It was near dawn when Bradecote finally gave up hope of rest. He lay for a while with one hand behind his head, the other arm still too bruised to raise above his shoulder, revolving in his mind all the evidence and coming up each time with exactly the same unpalatable answer. His brain seemed to spin until he actually felt sick and dizzy.
Chinks of pale grey light pierced the edges of the shutter to the little window, and from without came the sound of the morning chorus, still in the preparatory stages with individual songs discernible. Bradecote rose, his limbs feeling leaden, pushed open the shutter, and thrust his head out into the new morning. The cold air made him catch his breath, but it was a deliciously sweet, fresh chill. Dew-bespangled spiders’ webs glistened like silver and rock crystal in the growing light, as the eastern horizon turned from the soft grey of putative dawn to the gentle colours of the real thing. A wren, hidden deep amongst the ivy that clung to the wall of the abbot’s garden, sang as if its tiny heart would burst. Bradecote wondered vaguely if it was the same bird he had heard the previous evening. A throstle’s melodious song drifted up from the orchards running down to the river, and undertook a vocal duel with a rival from another bough. There was something pure and unsullied about the notes that made Bradecote forget, for a few moments, the unsavoury duty ahead of him. He emptied his mind of thought and concentrated only on the sound.
The grass had taken on its daylight green now, and from a muted world of shade and shadow the brightness of the day emerged, as bright as a butterfly from its chrysalis. There were no people in sight, and without them it was possible to hide from the ugliness of their deeds.
The birdsong became a crescendo, as though the latecomers feared being ignored. Bradecote could not see the sunrise itself, for the church and the abbot’s garden wall and lodging blocked the horizon, but the change in the light was indicative enough. The long summer day lay ahead, and folk would be rising now to attend their tasks. Bradecote heard the first clumsy sounds of people, and then a yaffle calling in its distinctive dipping flight, somewhere among the beeches beyond the fishponds. It was well beyond Bradecote’s view, but its mocking laugh, carrying in the still air, was an insult. It told him he was a fool to pretend, that life was a cruel joke and he had to get on with it. The brief respite from gloom that the other birdsong had given him was gone. He withdrew his head and set about his preparations for the day with a heavy head and heart.
The firm knock that preceded Catchpoll’s cheerful arrival made Bradecote brace himself. The serjeant appeared far less lugubrious than usual, and rubbed his hands together as if in anticipation of some pleasant event.
‘Good morning, my lord,’ he announced airily. ‘I thought we …’ He halted as Bradecote slowly drew forth the pitcher from under the bed and held it up by the handle as if it was contaminated. He said nothing; words were unnecessary.
‘Ah.’ Catchpoll gazed at the jug, apparently in search of inspiration. ‘I take it that is not a jug you have been keeping under your cot for emergencies, my lord.’
‘No, Catchpoll, it is not. Nor was it put there by person or persons unknown. It was found by de Grismont’s servant, under de Grismont’s bed yesterday evening, and he called me to see it. He was less than pleased at having the finger of guilt pointed at him, you can be sure.’
‘Ah,’ said Catchpoll once more, ‘pox on it.’ His face worked for a moment as the full import of this information was considered. Then he sighed again. ‘Oh well, I suppose we’ll just have to let him go. No harm done, mind.’
‘Yes, Serjeant,’ Bradecote agreed, knowing who ‘he’ must be, ‘I think we must, since he cannot have secreted the pitcher while standing beside us.’
Catchpoll brightened for a moment. ‘How about he did so when we sent him off to the abbot?’
‘And where do you think he was concealing the jug? No, don’t bother to answer that one.’
‘Well, he could have brought the thing to the cloister on the way back from the murder and picked it up again on the way to the abbot.’ Catchpoll sounded marginally more hopeful.
Bradecote gave this idea some consideration, but then shook his head. ‘Too risky. There was no way he could have guaranteed the opportunity to go back to it before someone might notice it, and its position would point to him as the killer. Nor could he have put it in the workshop because it was crammed full of masons all keen to have a drink. They would certainly have noted the arrival of a pitcher, empty or otherwise. No. Whichever way you look at it, this puts Master Elias in the clear for the murder of Wulfstan. And if he was not guilty of that murder then neither was he guilty of the first. We therefore, reluctantly, return to the sacrist of Romsey as the killer.’
