Belladonna at Belstone (23 page)

Constance stared at her belly with near revulsion. It had never occurred to her that she could come to this. Elias had been a flirtation, an amusement snatched between services and the routines of claustral life. She had enjoyed flirting so much that one day she had shamefully passed near the grille, and when he made to catch at her robe, she made a show of sweeping it away, casually allowing her hand to pass so close to his that he could hardly help but catch it.

As soon as his fingers gripped hers, she felt the blood stop in her veins. She was frozen in time; her eyes transfixed by his powerful fingers; scarred, grime-ingrained fingers they were, but to her they were beautiful. She imagined how they would feel upon her body, scratching slightly as the nicks and calluses scraped over her. She pulled away, scared of her own emotions, and for the rest of that day she had lived in a dream, a wonderful dream in which Elias held her hand and smiled at her.

It had not been easy for him to get to her room. She had tutored him carefully, and had given her patients dwale to ensure their silence. The only risk had been that he might be seen entering the dorter, and then, once inside, that Princess might hear him. The little dog barked whenever she heard a man in the nuns’ area. It was because of her that Constance had given Elias a bottle of poppy syrup. Princess often went to the men’s cloister, and there would steal any food available. Elias lured her into eating marrow bones, and fed her small pieces of bread soaked in poppy syrup.

Each time Elias had gone to see Constance the dog had been unconscious. In fact, the poppy juice worked so well that when Elias proposed that they should leave together, Constance hadn’t quibbled when he asked for a larger bottle, this time to ensure that the gatehouse was still as they passed through; they wouldn’t have to concern themselves with over-inquisitive gatekeepers.

But now Constance couldn’t leave. Partly it was the talk she had had with Lady Elizabeth. The prioress made her feel she was wanted. Oh, she’d made it clear enough that Constance would be committing a sin by leaving, but Constance believed that conceiving her child already put her beyond the pale. No, it was Elizabeth’s understanding that had struck Constance. She truly appeared to understand Constance’s confusion and fear.

There was another reason why she wasn’t sure about running away. She thought Elias might be the murderer.

Simon took a pace back from the parapet. It was a hideous drop, made still more repulsive by that revolting smear. Now he knew what he was looking for, he could see the traces of red on the wall itself. Not on the roof below - that puddle was perfectly clear. No, now he could see the vertical path cleared in the snow was not merely an area remarkable by the absence of snow, but also by a smear of red.

He was as sure as he could be that Katerine had been murdered: these traces of her blood up on the roof of St Mary’s meant that she had already been hurt
before
falling. Simon felt his stomach churn but not now with squeamishness. A hot, focused rage was guiding him - a rage composed of the desire for vengeance on whoever had tried to assassinate his closest friend, plus requital for the slaughter of two young women.

It was not that the two were novices, but rather that they were girls just like his own daughter Edith and the thought that someone had taken it into his or her head to kill them was so atrocious that Simon was determined to repay the debt on behalf of the two victims.

How could he prove Katerine had been murdered? Obviously if someone had heaved her over the parapet, either they had carried the dead girl up here or they had attacked her when she was already here - but if she had been conscious she would have screamed as she was pushed.

Simon was no expert, but he would have thought that carrying a girl up so many stairs would be difficult. He crouched by the door in the tower to see if there was blood on the top stairs -either drips from a bleeding wound, or smear-marks on the circular tower walls from a wounded body touching its surface as it was carried up over someone’s shoulder. There was nothing in the area around the door.

He turned his attention elsewhere. The church had one shallowly pitched roof, and from the door he could see that the peak was only a short climb. Swallowing his desire to return to solid, safe ground, he gingerly stepped up and peered over the other side. There was nothing lying around that looked as though it might have been used to kill, nothing lying in plain view. Gloomily, Simon returned to the door. He had to accept that he had failed. There was no sign of someone having been attacked, and no sign of blood on the stairs.

Walking through to the top of the stairs, he turned to pull the tower door shut behind him when he noticed the smear on the door itself, and if the sight hadn’t been so sombre and doleful, he would have given a whoop of joy.

