The Lord Bishop's Clerk (27 page)

Serjeant Catchpoll was desperately trying to resolve two Bradecotes and two fugitives into one of each, but he saw, in however blurred a fashion, the opportunity to bring proceedings to a satisfactory conclusion. He grabbed Gyrth by the arm.

‘Fetch your bow, swiftly now, and if you get a good clear shot, bring him down.’ His voice was a little slurred, but Gyrth nodded and departed quickly.

While the two protagonists circled there was still a chance. Catchpoll had no qualms. This was not a trial by combat, proclaimed by a court and between two men only, merely the apprehension of a murderer. If Bradecote was prepared to risk life and limb, fired by some noble ideal, then more fool him. As long as the exits were barred, de Grismont was like a rat in a trap.

De Grismont was a man of limited patience, prepared to make a move as soon as half an opportunity presented itself, which was what Bradecote was anticipating. The donkey, now thoroughly upset, was bucking and kicking the little cart into taper splinters behind it, and scattering produce in all directions.

Bradecote’s eyes were focused solely on de Grismont, and he trod on an errant cabbage, stumbling as he did so. Seeing his chance, de Grismont brought down his blade in a lunging slash, which Bradecote, off balance, parried as best he could. Steel juddered on steel as the last foot of de Grismont’s sword, which would have sliced open Bradecote’s face, was blocked by his weapon, and sent numbing reverberations down the arms of both men. The under-sheriff’s bruised left shoulder ached sickeningly, but the battle-blood coursing through his veins meant that he scarcely acknowledged it.

It was only at this point that the Sisters of Romsey emerged into the courtyard. Sister Ursula gave a muffled cry and shut her eyes in horror. Sister Edeva stood frozen, her lips moving silently, and her hands clasped together before her face, though it was only the whiteness of the knuckles that indicated more than prayer.

Gyrth returned breathless, bow in hand, only for Catchpoll to shake his head. Battle was now properly enjoined, and it would be more than his job was worth to explain to de Beauchamp how he had caused the shooting of the newly appointed acting under-sheriff.

Bradecote, having survived the first murderous blow, rolled sideways to avoid a second slash and rose to his feet nimbly enough. He did not have the experience of the older man, but he was fit, agile, and hoped speed and his few extra inches of reach would make up for both that and power. The next attack was a more even match, and a flurry of stroke and counterstroke sent sparks from the glinting steel. De Grismont was the sort of man for whom attack was also defence, but Bradecote simply parried until a chance presented itself. Both men began to breathe heavily, their faces taut with concentration, the world beyond their opponent but a vague blur. De Grismont was still having the better of it, keeping Bradecote on the defensive, but the sheriff’s man was biding his time, hoping for an error that would present the vital opening.

Lady d’Achelie was sobbing now, quietly, and without drawing any attention from the other guests, fixed as they were upon the fight to the death. She had shown the rare facility to be able to summon tears on a whim and remain beautiful, but these tears were no affectation, for beneath her parted fingers, the eyes daring to watch the fight were reddening rapidly.

De Grismont was breathing through his mouth, the lips drawn back in half-snarl, half-smile, and his onslaught was becoming disjointed. He made a poor single-handed parry, with arm and sword at an awkward angle, and Bradecote seized his chance. With a cry, he brought his blade across in a backhand stroke that should have taken sword arm and chest, but Waleran de Grismont foresaw the outcome and stepped back ready for instant riposte. Only as his stroke carried through, encountering nothing but air, did Bradecote realise his error. He made a futile attempt to avoid de Grismont’s blade, but succeeded only in turning it from a fatal blow to a wound. The honed edge of the tip that would have eviscerated him struck higher than intended, cleaving the stout leather of Bradecote’s jerkin like linen and bouncing from rib to rib. Bradecote felt the scrape of steel on bone and the sticky warmth of blood before the pain. The sound of a woman’s scream made a vague impression on his brain, and his eyes saw the glitter of victory in those of Waleran de Grismont. He staggered.

‘A pity,’ gasped de Grismont, grinning wolfishly. ‘You would have been a worthy adversary, given a few more years; years you won’t live to enjoy.’ The sweat ran into his eyes, and he blinked. Just once.

