Belladonna at Belstone aktm-8

by Michael Jecks

  He was not sure how old he was. When he had been born such things weren’t important – not like keeping track of the sow’s age or the cow’s. Hugh felt empty, as though his life was drifting past idly. All his energies were spent in looking after his master and the family, and in the meantime he never had a chance to seek his own woman. His life was being used up in serving another, and soon he would be dead, leaving nothing behind save Simon’s gratitude.

  Never before had Hugh been so overwhelmed with non-fulfilment. It was as if he knew he was worth something, but had never achieved his value.

  He sighed, stood, and began to unpack the bag. It was rare for him to feel so strong a melancholy. He resolved to seek a pot or two of ale when he was done up here.

  Sir Baldwin and Simon walked with the enraged suffragan to meet the prioress.

  Simon had a compulsion to laugh out loud at Bertrand’s expression, in which frustration vied with pure fury. It was plain that Bertrand had realised his relative impotence in the face of the prioress’s disregard of his instructions. The bishop was controlling his temper only with extreme difficulty; his anger was so apparent Simon thought Bertrand would have been incandescent if it had been dark.

  The reason for his mood was obvious. Their path led them past the nuns’ cloister to the southern side of the buildings. Here, at the canon’s side, they entered an unguarded doorway. Even here, within the monastic clearing, Simon was struck by how shabby and filthy the place was. The buildings were in a bad state, but the problems lay deeper than that. As they passed the square of grass in the middle of the canonical cloister, he saw that a dog had been there: excrement lay on the grass. At one point Simon clearly smelt vomit, as if a monk had drunk too much and thrown up on the grass.

  There came the sound of running feet, and when Simon glanced behind them, he saw the canon from the gate running to catch up with them, a younger one trailing in his wake. The cleric called out in a voice near breaking from his exertion: “My Lord Bishop, my Lady Elizabeth will be so pleased that you are here. Let me go and tell her…”

  Simon saw the bishop stop dead in his tracks and turn slowly.

  “Pleased, Jonathan?” Bertrand hissed. “I am surprised you could think my return would be in any way pleasurable. When I see that none of my commands have been obeyed, I find it hard to anticipate any damned pleasure!”

  Whatever his words, Jonathan himself didn’t look joyful at the reunion. He was a scrawny man, perhaps fifty years old, although Simon always found it hard to guess the age of men who wore the tonsure. Anxious eyes flitted over Simon and Baldwin, as if Jonathan was trying to assess the reason for their presence.

  “Bishop, I know the circumstances of your return…”

  “You mean the death of this novice?”

  “It was merely an accident, Bishop.”

  “Perhaps, but nothing would surprise me here: this priory is a pit of lust and degeneration – just look at this!” He held up his tunic, showing the cow’s mess. The smell was noticeable and he winced, then shook with rage. “Just look at it! I ordered that the courtyard should be cleaned and I find it worse than when I left; I ordered that the cloisters should be kept tidy and there’s dog shit all over the place! What is there in the church?” he demanded, quivering with emotion. “The cloisters are no better than a stable – I suppose you’ve got the oxen stored in there! Just look at the state of the buildings! Has anything been done to repair them as I told you? Eh?”

  “My Lord, I…”

  “No! I will not listen. Tell Prioress Elizabeth I will see her whether it is convenient or not. Go!”

  Going to the rear of the church Denise fetched rags and beeswax from her aumbry, the chest where she stored all her cleaning things. She began polishing the woodwork.

  Her arms had ached awfully when she had first taken on this duty, but now she found the hard effort rewarding. It was tiring, but required little thought, and she found her mind ranging over all the priory’s troubles while she rubbed, burping every so often from the wine she had drunk.

  Denise wasn’t happy. At forty-three she was one of the senior nuns; not that she ever got the respect she deserved. She knew she would not have a chance of competing for the prioressy. Not enough potential supporters. Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the machinations an election would entail.

  The place seemed to be falling apart around her. The discipline that a nun should have shown, the dedication, was missing with these new girls. They seemed to look upon their life as some sort of holiday. Denise blamed the prioress: she hadn’t instilled the right level of reverence. She didn’t seem to care about the observances – letting nuns sleep through and even bringing her dog into church.

  That was the great difference between Margherita and Lady Elizabeth. The former was sincere, upstanding, and would bring solemnity to the place. Even to those dratted novices.

  Novices! Huh! If Denise could have had her way, she’d have thrown most of them out. They were no good to man nor beast. Dishonest, unchaste, and sly. Nasty little girls, all of them. Katerine, Agnes – and Moll.

  “Poor Moll!” Denise sneered.

  The slut had deserved her end. She was no better than the prioress, all outward piety and strict devotion, while inside she was a dirty little hussy. That was what Margherita had told her anyway, and Denise had no reason to doubt her. Not after Denise’s own experience: the girl had dared to accuse her of being drunk – not only that, Moll had suggested that Denise should confess to her drinking in the chapter. As if a brat like her had any right to browbeat an older nun! If Denise had dared, she’d have demanded to have Moll beaten, but that would have meant repeating what Moll had said. And Denise couldn’t do that.

  She spat on a recalcitrant mark and rubbed harder, her lips a thin white line. They were all so shallow: laughing and murmuring behind her back, just because she liked her wine.

  Perhaps Moll’s death would teach them a lesson.

