The Lord Bishop's Clerk

by Sarah Hawkswood

  Hugh Bradecote repressed the urge to smile at her, and thereby discompose her further. It was, he thought, cheering to find that the confines of the cloister could not entirely repress the natural instincts of a young woman who could barely have left her teens. ‘Did you depart alone?’ he asked, gently.

  ‘Oh no, the lady Courtney left the table as I did. She did not say much to me, but then I think she understood we should not engage in frivolous chatter. She is a very prayerful lady. We parted in the courtyard before the guest hall. She just said that she wanted to go back to the church alone, before Compline, but she did not wait there for the Compline bell, for Sister Edeva and I saw her walking in the cloister as we answered its call.’

  Bradecote thanked the young woman gravely. ‘Thank you, Sister. You have been of great help.’

  The little nun looked relieved and rose to leave. Catchpoll held open the door of the chamber for her, but just as she was going Bradecote asked one further question.

  ‘By the way, Sister, the dead man came from the minster at Winchester, not so far from Romsey. Had you ever seen him before?’

  ‘No. He had not visited Romsey to my knowledge. But then, I would have had no occasion to meet him, even if he had. I hold no office. Sister Edeva would be the better person to ask.’ She frowned for a moment, a memory wakening in her brain. ‘It is possible that they had met before. When we first met the brother after our interview with the abbot, I thought Sister Edeva stiffened a little, but it might as easily have been my imaginings. You should ask her.’ She smiled sweetly, knowing her ordeal to be at an end. ‘If that is all, my lord …’

  Bradecote nodded. ‘Indeed, Sister. Thank you.’

  Catchpoll saw her out and returned, closing the door behind him. Bradecote raised his eyebrows interrogatively, but said nothing.

  ‘Well, she’s another off our list, if ever she was on it, my lord. Had nothing to hide and tried no tricks. Mind you, she’s given us more than we could have expected.’

  ‘She has that. It will be as well to speak to the sacrist of Romsey next. There are some interesting questions to put to her.’

  ‘And then our young gentleman of the uncertain temper and dirty nails? I wonder if he had been tupping the lady’s maid. Either he has attributes I fail to see, or she was very easy, if that is so.’

  ‘Strikes me as desperate to prove he’s a man, does Lack-beard, and not very good at it, especially if he would fumble anything with a gown and girdle without even knowing the wench’s name, and I would swear he would not even ask.’

  ‘Thinks all he has to do is flash his … rank,’ sneered Catchpoll.

  Bradecote smiled, but then grew serious. ‘Indeed so. I doubt he was up to anything criminal, however sinful, unless he lamed that mule, and why do that if he was going to kill the man? Besides, he arrived late to supper, rather than left early, and we know now that the murder took place after the lady Courtney lit her candle.’

  ‘Unless, and I grant it would be odd, he killed the clerk before supper and went back to move the body.’

  ‘That won’t hold water, Catchpoll, because there is no dust or straw in the Lady chapel.’ Bradecote sighed. ‘I think he is no higher on our list than Mistress Margery Weaver. A lady about to commit foul murder would surely not have been so talkative and bold in company.’

  ‘Not unless she was very accomplished, no. Unless, mind you, it was nerves that made her talk so. There’s some women I’ve come across who would act like that, and she does come from the same place, which provides a link. Even if she is innocent of the crime, she might have seen our murdered man in Winchester. The lord bishop’s envoy would be no ordinary cleric.’ The serjeant’s face performed another of its contortions indicating thinking within, but nothing of note emerged, for he shook his head and departed to find the sacrist of Romsey Abbey.

  Sub-prior Remigius was a troubled man. He sat upon his cot with his head buried in his hands, conscience and ambition vying in his brain. Part of him wanted to keep his own counsel, and trust that everything would be resolved speedily by the sheriff’s men, but what if they dug into Eudo’s past and discovered the extent of the connection between himself and Henri de Blois’s man? Better to tell all now, risking the consequences, than be forced to do so later. Trust the weasel Eudo to threaten him even from beyond the grave. He had come to Pershore with such hopes, and basking in the knowledge that the powerful lord Bishop of Winchester himself had recommended him, and now this could ruin everything. He closed his eyes and took a deep, despondent breath.

