The men set their horses down the slope towards the gate. At the gatehouse, Simon sent Hugh to knock.
By the side of the door was a large metal ring, and Hugh pulled at it, ringing a bell. Soon a small door opened behind an iron grille, and an eye peered out at them, an eye which widened noticeably with surprise as it took in the retinue.
‘The Bishop of Exeter’s Visitor is here to speak with the prioress,’ Baldwin called.
There was a squeak as the door shut, then the squeal of unoiled metal bolts protesting at being forced open, the rumble of a wooden bar being slid back into its socket in the wall, and before long the great gate was hauled wide by an anxious, older cleric. Other canons stood gaping at the sight of Bertrand and his guards riding through. While the visitor sat rigidly in his saddle and stared straight ahead of him, Baldwin found himself looking at the faces of the working men.
A priory like this did not only contain nuns. There were canons, men who served the church and ran the daily services, for nuns couldn’t perform religious services. Moreover a place such as this was forced to rely on a large number of unconsecrated folk; the men and women who had taken the vows and wore the robes of the Order, but whose service was not spiritual but manual. In place of their prayers, perhaps because of their feeble wits or poor education, they gave their physical efforts.
The lay sisters who lived in the nuns’ cloister saw to the laundry and the brewing; they tended the vegetables and herbs in the little garden, and plied their needles to ensure that all had clothes to wear. Meanwhile, lay brothers tended the flocks and cattle and made good the ravages of nature, seeing to the buildings, repairing roofs and windows, painting walls and woodwork, and generally making the place look as though it was cared for.
Although from the look of this place, they had failed, Baldwin reckoned.
Paint peeled; roofs were breached and leaking; weeds had cracked pathways, pushing aside stones and pebbles; cob and plaster walls had disintegrated, and were stained with the damp that had seeped beneath; fences designed to retain pigs had failed and the occupants of sties had wandered into the fields; hives lay ruined where the wind had tossed them. Near the orchard Baldwin saw a shed. It lay fallen upon the ground, its roof slates lying about it in a mess almost like a pool of grey blood. Everywhere was disrepair and dilapidation.
It wasn’t so bad – or at least, it wasn’t so noticeable – from the gate itself, but as they rode to the stables Baldwin could see even the scruffier of Bertrand’s guards gazing about them with near disbelief.
‘You see how they have let the place fall apart?’ Bertrand demanded. He waved a hand as they stopped in the stableyard. The dung was an inch deep all over. ‘Look at this! It’s even worse than when I was last here. Then at least some of the manure was shovelled away.’
This really was an outrage. He had mentioned it to the prioress when he was here before, but she had ignored his commands. How the woman expected her nuns to study and serve God in this midden was a wonder!
Muttering a short, ‘Benedicite!’ in his anger and annoyance, he hitched up his robe and dropped to the ground, then froze in horrified revulsion as his legs and robe were beslubbered with faeces. He pursed his lips angrily and threw down his robe’s hem before stamping off towards the main buildings, leaving his men to collect together his trunks.
His hand had been stained and he rubbed it against his now-filthy clothing as he marched. It really was quite intolerable! The stupid bitch in charge here could at least have shown willing. But oh no, actually exercising herself to make the convent look like a real place of worship would be too much for her. Or, rather, she knew damn well there was little chance that a visitor would be here again for a while, and assumed that she’d be able to get the place organised beforehand. Not looking where he was going, he stepped in a large cowpat and the muck spattered over his tunic, forcing him to suck in his breath to hold back the profanity that struggled for release.
That obnoxious woman would suffer for this! he promised himself. She was making Bertrand look foolish in front of his master, the Bishop of Exeter, by ignoring his strict injunction to smarten up the place. He wouldn’t let her get away with it, though. Oh no, he swore to himself, scowling up at the walls of the nuns’ cloister.
He most certainly would not allow her to get away with it.
The room Hugh was taken to was large, with good-sized beds set against the wall. He grunted as he dropped the heavy bags to the floor. As well as beds there were two chairs, a bench, a table, and a chest.
