Belladonna At Belstone Part 9

"Did you know her well?"

"Young Moll? Yes. She wasn't a nice person, but then so few of them seem to be. All outward penitence and humility, but too keen on seeing what others are up to rather than making sure their own behaviour is beyond reproach."

As concise an obituary as he had ever heard, Baldwin thought to himself. "Did you hear anything on the night that she died?"

Joan pulled a face. "No. Nor did the other girl."

"The lay sister?"

"Cecily." She nodded towards the snoring figure huddled in one of the beds. "She's got a broken wrist. The infirmarer made us dwale to help us all sleep. Needed it with Cecily's racket."

"Is she asleep now?"

"Listen to her!" Joan cackled. "She couldn't be much more asleep whatever you did to her!"

Dwale, Baldwin mused. Not a flavour to be mistaken: although the precise mixture varied, it was inevitably sour and unpleasant. Dwale was another name for belladonna, deadly nightshade, but leeches used it mixed with henbane or hemlock and a soporific, usually poppy syrup, to comfort those in pain. Many patients took it - especially when their surgeon needed them quiet. "You all slept when Moll died?"

"The infirmarer had made it a powerful dose, but even the smallest amount knocks me out at my age. I know Cecily was well gone, because she spent all her time whining with pain beforehand. After she'd drunk it, she went quiet."

"Was Moll served first?"

"No. I asked Constance to give Cecily hers first. The poor girl was in terrible pain, and I couldn't sleep with the row. Then Constance brought me mine and Moll last." She s.h.i.+fted slightly, and now her face was turned to the fire. Her features were lighted by it, and the benign flickering of the flames tended to smooth some of her wrinkles, lending her a more youthful aspect, but the sadness of old age was upon her. Although she had no apparent regret, her life was almost over, and she was contemplating the life to come. She had little interest in earthly matters.

Baldwin glanced at the beds. When he asked, Joan pointed at the bed nearest the door. "That was hers - my bed is that one."

There was a third bed between them, Baldwin noticed. "Did you fall asleep soon after drinking?" he asked.

"Very soon," Joan agreed. "As I say, Constance had made the potion strong and I remember Constance smiling at me as I drank, then going to Moll. I saw Moll take a sip before putting the cup on her table, but then I began to feel drowsy. Soon I was asleep and I didn't wake until morning."

Simon frowned uncomprehendingly. "But shouldn't you have gone to Nocturns?"

Joan shrugged. "I often miss them. So do many others. Even the prioress herself is sometimes too tired to go."

"You usually sleep through the whole night?" Baldwin asked.

"No, Sir Knight. I am usually too wakeful. I've been living here in this convent for most of my life, and the horarium has eaten its way into my soul. When I am bored I will often walk about the cloisters, and I find my bed a tedious place at night. As I get older I need less sleep. But Constance believes that I need to rest. That was why she made me drink her strong dwale."

Baldwin nodded slowly and he saw her face light as if with amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Sir Knight, there's no need to look at me in that suspicious manner. If you doubt my word ask Constance, the infirmarer. She stood over me to ensure I drank her potion. She'll tell you that I was dead to the world all that night."

Baldwin smiled and rose to his feet, knees cracking. "Thank you for your help."

She gave him a sharp look. "Help? I didn't think I told you anything new. Are you as foolish as that visitor?"

"I hope not." Baldwin beckoned Simon and the two men walked out to the small curtained chamber at the far end of the room. Inside they found another locked chest, and a shelf or two set into the wall, on which were placed bottles of powders and liquids.

None looked appetising to Simon, but he distrusted most of the potions given out by tooth-pullers and other quacks.

Baldwin pulled half-heartedly at the lid of the chest, but it was locked. "Everything in this place is stowed away, hidden from sight," he complained. "They must know it's against their own ordinances, so why is it allowed?"

"Why shouldn't they be allowed to store their own goods apart from each other's?" Simon asked. "It sounds daft to expect everyone to leave their stuff out on show."

"Men or women joining a convent give up their worldly possessions. As soon as they enter the cloister they reject material things, taking nothing with them. All they have is owned by the inst.i.tution. These chests point to the heart of whatever is wrong here."

Simon gave him a sidelong glance. "Really? I'd have thought that the lay sister and old Joan there being utterly intoxicated would be more to the point. If they were all so heavily drugged, is that because the murderer chose to silence them all? Which begs the question of whether the infirmarer was told to drug them."

"Or whether the infirmarer herself was the murderer," Baldwin mused thoughtfully, absently shaking a gla.s.s beaker with a pale white powder inside. He set it back on the shelf. "If she was, then why should she have bothered to smother Moll? All she needed do was give the girl a stronger dose of dwale, enough to make her, unconscious, and then open her vein."

