Belladonna at Belstone aktm-8

by Michael Jecks

  In the early days of their marriage he had felt as though he was denying his faith by making love with his wife; it was as if each occasion was a renewal of his act of apostasy. His vows had been made to the Pope, God’s own vicar on earth, and thus were as holy as any oath could be – but gradually Sir Baldwin came to believe that his honour was not tainted. It was the Pope who had resiled, for he had not protected those who had sworn loyalty to him, and instead threw them to their enemies for money. And that surely meant that all Baldwin’s vows were retracted: he was not guilty of rejecting God, he was the victim of persecution, and that reflection gave him great comfort.

  He had kept his previous life as a warrior monk secret from Jeanne less as a conscious act of concealment, more as an extension of his cautious nature. Over the years since that appalling day, Friday, 13 October 1307, fourteen years ago, when the Templars had been rounded up and shackled together within their own halls or thrown into gaols, Baldwin had been forced to keep his service hidden. The Order was illegal, and any confession of his place within it could have resulted in his arrest. Some day, he swore, he would tell Jeanne. He trusted her, and it was mean-minded of him not to share his past with her, but there had not as yet been an opportunity.

  At the back of his mind was the vague fear that she might not understand how he and his comrades had been betrayed, that she might believe her husband was a devil-worshipper, as the Templars had been described, but he shook off this possibility with contempt. He must trust to her commonsense. Jeanne was no flibbertigibbet, flighty and frivolous, but a mature and intelligent woman, one in whom he could trust. It was largely due to her that he felt so secure now, so habituated to his life.

  The sun was high in the sky, concealed by clouds, but as Baldwin hooked his thumbs into his belt and surveyed the land, it broke through a gap. All at once the scene took on a brighter, livelier aspect. The trees which lined the meadow were touched with a faint gold, the shadows stretched stark against the bright green of the grass, while the sheep meandering about suddenly looked fresher and cleaner. On the lawn, where the sunlight had not yet reached because of the shadows of the trees, each blade of grass was rimed, while in the middle where the previous night’s frost had melted, beads of moisture shone like jewels in the low light.

  Baldwin sighed contentedly and watched the long feather of his breath gradually fade away in the chill morning air. It was a constant source of surprise to him how the weather could be so irregular: three weeks ago at his wedding it had been warm springtime, with fresh green colours licking at the trees and shoots thrusting upwards from the soil at the base of the trees and in the fields; now, so short a time later, the land was frozen once more, and frost had blackened young flowers and leaves. It was worrying that his villeins had sown their seeds. Sir Baldwin was no agricultural expert but he was concerned that young shoots might be harmed by the severe cold.

  His view was uninterrupted from here, right down as far south as Dartmoor, the sight of which made him stop whistling, his lips still puckered, as he warily studied the grey hills, outlined with white where the snow had fallen.

  Try as he might, he could not like the moors. Dartmoor was as bleak and untameable as the deserts he had seen in his youth as a Templar, when he had travelled as far as Acre in defence of the Christian kingdom of Jerusalem. To Baldwin’s mind it was uninviting; threatening, almost.

  But he would not allow it to affect his mood. He had enjoyed a fast ride to Cadbury and back, hurtling along on his new courser, a strong beast with powerful shoulders and haunches which had cost him thirty marks, money he counted as well spent. There was no doubt that the stallion was more than capable of carrying him swiftly over great distances, and could serve as his destrier if need be; although at this moment Baldwin was more interested in the animal’s ability to cover his mares. His stock was low; a murrain had reduced his stables and he must breed more.

  Hearing light steps behind him, he turned to see his wife, and felt once again the pride and longing which always seemed to accompany her appearance.