When he opened the shutter of the unglazed window, he saw a bleak view south, with endless rolling hills, their summits whitened with frost, and threatening clouds overhead. He slammed the shutter closed and surveyed the room. It was warm enough, for there was a good fire in the room beneath, and the thick tapestries on the walls stopped the worst of the draughts while the large candles gave the feeling of heat and a false impression of comfort.
Hugh picked up a bag and set it on the bed, untying the neck and inspecting the contents, but he dropped onto the bed without removing any of the clothes, staring instead at the far wall.
Since he’d worked for Simon he’d been happy enough, it was true, but now he felt only gloom. The girl upon whom he doted, Simon and Meg’s daughter Edith, was growing older and didn’t want to spend her spare time with Hugh any more. He tried not to grudge her the freedom to mix with youngsters of her own age, for she was fourteen now, and old enough to be wedded. It was natural that a young woman like her should seek friends of her own age, and yet to Hugh she was still a child and he found deeply hurtful her sudden – seemingly disloyal – desire to mingle with others.
It wasn’t only her, though, and he knew in his heart that it was unfair of him to put the blame for his depression on Edith. His melancholy was caused by something deeper: this new sense of loneliness.
He was not sure how old he was. When he had been born such things weren’t important – not like keeping track of the sow’s age or the cow’s. Hugh felt empty, as though his life was drifting past idly. All his energies were spent in looking after his master and the family, and in the meantime he never had a chance to seek his own woman. His life was being used up in serving another, and soon he would be dead, leaving nothing behind save Simon’s gratitude.
Never before had Hugh been so overwhelmed with non-fulfilment. It was as if he knew he was worth something, but had never achieved his value.
He sighed, stood, and began to unpack the bag. It was rare for him to feel so strong a melancholy. He resolved to seek a pot or two of ale when he was done up here.
Sir Baldwin and Simon walked with the enraged suffragan to meet the prioress.
Simon had a compulsion to laugh out loud at Bertrand’s expression, in which frustration vied with pure fury. It was plain that Bertrand had realised his relative impotence in the face of the prioress’s disregard of his instructions. The bishop was controlling his temper only with extreme difficulty; his anger was so apparent Simon thought Bertrand would have been incandescent if it had been dark.
The reason for his mood was obvious. Their path led them past the nuns’ cloister to the southern side of the buildings. Here, at the canon’s side, they entered an unguarded doorway. Even here, within the monastic clearing, Simon was struck by how shabby and filthy the place was. The buildings were in a bad state, but the problems lay deeper than that. As they passed the square of grass in the middle of the canonical cloister, he saw that a dog had been there: excrement lay on the grass. At one point Simon clearly smelt vomit, as if a monk had drunk too much and thrown up on the grass.
There came the sound of running feet, and when Simon glanced behind them, he saw the canon from the gate running to catch up with them, a younger one trailing in his wake. The cleric called out in a voice near breaking from his exertion: ‘My Lord Bishop, my Lady Elizabeth will be so pleased that you are here. Let me go and tell her . . .’
Simon saw the bishop stop dead in his tracks
and turn slowly.
‘Pleased, Jonathan?’ Bertrand hissed. ‘I am surprised you could think my return would be in any way pleasurable. When I see that none of my commands have been obeyed, I find it hard to anticipate any damned pleasure!’
Whatever his words, Jonathan himself didn’t look joyful at the reunion. He was a scrawny man, perhaps fifty years old, although Simon always found it hard to guess the age of men who wore the tonsure. Anxious eyes flitted over Simon and Baldwin, as if Jonathan was trying to assess the reason for their presence.
‘Bishop, I know the circumstances of your return . . .’
‘You mean the death of this novice?’
‘It was merely an accident, Bishop.’
