The Lord Bishop's Clerk

by Sarah Hawkswood

  Her mother had given her sound advice. A husband of Hamo’s years and apparent disposition, which was not tyrannical, would be likely to be an indulgent husband. She would be able to dress well, eat well and live in comfort. The duties of a wife might not be as pleasant, but, if she was fortunate, her lord’s demands upon her should not be excessive.

  So it had proved. Hamo had never sired children, within or outside of marriage, and had, somewhat unusually, accepted that this was not the fault of the women with whom he lay. It was a burden laid upon him from God, and he had learned to live with it. His third marriage sprang, therefore, not from desperation for an heir but from his infatuation with a beautiful face. He adored his bride, and denied her nothing. Isabelle found that marriage was comfortable but unexciting. Her husband treated her as he would some precious object, and took delight in showing her off to his friends and neighbours. He decked her in fine clothes and watched his guests gaze at his wife in undisguised admiration. His pleasure lay in knowing how much they envied him.

  Isabelle had learned the rules of the game early on, and played it with skill for many years. She was a loyal wife, and would never be seen alone with another man, but when entertaining she had learned how to flirt with men while remaining tantalisingly out of reach. She had become highly adept, and it both amused her and gave her a feeling of superiority over the opposite sex that she had never expected. What she lacked was passion; but then Waleran de Grismont had entered her life. Just thinking about him made her blood race as nothing else ever had.

  De Grismont’s lands lay chiefly around Defford, but he had inherited a manor adjacent to the caput of Hamo d’Achelie’s honour some four years previously. His first visit had been one of courtesy, but he had found the lady d’Achelie fascinating, and had found excuses to visit his outlying manor more and more frequently. He had become good friends with Hamo, and never overstepped the line with Isabelle in word or deed, but she had seen the way he looked at her when her husband was not attending. She was used to admiration, but not blatant desire, and it oozed from every pore of the man. Three years since, Hamo had been struck down by a seizure, which left him without the use of one side of his body. He had been pathetically touched by her devotion and attention to the wreck he knew himself to be, and openly discussed his wife’s future with his friend. She was deserving, he said, of a husband who could love and treasure her as he had become unable to do.

  What neither Hamo nor his beautiful wife realised was that Waleran de Grismont liked things on his own terms, and was conscious of feeling his hand forced. He had resolved to distance himself from the d’Achelies for a while, and sought sanctuary in the ranks of King Stephen’s army. He was not, in truth, very particular whose claim was most just, but since Stephen was the crowned king, it seemed a greater risk to ally oneself to the cause of an imperious and unforgiving woman, which the Empress Maud was known to be. The king’s army was heading north to ward off the threat of the disaffected Ranulf, Earl of Chester, and it was not long after that de Grismont found himself fighting for his life in the battle of Lincoln. He was no coward, and fought hard, but, like his king, was captured, and held pending ransom.

  In Worcestershire, as months passed, Isabelle d’Achelie had shed tears of grief and frustration, and even contemplated asking her ailing husband if there were any way of assisting in the raising of the required sum. Thankfully, such a desperate measure proved unnecessary, as she received news of de Grismont’s release. He sent a message, full of soft words and aspirations, but did not return to see her. She had been hurt, then worried. Had he cooled towards her, found another? When next she had news, he was among those besieging the empress at Oxford. Only when Hamo d’Achelie was shrouded for burial did he come to her again.

  Absence had certainly made the heart grow fonder, at least as far as the lady was concerned. Waleran looked thinner, and, thankfully, hungrier for her. His feral quality stirred her. For his own part, he was relieved to find that his absence had achieved its aim, for there had been low times when he had regretted his abandonment of the hunt. Now all that was necessary was to obtain the king’s permission to wed the wealthy widow. It should not prove difficult to obtain, for had he not suffered imprisonment and financial hardship for Stephen, who, having been shackled in a cell in Bristow, well knew how harsh such confinement could be.

