Read Online The Lord Bishop's Clerk by Sarah Hawkswood - Free Book Online

was undoubtedly a feast for any man’s eye. Her own dwelt longest on the tall form of Waleran de Grismont, lord of Defford. Bradecote knew enough of his reputation to know that the lady would do well to be wary of him. De Grismont did not return her interest, although Hugh had absolutely no doubt he was aware of it. Instead, he stood thoughtfully, black brows knit, as though he could not work out what lay before the altar or find any reason for its presence.
    Isabelle d’Achelie watched de Grismont appreciatively and with a thrilling sense of illicit possessiveness. He was tall and dark, almost swarthy, with a mane of near black hair. His features were strong, with a wide mouth, aquiline nose and deep-set, storm-grey eyes beneath heavy black brows. There was a dangerous, lupine quality to the man, which had always attracted rather than repulsed her. After years wedded to Hamo, who had been very reliable, moderately kind and remarkably sickly, Isabelle found the idea of taming a wolf irresistible. Watching him made her throat tighten so much she could barely make the responses.
    Standing behind the high-born widow, for Bradecote assumed from her garb that that was her state, was the third lady who had been present in the cloister. She was partially concealed by the widow, but he could see enough to distinguish a woman who at least showed no shocked pallor at the event. Remarkably calm, thought the sheriff’s new man, but that could easily be put down to her being the practical and phlegmatic type.
    Mistress Weaver was indeed of such a disposition and sniffed disdainfully at what she took to be a display of aristocratic sensibilities when Isabelle d’Achelie kept her eyes from the body. A murder in such a place was a shock, but death was part of life, as the priest where she worshipped in Winchester so often reminded his flock. This particular death was certainly no loss to the world, though it would undoubtedly be so to the lord Bishop of Winchester himself. Margery Weaver concealed the pleasure at that thought behind her attitude of prayer.
    The fair youth standing next to de Grismont was trying, none too successfully, to look worldly-wise. His chin was unshaven, but sprouted nothing that resembled a beard. He stared boldly before him, head held high, announcing to the world as clearly as if he had shouted it, that he was unmoved by the sight of a murdered man in the church. Unfortunately for him, with the exception of Bradecote, the other members of the congregation took no notice of him at all, and the acting under-sheriff could barely repress a smile.
    At the conclusion of the office the silent congregation trooped out the way they had entered, with the enclave’s inhabitants moving into the soft evening light of the cloister, now casting long distorting shadows on its eastern wall. Bradecote and Catchpoll brought up the rear. The song of a blackbird, an everyday, innocent sound, sweetened the air, but was cut short by Bradecote’s voice, raised so that all might hear him.
    ‘None shall leave the enclave until the murderer has been taken. The clerk to the lord Bishop of Winchester lies dead, and be assured I mean to find out by whose hand. I will wish to speak to you all, individually, in the morning.’
    A murmur of dissent rose, as he had expected, from his listeners. People had business to be done, the king’s grace to supplicate. Above this there came the sound of hysterical giggling.
    Catchpoll and Bradecote exchanged surprised glances. A reaction was to have been expected from the auditors, but they had looked to hear only complaint at such restraint put upon them. They gazed, stupefied, at the source of the laughter. It was the nervous lady with the pale face and fidgety hands. She was twisting them now in her cloak, but was definitely smiling.
    ‘What is it that you find humorous, lady?’ asked Bradecote severely, his dark brows drawn into a frown.
    ‘“By whose hand”, you said.’ Her voice was