Constance smiled at Joan as she sipped her dwale, pulling a face as the bitter mixture went down. After the death of Moll, Constance had been very cautious with the measures of belladonna, but tonight she had added more poppy syrup. She needed the security of knowing that she could see Elias.
Joan settled back against her pillows and closed her eyes, and soon her breath was more stertorous as she slipped into unconsciousness. With a brief sigh of relief Constance left her and went to the door, where she listened carefully. Compline was a while ago, and all the nuns should be asleep, but someone might still be up and about. Constance had little to be happy about. Her guilt felt like a heavy weight pressing upon her breast, almost stifling her, and she longed for Elias to hug her and whisper soothing promises of how their lives would change.
Elias had promised to rescue her as soon as he had heard the first gossip. Many in the convent were convinced that Constance had given Moll too much dwale. Margherita was trying to persuade everyone that the prioress was guilty, but Constance knew better. She had doubted the sense in running away, but now her misgivings were bent in the other direction. She couldn’t stay here any longer.
There was no sound. She lifted the latch and walked out to the stairs. The dorter was silent apart from the snuffling and sighing of sleeping women. Reassured, Constance lifted the hem of her tunic and tiptoed down the stairs. Opening the door, she went through to the cloister. The church door was in front of her, and she pulled the dorter door shut before setting off along the corridor towards it.
It was when she reached the corner that she felt the hand on her shoulder.
‘Hello, Constance. Couldn’t you sleep?’ Katerine said, and Constance recoiled at the cruel expression in her sharp little features.
Elias sat biting his nails. The last service had finished an age ago, and he would have expected Constance to have arrived by now. She had promised to get here after Compline, and he wanted to set off as quickly as possible, now he had their packages ready. His face was screwed up with fearful expectation. He was waiting in the church, for the prioress never saw fit to lock the dividing door, and he and Constance used to meet here often to talk when they had first confessed their affection for each other, although more recently, like the night when Moll had died, he had gone to meet her in her own chamber at the rear of the infirmary.
That night had been wonderful: she had agreed to leave the convent with him. From that day his every spare waking moment had been spent arranging their escape. And tonight they would go.
But she should have been here by now. The suspense was unbearable, and Elias stood, walking to the door. As he opened it, he saw his woman approaching hurriedly.
‘Thank God, my love. I thought . . .’ Although there was little light, with heavy clouds scudding across the sky and no moon, he could sense her agitation. ‘Constance? What is it?’
‘I can’t leave with you,’ she whispered brokenly.
‘Why? Everything is ready.’
‘Katerine knows everything. She accused me of killing Moll!’
Elias felt his heart lurch within him. ‘Forget her,’ he said harshly. ‘It’s because of the rumour that we have to go. I can protect you. Look, all the food is ready, everything’s packed. If we . . .’
‘No, Elias,’ she said, touching his cheek. Her voice was strained as though she was close to crying. She swallowed. ‘Moll saw you coming to my room one night, and told Katerine. She guessed, I suppose, or perhaps she watched herself. What does it matter? She won’t let on because she wants me to give her my enamelled brooch. I have to go back now and give it to her.’
‘The thieving slut!’
‘It’s better that I should let her have it.’
Elias was silent. His plans, their future together, everything was fallen into ruin. It was only with a struggle that he could keep his voice from breaking as he pleaded, ‘Then come straight back and we’ll go.’
There was a crack, as of a pebble kicked uncautiously against a wall. Constance drew in her breath sharply. ‘Tomorrow – tomorrow at the grille. I’ll see you there after Matins.’
Elias watched her hurry away, and as she disappeared along the cloister he saw the shadow of someone else flit past the alleyway to his side. The shadow of a nun.
Chapter Twelve
Hugh opened an eye and pulled a face. It was the darkest hour of the night. Pulling his coat up to his chin, he thrust his head beneath his pillow. Even then he couldn’t keep the row from his ears.