  He knew that the sheriff’s officers were using the abbot’s parlour. As he crossed from the dortoir he saw Abbot William in discussion with the precentor, and he made a decision. He hung back until the precentor turned away, and then approached his superior. He would rather that Father Abbot heard what was going to be said from his own lips.

  The sun had progressed so far in its course that the western side of the cloister was now dim and cool, and abbot and sub-prior trod slowly up and down for some time, in low-voiced conversation. Eventually they emerged, blinking, into the sunlight, and walked calmly to the abbot’s lodging.

  Serjeant Catchpoll was just coming out of the chamber, and drew aside respectfully as Abbot William entered. It was, after all, the abbot’s own residence. The sub-prior at his side looked distinctly uncomfortable, and instead of continuing on his way to seek out Sister Edeva, Catchpoll turned back and re-entered, closing the door quietly behind him. This was not going to be a situation where he would do anything but observe silently, but observe he would.

  Bradecote was taken aback, and rose at Abbot William’s entrance. The man’s face was solemn and regretful.

  ‘Brother Remigius has brought information to me, information which he knows also to be of importance to the secular authorities. It grieves me that any of our order should be involved in this case, but as the victim wore the cowl, it has to be expected that others will have things to tell. I have only to add that Brother Remigius has my full support.’

  The abbot took the vacant seat without thinking, thereby ensuring that Remigius stood. The sub-prior coloured, so that even his tonsure reddened. He moistened dry lips with the tip of his tongue. Bradecote wondered, for a brief moment, if there was to be a confession of the crime, the monk looked so upset. After giving a long look at his abbot, Brother Remigius turned to Bradecote.

  ‘My lord,’ he began, and had to clear his throat. ‘I come forward reluctantly, but it is my duty to do so. You know that I was at Winchester, but it was barely two years ago that I came to this house.’ His voice strengthened. ‘The lord bishop himself did me the honour of recommending me for advancement, and I am most content here.’

  He glanced at Abbot William, who nodded encouragement. ‘I was in Winchester many years, and well, I did not tell you the truth about Eudo the Clerk, the full truth. I came in all too frequent contact with Eudo de Meon, Brother’ – and he stressed the title with loathing – ‘Eudo. He was, I am sure, always a good servant of his bishop, but in all other matters he was regarded with great suspicion. He always knew secrets, as though the walls themselves told him private thoughts. He also seemed to take malicious delight in denouncing the sins of others. On two occasions I myself had cause to make his errors known to Chapter, and he regarded me with dislike.’

  Remigius’s voice had gained in confidence, but now it faltered. ‘It came as an unpleasant shock to see Brother Eudo here in Pershore. He recognised me instantly. I even thought he had planned to encounter me. At the earliest opportunity he sought me out in private conversation, and what he said, what he threatened, horrified me.’

  The monk had Bradecote and Catchpoll hanging on his words, and, when he halted, Catchpoll had to bite his lip to prevent himself from showing his interest. ‘He said that I was fortunate to be in a good position here, and that it would be such a shame if it were known why I had left Winchester. I was stunned, for I left in good grace with my superiors. Eudo hinted that as the lord Bi
shop of Winchester’s trusted man, a word from him would be certain to carry weight. He wondered, he said, how long I would hold my position if it were known that I had been sent from Winchester to avoid scandal, and that I had been suspected of,’ he took a deep breath, ‘corrupting novices.’

  His cheeks were scarlet with indignation and embarrassment. He looked at Abbot William and then at Bradecote. ‘I swear on the Rood itself that I am innocent of such wickedness. It was all falsehood, invented by Eudo on the spur of the moment. I said that I would tell Father Abbot, who could check with Winchester and find no such accusation had ever been made, but Eudo just smiled and said that it would not matter. The accusation would be remembered long after my innocence was ascertained, and further advancement would elude me.’

