The Lord Bishop's Clerk (20 page)

‘You did not deny me, my lord?’

‘What good would it have done, since it seems you declared all? Would you have someone announce also from the bell tower to any who wish to be privy to our intentions? And what possessed you to write me a note, Isabelle? By the Rood, you have less sense than your own palfrey.’

He was clearly not in good humour.

‘But they pressed me so, my lord.’ She made it sound almost physical. ‘And what harm is there, since all we admitted was our affection, and they will not be sending to the king about it?’

‘I think private matters should stay private, that is all, my lady.’ His mouth was set in a firm line. ‘And I dislike kicking my heels in this dismal hole of chanting monks.’

She blinked away a crystal-clear tear, but saw it had no effect, and so tried to soothe him from ill humour.

‘My poor Waleran. The heat is oppressive, and has put you out of sorts. Let me fetch you something from my …’

‘Oh, by all the saints, woman, leave me alone.’

He flung away from her and strode to the guest hall, leaving her standing forlorn.

Hugh Bradecote was beginning to wonder whether his head would break before the weather. The hammering inside it made him feel physically ill, and he had decided to visit Brother Oswald, the abbey herbalist, rather than the infirmarer, because he might treat him more discreetly. It occurred to him, however, that he did not know where to find the brother. The easiest answer would be to ask Brother Porter, in a good official manner, as though it was part of his investigation. The black mass of cloud was looming ever closer from the west, gradually casting over the heavens like a leaden blanket. The storm would come, was coming, but overhead the sun ignored the threat. Bradecote did not stride directly across the court, but kept as much as he could to the shade cast by the walls of the abbey church, and was just passing the corner of the scaffolding-clad north transept when there was a clatter, and a swift cry of warning. He looked up, and jumped back as a chisel fell within five feet of him and embedded itself to the haft in the ground. He looked up, and saw Master Elias looking down upon him, his face livid.

‘My lord, you are unharmed?’ The master mason called down as he descended as fast as safety permitted.

‘Since I still stand, that is clear. Had I been struck, I would not be living.’ If his first thought had been self-preservation, his second was whether the act had been an accident, or intended, and his heart was pounding nearly as much as his head. He regarded Master Elias closely as he reached the ground. The man’s face was a mask of anger.

‘Thanks be to God! My lord, I cannot say as it never happens, but …’ He shook his head. Behind him a young apprentice stepped from the bottom rung of the ladder, but came no closer, fearing retribution in hand and word. ‘Foolish boy!’ Master Elias had turned his head to glare at him.

‘It wasn’t me, Master,’ grizzled Wulfstan the apprentice.

‘Fool, and liar also! Come here.’

Wulfstan came, most reluctantly. Bradecote judged him on the verge of sprouting from boy to man, for his voice was not settled, but he was small and wiry, and his age could be anything from thirteen to eighteen if he had been used to mean fare. His eyes were full of fear.

‘Now, you slack-handed whelp, apologise to the lord sheriff.’ Master Elias elevated Bradecote without a thought, and to one as young and lowly as Wulfstan the difference was almost meaningless. He was addressing official power, greater than he had ever approached within three strides, and never would he have dared speak to such a personage. He trembled, and cowered.

‘It was not –’

Elias’s hand cuffed him smartly. ‘Truth now, or I will have you sleep on the floor of the transept and have the brothers wake you for the night offices every night till Sunday.’

‘I … I am sorry, my lord. It slipped, my lord. It just … slipped.’ Wulfstan was not sure whether the lord would hit him, or get Master Elias to do it for him. ‘My lord.’ The apprentice bowed repeatedly.

‘Carelessness, and disobedience. I have said, over and over, always to bring tools in there.’ The master mason pointed at a leather pouch attached by two loops at the back of Wulfstan’s belt, where it would not impede climbing.

‘It was full and you said …’

‘If it is full, you make two journeys. Nothing but bread and small beer for you this day, Wulfstan. Now go, before the lord sheriff has you taken up for assault upon his person.’

