Belladonna At Belstone Part 3

Margherita was a clever woman. Dangerous, too, Katerine considered. You had to keep on the right side of her; she might be a good ally for the future. The young novice s.h.i.+vered. This room with its high ceiling, benches and cold stone floor, was one of the chilliest in the place. Draining her cup she hurried to the warming room.

The calefactory was filled with a glorious orange glow from the fires. Two huge hearths lighted the place, the logs merrily crackling and hissing. Katerine got as close as she could, edging up to the hearth until her face felt deliciously scorched.

She crouched, staring raptly at the fire, but when she heard steps, rather than be commanded to leave the place, she slid herself back into the shadows. Two nuns entered, walking straight to the chairs and sitting. In their habits Katerine wasn't sure who they were, but she guessed when she heard them speak.

"Do you think Prioress Elizabeth could be removed from her post?"

"Why should she be? Who do you think's going to be able to prise my Lady Elizabeth from her prioressy? You don't honestly think she killed Moll, do you?" Katerine recognised that voice: it was Emma, the cellaress, a woman who had not been consecrated because she was no virgin when she entered the convent, not that it ever seemed to give her cause for gloom. She was always happiest with an ale in her hand and a friend to gossip with.

"No, of course not! Lady Elizabeth is no murderer. No, I think Moll drank too much of Constance's dwale and it made her blood overheat. You know how these things happen. It opened the wound that fool of a clerk made in her arm. But the prioress is responsible for everything in her convent, and the suffragan will want a scapegoat."

Katerine's ears p.r.i.c.ked. This was Anne, the fratress. She had no responsibility in the infirmary, for her job was to see to the chairs and tables in the frater, but because of that she was always about when other nuns talked, so she had access to good sources of information. If she believed Brother G.o.dfrey had operated carelessly, that was probably the view of many others.

"I wonder if Constance realises her own danger, then."

*Her danger?"

"Of course - she mixed the dwale."

"Oh yes. I hadn't thought," Anne said, and then chuckled quietly and cruelly. "I remember her when she first came to the convent, you know. I said at the time that she was wrong for that job. She had no idea of the importance of getting the mixtures right. Spent most of her time daydreaming. What could you do with someone like her?"

"Would she have done it deliberately, do you think?" Emma frowned thoughtfully.

"What - get the mixture so strong?" Anne grinned nastily, and glanced about her before leaning forward conspiratorially. She murmured something so quietly Katerine couldn't hear, sitting back and nodding sagely and solemnly while Emma absorbed her words, then giggled.

"You think so? Who - Constance? I find it hard to believe."

"You watch her, Emma. It's not only her. There's that novice, too - Sir Rodney's little miss: Agnes. Watch her in church, the way she behaves, especially when young Luke's near, the strumpet."

Emma's eyes narrowed. "Still, if Constance is proved to be guilty of that stupid child's death, that won't help the prioress, will it? Not on top of the visitor's report. From what Margherita told me, he uncovered so much last time that this will be bound to be the last straw."

"So Margherita has taken you aside as well? She's certainly trying to get around all of us as quickly as possible, isn't she?"

"Do you blame her?"

"Not reallya But Lady Elizabeth is a devious cow. I'll wait and see for a while before I commit myself."

The bell rang out calling the nuns back to the church to prepare for Terce and the Morrow Ma.s.s. The two women stood, and Katerine remained hidden until both had swept out. Once the way was clear, she too got up and hurried to the door. Their conversation had given her much to mull over: so Anne wasn't convinced that the prioress would be removed. From what she said, Margherita couldn't a.s.sume she would win the post, which was quite a surprise because Anne was one of Margherita's familia, one of her most loyal adherents. If even Anne was wavering, then the treasurer wasn't in so commanding a position as Katerine had thought.

There was also the other matter, she remembered, trotting quickly along the corridor. It looked as though both Emma and Anne thought Moll had been killed by Constance - not that she'd heard why both thought that. And there was what they had said about Agnes.