  ‘Did he give you a reason for wishing you so ill?’ Bradecote thought it all sounded very melodramatic and unlikely.

  ‘He said that it was never wise to cross him, and,’ Remigius shuddered at the recollection, ‘there was a great deal of satisfaction to be gained from the power to change lives.’

  Abbot William’s face was grim. ‘My lord Bradecote, I never met the Bishop of Winchester’s envoy before, but I have known Brother Remigius for the best part of two years. I can only say that he has been assiduous in his duties, helpful to his brothers and to me, and has never, in any way, caused me concern.’

  ‘Thank you, Father Abbot, and you too, Brother Remigius. Your honesty, if a trifle belated, makes our work much easier.’

  The confessional, for that was how it felt to Bradecote, was at an end. The monks withdrew, leaving Catchpoll and Bradecote to assimilate how this altered the situation.

  ‘I don’t see that the brother did the deed, howsoever he had reason.’ Catchpoll pulled at his nose thoughtfully. ‘He lacks the courage.’

  ‘You are probably right, though even a weak man may be driven to bloody acts in desperation. We can at least forego any sympathy for the victim.’

  Catchpoll frowned. Sympathy for the victim had not occurred to him, and very rarely did. He considered it a weakness.

  ‘Sympathy, my lord, is not for the likes of us. It gets in the way. I leave that to others, and with respect, my lord, so should you.’

  Bradecote stiffened. It was not Catchpoll’s place to tell him how or what to think, and he deserved a sharp set-down. Honesty compelled him, however, to admit the validity of what the serjeant said. He held his tongue, but the reprimand, for that was what it felt like, rankled.

  The older man watched him warily. He believed totally in what he had said, but realised it had not been wise to declare it. That Bradecote had not bitten his head off either showed good sense or weakness, and the serjeant had seen enough of him on Bredon Hill to know that whatever else, Bradecote was not weak.

  Having failed to find Sister Edeva in the guest hall, Catchpoll eventually found her in the abbot’s garden, only yards from his parlour and idly dead-heading blooms from the roses in the softened warmth of the late afternoon sun. She looked round at the sound of his approach, his boots crunching purposefully on the pathway, and sending a blackbird ‘pinking’ from the extraction of a worm from the flower bed, but there was nothing sudden in her movements, no suggestion of surprise. When the serjeant bade her come to speak with the sheriff’s deputy, she assented with a gracious inclination of the head, and followed him without any increase in her pace to keep up with him. He therefore reached the abbot’s door a few paces in advance and was able to turn and observe her as he held the door. Women religious had, he often thought, a greater otherworldliness than their male counterparts, but this dame was exceptional.

  She entered the abbot’s parlour, her garb the only similarity with Sister Ursula, who had occupied the same place earlier that afternoon. She glided rather than walked, and her posture was upright, confident and composed. When she sat, she folded her pale hands beneath her scapular and gazed at Bradecote unflinchingly. The Empress Maud herself could not have appeared more regal and remote. Without saying a word, the sacrist of Romsey had created the feeling that it was she who was granting an audience, not Bradecote instigating an interview. It was disturbing.

  ‘You wished to speak to me concerning the death in the abbey church, my lord.’ It was a statement, not an enquiry; her voice was low, calm and surprisingly melodic.

  ‘The murder,’ replied Bradecote carefully.

  ‘I see.’

  He wondered if she did. A shaft of sunlight from a narrow, unshuttered window lent colour to the nun’s alabaster face. It was a visage that gave no clues to the woman beneath, her thoughts or even her physical state. With throat and hair covered, and a skin rarely exposed to the sun, she could be any age between thirty and nigh on fifty years. She was tall, a fact accentuated by her upright posture, straight as an arrow-shaft, and yet perfectly relaxed. Even the Benedictine habit could not totally conceal her shapely figure, though she clearly made no effort to use it. Catchpoll’s words, ‘a fine figure of a woman’, returned to him. Bradecote had the unnerving sensation that she intended to conduct the interview on her own terms, regardless of his plans.

