‘What would I do with him?’ Katerine demanded scathingly. ‘A feeble priest!’
As she stood to leave the room, Agnes barred her way. ‘Not so feeble, Kate. He’s got more stamina than Sir Rodney’s stallion. But if I hear you’ve spread tales about me, I’ll see you regret it. If anyone comes asking me about Luke, I’ll know who has been talking. Understand?’
The older girl curled her lip and pushed her way past to the cloister, while Agnes stared after her thoughtfully. Neither noticed how Denise had absorbed every word.
It was a while after Jonathan’s departure that Bertrand realised he was still holding his robe’s hem, and a whiff of the ordure clinging to it made him hurriedly drop it with a muttered ‘God’s cods!’
It was infuriating. Here he was, supposedly invested with the power and majesty of the Bishop of Exeter, a man whom these foolish churls should fear as their lord here on earth, a representative of the God Whom they served, and yet they ignored him. They thought that out here, far from the conventions of civilised life in Exeter, they might live as they wished.
Bertrand squared his shoulders: the prioress would not get away with it! Bertrand was convinced that there was serious corruption causing the failings of this convent, here at Belstone. The prioress, if the treasurer was to be believed, was indulging her every sinful whim, and that meant that she was leading the whole nunnery down the path to evil, not even balking at murder.
And yet even he couldn’t quite swallow that. Even now, standing here with the muck and ruin about him, he found it hard to believe that the Lady Elizabeth could be responsible for Moll’s death. No matter how angry he became, that central and horrific idea, that a nun in Holy Orders, a prioress, could commit such a hideous crime, was so abhorrent that it was literally unbelievable – almost. That was why, if he was honest with himself, he had asked Peter Clifford to recommend a man who was able to investigate it for him.
Bertrand had no wish to conduct such an enquiry himself. There was no point. A girl had died – but boys and girls died every day. Many others would die. The death was not important.
No, the crucial thing was the nunnery itself. It was a part of God’s scheme, a place in which servants of God could pray to Him for those who had died. Moll was dead, but if she had lived a good, godly life, she would have merely been hastened on her way to heaven. Bertrand did not worry about her; his concern was directed at the others, the thousands, the tens of thousands whose souls were put in jeopardy by the cancer of disobedience and sin at the heart of St Mary’s. Let the secular Keeper and Bailiff Puttock seek their murderer. Bertrand himself had a duty to the Church, to Bishop Stapledon, to the souls of the dead – to correct the lax and permissive society within the priory.
‘Come with me. Let’s see what these rustic cretins have done to the church itself,’ he ground out, and set off at a trot.
Hugh walked out of the guests’ hall just as the sun burst free of a fast-moving grey cloud; he stood a moment drinking in the air. It was cold still, but now the low winter sun was striking the far hills with an apricot hue. Rocks and bushes cast long black shadows, and the land appeared to glow with health. Even in his glum mood the sight was soothing to his soul, reminding him of his days in Drewsteignton as a shepherd boy tending his flocks.
There was the sound of chatter from further up towards the church. Hugh felt the need of something to drink, and there was a quality to these voices that seemed to promise wine or ale. He set off towards the noise; it came from a large hall set in the southern side of the cloister, and inside he found many of the lay brothers taking their ease. They sat on long benches at trestle tables, all with quart pots of ale before them to keep them going until Vespers was rung.
As he stood in the doorway the place went silent, and fourteen pairs of eyes fixed on him. Hugh entered bravely and went over to the fire, which here, as in any old hall, lay on a hearth of packed soil in the centre of the room. He held his hands to it with an apologetic grin.
Although the conversation began to flow once more, it was muted, and many of the men studied him suspiciously as they took long pulls at their ales. Then, just as Hugh had begun to doubt whether he would ever see a drink of his own, a younger man stood and walked up to him.
‘Are you thirsty?’
Hugh nodded gratefully, and his new and very welcome friend walked out through a door at the back of the hall. Apparently the hall had its own buttery, for when he returned he carried his own pot and a second for Hugh. ‘Here, take this.’
