This laundry was a ground-floor room to the north of the cloister. Once it would have been too large for a priory this size, but now it was too small, for the northernmost wall had collapsed, and part couldn’t be used. A temporary wooden partition had been erected to keep the worst of the wind and rain from the girls inside, but Cecily hoped they could get enough money to put up another wall. Breezes got in and froze the lay sisters as they worked.
The whole place was falling apart, but Cecily tended not to think about it. She was content while she had food in her belly and a gallon of ale to drink each day. Matters of finance were for those who were educated enough to comprehend them, not for the likes of her. She was only a servant for the nuns.
It was a position that satisfied her. She didn’t seek higher responsibility. There would be no point, for she would never be able to understand the duties of a nun. All the same, sometimes, when she glanced about her, she wondered whether the prioress was protecting the place as well as she should. Flagstones in the yard were coming loose, there were holes in the roofs, and not only the laundry’s wall had fallen. Others were weakened and looked dangerous.
Still, it was none of Cecily’s concern.
The basketful took her another hour. By the time she had finished, her arms and chest muscles ached. Sitting back, she closed her eyes and yawned luxuriously. Slowly she clambered to her feet and picked up the damp washing. From here she had to walk down a wooden staircase to get to the yard, which was lower than the cloister itself. She picked up the basket and rested it upon her hip, walking quickly to the door.
At the top step she glanced down to make sure where to put her feet. Then, with the speed of assurance, she carried on down.
But after two steps she felt someone grab her ankle. Her eyes widened. She had no time to make a sound, it was so unexpected. The basket flew from her hand and she pitched headlong, falling the six steps to the ground. It was flagged in stone here, and she caught a glimpse of the moorstone rushing to meet her. In a reflex she brought her arms up to protect her face just in time.
She was so jarred that at first she couldn’t believe what had happened. Then she heard the voice: “Never blaspheme again.”
As the steps faded, the pain began to stab at her. Looking down, she wondered what the thing before her was. Then she recognised it was her arm’s bone, red and bloody as a raw oxen’s rib, shoved through the flesh of her arm like a dagger through parchment.
She managed to shriek just once before fainting.
Chapter One
From Moll’s perspective, being taken to the place where she would soon be murdered was merely an irritation. She knew she was well and didn’t feel the need for segregation in the infirmary, especially since it was impossible to get any sleep there, what with Joan snoring and Cecily moaning to herself on the bed beyond.
There were compensations. The fire made it almost as cosy as the calefactory, the hall between the dorter and the frater where nuns could warm themselves. Here, though, there were no nuns except the infirmarer; and although the room glowed with a cheery red light, and for the first time since the onset of winter Moll was neither cold nor hungry, still she could not relax. Her arm itched where Brother Godfrey had bled it.
In the pitch dark she stretched out under the sheets, wondering what could have woken her. There were no strange sounds in the room; mercifully even Joan was breathing quietly like a drowsy hog, and further on Cecily whimpered softly. Both women had been drugged. Before long she expected to hear the bell for Nocturns, the signal for the convent to wake to life, and Moll was aware of a guilty but luxurious delight, knowing she was free of her usual duties and could remain here in bed.
Moll was young to be a novice, but she had gained her place as a result of her father’s string-pulling. He was, if not a great banneret, at least a well-known knight in Exeter, a man of some influence, and although he had not wanted her to take the veil, she had insisted. Ever since she could remember, Moll had felt the lure of conventual life: as a child she had thrilled to the stories told by the mendicant friars; as a teenager she had been keener to attend daily Mass than go riding with her friends. She had learned to read with the help of her priest, and was soon proficient at writing and arithmetic. It was this which had served to persuade her father, for a woman who could both read and write was potentially an uncommonly useful wife to a wealthy lord, able to administer his estates during his inevitable absences, but the sort of husband to whom Moll could aspire would be of a lower order – a squire or knight. To such a man, a wife with Moll’s skills could be threatening. It was better that she should be safely lodged in the cloister.