  ‘You do not appear unduly distressed by this sacrilege, my …’ he faltered, for without thinking he had been about to address her as ‘my lady’. ‘Sister.’

  The nun permitted herself the merest hint of a smile. ‘“Sister” is perfectly correct, my lord, and no, I am not excessively “distressed”, as you describe it. Death comes to us all.’

  ‘Not violent death; not an unnecessary and senseless death, especially to a man in holy orders.’ Bradecote sought to stress his point.

  ‘Many better men have met death as violent and as apparently senseless,’ her voice altered not at all, ‘particularly in such troubled times as these.’

  ‘Yet you were not so sanguine when the death was announced.’

  ‘My lord?’ The nun looked vaguely puzzled.

  ‘Sister Edeva, when Elias the Mason entered the cloister and cried out that the lord bishop’s man lay dead, as a result of violence, you went down on your knees, for you were at prayer when we arrived with the sheriff.’

  Sister Edeva leaned forward a little, her head to one side. ‘You find it strange that a religious should behave in such a manner? That a nun should turn to prayer?’

  Her voice was soft, though Bradecote felt he could detect mockery in its depths. The lady was providing no assistance at all.

  He tried another approach. ‘I am trying to ascertain the movements of all within the abbey between Vespers and Compline. You were absent from the abbot’s table. Would you please tell me where you were.’

  ‘I am sure Sister Ursula has already told you. I was at prayer in St Eadburga’s chapel.’

  ‘For the entire time?’

  ‘Obviously not, since I was coming towards the church with my sister when the master mason emerged, and I am sure that Sister Ursula has told you that already.’

  Her answers were clear, and yet … Bradecote felt that there was much to be said which was concealed, though he would have sworn she was telling no lie. They were engaged in a verbal combat, which the lady seemed to be enjoying, and in which she had the upper hand. He glanced at Catchpoll, who was eyeing the nun with both respect and suspicion.

  ‘It seems an unusual time for prayer,’ Bradecote tried again, ‘immediately after the office and when a meal was to be served. What could lead you to spend the time thus?’

  The grey eyes, which had appeared cool and vaguely mocking, hardened in an instant, and the voice had an icy, imperious edge. ‘There is no such time as “an unusual time for prayer”, for communing with the All Highest, and my prayers are a matter for none but myself and God, my lord.’

  Bradecote could not conceal his amazement at the strength of her reaction, and without thinking, stammered an apology. Only as the words left his mouth did he wonder why she had reacted in such a way.

  ‘Forgive me, I meant only …’

  ‘To see if I killed Eudo the Clerk.’ She
stared at him, fixing him with the granite hard eyes. The voice was very deliberate. ‘I did not kill that man.’

  It was a bald statement, without explanation, without a reason but as though there ought to have been. Something important was being said, but Bradecote, inexperienced in such affairs, could not fathom what it was. As he watched her, the nun withdrew into herself again. It was as though she had emerged briefly into the secular world and then once more withdrawn. He wanted to ask her other questions, but they had become jumbled in his brain, halted by her stark announcement.

  It was Serjeant Catchpoll who, clearing his throat respectfully, asked what Bradecote had intended. ‘Since you were present in the chapel during the time when the murder was committed in the church,’ he avoided mentioning exactly where, ‘we have to ask if you heard anything, Sister.’

  ‘I was at prayer, Serjeant, and my concentration was upon my orisons, nothing else. However, I can say that I heard no scream or cry, if that will help you.’ It would not, but it was clear the Benedictine was not going to be more forthcoming.

  The Sister of Romsey rose without either man saying anything to stop her. It was she who was bringing the interview to a close. She gazed calmly at Hugh Bradecote, and he thought she was assessing him. There was the briefest moment, perhaps even one of his own imagining, when her eyes narrowed in surprise, and then resumed their distant mockery.

  ‘No doubt you will find me, should you have need to question me further, my lord.’ She made him the slightest of obeisances, the spiritual deferring to the secular, and left.