The Lord Bishop's Clerk

by Sarah Hawkswood

  The sheriff took off his riding gauntlets, laid them wearily across his pommel, and stared frowning at Abbot William for some moments before answering.

  ‘Father Abbot, I have no idea what you are talking about. I have come here to ask refreshment and a bed for the night before we take our prisoners from Bredon Hill to Worcester, and to leave a corpse to display here in Pershore as an example to those who might be tempted to break the law. I am weary and hungry and I care little what has occurred here as long as it does not interfere with your hospitality.’ He had heard the Compline bell, and realised glumly that he was too late for whatever tempting delicacies the abbot had set before his more illustrious guests.

  ‘Murder!’ exclaimed the abbot, dramatically, waving an arm in the direction of the church. ‘Murder within the sanctity of our church itself! You must help us. You must discover who has done this terrible thing.’

  The sheriff closed his eyes for a moment, and gave a weary sigh. ‘Father Abbot, this is not within my jurisdiction. The offence has taken place within your precincts, and I have no rights here.’ He wanted none of this, just food for his belly and a bed for his bones.

  ‘Yes, yes, my lord, but this is so serious an incident that I waive my rights and implore your assistance. The murdered man was clerk to the lord Bishop of Winchester and about his lordship’s business.’ That, hoped the abbot, would get the sheriff’s attention.

  It did. The sheriff’s face clouded. He was torn between wanting nothing to do with this and the knowledge that the victim’s identity meant that, assuredly, he should take an interest. ‘I must return to Worcester tomorrow, and my under-sheriff is sick of an ague. I cannot see that …’ He stopped in mid-sentence, and a slow smile of relief mixed with malicious pleasure crossed his features. ‘However, I am prepared to leave Serjeant Catchpoll, who is most experienced with criminals, and my lord Bradecote, who is no man’s fool, to undertake this task.’

  Hugh Bradecote’s horse started under an incautious spur, and its rider made a strangled noise in his throat. He had as little wish to remain in Pershore as the sheriff.

  ‘But my lord, I am not a king’s officer. I most certainly have no powers of jurisdiction.’ He spoke in an urgent undervoice.

  The sheriff was having none of it. ‘You have as of now. I am appointing you as my under-sheriff, in a purely temporary capacity. You can keep your men and a couple of my men-at-arms as well.’ The sheriff dropped his voice. ‘Catchpoll knows his business very well, but the witnesses here would appreciate neither his manners nor his methods. Keep ’em sweet and let Catchpoll ferret.’

  Bradecote grimaced. He was to be a sop to sensibilities, was he? It grated that the sheriff, who had seen enough over the past week to judge him, should place him as a mere buffer. He rather thought he could do better than that. This was not a task he wanted, but if he was to be given command in name, he wanted to exercise it in fact.

  He thought for a moment, and then urged his horse forward and dismounted before the abbot, handing the reins to one of his men. ‘Father Abbot, I am at your service.’ He made obeisance, surprisingly gracefully for a tall man who had been in the saddle all day. ‘May I suggest that we begin after Compline. You must continue with the offices of the day, naturally.’

  The abbot opened his mouth to agree and then halted. It was true that the office could not be abandoned, but there was the important matter of a fresh corpse lying before the high altar.

  Bradecote smiled. He saw the abbot’s dilemma, but he also knew how he wanted to proceed. ‘The body must not, of course, be moved. Much can be learned from studying the body as it was discovered.’ He omitted to mention that it had occurred to him that much might also be learned from studying the behaviour of the possible suspects, faced, as he hoped, with gazing at the crime throughout Compline. He hoped the body was not secreted in a side chapel.

  The abbot still looked undecided. It was Serjeant Catchpoll who finally persuaded him, by coming forward and offering, in a most reverential tone, to cover the body decently with a blanket if it was in view, to spare the ladies. He nodded in the direction of the two nuns, visible, still on their knees behind the abbot. Bradecote shot him a surprised look. His knowledge of Catchpoll was limited to what he had seen of him over the last few days, and he would have considered the worthy serjeant neither tolerant of squeamishness nor particularly reverent. In fact, he thought him as hard as horse-nails. As a novice was sent running for a blanket, the man sidled up to Bradecote and gave him the benefit of a whispered, ‘Don’t want anybody making adjustments to their handiwork, do we, my lord.’