Closing her eyes, Moll offered a prayer to God, thanking Him for her many blessings. There was much to thank Him for. He had allowed her to take up the challenge of a life of obedience, and had installed her here, where there was so much to be done – for the little priory out on the windy, rain-swept northern fringe of the chase of Dartmoor was, to Moll’s eye, a pit of corruption. She intended to change all that and see that the nuns turned from their loose living to the ideal of the contemplative life.
Arriving at the section of her prayer where she thanked God for her health, she hesitated, unsure whether it would be right to thank Him for what she had suffered. She was not, if she was honest, grateful for the headache or for being bled again, and being a conscientious young woman she felt it would be wrong to say that she was. Moll didn’t want to be hypocritical; perhaps, she thought, she should ask the priest when she next had an opportunity… No, not the priest, she amended quickly. She couldn’t trust Brother Luke, not since the time he had tried to molest her. A quick frown passed over her brow and she moved to a more wholesome topic.
She didn’t feel ill any more; the migraine had gone even before the bleeding. When it struck she had thought she would faint; the mistress of the novices had released her from her duties and sent her here to the infirmary, where she had been told to fill a flask with urine so her condition could be assessed. It was in vain for her to explain that the headache had quite disappeared, for Constance, the infirmarer, refused to listen until she had received her instructions. In the meantime, Moll was filled with red meat and a thick broth, the best food she had eaten since her arrival.
It was all quite normal, of course, and Moll herself was ready when the phlebotomist, Godfrey, had arrived, a smiling cleric of fifty or more, short in the body, with a good paunch and an almost circular face. He had kept up a constant chatter while he tied a cord about her upper arm and passed her the bowl to hold while he stropped his razor on the leather, explaining that her body had accumulated noxious humours in her liver, and possibly her spleen. She must have them evacuated by letting blood flow from the basilic vein, near the elbow.
He paused a moment, knife in hand, a twinkle in his eye, then winked before making a careful cut, drawing the bowl in her hand underneath to catch the drips. “That was easy, now, wasn’t it?”
She nodded, watching her blood. Her father had been a firm believer in the prophylactic benefits of purging the system regularly, and Moll had been bled at least twice a year. There was no pleasure in seeing the wound, but there was nothing to fear about it either. As for the pain – well, that was only a faint tingle from so sharp a blade. The irritation would come later, when the scab formed and the skin puckered.
When he considered that enough had been taken, the physician anointed the wound with a styptic and wrapped it up in bandages. “There! That should be enough for now. Now you stay here for three days, and when that time is done, you may go back to the cloister.”
Godfrey had tiptoed from the room as if she had already been asleep, still smiling, and she’d not realised he had left one of his knives and a small parcel behind until he had gone. Constance came in a little later, pouring out measures of her narcotic drink, ready mixed with strong red wine. Moll told her about the priest’s parcel, but the nun was indifferent: his memory always was dreadful, but he would soon be back for a
nother novice’s vein, and he could collect the knife then.
Remembering him, Moll recalled his insistence that she should drink wine to cleanse her system. She licked her lips. It was warm, and she was thirsty. At the table by her side was the cup measured out by Constance. Moll had tasted it when Constance had served them all. Now Moll tried it again. The first sip made her wince: it was hideously bitter. She was about to set the cup back down again, but there was nothing else to drink, and Constance must have left it there to help her sleep. With a resolute air Moll upended the cup and emptied it, setting it down on the table before falling back and smacking her lips in disgust.
Later, Moll woke with a start. There was a curious clenching sensation in her belly, as if someone had grasped her stomach and was regularly tightening their grip; a hollowness at her throat made her feel as if she was going to be sick.
She opened her eyes. There was no light, apart from a dull glow in the hearth. Joan wasn’t snoring for once and Cecily was whistling heavily as she exhaled in a deep sleep. All Moll could hear over Cecily’s breathing was a light step. She heard the door open then close, and the creaking of the stairs, the murmur of voices. It hardly seemed important.