Serjeant Catchpoll looked most unhappy; not because, like Bradecote, he wanted her to be innocent, but because his ‘gut feeling’, his serjeant’s instinct, told him that the second murder was not a woman’s crime. It was he who now shook his head.
‘I really do not see how, my lord. It simply does not fit. You are asking me, and in the end, the lord sheriff, to believe that a nun who has led an almost certainly blameless existence for years and years, commits not just a crime of passion, which I grant to be possible in the circumstances, but then kills an apprentice in cold blood. Aye, and breaks his neck at that. I’m not saying it would be impossible for a woman to do it, but I’ve never come across a case where a woman did so, not in all my years. The lad was not strangled; his neck was broke clean. It takes a deal of strength, and it isn’t like killing a chicken. No, a woman would use a weapon, something heavy, or something sharp, and there was certainly no sign of marks from either on the body.’
Bradecote refused to be convinced, though Catchpoll’s disbelief was welcome.
‘And yet she did do it, Catchpoll. I am sure of it. If she is as cool and clever as we think, she may even have considered that an unwomanly method of killing would be an advantage. I accept it does not feel right, but there seems no alternative. Sister Ursula has no motive at all, and is probably not strong enough; the lady d’Achelie,’ he pulled a face, ‘would be too squeamish, and lady Courtney too fragile. Mistress Weaver, well, the only reason she could have for such violence upon the clerk would be if he was pressuring her more than she said, perhaps hinting that her husband’s death was not from illness.’
‘That thought had occurred to me too, my lord,’ agreed Catchpoll. ‘She might just have murdered him for that, whether the claim was true or false, but she has a lad only a couple of years younger than Wulfstan. Even given the strength, she would not have been able to kill him in cold blood.’
‘No, she would not.’ Bradecote sighed. ‘We have discounted Messire FitzHugh, and de Grismont lacks motive. Master Elias is now out of our reckoning and Brother Remigius would have been off to confess before his abbot within the hour.’
‘Don’t you think the same applies to your nun?’
‘She is not “my” nun, Catchpoll,’ snapped Bradecote, ‘and I’ll thank you to remember it. She is a suspect and I think you will have to admit now, our likely killer.’
‘But would she not have been driven to confess the second murder?’ Catchpoll was dogged.
‘I really do not know.’ Bradecote grimaced, and ran his hand through his hair. ‘As a religious, you would say almost certainly, but if her mind has warped with the recognition of Eudo, then we cannot assume anything any more. It is a tangle, Catchpoll, and Heaven knows I have struggled with it, but there is no other logical answer.’
Catchpoll rubbed his nose, and made one final attempt to dissuade his superior. ‘How did she kill the apprentice in the pouring rain, and then change so that she didn’t look like a drowned rat in a drain at supper?’
‘We never asked Sister Ursula if she changed her habit, and however little they admit to worldly interests such as their appearance, I am sure they would each have brought a spare habit so that they would not meet with Abbot William in an untidy state after days upon the road or, indeed, in case they were caught in a storm. Being prepared to contract an inflammation of the lungs, just to avoid the sin of enjoying a dry habit, is not part of their final vows, I am sure. And you yourself said that the best way not to be noticed is to be bold and normal. All she had to do was return to the guest hall slowly, as if she ignored the weather. It would fit with her general demeanour and she could have come from stable or cloister for all the other nun knew.’ Bradecote looked despondent, and closed his eyes wearily for a moment. ‘I just want to get it over with now. We will confront her after breaking of fast, and see if she will confess.’
Catchpoll regarded his superior, not unsympathetically. It wasn’t easy, the first time you sent someone to judicial death, even though you knew they deserved it, and it would be even worse if it were a woman, and one whom you, well, had taken a good look at, so to speak. Part of this he voiced.
‘It comes with time, the standing back from it all, my lord. The first time is never easy. Me, I had it better than most, for the first person I took for a hanging offence was a baker who had killed his neighbour because he wanted the man’s wife, and thought she would take him if she were a widow. Nasty bit of work he was, full of his own worth and caring of nobody else’s. But even then, I can tell you, it took some doing to actually take him in. He cringed like a whipped cur all the way, and mewled like an infant when they took him to dangle at the rope’s end.’ He shook his head, reminiscing. It had been said in an attempt to make things easier, but in fact it did not help at all.
Neither of them wished to eat with the woman they were about to arrest, and so they remained in the little room until the sounds from the main chamber, where the trestle tables had been set up, indicated that the brief meal was over. Bradecote took a deep breath, and got up from where he had been sitting on the bed.
