Belladonna at Belstone (17 page)

“Moll was a young girl, but strongly enough built,” Baldwin theorised. “She should have been able to fight - but not while drugged.”

“Which makes the infirmarer more suspicious than the prioress.” “I suppose so. Although I confess I am beginning to think they all are. Margherita wandered the cloisters regularly, as did Joan; Denise liked sitting up with a drink, and from the sound of it, Moll herself and this other novice, Agnes, both saw men about the place. Do any of these nuns stick to their Rule? Can we take anything for granted about their behaviour?“

And with that quiet reflection, Baldwin walked into the frater.

When the bell for Vespers tolled, Elias the smith had walked out with his companions, but then ducked back as if realising he had left something behind while the others continued on to the service. He could be punished for not attending, but that was of little concern to him now.

It was rare that he had an opportunity to rest peacefully and meditate, and he felt the need of it more than ever just now. The service wouldn’t last long, and he wished to make the most of the time he had, to consider his plans and review his options.

Westwards the sun was failing, leaving the cloisters in shadow as it sank behind the tall hill, and there was an icy freshness in the air that sank through his heavy robes. He shuddered from the sudden change in temperature, pulled his coat tighter about his shoulders, and walked slowly along the side of the building.

They ran a great risk, he knew, but they had little choice. Especially now. If they were to remain living as they did they were an insult to God. He hadn’t taken the full vows like her, but that was no excuse. Both of them would be committing apostasy by going. She would be sought with the utmost energy of the Church, and brought back here to continue to serve for the rest of her life. He wasn’t sure what would happen to him.

Not that his mind could concentrate well. Whenever he tried to think about what they would do, a vision of Moll’s face kept springing into his mind. He fetched a jug of ale and sat down.

Hearing the canons and lay brethren leave the church, he drained his pot of ale. It was the signal to end his maudlin reverie. Outside, he straightened his shoulders with resolution and strode along the canons’ cloister to the dim little passageway that led out to the stables southwards.

There was a small outhouse leaning against the stables, and it was here that he had stored his bundles, hiding them under a pile of straw. One for her, one for him: two packages tightly wrapped, containing dried meat and fruit, tinder, a parcel of bread each, a pair of wineskins, and cloaks, sheepskins, furred boots, jacks, and even spare hose for them. He was leaving nothing to chance.

Well, it was a huge responsibility, knowing he was going to be a father, he thought as he carefully concealed the lot beneath the straw again, after checking it was all still there. He sprinkled spare dirt over the top, then stood back to make certain that his disruption of the cache was not visible. Satisfied, he left the room and, looking about him swiftly, walked back to the cloister. He sneaked into the church, sat in a pew and bent his head in prayer, waiting. She had said she would try to leave an hour or two after Compline, so he had a while to wait.

All because of Moll. That treacherous little snake had died, and now everyone thought Constance had done it.

Elias had to rescue his woman before she could be accused.

The smith would have been more anxious still if he had known that as soon as he had returned to the cloister, a figure had moved out from the shadow of a buttress supporting the stables and silently stepped into the lean-to. Rose soon found the hidden parcels and knelt, sniffing at them, opening them to see what was there before carefully rewrapping and hiding them again.

It was obvious that Elias was going to make a run for it. That news might well be useful to the prioress, Rose didn’t know. She couldn’t tell what things were useful to Lady Elizabeth, but she herself was intrigued. She knew Elias as the strong-willed brother who had always refused her charms, and here he was planning to escape. With whom? She could hazard a guess.

But she couldn’t go and see Lady Elizabeth about it, not now. The prioress had enough to worry her with the suffragan bishop. Rose eyed the spot where the bags were hidden. What if Elias returned in the meanwhile and fled the convent?

Behind her was the doorway to the great smithy. The forge was still alight, filling the place with a warm glow. She dragged a bench to the door. From here she could keep watch and make sure Elias didn’t run. Tomorrow she would seek out Brother Godfrey and ask him for his advice: should she tell Lady Elizabeth about this, or could Godfrey speak to Elias and prevent his running away?

She nodded happily. She trusted Godfrey.

When the three men entered, there was a sudden horrified silence. Too late Baldwin reflected that these women were unused to the sight of men. Soon the shocked glances were cooled as Bertrand was recognised, but everyone felt awkward with the three men standing in the doorway staring about them. The conversation faltered and died.

Frowning, Bertrand finally called to Margherita, who sat at the far wall: ‘Treasurer, where is the prioress?“

“Alas, visitor, I have not seen her since leaving the church. She was there for Vespers, but when I left the choir I met you, and I don’t know where she went while I spoke to you.”

Bertrand stood quivering with emotion, and was about to explode when Baldwin interposed.

“Do you think you could let her know that we have been seeking her? Tell her the novice
was
murdered, and not by dwale - she was suffocated and then stabbed. For now we shall return to the canonical cloister, but please inform the prioress that we shall return tomorrow and would be grateful for a moment with her.”

Margherita nodded, and Baldwin walked from the room.

Twilight had fallen, and the air was bitterly cold. He could taste a metallic tang in the air. In these parts, that could only mean severe weather.

He had never stayed on the moors during the winter, but Simon had told him how foul the weather could become; earlier in the year, Baldwin had experienced the misery of riding through what had appeared to be only a slight drizzle: it had left him soaked to the skin in no time at all. That escapade had convinced him that moorland weather could be more inclement than that which he was used to.

And he had no wish to be stuck here, in the middle of nowhere, when war could threaten his home at any time.

