The Lord Bishop's Clerk

by Sarah Hawkswood

  Catchpoll shook his head. ‘Not the type to notice serfs, or slaves, and my guess he was her slave.’

  ‘Under the law or of heart, Catchpoll?’

  ‘Both, my lord.’

  ‘And was it you who had him placed as he was?’

  ‘It was my suggestion, my lord. We cannot know how he thought but by his deeds, and I think he was faithful to death for her.’ The serjeant pulled a face. ‘But for her long-awaited lord to return with news that he was going to take the cowl! Who would have thought that, though. Poor dame. Ah well, if we look on the bright side, it was as well we didn’t catch on to de Grismont too quick. She would have hated what he had in store for her, worse than death I reckon.’

  ‘You may well be right, Catchpoll, but I fear that if you went around with that attitude, the “they would not have minded being dead” one, an awful lot of evil opportunists would go free.’

  ‘Fair enough, my lord. it was only a thought.’ He grinned. ‘It wouldn’t do to talk ourselves out of a job completely.’ He was silent for a moment, and then continued. ‘Will you be eating with the other guests tonight, my lord? I only ask because if you do you can expect lots of questions from master squire, the tactless cub, and probably a few from Mistress Weaver. Master Elias, of course, will be eating with the masons.’

  Bradecote had forgotten the master mason in all that had happened since breakfast, as was clear from the look on his face. Catchpoll refrained from comment.

  ‘How did he take his release? Was he relieved or ready to commit murder for real?’ Bradecote felt guilty for forgetting the man.

  ‘He hadn’t enjoyed his night, I can say that for sure, but I think relief was higher in his mind than rending either of us limb from limb, and in view of the day’s events thereafter, I would expect him to be reasonable. Anyway, we are about to find out, because here he comes.’

  Bradecote groaned, and turned, with circumspect slowness, to see the master mason approaching. The man was not smiling, but nor was he red-faced and belligerent.

  ‘Well then, my lord. I am glad to see you little the worse for your endeavours.’ Bradecote wondered if he was in any way quite pleased that he had suffered.

  ‘Thank you, Master Elias. And you look little the worse for an uncomfortable night.’ Better to broach the matter and get it out of the way, and besides, contrasting his injuries with a night in a cell would help take the sting out of any response Master Elias might have festering within.

  The master mason grimaced. ‘Aye, I cannot say being held in a cell and contemplating being hanged for a crime I did not commit made for a good night’s slumber, my lord, but all is put right now, and it takes a lot to keep Elias of St Edmondsbury out of sorts.’ He paused. ‘You’ll be off, I take it, to Worcester.’

  ‘In the morning, master mason.’ Catchpoll replied.

  ‘It’ll make it easier to get the men back to normal routine, that and laying poor Wulfstan to rest today. A sad business, all of it, but work must go on. I’ve suggested to Eddi we might carve a wolf’s head for a gargoyle up on the transept. “Wolf stone” for Wulfstan, you see. A sort of memorial for him.’

  ‘Very fitting, Master Elias, very fitting.’ Catchpoll kept an admirably straight face, though Bradecote was seized with a coughing fit, which left him hugging his ribs and groaning in pain.

  ‘You’d best get something from the infirmarer, my lord, if you have a cough as well as that wound. Mighty uncomfortable else,’ recommended the master mason helpfully, as he turned back to the workshop.

  Once he had turned the corner, Catchpoll thumped his superior on the back, in an effort to help him.

  ‘Thank you, Catchpoll,’ gasped Bradecote, his eyes watering, ‘but thumping quite that hard does not actually make me feel any the better.’

  The serjeant’s look might just have intimated that it did not matter to him.

  ‘Fair took me by surprise, what he said, my lord,’ commented Catchpoll. ‘You never think how a craft influences the rest of your outlook on life. Among the masons I’m sure that carving a water spout would be regarded both as touching and clever. Good job his name wasn’t Hengest. You’d have to wonder where the water would come out from a stallion.’ He guffawed at his own joke.

  ‘Are there things that only law officers find funny?’ Bradecote was feeling almost lightheaded now.

