The Lord Bishop's Clerk

by Sarah Hawkswood

  Bradecote inhaled to sigh, and groaned, clutching his chest. For a moment he said nothing, then he pulled a face worthy of Catchpoll and said, ‘I am convinced. It will convince de Beauchamp, won’t it?’

  ‘Oh, yes, my lord. The lord sheriff will be very content.’

  ‘Then tomorrow we will take de Grismont’s mortal remains to Worcester, and I shall go home. Tell the men, Catchpoll.’ Bradecote felt suddenly very weary.

  Serjeant Catchpoll could see his superior wanted to be left alone to ‘enjoy’ his aches and pains in private. He nodded, and went off to make whatever preparations were necessary and to see the guestmaster.

  Bradecote eased himself up straight, left the church, and walked slowly and deliberately towards the guest hall, but changed his mind when he saw Miles FitzHugh emerge and try to attract his attention. The last thing he wanted to hear was the squire’s plaudits or excuses. He went instead back into the church, via the cloister, and headed towards the crossing. He wondered where they had laid lady Courtney, for the mortuary chapel was occupied, unless the apprentice had been interred with some speed. As he passed the south transept he sensed, rather than heard, someone in St Eadburga’s chapel. He felt he knew who it would be, and for all that he had no wish to disrupt her prayers or face an impossibly difficult interview with her, he realised it might be his only chance to apologise.

  Sister Edeva did not look up immediately when she heard the footsteps, but finished her prayer, the Latin sounding mellifluous and otherworldly to Bradecote’s ear. She then raised her head and half-turned to look at him. There was a prolonged silence, then, with an easy gesture of her hand, she invited him to kneel beside her. It was, he thought, an appropriate position in which to beg forgiveness, but one which his wound made extremely uncomfortable to adopt. He winced as he lowered himself, and the nun put out a hand in case he needed support, though he did not take it.

  ‘I am sorry, my lord, I should have considered your injury. Does it pain you much?’

  ‘I would be lying if I denied it, lady, but not as much as my conscience. I had to speak with you. This morning I behaved unforgivably, and my explanation …’ He had called her lady again, and it felt right.

  She put up the hand to silence him. ‘No, my lord, there is no need for explanation; at least not on your part. It was not something that was planned. It just happened.’

  ‘I thought you were going to admit to lady Courtney’s murder.’ It sounded ridiculous now, as well as insulting, and he looked at the floor, guiltily, not wishing to meet her gaze, but knew he owed it to her to face her. He raised his eyes to hers, in which he saw compassion. ‘And suddenly I couldn’t bear you to do that. I could see the consequences, and they were too grim. I did not mean to insult you.’

  ‘That I know already. I had not considered myself in the light of prime suspect, but, even if you thought I had killed Eudo you could not, surely, have thought I would kill the boy or lady Courtney?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, and yet I had convinced myself of it because I feared it.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I am … confused. I have never met anyone … a woman … like you before, and somehow it was as if there was some intangible thing between us, and … I don’t understand, but I acknowledge my guilt. Forgive me.’

  She turned fully to him then, and had a passer-by seen them it would have seemed as if they were exchanging vows, not confessions.

  ‘There should be no need to forgive. It would be proper for me to say “But there was nothing, my lord”, and that would be a lie. I felt it too, but I have an advantage. You see, I know, in part, the cause, at least on my side.’ She bit her lip, and continued. ‘You understand that I left the world, the secular world, before I was sixteen, and I have spent longer within than I had without. I entered to find peace, to be allowed to wallow, yes, wallow, in my grief, and keep Warin’s memory like a candle burning in my heart. Yet over the years the memory has blurred, faded. I have counted myself unfaithful because the pain diminished almost to a memory of pain. Can you understand?’ Her face looked suddenly pinched, and her eyes unnaturally large.

  He nodded, though it was only a partial understanding.