"Perhaps she got the quant.i.ty wrong," Simon suggested. "Anyway, why should the infirmarer wish to kill the girl?"

"An excellent question," Baldwin said. "And yet if Margherita is right and a man did come up these stairs, he could have gone into the infirmary. Drugging the patients would guarantee they wouldn't see him."

Lady Elizabeth sat in the chapterhouse and watched as Simon and Baldwin left the building and strolled to meet the visitor. Bertrand was bitter at being frustrated in his wish to see her. His anger would have increased if he had known how his dramatic gestures, intended to demonstrate his irritation, only served to make her smile broaden.

Chapter Eleven.

"Where on G.o.d's good earth is that woman?" demanded Bertrand. "G.o.d's b.a.l.l.s, but she'll regret this! I'm tempted to go and wait in her room; force her to see me. She's avoiding us, and that's a clear enough sign of her guilt."

"I feel we should seek her down here rather than waiting in the nuns' dorter. Were we to be found in the nuns' sleeping area, I think it might give rise to talk," Baldwin mentioned with a twinkle in his eye.

Bertrand was not of a mood to see the humour of the situation, but at last he gave his ungracious agreement. The last thing he needed was an accusation of impropriety against himself. Glancing about the quadrangle, he saw two novices walking to the frater.

"If I know the religious mind at all," Baldwin said, following his gaze, "they will be drinking until Compline."

"Well, they can't object to our joining them," Bertrand said with determination, and set off after the two girls.

"Baldwin," Simon said quietly. "The visitor has obviously made up his mind. If he could, he'd have the prioress strung up for murder."

"Yes," Baldwin agreed. "And to be fair, he may well be right. But I want to give the woman the benefit of the doubt. And even if she were guilty in some way, that doesn't mean no one else helped and was not equally to blame. Is it conceivable that the prioress helped mix the dwale, or helped pa.s.s it to the invalids?"

"If the infirmarer was her accomplice, yes. You're quite convinced it was murder?"

Baldwin nodded. "There is no doubt. Moll had something thrust over her face, and her arms kept still while her artery was opened. She died of asphyxiation, but someone wanted to cover their tracks. There was a clear second cut that went to the artery." They had come to the door that gave into the frater. Simon's face held a worried frown. "Do you reckon the prioress could have done it?"

"Moll was a young girl, but strongly enough built," Baldwin theorised. "She should have been able to fight - but not while drugged."

"Which makes the infirmarer more suspicious than the prioress." "I suppose so. Although I confess I am beginning to think they all are. Margherita wandered the cloisters regularly, as did Joan; Denise liked sitting up with a drink, and from the sound of it, Moll herself and this other novice, Agnes, both saw men about the place. Do any of these nuns stick to their Rule? Can we take anything for granted about their behaviour?"

And with that quiet reflection, Baldwin walked into the frater.

When the bell for Vespers tolled, Elias the smith had walked out with his companions, but then ducked back as if realising he had left something behind while the others continued on to the service. He could be punished for not attending, but that was of little concern to him now.

It was rare that he had an opportunity to rest peacefully and meditate, and he felt the need of it more than ever just now. The service wouldn't last long, and he wished to make the most of the time he had, to consider his plans and review his options.

Westwards the sun was failing, leaving the cloisters in shadow as it sank behind the tall hill, and there was an icy freshness in the air that sank through his heavy robes. He shuddered from the sudden change in temperature, pulled his coat tighter about his shoulders, and walked slowly along the side of the building.

They ran a great risk, he knew, but they had little choice. Especially now. If they were to remain living as they did they were an insult to G.o.d. He hadn't taken the full vows like her, but that was no excuse. Both of them would be committing apostasy by going. She would be sought with the utmost energy of the Church, and brought back here to continue to serve for the rest of her life. He wasn't sure what would happen to him.

Not that his mind could concentrate well. Whenever he tried to think about what they would do, a vision of Moll's face kept springing into his mind. He fetched a jug of ale and sat down.

Hearing the canons and lay brethren leave the church, he drained his pot of ale. It was the signal to end his maudlin reverie. Outside, he straightened his shoulders with resolution and strode along the canons' cloister to the dim little pa.s.sageway that led out to the stables southwards.

There was a small outhouse leaning against the stables, and it was here that he had stored his bundles, hiding them under a pile of straw. One for her, one for him: two packages tightly wrapped, containing dried meat and fruit, tinder, a parcel of bread each, a pair of wineskins, and cloaks, sheepskins, furred boots, jacks, and even spare hose for them. He was leaving nothing to chance.