  ‘Only folk claiming innocence with guilt writ large upon ’em.’ The accompanying smile was more of a sneer.

  It brought Hugh Bradecote back to earth with a bump, and he actually swayed.

  Catchpoll’s eyes narrowed. ‘I reckon you are in need of food, my lord. I think I can persuade the cooks to let you have a mite of bread and cheese before the eating hour. You get to your chamber, keep the nosey guests at bay and I’ll be along as soon as I can.’

  He was in nursemaid mode again, Bradecote decided, but it was too tempting to give in. He stepped slowly into the guest hall, hoping to avoid any encounters. He was at the door of his chamber, thinking he had been most fortunate, when he heard Mistress Weaver’s voice behind him.

  ‘Mind you rest careful, my lord. There’s no saying even a slight wound can turn nasty if you don’t give it peace to rest in. Betony is the best thing for wounds. My mother, God rest her, swore by it, but no doubt Brother Infirmarer has used it already.’ She smiled at him in a motherly way, laying a hand on his arm as she passed. ‘You did a good thing today, my lord, for whatever the reason for ridding the world of Eudo, there was no cause to harm that poor apprentice, nor my lady neither. I’ll say no more than that.’ She left him with a valedictory pat, and he was relieved that she had not treated him to either inquisition or proof of her own deductive capabilities.

  Catchpoll arrived shortly afterwards, bearing not only bread and cheese, but a bowl of hot broth. He looked vaguely embarrassed.

  ‘When I said as how you was feeling a bit faint, not having eaten, the cooks thought you most deserving and heated up some of this, left over from the lord abbot’s table last night. It seems your heroics have put you in high favour, my lord. They even asked if you would like a pigeon patty for supper. I said yes, because if you don’t feel like it tonight, we can wrap it up for the journey tomorrow.’

  Bradecote took the soup gratefully, though he was not sure how much of an appetite he would have later. Truth to tell, he wanted no more than to eat and then sleep.

  ‘Thank you, Catchpoll. I feel exhausted, so I do not know if I will be at supper, but it was a good idea.’

  ‘Right then, my lord. I’ll set Reynald outside your door to see nobody disturbs you.’

  Serjeant Catchpoll left, leaving Bradecote to finish his repast alone. When he had finished he removed his boots, with muttered curses at the pain of exertion, and then lay back slowly and carefully upon his cot. He was expecting to rest but not to sleep, for his ribs complained at every breath, but soon that breathing was slow and even. For the first time in several days, the acting under-sheriff slept in a deep and dreamless slumber.

  The Fifth Day

  The sun was well risen when Bradecote awoke in the morning, and he was conscious of a sensation of well-being which he let wash over him in a pleasurable wave. It lasted until he stretched without thinking, and swiftly regretted it, for his body complained vociferously. His groan was both an expression of pain and yet also the luxurious feeling of having slept well and not having to leap from his bed. Despite his injuries, which necessitated pulling on his boots slowly and with as much wincing as when he had removed them, he arose in a good mood, and with a ravenous appetite. He looked forward to breaking his fast, and was not at all disconcerted by the thought of sitting with the other guests, either besieged by their questions or in an atmosphere of silent constraint.

  In fact, it was not his presence but that of Simon Courtney which created awkwardness, and kept the other guests from making mention of the events which lay uppermost in their minds. It made for a peculiarly quiet meal, but Bradecote and Catchpoll derived a large mea
sure of unholy pleasure from the sight of Miles FitzHugh attempting to make conversation without saying anything that would upset the widower, while showing the others present that he was a man of equal standing. The bereaved lord himself ate sparingly and in sepulchral silence, staring into space as though he were alone in the chamber. The Romsey nuns were also silent, but this was their usual manner of taking a meal and they were quite at ease, using only the hand signals of the cloistered to indicate their need for pitcher or bread. Bradecote permitted himself but one glance at Sister Edeva, and was struck by the fact that it was only twenty-four hours since their momentary but shaming contact, and yet it seemed in the distant past. Her face was serene, otherworldly again. The guilt, despite her absolution, flooded back, dropping like a stone into the calm depths of the day’s satisfaction and sending unpleasant ripples through it. He did not look in her direction again.

