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Authors: Sarah Hawkswood
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brittle and unnaturally high. ‘By none here, my lord. That evil little man was taken by the hand of God.’
There was a stunned, almost embarrassed, silence. The giggling became laughter, jarring, ragged and humourless. Some looked away, not wishing to be connected with what might seem a blasphemous statement. The abbot stood agape, like a landed fish, his mouth working silently as he tried to conjure up a reply. Nothing came. After a few moments of awkward silence, broken only by the unlikely laugh, the elder of the nuns went to the lady’s side, and took her arm, firmly but gently. She spoke to her barely above a whisper, but with obvious authority. The unnatural noise ceased with a whimper, and the nun, summoning the other sister with a small movement of her head, began to lead the lady to the guest quarters. The retainer followed in their wake. She made a nodded acknowledgement to the abbot and fixed Bradecote with a cool, almost challenging stare for a moment, as the little party passed him.
Their departure was an unspoken signal for everyone else to disperse. Only lady d’Achelie hung back. She approached the sheriff’s men, hands clasped demurely before her, eyes downcast as chastely as any nun professed, but with a faintly provocative smile on her lips. When she did raise her glance, it was to look Bradecote full in the face. Catchpoll was eyeing her appreciatively.
‘Of course you must do your duty, my lord.’ Her voice was pitched low; artificially so, Bradecote thought, but it was soft and persuasive. ‘But my business is with the king himself, and in such times it would be unwise of me to trail across the kingdom more than is needful. I have heard he means to depart to the north in the next sennight. I have nothing to do with such a deed as this, and,’ her shapely hand fluttered in the direction of the church, indicative of her feminine fragility of body and will, ‘I would ask you to take pity upon my situation.’ She flashed him a stunning smile, which wavered in the face of his inscrutability.
‘I am loth to inconvenience you, my lady, but there will be no exceptions.’
Bradecote thought he detected surprise in her eyes, before she veiled them with their lids. Men rarely refused Isabelle d’Achelie anything. Well, this time was different. She made a small pouting gesture, and shrugged.
‘As you decree, my lord, but I protest it is harsh of you.’
She turned with a swish of her skirts, and walked away with a very conscious grace, knowing male eyes followed every swing of her hips. She would have been less than pleased to know that they belonged to Serjeant Catchpoll, and especially so had she seen the lascivious leer on his face.
‘Mayhap the lady will try and persuade me next time.’ He looked as if he would enjoy the experience.
Bradecote’s face remained expressionless, and his tone unamused. ‘I doubt it, Catchpoll. I doubt it very much indeed.’ There was a pause. ‘Come on then, let us view the body.’
Serjeant Catchpoll grunted, his momentary pleasure disappearing with the lady, replaced with his more usual grim cynicism. It had been a long day, and he was being held from getting back to the comforts of hearth and home. To cap it all, this lord, whom the sheriff had delegated to deal with the killing on a whim, had obviously decided to play law officer and take more than a nominal role in the proceedings. Catchpoll had noted the use of ‘I’ in Bradecote’s announcement to the assembly. He heaved a heavy sigh. The serjeant had only known Bradecote by sight before the venture on Bredon Hill, as one of de Beauchamp’s vassal lords who did his service, and although the last few days had left Catchpoll in no doubt of his ability as a soldier, he was clearly a novice when it came to delving into crime. He might be a man you would feel confident to have beside you in a scrap, for his sword arm was strong, and his actions decisive, but it did not mean he was welcome to
There was a stunned, almost embarrassed, silence. The giggling became laughter, jarring, ragged and humourless. Some looked away, not wishing to be connected with what might seem a blasphemous statement. The abbot stood agape, like a landed fish, his mouth working silently as he tried to conjure up a reply. Nothing came. After a few moments of awkward silence, broken only by the unlikely laugh, the elder of the nuns went to the lady’s side, and took her arm, firmly but gently. She spoke to her barely above a whisper, but with obvious authority. The unnatural noise ceased with a whimper, and the nun, summoning the other sister with a small movement of her head, began to lead the lady to the guest quarters. The retainer followed in their wake. She made a nodded acknowledgement to the abbot and fixed Bradecote with a cool, almost challenging stare for a moment, as the little party passed him.
Their departure was an unspoken signal for everyone else to disperse. Only lady d’Achelie hung back. She approached the sheriff’s men, hands clasped demurely before her, eyes downcast as chastely as any nun professed, but with a faintly provocative smile on her lips. When she did raise her glance, it was to look Bradecote full in the face. Catchpoll was eyeing her appreciatively.
‘Of course you must do your duty, my lord.’ Her voice was pitched low; artificially so, Bradecote thought, but it was soft and persuasive. ‘But my business is with the king himself, and in such times it would be unwise of me to trail across the kingdom more than is needful. I have heard he means to depart to the north in the next sennight. I have nothing to do with such a deed as this, and,’ her shapely hand fluttered in the direction of the church, indicative of her feminine fragility of body and will, ‘I would ask you to take pity upon my situation.’ She flashed him a stunning smile, which wavered in the face of his inscrutability.
‘I am loth to inconvenience you, my lady, but there will be no exceptions.’
Bradecote thought he detected surprise in her eyes, before she veiled them with their lids. Men rarely refused Isabelle d’Achelie anything. Well, this time was different. She made a small pouting gesture, and shrugged.
‘As you decree, my lord, but I protest it is harsh of you.’
She turned with a swish of her skirts, and walked away with a very conscious grace, knowing male eyes followed every swing of her hips. She would have been less than pleased to know that they belonged to Serjeant Catchpoll, and especially so had she seen the lascivious leer on his face.
‘Mayhap the lady will try and persuade me next time.’ He looked as if he would enjoy the experience.
Bradecote’s face remained expressionless, and his tone unamused. ‘I doubt it, Catchpoll. I doubt it very much indeed.’ There was a pause. ‘Come on then, let us view the body.’
Serjeant Catchpoll grunted, his momentary pleasure disappearing with the lady, replaced with his more usual grim cynicism. It had been a long day, and he was being held from getting back to the comforts of hearth and home. To cap it all, this lord, whom the sheriff had delegated to deal with the killing on a whim, had obviously decided to play law officer and take more than a nominal role in the proceedings. Catchpoll had noted the use of ‘I’ in Bradecote’s announcement to the assembly. He heaved a heavy sigh. The serjeant had only known Bradecote by sight before the venture on Bredon Hill, as one of de Beauchamp’s vassal lords who did his service, and although the last few days had left Catchpoll in no doubt of his ability as a soldier, he was clearly a novice when it came to delving into crime. He might be a man you would feel confident to have beside you in a scrap, for his sword arm was strong, and his actions decisive, but it did not mean he was welcome to
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