Belladonna at Belstone

Chapter Fifteen

Constance returned to the infirmary and found Joan sitting before the fire. Pouring her a cup of spiced wine, Constance stood back to watch the older woman drink. It was peaceful now that Cecily was asleep again, this time drunk on wine rather than dwale and poppy seed, and Joan was clearly enjoying the quiet.

There was no such peace for Constance. She was confused, anxious and scared. It was while she was still talking to the prioress that the message had arrived that poor Katerine was dead, fallen from the roof, almost braining Sir Baldwin en route.

Everyone had heard stories of nuns who lost their faith and believed that they had the right to end their lives, denying God’s own supreme responsibility for choosing how and when to call His people to Himself, but Constance would never have believed that of Katerine. Especially since she had always appeared so full of life. She was the last person to look for death. Constance privately thought the girl must have slipped – but that begged the question of what Katerine was doing on the roof in the first place. Spying on the canons?

It was a thought. The girl was always happy to use information to her own advantage, as Constance knew only too well, although what she could have hoped to have seen up on the roof was a puzzle.

Constance left the jug by the fire and walked back to the little chamber, standing in the doorway and staring about her.

Only a few nights ago, when Moll died, she had told Elias of their joint parenthood, while they lay naked in each other’s arms on her mattress. At first he had not wanted to believe it, his face registering shock, but that was only for a moment. Then his expression changed. His eyes had creased, his mouth broke into a wide smile and he had pulled her towards him, embracing her fervently.

It was his idea to leave the convent. How could they stay? he had demanded, his strong, muscled arms wrapped about her, talking softly into the side of her neck while she stared up at the ceiling, tears filling her eyes.

He still wanted her to go with him, she knew; he would be waiting for her down at the iron grille that separated the nunnery from the canons. Waiting for her answer.

And she would have gone, if Katerine hadn’t accosted her. That had forced her to decide: Elias or the convent. At least the prioress had been kind; understanding. There were rumours that she herself had once fallen in love, and had only come to this convent after being thrown from another in disgrace. Perhaps that was why she was less harsh with her nuns and novices: because she knew what it was to hold a man in her arms, to feel doubt and dual loyalties, one to God, and the other to a man.

Constance stared at her belly with near revulsion. It had never occurred to her that she could come to this. Elias had been a flirtation, an amusement snatched between services and the routines of claustral life. She had enjoyed flirting so much that one day she had shamefully passed near the grille, and when he made to catch at her robe, she made a show of sweeping it away, casually allowing her hand to pass so close to his that he could hardly help but catch it.

As soon as his fingers gripped hers, she felt the blood stop in her veins. She was frozen in time; her eyes transfixed by his powerful fingers; scarred, grime-ingrained fingers they were, but to her they were beautiful. She imagined how they would feel upon her body, scratching slightly as the nicks and calluses scraped over her. She pulled away, scared of her own emotions, and for the rest of that day she had lived in a dream, a wonderful dream in which Elias held her hand and smiled at her.

It had not been easy for him to get to her room. She had tutored him carefully, and had given her patients dwale to ensure their silence. The only risk had been that he might be seen entering the dorter, and then, once inside, that Princess might hear him. The little dog barked whenever she heard a man in the nuns’ area. It was because of her that Constance had given Elias a bottle of poppy syrup. Princess often went to the men’s cloister, and there would steal any food available. Elias lured her into eating marrow bones, and fed her small pieces of bread soaked in poppy syrup.

Each time Elias had gone to see Constance the dog had been unconscious. In fact, the poppy juice worked so well that when Elias proposed that they should leave together, Constance hadn’t quibbled when he asked for a larger bottle, this time to ensure that the gatehouse was still as they passed through; they wouldn’t have to concern themselves with over-inquisitive gatekeepers.

But now Constance couldn’t leave. Partly it was the talk she had had with Lady Elizabeth. The prioress made her feel she was wanted. Oh, she’d made it clear enough that Constance would be committing a sin by leaving, but Constance believed that conceiving her child already put her beyond the pale. No, it was Elizabeth’s understanding that had struck Constance. She truly appeared to understand Constance’s confusion and fear.

There was another reason why she wasn’t sure about running away. She thought Elias might be the murderer.