  Bradecote should have been impressed by the serjeant’s forethought, but it was obvious from his tone, which was that of one explaining to a dullard, that Catchpoll wanted to show who was really going to run the hunt for the murderer.

  The sheriff watched Bradecote with a satisfied look. The younger man would make every effort to find the culprit, and would almost certainly put Catchpoll’s nose out of joint in the process. It was a pity, in a way, that he could not stay to see the outcome. He gave a dismissive nod, which the abbot considered as much directed to himself as to Bradecote, climbed stiffly from the saddle, and headed for the guest hall. His stomach was more in need of sustenance than his soul, and he had no desire to attend Compline. Though supper was past, he had little doubt of being able to secure something to eat from the abbot’s kitchen if he bellowed long and loud enough.

  Hugh Bradecote gestured to the abbot to continue into the church. The younger nun was paying attention now, looking with doe-wide eyes at the sheriff’s men. She placed a hand on the other sister’s arm to rouse her from her prayers. The older nun looked up, blinking owlishly, and got to her feet a little unsteadily, leaning against her junior. The pair then stood back to let Abbot William and the two sheriff’s officers pass. Within the cloister, Bradecote’s glance took in the monks, their line now less than orderly, a large, pale-faced man, a hulking brute with what looked like a permanent frown of perplexity, and three secular dames who had gathered together, sheeplike, as if for mutual support. One of them was sobbing convulsively.

  Two men came in behind Catchpoll. One was still almost a youth, a beardless squire or lordling, and the other Bradecote recognised as Waleran de Grismont, who held manors in the shire. De Grismont maintained his customary look of vague boredom, but the young man’s eyes had widened in surprise at the tableau within the cloister walls.

  The novice returned, breathless, with a blanket, and Catchpoll took it and went ahead into the church. Bradecote let the others enter before he went in to take his place. It gave him the opportunity to choose a vantage point from where he could best view what must now be ‘his suspects’.

  Within the abbey church it was cool, and motes of dust danced in the vaguely coloured evening light, streaming from the muted greenish yellow hues of a grisaille window. Hugh Bradecote positioned himself carefully by the crossing, at right angles to the nave and choir, although half the Pershore choir monks were facing in the same direction as he was, and all were largely hidden by the rood screen. Leastways, he could see the visitors. Then he groaned, for the great west door had creaked open, and townsfolk keen for the well-being of their souls came in. Bradecote’s silent prayer that there should be few of them was answered, and none looked viable as murderers come to view the result of their misdeed. There was a bent and wizened old woman, leaning heavily on a stout blackthorn stick, and supported also by the arm of a skinny, sallow girl of no more than fourteen; grandmother and granddaughter had come to prayers. Behind them came a young woman with the waddling gait of the heavily pregnant, and a tattered, gap-toothed beggar with a crutch. A pompous-looking burgess, glancing round to make sure everyone noticed his rotund presence, entered and stood some distance apart from the others. He was accompanied by a wan and worried dame and three sulky youths, who clearly expected no spiritual benefit from appearing in church with their parents, and would have preferred to have been with their peers coo
ling themselves in the shallows of the Avon. All of the newcomers gazed with blatant incomprehension at the blanketed form before the altar. Relief flooded through Hugh Bradecote, and he raised his eyes heavenward in mute thanks.

  Across in the north transept, Serjeant Catchpoll tried not to smirk. It did not take a reader of minds to see what the sheriff’s freshly appointed acting under-sheriff was thinking. Well, it mattered not what he thought, as long as he kept from interfering. Catchpoll had served the sheriff many years, and each had a healthy respect for the other’s abilities and a knowledge of each other’s shortcomings. He suspected the new appointment had been made from a mixture of social nicety and pure mischief, and certainly did not expect Bradecote to be more than a cypher.

