Belladonna At Belstone Part 1

Belladonna at Belstone.

Michael Jecks.

A Winter Horarium.

Programme of offices to be held during winter months taken from Archbishop Lanfranc's schedule for the Benedictines of Canterbury. The times given are estimates only, for a small convent like St Mary's would have had no accurate clocks.

At about 2.30 a.m. the nuns would all be roused from sleep and called to attend the choir of the church. Here they would sing psalms and offer prayers until the first of the services, the Nocturns, after which the nuns would continue with Matins, which would be followed by Prime at dawn.

Once Prime was over the nuns would go out and sit in the cloister, reading until about 8.00 a.m. when they would all return to their dorter, or bedchamber. Here they would change their shoes, then go to the laver, where they would wash in preparation for the next service.

Terce was followed by Morrow Ma.s.s, after which the nuns would all go to their chapterhouse for their daily meeting. At this any admissions of failings or accusations of lapses could be brought up, and apologies or penances offered or imposed.

Once the daily chapter had concluded, the nuns would spend their time either working or reading until noon. Then they would all go back to the church.

s.e.xt, High Ma.s.s and None were all celebrated, and at last the nuns could go to the frater for their only full meal of the day. This was followed by more work or studying until about 5 p.m., at which they would return for Vespers in the church.

Vespers was the last ceremony of the active day, and afterwards the choir would change into their night slippers and go to the frater to drink. In the medieval age people depended upon a diet which included much ale or wine, because the solid diet did not provide enough essential vitamins or protein.

Finally the nuns would troop back to church to listen to a reading, and then would hear the last service: Compline.

After this, at between 6.30 and 7 p.m., the nuns should have gone to the dorter to sleep.

From the records, it seems clear that many did not.

Author's Note.

The village of Belstone sits high on the moors overlooking the deep valley that separates it from Cosdon, the ma.s.sive hill that is visible from almost anywhere in northern Devon. I have known the area for years, for my brother and I visit it each New Year's Day, and walk with wives and families down south to the moors.

It was this year, 1999, that we went to walk down towards the stream, and while strolling among a heavy c.l.i.tter, I mused it was much like so many spots where monks and nuns chose to site their convents, an idle thought that eventually gave rise to this story. I invented St Mary's.

Nowadays we think of abbeys and priories being set in delightful places, almost invariably among trees, with lush vegetation and parkland all around. That's because since the Dissolution, many have been converted into houses and gardens, their lands cultivated over centuries. Beforehand they were often wild, remote, cold and bleak. It's true that in suns.h.i.+ne they are beautifully romantic ruins, but that is because we visit them on holidays when the summer sun warms us and the ancient nature of the wrecks can give us a comfortable sense of the pa.s.sing of the years. Yet for all the delights of the larger ecclesiastical holdings at Rievaulx, Westminster, York, Fountains and Whitby, many others sprang up and disappeared, unable to support their communities with their poor and scrubby land. The two years of famine (1315-17) speeded the end of some of these, as did the two murrains or plagues, first of sheep (1313-17) and then of cattle (1319-21), which devastated the English economy. Smaller, less financially viable convents were swallowed up by wealthier ones. Some of these monastic buildings can be traced on the ground, but their walls have been ravaged by time and their stones removed by farmers who wouldn't pay for dressed stone when it was lying nearby. Many have simply vanished without trace.

When you look back, you find that the obedientiaries a" the nuns or monks - had a miserable time of it. Woken for the first service at some time between midnight and 2.30 a.m., they had to go to their church in their rough woollen clothing and stand for an hour or more in the freezing cold, trying to sound musical as they went through the psalms and prayers. There was no fire nor any other means of heating, and in the winter it must have been sheer h.e.l.l. Not all convents could afford gla.s.s in their windows, either.

That was part of the trouble: money. In the late 1200s there was a rapid increase in the number of men and women taking up the religious life, and many convents started to acc.u.mulate money from patrons so that they could expand, but many simply couldn't: they didn't have the finance behind them. That was why in the early 1300s many places, as I have outlined in this book, went to great lengths to acquire parish churches so that they could use the revenues. Some, like the convent at Polsloe, greatly increased in size, but others failed to win the money and faded away long before the Dissolution.

Nuns found it particularly difficult to support themselves. The reason was simple: when a rich man died he wanted to ensure that his soul had as smooth a pa.s.sage into heaven as possible, and to this end, he would set up a chantry. This was a chapel which was dedicated to honouring the dead man, holding services and praying for him every day. Depending on how wealthy the man was, the more prayers he could buy; the more prayers said for him, so the logic went, the faster he'd be let in through the Pearly Gates.