Wide-eyed and on the verge of tears the lad backed away, and then ran into the masons’ workshop.

‘It is sorry I am, my lord. I teach ’em, but sometimes lads forget.’

‘No harm was done, Master Elias.’ Bradecote’s heartbeat was back to normal. He leaned down and yanked the chisel from the earth, and handed it, haft first, to the mason, who regarded it balefully.

‘No, my lord, but if …’ He shook his head. ‘And it will take a goodly time to get the edge back upon it now. The lad will have to do it, and you can be sure I will explain just what might have happened. If he fears enough, the lesson will not be forgotten.’

Bradecote said nothing. It was probably as had been said, an accident, but what if Wulfstan had been speaking truthfully, and taken blame for fear of greater punishment from his master? Master Elias looked grim, but was it an easy mask to wear?

‘I had best get back up, my lord. The weather will not hold, and we must make use of every moment at height.’

‘Yes, I understand.’

With a nod as obeisance, the master mason headed back up his ladders. Hugh Bradecote stifled a groan and crossed to the abbey gate, where Brother Porter gave him directions to the herbalist’s little wooden hut. Bradecote was fighting nausea now, and took not the direct path but a more circuitous route out towards the fishponds, where he retched for some time.

There was, thankfully, no likelihood of his men observing his weakness, but when he finally raised his head, he was surprised to see the tall, habited figure of Sister Edeva walking alone beside the ponds. Her upright pose and measured gait made it clear it was her and not Sister Ursula, even at distance.

Disturbing her solitary cogitation felt an intrusion, and he would rather have had time to muster his thoughts, but he had to grab whatever chance he could to gain insight into this woman. He approached her from behind, but made no attempt to surprise her; rather he wanted her to be aware of his presence. At such a dangerous time it was not his intention to frighten anyone.

She turned at the sound of his footfall, and for a moment he thought her face brightened before she assumed her more distant expression. He wondered at it.

‘Good morning.’ He smiled hesitantly. The term ‘sister’ still stuck in his throat like a fish bone, and suddenly he was unsure how to begin. ‘I think the weather will break before this evening. The ponds will not stay low.’ He fell into step beside her, feeling suddenly as inadequate and tongue-tied as if he were a callow youth. She cast him a brief sideways glance.

‘Indeed, my lord. Your concern for the fish does you credit.’ She avoided his eye, and he would have sworn her lips twitched.

There was a silence between them, with which the nun seemed perfectly at ease, and Bradecote highly uncomfortable. He tried another gambit.

‘Your name. It is a Saxon one.’

‘Yes. We are not ashamed of our Saxon blood where I come from. It flows in the veins of most families to some degree, and is as red as any from Normandy. Indeed, it shows that our connection with the land goes back long before the sainted Confessor. My family has given daughters old names since the Conquest.’

‘And where does your family have holdings? Near Romsey?’

There was a slight pause. ‘Not close by, but further east, beyond Winchester.’

‘I should have thought you would have entered the house of nuns there, then.’

‘I chose not to go to Winchester. An aunt of mine had been at Romsey.’ Sister Edeva halted and faced Bradecote. ‘What is it you wish me to tell you, my lord?’ Her voice was very calm.

Bradecote was taken aback. ‘The truth would help.’ He had not meant to say that, but it had risen to his lips before he could think.

‘Nothing that I have told you is untrue.’

‘And “nothing” is largely what you have told me … Sister.’ The word games were annoying him now. His head hurt; he felt sick again.

‘So? If there is nothing that I have to say that is relevant, I will say nothing.’

‘It is up to me to decide what is or is not relevant,’ he snapped, and winced as his eyeballs threatened to explode.

She made no answer, and her face, at which he risked only one swift glance, betrayed no emotion at all.

‘How long before the Compline bell did you leave the church?’ Bradecote specifically did not say ‘the chapel’ because he knew she would be exact, and if she had gone elsewhere in the church, would be unlikely to tell him.

