The Lord Bishop's Clerk (5 page)

‘Not only is Brother Eudo a man who would seek to threaten honest folk with wicked lies, but,’ Mistress Weaver’s voice had risen with the bitterness in her tone, though she now dropped it confidingly, ‘it is widely rumoured in Winchester that Eudo was deep in the lord bishop’s confidence when he changed sides two years past and deserted his brother the king. The lord bishop was keen enough then to seek approval of the Empress Maud while she held the upper hand, and that conniving …’ Mistress Weaver bit her lip lest she use a term unsuitable for a refined dame’s ear and the religious surroundings. ‘Well, anyway, he was the chief go-between. It’s not for the likes of me to say how Henri de Blois should conduct himself, but suffice it to say that any member of the guild who reneged on a business deal as the leaders of Church and State do, would be cast out. That Eudo does not even hide behind the excuse of politics. He loves his work of intrigue so well he could not cross a street in a straight line.’

Lady Courtney was all attention, and Margery Weaver could not resist a dramatic pause before her final announcement. ‘He is even said by some to be dealing with all sides now, the dirty spy.’

Emma Courtney’s slightly protuberant eyes bulged further, and she made no complaint as the weaver’s widow led her companionably into an inner chamber. Each was keen to know the tale that might be forthcoming from the other, and the social divide between them was temporarily bridged by a shared loathing. Lady Courtney’s silent guardian stood impassively at the door.

Miles FitzHugh remained very still, the frown of offence at the ladies’ slight deepened by what he had overheard. He was a young man who wore his emotions upon his sleeve, and who regarded double dealing with a distaste that his liege lord had found naïve and vaguely amusing until voiced in his presence. In changeable times, options were there to be kept open, and Robert de Beaumont, Earl of Leicester, was assuredly nobody’s fool. Spies had their uses, and he had no objection to dealing with them. FitzHugh was young enough to hold to ideals that older and more powerful men could not afford. The squire had fallen foul of his lord for daring to express his distaste for treating with men of the opposite faction. That the man in question was the earl’s own twin, Waleran de Meulan, Earl of Worcester, compounded the offence. After several weeks of demeaning tasks and being in his lord’s bad books, Miles had taken swift advantage of his father’s ill health to withdraw to his family’s estates and hope that Robert de Beaumont’s ire would fade. Life in the bosom of his family would be slow, and his mother would fuss like a hen with one chick over her surviving son, but he would lie low as long as possible.

Being the heir appealed to his sense of self-importance, but he was not so shallow as to think it worth the loss of his elder brother. Gilbert FitzHugh had been killed fighting for the king at Lincoln. Miles had always looked up to Gilbert, who had the natural assurance and easy manner that Miles sought in vain to acquire. Thinking about him, Miles wondered if de Grismont had come across him before the battle. Waleran de Grismont was certainly a man worthy of respect; there was one who had fought bravely and paid a heavy price, yet looked in no way discouraged by the experience. He had a reputation with women, but FitzHugh saw much in that to admire. His own conquests had been confined to impressionable rustics and serving wenches who feared to say him nay. He only wished he had one tenth of de Grismont’s charm.

FitzHugh indulged in a pleasant daydream about future success with the opposite sex, but then his thoughts returned to what Mistress Weaver had said. So the Bishop of Winchester’s clerk was a spy, was he? A man who listened at windows and spied at keyholes; one who set times for secret assignations with other dubious individuals? Well, Robert de Beaumont might see the use of such, but he believed it behoved a gentleman of honour to strike a blow against dissemblers and traitors.

Master Elias was addressed twice by one of his journeymen before making a reply to the man’s question. He was trying desperately to work out whether Henri de Blois’s clerk was hoping to find out some intelligence that he could take back to his master, a piece of the puzzle that was the politics of England during such times, or whether he was, beneath it all, a genuine Maudist supporter, who either had something important to impart or sought information. The stonemason was not inclined to trust the clerk, but was not sure that he dare ignore him. He eventually answered with only half his mind on the dressing of the stone, and with his eye focused on the enclave below.The journeyman shrugged and went to double-check his query with one of the older masons.

As a windhover scans the ground for signs of field mice in the grasses, Master Elias watched and waited. He saw Waleran de Grismont giving orders to one of his servants, and the bell of memory jangled in his head. This was how he had seen the man before, from above, and in close conversation. Something about that meeting had aroused his interest … his interest. Suddenly the master mason remembered why he had registered the meeting. He smiled, and for once it was nearly as knowing a smile as Eudo the Clerk’s.