Bradecote lunged with all his remaining strength, off balance and more in hope and desperation than in anticipation of success. He almost expected the final, fatal wound, and braced himself for the icy, stabbing bite of the steel. But the blow did not come; the blade did not enter his flesh. His own sword, though more suited to slashing than stabbing, went onward, catching de Grismont below the sternum and meeting no solid opposition until it hit his spine, sickeningly. He wrenched it back.

Waleran de Grismont made a peculiar, hissing grunt, and sank to his knees, his eyes registering surprise, and his mouth opening as a last great exhalation left him. Then he pitched forward to leave a spreading scarlet stain upon the courtyard dirt.

Bradecote collapsed also, leaning on the pommel of his sword. His limbs, no longer forced to act, were as weak as straw stalks, and his chest protested at every laboured breath. He felt strong arms grab him from either side, and was aware of Catchpoll’s voice, chiding like his old nursemaid had been wont to do.

‘There now, you’ve been and killed him, so we won’t know why he turned murderer. I was really looking forward to encouraging his explanation. It makes the job so much more worthwhile. Up you come now, my lord, and we’ll see you don’t leave any more nasty stains on the good lord abbot’s domain.’

Bradecote did as he was bid, lacking the strength or will to remonstrate at being treated like an infant, and was assisted by Catchpoll and Gyrth towards the infirmary. He was dimly aware of the crowd now; of the lady d’Achelie being fanned by an agitated FitzHugh as she slumped against the guest hall wall; of Mistress Weaver nodding encouragement at him like a fond aunt, and Sister Edeva, her face as white as her wimple, her grey eyes moist, and her hands clasped, vice-like, before her.

He wanted to say something, but could neither find the right words nor the breath to issue them. He was half carried up the shallow steps into the infirmary and passed into the safe, ministering hands of the infirmarer.

With his wound tended, and given the chance to rest for an hour or two, Bradecote began to feel that lying idle in the infirmary while the loose ends of the business were being tidied up by Catchpoll was not much to his taste. His chest still pained at every breath, certainly, his limbs felt stiff, and his shoulder had seized up entirely, but he told himself that as long as he took things at a steady pace, he could do all that was required of him. He sat up very gingerly, his left arm protectively positioned over his damaged ribs, still protesting at their ill usage. He permitted himself the luxury of a long groan, since there was nobody he knew within earshot. He had just swung his legs to the floor when he heard a female voice, tremulous but insistent, in heated conversation with a man, whom Bradecote thought must be the infirmarer. A moment later Isabelle d’Achelie erupted into the peace of the infirmary. The elderly monk who was the only other current invalid pulled his blanket up to his chin with gnarled fingers, and rolled his eyes in a gesture of wild panic.

The events of the last few hours had not left Isabelle d’Achelie looking her best. Her flawless complexion was marred by the blotchy effects of prolonged and genuine weeping, her eyes were swollen and pink, and hair had escaped in abandoned wisps from within the confines of her coif.

‘My lord,’ she began, her voice throbbing histrionically, ‘you must believe I did not know.’ She threw herself at his feet, and he feared for one awful moment that she was going to fling her arms round his knees.

‘My lady d’Achelie, I …’

‘No, do not say it. You must blame me for concealing the identity of the murderer, but I swear I had no proof.’

Bradecote forbore to say he had not asked for proof, only suspicions, and the lady continued her rapid, exculpatory speech. She wanted to make clear that she was innocent of collusion in such crimes, while simultaneously admitting not having told the sheriff’s men that she had told de Grismont of Eudo’s threat, some time before Vespers, and that he had told her not to worry, because he would ensure Eudo kept quiet.

‘I thought he would threaten him in turn, you see. I do not think the clerk was a brave man, not at all. Afterwards, well I obviously thought it might have been Waleran, defending my good name, but I had no proof.’ An echo of the old Isabelle returned, and she smiled girlishly, the picture of naïve frailty. ‘I thought perhaps that Waleran would tell me if it was him, and if he said nothing, and I did not ask, well, it could have been someone else.’ She paused for a moment, and added. ‘Not that I really minded if he had killed him, because he was a nasty, evil man and deserved all he got.’

‘But the apprentice and lady Courtney?’