  “My Lord,” Jeanne greeted him, signalling to the boy behind her. “I expected you in your hall, but if you would stand out here, would you care for warmed wine?“

  She watched hawk-like as the boy, Wat, the cattleman’s son, carefully brought the jug to his master and filled a pot, passing it to Sir Baldwin. Only when her husband had taken the pot from the lad did Jeanne relax. Wat was far too interested in the manor’s ales for his own good. As a servant he had come to enjoy tasting all the barrels in the buttery, and from his appearance that morning, he had tried much of the strong ale the previous night. Jeanne had been sure he would spill Baldwin’s drink, but thankfully he didn’t. Blissfully unaware of his pale-faced servant, Baldwin stood at the side of the doorway, his pot steaming and filling the air with the good, wholesome scent of cloves and nutmeg, cinnamon and lemon, while he gazed proudly over his demesne.

  Jeanne was content. Here, with this husband who valued peace, who detested animosity and arguments, she could live restfully. Her duties were hardly onerous: she scarcely had enough to fill her day in this well-organised estate. The manor had a fund of stolid, hardworking serfs, and in the house were servants to take charge of almost any aspect of life. Jeanne saw her responsibility as maintaining the calm efficiency of the place so as to ensure the continued tranquillity of the knight, her husband.

  From the look of him, she had so far succeeded. At his wedding, Sir Baldwin had been slim-waisted, a tall man in his middle forties. He had carried himself like a swordsman, broad-shouldered and with a heavily muscled right arm, but now his form was subtly altering as Lady Jeanne regulated his kitchen and forced the cook to learn new dishes. Baldwin’s belly was thickening, his chin growing beneath the neatly trimmed, dark beard. Even the lines of suffering which had marked his forehead and had lain at either side of his mouth were fading, and the scar which ran from temple to jaw seemed less prominent.

  His clothing too had undergone a transformation. Baldwin was not vain, as some of his older and threadbare tunics could testify. Most of them had been mended several times, making him look as tatty as an impoverished mercenary without a lord. These days, Jeanne was delighted to see her husband displaying the trappings of wealth. Today, for instance, his robe was fur-lined, his hat’s liripipe trailed to his shoulder, his tunic was a gorgeous blue. It was only right. Jeanne, as proud of her husband as any young wife, felt that a man with such authority should dress himself accordingly. Beforehand, few who met Baldwin would have guessed that he was the Keeper of the King’s Peace for Crediton, a man whose sway might technically have stopped short of the death penalty without a coroner’s formal approval, but who was still one of the King’s most important local representatives.

  It wasn’t the power which had attracted Jeanne to him. She had been unfortunate in childhood: a gang of trailbastons had murdered her father and mother, and she had been sent to relatives in Bordeaux as an orphan. Her uncle had married her off as soon as she was old enough to a Devon knight, Sir Ralph of Liddinstone, a brutal man who had blamed her when she was unable to conceive the children he craved, and took to beating her. It had been a great relief when he caught a fever and died.

  She had been anxious lest all husbands would behave in the same way. At first, when Ralph died, she was keen never to tie herself to another man – but then she met Sir Baldwin, and something about him made her review that decision.

  Sir Baldwin had an essential gentleness which she found reassuring, and his actions demonstrated a respect for her and her sex which was novel; whereas most men professed a chivalrous civility towards women, Sir Baldwin was one of the few she had ever known who took pains to behave respectfully, rather than simply using expressions of admiration and courtly love to obscure some very earthy intentions.

  Yet there was more to his attraction than mere politeness and kindness. He intrigued her, for in his eyes she could sometimes see a melancholy, as if a memory had triggered a sad r
eflection. At those times she loved him more than at any other, and had a strong maternal urge to defend him.

  “How was the horse, my love?”

  Baldwin finished his pot, tossed it to Wat, and caught hold of his wife, kissing her. “Magnificent! As fast as I could have wished, and steady, too.”

  Jeanne pulled back from his encircling arms and peered up into his face, ignoring the sound of the pot smashing on the cobbles as Wat fumbled the catch. Baldwin’s eyes shone with an honest brilliance, and she made a moue. “I wish you would be more cautious when the tracks are iced, husband. What if you were to fall far from here, and no one knew where you were?”

  “Do not fear for me, my Lady,” he grinned. “With a horse such as him I would find it difficult to lose my seat. And the important thing is, he should sire a whole generation of foals before the end of the year.”