Soon she would be well again, Moll thought dreamily, and would be released from this room to undertake her mission. That was how she looked upon it: a sacred mission to cleanse the priory. God had sent her here to show the women how they were failing Him: Agnes by her lewd behaviour with the priest, Katerine with her greed, Denise with her gluttony and drunkenness, and the treasurer with her avarice. All were guilty – not least the prioress herself.
But thought was becoming difficult. Moll was befuddled, found it hard to concentrate. The wine mixed with her medicine must be very strong, she thought. The room seemed to be whirling, and she still had that feeling of nausea.
God was pleased. As she drifted off to sleep, that reflection soothed her. She had begun to show each of her sisters the error of their ways, and she was convinced that her words would soon begin to bear fruit, no matter how much they disliked it – or her.
Lady Elizabeth of Topsham, prioress of St Mary’s in Belstone, jerked awake, her eyes opening wide in an instant.
She hardly dared move. Something must have caused her to waken, and in the dark of her curtained bed her imagination took flight: a draw-latch had broken in and was even now preparing to attack her; a serf, bitter at the priory’s taxes, had decided to take revenge on the woman responsible – herself; or maybe it was a felon desperate for sex, full of lusty dreams of young, nubile nuns. Her heart thumped; she was almost sure she could hear the rasping breath of a broken-down villein, hear his shuffling footsteps approach, his hand gripping a dagger. Cowering back, she glanced about her for a weapon, but there was nothing – what would there be on a bed?
Shrinking back, covered in a cold sweat, she prepared for the inevitable, determined to behave with dignity. But suddenly she realised her dog was silent. The intruder must have silenced Princess! With a courage born of the desire to protect her dog, Lady Elizabeth resolved to look her attacker in the face. She reached out and jerked the bed’s curtains aside.
Her fire crackled in the hearth, its glow giving off enough light to see that she was safe: the chest at the foot of her bed was unopened, as was the small cupboard at its side; her door was still shut, the window shuttered, although the movement of the tapestry showed breezes were gaining entry through the broken panes.
Princess, who slept on her own cushion near Elizabeth’s bed, gazed up at her with bleared eyes. The terrier yawned, stretched and shook herself, before slowly making her way to the bedside and gazing up. Lady Elizabeth reached down and lifted her onto the bed. Princess nuzzled affectionately at her chin before curling up. Smiling, the prioress scratched at the terrier’s head, glad that the dog appeared well again. Earlier Elizabeth had thought Princess might die. The dog had been taken with another severe bout of vomiting.
Elizabeth wondered what could have woken her. It wasn’t Princess, for she had been asleep, so who – or what – had? Her heart was still beating with almost painful intensity; her waking terror had not left her. She hardly thought it could be a dream, yet there was nothing to concern her.
It was a huge relief to hear footsteps. Crisp, echoing, in the chill air of the cloister, they were proof that her world was unchanged. It was the nun going to the bell to call everyone to prayer.
She pulled her miniver counterpane up to her chin, snuggling down beneath her blankets, squirming. Princess grumbled to herself at being disturbed.
It was impossible to ignore the dog. Princess had been the prioress’s companion for seven years, and over that time had taken a firm hold on the woman’s heart. That was why Princess’s repeated seizures were becoming so alarming. First the dog whined, then began panting, before vomiting and emptying her bowels. Last evening Elizabeth had been worried lest the terrier wouldn’t see the dawn, but after an hour or two Princess had lapped thirstily at her bowl of water, into which Elizabeth had put a little wine for strength, and fallen into a deep sleep.
It was a relief that Princess had recovered so speedily. Elizabeth was sure it was only something the bitch had stolen to eat. She often ate carrion when she went out over the moors. There were always dead sheep and ponies to chew.