The tolling bell was still more unwelcome because of the relative silence of the world. There was no birdsong, no barking, no crowing of cocks or clucking of hens; only a dead, dull nothing that somehow emphasised the melancholy nature of the hour. The bell itself sounded flat and doomladen, as if it heralded the Day of Judgement which the priests so enjoyed predicting.
To Hugh it was intolerable. His head ached, and although he knew he would soon have to rise to go and find a urinal-pot somewhere, he longed to put off that hideous moment when he must emerge from his blanket and coats, and expose his body to the stark gelidity of the cloister.
A groan and muffled comment of ‘God’s blood!’ told him that his master had not managed to sleep through it either, and when Hugh opened his eye again and peered through the gloom towards the bed, he saw that Sir Baldwin had already got to his feet, and at the other side of the room the bishop was out of his bed and stood huddled, his robes pulled tight around him.
Seeing Baldwin haul Simon’s bedclothes from him with a chuckle, Hugh hunched his shoulders against the horrible prospect, but soon he was exposed, and found himself glowering up at the repellently cheerful knight.
‘Come on, Hugh. Even your master has managed to get up.’
It was many years since Hugh had spent the nights out with the sheep and lambs on the moors near Drewsteignton in sub-zero temperatures, and ever since he had enjoyed the sensation of snugness that a warmed hall gave him. There was no such comfort here.
Wind penetrated every corner of the room, whistling and moaning gently, and bringing with it the promise of snow, while doors rattled against their latches and shutters complained. Each breeze managed to find a fresh gap between Hugh’s clothing, or perhaps it simply forced its way through, like daggers of ice. He stood, shivering, trying to pull on tunic, jack and cloak in one movement before he froze into a block.
Out of their room it was no better. Bertrand led the way, walking at a solemn pace which gave the men no opportunity to warm themselves. They went from their guestroom down a ladder to the ground floor, and from thence to the passageway that gave on to the cloister itself. Here the cold was, if anything, still more intense, for the wind eddied and blew around the buildings. It was like a mischievous animal suddenly released, enjoying the freedom of the garth by whipping around unprotected legs, delving down through the neck of shirts, or searching upwards from loose-fitting hose.
Hugh trailed miserably after the other two men to the church and waited with them in the queue at the door while the canons filed inside. Remembering what he had seen the night before, he tugged at Simon’s sleeve. ‘Sir?’ he asked quietly.
‘What is it?’ Simon hissed. ‘If you’re going to complain, I’ll give you something serious to complain about.’
Hugh knew his master was as unenthusiastic about early rising as he himself. ‘Sir, it’s what I saw last night in the frater while you were with the nuns.’
Quickly he told his master about the prostitute, and Simon gave a low whistle. As the queue moved into the church, Simon whispered the gist of it to Baldwin.
At last they were in, but even inside there was nothing to take the edge from the bitter weather. With no fire, many gaps between ill-fitting doors and the hole in the roof, the four walls about them might have not existed for all the use they were. And Hugh became aware of another effect: at least outside while walking his feet had remained reasonably safe; now, standing on the tiled floor, it felt as though the heat was being sucked awa
y through the soles of his boots, leaving the rest of his body frigid.
In these circumstances, Hugh looked about him to find something – anything! – which could distract him from the misery of the hour and the temperature.
The canons appeared to be taking a great deal of time to prepare for the services. They muttered amongst themselves, occasionally throwing interested glances towards the four strangers, but no one appeared to make any effort to observe the rituals. Then he realised that they were waiting for a signal from the other side of the wall where the nuns congregated, and when a single, male voice rose from the nuns’ cloister, suddenly the canons joined in.
It was all new to Hugh. He had never been in a cloister before, and the ceremony was strange and not a little threatening. He was used to the little shed-like church at Drewsteignton, and after that the chapel at Sandford, then the larger building at Lydford, but at none of them was there anything like this. Keeping his mouth tightly shut to save himself embarrassment, he looked at the others. Bertrand, he saw, sang along, his head high and a curious expression of suspicious concentration on his face. Hugh guessed that he was listening to the women, but had no idea why. Simon tried to join in at first, but then resorted to moving his mouth silently. The strange Latin words were unfamiliar, and he couldn’t keep up with the others; Baldwin appeared to know the service, and sang quietly in his deep bass.
