Belladonna at Belstone (9781471126345)

by Jecks, Michael

  ‘You killed her?’

  ‘No. God did – to protect Margherita. Katerine was no better: a nasty child, I am afraid, keen to use information about other people to bend them to her will. She had heard about Constance and was going to tell the world about her with her man. Terrible! Think how that would reflect upon the convent.’

  Baldwin nodded seriously. ‘And Agnes?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Agnes,’ Joan said primly. ‘Well, she was a demon in human guise. She seduced that poor priest and bedded him many times. In the convent’s precinct here, if you would credit it! Within the cloisters, often in that room where she died. Denise saw her only yesterday, out in the garden copulating like a wild beast! Disgusting!’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘I am sorry about the tile, but it was intended to kill you, not to cause a painful injury. I thought you saw me on the roof – and now God wouldn’t want you to continue with your investigations. News would spread and if you finished your enquiry, the convent might be closed. And that would be displeasing to Him.’

  ‘So it is best that I should be silenced?’ Baldwin asked. He gave a small smile when she nodded. ‘And then the bailiff? And after him the bishop?’

  ‘Oh no. It’s only the secular folk whose mouths must be stilled. I only have to dispose of your friend the bailiff and his servant.’ She stopped, her head on one side as if listening. ‘Oh yes, and Rose, of course. The prioress’s bastard, the whore from the vill. She must die for her sins.’

  ‘What of the prioress herself? She gave birth to Rose, after all.’

  ‘She confessed and was given absolution,’ Joan pointed out in a surprised tone. ‘She has been pardoned by God.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ she repeated. As she spoke she reached into her robe and pulled forth a pair of small bottles. ‘Dwale from Constance’s stores,’ she said, holding up one. ‘And a bottle of pure hemlock juice. Her dwale contains some, you know, but there is enough in here to kill.’

  She emptied the dwale into his cup, and held it out to him.

  Baldwin shook his head slowly. ‘I fear I cannot drink it, Sister. I choose not to submit to my murder.’

  Joan sighed and set the pot back down on the table. Then, faster than Baldwin would have expected, she leaped on to him, straddling his chest. Picking up the cup again, she held it beneath his nose so that he could inhale the rich aroma of spiced wine. ‘Come along, Sir Baldwin. If you drink this, you’ll know nothing about the hemlock, I promise you. There’s enough poppy syrup in this to make you forget everything and sleep. Otherwise I’ll have to force you to drink the hemlock neat, and that wouldn’t be pleasant.’

  Baldwin was surprised at his defencelessness. Joan could only weigh a few stones, and yet he was suddenly aware that with her seated on his chest, her knees pressing on his upper arms, in his weakened state he was almost incapable of protecting himself. She pressed the rim of the cup to his lips, trying to force him to open his mouth, pushing harder and harder, until he became anxious that she might break his teeth. He opened his mouth and took a long draught, but as she smiled down at him, he spat it full in her face.

  While she gasped with disgust, wiping her cheek ineffectually with her sleeve, he lifted his legs and rolled to one side, using the leverage of his whole body. She was tipped a little off-balance, enough for him to be able to free an arm, and he shoved at her hard. With a short squawk she fell.

  Quickly he stood, but almost immediately reeled. Rising after the burst of energy disorientated him, and he toppled backwards, raising a hand to his head. It felt as though someone had slammed a sledgehammer at the back of his skull, and he retched with a sudden sickness that seemed to come up from the soles of his feet while the room span about him.

  He became aware that Joan was up again. She glowered at him as she might at a recalcitrant novice, one who was resolutely incompetent at repeating the dies irae. Muttering under her breath, she retrieved her little bottle, and approached again. ‘I’m sorry about this, it’s bitter, but the dwale has gone so you’ll have to take the hemlock neat.’

  ‘I think I prefer not to,’ Baldwin said. He was suddenly struck with the impression that this was a weird dream. It must surely end soon.

  ‘It’s God’s will,’ she said relentlessly. ‘Do you want to oppose Him?’

