The Dragon of Handale (17 page)

Except if it were made up into a strengthened dose, she reminded herself. But who, apart from the herberer, would know how to do that?

She made her way to the priory church. The sacristan appeared as soon as she heard the door creak open. If she was always so prompt to appear, anyone would have found it impossible to approach the wine or the chalice, let alone slip a lethal dose into them.

Hildegard’s voice echoed down the nave under the high vault. “Sister, forgive this intrusion. I seek your help.”

“I’ll help if I can,” the sacristan replied directly. The hostility shown by prioress Basilda did not extend to everyone. She raised her head from her task of polishing one of the holy vessels as Hildegard approached. “What is it, mistress?”

“I’m greatly perplexed by the young priest’s death.”

“As are we all. But I can reassure you on one thing. It was not the plague. Rest easy on that. We’re not going to be digging plague pits yet. These sisters may be frightening themselves with talk of witchcraft, but they’re not far wrong when they say he must have been poisoned. There is no other explanation for so sudden an attack.”

“The cellaress suggested apoplexy.”

“Aye, she would.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s enough now. How else may I help you?”

“I can’t work out how it could have happened. I mean, could it have been self-inflicted?”

She saw the horror on the sacristan’s face. “That would damn him to hell for eternity. No, he must have been dosed by someone.”

“Did he have enemies?”

She shook her head. “That boy? How would he find enemies, living here so blamelessly?”

Remembering the words of the herberer, she was going to ask if the priest had liaisons with the sisters, but before she could put the question, the nun said, “Whoever did it must have flitted in here like a shadow once the holy vessels were in place. Those nuns are saying she wore a magic cloak. Can you credit the nonsense they have in their heads?”

“So you believe he died from poison administered by human agency?”

“Exactly so.”

“And the next question is how.”

“I can’t help you. I’m as perplexed as everyone else. No one has anything to do with the vessels but for me and my assistant, and I’d vouch for her with my life.’

“Do you lock the doors when you’re not in attendance?”

The sacristan shook her head again. “There is always someone in attendance. Me or my servant. Night and day.”

“So how could it have been achieved?” She went over to the altar, where the chalice was displayed. “Is this ready for mass?”

“No,” the sacristan replied, “but that’s how it is once the wine is poured in.”

“Where is the wine kept?”

“Under the altar in this flagon.” She reached down and pulled a brocade cloth to one side to reveal a stone flagon, some spills, a tinderbox and spare candles, and one or two other oddments. She let the cloth fall back into place.

“So anyone wanting to add poison to the wine could come up here when nobody was watching, unstop the flagon, and drop something in it?”

“They could if nobody was watching. Unlikely, as I’ve explained. But why? That’s the question. Why would anybody want to do a thing like that? He was harmless enough.”

“I’m told he had a roving eye—” Hildegard began.

The sacristan gripped her by the arm. “Do you realise what you’re saying, mistress? This is a house of correction. It is the last place on earth where looseness of any kind would be tolerated.”

“But if—” Hildegard persisted.

“Never, never.”

“Do you have an alternative explanation other than jealousy for someone wanting him dead?”

“I don’t. But it’s not what you suggest. Never.”

Hildegard tried another approach. “Can you remember who was here the day he died?”

“You have a strong interest in this matter—”

“I feel I owe it to his dear mother to find out what happened.”

“He had no mother.”

“You mean he was an orphan?”

“I mean he had no mother. He was the devil’s own and working his way out of shame to his ultimate salvation.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t, not being of a monastic order. Life is more than buying and selling and being the grand wife of a merchant.” She gave Hildegard’s garments an up-and-down look.

“I’m hardly grand,” Hildegard murmured as she caught her meaning.

“True, but you have no understanding of the teachings if you believe that all there is is this world of physical presences.” She extended an arm to embrace the church with its trappings of gold and gilded wood. “There are other forces at work.”

The wall paintings showed lurid scenes of martyrdom. Hildegard averted her glance. Unbidden, the memory of Rivera rose before her. She would never be free of him. “The force of destiny, I suppose you mean?”