  Gaining no response from one end of the table, Miles FitzHugh turned his attention to lady d’Achelie, who was reducing bread to crumbs before her, abstracted and curiously reminiscent of the lady lying in the mortuary chapel awaiting interment. When addressed by name she looked up at FitzHugh, startled, and with incomprehension clear on her beautiful features. Her frown disconcerted him, and the words withered on his lips. Mistress Weaver’s lips twitched. That the lordling did not demean himself by speaking to her troubled her not at all. She retained the desire to cuff him round the ears, but this morning gained as much enjoyment from his flailing ineptitude as Serjeant Catchpoll and the acting under-sheriff.

  When the meal ended she approached the two law officers, and made a polite obeisance. ‘I will be leaving this morning, my lord, if you have no objection. I need to get back to my business and my son as soon as it is convenient. The only way to keep things running efficiently is to be on the spot. I allowed two weeks for this journey to the Marches and back, and the extra wait has been … difficult. You do not think that there will be any objection to my leaving before my lady Courtney’s burial? I would not wish to seem disrespectful, but …’

  ‘No, you are quite free to leave, Mistress Weaver, and I wish you all speed with your return to Winchester. I hardly think your presence is expected this morning. You met the lady but a few days since, and you have good reason to depart early.’

  Bradecote spoke formally but smiled at her, and a suggestion of pink tinged her dimpled cheek.

  ‘Thank you, my lord. I will be sure to put something by for prayers for the poor lady’s soul when I return next year.’ She gave a swift bob, like a wagtail, said Catchpoll afterwards, and turned to walk away, competence and confidence in her step.

  The funeral service for lady Courtney was all that her husband could have wished, presided over by Abbot William with great gravity and honour towards both the departed and the bereaved. In the cool dimness of the abbey church, the air heavy with the incense from the swinging censers, the abbot gave a eulogy which stressed Emma Courtney’s piety, faith and loyalty, and he promised that she would be remembered in the prayers of the house even before Courtney proffered the rents from one of his manors, in perpetuity, for the continued offering of prayers for his wife. When he heard of the offer, Bradecote thought it a sop to the man’s conscience.

  The ever-faithful Ulf had no eulogy. There had been some discussion among the clerics about where to bury him. They did not want him among the Pershore brethren in the cloister garth, and one voice even suggested he be sent to holy ground in the parish churchyard. Catchpoll ended the matter, and though none but he, the priest and four lay brothers attended, he was given full rites and laid in a grave. When the grander funeral took place, none looked at the earth at the bottom of the grave to wonder why it looked loose. At no point in the eulogy was mention made of the manner of the lady Courtney’s death, beyond the word ‘untimely’, and even that was qualified by the abbot, who stressed that since the Almighty was beyond all time, so were the realms of glory, where years passed in this life would be as a grain of sand upon the shore, and ‘time’ was irrelevant.

  Miles FitzHugh made a great show of looking suitably severe, and succeeded only in appearing risible. The Sisters of Romsey made no attempt to stand out, but their dignity and poise were in marked contrast to the noble youth, and even to lady d’Achelie, who remained distracted for much of the service, and fidgeted with the folds of her gown. She was clearly too involved in contemplating her own future to dwell too much on one whose fate had already been decided. It was also patently clear that she realised that her position, having been the paramour of the murderer, even if the fact was known only to the sheriff’s men, made her presence more than slightly difficult.

  After the interment beneath the flagstones of the nave, Hugh Bradecote visited the infirmary for a change of dressings to his wound. Brother Infirmarer also gave him a small pot covered with a waxed cloth, containing a salve of cleavers fresh made by Brother Oswald, to apply to the healing flesh. Bradecote thanked him for his care, then he and Catchpoll prepared for their own departure. It was then that Bradecote raised the matter of ‘the other corpse’.

  ‘I assume Ulf lies where most fitting, Catchpoll?’

  ‘Oh yes, my lord.’ Catchpoll’s smile spread slowly. ‘It certainly found favour with the lay brothers who dig the graves, and who have been rather busy these last days.’

  ‘Good. I think the lady would approve, and I doubt her lord would consider the matter at all.’