  Baldwin retreated. He had no wish to fight with her; she had a wiry strength in her body, and in his present enfeebled state he wasn’t sure he could protect himself. ‘I only oppose you, Sister Joan. I think you have mistaken His will.’

  He saw her shake her head in irritation, and then her eyes lit upon the table. On it was Godfrey’s toolbag. His blood-stained saw and razor lay near. Baldwin was about to try to jump forward and knock them from her when she pounced and snatched up the razor. Turning to him, she held it out. ‘See? God puts everything in my hands.’

  Baldwin could think of nothing to say. His head was swimming, his legs felt like putty, and his vision was slipping out of focus even as the pain in his head appeared to grow. He tried to move back further, but stumbled, and felt himself going over backwards. He was close to the wall, and although he flung an arm behind him to break his fall, his head caught the wall before his hand touched the floor, and agony thundered in his head – a sickening, throbbing spasm that made his belly clench and vomit up all its contents.

  Baldwin could make out Joan’s feet approaching him even as he felt himself slide away from consciousness and into a deep sleep.

  ‘Joan?’ Simon repeated. ‘You left him in her care?’

  ‘She’s all right, isn’t she?’

  ‘If I’d been wrong and someone else was the murderer, Joan’d hardly be strong enough to protect Baldwin, would she?’ Simon pointed out.

  ‘Have you caught the murderer, then?’ Denise asked innocently.

  ‘You ,’ Hugh said sternly. ‘We know you did it.’

  Denise stopped dead in her tracks, her face a picture of shocked denial. ‘Me!’ she squeaked.

  Simon said, ‘You were all alone on the night Moll died . . .’

  ‘So were others!’

  ‘And no one saw you when Katerine was killed.’

  ‘I was in the frater.’

  ‘And when Agnes was murdered, you were alone again.’

  ‘I was in the buttery getting a drink!’

  Simon looked her up and down, sceptically. ‘Conveniently alone yet again.’

  ‘So was Margherita, and the prioress, and Joan . . .’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Simon grimly.

  Hugh frowned. ‘You say you saw Joan last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the cloisters. I saw her walking about in the moonlight before I went to the frater. She’s often there while the others sleep.’

  Simon made his way at full speed to the gate, then along the wall, back to the cloisters. All the way he cursed his stupidity, his inane foolishness at following his gut feelings instead of staying with his friend.

  He got to the garth and skidded on the flags, almost falling, but managed to recover his balance and pelted off along the corridor towards the door to the dorter, and all the way he recalled the happiness on Baldwin’s face when he was married only a few weeks before. Jeanne, too, had been radiant on her wedding day.

  Simon reached the door and pressed the latch, panting a moment, then lurched up the stairs. Jeanne would never forgive him if anything had happened to her husband.

  Simon would never forgive himself.

  Lady Elizabeth stood in horror, automatically stroking Princess. Joan’s words carried clearly out here to the prioress’s chamber, and yet Lady Elizabeth was so stunned at what she had heard that she was almost convinced she had misheard the whole story.

  Carefully she set the dog on the bed and walked to the door. Her duty was clear: she must protect Sir Baldwin, the invalid who had relied on her infirmary for his protection and recovery. As her hand touched the door, she hea
rd the loud crash as Joan fell from Baldwin to the floor, and the sound made the Prioress think again. She went to her chest, threw open the lid, and withdrew a large dagger. Pulling it from its sheath, she went to her door.

  She heard the clattering of feet on the bare boards, and Joan’s exultant cry, ‘See? God puts everything in my hands.’

  The prioress thrust the door open. Baldwin lay on his side, a pool of vomit on the floor by his mouth. Joan was standing before him, a razor in her hand. She lifted it as the prioress came in and, with a snarl, launched herself at the startled Lady Elizabeth. The prioress thrust out her arm defensively – the dagger in her hand. Joan sprang forward and ran straight on to the blade, impaling herself. Lady Elizabeth felt it jerk and thrash as Joan screeched, slashing wildly in a futile attempt to cut Lady Elizabeth’s face or stab her throat. As she watched in horror, Joan’s shrieking subsided, and a curious confused expression came into her eyes. Then Lady Elizabeth’s arm was dragged down as the older nun gradually slumped, her body unable to muster the energy to continue. Beneath her robe, the thick blood pooled on the infirmary floor.