  Isabelle was less sanguine. She had heard how variable the king’s moods could be. He had allowed the defeated garrison of one town to march out under arms, and then proceeded to hang the defenders of another from their own battlements. He was known, however, to have a gallant and impressionable streak when it came to women. The fair widow believed she would have no difficulty in persuading her sovereign to permit her wedding de Grismont, and had set out for that purpose, delighted at having her future in her own hands for the first time in her existence.

  She was surprised when Waleran de Grismont fell into step beside her. Her pulse raced, but a furrow of annoyance appeared briefly between her finely arched brows. She did not look at him, and spoke softly.

  ‘I do not suppose you are here by chance, my lord.’

  There was an edge to the tone, which he noted. He smiled. ‘But how could I keep away, when I knew you to be so close, my sweet?’

  The lady sniffed, unimpressed. ‘It would have been better if you had mastered that desire.’

  The smile broadened and his voice dropped. ‘But, you see, you are so very … desirable, and I dream of “mastering” you.’

  She shot him a sideways glance through long, lowered lashes. The wolfish smile excited her. Flirting with de Grismont still had an element of danger to it that was quite irresistible after Hamo’s uninspiring veneration. Deep within there was a warning voice that urged caution. As a suitor he was bewitching, but as a husband? Would … could … such a man be bothered to even appear faithful once the prize was won? The voice of caution thought not, but in his presence caution could be ignored.

  ‘Besides, in times like these it is not wise for a lady to travel unescorted.’

  ‘You have not noticed the four horses in the stables, then, my lord, nor the d’Achelie men-at-arms?’

  ‘Men-at-arms should be led.’ His eyes glittered, both amused and irritated. ‘Could you trust them else to stand firm in an emergency?’

  ‘Would they risk their lives for me?’ She turned to him with an arch look and knowing smile. ‘Oh yes,’ she purred. ‘I rather think they would, my lord. Men so often “stand firm” for me.’ Her eyes stared boldly; she need have no pretence of maidenly ignorance.

  It occurred to de Grismont that his lady love was acquiring a dangerously independent turn of mind. That was something he would have to curb once they were wed.

  ‘But without a leader their … self-sacrifice … might well prove in vain.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I need no escort to the king, unless you fear that some other man should distract me from my purpose.’

  There was a brittle edge to her voice, and de Grismont sought to smooth her ruffled feathers with flattering words. As they turned the corner of the cloisters by the monks’ door into the church, he cast a swift glance around. Nobody was watching. He grasped her gently at the elbow, and, as the pair of them passed the chapter house door, he lifted the latch with a heavy click and whisked them both into the cool light within. As he had expected, there was nobody there, and there was room in one of the shallow embrasures, where an obedientary sat during Chapter, for a man to hold a woman on his knee and whisper things which would have made the usual occupant blench and then blush.

  He had hoped to distract her, and for a while was most successful, but her mind was tenacious, and eventually she returned to the point of their conversation, though a little breathlessly.

  ‘This is all very well, Waleran, but you should, truly, not have come here. Your escort to the king may sound a good idea but might be harmful to our cause. King Stephen always likes to think ideas his own, and dislikes having his hand forced.’ She g
rasped her suitor’s hand and imprisoned it between her own. ‘No. Stop that. You must attend to me. Return to your estates and let me do this alone. Be patient, my love, and all will be well.’

  De Grismont’s opinion of leaving such an important mission in the hands, however pretty they might be, of a woman, was not likely to please her. He chose therefore, the route of blandishment.

  ‘You ask patience, sweet. How can I be patient any longer? How could I remain at Defford, knowing you were so close?’ His voice was husky, and his lips close to her ear. ‘You ask too much of me, Isabelle. We have waited, and the waiting is so nearly over.’ His arm round her tightened, possessively.

  ‘All the more reason to take care now.’

  ‘You do not cool towards me, lady?’ He did not fear her reply.

  ‘I would not be here like this if I was, nor would my heart beat so fast.’ She laid his hand over her breast once more, and sighed.