Well, it was a huge responsibility, knowing he was going to be a father, he thought as he carefully concealed the lot beneath the straw again, after checking it was all still there. He sprinkled spare dirt over the top, then stood back to make certain that his disruption of the cache was not visible. Satisfied, he left the room and, looking about him swiftly, walked back to the cloister. He sneaked into the church, sat in a pew and bent his head in prayer, waiting. She had said she would try to leave an hour or two after Compline, so he had a while to wait.

All because of Moll. That treacherous little snake had died, and now everyone thought Constance had done it.

Elias had to rescue his woman before she could be accused.

The smith would have been more anxious still if he had known that as soon as he had returned to the cloister, a figure had moved out from the shadow of a b.u.t.tress supporting the stables and silently stepped into the lean-to. Rose soon found the hidden parcels and knelt, sniffing at them, opening them to see what was there before carefully rewrapping and hiding them again.

It was obvious that Elias was going to make a run for it. That news might well be useful to the prioress, Rose didn't know. She couldn't tell what things were useful to Lady Elizabeth, but she herself was intrigued. She knew Elias as the strong-willed brother who had always refused her charms, and here he was planning to escape. With whom? She could hazard a guess.

But she couldn't go and see Lady Elizabeth about it, not now. The prioress had enough to worry her with the suffragan bishop. Rose eyed the spot where the bags were hidden. What if Elias returned in the meanwhile and fled the convent?

Behind her was the doorway to the great smithy. The forge was still alight, filling the place with a warm glow. She dragged a bench to the door. From here she could keep watch and make sure Elias didn't run. Tomorrow she would seek out Brother G.o.dfrey and ask him for his advice: should she tell Lady Elizabeth about this, or could G.o.dfrey speak to Elias and prevent his running away?

She nodded happily. She trusted G.o.dfrey.

When the three men entered, there was a sudden horrified silence. Too late Baldwin reflected that these women were unused to the sight of men. Soon the shocked glances were cooled as Bertrand was recognised, but everyone felt awkward with the three men standing in the doorway staring about them. The conversation faltered and died.

Frowning, Bertrand finally called to Margherita, who sat at the far wall: *Treasurer, where is the prioress?"

"Alas, visitor, I have not seen her since leaving the church. She was there for Vespers, but when I left the choir I met you, and I don't know where she went while I spoke to you."

Bertrand stood quivering with emotion, and was about to explode when Baldwin interposed.

"Do you think you could let her know that we have been seeking her? Tell her the novice was murdered, and not by dwale - she was suffocated and then stabbed. For now we shall return to the canonical cloister, but please inform the prioress that we shall return tomorrow and would be grateful for a moment with her."

Margherita nodded, and Baldwin walked from the room.

Twilight had fallen, and the air was bitterly cold. He could taste a metallic tang in the air. In these parts, that could only mean severe weather.

He had never stayed on the moors during the winter, but Simon had told him how foul the weather could become; earlier in the year, Baldwin had experienced the misery of riding through what had appeared to be only a slight drizzle: it had left him soaked to the skin in no time at all. That escapade had convinced him that moorland weather could be more inclement than that which he was used to.

And he had no wish to be stuck here, in the middle of nowhere, when war could threaten his home at any time.

Had Jeanne known the turn his thoughts were taking, she would have been gratified to learn that her husband, while incarcerated in a nunnery, was thinking only of her.

In truth, she had no thoughts for him; she had been too busy since his departure. All the servants had been mobilised. First the exterior of the house had been cleared of its covering of ivy and other vegetation, and tomorrow it was to be attacked in force by all those men who could wield a brush or carry a pail of limewash. Any spare souls would be marched to the woodwork and ordered to smother that in new paint.

Indoors she had already finished the removal of fleas, other than those living on Baldwin's mastiff, who now, after Edgar's constant tuition, only answered to the name *Chops'. He still occasionally displayed signs of itching, but Jeanne had no idea how to remove his infestation.

Now, late in the evening, as dark fell over the house and the animals were all settled for the night, she sat before the fire in the hall, Edgar beside her. Wat the cattleman's boy sprawled on the floor, pulling a thick lump of rope in a ferocious-sounding game of tug-of-war with Chops.

"Wat! The dog is growling enough, there's no need for you to as well," Jeanne called sharply.

Wat threw her a look over his shoulder, and was quieter, murmuring snarls as the mastiff tugged and jerked his toy.

"So, Edgar, with the old linen thrown out, we shall need plenty of new. You will have to arrange for bedclothing, a fresh mattress - that old one is awful - and buy a wall-covering. A good, thick tapestry."

"What picture would you like on it?" he asked.

