Belladonna at Belstone

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 washing, 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 anticipation, 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 God. 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 God-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, snatching 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, “God’s bollocks! Damn and bugger!” 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 washing 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 partition 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 washing. 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 assurance, 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 rushing 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 bloody 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.