Simon took a pace back from the parapet. It was a hideous drop, made still more repulsive by that revolting smear. Now he knew what he was looking for, he could see the traces of red on the wall itself. Not on the roof below – that puddle was perfectly clear. No, now he could see the vertical path cleared in the snow was not merely an area remarkable by the absence of snow, but also by a smear of red.

He was as sure as he could be that Katerine had been murdered: these traces of her blood up on the roof of St Mary’s meant that she had already been hurt before falling. Simon felt his stomach churn but not now with squeamishness. A hot, focused rage was guiding him – a rage composed of the desire for vengeance on whoever had tried to assassinate his closest friend, plus requital for the slaughter of two young women.

It was not that the two were novices, but rather that they were girls just like his own daughter Edith and the thought that someone had taken it into his or her head to kill them was so atrocious that Simon was determined to repay the debt on behalf of the two victims.

How could he prove Katerine had been murdered? Obviously if someone had heaved her over the parapet, either they had carried the dead girl up here or they had attacked her when she was already here – but if she had been conscious she would have screamed as she was pushed.

Simon was no expert, but he would have thought that carrying a girl up so many stairs would be difficult. He crouched by the door in the tower to see if there was blood on the top stairs – either drips from a bleeding wound, or smear-marks on the circular tower walls from a wounded body touching its surface as it was carried up over someone’s shoulder. There was nothing in the area around the door.

He turned his attention elsewhere. The church had one shallowly pitched roof, and from the door he could see that the peak was only a short climb. Swallowing his desire to return to solid, safe ground, he gingerly stepped up and peered over the other side. There was nothing lying around that looked as though it might have been used to kill, nothing lying in plain view. Gloomily, Simon returned to the door. He had to accept that he had failed. There was no sign of someone having been attacked, and no sign of blood on the stairs.

Walking through to the top of the stairs, he turned to pull the tower door shut behind him when he noticed the smear on the door itself, and if the sight hadn’t been so sombre and doleful, he would have given a whoop of joy.

Hugh sucked, but no matter what he did the small sliver of meat wouldn’t budge from between his teeth. He looked around to make sure no one was watching and drew his knife. Lips pursed in a low, innocent whistle, he dragged the blade along the edge of the table to peel a long, thin splinter from it. It was the perfect size.

Sir Baldwin lay still. Godfrey had bustled about collecting a bowl and knife, and asked Hugh whether he would help bleed the knight, but Hugh refused to let him go near Baldwin with a blade until the bailiff returned and gave his permission. It wasn’t that Hugh had any objection to bleeding: he was bled at least twice a year, because everyone knew it was the best way to cleanse the blood of impurities, but Hugh wasn’t taking responsibility for Sir Baldwin’s health – especially with the man whom Hugh suspected could have had a part in the first novice’s death, and especially since Hugh couldn’t know whether Godfrey could have his own reasons for killing, say, an over-inquisitive Keeper of the King’s Peace.

In the end the canon had huffily stalked out; Hugh knew he had offended the man, but he wasn’t sorry to be left alone with his thoughts, and he would not apologise for taking a sensible precaution, either. At least Sir Baldwin’s long slash had been seen to, and the wound had been left open so that any corrupt matter within it wouldn’t be forced inwards to poison the body. Even Hugh, who had never had any training in medicine, knew that. Godfrey had bound Baldwin’s head with a long bandage which covered a thick poultice – designed to cultivate the pus which would hopefully cleanse the wound.

Baldwin was very pale, and with his dark beard, the contrast to his marble-white features was still more striking. His breath was shallow, as if he was in a deep sleep, but there was a rasping quality to it, as if he was in pain as well.

Hugh hitched up his tunic and rested his backside on the table at Baldwin’s side, eyeing the knight contemplatively while he picked his teeth.

“Is he very bad?”

Leaping from the table, Hugh turned to find himself being studied by a short woman with shrewd green eyes set in a plain round face. Her skin had a thin, parchment-like look to it, but that was common with slightly older women, as Hugh knew. At least her wrinkled face was kindly. “No. I mean, well, I don’t know.”

Her eyes creased in amusement as she walked past him. “Let me take a look. This man is a knight, I hear?”