  Waleran de Grismont laughed very softly. He was sure of her now. There was much to be said for a beautiful bride, with a passionate nature that had lain dormant all too long, and a dowry ample enough even for his expenses. As long as King Stephen did not refuse her request all would be well, as she said. He thought she had a point about the king, but a small niggling doubt remained, for Stephen did not always act as sense would dictate. But even if the worst happened, and Stephen refused the match, he had woken the sensuous side of her. He was confident that he could ‘persuade’ Isabelle d’Achelie to seek the ultimate solace for the disappointment in his arms, in his bed, and then, albeit reluctantly, he would seek a rich wife elsewhere.

  Voices sounded outside the door, and he felt Isabelle tense within his hold. He laid a finger to her full lips, and sat very still, listening. He could hear and feel her breathing, which was a distraction, and he had to force himself to concentrate on what lay beyond the door. He judged that two men were in conversation, and though it was whispered and he could not make out words, it was heated. Once he heard a sharp intake of breath and muffled exclamation, followed by what he would have sworn was a chuckle. After some moments they passed on, and, after a short but pleasant interlude, de Grismont led his lady to the door. He opened it a fraction, listened, and then pushed her gently but firmly into the cloister. A short while later he sauntered out, much to the surprise of a soft-footed novice.

  ‘Fine carvings you have in your chapter house, Brother,’ exclaimed de Grismont cheerily, and strode off. The novice was left blinking in stupefaction.

  Two

  Brother Remigius was fairly new to Pershore, and was still finding his feet as sub-prior. His predecessor, a promotion from within the abbey, had succumbed to an inflammation of the lungs within only a few months of his appointment, and Pershore was not such a large house that it could provide a replacement with suitable experience. Henri de Blois, while still papal legate, had heard of the vacancy and offered the services of a brother from Winchester whom he considered worthy of advancement. Brother Remigius had leapt at the chance. In such a large house as Winchester, he was well aware that his modest talents were not so outstanding as to bring him to prominence, but in a smaller community he hoped to flourish. He was not a man of huge ambition, but the move suited him very well. It certainly cost him no pang to leave the abbey where he had spent over twenty years. The atmosphere, at least for him, had soured, and he was glad to shake the Hampshire dust from his sandals.

  The brethren of Pershore had received him with open minds if not open arms, and after nearly two years he was truly beginning to feel at ease. He was engaged in serious but convivial conversation with the sacrist and cellarer, on their way to a regular meeting with Master Elias to assess the progress of the repair works. Lightning, so often the bane of Pershore, had damaged the north transept in the spring storms, though fortunately upon this occasion the ensuing heavy rain had kept the fire from spreading along the roof, and the damage was limited to a fissure and badly damaged masonry on the north and east faces. Brother Remigius took no notice of the cowled figure who walked past, head bowed, and could not see that the demeanour merely hid the veiled eyes and malicious smile of the Bishop of Winchester’s clerk. The three obedientaries passed out of sight as they rounded the west end of the church and made for the masons’ workshop, a wooden structure put up against the west side of the north transept, where they were close to their work above and had access to the inside of the church via the little wooden door set into the transept wall.

  Master Elias saw the black-garbed trio from above, and descended with surprising nimbleness from the wooden scaffolding to meet them. He exhibited the affable but deferential air of a hostel keeper. He might not hold them in high esteem, but he had learned long ago how precious of their dignity minor officials could be. He also knew that he could provide answers to any question they might choose to put to him, even if he had to resort to baffling them with technicalities. He almost herded them into the welcome patch of coolness afforded by the north wall of the nave, for he doubted they had come to look at the work itself.

  The sacrist was keen to know whether any additional, and thus, in his eyes, unnecessary, expenditure was foreseen. He pursed his lips and looked grave when the master mason explained that the stone had come at a premium.

  ‘It is no fault of mine, Brother, that your church is built of a stone now in high demand. Abbot Reginald of Evesham has, as I am sure you have heard, commissioned a new wall for the enclave there. Indeed, it is because of the use of local masons upon it that I come this far west. This,’ Elias patted the dressed stone of the great thick wall as a man might stroke a favoured horse, ‘I can tell you, is fine stone, but your own quarry cannot meet our demand and we have gone further afield. Both we,’ he used the inclusive pronoun, ‘and Abbot Reginald have our eye upon the same commodity. The price has thus risen.’ He spread his hands placatingly.