Once inside the church, she slowed her steps, genuflecting to the altar as she pa.s.sed. Her quick eye caught sight of Agnes. Katerine settled in her pew, and looked over to check her impression. Yes, Agnes was staring at the altar. Her attention was fixed upon the tall, fair-haired priest as he prepared himself to conduct the ceremony: Luke.

And Katerine felt that bitter jealousy clutching at her breast once more, just as she had when she'd known Luke was with Agnes again - just as she had when she'd seen him chatting up Moll.

Sir Baldwin was waiting at the door and introduced his wife. Bertrand politely blessed them both, and gave Jeanne his hand so she could kiss his ring, accepting with grat.i.tude her offer of a pot of wine while his men were directed to the b.u.t.tery.

"My Lord Bishop, I was not expecting you," Baldwin said as they stood around the fire. "I thought we agreed that I should come and meet you at Crediton. My house here is far out of your way*

"There is more urgency now," Bertrand explained gravely. "Since we met at Peter's house we have had news from Bristol. The King is preparing his castles."

Baldwin understood the meaning behind those words. "The Despensers?"

Nodding, Bertrand took his pot from Edgar and sipped. There could be hardly anybody in the country who wasn't aware of the trouble fomented by that family. Bertrand himself had heard more about them than most from Bishop Stapledon, who had supported them when they had acted as an effective brake on the King's profligacy; but now Hugh Despenser, the son, appeared ambitious to make himself the most powerful magnate in all the King's lands. King Edward II, always vacillating and pathetic, seemed keen to let him have his way, even supporting Despenser against the Marcher Lords.

"Is there any sign he is gathering an army?" Baldwin asked.

"You mean he might simply be taking defensive measures in case of attack? I understand that the King has demanded money from the Abbot of Gloucester. It can only mean he's looking to pay men-at-arms."

Baldwin thought about this, glancing at his wife. If there were to be another civil war, he would not wish to leave Jeanne alone. Two factors weighed with him: his home was no castle, and he had little idea how long he would be spending at Belstone. If he should be kept there for weeks on end, it was possible that war could begin, and that the tide of battle could wash over even this tranquil part of Devons.h.i.+re.

His thoughts were written on his face, and Bertrand glanced warily at the woman sitting quietly at Baldwin's side. When he had accepted the role of visitor, he had not antic.i.p.ated having so much to do with women. Now, here he was, preparing to return to the convent of Belstone, a place so ill-regulated it was almost a sink of corruption, especially now there had been a murder - and this knight wanted to take his wife with him! Bertrand was about to suggest that he and Baldwin should discuss matters in secret, in order that he could firmly reject the idea that Baldwin should bring his wife, when the knight turned to his servant.

"Edgar, you will have to stay here to protect the house, and do as you see fit to keep the place secure."

Margherita was on tenterhooks; Agnes could see that. The treasurer sat for the most part gazing out of the windows, over the cloister, without seeming to hear or comprehend what was going on about her, even when the young novice dropped a pottery inkwell, smas.h.i.+ng it to pieces on the flags and spattering black ink all over.

"Never mind, just get a cloth to clean it up."

Agnes stood a moment gaping, but then hurried to obey. It took little time to wipe away the worst of the mess, though she was convinced the stain would never disappear. When she'd replaced the bucket and cloth in the kitchen and returned to Margherita, it was clear the nun still wasn't concentrating on the task at hand. She stared unseeing in any direction other than at her desk.

It was intriguing. Agnes was used to Margherita snapping at her, urging novices to hurry. Margherita was known for her acerbity; finding her in this reflective mood was weird. Of course Moll's death had affected everyone, and the treasurer was probably upset at the ridiculous way that the girl had expired: surgeon's mistake, everyone said.

Agnes studied her doubtfully, then decided it was more likely that Margherita was worried about herself. Rumours abounded, and the strongest was that Margherita suspected Lady Elizabeth of murder. If that was the case, Agnes could understand her distraction.