But there were problems for nuns: first, nunneries tended to depend upon the goodwill of their strong neighbours, and so they would sometimes agree to take in their neighbours' daughters in exchange for benefits, such as money, which inevitably led to many of the convents having too many inmates for their means. The risk of over-filling nunneries was recognised at all levels within the Church, and not only bishops but popes too sent letters to convents forbidding them to take on any more nuns.

The second issue was still more difficult to resolve. A man wis.h.i.+ng to set up a chantry wanted services held in his memory, but this was a time when no woman could hold a religious service, so nuns had to acquire their own priests, and what would be the point of endowing a religious Order which couldn't even hold its own ceremonies? Men were more happy leaving their charities to male inst.i.tutions: the force of monkish prayers was bound to have a greater impact than those of a bunch of women!

Some readers may be surprised to see that I have created a priory with men and women, but this was more or less the norm. As I mentioned above, there had to be priests to conduct services, but also, although nuns were supposed to be completely hidden from the outside world and although they did have lay sisters to do the more mundane work like was.h.i.+ng and ironing, they generally had to have men about the place. Men farmed; men tended the buildings; men saw to the religious services; men guarded the gates to the precincts. It was true that most of the nuns were segregated and should never have been tempted by a male form, but that did not work for them all. For one thing, the priory's bailiffs, reeves, receivers and other senior officials would have been men, and all had to report to the prioress. That was why it was not uncommon to hear rumours of impropriety between prioress and her chief steward. They got to meet.

Tales of nuns misbehaving are not new, and many such stories are no doubt apocryphal, but it has to be accepted that some were true.

Young girls were thrown into their nunneries without any thought for them or their needs. No doubt some would have learned obedience, and in an age when women were possessions to be used as their menfolk saw fit, perhaps some were content. Yet this does not mean that all of them would have been happy with their lot, and records prove that many nuns were not chaste and a large number ran away. The nun of Watton was not unique, and no, I didn't make up her story. Likewise the collapsing of roofs was not unknown - at Morton the abbess allowed the church roof and the roof of the dorter to fall in. Funds which should have been used to repair them were squandered instead on Master Bryce, the vicar.

When nuns did run away, they were often sought. If found, errant nuns were sometimes treated with respect and sympathy, but once back in their convents, they would be forced to undergo a penance before being set back to work. And all too often these desperate, sad women would try to escape again. Several have been recorded as having thrown off their religious robes, committing the act of apostasy which so horrified their sisters, rejecting all the vows which made sense of their secluded lives. And yet their lives weren't unremittingly miserable. For those who lived in a great convent, they might have been chilly, but so they would have been in any great hall; they almost certainly lived a great deal longer than their counterparts outside the nunnery; and if the quant.i.ty of food wasn't always enough, a nun would have access to ale or wine, there would always be a good fire roaring in the calefactory, and at least there would be no fear of rape or murder by a drunk at the roadside, nor an early death from childbirth.

If any readers wish to find out more about the lives of medieval nuns, I can heartily recommend Colin Piatt's The Abbeys and Priories of Medieval England and his Medieval England - A Social History and Archaeology from the Conquest to 1600 AD. It is always difficult to recreate life as it might have been, and any errors in this novel are entirely my own. All I can do is claim the best of intentions.

Michael Jecks.

Dartmoor.

March 1999.

Preface.

She was lucky not to have died.

It was a glorious day in late winter, almost early spring. The sun beamed down on the lay sisters as they hung out the was.h.i.+ng, larking and joking. In this weather the land took on a more cheerful aspect; the moors glowed with a salmon freshness in the morning and even the drab grey of the moorstone was touched with a pink glow.

They were in the yard where the lines were strung. To get there they had to step carefully round the muddy pools with their wicker baskets on their hips, avoiding the cowpats which led to the dairy, stepping delicately over the small round pebbles of sheep excrement and the tiny deposits left by the prioress's terrier. There were many hazards in a busy priory's yard.