  ‘Aye, and if he did, well, it is too late now.’ Serjeant and acting under-sheriff exchanged glances in accord.

  They barely noticed FitzHugh ride out, head held high, with his servants following sullenly in his wake. Lady d’Achelie was herself ready to depart, and looked small and delicate among the sturdy stolidity of her men. She averted her eyes from the blanket-covered body that Gyrth had slung across a pony, but made a pretty obeisance to abbot and acting under-sheriff, and the wistful smile that accompanied it was purely for the latter’s benefit. Catchpoll looked after her as she trotted away on her neat grey palfrey, her faithful retainers gathered protectively about her, and then turned his attention to a rider approaching the gate from the Worcester road.

  Bradecote did not watch the lady, becoming suddenly aware that the nuns of Romsey were already mounted and about to leave. One of their men led a mule with the reliquary secured to its back on top of a thick cushioned pad, lest the bone of the blessèd saint be uncomfortable on its journey back to Hampshire. Sister Edeva’s mount stamped a foot, as if eager to be gone, and shook itself with a shudder that ran rippling down the mane to its withers.

  The sheriff’s officer walked over and gave the beast an absent-minded pat. He looked up and found the nun regarding him as if recording him for her memory.

  ‘My apologies,’ he said ruefully. ‘You have borne the brunt of my suspicions. I have insulted your honesty and your calling.’

  She looked at him with those sad, grey eyes that he had first seen as granite hard. Was that only a few days ago?

  ‘Then let our apologies be mutual, my lord. I knew that I was not Eudo’s killer, and that what I told you was true. I was therefore ahead of you, but chose not to think. I must also confess that I did not give any information freely. I did not want Eudo’s killer caught because he did what part of me believed I should have done, but could not. That you believed I had committed the deed was, at first, almost a compliment.’ She gave a small, wry smile. ‘De Grismont was not an instrument of vengeance … “not an avenging angel” as you termed him; he did not know that he killed a murderer. He was just a treacherous, avaricious and lustful man who feared unmasking. The world is full of such.’ Her tone was suddenly weary. ‘I will be glad to return to the enclave in Romsey, and of a surety will not seek to leave it.’

  ‘You have a strong and quick mind.’ Bradecote gave her a wry smile. ‘Perhaps you would make a better under-sheriff?’

  She laughed then; a genuine and melodious sound. ‘No, my lord. You are a novice, yes, but I would say that you w
ill do very well if called upon again.’

  She reached down her hand to where his rested on the mule’s neck, and touched it fleetingly. Her expression was solemn.

  ‘In this one matter I did naught to assist the law, and perhaps not even justice. Eudo was not killed in revenge for Warin; judgement only truly lies with God. You know my penance. And I will hold you also in my prayers, my lord.’ She paused. ‘Leaving Romsey has taught me a lesson. My grief has fed upon itself for years, trying to recreate someone who no longer exists. God has shown me my error. I can only pray for his soul, not yearn any longer. It has been a painful lesson, but one I had to learn.’

  She frowned, but then her brow cleared again, and she continued in a firm tone. ‘If, though it must be unlikely, you should ever find yourself near Romsey, you would find a true welcome in our guest house, and any assistance you might require. But I do not think our paths will cross again.’

  She held out her hand, openly, in a gesture of benediction, and her eyes met his squarely. ‘God be with you, my lord Bradecote.’

  ‘And with you also, lady.’ He could not bring himself to call her sister, but perhaps that was a salve to his conscience.

  He stepped back and she pulled the mule’s head round and rode out of the courtyard, through the abbey gate, with never a backward glance, her back lance-straight. She sat her mule with the manner of a grand dame upon a fine palfrey, with Sister Ursula following a little behind and the Romsey men forming a protective escort in front and rear. The habit would never conceal the nature of the woman beneath, and he wondered how he could have been so wrong in his initial impression of her as cold. The party turned to the right and were lost from view.

  Bradecote turned, and was surprised to find Serjeant Catchpoll also gazing out of the gateway. The sheriff’s man hawked, and spat into the dust in a gesture of finality.

  ‘Nearly got that one very wrong, didn’t we?’ he said contemplatively, still staring at the trackway.