Belladonna at Belstone (30 page)

Bertrand felt as though he held all the men in this room in the palm of his hand. He looked at them, all gripping their pots or jugs as they drank in his words avidly.

It gave him a faint pang to recall that the only confession he had got from Elias was false - he knew well enough that Elias had been at the grille when Katerine died, and no doubt the infirmarer would confirm that he had been with her when Moll died, but this was more important than a simple death. Bertrand was struggling to ensure the survival of the convent itself. To do that he was prepared to blackmail any of the canons in the room - aye, or see them thrashed, if it would help. Elias’s admission of his sins with Constance would surely hasten Lady Elizabeth’s removal.

And that was the important thing - the removal of the woman who had led the convent to this pass. The souls of thousands depended upon the convent being cleansed! The two dead girls hardly mattered, not to Bertrand. Surely they were already in heaven.

When a niggle of self-doubt caught at his conscience, he forced it from him. The fact that his actions would help his own promotion was merely a coincidence. Nothing more. He was acting selflessly for the good of St Mary’s.

When the men were still, he continued. “I know that this is not a reflection upon all of you, but it does show how poorly Lady Elizabeth has looked after St Mary’s if one of your number can consider renouncing his oaths and leading a nun astray at the same time. And then there is the matter of the prioress’s daughter…‘

Aha! thought Simon. So he already knows.

“This
daughter,
this serpent in female form, has not only rejected her former life as a novice within the cloister and turned her back on the learning she was fortunate enough to be granted by the goodness of the Church, she has turned to a vile and degrading profession. Some of you may know what I mean,” he added, glancing about him shrewdly. More than one man reddened and looked away. “Well, I do not propose to censure those who may have been tempted from the path of purity, beyond demanding that all who so forgot themselves should confess at the earliest opportunity, but this evil cancer must be rooted out. She must be ruthlessly excised from this priory; just as a man would execute an outlaw to protect society. Otherwise her malign influence could corrupt the whole place.” Bertrand ran his words through his mind again. It sounded a little flowery, but overall he was pleased - he might use the same words when he reported to Bishop Stapledon.

One man at the table wasn’t impressed or pleased. Simon could see the anxiety on Godfrey’s face. “If you do that, where shall she go, Bishop? She would be ostracised and left to wander about without home - or hope. Wouldn’t it be more merciful to allow her to remain and—‘

“Good God, no! Do you think we should harbour this viper? What of her foul attractions? She could well tempt more of you to stray, and it would be a gross sin on my part were I to allow her the opportunity. The unwholesome bitch must leave and never return.”

Godfrey opened his mouth to speak again, but his neighbour, Jonathan, put a warning hand on his wrist and Godfrey subsided, but as he sagged back in his chair, Simon noticed how he had blanched.

One man whom Simon had not noticed among the canons was Luke. After the service, he had gone to the door as usual, to go back into the monks’ side of the church, but as under the new regime he was to be locked out and excluded from the nunnery except during services, he was forced to wait for a nun to unlock the door and relock it behind him.

It was Denise the sacrist, and as she approached, he was struck by her shuffling gait. The sight made his belly churn in disgust -he had a hatred of drunken women - and yet he saw that he might be able to turn her inebriation to his advantage.

He stood patiently while she inserted the large key into the door and turned it. The lock snapped open, and she pulled the door wide, but as she did so, Luke frowned, slapping at his belt. “My purse!”

Denise peered at him owlishly. “What of it? You’ll have to get it when you come back.”

“But you don’t understand - I’ve lost it,” said Luke, quickly tucking it beneath a fold of his robe. “It could be anywhere.”

“Then seek it in the canons’ cloister,” said Denise unsympathetically; she was feeling more than a little sleepy and had no wish to stand here all day. Hurriedly putting her hand to her mouth, she tried to cover up a burp, then glowered tipsily at him. “Come along, then. Time you were gone.”

“I shan’t be long,” Luke called over his shoulder, and began to walk back to the sacristy.

“Wait! You can’t stay here, you know what the prioress said -you have to go.”

Luke stood as if undecided, but then turned and strode back to Denise’s side. “I
can’t
go back without it,” he explained quietly. “The thing had the key to the bishop’s chest in it, and the bishop is bound to want it for his Bible after his lunch.”