The sacristan folded her arms. “And the force of divine will.” She gave Hildegard a grim smile. “Since you ask who was here, let me offer the courtesy of a reply. That day, only yesterday, was the feast of Saint Thomas, was it not?”

“Indeed it was.”

“And my servant was in here with me. She was polishing the sacramental ornaments and had replaced the chalice where it is now, just as you see it.” She indicated the gold and wrought-silver vessel. “It was never out of my sight. As we were busy, two sisters came in to ask if everything was ready. I started to light the candles—”

“But in doing so, you could not have been watching the others.”

“By then my servant was standing beside me, holding the tinderbox and some spills.”

“And the two sisters?”

“Yes,” the sacristan responded with a thoughtful frown. “One of them came to ask me some trivial question or other while the other one remained by the altar. I did not pay heed to her. They often come in to pray and to gaze on the cross.”

“But on that particular day, only those two came in?”

“Let me think.” Slowly, the sacristan began to sniff out a trail. “Yes. I’m sure of it. Only those two at that time, although earlier, before we started to make our preparations, there were several in and out.”

“What happened next?”

“Before lighting the candles, I’d poured the new wine into the flagon. It came up from the general cask in the kitchen, ready for the priest, who would consecrate it after pouring it from the flagon into the chalice.”

“So poison could have been added to the wine in the kitchen, or after it was poured into the flagon, or even,” she added, “after the priest poured it into the chalice?”

The sacristan was reluctant to agree. The reason became clear when she admitted that she had tasted a sip when it first came up from the kitchen. “To make sure it was not sour,” she added.

“So it was when the wine was in the flagon that someone could have poisoned it, or after it was transferred to the chalice?”

“More likely the former. After the priest had poured it into the chalice, there would have have been too many people around.” She was still frowning. “I still fail to see how anyone could have got at the flagon. It was kept underneath the altar until it was needed. I would have noticed if anyone had pushed back the cloth under the altar.”

“And the sister standing at the altar while the other one engaged you in conversation, who was she?”

“Let me think. She had her hood up. It was the other one, Sister Desiderata, who sticks in my mind.”

“Why is that?”

“Always putting her nose into matters that don’t concern her. If you want to find out more, she’ll no doubt have an opinion. And yes, I remember now. She was giving me advice on how to light the candles. As if I haven’t been doing it these last ten years without her guidance.”

“Desiderata and an unknown companion. Do they always go around in twos?”

“The prioress decrees it. They are safer that way. And she fears absconders. They watch each other.”

Sleet was beginning to drive across the yard. It forced the nuns to take shelter in the cloisters. Black robes concealed identities, and only by looking closely could Hildegard see the differences between one and another. Sister Mariana stood out a little by reason of her height, which was slightly above the average.

At this moment, she was the centre of a discussion on the subject of whether animals had souls. Hildegard felt a yawn coming on. She lingered on the fringes and, with no wish to draw attention to her interest, tried to make a guess as to which one was Desiderata.

A sallow-faced nun stood on the edge of the group, twisting a rosary between her fingers while one of the others harangued her over her views. Her opponent was a short woman, young and rosy-cheeked, with a wisp of fair hair escaping from her coif.

She was mocking the other’s ideas, and suddenly, for no reason Hildegard could discern, the argument became heated. The two women began to shout each other down. Mariana looked on with a troubled expression. The fourth member of the group stood by, head down, face obscured by her hood, and did not join in.

Two and two, watching each other. Four spies. She turned her attention to the other groups.

One nun was talking about the weather, a look of dismay on her face as the sleet slashed across the garth. She stepped hurriedly back as it billowed into the cloisters. Her companion gazed bleakly at this scene without a word. The other two were standing talking together in voices so quiet, it was impossible to hear what they were saying. Nothing much to mark them out from the others. One tall, one short. Faces obscured.

Hildegard went to sit in a niche where she had a view of them all. Mariana’s group was the most animated. They were still discussing the existence of animal souls. The fair-haired nun had raised her voice. “Once and for all, Tiffany, an animal is a mere beast. Of course they don’t have souls. It’s nonsense to make such a claim. I doubt whether some people have souls. And we cannot tell, because we have no test available.”