  Unknown to Bertrand, not that he would have cared, his voice carried clearly in the chilly air. In the canonical frater the men stared at each other, shocked to hear such rage; the grooms and stablemen near the cloisters stopped their work and gazed towards the church; in the nuns’ cloister the sisters exchanged horrified glances; up in the dormitory, the prioress recognised Bertrand’s bellow and gave a cold smile.

  Taking a deep breath she closed her eyes. Bertrand’s voice signalled that the attack upon her was about to start. His roar was like the first shot fired by a siege engine, loud and terrifying. It demonstrated that there could be no quiet negotiation, no subtle solution to protect her. Bertrand was like the King’s own artillery; ponderous and slow, but once pointed in the direction of a target, he was as resolute as a machine. And here at the nunnery, Elizabeth was confident that her treasurer Margherita would enthusiastically load him with ever heavier boulders for his assault.

  She looked down at her papers and winced. Even that boorish fool Bertrand in a fighting mood was preferable to more paperwork. She stood slowly, an elderly woman with a back that ached from long hours on uncomfortable wooden chairs, but as she straightened she was already planning. The death of the novice had led directly to this confrontation, and Lady Elizabeth was determined to win it. She intended keeping her post.

  The visitor was here to seek an answer to Moll’s death, but he would also be sure to want to place himself in the best possible light: this was an opportunity to enhance his own status.

  Lady Elizabeth was old, and people sometimes mistakenly saw in her sagging jowls and slightly weak blue eyes the proofs of feminine frailty. This very Bertrand had assumed her to be an irrational woman, a broken reed – harmless, perhaps, but vulnerable. He had thought her a titular head, someone without real power.

  Yet that was to underestimate her. “So he wishes me removed, thinking to accuse me of murder,” she hissed.

  It was Rose from the tavern, sitting on a bench at her window, who had helped her come to that conclusion. Fro
m Bertrand’s conversation in the tavern Lady Elizabeth was to be made a scapegoat and forced to resign. Her treasurer was behind it. Well, Lady Elizabeth was not of a mood to resign. It would take a stronger man than this French idiot to remove her.

  “He will not say that I am accused of murder,” she stated, peering through the dirty panes of glass to the moors.

  “No. He said that they were all to keep quiet about the treasurer’s letter.”

  “Well, I am warned,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully.

  Rose was silent, watching her at the window. The prioress stood frowning out shortsightedly, her hands clasped before her breast, but then she whirled around and faced the girl.

  “You are sure, Rose – quite sure – that he said he had received a letter saying that I was the girl’s murderer, and that this letter came from Margherita?”

  “Yes, I heard him talking to the black-bearded man, saying that the letter was why they had all had to come here in such a hurry.”

  There was a gust of wind, and the papers on the table moved as the window rattled. From the far end of the dorter there came a crash as a tile fell from the roof. Elizabeth winced and turned her eyes heavenwards. “Merciful Father!”

  Hearing the footsteps rushing up the stairs, she waved a hand absently, seeing Rose make ready to flee. “It’s not the bishop, child. Stay there.”

  Before Jonathan could pound on her door, Elizabeth herself opened it. “Come inside, Jonathan.”

  The pale cleric glanced at Rose. “I have come from Bishop Bertrand, my Lady, and he demands that you attend him instantly.“

  “How very rude of him,” Elizabeth said primly. “You will tell him that I shall be pleased to see him after Vespers, but that until then I fear I have much to occupy me.”

  Jonathan gaped. “My Lady, but he said…”

  “You will point out to him that a prioress has other calls upon her time, and that although I have a duty to hospitality and will be happy to lodge him and his men within the precincts of the church, I still have other responsibilities to attend to.”

  “Don’t you think you should agree to see him soon?” The ageing cleric stared from her to the door as if expecting the bishop to appear at any moment. “He might think it strange that you don’t go to him to talk about the dead novice.”

  “Moll is dead. Talking to him now or after Vespers will make no difference to her. In any case, I doubt not that he will be more than delighted to wander around the place and talk to the other nuns. They will feed him with rumour and allegations to their hearts’ content. I have other work to do. Go along now, and tell him.”

  As soon as Jonathan had disappeared, this time walking dolefully in the anticipation of more furious shouting, Lady Elizabeth turned to face Rose. “Very well! The die is cast, and this silly man will do his worst.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Me? Oh, I shall allow him all the time he needs to investigate poor Moll’s death, and then I shall speak to him. When I am ready.”

  Chapter Seven

  Agnes hurried along the corridor and turned into the frater. Denise was in there, sitting at a bench, Wearily staring at a jug, and so was Katerine, over near the far door which gave out to the yard behind.

  “Katerine?” Agnes hissed. “Have you heard who’s here?”

  Katerine turned to her a face from which all emotion had gone. “Who?” she asked flatly.

  “The visitor. He’s back to investigate Moll’s death.”

  Katerine studied her for a moment or two, absorbing this news. “Then you should be careful, shouldn’t you, Agnes? After all, Moll was happy enough to spread those stories about you.”

  “Me? What are you on about?” Agnes asked, the smile fading.

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “You’re jealous, aren’t you?” Agnes couldn’t stop a grin of delight from spreading over her features.

  “Who, me? No, I was merely wondering what the prioress could say…”

  “Don’t even think it,” Agnes smiled, but there was steel in her eyes. “If Luke and me get found out, I’ll explain how he services all of us. What is it? Do you want Luke back?”

  “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 we
nt 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 Crediton, 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.”