‘Perhaps, but nothing would surprise me here: this priory is a pit of lust and degeneration – just look at this!’ He held up his tunic, showing the cow’s mess. The smell was noticeable and he winced, then shook with rage. ‘Just look at it! I ordered that the courtyard should be cleaned and I find it worse than when I left; I ordered that the cloisters should be kept tidy and there’s dog shit all over the place! What is there in the church?’ he demanded, quivering with emotion. ‘The cloisters are no better than a stable – I suppose you’ve got the oxen stored in there! Just look at the state of the buildings! Has anything been done to repair them as I told you? Eh?’
‘My Lord, I—’
‘No! I will not listen. Tell Prioress Elizabeth I will see her whether it is convenient or not. Go!’
Going to the rear of the church Denise fetched rags and beeswax from her aumbry, the chest where she stored all her cleaning things. She began polishing the woodwork.
Her arms had ached awfully when she had first taken on this duty, but now she found the hard effort rewarding. It was tiring, but required little thought, and she found her mind ranging over all the priory’s troubles while she rubbed, burping every so often from the wine she had drunk.
Denise wasn’t happy. At forty-three she was one of the senior nuns; not that she ever got the respect she deserved. She knew she would not have a chance of competing for the prioressy. Not enough potential supporters. Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the machinations an election would entail.
The place seemed to be falling apart around her. The discipline that a nun should have shown, the dedication, was missing with these new girls. They seemed to look upon their life as some sort of holiday. Denise blamed the prioress: she hadn’t instilled the right level of reverence. She didn’t seem to care about the observances – letting nuns sleep through and even bringing her dog into church.
That was the great difference between Margherita and Lady Elizabeth. The former was sincere, upstanding, and would bring solemnity to the place. Even to those dratted novices.
Novices! Huh! If Denise could have had her way, she’d have thrown most of them out. They were no good to man nor beast. Dishonest, unchaste, and sly. Nasty little girls, all of them. Katerine, Agnes – and Moll.
‘Poor Moll!’ Denise sneered.
The slut had deserved her end. She was no better than the prioress, all outward piety and strict devotion, while inside she was a dirty little hussy. That was what Margherita had told her anyway, and Denise had no reason to doubt her. Not after Denise’s own experience: the girl had dared to accuse her of being drunk – not only that, Moll had suggested that Denise should confess to her drinking in the chapter. As if a brat like her had any right to browbeat an older nun! If Denise had dared, she’d have demanded to have Moll beaten, but that would have meant repeating what Moll had said. And Denise couldn’t do that.
She spat on a recalcitrant mark and rubbed harder, her lips a thin white line. They were all so shallow: laughing and murmuring behind her back, just because she liked her wine.
Perhaps Moll’s death would teach them a lesson.
Unknown to Bertrand, not that he would have cared, his voice carried clearly in the chilly air. In the canonical frater the men stared at each other, shocked to hear such rage; the grooms and stablemen near the cloisters stopped their work and gazed towards the church; in the nuns’ cloister the sisters exchanged horrified glances; up in the dormitory, the prioress recognised Bertrand’s bellow and gave a cold smile.
Taking a deep breath she closed her eyes. Bertrand’s voice signalled that the attack upon her was about to start. His roar was like the first shot fired by a siege engine, loud and terrifying. It demonstrated that there could be no quiet negotiation, no subtle solution to protect her. Bertrand was like the King’s own artillery; ponderous and slow, but once pointed in the direction of a target, he was as resolute as a machine. And here at the nunnery, Elizabeth was confident that her treasurer Margherita would enthusiastically load him with ever heavier boulders for his assault.
She looked down at her papers and winced. Even that boorish fool Bertrand in a fighting mood was preferable to more paperwork. She stood slowly, an elderly woman with a back that ached from long hours on uncomfortable wooden chairs, but as she straightened she was already planning. The death of the novice had led directly to this confrontation, and Lady Elizabeth was determined to win it. She intended keeping her post.
The visitor was here to seek an answer to Moll’s death, but he would also be sure to want to place himself in the best possible light: this was an opportunity to enhance his own status.
Lady Elizabeth was old, and people sometimes mistakenly saw in her sagging jowls and slightly weak blue eyes the proofs of feminine frailty. This very Bertrand had assumed her to be an irrational woman, a broken reed – harmless, perhaps, but vulnerable. He had thought her a titular head, someone without real power.