  ‘I had not left the enclave in twenty-one, no, twenty-two, years. Then I was sent on this mission.’ She shook her head. ‘I truly had no idea how difficult it would be, seeing the old world again. It brought everything back, highlighted what might have been. You can imagine how much worse the shock of seeing Eudo made it. Then he was dead, and I was relieved. Yes, relieved. I even thought God had brought me to this place so that I might know that Warin was avenged. It was a stupid and wicked thought. When you arrived I was at first too much caught up in what had happened to be conscious of it, but you see, even by the end of that first interview I knew.’

  ‘Knew what?’ Bradecote was now lost.

  ‘Knew that I ought to keep my distance because you reminded me of him, of Warin, or what I thought Warin would have become. The “something” between us was, for my part, a ghost. I looked at you and made you what you were not, and, for my sins, it made me …’

  ‘Approachable, in a distant sort of way. I see.’ Bradecote spoke almost to himself. He only half-saw, but it made sense. If she had been truly uninterested, he would not, he hoped, have been tempted by her. ‘That was why you seemed, just for a fraction of a moment, so responsive.’

  She hung her head. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, and then looked up again, with tears in her eyes, ‘but you are not my Warin. Warin was shrouded half a lifetime ago, and I should have closed the book, not just the chapter. For one “fraction of a moment”, as you called it, I permitted myself a living dream, and it was wrong of me. It was an unintentional sin, but sin it was, and I shall pay a heavy penance for it.’

  ‘What will your mother abbess say?’

  ‘Nothing, for this is not a sin I will bring before Chapter.’ She smiled, a small lopsided smile. ‘A house of nuns is still a house of women, and if you think there is no gossip, however much it should be repressed, you know nothing of the “weaker” sex. I will not confess this before my sisters because it would encourage them to gossip, and be bad for their souls also. But do not think I escape penance, for I know now what I must do.’

  The tears were falling now, and she wiped them away with the back of a hand, ashamed by the weakness. ‘I pray every day for the man I once loved, and it is a solace, but now I must pray first, on every occasion, for the soul of his brother, his murderer, who is in so much more need of prayers. And I must learn to mean what I pray. It will take me a long time, but I will strive, and when I succeed I will have absolution, and,’ her voice faded to a whisper, ‘I hope, peace.’

  ‘And what of my guilt, my penance?’

  ‘Your guilt is your penance, my lord. The condemnation of your conscience, your shame, shows you are, at heart, a good man. You have imposed your own penance. You will know the penance is complete when you can look back to these last few days and not feel that shame as a raw wound, as raw as the wound you carry now.’

  She reached out her hand and, very gently, touched him where the bandage showed beneath the torn and stained undershirt. It was not a sensuous gesture, rather one of blessing. He held his breath, though he could not have said why, and then the moment was gone, and the Benedictine was no longer Edeva, the woman whose heart had been broken in the vulnerability of youth, but Sister Sacrist, the cool and competent bride of Christ.

  ‘Will you join me in prayer, my lord?’ The voice was strong now, calm and confident; it was once again the voice of the woman who had first sat before him in the abbot’s parlour. He nodded assent, and they commenced with a prayer for the dead.

  When Sister Edeva finished her orisons and departed, Bradecote had no inclination to view de Grismont’s last victim. He had prayed for her soul; he would see her body in the morning, and Ulf had been killed in combat rather than murdered. He left the church the way he had come. Abbot William was coming from his lodging, looking rather weary and disconsolat
e. The murderer had been found, and justice, if not the law, satisfied. Yet his abbey had seen four violent and unnecessary deaths in as many days, and the peace and sanctity of the enclave had been disrupted. It would be some time before the lives of the brothers felt normal again, and that was dependent upon the routine of prayer and everyday tasks. He acknowledged Bradecote with a nod and the slightest of smiles, and would have spoken to him, had not a flurry of activity by the gatehouse distracted his attention. Bradecote’s eyes followed his, as a mounted figure, followed by three retainers, rode into the courtyard.