‘No. Oh, no.’ Her face registered revulsion. ‘How he could have … I mean, lady Courtney was such an innocuous, devout lady, and that poor boy …’ She shook her head. ‘I did not know about the apprentice until supper, and then I was worried. I did not think I should give Waleran away without hearing what he had to say. He denied any connection, and said he thought it must have been a different thing entirely, because he had seen the master mason in the serjeant’s charge. He said it was a matter amongst the masons, and I wasn’t to worry. So I didn’t.’

She paled again, and her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘This morning, when I heard rumour of something horrible happening to lady Courtney, I sort of knew. And then I came outside and saw …’ She covered her face with her hands, unconsciously mimicking her earlier action. She gave a couple of deep sobs, and then raised her head. ‘I thought he would make me happy, and he has brought nothing but misery and shame.’

Bradecote sighed. He did not know the position of the law, but he did not think any ill intent could be proved against the woman, and even if it could, he, for one, had no stomach for it.

‘Go home, my lady, and do not be over impressed with soft words and warm looks. You need have no fear of dwindling in lonely widowhood. A lady with your,’ he paused, ‘your charm and personality, will impress many a fine man. Do not be rushed into a new marriage.’ He wondered at himself, sounding like a priest taking a confession. She would listen to what he had to say attentively, but he knew that deep down, here was a woman who broke hearts and whose own would always be vulnerable. He hoped, for the peace of her estates, that a good, reliable suitor would arrive in her bailey before she caused more mischief.

She rose from her knees, dusting her skirts in an habitual action, and swept him a deep curtsey. ‘I will, my lord, and thank you.’ She turned, and left, the faintest of swings to her lightened step.

A short while later Bradecote, having ignored the infirmarer’s gentle remonstrations, was walking slowly and cautiously down the infirmary steps. He saw Serjeant Catchpoll coming towards him, holding some missive, and with the air of a man who would like to whistle but knows he is always out of tune.

‘Ah, so we are feeling better are we, my lord?’

‘I don’t know about “we”, Catchpoll, but I can say for certain that I am not feeling as bad as I was earlier, but I have frequently felt better.’

‘Well, you might feel much better when you see this.’ He proffered the document. ‘It has just arrived from Worcester. According to the messenger who brought it, there has been a major discovery of treachery involving a Worcestershire lord who bought his ransom, not with gold, but with the promise of adherence to the empress, but has “forgotten” to do so. Now I wonder who that might be?’

‘I wonder why de Beauchamp bothers with written instructions at all, if the messenger can tell you that much. Let us see if he has it aright.’ Bradecote broke the seal and opened out the vellum. He winced, and Catchpoll solicitously enquired whether he would like to be seated. ‘No, thank you. Getting up and down is worse than standing.’ He leaned against the infirmary wall, which provided shade and comfort, and read the contents. The messenger was not far wrong.

‘The lord sheriff hopes we are close to solving the murder of the lord Bishop of Winchester’s clerk, and bids me take into custody one Waleran de Grismont, lord of Defford, upon the wish of the empress. It appears that he bought his freedom after Lincoln by promising to transfer his support to her, but thus far has failed to fulfil that promise and her patience is running out. So, much as you told me, but the failure to change allegiance seems thin reason for detaining him. Men change sides often enough. No need to look further than our lord William de Beauchamp himself. Strictly speaking, as the king’s representative, he should be commending de Grismont for his, er, loyalty.’

‘Ah, this is more in the way of keeping both sides sweet, I would imagine, my lord. The Empress Maud is renowned as an unforgiving woman, and the lord sheriff would not flout her command if it did not break the law. I expect she would also like de Grismont rattled a little to find out who else is less than trustworthy just at present. She’ll miss that now, of course, but I don’t suppose she’s a lady to fret on it.’ Catchpoll ruminated for a moment. ‘Looks like what Master Elias said was true, about de Grismont going to the Jew of Oxford. You certainly would not think him poor to look at him.’ Catchpoll frowned. ‘But why delay changing sides? He could have done so almost straight away, and if he lay close with someone powerful like Robert of Gloucester he would not have risked being dragged off by the king.’

‘I imagine he wanted the lady d’Achelie wedded and bedded first. Hamo d’Achelie was loyal to King Stephen, and he might not have received so warm a welcome from the lady if he had just shown himself inconstant in his loyalty.’