Had Jeanne known the turn his thoughts were taking, she would have been gratified to learn that her husband, while incarcerated in a nunnery, was thinking only of her.

In truth, she had no thoughts for him; she had been too busy since his departure. All the servants had been mobilised. First the exterior of the house had been cleared of its covering of ivy and other vegetation, and tomorrow it was to be attacked in force by all those men who could wield a brush or carry a pail of limewash. Any spare souls would be marched to the woodwork and ordered to smother that in new paint.

Indoors she had already finished the removal of fleas, other than those living on Baldwin’s mastiff, who now, after Edgar’s constant tuition, only answered to the name ‘Chops’. He still occasionally displayed signs of itching, but Jeanne had no idea how to remove his infestation.

Now, late in the evening, as dark fell over the house and the animals were all settled for the night, she sat before the fire in the hall, Edgar beside her. Wat the cattleman’s boy sprawled on the floor, pulling a thick lump of rope in a ferocious-sounding game of tug-of-war with Chops.

“Wat! The dog is growling enough, there’s no need for you to as well,” Jeanne called sharply.

Wat threw her a look over his shoulder, and was quieter, murmuring snarls as the mastiff tugged and jerked his toy.

“So, Edgar, with the old linen thrown out, we shall need plenty of new. You will have to arrange for bedclothing, a fresh mattress - that old one is awful - and buy a wall-covering. A good, thick tapestry.”

“What picture would you like on it?” he asked.

There was a particular tone to his voice. Jeanne didn’t look up for a moment while she considered. Edgar had been Baldwin’s sole friend and confidant as well as his servant for many years, according to the little she had heard. It must be painful for him to see all that he had grown used to being discarded on, as he would see it, the whim of a woman.

Jeanne smiled. “What would he like best, do you think?”

Edgar, who was well used to feminine wiles having been a successful philanderer for many years, recognised the appearance of the olive branch and grinned back. “I would think a picture of hunting, or hawking.“ It was not as if he found his new mistress overbearing or difficult; she was a great deal more straightforward than he had feared, if a bit demanding. But after being first Sir Baldwin’s man-at-arms and then his servant for more than thirty years, since they had met in the mess that was Acre in 1291, it was hardly surprising that Edgar found so much change over so short a period unsettling.

He left Lady Jeanne by the fire. A pot was boiling and Edgar took it to his buttery. There he drew off a quart of wine and prepared hypocras, putting broken lumps of sugar into a pan, adding boiling water and spices and leaving them to stew for a while.

He had enjoyed his time with his master, but now things were changing. Sir Baldwin was married, and didn’t need Edgar’s help to buy clothes or organise the estates. And Edgar was finding himself forced to look to his own future. He was handfast to Cristine from the tavern in Crediton, and she was growing impatient with Edgar for his delay in formally giving her his vows. She understood that he had been unable to do much until his master’s wedding was over, but now Cristine wanted their arrangement made binding, and Edgar wasn’t certain how his master would take to having yet another woman about the place -nor was he sure how Lady Jeanne would react.

It added up to a disturbing time, and one in which Edgar found himself confused. All in all, it was most unsettling.

He added the wine to the pot and carried it to the hall, pouring a large measure into a pewter jug. It was as he passed Jeanne the drink that they both heard hooves in the yard and Edgar walked to the door.

“Wat, quiet, boy!” Jeanne snapped, trying to listen. In a few minutes, Edgar came back with a grubby and dirt-stained man, who panted like a dog from exertion.

“My Lady, this man is a messenger for the suffragan bishop, on his way to find him at Peter Clifford’s house. I told him that Bishop Bertrand is not there, but I think you should hear his news.”

Jeanne noted his serious expression and nodded to the man, who dropped onto a bench while Edgar fetched him a large jug of ale. The messenger took a long draught and glanced up at Edgar thankfully, but then recalled his place, and sat upright as he met Jeanne’s eye.

“My Lady,” he declaimed, “I have been sent by Bishop Stapledon of Exeter, who advised me to visit Furnshill to warn his good friend Sir Baldwin, and to inform the bishop’s suffragan in Exeter, that although our King has instructed Humphrey de Bohun, the Earl of Hereford, not to discuss the affairs of the realm nor to have any assemblies of men, the Earl has ignored the King’s command. He has raised his levy to form an army.”

Edgar offered the messenger more drink, but the man refused. “A place to unroll my blanket near a fire is all I crave.”

“Then you must sleep here,” Jeanne said, rising to her feet and indicating the hearth. “Pull a bench to the heat and rest. For my part, I am grateful to you for stopping here on your way to Crediton. When you wake, tell the servants that I expect them to feed you well to keep you going for the remainder of your journey.”

She accepted his thanks, and walked from the room out to the little solar, Edgar close behind her. He took his rest on a bench near the entrance to her private rooms, the mastiff with him. Edgar never took risks when he could avoid them, and although he had little doubt that the messenger was perfectly innocent and honourable, Edgar was not going to leave his mistress unguarded while his master was absent.

Comforted by the knowledge of his nearness, Jeanne sat in a chair in her bedchamber. There was no need to undress yet, especially with the freezing gusts wafting in from the unglazed windows, and she wanted a few moments to consider what she had heard.

No matter what the deeper political problems were, one thing was quite obvious: the country was teetering on the brink of disaster once more. The King and his friends the Despensers, father and son, were rushing towards another civil war with the barons.

Jeanne found herself praying to God that her husband would not be sent to fight. She didn’t want to be widowed so soon after finding him.

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.