The Lord Bishop's Clerk
Page 23
For a moment Bradecote wondered whether he was referring to the case, the woman, or both, and noted that there was that use of the plural again, though this time Bradecote felt it was marginally more inclusive.
‘We, Serjeant? I thought all the errors were mine,’ grimaced Bradecote, suddenly unconcerned about who was ‘superior’. After all, this had been a chance pairing. He was just one of William de Beauchamp’s vassals, who had done as his lord had commanded. He was not really a sheriff’s officer, and would be back in Bradecote by sunset.
Catchpoll smiled, though it was a twisted smile. ‘Most of them were, my lord, but you’ll know better next time.’
Bradecote gave a bitter laugh, and gasped at the sudden discomfort as his ribs reminded him of their injury. ‘I hardly think there will be a next time. I do not think William de Beauchamp will cast aside his regular deputy on the basis of this case.’
‘Perhaps he wouldn’t, my lord, but that counts for nothing now.’ The serjeant sniffed, and affected disinterest. ‘While you were bidding farewell to the good Sisters of Romsey, news came from Worcester.’
He paused for effect.
‘Well, Catchpoll? I am not sure that I want to hear this, but …’
‘It seems we are to be shackled together, my lord. Fulk de Crespignac died three days ago, according to the messenger. There’s a letter from the lord sheriff,’ he drew a folded sheet of vellum from his tunic, ‘but it don’t take a serjeant of my years’ experience to guess who he’ll pick for the vacancy.’ It could be worse, thought Catchpoll, and the lord Bradecote was no fool.
Serjeant and newly appointed under-sheriff stared at one another for a moment. There was silence. Bradecote opened the letter and gave it a cursory glance. The missive confirmed what Catchpoll had said.
‘Very well, Serjeant Catchpoll.’ Hugh Bradecote tried to sound as though his ‘elevation’ meant nothing to him, though he was torn between pleasure at having won his overlord’s approval, and the realisation that his simple manorial life was to be set aside. ‘Let us take our culprit back to our superior, and await his further instructions.’
The pair mounted, and led their men through the gateway, heading for the Worcester road, and Brother Porter closed the gate behind them.
Elias of St Edmondsbury, master mason, looked down upon the departures from his vantage point at the top of the north transept scaffolding. He saw the tall under-sheriff on his big steel-grey horse, upright but comfortable in the saddle, the sheriff’s serjeant astride a less well-favoured mount beside him, leading the men-at-arms. Only the pony trotting along behind a soldier at the rear and bearing its covered, lifeless burden, gave indication of what had passed within the walls of the enclave in the past days. Master Elias let himself rest back against the stonework, taking an almost spiritual comfort from its sun-warmed solidity. The flesh was, as had been shown so clearly, very fragile, very transient, but these good stones, erected with due care, would last for many centuries to come. One of his masons drew his attention away to a detail, and when Master Elias again looked out over Pershore, the horsemen were gone.
Historical Note
Historical fiction perforce blends the imagined with the factual, overlapping fictional people with a known world. Abbot William and William de Beauchamp, Sheriff of Worcestershire, were real people, but although we know a few facts about them, their physical form and character are lost in the past. I have therefore created both around the core of their true existence.
By the same token, I have created the Pershore Abbey enclave from a combination of the standing building, archaeological evidence and standard Benedictine claustral arrangements. The outlying buildings are those one would expect to find, but their locations are invented, and I make no claim that they stood where I set them. The herbalist’s hut has had to be shown a little closer to the other buildings to fit on the page.
Pershore Abbey is a beautiful Grade I listed building, and its south transept, a fine example of twelfth-century Romanesque, would be recognisable to Abbot William. The north transept collapsed in 1686, so you cannot see where my Master Elias had his fine view.
About the Author
SARAH HAWKSWOOD describes herself as ‘a wordsmith’ who is only really happy when writing. She read Modern History at Oxford, and had a factual book on the First World War published in 2006.
She took her pen name from one of her eighteenth-century ancestors who lived in Worcestershire, and selected it because the initials match those of her maiden name. She is married, with two grown-up children, and lives in Worcestershire.
Ordeal by Fire
The second Bradecote &
Catchpoll Investigation
If you enjoyed The Lord Bishop’s Clerk, you’ll love the forthcoming Ordeal by Fire, volume two in the Bradecote and Catchpoll Investigation series.
September 1143. Serjeant Catchpoll hopes a fire at a Worcester silversmith’s is just an accident, but when there is a second fire, and a charred corpse is discovered, he has no choice but to call in the under-sheriff, Hugh Bradecote, to help find the culprit.
With further fires, a hooded figure stalking the streets and a possible murder that has gone undiscovered for some months, Catchpoll recruits man-at-arms Walkelin as his ‘serjeanting apprentice’. The trio have to work together to avoid getting more than their fingers burnt in this puzzling investigation.
Copyright
First published in 2014
The History Press
The Mill, Brimscombe Port
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This ebook edition first published in 2014
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© Sarah Hawkswood, 2014
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