‘Thanks,’ Hugh said, his eyes closing as he swallowed almost a third in one long draught. ‘I needed that! You have good ale.’
‘Some of the best in Devon, I reckon. Where are you to?’
‘Me?’ Hugh paused, his drink at chin level. ‘Where are you to?’ meant ‘Where are you from?’ in Devon dialect, and just now Hugh wasn’t sure. It was on the tip of his tongue to say he came from Drewsteignton, but he hardly remembered the place, he had left it so long ago; then again the place he really thought of as his home, the farmhouse at Sandford near Credition, he had left five years ago; yet in his present mood, he was sure that Lydford, where he and his master’s family lived out on the western moors, wasn’t his home. He stared before him at the fire. ‘Where am I to?’ he murmured, then drank. ‘Me, I come from Drewsteignton,’ he said finally.
‘Thought I recognised the accent. My name is Elias. I work in the smithy.’
Hugh had already guessed that from the dirt ingrained in the other man’s fingers. A smith could always be recognised by the coarse black skin of his hands.
Elias continued, ‘I’ve lived here for over ten years now, I think, working the forge and keeping all the tools in good order, or making new tyres for the cart-wheels. Before that I was apprentice to the smith in Moretonhampstead. I was born out that way, see, but when I’d learned my trade I decided I wanted to serve a religious house.’
He fell silent, expecting a similar brief summary of Hugh’s life, and under his interested gaze Hugh found himself retailing his history. By the second quart of ale his temper had improved, and by the third he and Elias were enjoying each other’s company.
It was as they sat with their fourth pots that Hugh noticed two canons walking quickly from the room.
‘Come on, Paul. There’s no point in either of us staying here,’ said one, a moderately ancient man in Hugh’s eyes.
‘But Godfrey, I . . .’ This one was much younger, maybe only twenty or so. He caught sight of Hugh and closed his mouth sharply, hurrying from the room.
When Hugh saw what had made them both leave, the servant’s mouth fell open.
Elias followed his look and gave a weary smile. ‘If you like her you can hire her.’
Hugh shook his head. He liked Rose and now, after a few ales, he could feel the first amorous stirrings, but through the warm haze that blurred his thinking, he knew he must tell Simon that she was here. After all, it wasn’t often that a young whore could be found consorting with canons within a priory’s precinct.
Baldwin walked into the church after Bertrand and gazed about him with a feeling of sadness.
In his day, the Knights Templar had possessed hundreds of little churches, all based upon the same design as Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem: unlike parish churches they were all circular. Although they were always spartan, they were as well-maintained as human ingenuity could manage, and if they needed money spent, they got it. This poor little church seemed as dilapidated as the rest of the priory.
They had entered through the southern side, from the men’s cloister, and stood in the nave where men and travellers could congregate. The northern wall of the nave was some ten feet high, designed to conceal the ‘Brides of Christ’ from the lascivious gaze of men.
It was poorly decorated. Baldwin saw paint on the wall over the altar, and could just make out the figure of Christ, but the colours were so faded and flaked that it was hard to see what scenes were being represented. The walls at the south
ern side had been painted as well, and the pillars, but these too had lost all definition, especially where the plaster had fallen away because of the damp beneath. It was in a very sorry state, and Baldwin felt almost guilty, as though the church was a living creature and he was intruding on its death.
The altar was well appointed. Baldwin particularly noticed the large silver cross studded with precious stones, but this one area of perfection could not distract from the general aura of decay, an impression reinforced by the hole in the roof over the partition wall. Seeing that void overhead was like seeing a mutilated body.
‘Good God!’ Bertrand cried, staring upwards with a devoutly shocked expression.
Baldwin shot him a look. He had no need to remind himself that Bertrand had spoken of the hole at Peter Clifford’s house. The bishop’s surprise was feigned: there was surely nothing odd in finding it unmended so short a time after his visit – especially as a novice had died since; the nuns had other things to consider
Some clerics looked upon such matters differently. The fabric of a building like this was holy: it was a demonstration of the priory’s godliness, proof that the daily round of services served a purpose, protecting the souls of the living and the dead. The whole place was God’s own and, if allowed to moulder, that itself could be viewed as a rejection of God. The death of the novice had merely hastened her soul on its journey to heaven, to such eyes.