‘Right, there is no point in delaying this. Off we go.’
The pair left Bradecote’s room and passed along the corridor to where the two nuns were accommodated. Catchpoll knocked firmly, and soft footsteps were heard. Sister Ursula opened the door cautiously, peering round the edge, her eyes pools of trepidation. The events of the last few days were totally beyond her comprehension, and had left her shocked, confused and very frightened. Death was not unknown to her, for everyone met it even early in their lives, but murder was something else entirely from accident and disease.
‘My lord?’ She looked past the serjeant and blinked at Bradecote in mild surprise, but sounded relieved. ‘You wish to see me again?’
‘No, Sister. It is Sister Edeva we wish to see.’ Catchpoll’s voice was colourless, and gave nothing away.
‘But she is not here,’ replied the young nun, opening the door wide. ‘She went out after breaking bread and I saw Father Abbot talking to her, so I crept back here. I am too junior to be involved in their important discussions. Perhaps they are ensuring everything is in order, in case you let us go home today.’ She frowned, as the sheriff’s men exchanged anxious glances. ‘There is nothing wrong, is there? I mean …’
They never found out what she meant, because at that moment there came a loud, anguished, female cry. Sister Ursula jumped, and put her hand to her mouth, but before she could exclaim, the two men were already running for the guest hall door.
The cry was not repeated, and they were not certain whence it came. Bradecote sent Catchpoll to the cloisters, and himself headed in the direction of the abbot’s lodging and walled garden. The garden door was ajar, and a sixth sense made Bradecote’s hackles rise, and his hand go to his sword hilt. He opened the door as cautiously as had Sister Ursula in her chamber only a few moments before. The first thing he saw in the narrow greensward that made the passage between lodging and garden wall was the large and crumpled figure of Ulf the Tongueless, who was making vague moaning noises. Bradecote advanced stealthily. At the rear of the lodging, the garden opened out in a pleasant arrangement of rose and lavender borders and green paths, where Abbot William could commune with his Maker amidst the wonders of nature and in grateful seclusion. Bradecote halted, feeling suddenly rather sick.
The sacrist of Romsey was on her knees beside a crumpled body. Bradecote approached, breathing unnaturally hard and moistening dry lips. The nun appeared not to notice him, even when he drew close enough to see who lay there.
‘Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,’ she murmured, rocking slightly, her amber cross gripped tightly in her left hand and held before her face.
Bradecote’s feeling of nausea increased. Lady Courtney lay on her back upon the wet grass, her mouth open, her eyes staring up at him, starting from their sockets. They were no longer vague and watery; they were hard, and full of reproach. The poor woman had been strangled, and he realised with horror that his own complaisance had been instrumental in her death. If he had acted earlier, if he had acted last night, she would not now be lying dead at his feet.
He knelt down and put his hand to the dead woman’s cheek; it was as warm as if she still lived.
‘It is my fault, all my fault …’ Sister Edeva caught her breath. ‘It was I who …’
She was going to confess, confess at this moment to him, and although he knew beyond all doubt that she was guilty, yet he still wanted above all things for it not to be her. Sacrist of Romsey though she was, she would pay the penalty for murder. The Church would cast her out to the secular authorities and she would burn, not hang as a man. Bradecote had seen such a death, long ago. He could not face being the agent of that fate. Let her confess to Catchpoll, not to him. He had to silence her, and, reacting purely on impulse, he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and pulled her towards him. She let go of the cross in surprise. His mouth covered hers. She did not struggle, in fact he felt her warm and responsive, though perhaps for barely more than a heartbeat before she became entirely impassive, withdrawn within herself.
They stayed thus for a few moments, which seemed to Bradecote an eternity. Then a tremor ran though her. Realisation of what he had done hit him, and he drew back as sharply as if she had slapped him across the face.
She was still within his hold, her eyes not flashing anger as he expected, but full of an immense sorrow that added to their depth.
‘I am sorry … I didn’t mean …’ Bradecote floundered. How could he excuse what he had done? Whatever else, she was a Benedictine nun, and he had kissed her. It was an appalling sin, even had he not been a married man. It was sacrilege. He was horrified and ashamed.
‘It matters not, my lord. It was not intended. It just happened.’ Her voice was suddenly flat and dead, as if her thoughts were elsewhere.
He tried to muster his own, for they were tangled.