“Yes… um…”

“You may call me Lady Elizabeth, young fellow. Are you trained in leechcraft?”

When he shook his head, she glanced back down at Baldwin. “Where is Godfrey?”

“He asked me if he could open the knight’s arm, and I said ”No“. Since then, I don’t know where he’s gone.”

“God rot his teeth! The damned fool; getting petulant because he’s not allowed to practise his blasted surgery, I suppose,” Lady Elizabeth spat, making Hugh’s eyes widen to circles. “Right, young man, I suppose we’d better get this knight of yours to a place where he can be properly nursed – and that in safety.”

The staircase from the roof took Simon back to the nave of the canons’ cloister, and all the way down, he kept his eyes fixed upon the steps and the wall, seeking any other smudges of blood. At several points he found them, and with each his conviction grew.

It was apparent that the girl had been struck and carried up the stairs. The blow had crushed her skull. Perhaps to prevent drips, a cloth had been wrapped around her head, but the blood had seeped into it, and where it touched the wall, it had smeared. That fact convinced Simon that the girl was probably already dead. If she had been hit so hard that she bled that heavily, there was little chance of her being alive. Someone had killed her, then taken her upstairs to throw her from the roof.

Standing near the altar, Simon glanced at the door communicating with the nuns’ cloister. She must have come from there; she could have been discovered in the canons’ area and murdered there, but Simon doubted it. He also thought she was not likely to have been carried into the church. Surely someone would have seen that. No, more likely that she had walked in and was knocked down inside. A blasphemy in its own right.

On a sudden impulse, he went to the door and entered. There was little to distinguish the nuns’ side from the men’s side. The choir stalls were much the same, as was the altar. There were no stains on the clean floor. At the back of the room Simon saw Denise’s aumbry and opened it. Inside was a mess of brushes, rags and waxes.

Plainly the sacrist would have known where to find a cloth. And she’d have known how to clean blood from the floor of the church, too.

Safely back on terra firma, Simon saw Lady Elizabeth at the door to the frater. He knew instinctively who she was. The prioress had an aura of confidence about her, like many a great lady, and she also gave the impression of power. She nodded to him, and Simon recognised in that short beckoning movement the authority of one used to command.

“You are the bailiff brought here by that infernal fool Bertrand?” she asked calmly. “Your friend is going to make a perfectly good recovery – so long as his jaw doesn’t lock up, anyway. You never can tell with these things. But I do not think it is sensible to leave him in the frater. He will cause too much chatter in there. The church would be a good place to put him, but too cold; the calefactory would be warm, but too noisy. I think the best thing to do is remove him to the infirmary.”

“Here in the canons’ cloister?” Simon asked, and when she agreed, he shook his head. “I cannot agree. In my view Godfrey has to be a suspect in the murder of the first novice, and I have no idea whether he could have been involved in the second as well.“

She rounded on him hotly. “Godfrey would do no such thing! It’s ridiculous to suggest that he might have had a hand in this.”

“You may feel so, but I couldn’t leave Baldwin in his charge without guards.”

“Where else would you have the man put?”

Simon felt indecision torturing him. All he wanted at this moment was Baldwin’s servant to stand over the knight and guard him while he, Simon, went to discover who had tried to kill him, but Edgar was miles away in Cadbury. “Where is safe if someone is prepared to kill twice?”

“Twice? Do you mean Katerine was murdered?” the prioress demanded sharply.

“My Lady, I have no doubt. There was someone up on the church roof; he or she threw a slate down to strike Baldwin, then threw the novice over the parapet.”

“How can you possibly tell that?”

Simon explained about the stack of unused slates, the topmost of which was unmarked by snow, and then the other evidence.

Lady Elizabeth walked up and down, deep in thought. “Very well. We shall take your friend to the nuns’ infirmary.”

“Where the first girl was murdered?” Simon exclaimed. “I think not, Lady. I’d…”

“I can guarantee that the infirmarer is safe. She was not involved in the first death, and as for the second – well, she was with me.”

A canon helped Hugh carry Baldwin on a stretcher improvised from a door, while Simon and the prioress watched, calling out useful exhortations to be careful which twice almost caused an accident.