“What did you have his key for?” she demanded.

“Denise,” he said seriously, “you know that the prioress has tried to ban me from the nunnery, but do you know why?”

“Because of your behaviour with the novices,” she giggled, and clapped a hand over her mouth. It was wrong to laugh at such things here, in the nave of the church.

Luke smiled sadly. “No, Denise. That was all invented by the prioress herself. I am to be removed because she made an advance to me which I rejected. Now she wants a new priest, someone whom she can mould to her will. But Bishop Bertrand has seen this, and he is to report her behaviour to Bishop Stapledon so that Lady Elizabeth can be forced to resign her post. Then we will have anew leader.”

“Margherg… Margherita, you mean?”

“Yes… perhaps. Or maybe someone else. Someone in whom the bishop can place his trust. But I must fetch his key, mustn’t I?”

Denise gazed about her vacuously. “I have to go and get my food,“ she muttered as her belly rumbled alarmingly.

“You go, then. Leave me to find the purse, and return later to lock the door,” Luke said.

It was all too confusing. Denise could feel one of her headaches coming on, and wished she was sitting back in the frater with a cool pint of wine before her. She didn’t need grief from this tomfool of a priest. The prioress had ordered her to stay and lock the door after him, but if Luke was only trying to find the key to the bishop’s chest, surely the bishop’s needs would take precedence over the prioress’s order, and that would mean that Luke could stay and search if he wanted. Serve him right if there was no food left when he returned.

“Very well, you may stay a while. But I will be back to lock the door when I have eaten my lunch.”

“You were ever a kind and thoughtful woman, Denise,” Luke said, and continued on his way to the sacristy. It was not until he had heard the door to the church close that he allowed himself to chuckle.

Chapter Twenty

After her meal late in the afternoon, Agnes was sent to the prioress’s chamber to fetch a cushion for Lady Elizabeth’s chair. She found it as instructed, but once outside the room, standing on the small landing, she hesitated, then walked to the infirmary.

The room was dark, the interior lit only by guttering candles and the flickering flames of the fire. Clutching the cushion to her breast, she went to where Baldwin lay, breathing stertorously, his mouth open.

Agnes hadn’t seen him from close to before, and she studied him with interest. He was not so good-looking as Luke, she reckoned. Luke was slender and fair, with his golden hair and bright blue eyes, while this knight had the thicker body of an older man, muscled and powerful, certainly, but too old, too worn. Knackered. She shook her head. This man wasn’t someone she could fancy; she was much happier with a younger lover.

“What’re you doing here?” Hugh demanded. He entered the room belligerently, his brows black.

Immediately the curtain to Constance’s chamber twitched aside, and the infirmarer herself hurried into the room. Agnes? How long have you been in here?“

The novice retreated at the appearance of Hugh. He shoved past her rudely to stand staring at the sleeping knight, who mumbled and gave a vague groan before snuffling and settling himself once more. Sniffing suspiciously at the jug and pot at Baldwin’s side, Hugh looked back at Agnes again, who stared uncomprehendingly at him.

Constance cleared her throat. “I shall replace it with a clean one and fresh water.“

Hugh nodded, but still eyed the quailing novice with a truculent glower. “Well? What were you doing snooping around in here?”

“I just wanted to see the knight - make sure he’s all right,” she wailed. “The prioress sent me to get a cushion, and I thought I’d look in. That’s all.”

“Did you touch him?” Hugh demanded.

Agnes felt the tears spring and run down both cheeks. “No!”

“It’s true, Master Hugh. She didn’t touch him. I was watching,” said a voice from behind her, and when Agnes spun around, she saw old Joan sitting near the fire.

“Nor put anything in the jug?” Hugh demanded.

“She did nothing, master. Stop scaring the girl with your fury. It won’t do her any good to be weeping when she delivers the cushion to the prioress, will it? Agnes, come here, and sit for a moment. You need to calm yourself.”