  He stooped to kiss her, and she responded, but as he embraced her, he felt her stiffen at the sound of hoofbeats. Turning, he saw a messenger riding fast towards them.

  The sun shone brightly on the convent too. Lady Elizabeth could see that the night’s snow had mostly melted as she sat in the cloisters with the account rolls spread before her. She hated them. Not only was she unable to add and subtract, she found her treasurer’s scrawl difficult to decipher. Most of the time she reluctantly accepted what Margherita had written – not an ideal state of affairs, for she instinctively mistrusted the other woman.

  Lady Elizabeth was seated in her favourite spot. Here, she could keep an eye on her obedientiaries and now, as the women returned from the frater and their main meal of the day, was the best time of day for her to observe her nuns and assess their mood.

  Giggles and laughter were quickly stilled as they approached the cloister and saw their prioress sitting there. She noted that Moll’s death had not affected the novices much. They were young and were bound to recover more quickly; they wouldn’t appreciate the impact this death could have on the priory. Elizabeth gave a grim smile as she caught sight of Katerine: some of them wouldn’t be particularly upset to see Moll go, the prioress thought.

  Katerine was a shrewd little thing. Only one-and-twenty, she was dark-haired, with pale skin, a wide mouth and tip-tilted nose that gave her an earnest, cheerful aspect – but the impression was betrayed by the eyes. Brown with green flecks, they were – a pretty combination – but there was nothing pretty about the calculation in them.

  Agnes hadn’t liked Moll either. This girl was quiet and self-contained, only seventeen years old, with thick red-gold hair and green eyes. Her face was heavily freckled, which added to her attractiveness, although Elizabeth felt inwardly that there was something wrong about her looks: a certain sharpness of feature that boded an unkind nature.

  The prioress saw Agnes glance in her direction before walking to the door that led up to the dorter and infirmary with that sedate, gliding motion of hers. She stood taller than Katerine by at least half a head, and her body was already more full. Her hips were broad, her breasts large, while Katerine had the figure of a boy, much as poor Moll had had.

  Agnes was no threat to the smooth running of the convent. She had her faults, but Lady Elizabeth was not of a mind to confront her with them. The priests were often talking about taking splinters out of a man’s eye while a plank remained in your own, and she was uncomfortably aware of her own failings. Either the girl would grow out of her sins or she would leave before taking her vows.

  The other nuns returned from the frater. Margherita came out with Joan, talking conspiratorially. They looked odd, Margherita large and square, almost masculine, Joan short and wiry, slim and with the compact frame of an older woman, although whiplash strong. Elizabeth felt a shiver run through her body. Unconsciously she pulled her robes tighter about her, tugging the woollen cloak more firmly over her shoulders. Something didn’t feel right. There was a tension in the air. She could feel their baleful stare even when she turned away.

  Constance, the infirmarer, had obviously not got over the death of her charge. Elizabeth regarded her doubtfully. She appeared to be drunk, was red-featured – somewhat sullen, or perhaps nervous? Her shoes dragged and she stumbled every so often, as did Denise, the sacrist. The two seemed to have formed some kind of unholy alliance against the world.

  Elizabeth bent her head as if to study the papers before her, but kept her attention fixed on Constance and Denise. They made for Margherita and paused to whisper a moment at her side, their backs turned to the prioress, before walking on.

  Last through the door was Emma, the cellaress. Tall, slim, sharp-faced, with a cold and humourless demeanour, she glanced at the prioress only briefly. Seeing Elizabeth’s eye upon her, she gave a dry, unfriendly smile, then walked over to Margherita.

  Lady Elizabeth felt ice solidify in her belly. Something was wrong, and she had no idea what it could be.

  The treasurer looked across and nodded smugly at the sight of Elizabeth’s pinched and anxious expression.