The knight was partly conscious now; blearily, he gazed about him as he was carried through the church and into the nuns’ cloister. Here he was taken past a row of silent, awestruck women, all of whom stared at him: one or two, Simon noticed, with that speculative expression that denoted an interest in more than just his wound as they took in his broad shoulders, strongly muscled arms and thick neck.

Hugh also saw their covert glances, and tried to avert his gaze. It was only one day ago he had been so overcome by loneliness that he had been thinking about silken-skinned, available women, and now he was confronted by what felt like a horde of them; whereas he had expected them to look down upon him, he was now given the unsettling impression that most were mentally undressing him. It made him want to cover his groin with a hand.

He noticed one in particular. A slim young woman stood near the angle of a wall, slightly apart from the others. Her thin linen veil appeared transparent the way the sun slanted down at her, and he was sure he could see the line of her lips beneath, soft and full. As her eyes met his, he could swear that her smile broadened, and she gave him a look he would have interpreted as inviting if he had seen it on a girl like Rose in a tavern. He could have wept.

Baldwin felt as weak as a newborn puppy. His head was excruciating; liquid fire was running up and down the side of his scalp; his brain had expanded, or his skull contracted, he knew not which, and his eyes were apparently being forced from their sockets, like pips squeezed between finger and thumb. It made it necessary to keep his eyes closed for as long as possible.

“Can you hear me?” He heard Simon’s voice from his side, but if he was to move his mouth the top of his head would surely explode. He twitched his hand, frowning with the pain.

“Baldwin, you were struck on the head. You’ve got a great gash in your scalp. It’s not serious, but you’ll have to rest.”

Vague memories came back to him now. They were in a convent, the one at Belstone, and they were helping someone… a bishop. Not Stapledon, though, someone else. Baldwin struggled to recall what they were doing here, but his head was hurting abominably. Every time he shifted on the bed it felt as if someone was thrusting a red-hot knife into his skull.

“Baldwin? Can you hear me?” Simon said again, and when there was no reply, he took his friend’s hand, repeating his question and watching Baldwin’s face anxiously until he felt the knight’s hand grip his own. For Simon it was proof that his friend was not in immediate danger. Simon, like most men, had witnessed plenty of tournaments and mock battles, and had seen men in the ring fighting with clubs and swords. He knew as well as any man that, provided the injured man could hear and move after a few minutes, he was unlikely to die. The others, the ones who expired, were the men who could neither hear nor move after an hour or so. They seemed to pass from unconsciousness into catalepsy, and then died.

Simon leaned back, overcome with relief at the thought that his friend would probably recover. Not that there was any guarantee, of course. Locked-jaw always lingered after a cut no matter how small, and once that hideous disease had taken a man in its terrible grip, it would squeeze the life from him without compunction. Simon feared the locked-jaw more than the madness, the foaming at the mouth that a mad dog’s bite could give a man. Locked-jaw led to a slow, agonising starvation while the mind was left free to appreciate the complete indignity and horror of the death.

And someone had tried to inflict this on his friend. Simon felt blind fury rising again, and had to force it down. Such emotions were not seemly in a nunnery.

Seeing the prioress beckon, he went to her side.

“Bailiff, this is the infirmarer, Constance. She has had some experience of wounds like your friend’s.”

“The best cure for him is sleep, Bailiff,” Constance said earnestly. “But with that horrible wound, he’ll not be able to get it. I want to give him a draught that will let him rest.”

“What sort of draught?” Simon asked suspiciously.

The prioress laughed quietly. “I know your mind, Bailiff. Trust me, and trust my infirmarer. Constance here knows what is needful for your friend.”

So she might, Simon thought to himself, but if she was the murderer, she might also know what was needful for her own protection. He watched with worried eyes while the infirmarer poured a few drops of syrup from a bottle and mixed them with wine from a jug. Then, tenderly holding Baldwin by the nape of his neck, she held the cup to his lips. As soon as he had finished the draught, Simon saw his friend’s eyes wrinkle slightly at the corners as though he was smiling in gratitude. Constance carefully helped him to lie back on the pillows, his head turned sideways. Baldwin’s breathing became more even and less laboured as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Simon glanced enquiringly at the prioress. She gestured towards the door, and the bailiff nodded and followed her out. Once at the landing area above the stairs, he stopped, and beckoned Hugh, grasping his servant by the shoulder.