  The sacrist was not appeased. ‘Surely, you can make changes, cut corners …’ His voice lost its authority and wavered as Elias’s brow darkened.

  ‘Cut corners,’ he growled, his affability discarded. ‘What would you have me build, Brother, an ornament to this House of God or a wall fit for you to piss against in the reredorter? And do not ask if I would cut corners with the pulleys and poles. I expect hard work from my men, but in return I try and ensure that as few as possible lose life or limb. Would you have me sacrifice them in the name of economy?’

  The sacrist shook his head. ‘No, no, Master Elias. I would not, naturally … I mean …’ His voice trailed off in embarrassment, and he looked helplessly at his companions. Although their feet had not moved, they somehow managed to distance themselves from him, indicating that they were not party to his error of judgement. The trouble, thought Brother Remigius, forgivingly, was that any sacrist ended up covetous for his house, always seeking to keep, whereas an almoner was always giving.

  Master Elias did not let his expression soften. He would not have done so even if his emotion had been an act, but on the subject of workmanship he held genuinely strong beliefs. What the sacrist had said was as heresy to him. Brother Remigius sought to mollify the master mason with soothing words, and if Master Elias did not actually believe them, he was at least happy to see the situation eased without having to concede his position. The cellarer took the opportunity to tug surreptitiously at the sacrist’s sleeve, and the pair of them withdrew. The sub-prior thought his brother obedientary had been less than politic, and moved the conversation on to safer topics. He actually found the work of the masons very interesting, and had seen examples of carving at Winchester which he could describe to Master Elias. Mason and monk spent some time in amicable discourse.

  It was then that Eudo the Clerk appeared, without advertising his approach, from the direction of the gatehouse. It was amazing how he could flit like a silent, black moth. He acknowledged the master mason with an irritatingly gracious nod, but turned his attention to Brother Remigius. Master Elias was about to excuse himself, when realisation dawned as to w
ho this was. He had an excellent visual memory and had seen that unctuous, self-satisfied face before. Where? Ely, Abingdon, Oxford? That was it … in Oxford. He tried to recall the name. Eustace, was it? No. Well, he was certainly the lord Bishop of Winchester’s man, and in Oxford rumour had been rife that he was always to be found where discord and deceit were hottest, and that he had an unfailing ability both to increase the temperature and to make sure that his master was on the side of the successful faction. Despite Henri de Blois, Bishop of Winchester, being the king’s brother, he had been quite prepared promote the empress’s claim while King Stephen had rotted in a Bristow dungeon, and then equally swift to return to his brother’s side when the tables had been turned and Stephen was once more in command. Master Elias did not think much of such inconstancy.

  He himself believed that the Empress Maud had full right to be Lady of the English, given that was her father’s wish. He had thought well, in a distant and respectful way, of the late King Henry. He had even seen him once, while still a journeyman, when the king had viewed the building upon which he was working. It had been but a stolen glance before his superior clouted him about the ear for lack of attention, but it had left an impression. Pity it was that a king with such fruitful loins had sired but two legitimate offspring, and that the Prince William should have met an early death at sea. But the king had named his daughter, the widowed empress of the Holy Roman Empire, as his heir, and the baronage had sworn fealty. They had no cause, in Master Elias’s opinion, to break that oath and accept King Henry’s nephew as king. Some had come to regret their choice and raised an army for the empress. Elias was no warrior, nor of elevated class, but he had found that his work took him further afield than most in the realm, and that a man of quick eye and attentive ear could learn much. Master Elias was certainly not, in his own view, a spy. He did not plot or listen at windows; did not bribe or threaten to reveal his knowledge. He simply made note of interesting things and passed such information to men he knew to be both discreet and firmly on the side of the Empress Maud.