in my time. Creeping and peering is always noticed by someone.’

  Bradecote smiled reluctantly. What Catchpoll said was very true. Eudo would have learned that years since. Another cheerful thought struck him. ‘If the footsteps were those of the lady Courtney, whom we know went to light a candle, does not that prove what Sister Edeva said is the truth, and therefore mean she is innocent?’

  Catchpoll stared meditatively at the sheriff’s new officer for a moment, but kept his thoughts to himself. A bumblebee buzzed somnolently beneath the parlour window; the sound was accentuated by the silence within.

  ‘Not necessarily, my lord, though it is slightly in her favour. Concealing lies among facts is a clever way of proceeding, and that dame is nobody’s fool. She might have heard lady Courtney from the Lady chapel, if she was guilty.’

  Hugh Bradecote felt the invisible weight that had lifted briefly from his mind descend again with a thump. Resentment against his serjeant welled up inside him, all the greater for the realisation that he was perfectly correct. He wetted his lips and sighed.

  ‘A fair point, Catchpoll. So the lady Courtney entered the church, went to light a candle and then, if,’ and he stressed ‘if’ ironically, ‘we can believe Sister Edeva, she left again by the same route before any other footfalls were heard. This means lady Courtney can shed no further light on the business.’ He paused for a moment. ‘It also means that whatever slight suspicion she may have been under is cleared, because if she had killed Eudo and then left, the next person to enter the church would have discovered the body.’

  ‘Or been Ulf, ordered to drag the body, and he, of a certainty, would have trod so loud Sister Edeva would have heard him even if she was singing hallelujahs. It was never our nervous dame nor her man, my lord.’ Personally, he had discounted the lady from the moment of her interview, but if the new man wanted to be painstaking in his process, so be it. No doubt he hoped to impress the sheriff with his thoroughness. Much good it would do him.

  ‘The next footsteps,’ continued Bradecote, ‘were firm and hard, stout shoes or boots. The stride suggested a man.’

  ‘Pity we don’t use the nun of Romsey in all our investigations, my lord. She seems mighty adept at making deductions, for a woman who has renounced the world.’

  Bradecote threw Catchpoll a look of acute dislike, and continued. ‘That means this man was, if we discount servants, FitzHugh, de Grismont or Master Elias. We know that FitzHugh had been busy before supper, off to lame Eudo’s mule. There would be no sense, unless you are going to suggest again a clever scheme to deceive us, in getting dishevelled in the stables to delay a man, if you are then going to murder him after supper, which “delays” him permanently. Correct?’

  ‘Perfectly, my lord. Messire FitzHugh is out of the reckoning. There’s no reason for the lord de Grismont to have been there either. He has no connection with the dead man; he never saw him before, and was unaware of Eudo’s little discussion with the comely lady d’Achelie. We only have his word for that of course, but even so, such knowledge would be a reason to be mighty unpleasant but not commit murder. No, threatening the lady would not give him the motive for murder within a few hours of meeting, especially when everyone else seems to have had just cause to loathe the clerk.’

  ‘Providing that the arrival of de Grismont was coincidental, and not a plot.’ Bradecote raised a hand as Serjeant Catchpoll opened his mouth to expostulate. ‘Yes, yes. That gives us the same problems as if FitzHugh had been sent by Earl Robert as an assassin. Mind you, I would have greater faith in de Grismont’s abilities in that line than some wet
-behind-the-ears squire, and I am sure de Grismont would be capable even of murder if circumstances demanded.’

  ‘But those do not exist, my lord. Which leaves our master mason … the man who discovered the body and who admitted being in his workshop. And do not forget that Brother Porter saw nobody go in through the workshop door.’

  ‘Motive?’ Bradecote was conscious of wanting to be convinced. He did not mention the incident with the chisel, thinking that Catchpoll would think him too fanciful.

  ‘Ah, there we have a problem at present. But I am sure we can discover one if we dig deep enough.’ The serjeant smiled. Digging deep was, in his own opinion, his speciality, though his methods might not suit Bradecote, and his soporific cogitations had led more towards Master Elias as the culprit than anyone else. The pair parted once more. Catchpoll ambled over to the workshop, while Bradecote turned over all the evidence collated in his brain, and attempted, unsuccessfully, to make it point conclusively to the master mason.

  Three

  In the early afternoon the gathering storm clouds drew together in menacing collusion, rolling over each other in their race to deluge Pershore, and the scribes found themselves unable to continue their labours in the gloom. Distant rumbles of thunder presaged what was to come, and the lay brothers who were completing the haystacks cast anxious eyes westward and worked the faster. The horses in the stable stamped and fidgeted, ears pricked, sensing the change in the air.

  Around mid-afternoon the unnatural, heavy silence broke. A great fork of lightning crashed down into the brooding bulk of Bredon Hill, and the crack of thunder that came close on its heels made a mule buck and kick a hole in one of the side panels of the stable stalls. Monastic eyes were either closed in prayer or cast anxiously at the church. The thought of another lightning strike was terrible to consider, and for all those who believed, hopefully, that they had suffered all that nature would send them, there were others who believed that the presence of evil within the enclave would attract the bolt from the angry heavens. The prior was of the pessimistic faction, and jumped quite visibly at every flash. Sister Ursula, who had a mortal dread of thunderstorms, knelt, trembling, in the nuns’ chamber, attempting the difficult manoeuvre of praying fervently while her hands were clamped over her ears. Sister Edeva knelt beside her, hands folded in the more traditional pose, but though her lips moved in the recital of prayer, her mind was otherwise engaged, and her face showed a pallor from an entirely different cause.