Sometimes Agnes thought she understood Margherita better than anyone else. There was a tie that connected them: illegitimacy. That was why Sir Rodney had wanted Agnes away from his estate, because she was the constant reminder of an evening of pa.s.sion -and sin. For the pious Sir Rodney, that was intolerable. Margherita didn't even know who her father was, nor where her mother had gone, and that made Agnes look on her with sympathy. She could quite comprehend the desperate desire Margherita had to prove herself by running the priory.

Not that Agnes felt committed to supporting Margherita. The prioress was a shrewd and cautious woman, and Agnes reckoned she'd never be dragged from her office without a fight. There was no way the Lady Elizabeth would allow herself to be exiled to the fringes of priory business.

For now Agnes would keep her counsel.

Chapter Five.

It wasn't only Margherita who was feeling strained. Joan was in the frater when she heard a call, followed by weeping. She got to her feet just as Ela, the kitcheness, entered from the yard, desperately clinging hold of Constance, who was reeling drunk. Joan was astonished: if Constance had drunk one more pint of wine she'd have been in a stupor. Of course there was nothing scary about seeing a woman drunk. Such sights were common enough even in a nunnery, and Joan wasn't upset by it, but she was a little shocked to see Constance in such a state. The infirmarer always gave the impression of being so self-possessed.

Constance was lured to a chair. She half-fell into it, and when she was refused more wine she burst into tears, blubbering like a teenaged girl deserted by her first lover. Ela went to fetch water and bread, and Joan sat with Constance, patting her hand comfortingly until Ela returned. Joan left them chatting and sat near the door to the yard.

It was while she was there that Margherita walked in. She gave Constance a contemptuous glance, and walked past her to approach Joan. Her expression made Joan frown. Constance didn't deserve to be scorned: she was a good woman, dedicated to the convent, obeying G.o.d by helping the sick. It was understandable that she should feel guilty at what had happened to Moll while the girl had been under her charge in the infirmary.

Margherita saw her reproachful expression and had the grace to look shamefaced. "I am sorry, Joan, but no matter how she feels, allowing herself to get into this condition is simply not acceptable. Look at her! Constance is a disgrace to her robes."

"She has had one of her patients die in her room," Joan remonstrated. "Show mercy. That's what a prioress should do."

The shot hit the mark and Margherita nodded. "Very well, dear Joan. I shall remember. Though I still feel that being s.l.u.ttish drunk is contemptible for a nun."

"Perhaps you do, but letting people know won't help you, will it?" Joan chuckled. "What's more, the prioress is a wily old vixen. If you give her an opportunity, she'll stab you before you see her attack forming." She helped herself to wine from a jug. Most of her spare time for the last thirty-nine years had been taken up with teaching this woman all she knew, and she had little desire to see that investment wasted. She finished her wine, cast a glance at Constance, and murmured, "I think I should return to the infirmary. Cecily might need something, and poor Constance is in no fit state."

"A good idea." Margherita watched Joan rise and walk to the door. It was hard sometimes to remember how old Joan was, she reflected, looking at the woman's solid gait. She practically marched out - stolid, dependable, and resolute as a rock.

Margherita waited. Soon more nuns would enter, coming to s.n.a.t.c.h a snack to keep them going through the morning. However, as she poured herself more wine, a shadow fell across the doorway. It was Lady Elizabeth, who walked in and, ignoring her, went straight to the infirmarer, crouching at Constance's side in the humblest manner possible, speaking gently and quietly. When Elizabeth stood, a hand resting on the young infirmarer's shoulder, she met Margherita's gaze. This time there was no fear in her eyes, only cold, naked determination.

Margherita s.h.i.+vered as the prioress swept from the room.

When Katerine entered the frater a little later, Constance was still sitting with Ela, her head supported on both hands as she stared blearily at the wall. Nearby Denise was in her favourite place, and as Ela returned to her kitchen, Denise pa.s.sed her pot to Constance, who drank greedily.