“Except for common sense,” the sallow-faced one retorted, identifying herself as Tiffany.

“Common sense? That’s hardly a test for anything. What you call common sense might seem the most arrant nonsense to someone else.”

“Are you accusing me of spouting nonsense?” demanded Tiffany in an aggrieved tone.

“I’m sure she didn’t mean that,” interjected the fourth member of the group, roused from her silence. “We are all enjoined to see the other person’s point of view, are we not?”

“Enjoined to see it but not necessarily to accept it,” Tiffany retorted.

“Certainly not to accept heresy,” the rosy-faced nun pointed out. “Remember what the Cistercians say.”

Hildegard pricked up her ears.

“What do they say?” demanded Mariana.

“That the heretic must be hunted down and killed like a fox among chickens.” She crossed herself. “Bernard of Clairvaux was rightly made a saint for saying that. Don’t you agree, Mariana?”

Before Mariana could reply, the sallow nun jeered. “Desiderata, I despair.” She put her hands to her face and walked away.

So it was the talkative fair-haired nun who had entered the church and spoken to the sacristan while her companion stood by the altar, within reach of the chalice. So who had been her companion?

At that moment, the subprioress appeared from the far end of the cloister and rapped on the ground with a stick. “Enough of all this racket! Back to your cells!”

Sentences were left hanging in midair as everyone instantly obeyed. Mariana’s lips tightened and she glared round, but if she considered rebelling, she quickly rejected the idea. Hildegard watched as she walked back beside Desiderata towards the
dortoir.
Mariana with Desiderata.

She waited until they had all dispersed. When she was sure she was unobserved, she made her way to the corner stair and followed them up to the floor above the low hall. She would find Desiderata and have a quiet word with her.

Two bleak lines of cell doors faced onto a straight corridor, with a further stair at the far end. It was an easy matter to glance into each cell through the small aperture in the door as she made her way along the corridor.

The occupants knelt on the bare flint floor, some on wooden prie-dieux that cut into the flesh. A mutter of prayer rose on both sides—regular, monotonous, hypnotic. In their identical robes and with hoods pulled over to veil their features in shadow, it was impossible to tell one from another. By the time Hildegard reached the end of the corridor, she was none the wiser. Wondering if it would be reasonable to knock on one of the doors and ask where she might find Desiderata, she hesitated. It would be best to keep her interest to herself. They were a close bunch. Nothing was more likely than that they would protect one another if need be.

On impulse, she ascended the nearby tower stairs.

The same arrangement of cells as below existed here. The occupants of the cells were less fortunate, their doors barred from the outside by means of wooden beams that dropped into slots on each side. She realised that these must be the cells of the penitents, then. The worst of sinners. The ones Basilda claimed could commit murder—and perhaps had already done so.

Hildegard glanced inside each cell as she paced the corridor to the far end. Astonished at what she saw, she was unable to tear her glance away.

In the first cell, a black cowled figure knelt on the bare boards. She was doubled over, rocking backwards and forwards with sobs and muttered curses interspersed with Latin phrases. Unaware of Hildegard at the spy hole, she did not look up or pause. Next, the occupant paced rapidly back and forth in the confined space. Her robe gaped as she beat her uncovered breasts with a strap. The spikes on it drew forth prickles of blood. From another cell issued an unearthly and intermittent wail, like someone in physical pain, as indeed may well have been the case.

Shouts came from elsewhere, the banging of fists against a wall. Screams to be let free, promises to do the devil’s will.

Hildegard met the furious glance of another one of the inmates as the woman sprawled on the floor with robes rucked up, legs apart, blood from a spiked cuff round her thigh staining her flesh as she pressed the spikes deeper and fingered the oozing blood. Another stood naked, the folds of her habit at her feet, and lashed herself with a leather whip until her back was streaming with blood. Her eyes were fixed on the wooden cross on the wall as she cried out in convulsions of pain.