  “I came as quickly as I could, Peter,” Sir Baldwin said, marching quickly into the hall of Peter Clifford, the Dean of Crediton’s canonical church. And so he had, riding speedily over the dangerous roads, wondering all the time what Crediton’s priest could want. It was rare for Peter Clifford to make such an urgent request for Baldwin’s help.

  The hall was modern, with a good fireplace set into the wall. Logs hissed and crackled, their flames throwing a healthy glow about the room. The unhealthy fresh air was shuttered out, and wholesome tallow candles spat and smoked in the corners of the room. Peter Clifford’s table stood at the opposite wall from the fire, but on this chilly day he had dragged chairs before the hearth. He was not alone; there was a second man at his side.

  “It is good of you to come, old friend,” said Peter. “Permit me to introduce you to Bishop Bertrand, the suffragan bishop of Exeter.”

  Bowing his head while Bishop Bertrand solemnly blessed him, Baldwin had to suppress a shudder of revulsion. Bertrand’s voice betrayed his French birth.

  Baldwin had nothing against those with a French accent particularly, but a priest was a different matter. He distrusted French priests for the same reason Bertrand would almost certainly have retracted his blessing, had he known that Baldwin was a renegade Templar. The French clergy had joined in the condemnation of the Order almost to a man. Some were no doubt motivated by greed: they had scrambled to take over churches and lands. Others were scared of the Pope’s displeasure; some believed the accusations of sacrilegious and anti-Christian worship and thought it right that they should persecute men who participated in such obscene acts. Bertrand looked to Baldwin as if he fell into the first category. He had the disapproving mien of the professional churchman, as if dubious whether he could be contaminated by being too close to a secular knight of heaven alone knew what background.

  Respectfully Baldwin stood back. He had to admit that the man probably had good reason to look suspicious. The knights and barons of England were taking advantage of the weakness of King Edward II to indulge in their own petty land wars, especially those who could rely on the favour of the King, such as the Despenser family. Hugh the Younger, son of Hugh Despenser the Older, seemed to have an insatiable appetite for fresh lands. Baldwin had heard that his greed had led to an upsurge of discontent in the Welsh March, where he was attempting to line his pocket at the expense of his neighbours. It would be no surprise if they should all collaborate against him; the March was ever a source of vicious warfare and was run as a series of private fiefdoms, each lord having his own army. Now matters had grown so serious, Baldwin had been told, that the King himself had travelled to Gloucester to ban any large assemblies of men, but his command had been ignored and armies were gathering.

  It was just one more proof of discontent within the kingdom, and Baldwin was growing concerned that England could explode into violence.

  “Sir Baldwin,” Peter said, offering him a seat and motioning to a servant to pour wine, “I’m terribly sorry to have a
sked you here at such short notice, but I wasn’t sure to whom I could turn.”

  Peter Clifford was a tall, thin, ascetic priest with a shock of white hair marred by his tonsure. His complexion was pale now, because he had forgone his usual pleasures of hunting and hawking this winter, spending all his free hours in the church’s cloisters bent over the pages of his account books while he tried to finish off the internal decoration of the recently built church. Today, however, Baldwin thought he looked more tired than usual. Underlying his pallid features was a deep anxiety, bred of fear, and at the sight Baldwin realised the seriousness of his summons.

  “I am honoured you felt you could turn to me,” he said gently. “But how can I help you?”

  Peter Clifford pulled his chair nearer to the knight’s. “Sir Baldwin, what we are about to tell you is confidential. It falls under the same secrecy as the confessional, you understand? It is the business of Holy Mother Church, and must never be divulged.”

  “I shall keep secret whatever you tell me.”

  Peter glanced over at Bertrand. The bishop gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Peter leaned back in his chair as the bishop rested his elbows on his knees and minutely studied Baldwin.

  To Baldwin’s eye the bishop himself looked as though he would have benefited from more exercise and a diet of good red meat. Bertrand was surely in his early fifties, a stooped, prim-looking fellow with a long narrow face and sharp little eyes. His mouth was small and pursed, with bloodless lips, giving his face a sour appearance. His left hand was withered, and he left it in his lap, emphasising points with his right alone.