‘Not long before.’ She paused a moment, sensing his irritation. ‘I had time to go, directly, to the guest hall and wash my hands and face before the bell rang. Sister Ursula can confirm that.’

Yes, he thought, she had given him information that could be discovered elsewhere, but little else. She was most provoking.

‘Why have you come here?’ The question was put plainly.

‘I thought it would be cooler, and …’

‘No, Sister Edeva, not “here” but to Pershore.’

‘Oh, I see.’ The faint smile returned. ‘I did not mean to be obtuse, my lord. Sister Ursula and I are here to offer Abbot William both coin and a fine illustrated manuscript in exchange for a finger bone of the blessèd St Eadburga, whose sister was of our house. Abbot William told us yesterday that he and the brothers had agreed to our request. We will return to Romsey as soon as you, my lord, give your permission.’

‘And you did not know that the lord Bishop of Winchester’s clerk would be here?’

‘Of course not. How could we?’

‘Had you met the murdered man before? At Romsey, perhaps?’

‘I never saw him there, no.’ There was a long pause; an important pause.

‘But?’ Bradecote voiced the word which hung unspoken at the end of her sentence.

‘But I knew him many, many years ago, before I took the veil.’

Bradecote said nothing, and waited. Sister Edeva’s hands locked together beneath her scapular, and, for a moment, she closed her eyes. The acting under-sheriff thought he could guess what she was about to say, though he could not see how Eudo the Clerk, even in his pre-tonsured youth, could have attracted a woman like her. Everything he had heard about the man showed him in a bad light. Had he deceived her and then shown his true colours? Had she taken the veil through disillusionment, or even shame?

‘Tell me, was he the reason you became a nun?’ His voice had lost its aggressive tone and was almost sympathetic.

‘The reason? Not exactly. But without him my life would have taken a very different course.’ Sister Edeva gazed past Bradecote, seeing not the enclave, but a life she had never had, a lost dream of love and contentment, of children about her skirts, of living in the fresh air of the Hampshire downland she knew as home, not within the cold, high walls of Romsey Abbey.

Bradecote frowned. It still seemed such an unlikely relationship. ‘Did he mean much to you?’ He put the question gently and was surprised at the vehemence of her reply.

‘Him? Sweet Heaven, you could not think … Eudo?’ She was outraged, and had stiffened, eyes flashing. He blinked at her vehemence.

The nun took a deep breath, and looked him straight in the eye. Her voice, very low and deliberate, held the trace of a tremor.

‘Until I came here I had not seen Eudo de Meon since the day my betrothed was killed. Eudo was his brother … and Eudo killed him. He killed my Warin.’

Bradecote gaped at her. He had thought she might have knowledge of the man and concealed it, and then assumed she had been slighted by him, but never had he imagined such a declaration. Suddenly the woman with opportunity and ability had the strongest possible motive for murder, and one which even he could not deny sounded perfectly reasonable. Part of him cried out that he did not want to know, while the other claimed success in his task.

Sister Edeva continued, gazing through him as if he was not there. ‘Our fathers fought alongside each other at Tinchebrai, and our families held manors in the same district. Fulk de Meon had three sons, and my father had only daughters. William de Meon was the eldest, and was a wild youth who followed in the entourage of Prince William. My father never looked to him, but wanted Warin to succeed him. He was steadier and had only a small manor to inherit from his mother. He would regard our manors as the caput of his honour.’ Her voice softened. ‘I accounted myself very fortunate to be betrothed to Warin. We knew, of course, what was intended for us from an early age. It just so happened that we fell in love. He was everything a girl could have wanted. We were going to be wed at Christmastide, shortly after my fifteenth birthday. He gave me an amber cross as a gift on my natal day.’ Her fingers went unconsciously to the cross hidden beneath her scapular. ‘I had special dispensation to keep it when I gave up worldly goods. Then news came that the White Ship, bearing the king’s son and the heirs of so many noble families, had been lost en route back from Normandy. William was gone, and Warin suddenly stood heir to his father’s lands and title. I would that it had never been so.’