Glancing at the drunk infirmarer, Katerine was not inclined to hang around this unsavoury scene. She was on her way to the kitchen to beg a meat pie and eat it when, to her disgust, she felt Constance grab hold of her arm.

"What'd you do, eh? How can I ever get forgiven?"

"Constance, she's only a novice," Denise giggled, reaching over to try to prise Constance's fingers free.

"So? She can love, can't she?" the nun demanded. "She's got a heart like you or me, hasn't she?" Her truculence spent, she snivelled to herself a moment, still keeping a firm grip on Katerine. "It's not fair, it's not! She can have her b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but we're stuck in here, supposed to keep away from men, and if we happen to enjoy just a short time with one, we're forced to leave *em. But she's a lady, so she can do what she wants. Where's the fairness in that, eh?"

"Run along, girl," Denise hissed as she finally loosened Constance's grip. "Go on, get out of here! As for you,"* she added, grasping Katerine's robe as the novice made to escape, hauling her close so that she had to inhale Denise's foul breath, "if I hear that there are any stories circulating among the novices suggesting that the infirmarer has been drunk, I'll flay the hide off you. Understand? Now p.i.s.s off!"

Shaken despite herself, Katerine scurried away; it was only when she arrived at the door to the cloister that she realised she hadn't fetched herself the pie. Irritated, she decided to avoid the frater by taking the longer route to the kitchen, so she turned up the alley that followed the back wall of the frater to the yard and the kitchen door.

The cook grinned as Katerine scoffed a small squab pie. It was common enough for the younger novices to feel the pangs of hunger between their meals, and Ela believed in filling them up. She watched indulgently while Katerine swallowed the last mouthful, licking her fingers and wiping them dry on her tunic. Thanking the kitcheness, she made her way back to the cloister. At the rear door to the frater she paused.

Inside was Margherita, in full flow. Before her were three other nuns, all drinking from large pots of wine, while the treasurer exhorted them to consider the best interests of the nunnery, forgetting their own private ambitions. The woman was using all her powers of persuasion.

"When the visitor comes back, he'll not just be looking at the prioress," she declared, "he'll be watching all of us. He's not going to be as polite and friendly as last time. Oh no. This time he'll be asking about the death of a novice, investigating how we sisters could have allowed it to happen. It's not as if he's going to be able to hide this matter from his master, our bishop. We all know what's going on. It's Lady Elizabeth and her mana* Margherita caught sight of Katerine. "You - girl! Stop listening to chapter business that doesn't concern you!"

Katerine obeyed sullenly, but as she walked to the cloister, she wondered what was happening. First there was Constance, who must have been dreadfully upset to have got so maudlin drunk; then Margherita in a high old state of anxiety.

Both were bound to be perfect sources for conjecture among the novices after Compline, when all went to their beds, and she quite looked forward to holding the younger girls spellbound while she related the curious behaviour of Constance in the kitchen.

Perhaps it was the impact of the visitor. His arrival, for the second time in so short a s.p.a.ce, was certain to cause some concern amongst the nuns. Katerine was only young, but she wasn't blind. The nuns flagrantly ignored their Rule. Many wouldn't obey even the lightest part of their duties: they didn't get up in the middle of the night to help conduct the Nocturnes and Matins as they should. And the drinking after Compline was excessive, just as if the nuns were members of a select lord's party, and ent.i.tled to consume as much wine as any wished without a thought to the fact that they should all have gone to their beds after this last service of the day.

Not that it bothered Katerine. For her, the more drunk and incapable the nuns were, the easier her own affairs became. She could learn much more when they were in their cups, and all information was potentially profitable. Such as Constance with her man - or Agnes with Luke. Katerine's face took on a bitter aspect as she considered them. Agnes - once her friend, and Luke - once her lover.

The tavern was a ramshackle, cruck-built house with a thin, moss-covered thatch, and when Bailiff Simon Puttock rode up to the door and gave it a once-over, the whistle died on his lips. Smoke floated from the louvre in the roof, but the limewash was a mess with green lichen and moss growing thickly, and his confidence in the builder was somewhat diminished by the rubble at the side of the place where a large portion had collapsed. Still, he reflected, it should last long enough for lunch. He nodded to his companion.