‘My lord?’ It was Catchpoll’s voice, urgent and questioning. Bradecote let go of the nun’s shoulders. He wondered how much Catchpoll had seen.
‘Lady Courtney is dead, Catchpoll, though the murder took place but a short while ago.’ Bradecote stood up, hoping his face did not betray him, but the serjeant’s gaze was fixed upon the face of the victim.
After a moment, Catchpoll looked from the corpse to Sister Edeva.
‘Very upsetting for you, Sister, I’m sure, to find the body.’ His voice was matter of fact.
She frowned at him, bringing her thoughts back to reality. ‘I blame myself, Serjeant, for her death.’ Sister Edeva kept her eyes on Catchpoll, and avoided glancing at Bradecote, who had himself under control again. He could not have put this off. It was utter madness to have tried. He attempted to listen, unemotionally, to what she now said.
‘She had clearly remembered something important this morning, and would have spoken before all of us. But I bade her keep her own counsel and come straight to you.’ She now transferred her gaze to Bradecote. ‘If she had spoken, everyone would have known, and there would have been no need for the murderer to silence her.’
A wave of relief spread over the acting undersheriff, but it passed swiftly. What she said was true, but it could still be the nun who had done the silencing, if she was as cool and determined a dame as he imagined her. Had she even engineered the moment of his weakness?
‘Could you tell us exactly what happened, Sister, in case that gives us a clue?’ Catchpoll was focused on fact, not prey to Bradecote’s wild imaginings or rampant guilt.
‘Let me see.’ She closed her eyes, and pursed her lips in concentration. She spoke without opening her eyes. ‘Breaking of fast was nearly over in the guest hall. Lady d’Achelie was saying that she regretted not wearing a warmer gown, with the break in the weather making such a contrast in the early morning. Lady Courtney began to agree, and said that for her part, she always wore a warm cloak for church, where the summer warmth does not reach through the thick walls. Then suddenly she halted and said “Oh! But …” Her eyes grew very wide, and I thought she was about to say something important.’
Sister Edeva opened her eyes and looked to Bradecote, instinctively reaching out a hand towards him, but then pulling back. ‘You said, my lord, that any information was to be given only to you or your serjeant here. I reminded her of that, and told her to seek you out after eating if she had thought of something. If I had said nothing, the others might have thought her mind was just wandering as it often did, or she would have told everyone. Either way, she would not have put herself into danger. This is my fault, all my fault.’ She bit her lip.
Bradecote said nothing, but shook his head.
‘Did you see her come this way?’ Catchpoll was like a hound on the scent, disregarding her actions and his superior, and concentrating on the problem.
‘No, for Father Abbot saw me as I was leaving the guest hall and detained me, wanting to be sure that the reliquary we brought with us had a good lining, and suggesting we pad it out for the journey home with wool. He even suggested Mistress Weaver might provide a small amount from the wool clip she is taking back to Winchester. So I did not see where everyone went, and then came to the garden simply to be alone with my thoughts. I did not expect to see anyone here, least of all the lady Courtney, for if she was seeking you out, why should she have imagined you would be here and not in the abbot’s parlour? As soon as I saw her man lying upon the ground I feared …’ The nun halted.
It was a perfectly sensible answer, and also appeared to be an excellent excuse, unless she had killed the woman only moments before raising the alarm, and if she had, then she had also laid out the massive ox that was Ulf. How? With what?
‘Yes. Of course. I wonder why she came here?’ Hugh Bradecote was thinking rapidly, and spoke almost to himself. An almost revolutionary thought was sinking into his brain. Sister Edeva really was innocent. He had become so convinced that she must be the killer, and that they only required evidence to confront her, that her own evidence had been cast aside. But if she was an honest witness, then everything else took on a new perspective, and the real murderer became clear.
He was about to ask Serjeant Catchpoll to escort the nun back to the guest hall, but caught sight of two brothers dithering by the garden archway, unwilling to enter but curious enough not to pass by. Bradecote called them into the garden. Both skirted the groaning Ulf, glanced briefly at the body, crossed themselves and took great care not to look again. The bulging eyes and livid marks upon the throat were not for the squeamish. He sent one to fetch prior or abbot, and instructed the other to escort Sister Edeva to her chamber. A command was certainly required, because the monk’s eyes rolled in horrified surprise, as if he were being asked to escort a dangerous beast. Typical, thought Bradecote, that it should be one of those religious who were fearful of women. The man waved his arm in a general way, determinedly avoiding contact of body or eye. In more normal circumstances Sister Edeva would, thought Bradecote, have been amused, but she now departed with a frowning, pale countenance, although whether that was entirely because of the corpse at his feet, he could not judge.
