The Lord Bishop's Clerk (31 page)

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 will 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.

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 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.

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.

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.

First published in 2014

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This ebook edition first published in 2014

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