  When Lady Elizabeth looked down at her, Joan was still alive. She stared up at the prioress with a fierce loathing. Only then did Lady Elizabeth realise that her own arm had been slashed, that the whole upper part was criss-crossed with thin cuts. And only then was she grateful for the length of her arms, and the fact that Joan’s were shorter.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The staircase was steep, and Simon reached the top with his lungs tingling. He wanted to fall to his knees, to gasp, but he forced himself on, lurching to the door.

  In the infirmary he found the prioress tending to his friend, who lay on the floor. The acrid stench of vomit filled the room, and Simon saw that Baldwin had been sick, but Lady Elizabeth was dabbing at Baldwin’s face with rosewater.

  She looked up as he entered. Simon fell to his knees beside Baldwin and stared. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Yes, though if I had been a few moments longer he wouldn’t have been.’ She stood. ‘I fear Joan has died.’

  Following the direction of her gaze Simon saw a slumped body near the door. ‘What on earth has happened?’

  ‘I heard them talking. She admitted to the murders,’ the prioress said in an exhausted tone. She moistened Baldwin’s brow. ‘She wanted to protect the priory from any stain on its reputation. She thought the three girls were evil, and thus deserved death. She was going to kill you as well, if she could. Purely because she had to stop the spread of rumours about the place. Didn’t want Sir Baldwin or you or other outsiders talking about what you might have seen here.’

  She started to her feet, but tottered, and Simon had to go to her side and grip her elbow. Giving him a weak smile, she insisted that he should leave her, and that he and she should lift Baldwin on to a bed, but Simon led her to a chair. She had just sunk down into it when Hugh appeared in the doorway. Denise, behind him, was immediately despatched to let the waiting bishop know what had happened and as she scampered away, Hugh helped Simon lift the knight back to his bed.

  Once Baldwin was settled, Simon bent to the figure of Joan. She lay like a crumpled parchment, and there was a stain spreading over the floor. Simon glanced up at the prioress.

  ‘I had no choice,’ she said simply. ‘And now, could you call Godfrey? Your friend needs his help.’ And so do I, she added to herself as she felt the sharp tingling of the razor-sliced flesh beneath her tattered habit.

  Simon remained at Baldwin’s side in the infirmary, a grim, anxious temper overwhelming him. His friend had taken on a deathly pallor, almost blue-white, his lips grey, his breath coming in stuttering bursts. While Godfrey carefully treated Lady Elizabeth, using a styptic on her wounded flesh and cauterising the worst slashes, Simon watched over Baldwin, miserably convinced that his friend was dying. He had seen so many men die, some from stabbing, others from illness, that the signs before him appeared unequivocal.

  Godfrey left Lady Elizabeth to Constance, who set about gently wrapping her wounds. He walked to Simon’s side and took Baldwin’s hand, studying the knight’s face.

  Simon wanted to ask whether his friend would survive, whether Baldwin would ever open his eyes again, and he was about to question the canon, when Godfrey walked out to Constance’s room. He soon returned with a small oil lamp and a handful of feathers. These he dropped unceremoniously on Baldwin’s chest. Taking two or three, he held them under Baldwin’s nose while he singed them with the flame.

  Baldwin coughed, groaned, his eyelids fluttered, and he winced, before retching and bringing up a small gobbet of vomit.

  It was then that Godfrey shrugged. ‘He’ll be fine.’

  The relief made Simon sag on his stool. Suddenly he realised how exhausting the last hours had been. He managed a grin and stood. ‘I’ll leave him in your care.’

  Outside the sun had decided to escape its confinement behind the clouds. The garth was filled with a renewing warmth. Simon stood, eyes closed, soaking in the energy.

  ‘Perhaps you should yourself be resting.’

  ‘Constance, I think I shall have to.’

  She walked over to a stone bench, sat and folded her hands in her lap. ‘Why don’t you sit?’