But Baldwin was not of a mood to allow a murder to go unavenged. If, as the treasurer had alleged, the prioress had assisted in the death of this young girl, then he, Baldwin, would insist on seeing her charged by a correctly constituted ecclesiastical court. She should suffer her penance for so heinous a crime.
‘The roof leaks,’ he agreed testily. ‘Now, shall we go and see this prioress and make a start on our inquest?’
Bertrand reluctantly allowed his eyes to return to earth, as if he would have liked to contemplate the seriousness of the damage to the church for a little longer – or perhaps, Baldwin wondered, he merely wanted Baldwin and Simon to add their own expressions of disgust at such a flagrant act of dereliction. Whatever the reason, Baldwin was unimpressed. He was tired, hungry and thirsty, and reasonably sure that Bertrand was motivated by his own political agenda.
A door near the altar which gave into the nuns’ choir opened, and a man walked through, a youngish cleric, fair and good-looking, who bowed to Bertrand and kissed his ring before continuing on his way.
Simon jerked a thumb after him. ‘Who’s that?’
‘The vicar,’ Bertrand scowled.
Baldwin stared after the man. He felt rather than saw Simon turn to the bishop.
‘So, Bertrand, this prioress. Tell us a little about her.’
Baldwin looked away to stop himself chuckling. He knew how his old friend’s mind worked: Simon and he had investigated too many cases together, and the tone of bright innocence in Simon’s voice told Baldwin that the bailiff had little trust in the bishop.
‘She is lazy. Look about you!’ Bertrand said shortly.
‘Is she young and indolent?’ Simon pressed.
‘Or perhaps she is too flighty?’ Baldwin asked.
Bertrand sniffed. ‘You shall meet her,’ he said and stomped away.
Simon touched Baldwin’s arm. ‘Bertrand wants us to think an ageing trout like Lady Elizabeth could tempt a youngster like that vicar into her bed?’
‘You know the lady?’ Baldwin murmured.
‘I know almost everyone living on my moors,’ Simon grinned.
‘I question this bishop’s motive in asking us here,’ Baldwin said. His friend’s eyes narrowed as they both watched the bishop. ‘He must have known that there was little likelihood of her attracting so young a priest.’
‘So he’s looking to ruin her for another reason,’ Simon acknowledged. ‘And that is why we are here – to help him. For promotion?’
Baldwin nodded. Simon had secured his position by his own efforts and was often quick to spot another man’s politicking. Baldwin spoke softly. ‘He’s more keen on impressing Bishop Stapledon than worrying about a young girl’s death.’
Simon eased his shoulders. ‘He may not find my approach to his taste,’ he said happily. ‘For I intend finding the murderer – whatever the impact on Bertrand’s prospects!’
As the two made their way to the bishop’s side, Jonathan came scurrying up.
‘My Lord Bishop?’ he quavered.
‘Where’s the prioress?’ Bertrand growled.
‘She . . .’ Jonathan’s voice rose to a nervous falsetto. ‘She apologises, but pleads her heavy workload, my Lord. She begs that you will leave her until after Vespers. Um . . . Perhaps I could offer you refreshments? Or maybe you would like to speak to some of the nuns?’
Bertrand opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Baldwin interrupted him. ‘I should first of all like to see the dead novice’s body; then the place where she died. Only when we have done that can we sit and relax.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Bertrand glanced at Baldwin, then at Simon, who maintained a diplomatic silence. ‘Oh, very well! But you will inform your prioress that I am most unimpressed by her lack of attendance.’ He lowered his head bullishly. ‘You will say that to her: I am most unimpressed.’
Denise heard his words with a thrill of excitement. She had been about to leave the church, for her bladder was full, but when she heard the angry voice of the bishop she hurriedly threw her cloth and wax back into the aumbry and picked up a broom, posting herself near the door where she could eavesdrop better.