  Bradecote was mercifully unaware of his subordinate’s insubordinate thoughts, and had turned his attention to those who had been present in the enclave when the sheriff’s party had arrived. The two nuns, who had remained kneeling in the cloister during the exchange with the abbot, were easy to identify. The younger, who had seemed more poised in the cloister, was now obviously shaken. Her eyes had, if it was possible, widened even more, and were fixed upon the covered corpse, her cheeks ashen. It seemed that the enormity of what had taken place had now sunk in. By contrast, the taller and older sister was impassive. Bradecote was mildly surprised, for he would have expected her to be more disturbed. She had, however, given the blanket-hidden form a long, pensive stare as she took her place, and thereafter had ignored it. Indeed, she seemed to find the office particularly fulfilling, and at one point drew a breath and smiled unexpectedly, as if taking in the perfume of a sweet flower.

  The lady behind her had none of her quiet poise. She was a woman about whom everything was pallid. Her pale, red-rimmed eyes swam with tears and her delicate, white hands fidgeted constantly. She was so thin and wraith-like that Bradecote wondered if she were in search of a miracle to cure some deadly illness. He recalled her as the female indulging in incontinent sobbing, though mercifully this had ceased. Her expression now was less of horror than of awe. A little behind her stood the perplexed brute, who he decided was her guard dog. Beside her stood a much younger lady dressed in fine fabrics of a sober hue, who did not concentrate upon the service. At first she looked at the dark heap before the altar, but appeared to tire of it and let her eye rove about the church, passing over Catchpoll and resting briefly upon Hugh himself. Seeing that he was himself regarding her, she gave a small, self-satisfied smile. Here was a woman well used to admiring glances. Her features were fine-drawn, her skin without fault, her figure slim but curvaceous. She was undoubtedly a feast for any man’s eye. Her own dwelt longest on the tall form of Waleran de Grismont, lord of Defford. Bradecote knew enough of his reputation to know that the lady would do well to be wary of him. De Grismont did not return her interest, although Hugh had absolutely no doubt he was aware of it. Instead, he stood thoughtfully, black brows knit, as though he could not work out what lay before the altar or find any reason for its presence.

  Isabelle d’Achelie watched de Grismont appreciatively and with a thrilling sense of illicit possessiveness. He was tall and dark, almost swarthy, with a mane of near black hair. His features were strong, with a wide mouth, aquiline nose and deep-set, storm-grey eyes beneath heavy black brows. There was a dangerous, lupine quality to the man, which had always attracted rather than repulsed her. After years wedded to Hamo, who had been very reliable, moderately kind and remarkably sickly, Isabelle found the idea of taming a wolf irresistible. Watching him made her throat tighten so much she could barely make the responses.

  Standing behind the high-born widow, for Bradecote assumed from her garb that that was her state, was the third lady who had been present in the cloister. She was partially concealed by the widow, but he could see enough to distinguish a woman who at least showed no shocked pallor at the event. Remarkably calm, thought the sheriff’s new man, but that could easily be put down to her being the practical and phlegmatic type.

  Mistress Weaver was indeed of such a disposition and sniffed disdainfully at what she took to be a display of aristocratic sensibilities when Isabelle d’Achelie kept her eyes from the body. A murder in such a place was a shock, but death was part of life, as the priest where she worshipped in Winchester so often reminded his flock. This particular death was certainly no loss to the world, though it would undoubtedly be so to the lord Bishop of Winchester himself. Margery Weaver concealed the pleasure at that thought behind her attitude of prayer.

  The fair youth standing next to de Grismont was trying, none too successfully, to look worldly-wise. His chin was unshaven, but sprouted nothing that resembled a beard. He stared boldly before him, head held high, announcing to the world as clearly as if he had shouted it, that he was unmoved by the sight of a murdered man in the church. Unfortunately for him, with the exception of Bradecote, the other members of the congregation took no notice of him at all, and the acting under-sheriff could barely repress a smile.

  At the conclusion of the office the silent congregation trooped out the way they had entered, with the enclave’s inhabitants moving into the soft evening light of the cloister, now casting long distorting shadows on its eastern wall. Bradecote and Catchpoll brought up the rear. The song of a blackbird, an everyday, innocent sound, sweetened the air, but was cut short by Bradecote’s voice, raised so that all might hear him.

  ‘None shall leave the enclave until the murderer has been taken. The clerk to the lord Bishop of Winchester lies dead, and be assured I mean to find out by whose hand. I will wish to speak to you all, individually, in the morning.’