  Their leader was a spare, thin-faced man who had the bearing and manner of one used to command. He looked to be a man in late middle age, with grizzled hair receding at the temples. His face bore an unnatural degree of weathering, being tanned and lined, especially round the eyes. Bradecote was conscious of a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Such a face was seen on lords who had taken the Cross and journeyed to Outremer.

  The lord exchanged a word with Brother Porter and rode forward to halt a little before Abbot William. Unbidden, one of his men dismounted swiftly and came to his horse’s head. The gentleman dismounted, somewhat stiffly, and approached the abbot. He made obeisance courteously, but his words, though softly spoken, were a demand, not a request.

  ‘Good Father Abbot, my name is Courtney, and I am here seeking my wife. I have followed her trail over half the kingdom it seems, and at Tewkesbury they advised me she was coming here. Is she here, or has she already departed?’

  There was a stunned, uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Well?’

  Abbot William paled and turned in mute appeal to Hugh Bradecote, who felt distinctly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, but no phrases formed themselves in his brain. How did one tell a man who had not seen his wife in several years that he had arrived no more than eight hours after she had indeed departed, but in a violent and permanent fashion, and that she lay cold upon a bier within the church.

  Bradecote cleared his throat again and attempted to appear as official and competent as possible.

  ‘My lord, I am Hugh Bradecote, Acting Under-Sheriff of Worcestershire. I think it would be best if you were to come with me. I am afraid … I regret, that lady Courtney has been the victim of a vicious attack and,’ the words came out in an unseemly rush, ‘I am afraid she is dead.’

  Courtney gazed uncomprehendingly at Bradecote, and then the words sank in. He crossed himself, slowly and deliberately, his brow furrowed. He shut his eyes and withdrew into himself, almost visibly growing smaller.

  Nobody moved; no one said anything. In truth, there was nothing that could be said. After what seemed an eternity, Courtney opened his eyes again and looked at the sheriff’s man and then Abbot William.

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘This very morning, my lord.’ Abbot William had recovered his composure, and his voice was calm and even.

  ‘She was discovered this morning, after the guests had broken their fast,’ Bradecote added.

  ‘I would like to see her.’ Courtney’s voice was as calm as the abbot’s.

  ‘Naturally, my lord. Come with us.’ Abbot William, like Bradecote, was a little surprised by the bereaved man’s reaction. He would have expected outrage, anger, horror even, but not the regretful and almost contemplative way in which Courtney now spoke.

  Grief took people differently, thought Bradecote, as the representatives of secular and spiritual authority led the way into the church. Bradecote hung back far enough to see where the abbot was leading. They headed for the mortuary chapel. They must indeed have taken Wulfstan away pretty smartly, thought Bradecote, making way for a more important corpse. Even in death, rank seemed to matter.

  He was relieved that there had been time to lay Emma Courtney out decently, with the pale lids closed over those reproachful bulging eyes. Her hands were folded devoutly across her breast, and he thought how odd it was to see them stilled. Ulf’s body lay upon the stone floor, crosswise at her feet. Bradecote wondered if Catchpoll had been involved in that. The man was not sentimental, but might see it as the man’s right. After all, he had followed her like a hound, and at her feet he was at peace.

  Courtney reached out a hand slowly, to touch the folded hands.

  ‘I arrived only just too late.’ He shook his head, sadly. ‘My poor Emma.’

  ‘Your wife was exceedingly devoted to you, my lord. She was afraid because you had not returned, and was making pilgrimage to shrines to pray for your safety. Such a devout and gentle dame will receive due merit in the world to come. And we will be pleased to inter her earthly body in the nave here, if you do not wish to take her back to your manor.’ Abbot William spoke with genuine belief, and Bradecote was impressed. So often the clergy sounded pompous in the aftermath of death. His words certainly seemed to have an impact on Courtney. He looked visibly cheered.

  ‘Indeed. I shall pray for her in every hope that God will judge her generously, and I accept your kind offer. It is a long way back to Sussex, and though it seems chill to me, the days are too warm for great delay.’

  Once again Bradecote was startled by his response, but explanation came quickly.