"Hardly looks the sort of place Baldwin would pick. More like one of your grotty little alehouses, Hugh."

Hugh, his servant, ignored the jibe. He was a wiry, short man, and wore a perpetual frown on his face, as though he knew the world was making fun of him.

Today he felt particularly disgruntled, and as he hopped from his horse he tugged his thick fustian cloak about him more tightly. "I'd be happier staying in an alehouse than going on in this weather," he grunted.

"Enough grumbling, Hugh. Look on the bright side - Peter's message makes it look like there'll be women enough willing to warm you up at Belstone! So long as you don't let this p.i.s.shead priest Baldwin's bringing with him find you in one of his nun's beds!"

Hugh snorted contemptuously, ignoring his master's joke. The idea that nuns would grant s.e.xual favours wasn't new, it was the fantasy of every adolescent male - and many weak-minded adult males, too. Hugh had heard plenty of stories about such women, especially the ones who escaped from convents. They often couldn't lift their tunics fast enough, from what he'd been told. Not that they were running any great risks; for if they returned to their nunnery they would be welcomed with open arms, even if they had to accept a penance of some sort to show the Church's displeasure. But there was one aspect to all this Hugh was convinced of. "They'd not look at me," he muttered.

Simon grinned broadly. "So that's what has got to you - you reckon you're too lowly for them."

"Nuns are all well-born, aren't they? Daughters of n.o.bles and lords and such. Nah, they'd not look at my sort."

Dropping from his horse and tossing the reins to the waiting ostler, Simon chuckled aloud. "In that case, be happy, Hugh, because you'll not be risking your eternal soul by fornicating with a woman dedicated to Christ." He caught a glimpse of his servant's black expression. "h.e.l.l's teeth! Try to cheer up!"

Simon Puttock, the Bailiff of Lydford under the Warden of the Stannaries, was far too happy to tolerate his servant's dour expression. While Hugh looked over the landscape and saw gra.s.s smothered under a freezing white covering, skeletal trees with no leaves, paths and tracks made treacherous with ice and no prospect of a warm meal until they arrived at the priory, Simon saw the world differently: to him the land was delicately rimed with frost which served to emphasise its soft contours, the trees were full of the promise of spring, their branches preparing to explode with fresh green leaves, the roads on which they travelled were solid and dry instead of spattering them with mud, and the alehouse held the certainty of a reward after having come so far: there would be ale heated at the side of the fire. There was good reason for his cheerful humour, for his wife was pregnant again.

He strode over the threshold into the dim, fuggy hall. Two candles smoked at one wall, and a cold draught came in from the high, unglazed windows, but the fire was smouldering nicely, and the household's iron pot hung over it, a thick soup bubbling gently. There were only a few men inside, two near the fire watching a third man lying atop a slatternly looking girl on a rug in a far corner.

Simon hesitated, but seeing a man near the door to the b.u.t.tery, waved to him and ordered two ales, then took a seat. Hugh soon joined him, and eyed the two on the floor. It wasn't the sort of behaviour he could understand. He had made use of prost.i.tutes himself before - which man hadn't? - but he'd never been tempted to couple in public like these two; it reminded him too much of dogs in the street. Although now Hugh was almost tempted to nudge her and ask whether he could have her later.

For Hugh was lonely. It was a novel sensation to him, because he had been a shepherd out on the moors near Drewsteignton as a lad, and most of his youth had been spent many miles from other people, especially girls; his early adult life had been one of complete self-reliance, with only his charges and a dog for company, and although Simon, his master, had rescued him from the boredom - and damp - of that existence, still the change had prevented Hugh from meeting women of his own level. Those with whom he came into contact at Lydford were mostly suspicious of someone from so far away, for Hugh's accent set him apart from the servants of the busy stannary town, and when he returned with his master to their old town of Crediton, the women were p.r.o.ne to see him as a feeble-witted and awkward country fellow, someone of little account and useful only as the b.u.t.t of jokes.