Yet that was to underestimate her. ‘So he wishes me removed, thinking to accuse me of murder,’ she hissed.
It was Rose from the tavern, sitting on a bench at her window, who had helped her come to that conclusion. From Bertrand’s conversation in the tavern Lady Elizabeth was to be made a scapegoat and forced to resign. Her treasurer was behind it. Well, Lady Elizabeth was not of a mood to resign. It would take a stronger man than this French idiot to remove her.
‘He will not say that I am accused of murder,’ she stated, peering through the dirty panes of glass to the moors.
‘No. He said that they were all to keep quiet about the treasurer’s letter.’
‘Well, I am warned,’ Elizabeth said thoughtfully.
Rose was silent, watching her at the window. The prioress stood frowning out shortsightedly, her hands clasped before her breast, but then she whirled around and faced the girl.
‘You are sure, Rose – quite sure – that he said he had received a letter saying that I was the girl’s murderer, and that this letter came from Margherita?’
‘Yes, I heard him talking to the black-bearded man, saying that the letter was why they had all had to come here in such a hurry.’
There was a gust of wind, and the papers on the table moved as the window rattled. From the far end of the dorter there came a crash as a tile fell from the roof. Elizabeth winced and turned her eyes heavenwards. ‘Merciful Father!’
Hearing the footsteps rushing up the stairs, she waved a hand absently, seeing Rose make ready to flee. ‘It’s not the bishop, child. Stay there.’
Before Jonathan could pound on her door, Elizabeth herself opened it. ‘Come inside, Jonathan.’
The pale cleric glanced at Rose. ‘I have come from Bishop Bertrand, my Lady, and he demands that you attend him instantly.’
‘How very rude of him,’ Elizabeth said primly. ‘You will tell him that I shall be pleased to see him after Vespers, but that until then I fear I have much to occupy me.’
Jonathan gaped. ‘My Lady, but he said—’
‘You will point out to him that a prioress has other calls upon her time, and that although I have a duty to hospitality and will be happy to lodge him and his men within the precincts of the church, I still have other responsibilities to attend to.’
‘Don’t you think you should agree to se
e him soon?’ The ageing cleric stared from her to the door as if expecting the bishop to appear at any moment. ‘He might think it strange that you don’t go to him to talk about the dead novice.’
‘Moll is dead. Talking to him now or after Vespers will make no difference to her. In any case, I doubt not that he will be more than delighted to wander around the place and talk to the other nuns. They will feed him with rumour and allegations to their hearts’ content. I have other work to do. Go along now, and tell him.’
As soon as Jonathan had disappeared, this time walking dolefully in the anticipation of more furious shouting, Lady Elizabeth turned to face Rose. ‘Very well! The die is cast, and this silly man will do his worst.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Me? Oh, I shall allow him all the time he needs to investigate poor Moll’s death, and then I shall speak to him. When I am ready.’
Chapter Seven
Agnes hurried along the corridor and turned into the frater. Denise was in there, sitting at a bench, blearily staring at a jug, and so was Katerine, over near the far door which gave out to the yard behind.
‘Katerine?’ Agnes hissed. ‘Have you heard who’s here?’
Katerine turned to her a face from which all emotion had gone. ‘Who?’ she asked flatly.
‘The visitor. He’s back to investigate Moll’s death.’
Katerine studied her for a moment or two, absorbing this news. ‘Then you should be careful, shouldn’t you, Agnes? After all, Moll was happy enough to spread those stories about you.’
‘Me? What are you on about?’ Agnes asked, the smile fading.
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘You’re jealous, aren’t you?’ Agnes couldn’t stop a grin of delight from spreading over her features.
‘Who, me? No, I was merely wondering what the prioress could say . . .’
‘Don’t even think it,’ Agnes smiled, but there was steel in her eyes. ‘If Luke and me get found out, I’ll explain how he services all of us. What is it? Do you want Luke back?’
Belladonna at Belstone (9781471126345) Page 9
