Free The Lord Bishop's Clerk by Sarah Hawkswood Page A

wound. I would hazard a guess that he was here,’ he edged a little closer to the altar, ‘and fell forwards when the blow was struck.’
    ‘How do you work that out?’ Bradecote was intrigued.
    ‘The altar cloth is slightly askew. The religious like everything just so, and would not have left it like this. I reckon our man fell forward, and though such a blow would be fatal almost instantly, his arm stretched out as if to prevent the fall, without him thinking. He just clutched at the cloth, but was no longer conscious to grasp it proper.’
    Bradecote was genuinely impressed at the serjeant’s powers of observation. He could not conceal his admiration for such deduction, and remarked as such.
    Catchpoll gave an indulgent smile, which effectively doused the small spark of amity which had been kindled between them. Without so much as a word, the serjeant had asserted his place as the professional, forced by circumstance into partnership with an amateur. ‘You can play at this as long as you like,’ said the look, ‘but just you let me get on with the real work.’
    Bradecote tried to appear as though this had been lost upon him, but he knew Catchpoll was not fooled. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, suddenly weary beyond belief.
    ‘We’ll achieve no more tonight. Make sure that a man-at-arms is left on watch at the entrance to the guest hall. We don’t want any sleep-walkers.’
    ‘Indeed so, my lord. I’ll set three of ’em to watch, the first up until Lauds. No one will get past.’
    ‘Good. I am for my bed. We will begin again after Prime. Goodnight, Serjeant Catchpoll.’
    ‘Goodnight, my lord.’
    Bradecote strode off, determined not to let his shoulders droop with fatigue, though he had been up since the dewy summer dawn, and his stomach was reminding him, with unpleasant pangs, that he had not eaten since they had set off in the morning. Outside the church it still seemed warm, although the sun was very low and would soon be no more than a smudged, pink memory along the western horizon. The air was heavy with summer smells, and bats sped and dived and soared between the buildings, emitting barely audible squeaks. It was a time of day that Bradecote liked, though he was too tired and bruise-stiff tonight to appreciate it properly.
    He was thinking of his bed and heading for the guest hall, but suddenly bethought himself of the abbot, who would desire to know what had been achieved thus far. ‘Keep ’em sweet,’ the lord sheriff had said. Heaving a sigh, he altered his course and went first to the abbot’s lodgings, and only when over the threshold wondered if the Benedictine had sought his bed, with the night offices only a few hours distant. Fortunately, Abbot William was too overset to seek his couch, and Bradecote found him sitting in doleful silence. Their conversation was brief and largely one-sided. The abbot nodded frequently, but was only half attending. In the course of his briefing, Bradecote remembered to ask the murdered clerk’s name. The sheriff’s officer left after a short while, feeling his duty done.
    He passed at last into the guest hall with a nod on the way to the man-at-arms by the stables beyond, who made every effort to look alert, and not as if he had been leaning sleepily against the wall. Once his eyes had adjusted, Bradecote sought out his bed without recourse to a rush-light. Ablutions could wait for the morning.

O ne
    Despite the weariness of his body, and perhaps because of its aching complaints, Hugh Bradecote awoke early, and lay for some time, gazing without seeing at the roof beams in the cobwebbed gloom above him. He was reviewing everything that had happened since his arrival, which seemed so much longer ago than only the previous evening. He had arrived simply a manorial lord giving service to his overlord, and now suddenly found himself an under-sheriff. That, however temporarily, made him an officer of the crown as well as de Beauchamp. The sheriff had selected