The acting undersheriff let out a deep breath, and Catchpoll pulled a wry face. He was studying the face of Emma Courtney, and crouched down to draw the lids over the staring eyes.
‘A pity.’ He shook his head. ‘The sister was quite right. If only she had come direct to us, we could have saved her from this. There could be no reason why she would think we would be here, unless …’ His face, so capable of immobility and absence of expression before witness or suspect, was moving again, as he set his mind to the problem. He studied the ground in the vicinity of the body, and then nodded.
‘Well, there’s our answer, of course.’
‘Which is?’ Bradecote’s voice was weary. He knew he was being shown up, but no longer cared.
‘She was not strangled right here, for there is no sign of struggle. Even a weak woman like that would have struggled and there would be footmarks in the dewy grass. She was laid here, but was murdered elsewhere.’
‘I can’t see that it would have been in her chamber, otherwise the corpse would have to be carried, or dragged, in open view and there is Ulf to consider.’
‘It was carried, my lord. And I would expect she was grabbed and pulled into the garden swiftly, quicker than her “mastiff” could react, and as soon as he did so he was felled. She would be easy to silence. Let’s see.’
Catchpoll retraced his steps towards the side of the abbot’s lodging, which was a blank wall. Bradecote followed dumbly.
‘Yes, here we are. Definite scuffing marks in the ground here.’ Two paces from Ulf the ground was disturbed. He sighed. ‘It means we know now who did it, of course.’
‘But she didn’t do it.’ Bradecote could not help the urgency in his voice.
‘She, my lord?’ Catchpoll gazed at his superior in amazement. ‘Of course she didn’t. For a start how would she have dropped that ox?’ He pointed at Ulf. ‘I never thought your Romsey Sister was a likely killer …’
‘She’s not “my” sister at all, Serjeant, as I told you before,’ interjected Bradecote.
‘And,’ Catchpoll continued, ignoring the comment, ‘discounted her entirely when the apprentice was done away with. All that you said this morning, well you know it didn’t sit well with me, but I couldn’t counter it. I couldn’t give you a real alternative. But now, of course …’ He sighed, and then rose, slapping his knees in an action of decision.
‘Right then, we had best be swift, my lord.’
Bradecote felt as if his brain belonged to someone else whom he was watching from a distance, but this brought him back to reality with a lurch.
‘De Grismont must have realised we have found the body by now. I’ll go to his chamber, you go to the stables, Catchpoll, and pray he hasn’t bolted, because that horse of his would outstrip mine in a race six days out of seven.’
Bradecote was about to set off at a run, but suddenly thought of the body lying in the grass. ‘But what about her?’ He jerked his head towards Emma Courtney.
Catchpoll was already running, and didn’t bother to stop, or even turn his head. ‘The dead don’t run away.’
As they crossed towards the guest buildings a great roar of distress was heard behind them. Ulf had come to his senses.
De Grismont’s chamber was empty, though a cap was lying forlorn and abandoned on the floor, and there were signs of swift departure. Bradecote swore and turned on his heel. As he emerged from the guest hall there came the sound of a commotion from the direction of the stables, and a big bay horse slewed round the corner, wild-eyed and gathering speed as spur jabbed hard into flank. Bradecote lunged in a futile gesture to grab at the bridle, and went sprawling in the dirt.
He looked up and towards the gatehouse. A donkey pulling a small cart was coming in, and the gate, so often shut, was open wide.
‘Bar the gate,’ he yelled, as he picked himself up. ‘Bar the gate!’
Brother Porter had been exchanging a friendly greeting with the carter and stood transfixed for a moment, mouth open. Then he roused himself to push the nearest door so that the entrance was completely filled by the donkey cart. The bay stallion was pulled up sharply, wheeling round at the insistence of the bit, and de Grismont vaulted from the saddle. If he could not escape mounted, he had no intention of being pulled down from his horse. He turned to assess his opposition. Bradecote was up now, and running to apprehend him. He was confident he could take Bradecote, but there was not only him to consider. Two men-at-arms had emerged from the direction of the stables, followed by the grim serjeant, who was holding his head and swaying a little. Jesu, the man must have a thick skull. He had had to leap aside to avoid being run down, and as he had made a grab for the mounted man, de Grismont had caught him in the head with a purposeful kick from his boot, which felled him instantly. The bulk of Ulf appeared from the garden, still bellowing, and assorted Benedictines had succumbed to the sin of secular curiosity. De Grismont thought fast.