The place was odd even without the singing. As Hugh looked along from where they were standing, towards the altar, he found himself feeling strangely out of place.
It wasn’t only the sense of dislocation caused by the hour. He had no idea what the time was, but he had heard that this first service of the day was held in the middle of the night because it was intended to herald the new day, which according to the priests began somehow during the night. To Hugh this was daft: he knew, like everyone, that day started at dawn, but there was no point arguing with priests. They believed what they wanted to.
No, it wasn’t just the time, it was the whole atmosphere: the men facing each other in the choir forming a tunnel, the distance between them emphasised by the candles in their brackets behind, which seemed to create another tunnel, this one of light; while incense wafted, and reinforced the oddly otherworldly nature of the sight, creating a kind of fog around the men’s ankles, almost as if they were floating on a whitish, yellowish smoke that rose in whisps and peaks where the gusts from outside caught it. And all the time the high voices of the nuns floated above them, reaching over the high wall which separated the cloisters.
Hugh wasn’t fanciful, but as he stared along the ranks of canons, he had the impression that he was dreaming. The voices were not as smooth, refined, or pleasant upon the ear as they should have been; they didn’t match with the female singing, which itself sounded harsh and unmusical; the whole appeared even to Hugh’s ear to be too fast, and in some parts he thought the nuns were gabbling their words, like women keen to return to their beds.
There was none of the religious atmosphere he would have expected, and when he glanced at Baldwin and the bishop, he saw that they felt the same. Sir Baldwin stood stiffly, his eyes drifting along the lines of men in the choir, and every so often his gaze would rise to the dividing wall as if in disbelief at the racket from the other side.
The nuns’ choir was a long, darkened tunnel, filled with the scent of incense; candles guttered, giving sufficient light to see the nuns’ features, and the priest’s up at the altar, each face flickering into clarity as a nearby candle responded to a short gust, then dimming once more. The great doors creaked and rattled. At one point there was a long slithering sound as a slate slipped free from its moorings and hurtled down the incline of the roof to shatter into fragments on the cloister, but this was too regular a noise to cause any of the freezing nuns to look up.
Lady Elizabeth winced as yet another psalm was hurried, but she was more intrigued by the gap in the ranks of her nuns. Margherita was there, as was Denise, and most of the others, but there was a plain gap where the infirmarer should have been standing.
Presumably one of her patients was unwell, Lady Elizabeth thought. At least that overblown fool Bertrand wasn’t here in the nuns’ choir to see her absence. If his raised voice yesterday was anything to go by, Lady Elizabeth felt sure he would throw off his lightly worn cloak of urbanity at the faintest provocation, and rant. She found herself looking forward to the spectacle.
In the meantime she had many other considerations; the peace of the church, with its familiar psalms, prayers and rites, was the perfect setting for concentration. She allowed her mind to run over her problems while her voice joined with the others in the cadences.
First there was Princess. The poor little terrier had been unwell again during the evening, whining, then panting and lying down, eyes wide, tongue lolling, and vomiting while her bowels opened. The prioress reflected that she would have to get one of the lay sisters to clean up, but that was hardly the issue. She had never known a dog suffer from so appalling a flux before. Oh, several of her pets in the past had been sick – that was hardly surprising for a dog which scavenged, as all did – but this was worse, and Lady Elizabeth was worried.
Then there was Bertrand. The suffragan’s aim was clear: he wanted to get rid of her. Moll’s death had given him the ideal excuse. Allied to this was the headache posed by Margherita. The treasurer had ever been keen on taking over the leadership of the convent; she had her sights firmly fixed upon Lady Elizabeth’s post, and had obviously enlisted Bertrand to help her.