Hugh sucked, but no matter what he did the small sliver of meat wouldn’t budge from between his teeth. He looked around to make sure no one was watching and drew his knife. Lips pursed in a low, innocent whistle, he dragged the blade along the edge of the table to peel a long, thin splinter from it. It was the perfect size.

Sir Baldwin lay still. Godfrey had bustled about collecting a bowl and knife, and asked Hugh whether he would help bleed the knight, but Hugh refused to let him go near Baldwin with a blade until the bailiff returned and gave his permission. It wasn’t that Hugh had any objection to bleeding: he was bled at least twice a year, because everyone knew it was the best way to cleanse the blood of impurities, but Hugh wasn’t taking responsibility for Sir Baldwin’s health - especially with the man whom Hugh suspected could have had a part in the first novice’s death, and especially since Hugh couldn’t know whether Godfrey could have his own reasons for killing, say, an over-inquisitive Keeper of the King’s Peace.

In the end the canon had huffily stalked out; Hugh knew he had offended the man, but he wasn’t sorry to be left alone with his thoughts, and he would not apologise for taking a sensible precaution, either. At least Sir Baldwin’s long slash had been seen to, and the wound had been left open so that any corrupt matter within it wouldn’t be forced inwards to poison the body. Even Hugh, who had never had any training in medicine, knew that. Godfrey had bound Baldwin’s head with a long bandage which covered a thick poultice - designed to cultivate the pus which would hopefully cleanse the wound.

Baldwin was very pale, and with his dark beard, the contrast to his marble-white features was still more striking. His breath was shallow, as if he was in a deep sleep, but there was a rasping quality to it, as if he was in pain as well.

Hugh hitched up his tunic and rested his backside on the table at Baldwin’s side, eyeing the knight contemplatively while he picked his teeth.

“Is he very bad?”

Leaping from the table, Hugh turned to find himself being studied by a short woman with shrewd green eyes set in a plain round face. Her skin had a thin, parchment-like look to it, but that was common with slightly older women, as Hugh knew. At least her wrinkled face was kindly. “No. I mean, well, I don’t know.”

Her eyes creased in amusement as she walked past him. “Let me take a look. This man is a knight, I hear?”

“Yes… um…‘

“You may call me Lady Elizabeth, young fellow. Are you trained in leechcraft?”

When he shook his head, she glanced back down at Baldwin. “Where is Godfrey?”

“He asked me if he could open the knight’s arm, and I said ”No“. Since then, I don’t know where he’s gone.”

“God rot his teeth! The damned fool; getting petulant because he’s not allowed to practise his blasted surgery, I suppose,” Lady Elizabeth spat, making Hugh’s eyes widen to circles. “Right, young man, I suppose we’d better get this knight of yours to a place where he can be properly nursed - and that in safety.”

The staircase from the roof took Simon back to the nave of the canons’ cloister, and all the way down, he kept his eyes fixed upon the steps and the wall, seeking any other smudges of blood. At several points he found them, and with each his conviction grew.

It was apparent that the girl had been struck and carried up the stairs. The blow had crushed her skull. Perhaps to prevent drips, a cloth had been wrapped around her head, but the blood had seeped into it, and where it touched the wall, it had smeared. That fact convinced Simon that the girl was probably already dead. If she had been hit so hard that she bled that heavily, there was little chance of her being alive. Someone had killed her, then taken her upstairs to throw her from the roof.

Standing near the altar, Simon glanced at the door communicating with the nuns’ cloister. She must have come from there; she could have been discovered in the canons’ area and murdered there, but Simon doubted it. He also thought she was not likely to have been carried into the church. Surely someone would have seen that. No, more likely that she had walked in and was knocked down inside. A blasphemy in its own right.

On a sudden impulse, he went to the door and entered. There was little to distinguish the nuns’ side from the men’s side. The choir stalls were much the same, as was the altar. There were no stains on the clean floor. At the back of the room Simon saw Denise’s aumbry and opened it. Inside was a mess of brushes, rags and waxes.

Plainly the sacrist would have known where to find a cloth. And she’d have known how to clean blood from the floor of the church, too.