Agnes didn't hear them at first. The novice was too busy thinking about her meeting later with the priest. It was only a short while since she had seen him with another novice, Katerine, and Agnes still wondered whether she ought to forgive him, or whether she should refuse to speak to him ever again - but that would mean cutting off her nose to spite her face, not an attractive prospect. Brightening, she reflected that Katerine would find it intolerable, should Agnes win him back; it would mean he preferred her to Kate. Agnes was persuaded. She'd go to see him as he'd begged, and provided he showed true remorse, she would forgive him. Pleased with her decision, and feeling the thrill of antic.i.p.ation, she hastened her steps as she rounded the corner of the rere-dorter to come to the yard north of the cloister.

Seeing the lay sisters and their antics, she stood watching them wistfully. Lay sisters weren't full nuns, they were women who were prepared to take their own vows, but lacked the education or intelligence to give spiritual service. Instead they offered their labour to the glory of G.o.d. As such they weren't political or ambitious - unlike nuns - and at times like this Agnes could feel a twinge of jealousy for the simplicity of their lives.

Agnes had enough troubles with Kate, but Kate wasn't her only problem. There was that miserable G.o.d-botherer Moll as well. The young novice was so full of cant, she wouldn't be truly happy until she'd died; Moll's sole pleasure appeared to be watching over the other nuns and pointing out their failings. She liked making other people miserable. No one was safe while she wandered about the place.

Katerine wasn't much better, of course. She liked uncovering other people's secrets too, but at least she strayed from the straight and narrow often enough herself. Agnes knew Kate was capable of blackmailing for her own benefit, but while Agnes knew so much about her, Agnes felt safe enough.

A sudden gust whisked about her. It whipped on, tearing at the clothes hanging on the lines, s.n.a.t.c.hing at the linen in the lay sisters' hands. They squealed and giggled, and Agnes grinned. It was good to see them enjoying their work. They had so much to do, it was a miracle that they found any pleasure; but some of them were simple and others were mere serfs, peasants, and Agnes was sure they wouldn't need much to make them happy.

Then Agnes had to give a deep belly laugh. One of the girls, a tall, rather vapid creature called Cecily, missed her step while rescuing a white cloth. Trying to avoid stepping in her basket, she stumbled, and her foot landed on the rim. While she watched in horror, it flipped up. Another breeze blew past just at the moment as if maliciously determined to complete her ruin; it caught the basket and swiftly up-ended it.

Cecily raised her fists to her cheeks, wailing with dismay, while her friends roared their delight. Then Cecily let her arms fall and stamped with impotent rage. She stared heavenwards, screaming, "G.o.d's b.o.l.l.o.c.ks! d.a.m.n and b.u.g.g.e.r!" as the contents of her basket soaked up the mire from the track.

She had to do the whole lot again, of course. Cecily thought it was unfair: anyone could have been unlucky and seen their basket tip, but the laundress was insistent. Cecily had let all her was.h.i.+ng fall in the dirt, so Cecily could clean it again.

She rubbed her back, then put a pot of water over the fire. When it was boiling, she wrapped a cloth about the handle and carried it to her barrel, poured it in then dropped her linen in and began the laborious work of pounding it with the wooden club. When the worst of the muck was off, she wrung out the clothes and put them into fresh water, scrubbing the material up and down on a roughened board.

This laundry was a ground-floor room to the north of the cloister. Once it would have been too large for a priory this size, but now it was too small, for the northernmost wall had collapsed, and part couldn't be used. A temporary wooden part.i.tion had been erected to keep the worst of the wind and rain from the girls inside, but Cecily hoped they could get enough money to put up another wall. Breezes got in and froze the lay sisters as they worked.

The whole place was falling apart, but Cecily tended not to think about it. She was content while she had food in her belly and a gallon of ale to drink each day. Matters of finance were for those who were educated enough to comprehend them, not for the likes of her. She was only a servant for the nuns.

It was a position that satisfied her. She didn't seek higher responsibility. There would be no point, for she would never be able to understand the duties of a nun. All the same, sometimes, when she glanced about her, she wondered whether the prioress was protecting the place as well as she should. Flagstones in the yard were coming loose, there were holes in the roofs, and not only the laundry's wall had fallen. Others were weakened and looked dangerous.

Still, it was none of Cecily's concern.

The basketful took her another hour. By the time she had finished, her arms and chest muscles ached. Sitting back, she closed her eyes and yawned luxuriously. Slowly she clambered to her feet and picked up the damp was.h.i.+ng. From here she had to walk down a wooden staircase to get to the yard, which was lower than the cloister itself. She picked up the basket and rested it upon her hip, walking quickly to the door.

At the top step she glanced down to make sure where to put her feet. Then, with the speed of a.s.surance, she carried on down.