Neither religious nor peasant had moved; the carter was standing by his cart in vacuous bewilderment. The fugitive took two long strides and made a grab for the gatekeeper. The monk was surprisingly strong for a man of his short stature, although he was hampered by his habit, but de Grismont, drawing his dagger, had no difficulty in grappling him so that he made an effective shield.
The monk noticed, out of the corner of his eye, and in a peculiarly detached way, that the dagger whose point was pricking his throbbing jugular was not a nobleman’s pretty decoration, but rather a most serviceable weapon that had clearly seen good use. It was not heartening, and the little Benedictine attempted to ready himself to meet his Maker as calmly as circumstance permitted. It proved remarkably difficult to compose oneself to humble prayer and acceptance, the current world proving more immediately attractive than the world to come.
‘Stand back, all of you!’ De Grismont’s voice was clear, calm, and commanding. ‘Or more blood will be spilt on this very pious ground.’
Catchpoll, although dizzy, managed to grab Ulf’s arm, and, ducking a swinging blow, twisted the arm up his back.
De Grismont edged towards the blocked gateway, where the carter had at long last recognised the danger of his predicament, crawled under his cart, and beat a hasty retreat out into the road. His donkey, which was scrawny and moth-eaten in appearance, was of a particularly irritable and malevolent disposition. When de Grismont and his unwilling companion drew close, the donkey rolled a wild eye and brayed. Ignoring this warning signal, de Grismont reached out to yank on the animal’s bridle, and the donkey promptly tried to bite him. The yellowing teeth only just caught his arm, but the unexpected attack caught him off guard, and Brother Porter, seizing this Heaven-sent opportunity, broke free and nipped smartly back into the gatehouse and barred the door. He then went on his knees and gave thanks, focusing on the fact that his Saviour had ridden upon a donkey, and that the humble beast had been placed there at Heaven’s will.
De Grismont cried out in surprise and anger, and Bradecote took advantage of the distraction to close with him, drawing his sword with a scrape of steel.
‘The only blood which will flow will be yours, if you do not yield, de Grismont.’ There was a cold anger in his tone. This man, whom he still, in part, liked, had killed three people, and if he would be hard pressed to say he would like to see him hang for the clerk, he would have justice for the lad and lady Courtney.
De Grismont smiled, more lupine than ever. He felt his chances against the less experienced Bradecote were good, for he had never heard that the younger man had fought in a pitched battle as he had at Lincoln, or taken on a warrior of his own calibre.
Neither man had considered Ulf, who pulled away from Catchpoll so hard it must have nearly dislocated his shoulder, and blundered rather than ran at his mistress’s killer. If de Grismont did nothing he would be run down. The lord blinked once in surprise, but that look was replaced by one that was dismissive. He still held his knife, and when Ulf was within five paces he threw it with all his force, and then drew his sword. The blade caught Ulf in the throat and he fell as if poleaxed, gurgling.
De Grismont did not even bother to look at him, but focused upon Bradecote. The pair circled each other warily, for they were not dressed for combat, and any stroke that made firm contact could cause irrecoverable harm. The only advantage that Bradecote possessed, and it was a small one, was that he wore a stiff leather jerkin, skirted almost to his knees, which might soften the impact of any deflected, glancing blow.
The courtyard was filling with a rapt audience. The novice sent running to the abbot was sped on his way less by dutiful obedience than a desire not to miss the excitement. The guests had emerged from the guest hall now, fired by the rumour that lady Courtney was dead. Miles FitzHugh stood frowning, arms folded, proclaiming to any that might attend him how he had come swiftly to the conclusion that de Grismont must have been the perpetrator because no woman would have been capable of such crimes. Mistress Weaver spared him one glance indicative of the fact that she, for one, would be happy to show him how capable a woman could be if goaded, and then ignored him. Isabelle d’Achelie was leaning against the guest house wall, shaking, and with her delicate hands spread over her face. She was prey to both the fervent wish that nothing might happen to Waleran de Grismont, and the sickening realisation that she had been about to wed a man calculating enough to murder not only an evil spy and truth-twister, which she could understand, but a youth and a helpless lady.
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 undersheriff’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 undersheriff.
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.