  A murmur of dissent rose, as he had expected, from his listeners. People had business to be done, the king’s grace to supplicate. Above this there came the sound of hysterical giggling.

  Catchpoll and Bradecote exchanged surprised glances. A reaction was to have been expected from the auditors, but they had looked to hear only complaint at such restraint put upon them. They gazed, stupefied, at the source of the laughter. It was the nervous lady with the pale face and fidgety hands. She was twisting them now in her cloak, but was definitely smiling.

  ‘What is it that you find humorous, lady?’ asked Bradecote severely, his dark brows drawn into a frown.

  ‘“By whose hand”, you said.’ Her voice was brittle and unnaturally high. ‘By none here, my lord. That evil little man was taken by the hand of God.’

  There was a stunned, almost embarrassed, silence. The giggling became laughter, jarring, ragged and humourless. Some looked away, not wishing to be connected with what might seem a blasphemous statement. The abbot stood agape, like a landed fish, his mouth working silently as he tried to conjure up a reply. Nothing came. After a few moments of awkward silence, broken only by the unlikely laugh, the elder of the nuns went to the lady’s side, and took her arm, firmly but gently. She spoke to her barely above a whisper, but with obvious authority. The unnatural noise ceased with a whimper, and the nun, summoning the other sister with a small movement of her head, began to lead the lady to the guest quarters. The retainer followed in their wake. She made a nodded acknowledgement to the abbot and fixed Bradecote with a cool, almost challenging stare for a moment, as the little party passed him.

  Their departure was an unspoken signal for everyone else to disperse. Only lady d’Achelie hung back. She approached the sheriff’s men, hands clasped demurely before her, eyes downcast as chastely as any nun professed, but with a faintly provocative smile on her lips. When she did raise her glance, it was to look Bradecote full in the face. Catchpoll was eyeing her appreciatively.

  ‘Of course you must do your duty, my lord.’ Her voice was pitched low; artificially so, Bradecote thought, but it was soft and persuasive. ‘But my business is with the king himself, and in such times it would be unwise of me to trail across the kingdom more than is needful. I have heard he means to depart to the north in the next sennight. I have nothing to do with such a deed as this, and,’ her shapely hand fluttered in the
direction of the church, indicative of her feminine fragility of body and will, ‘I would ask you to take pity upon my situation.’ She flashed him a stunning smile, which wavered in the face of his inscrutability.

  ‘I am loth to inconvenience you, my lady, but there will be no exceptions.’

  Bradecote thought he detected surprise in her eyes, before she veiled them with their lids. Men rarely refused Isabelle d’Achelie anything. Well, this time was different. She made a small pouting gesture, and shrugged.

  ‘As you decree, my lord, but I protest it is harsh of you.’

  She turned with a swish of her skirts, and walked away with a very conscious grace, knowing male eyes followed every swing of her hips. She would have been less than pleased to know that they belonged to Serjeant Catchpoll, and especially so had she seen the lascivious leer on his face.

  ‘Mayhap the lady will try and persuade me next time.’ He looked as if he would enjoy the experience.

  Bradecote’s face remained expressionless, and his tone unamused. ‘I doubt it, Catchpoll. I doubt it very much indeed.’ There was a pause. ‘Come on then, let us view the body.’

  Serjeant Catchpoll grunted, his momentary pleasure disappearing with the lady, replaced with his more usual grim cynicism. It had been a long day, and he was being held from getting back to the comforts of hearth and home. To cap it all, this lord, whom the sheriff had delegated to deal with the killing on a whim, had obviously decided to play law officer and take more than a nominal role in the proceedings. Catchpoll had noted the use of ‘I’ in Bradecote’s announcement to the assembly. He heaved a heavy sigh. The serjeant had only known Bradecote by sight before the venture on Bredon Hill, as one of de Beauchamp’s vassal lords who did his service, and although the last few days had left Catchpoll in no doubt of his ability as a soldier, he was clearly a novice when it came to delving into crime. He might be a man you would feel confident to have beside you in a scrap, for his sword arm was strong, and his actions decisive, but it did not mean he was welcome to interfere in serjeanting business. It was with deeply uncharitable thoughts that Catchpoll accompanied Hugh Bradecote back into the silence of the abbey church.