The bell pealed and Elizabeth heard her obedientiaries groan and murmur as they got up and prepared to make their way to the church. As always, most went quietly in the freezing corridor, huddling their arms about them, walking with their heads down, chins resting on their breasts, trying to conserve the warmth of their bodies by leaving as little of themselves as possible exposed to the bitter draughts that gusted about the dorter and church. None of the women had the energy even to bicker, not at this time of night; all Elizabeth could hear was the soft slapping of their night-slippers on the flags.
Moll stirred again before the bell, lying in a relaxed haze, her eyes scarcely open, absorbing the atmosphere with near-ecstatic yet languorous delight.
She felt as if she was in a glorious dream, aware only of a sensuous ease in the comfort of her bed. In the hearth the logs glowed, then flamed spontaneously as the wind outside sucked at the chimney; the candles in their great holders spat and sizzled, dripping thick gobbets of wax with each fresh gust – but to Moll the room appeared suffused in a soft golden light which enclosed her within its soothing embrace.
She heard footsteps hurrying, a man’s voice, speaking low and urgently, then the hasty shutting of the door. Moll knew that something strange and wonderful was happening to her. She was safely wrapped in her sheets, and somehow she was also floating inches above the bed, protected by the warmth of the room. Her body was fluffy, as light as a feather, and all sensations were dulled other than one: that of love. Although she was only a novice, she felt the certainty of God’s love for her, and she closed her eyes and smiled. It felt as if He was smiling back at her, and she was convinced that here and now she had been transported from the infirmary and was somewhere else with Him, standing in the bright sunlight. Her very soul tingled with voluptuous excitement.
With a thrill of euphoria, she was aware of being touched, and although she felt a reverential trepidation, she wanted to cry from sheer bliss, convinced she was about to be granted a vision of heaven. She tried to open her mouth, but it was stopped, covered, and she smiled, thinking God was granting her the kiss of peace.
The pressure grew; she tried to return the kiss, but her lips met something else – cloth? – and it was being shoved upon her heavily, not gently. It threatened to stifle her. Moll tried to speak, to explain that His love was too strong for her, but could say nothing. The force over her mouth and nose was not that of a sweet kiss, it was the smothering of suffocation. She opened her eyes, but all was dark, and suddenly she was scared, all pleasure gone. Something was being held over her face; a pillow. It was impossible to breathe, and in that instant she knew that she was being murdered.
That awareness lent he
r a desperate urge to defend herself. She flung her arms out to punch, but missed; she caught hold of a tunic and pulled, trying to haul whoever it was away from her, but asphyxia made her attempt feeble; the effort exhausted her, and soon she was spent, her panic depleting what energy remained in her frail body. She knew she was about to die.
In a final burst of terror she thrashed with both fists, but a hand caught her wrist, and she felt someone sit astride her chest, thrusting her forearms under her assailant’s knees. She was impotent, utterly defenceless, as the pillow was squeezed against her face and her chest was slowly crushed under the weight of her killer.
Even as she slipped away, she felt the stinging slash at her arm as the knife opened her artery.
Chapter Two
Wandering to the front of his house, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill whistled as he drew to a halt at his door and gazed out over the meadow towards Dartmoor, reflecting happily that he had much to be cheerful about.
It was only a matter of weeks since his marriage to Lady Jeanne de Liddinstone, a union formed from love and not with a view to political or financial gain. Jeanne, a tall, slender woman with red-gold hair and the clearest blue eyes he had ever seen, was to him the very picture of perfection. Her face was regular, if a little round; her nose short and too small; her mouth over-wide, with a full upper lip that made her appear stubborn; her forehead was perhaps too broad – and yet to Baldwin she was beautiful.
At first he had been prey to guilt over his affection for her. It had felt wrong, because he had taken the threefold vows: obedience, poverty and chastity. He had been a Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon – a Knight Templar – and although his Order had been destroyed by an avaricious French King and his willing lackey the Pope, both trying to grab as much of the Templars’ wealth as they could, Sir Baldwin had been confused, knowing that his desire for Jeanne was most unchaste.
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