But after two steps she felt someone grab her ankle. Her eyes widened. She had no time to make a sound, it was so unexpected. The basket flew from her hand and she pitched headlong, falling the six steps to the ground. It was flagged in stone here, and she caught a glimpse of the moorstone rus.h.i.+ng to meet her. In a reflex she brought her arms up to protect her face just in time.

She was so jarred that at first she couldn't believe what had happened. Then she heard the voice: *Never blaspheme again."

As the steps faded, the pain began to stab at her. Looking down, she wondered what the thing before her was. Then she recognised it was her arm's bone, red and b.l.o.o.d.y as a raw oxen's rib, shoved through the flesh of her arm like a dagger through parchment.

She managed to shriek just once before fainting.

Chapter One.

From Moll's perspective, being taken to the place where she would soon be murdered was merely an irritation. She knew she was well and didn't feel the need for segregation in the infirmary, especially since it was impossible to get any sleep there, what with Joan snoring and Cecily moaning to herself on the bed beyond.

There were compensations. The fire made it almost as cosy as the calefactory, the hall between the dorter and the frater where nuns could warm themselves. Here, though, there were no nuns except the infirmarer; and although the room glowed with a cheery red light, and for the first time since the onset of winter Moll was neither cold nor hungry, still she could not relax. Her arm itched where Brother G.o.dfrey had bled it.

In the pitch dark she stretched out under the sheets, wondering what could have woken her. There were no strange sounds in the room; mercifully even Joan was breathing quietly like a drowsy hog, and further on Cecily whimpered softly. Both women had been drugged. Before long she expected to hear the bell for Nocturns, the signal for the convent to wake to life, and Moll was aware of a guilty but luxurious delight, knowing she was free of her usual duties and could remain here in bed.

Moll was young to be a novice, but she had gained her place as a result of her father's string-pulling. He was, if not a great banneret, at least a well-known knight in Exeter, a man of some influence, and although he had not wanted her to take the veil, she had insisted. Ever since she could remember, Moll had felt the lure of conventual life: as a child she had thrilled to the stories told by the mendicant friars; as a teenager she had been keener to attend daily Ma.s.s than go riding with her friends. She had learned to read with the help of her priest, and was soon proficient at writing and arithmetic. It was this which had served to persuade her father, for a woman who could both read and write was potentially an uncommonly useful wife to a wealthy lord, able to administer his estates during his inevitable absences, but the sort of husband to whom Moll could aspire would be of a lower order - a squire or knight. To such a man, a wife with Moll's skills could be threatening. It was better that she should be safely lodged in the cloister.

Closing her eyes, Moll offered a prayer to G.o.d, thanking Him for her many blessings. There was much to thank Him for. He had allowed her to take up the challenge of a life of obedience, and had installed her here, where there was so much to be done - for the little priory out on the windy, rain-swept northern fringe of the chase of Dartmoor was, to Moll's eye, a pit of corruption. She intended to change all that and see that the nuns turned from their loose living to the ideal of the contemplative life.

Arriving at the section of her prayer where she thanked G.o.d for her health, she hesitated, unsure whether it would be right to thank Him for what she had suffered. She was not, if she was honest, grateful for the headache or for being bled again, and being a conscientious young woman she felt it would be wrong to say that she was. Moll didn't want to be hypocritical; perhaps, she thought, she should ask the priest when she next had an opportunitya No, not the priest, she amended quickly. She couldn't trust Brother Luke, not since the time he had tried to molest her. A quick frown pa.s.sed over her brow and she moved to a more wholesome topic.

She didn't feel ill any more; the migraine had gone even before the bleeding. When it struck she had thought she would faint; the mistress of the novices had released her from her duties and sent her here to the infirmary, where she had been told to fill a flask with urine so her condition could be a.s.sessed. It was in vain for her to explain that the headache had quite disappeared, for Constance, the infirmarer, refused to listen until she had received her instructions. In the meantime, Moll was filled with red meat and a thick broth, the best food she had eaten since her arrival.

It was all quite normal, of course, and Moll herself was ready when the phlebotomist, G.o.dfrey, had arrived, a smiling cleric of fifty or more, short in the body, with a good paunch and an almost circular face. He had kept up a constant chatter while he tied a cord about her upper arm and pa.s.sed her the bowl to hold while he stropped his razor on the leather, explaining that her body had acc.u.mulated noxious humours in her liver, and possibly her spleen. She must have them evacuated by letting blood flow from the basilic vein, near the elbow.

