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 undersheriff 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 undersheriff 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.
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About the Author
SARAH HAWKSWOOD describes herself as a ‘wordsmith’ who is only really happy when writing. She read Modern History at Oxford and first published a non-fiction book on the Royal Marines in the First World War before moving on to mediaeval mysteries set in Worcestershire.
By Sarah Hawkswood
Servant of Death
Ordeal by Fire
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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First published in 2014.
This ebook edition published by Allison & Busby Ltd in 2016.
Copyright © 2014 by SARAH HAWKSWOOD
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from
the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–2177–1
Servant of Death Page 23