  ‘I was going to tell her of my decision,’ continued Courtney, heavily. ‘I believed her to be a religious enough woman to accept and even applaud my choice.’

  The widower read incomprehension in the faces of Abbot William and Bradecote, and smiled wearily at them. ‘I had decided to withdraw from the world upon my return from the Holy Land. Only in the cloister, with a life of contemplation and contrition, will I find peace.’

  So that was it, thought Bradecote, indignation rising on behalf of the poor woman who lay upon the bier. She, though temperamentally unsuited to running her lord’s manors, had done so for a number of years, desperate for his return to take over the reins and leave her to the simple tasks of the devoted wife. She had traipsed round the country, lighting candles and generally worrying herself to death, for a man who was about to come back only to tell her he was deserting her forever for the sake of his soul. If Courtney genuinely believed she would have been happy at this decision then he knew very little of his spouse. Poor woman, perhaps death was less of a disaster for her.

  Courtney was on his knees now, the picture of piety, intoning the same prayer that Bradecote and Sister Edeva had used so short a time before. Abbot William joined him, though Bradecote did no more than kneel. He would have left altogether, had he not thought that Courtney deserved to know what exactly had happened to his wife, and how her killer had been brought to account. When lord and abbot finally rose to their feet, Bradecote took his opportunity, and Abbot William withdrew, his inbuilt monastic clock telling him there was little time before the next office.

  Courtney listened without comment to Bradecote’s exposition, his face betraying almost no emotion, even when the discovery of his wife’s body was described. Bradecote, having at first felt sympathy for the man, spared him no detail, hoping it might jar him into some feeling, but it had no perceptible effect. At the conclusion Courtney pursed his lips, and stared very hard at Bradecote for a moment.

  ‘Could you have discovered de Grismont’s guilt before he killed my wife?’

  It was an impossible question for Bradecote to answer, for he did not know the answer himself. He had thought about it, briefly, and come to no conclusion. He had certainly not thought of de Grismont as the prime suspect until he had murdered lady Courtney, and then it had been largely because it could be none other. Once the facts were revealed, however, he wondered if he could have seen how likely it all was far earlier. He held it as a consolation that Catchpoll, with all his years of experience, had been no closer to the correct answer. It was that which he put to Courtney, for he could not see how he could be blamed by the sheriff, if complaint was made, if Catchpoll had been equally in the dark. That was not the same, of course, as not blaming himself. He thought, grimly, that the post of under-sheriff was one which gave almost unlimited
opportunity for self blame. He would be glad to be rid of the job, he told himself. Yet a part of him had found the task both exciting and challenging. The voice of reason within agreed, but noted that excitement and challenge were infinitely better in small quantities.

  ‘My lord, we did not. That is all I can be sure of, but we worked hard upon it, and so I would like to say no.’

  He escorted Courtney to the guest hall, where the guestmaster received him. It was there that Catchpoll appeared, making a good attempt at looking the picture of innocent industry.

  ‘I have everything finalised for the morrow, my lord. De Grismont’s men are going to return to Defford, where they will see to it that a cart is sent to Worcester if the lord sheriff releases the corpse. I don’t know that he will wish to put the body on display, but he may. Do you wish to depart early, my lord?’

  ‘Not particularly, Catchpoll. The weather is cooler, and besides I think I should wait until after the lady Courtney is interred. Father Abbot has said she will be granted a place within the nave, and it would not be polite to absent ourselves, especially,’ he stressed the word, ‘since her husband will be leading the mourning.’

  Only a flicker of the eye betrayed the serjeant. ‘That was who it was, was it?’

  Bradecote wanted to laugh, but it hurt to do so. ‘Come on, Catchpoll, you cannot make a fool of me that way. You would have known who he was from the moment his men went to the stables, even if you didn’t hear what passed in the courtyard. Wanted to keep out of the way, eh? Well, you need not have bothered.’ He explained what had passed in the chapel. A thought struck him. ‘He never mentioned Ulf at all.’