There was a particular tone to his voice. Jeanne didn't look up for a moment while she considered. Edgar had been Baldwin's sole friend and confidant as well as his servant for many years, according to the little she had heard. It must be painful for him to see all that he had grown used to being discarded on, as he would see it, the whim of a woman.

Jeanne smiled. "What would he like best, do you think?"

Edgar, who was well used to feminine wiles having been a successful philanderer for many years, recognised the appearance of the olive branch and grinned back. "I would think a picture of hunting, or hawking." It was not as if he found his new mistress overbearing or difficult; she was a great deal more straightforward than he had feared, if a bit demanding. But after being first Sir Baldwin's man-at-arms and then his servant for more than thirty years, since they had met in the mess that was Acre in 1291, it was hardly surprising that Edgar found so much change over so short a period unsettling.

He left Lady Jeanne by the fire. A pot was boiling and Edgar took it to his b.u.t.tery. There he drew off a quart of wine and prepared hypocras, putting broken lumps of sugar into a pan, adding boiling water and spices and leaving them to stew for a while.

He had enjoyed his time with his master, but now things were changing. Sir Baldwin was married, and didn't need Edgar's help to buy clothes or organise the estates. And Edgar was finding himself forced to look to his own future. He was handfast to Cristine from the tavern in Crediton, and she was growing impatient with Edgar for his delay in formally giving her his vows. She understood that he had been unable to do much until his master's wedding was over, but now Cristine wanted their arrangement made binding, and Edgar wasn't certain how his master would take to having yet another woman about the place -nor was he sure how Lady Jeanne would react.

It added up to a disturbing time, and one in which Edgar found himself confused. All in all, it was most unsettling.

He added the wine to the pot and carried it to the hall, pouring a large measure into a pewter jug. It was as he pa.s.sed Jeanne the drink that they both heard hooves in the yard and Edgar walked to the door.

"Wat, quiet, boy!" Jeanne snapped, trying to listen. In a few minutes, Edgar came back with a grubby and dirt-stained man, who panted like a dog from exertion.

"My Lady, this man is a messenger for the suffragan bishop, on his way to find him at Peter Clifford's house. I told him that Bishop Bertrand is not there, but I think you should hear his news."

Jeanne noted his serious expression and nodded to the man, who dropped onto a bench while Edgar fetched him a large jug of ale. The messenger took a long draught and glanced up at Edgar thankfully, but then recalled his place, and sat upright as he met Jeanne's eye.

"My Lady," he declaimed, "I have been sent by Bishop Stapledon of Exeter, who advised me to visit Furns.h.i.+ll to warn his good friend Sir Baldwin, and to inform the bishop's suffragan in Exeter, that although our King has instructed Humphrey de Bohun, the Earl of Hereford, not to discuss the affairs of the realm nor to have any a.s.semblies of men, the Earl has ignored the King's command. He has raised his levy to form an army."

Edgar offered the messenger more drink, but the man refused. "A place to unroll my blanket near a fire is all I crave."

"Then you must sleep here," Jeanne said, rising to her feet and indicating the hearth. "Pull a bench to the heat and rest. For my part, I am grateful to you for stopping here on your way to Crediton. When you wake, tell the servants that I expect them to feed you well to keep you going for the remainder of your journey."

She accepted his thanks, and walked from the room out to the little solar, Edgar close behind her. He took his rest on a bench near the entrance to her private rooms, the mastiff with him. Edgar never took risks when he could avoid them, and although he had little doubt that the messenger was perfectly innocent and honourable, Edgar was not going to leave his mistress unguarded while his master was absent.

Comforted by the knowledge of his nearness, Jeanne sat in a chair in her bedchamber. There was no need to undress yet, especially with the freezing gusts wafting in from the unglazed windows, and she wanted a few moments to consider what she had heard.

No matter what the deeper political problems were, one thing was quite obvious: the country was teetering on the brink of disaster once more. The King and his friends the Despensers, father and son, were rus.h.i.+ng towards another civil war with the barons.

Jeanne found herself praying to G.o.d that her husband would not be sent to fight. She didn't want to be widowed so soon after finding him.

Constance smiled at Joan as she sipped her dwale, pulling a face as the bitter mixture went down. After the death of Moll, Constance had been very cautious with the measures of belladonna, but tonight she had added more poppy syrup. She needed the security of knowing that she could see Elias.

Joan settled back against her pillows and closed her eyes, and soon her breath was more stertorous as she slipped into unconsciousness. With a brief sigh of relief Constance left her and went to the door, where she listened carefully. Compline was a while ago, and all the nuns should be asleep, but someone might still be up and about. Constance had little to be happy about. Her guilt felt like a heavy weight pressing upon her breast, almost stifling her, and she longed for Elias to hug her and whisper soothing promises of how their lives would change.