As the first part of the service ended, Lady Elizabeth unconsciously glanced up towards the windows. Matins. She felt a small smile rise to her face as the first soaring notes rose to the ceiling.
Alas, her delight was shortlived. Even as she felt her spirits join with the music and climb upwards, she saw the white flakes begin to pour in through the hole above. Snow floated down, wafting as it was caught by the side-blast travelling the length of the nave.
The sight made her close her eyes, but not before she caught the treasurer’s triumphant expression.
Once more, the Lady Elizabeth peered back towards the gap in the pews where Constance should have stood. She suddenly found herself hoping that the young infirmarer had not run away. Not only would that be a confession of guilt, it would also involve almost certain death if the weather were to turn, and from the look of the snow, it had.
When the last notes faded in the grey dawn light, and the canons rose, shuffling towards the door, Godfrey too got to his feet, but before he could slip through, he heard his name called out. Stifling a momentary panic, he fitted a subservient smile to his face and turned to face the bishop.
‘My Lord Bertrand! I heard you were returned. I suppose it was that poor girl? Such a shame; a terrible waste.’
Bertrand introduced the two men with him, and Godfrey ducked his head quickly to each of them. ‘I am delighted to meet you, gentlemen. I only hope I can be of some use.’
The bearded one called Baldwin motioned towards the door. ‘Shall we find a fire and a warm drink?’
When Godfrey had made them all comfortable in the frater and had asked the lay brother for wine and ale, he sat and eyed them all benignly. ‘How may I assist you?’
It was the bearded one again. Godfrey had never liked men with beards. It made them look sloppy, to his mind.
‘Could you tell us what you did for the girl? I understand you bled her?’
‘Yes, Sir Baldwin,’ Godfrey answered. ‘It was the day that she died that I was called into the infirmary. Moll was suffering from a headache – what I would call a migraine, or a hemicrania – a sick headache of the most extreme form. This kind of illness can be cured by a small cut in the basilic vein. I explained what I was about to do, then gave her the bowl to hold while I made a small incision. The blood was taken, and then I sealed the vein. That was all.’
‘Why did you perform this operation?’ Baldwin asked quietly. ‘Surely cupping is more usual with women
.’
Godfrey kept the smile on his face, but he had to take a deep breath to control his nervousness. ‘Why, you are right, of course, Sir Baldwin. But after studying her urine I felt sure that releasing a little blood would be more effective. The infirmarer here tries very hard, of course, and she is absolutely devoted to her charges, but . . . Performing something like cupping on a girl of her age seemed unlikely to result in success. No, I thought that bloodletting would be better.’
‘I am surprised that you were content to conduct the operation yourself.’
Godfrey was happier with that question. ‘But who else would have been able to do it? I know that priests are banned from surgery, but it is better that I should become involved than that a mere barber should be permitted to enter the nuns’ cloister.’
‘You think so? When the Pope has said that you should effect the cure by the strength of prayer?’ Baldwin murmured.
‘I acted as I thought best.’
‘And yet she died.’ Baldwin held up his hand to halt the sudden burst of anxious self-justification. ‘No, I do not say you killed her. But please confirm: how many cuts did you make in her arm?’
‘How many?’ Godfrey repeated, still smarting at the perceived insult to his professionalism. ‘One, of course. I am a trained man, Sir Knight, not some quack-salver operating from the back of a wagon.’
Baldwin grinned inwardly at the thought of this serious-looking cleric selling mixed salves and potions from the back of a wagon like a charlatan at a market. ‘No, I am sure you are not,’ he said soothingly. ‘But it is nevertheless a fact that the girl had two cuts, and the one which punctured her artery, was, I assume, the second – for it instantly allowed her life to flow away. Thus your assertion that you did not make a second incision means you cannot have been her killer.’
‘I most certainly am not!’ Godfrey declared hotly.
‘And not only that, but there are other factors which I find most interesting. Did you, for example, need to restrain her? Her mouth is swollen, and there are bruises on her upper arms.’
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