He paused a moment, knife in hand, a twinkle in his eye, then winked before making a careful cut, drawing the bowl in her hand underneath to catch the drips. "That was easy, now, wasn't it?"

She nodded, watching her blood. Her father had been a firm believer in the prophylactic benefits of purging the system regularly, and Moll had been bled at least twice a year. There was no pleasure in seeing the wound, but there was nothing to fear about it either. As for the pain - well, that was only a faint tingle from so sharp a blade. The irritation would come later, when the scab formed and the skin puckered.

When he considered that enough had been taken, the physician anointed the wound with a styptic and wrapped it up in bandages. "There! That should be enough for now. Now you stay here for three days, and when that time is done, you may go back to the cloister."

G.o.dfrey had tiptoed from the room as if she had already been asleep, still smiling, and she'd not realised he had left one of his knives and a small parcel behind until he had gone. Constance came in a little later, pouring out measures of her narcotic drink, ready mixed with strong red wine. Moll told her about the priest's parcel, but the nun was indifferent: his memory always was dreadful, but he would soon be back for another novice's vein, and he could collect the knife then.

Remembering him, Moll recalled his insistence that she should drink wine to cleanse her system. She licked her lips. It was warm, and she was thirsty. At the table by her side was the cup measured out by Constance. Moll had tasted it when Constance had served them all. Now Moll tried it again. The first sip made her wince: it was hideously bitter. She was about to set the cup back down again, but there was nothing else to drink, and Constance must have left it there to help her sleep. With a resolute air Moll upended the cup and emptied it, setting it down on the table before falling back and smacking her lips in disgust.

Later, Moll woke with a start. There was a curious clenching sensation in her belly, as if someone had grasped her stomach and was regularly tightening their grip; a hollowness at her throat made her feel as if she was going to be sick.

She opened her eyes. There was no light, apart from a dull glow in the hearth. Joan wasn't snoring for once and Cecily was whistling heavily as she exhaled in a deep sleep. All Moll could hear over Cecily's breathing was a light step. She heard the door open then close, and the creaking of the stairs, the murmur of voices. It hardly seemed important.

Soon she would be well again, Moll thought dreamily, and would be released from this room to undertake her mission. That was how she looked upon it: a sacred mission to cleanse the priory. G.o.d had sent her here to show the women how they were failing Him: Agnes by her lewd behaviour with the priest, Katerine with her greed, Denise with her gluttony and drunkenness, and the treasurer with her avarice. All were guilty - not least the prioress herself.

But thought was becoming difficult. Moll was befuddled, found it hard to concentrate. The wine mixed with her medicine must be very strong, she thought. The room seemed to be whirling, and she still had that feeling of nausea.

G.o.d was pleased. As she drifted off to sleep, that reflection soothed her. She had begun to show each of her sisters the error of their ways, and she was convinced that her words would soon begin to bear fruit, no matter how much they disliked it - or her.

Lady Elizabeth of Topsham, prioress of St Mary's in Belstone, jerked awake, her eyes opening wide in an instant.

She hardly dared move. Something must have caused her to waken, and in the dark of her curtained bed her imagination took flight: a draw-latch had broken in and was even now preparing to attack her; a serf, bitter at the priory's taxes, had decided to take revenge on the woman responsible - herself; or maybe it was a felon desperate for s.e.x, full of l.u.s.ty dreams of young, nubile nuns. Her heart thumped; she was almost sure she could hear the rasping breath of a broken-down villein, hear his shuffling footsteps approach, his hand gripping a dagger. Cowering back, she glanced about her for a weapon, but there was nothing - what would there be on a bed?

Shrinking back, covered in a cold sweat, she prepared for the inevitable, determined to behave with dignity. But suddenly she realised her dog was silent. The intruder must have silenced Princess! With a courage born of the desire to protect her dog, Lady Elizabeth resolved to look her attacker in the face. She reached out and jerked the bed's curtains aside.

Her fire crackled in the hearth, its glow giving off enough light to see that she was safe: the chest at the foot of her bed was unopened, as was the small cupboard at its side; her door was still shut, the window shuttered, although the movement of the tapestry showed breezes were gaining entry through the broken panes.

Princess, who slept on her own cus.h.i.+on near Elizabeth's bed, gazed up at her with bleared eyes. The terrier yawned, stretched and shook herself, before slowly making her way to the bedside and gazing up. Lady Elizabeth reached down and lifted her onto the bed. Princess nuzzled affectionately at her chin before curling up. Smiling, the prioress scratched at the terrier's head, glad that the dog appeared well again. Earlier Elizabeth had thought Princess might die. The dog had been taken with another severe bout of vomiting.