It was now over two years since Hugh had been romantically involved with a woman. There were wh.o.r.es in the taverns near Lydford which lined the busy roads north and south, but that was very different. And now Simon was to be a father again, Hugh was aware of a kind of jealousy. He hated feeling that way about his master, but he couldn't help it. Especially when Simon was so tediously proud.

Hugh watched as the wh.o.r.e and her bawd rose, the man joining the other two by the fire, casting suspicious looks at the strangers as he retied his hose and the girl went out to the room at the back.

Simon sat with a faraway smile on his face, paying scarcely any heed to those around him. Simon Puttock was a tall man with dark hair in which the grey was rapidly becoming prominent. Usually he tended to wear a serious expression, because his position as Bailiff for the Warden of the Stannaries meant that he was one of the most senior law officers on the moors, but today Simon was beaming, and the world was pleasing to his eye, for he was quite sure that his wife would give birth to a son.

They had had a son before - Peterkin - but he had died young. Simon had been so proud to have an heir, and yet when Peterkin become fractious and petulant, crying all night, he had realised there was something seriously wrong. Peterkin had a fever. Soon the poor little lad had diarrhoea, and gradually his squalling faded. Before long it was a muted whimper, and then a pained breath, and the lad pa.s.sed away quietly early one morning. It was terrible to admit it, but Simon had been almost glad when the end had come, because at least he wouldn't have to confront his inability to do anything to help his boy.

And now Margaret, his lovely Meg, had fallen pregnant again. It was wonderful to think that she would soon be growing, her belly expanding fruitfully, giving life to a new child after three years of trying to replace poor Peterkin. Grinning broadly, he slapped his servant on the shoulder. "Come on, Hugh, you've hardly touched your drink. Hurry up, or I'll let you collect the reckoning as punishment."

Glowering morosely, Hugh took a long pull at his quart, but his stomach was not in it. "It's all right for them as have the money."

"I pay you well enough, and it's not as if you have other expenses," Simon said happily, unaware how his words affected his man. He was sincerely fond of his servant, and would not have wished to hurt his feelings. "You're not in the same position as Edgar, Baldwin's man, are you? He's going to be married soon and has to save every farthing he can."

"Aye, well he's welcome," Hugh retorted, but without his usual vigour.

Simon didn't notice his remark, but waved at the young prost.i.tute as she returned to the room. She carried a jug, and refilled their ales from it. Hugh looked up at her just as she happened to glance at him, and she smiled.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Me?" Hugh asked, then, "Hugh."

"I'm Rose. Call me if you want me," she said.

Her face was plain and round. There was little about her which would usually have attracted Hugh, but today he thought her beautiful. She was perhaps twenty or twenty-one years old, not too tall, and wore her dark hair wantonly loose over her shoulders, but what Hugh noticed most about her was her eyes. They were steady and green, and he was just considering the coins in his pocket when there was a sudden row from the road, and such thoughts were thrust from his mind.

Bishop Bertrand entered regally, pausing in the doorway and perusing the hall with his nose in the air; to Simon he looked like a bad imitation of a cleric from a morality play, but he curbed the comments which rose immediately to his lips and instead stood and bowed, then winked at his friend behind.

"Simon, it is good to see you again," Baldwin said, crossing the floor and shaking the bailiff's hand. "Permit me to introduce Bishop Bertrand, the suffragan of Exeter."

Bertrand held out his hand. Simon made the usual obeisance and kissed his ring, and the bishop sat in Simon's chair, pulling his coat tight about him.

"It is very bitter out there," he murmured.

Simon took his quart pot and drank. "Not as bad as it can be, my Lord Bishop. In this last winter, the snow down here was yards deep, and the wind as it comes off the moors is cold enough to flay a man. You could ride out over the moors, they say, and before you'd got halfway, you'd have lost all the flesh from your face."