The lord of Defford disappeared within the guest hall, and his servant headed for the stables. A tirewoman nearly bumped into him as she emerged, looking comically furtive, probably, thought Master Elias, from some illicit assignation with a groom in the warm dimness of an empty stall. She was too far away for him to be able to discern whether she had tell-tale hay stalks clinging to her skirt. His smile this time was one of gentle amusement. A monk also appeared from the stables, cowl raised to protect his tonsure from the sun, though he paid the penalty of the added heat. He was carrying what had to be, from his lopsided stance, a heavy bucket. The lay brothers were never idle.
Laborare est orare
was the motto of the Benedictines: ‘To work is to pray’. Master Elias thought, not for the first time, that the prayers of the unlettered and lowly lay brothers therefore exceeded those of their more erudite brethren, the choir monks.

The woman headed for the gate to the abbot’s garden and soon passed from his sight. A short while later a lady emerged from the same gateway, head down, a rose bloom held delicately to her nostrils. As she crossed the yard she was intercepted by Eudo the Clerk, who must have been at the west end of the abbey church, where Master Elias could not see him. The wispy fair hair edging his narrow skull and the manner of walking were distinctive. Master Elias sighed and made his way swiftly down to ground level. Here was the opportunity to arrange a meeting, before the bell called the brothers to Vespers.

He did not see, therefore, the agitation of the lady accosted by Eudo, neither the clasping of her hands in supplication, nor the flailing of those same hands in angry impotence. If she spoke, he did not hear her, and by the time he turned the corner of the west end, Eudo was standing alone.

Hearing the sound of purposeful footsteps, Eudo the Clerk turned to face Master Elias, though his face showed no recognition. He did not wait for him to draw close, but walked towards him while diverting to one side to pass him by.

‘Workshop, sometime after supper’, said the clerk, softly but unhurriedly, without so much as glancing at the master mason, and walked on. It was as much as the latter could do not to turn and gaze after him, both stunned by his composure and incensed by the sheer audacity of his cool assumption that he had but to command and he would be obeyed. Master Elias was certainly not used to such treatment. He coloured hotly and made a low, ursine growling noise in his throat. He would very much like to cuff that far-from-humble brother round the ear, as he would one of his lads. The violent thought brought him relief as he returned to the north transept, and it was a marginally less bad tempered master mason who climbed back to the level of the workmen.

Brother Remigius took his accustomed place in the file of cowled figures assembling for Vespers with a face clouded by worry, and began the chant of prayer without conscious thought. The action had long ago become instinctive, and sometimes he chastised himself for failing to concentrate on the service, dwelling instead on vague distractions. Today, however, his mind was such a swirling mass of confusion, fear and rising anger that to have given himself up to the spirituality of the office would have been beyond him, however much he tried. The words still came, as they always did, but he was clearly distracted, and Brother Simon, the most irreverent of the novices, later described him to his fellows as looking like a landed trout from the abbey fishponds.

Below the crossing, the lady Courtney stood apart from the citizens of Pershore who had come to hear Vespers. All the other secular guests were about their worldly business, but she came nearest to being at peace within the church, and her devotions occupied her so deeply that even had they been present, she would not have been aware of them. She made her responses in a thin voice made tremulous with religious fervour, and occasionally entirely suspended by emotion. Her bulky protector made no responses at all, but then he had no tongue.

The Sisters of Romsey stood side by side, incongruous among the laity. Sister Ursula felt awkward and out of place. Normally they would have been in the choir, but in this house of monks their sex meant that they were not part of that select number. The younger nun sensed her superior taut as a bowstring beside her, and wondered if Sister Edeva resented their exclusion.

Sister Edeva was staring blindly ahead of her, the Latin tripping from her lips without her needing to think. Unconsciously, her fingers closed upon the amber cross that lay upon her breast beneath the scapular. Her breath felt constricted in her chest, as if she had been winded. After all this time, when she had come to believe she had gained a form of peace, a single moment had brought everything welling up in her thoughts, as bright as if it was all yesterday; as bright as blood. There had been times recently when she had castigated herself for forgetting, for allowing his very face to become a hazy memory, something which could only be caught in the edge of vision. If looked upon fully it lost all form. Now she knew that she had not forgotten; would never forget. It was peace and acceptance which were illusory. A tremor ran through her, and Sister Ursula glanced at her companion, now pale and faltering in her responses, with obvious concern. At the conclusion of the service, the sacrist of Romsey remained long after it was needful, and eventually headed for the south door with Sister Ursula hovering solicitously at her side. The golden, afternoon sunlight flooded the eastern range of the cloister, and both women blinked in the unaccustomed brightness. The air was warm, yet another shiver ran through Sister Edeva. They had not got as far as the doorway from the cloister to the courtyard and guest range when the older woman halted.

‘Sister Ursula, I confess that the thought of dining with Father Abbot is too much. My head is throbbing as if beaten with cudgels. I am no fit guest tonight.’

‘Oh dear. I am sorry, Sister. I thought that you were unwell during the office. A headache is indeed a sore trial. Perhaps the journey has been overtiring.’ The young religeuse regarded her companion, who must be nearly twice her age, with the unconscious pity of the young for the old. ‘Would you have me fetch something from the herbalist, some lavender water for your temples perhaps, or some easing draught, and bring it to our chamber?’