  He took his place at her side, sitting down heavily. ‘It’s lucky Joan confessed,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yes. Otherwise we might never have known who was responsible.’

  ‘Except she couldn’t have killed Moll.’

  Constance shot him a look. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I know little about dwale, but I do know this: the older the person, the faster it will act. And you told us that Joan had taken her dwale.’

  ‘I can’t have given her enough.’

  ‘You think so?’ he asked. ‘You don’t really, do you?’

  ‘The prioress said Joan confessed to the murders. Why should she lie?’

  ‘Simple. To protect someone else. Someone she wanted to protect.’

  Constance blanched and gazed at him fearfully. ‘I swear I had nothing to do . . .’

  ‘I didn’t mean you, Constance. Joan believed someone else had killed Moll: Margherita.’

  ‘But why should Joan want to protect her?’

  ‘Guilt, perhaps? She had killed Margherita’s mother Bridget, after all. Forever after she was Margherita’s closest ally. She certainly seemed to want her to win the prioressy.’

  ‘Why did she kill the other girls?’

  ‘I think it’s easy to speculate. Moll could read and add, and she saw Margherita embezzling funds. Margherita was a powerful lady here, and Moll wouldn’t have dared to confront her directly. Instead, she went to a woman she trusted – Joan. You all used to go to her with little problems, didn’t you? Or perhaps Moll did dare – yes, that’s it! She told Margherita what she knew, and Margherita refused to confess in chapter; that was when Moll spoke to Joan.’

  ‘So Joan did murder her?’

  ‘No. But when Moll died, Joan was convinced it was Margherita. And when she heard Katerine telling the same story, spreading it among the novices, Joan decided to protect her candidate for the prioressy by killing off the story at its source.’

  ‘What about Agnes?’

  ‘I think Joan was mad. She couldn’t bear to see her priory being ruined, and she thought that the place was falling about her ears; she wanted Margherita to take over Lady Elizabeth’s job. That way, she thought, Belstone would be protected. But Agnes was a threat. If news of her behaviour with Luke should get out, Sir Rodney wouldn’t dream of supporting the place.’

  ‘Surely Sir Rodney would take a more pragmatic attitude? He wanted a place for his bones, and at least St Mary’s is near his home.’

  ‘He would be very pragmatic, I think. He’d think only the priest can hold Mass over his chapel; Luke, a man who has been subverting novices and enjoying their bodies. Surely the least desirable priest in the country.’

  ‘So Joan thought she should kill Katerine and Ag
nes to protect the convent?’

  ‘And to protect the woman she loved.’

  Constance shook her head in slow disbelief. ‘So you think Margherita . . .’

  ‘No!’ Simon said. ‘She was innocent; she swore that on the Bible, although she wouldn’t swear a lie about taking the money.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘What happened on the night Moll died?’

  ‘I gave out dwale before Compline.’

  ‘To all your patients? Did you do that every night?’

  ‘Not usually. But Elias was coming to see me.’

  ‘Was it the same mixture you gave to all?’

  ‘All of my patients had the same.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Elias arrived some time after, and when I went to the door, he made a sign to be silent. He had heard Margherita behind him. Soon she was there, but she stood on the landing for some time before knocking at my door.’

  ‘She’d have been listening to see if the man was in with Lady Elizabeth.’

  ‘After a while she came and banged on my door. She was so noisy.’

  Simon drew in a breath. ‘Where was Elias?’

  ‘In my chamber.’

  ‘Margherita didn’t see him?’

  ‘I blocked the door and pushed her out, talking to her on the landing.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I told her not to be so silly and went back to Elias,’ she said, avoiding his gaze. ‘I had to tell him about our child, and he hugged me and began planning our departure from the convent.’

  ‘Did he leave you then?’

  ‘No. We were together all the time. I didn’t sleep,’ she asserted with a maidenly blush. ‘When it was near the time for the bell we rose and went down to the cloister; he needed time to get back to the canonical cloister, and I had to wash.’

  ‘Moll was alive then? So you left him when you went to the laver?’

  ‘Yes, but I’d seen him go to the church already.’

  ‘What would have stopped him turning and returning to the infirmary?’