Nothing loath, Agnes gratefully walked to Joan’s side. The old woman patted her hand, and motioned to a seat. Sniffling, Agnes dropped upon it, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

“He’s a good-looking fellow, isn’t he?” Joan said with a twinkle in her eye. “I once came up here to see a man who had fallen from a horse. It was Sir Rodney - such a fine-looking lad. We all wanted to see what men were wearing and how they had their hair cut and so on, and my friend Bridget was here before me; we both studied him and it was a bit sad really‘ Her gaze was unfocused as she reached back through her memory. “Nothing had changed. All was the same as when I entered the convent. But then the last King, Edward the First, was a stickler. Never let his men wear beards, never let them wear any finery. Said that fashionable clothes like the French wore were for pansies or women, not for the men he commanded. He always was a stern old devil.”

“You met the King?”

Joan shook her head. “No. Only Sir Rodney‘

“Was Bridget a nun?” Agnes asked.

“Yes. Many years before
your
time. But then she went off with Sir Rodney - to the shame of the convent. Now, wipe your face. Don’t worry - we won’t tell anyone, and it wouldn’t matter if we did. Everyone knows what it’s like to want a little taste of what the world outside is like. What did you think of the good knight?”

“I…‘Agnes hung her head. ”He’s ancient - and I don’t like his beard,“ she confessed.

Joan chuckled and took the novice’s hand, patting it gently. “It’s all right, dear. I never liked beards either. Now help me up, and I’ll come down with you. I daresay this good servant would like to be alone to protect his master’s friend.”

Hugh couldn’t help feeling relieved when he was alone in the infirmary once more. He glanced at the sleeping knight and muttered, “For the love of God, get better quickly. I can’t stand this dump much longer.”

After several pints of ale Bertrand was in a cheerful mood. He had demanded the convent’s accounts from Jonathan, and now sat in the guestroom studying the large roll which detailed all transactions for the last two years. The accounts had not been ready when he had arrived on his official visitation earlier, and now they made interesting - and sorry reading.

The roll showed that the nuns had not enough grain or hay to feed their cattle, and the land was unfit for much other than pasture. There were foreign lands, way off towards Exford and Crediton, but these never seemed to bring in what even Bertrand, who was no expert in such matters, would have expected after viewing accounts from other priories, especially since he had seen money from Iddesleigh’s bailiff passed to the treasurer while he was last here, a healthy sum.

In terms of money, it was obvious that the priory couldn’t survive. The prioress had been accused of paying her vicar too much, but there were few sums going to him according to the rolls. Perhaps the place was investing too heavily in wine and other foods, Bertrand wondered, and ran his finger along some of the columns, reading off the numbers. Even this area looked no worse than he would have expected. Then he came to a point far down, near the bottom of a page. It made him stop, blink, and peer again.

“God’s bollocks!” he shouted, appalled. Then clapped a hand over his mouth and blushed deeply when he caught sight of Paul’s scandalised face.

Carrying the cushion, Agnes walked down the stairs with Joan and was about to open the door to the cloister when the old nun stopped her. “Come, child, what is it? It’s clear enough that you’re depressed.”

There was a tradition in the convent that novices and young nuns could confide in the very ancient ones. The latter could advise the younger ones without anything necessarily being mentioned in chapter, thus saving embarrassment, whilst ensuring that the girl made penance of some form if necessary. Agnes was wondering how to answer when Joan chuckled fruitily, giving the astonished girl a look full of kindness.

“I daresay you’re going to tell me it’s a man. It usually is. My friend Bridget told me about her own man many years ago. Lovely woman, Bridget was. Confident, tall and willowy. Not at all like her daughter, Margherita.“

Agnes felt the hammer blow hit her breast. She gasped. “What happened to her?”

“My Bridget? Ah, the poor girl couldn’t stay here. She was too full of life and enjoyment of the sweeter things to be able to bind herself up in here with all the dreadful, crabbed old dragons!” Joan laughed. “She left the first time with… let’s just say it was a young man. And later when she was caught and returned, she had a child in tow, her Margherita. But the convent couldn’t hold her, and off she went. I doubt not that she’s a great lady now.”

“How come she was allowed to run away? And why wasn’t she punished for her misbehaviour?”

Joan gave her a very old-fashioned look. “Dear, when you get to my age, you’ll realise that most people fail at one time or another during their lives. Even the best of us. Now - is it a man?”