Elizabeth wondered what could have woken her. It wasn't Princess, for she had been asleep, so who - or what - had? Her heart was still beating with almost painful intensity; her waking terror had not left her. She hardly thought it could be a dream, yet there was nothing to concern her.

It was a huge relief to hear footsteps. Crisp, echoing, in the chill air of the cloister, they were proof that her world was unchanged. It was the nun going to the bell to call everyone to prayer.

She pulled her miniver counterpane up to her chin, snuggling down beneath her blankets, squirming. Princess grumbled to herself at being disturbed.

It was impossible to ignore the dog. Princess had been the prioress's companion for seven years, and over that time had taken a firm hold on the woman's heart. That was why Princess's repeated seizures were becoming so alarming. First the dog whined, then began panting, before vomiting and emptying her bowels. Last evening Elizabeth had been worried lest the terrier wouldn't see the dawn, but after an hour or two Princess had lapped thirstily at her bowl of water, into which Elizabeth had put a little wine for strength, and fallen into a deep sleep.

It was a relief that Princess had recovered so speedily. Elizabeth was sure it was only something the b.i.t.c.h had stolen to eat. She often ate carrion when she went out over the moors. There were always dead sheep and ponies to chew.

The bell pealed and Elizabeth heard her obedientiaries groan and murmur as they got up and prepared to make their way to the church. As always, most went quietly in the freezing corridor, huddling their arms about them, walking with their heads down, chins resting on their b.r.e.a.s.t.s, trying to conserve the warmth of their bodies by leaving as little of themselves as possible exposed to the bitter draughts that gusted about the dorter and church. None of the women had the energy even to bicker, not at this time of night; all Elizabeth could hear was the soft slapping of their night-slippers on the flags.

Moll stirred again before the bell, lying in a relaxed haze, her eyes scarcely open, absorbing the atmosphere with near-ecstatic yet languorous delight.

She felt as if she was in a glorious dream, aware only of a sensuous ease in the comfort of her bed. In the hearth the logs glowed, then flamed spontaneously as the wind outside sucked at the chimney; the candles in their great holders spat and sizzled, dripping thick gobbets of wax with each fresh gust - but to Moll the room appeared suffused in a soft golden light which enclosed her within its soothing embrace.

She heard footsteps hurrying, a man's voice, speaking low and urgently, then the hasty shutting of the door. Moll knew that something strange and wonderful was happening to her. She was safely wrapped in her sheets, and somehow she was also floating inches above the bed, protected by the warmth of the room. Her body was fluffy, as light as a feather, and all sensations were dulled other than one: that of love. Although she was only a novice, she felt the certainty of G.o.d's love for her, and she closed her eyes and smiled. It felt as if He was smiling back at her, and she was convinced that here and now she had been transported from the infirmary and was somewhere else with Him, standing in the bright sunlight. Her very soul tingled with voluptuous excitement.

With a thrill of euphoria, she was aware of being touched, and although she felt a reverential trepidation, she wanted to cry from sheer bliss, convinced she was about to be granted a vision of heaven. She tried to open her mouth, but it was stopped, covered, and she smiled, thinking G.o.d was granting her the kiss of peace.

The pressure grew; she tried to return the kiss, but her lips met something else - cloth? - and it was being shoved upon her heavily, not gently. It threatened to stifle her. Moll tried to speak, to explain that His love was too strong for her, but could say nothing. The force over her mouth and nose was not that of a sweet kiss, it was the smothering of suffocation. She opened her eyes, but all was dark, and suddenly she was scared, all pleasure gone. Something was being held over her face; a pillow. It was impossible to breathe, and in that instant she knew that she was being murdered.

That awareness lent her a desperate urge to defend herself. She flung her arms out to punch, but missed; she caught hold of a tunic and pulled, trying to haul whoever it was away from her, but asphyxia made her attempt feeble; the effort exhausted her, and soon she was spent, her panic depleting what energy remained in her frail body. She knew she was about to die.

In a final burst of terror she thrashed with both fists, but a hand caught her wrist, and she felt someone sit astride her chest, thrusting her forearms under her a.s.sailant's knees. She was impotent, utterly defenceless, as the pillow was squeezed against her face and her chest was slowly crushed under the weight of her killer.