The door slammed and Jonathan sped past. Denise tried to smile engagingly at him, but he ignored her, and soon his hurried steps had faded in the cloister outside.
Denise sighed to herself. She would have liked the opportunity to ask him what was happening. Noticing the altar, she made an absent-minded obeisance in apology for allowing her mind to wander again, then belched.
Her thoughts gravitated to the election again. To her mind, Margherita would be the better prioress, guaranteeing that the Rule would be enforced, but she could be a bit of a tyrant, and that might not be all to the good. Many nuns had their little foibles – not necessarily vices, of course, just little lapses – like her own. Denise knew she wasn’t wicked, but now she came to think about it, the treasurer might prove intolerant.
There was nothing in the Rule to say a nun shouldn’t have a cup of wine or two, especially in winter to keep the chill out. Yet Margherita had presumed to try to tell her she was drunk that day; the night Moll died.
Well, it was a lie. Denise knew she could hold her drink, and for Margherita to suggest she couldn’t was villainous.
Pausing and leaning on her broom she recalled the scene. She had been sitting at the far end of the frater where she often settled when she couldn’t sleep. At such times she would drink a bottle or two. It was pleasant there, and when the weather was very brisk the warming room was only a short walk away, so there was always somewhere to ease her chilled limbs.
When Margherita appeared that night Denise had only had the one bottle and was considering fetching a second when she saw the shadow pass on the wall opposite. At first she was struck cold with fear. All the novices were told hideous stories of the devils who lived on the moor, and no girl who had ever lain awake in the middle of a night, cold, lonely and homesick, who had heard the breeze mournfully groaning as it circled around the cloisters, or howling down the chimneys, or shrieking as it squeezed around doors, could ever quite forget the terror.
There, sitting all alone in the frater, she had felt the force of the tales return, and as she watched the massive black shadow leap across the wall, she couldn’t restrain a squeak of horror: it was coming for her!
Instantly she heard the reassuringly angry voice of Margherita. ‘Denise? Is that you?’ She strode closer and wrinkled her nose. ‘Have you been drinking again? Yes, you’re drunk, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not, I was just having a little
wine to keep the cold out. It’s so bitter in the dorter.’
‘You’re drunk, Denise, and you should get straight to bed. What would the novices think if they found you asleep down here snoring in your cups as they came back from Matins? No, not another word: go to your bed!’
Cowed, Denise had obeyed. After all, obedience was one of the threefold oaths, together with poverty and chastity.
Yet she couldn’t quite forget the sight of that shadow, not even now in the daylight. It wasn’t the petrifying, creeping movement it had seemed to make, nor the attitude, as if preparing to pounce, that got to her.
Denise shivered and began sweeping more urgently as if trying to sweep away her memory. No, it wasn’t the shadowy figure itself; it was the sharp outline she had seen. The pointed outline of a long dagger in one hand.
Chapter Eight
Simon’s discomfort grew as the angry bishop walked to the door dividing the nuns’ cloister from the canons’. He could see that Baldwin was unaffected; the knight was perfectly used to wandering about religious grounds, and Bertrand was beyond any feelings other than his own pique at what he perceived as a slight from the prioress.
But Simon knew no such comfort. To him, walking about this place was almost sacrilegious. It was a place of worship for those who dedicated their lives to God; not somewhere for the likes of him to idle about unhindered.
It was a curious sensation for him. Usually the bailiff was hard-headed and impervious to such fine perceptions, a truly secular man. Raised and bred in Devon, living almost all his life out at Crediton, he had always prided himself on his commonsense. Not, of course, that that prevented him from a certain amount of what he thought of as sensible superstition.
But Simon knew that his place was in the towns and wastes of Dartmoor, not in a convent, and especially not one in which nuns lived. If he had any choice in the matter, he’d have left right now. He was an instrument of secular law, responsible, through his Warden, to the King himself; but if a nun had committed an offence – even murder – he had no authority.
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