Safely back on terra firma, Simon saw Lady Elizabeth at the door to the frater. He knew instinctively who she was. The prioress had an aura of confidence about her, like many a great lady, and she also gave the impression of power. She nodded to him, and Simon recognised in that short beckoning movement the authority of one used to command.

“You are the bailiff brought here by that infernal fool Bertrand?” she asked calmly. “Your friend is going to make a perfectly good recovery - so long as his jaw doesn’t lock up, anyway. You never can tell with these things. But I do not think it is sensible to leave him in the frater. He will cause too much chatter in there. The church would be a good place to put him, but too cold; the calefactory would be warm, but too noisy. I think the best thing to do is remove him to the infirmary‘

“Here in the canons’ cloister?” Simon asked, and when she agreed, he shook his head. “I cannot agree. In my view Godfrey has to be a suspect in the murder of the first novice, and I have no idea whether he could have been involved in the second as well.“

She rounded on him hotly. “Godfrey would do no such thing! It’s ridiculous to suggest that he might have had a hand in this.”

“You may feel so, but I couldn’t leave Baldwin in his charge without guards.”

“Where else would you have the man put?”

Simon felt indecision torturing him. All he wanted at this moment was Baldwin’s servant to stand over the knight and guard him while he, Simon, went to discover who had tried to kill him, but Edgar was miles away in Cadbury. “Where is safe if someone is prepared to kill twice?”

“Twice? Do you mean Katerine was murdered?” the prioress demanded sharply.

“My Lady, I have no doubt. There was someone up on the church roof; he or she threw a slate down to strike Baldwin, then threw the novice over the parapet.”

“How can you possibly tell that?”

Simon explained about the stack of unused slates, the topmost of which was unmarked by snow, and then the other evidence.

Lady Elizabeth walked up and down, deep in thought. “Very well. We shall take your friend to the nuns’ infirmary.”

“Where the first girl was murdered?” Simon exclaimed. “I think not, Lady. I’d—‘

“I can guarantee that the infirmarer is safe. She was not involved in the first death, and as for the second - well, she was with me.”

A canon helped Hugh carry Baldwin on a stretcher improvised from a door, while Simon and the prioress watched, calling out useful exhortations to be careful which twice almost caused an accident.

The knight was partly conscious now; blearily, he gazed about him as he was carried through the church and into the nuns’ cloister. Here he was taken past a row of silent, awestruck women, all of whom stared at him: one or two, Simon noticed, with that speculative expression that denoted an interest in more than just his wound as they took in his broad shoulders, strongly muscled arms and thick neck.

Hugh also saw their covert glances, and tried to avert his gaze. It was only one day ago he had been so overcome by loneliness that he had been thinking about silken-skinned, available women, and now he was confronted by what felt like a horde of them; whereas he had expected them to look down upon him, he was now given the unsettling impression that most were mentally undressing him. It made him want to cover his groin with a hand.

He noticed one in particular. A slim young woman stood near the angle of a wall, slightly apart from the others. Her thin linen veil appeared transparent the way the sun slanted down at her, and he was sure he could see the line of her lips beneath, soft and full. As her eyes met his, he could swear that her smile broadened, and she gave him a look he would have interpreted as inviting if he had seen it on a girl like Rose in a tavern. He could have wept.

Baldwin felt as weak as a newborn puppy. His head was excruciating; liquid fire was running up and down the side of his scalp; his brain had expanded, or his skull contracted, he knew not which, and his eyes were apparently being forced from their sockets, like pips squeezed between finger and thumb. It made it necessary to keep his eyes closed for as long as possible.

“Can you hear me?” He heard Simon’s voice from his side, but if he was to move his mouth the top of his head would surely explode. He twitched his hand, frowning with the pain.

“Baldwin, you were struck on the head. You’ve got a great gash in your scalp. It’s not serious, but you’ll have to rest.”

Vague memories came back to him now. They were in a convent, the one at Belstone, and they were helping someone… a bishop. Not Stapledon, though, someone else. Baldwin struggled to recall what they were doing here, but his head was hurting abominably. Every time he shifted on the bed it felt as if someone was thrusting a red-hot knife into his skull.