“Hugh, don’t let Baldwin out of your sight, all right? Someone might try to kill him in here, so keep your eyes open and your wits about you.”

Luke heard the canons talking about Katerine’s death when he was approaching the church for Terce and the Morrow Mass. He saw Jonathan and curled his lip, hurrying past. Luke knew perfectly well about Jonathan’s liking for young men and Luke had no wish to be the latest focus of his desires.

All the canons knew about Jonathan. He was a pleasant enough fellow when sober, but every now and again he would get drunk, and when he did, if a youthful or impressionable man was nearby, Jonathan could fix upon him to the embarrassment of the rest of the clergy.

Jonathan never intended to cause offence, but equally he knew that his interest in other men was viewed by most of his clerical brothers to be an abomination. He was convinced of it himself. That was why he went on his knees to pray, to try to expiate the sin of his lust.

Usually his – Luke could only think of them as infatuations – would wear out quickly, just as soon as the object of his desires became aware of the direction of his thoughts. Recently, Brother Paul had appeared to be humouring the older man, and Luke wondered whether he should bring the matter to the attention of the prioress – but only for a moment. He was too open to accusations of seducing novices himself.

When Jonathan saw Luke, he hurried over to him. Luke froze, but quickly forgot his revulsion as Jonathan told him what had happened to Sir Baldwin and the novice.

Luke raised his brows and expressed astonishment. “But this is terrible! We’ll have to pray for the knight’s full and speedy recovery. Did anyone see the girl jump?”

“No one, unless the knight himself did,” Jonathan said. “Apparently Sir Baldwin looked up just before he was struck, or so Paul says.”

“Oh?” said Luke. “Well, no doubt Sir Baldwin will have told the suffragan.”

“No, the knight was unconscious when they took him to the frater, and now he’s safe in the nuns’ infirmary, but still not talking, so I hear.”

Luke carried on, but at a slower pace. Troubling thoughts occupied his mind as he slowly dressed himself for the service. It was a great shame about Kate.

Hearing the shuffling of feet in the nave, Luke fitted a contemplative expression to his face and walked slowly to the altar. There he genuflected to the cross, and began the service.

Uttering the words he knew so well, Luke found his mind wandering. It was good to be here, safe in this little convent. Agnes was a very willing companion, and there would always be other novices when she lost her charm or became too demanding. That was the good thing about being in a convent; there was no need to be tied to any one girl.

Women were confusing. Luke had been so certain that Moll was giving him the eye. But when he got her on her own and she realised what he wanted, she’d gone frigid, then pious. Worst of all, she had started preaching, urging him to give up his life of debauchery. He told her of Agnes’s willingness, thinking to make her jealous, but the shot went wide of the mark. Moll said he must confess his sins, then she hinted that she would speak to Agnes.

Luke shook at the thought. Agnes was terribly jealous. If she heard that he’d tried it on with Moll, she would be furious.

Moll was not only pretty, she had the attraction of being a challenge. Agnes had the face of an angel but was a nervous type, always looking for praise. She could be boring – complaining about how others were putting her down.

In contrast Katerine had been assured and self-confident. Luke knew she was experienced with men the first time she kissed him. Like Agnes she hadn’t needed much persuading. The one who was different was Moll. She believed in her vocation; wouldn’t swallow his guff about a priest being able to take upon himself any sin. No, that kind of rubbish was only accepted by nuns who wanted an excuse. It wouldn’t work with Moll; just as it hadn’t worked with the worldly wise Katerine.

Katerine, when he had whispered to her in the few moments he had managed to snatch with her when no one – and especially not Agnes – was watching, had not reddened, but simply met his look with a measuring gaze. Luke had tried to use his arts of persuasion on her, but she had laughed, mocking his pseudo-religious arguments, saying, “If you want to bed me, say so and have done.”

And then, as if to demonstrate that she was worth his while, she had reached up and kissed him full on the lips, with a loose, lubricious lustiness that made him squirm just to remember it.

It was a shame she was dead, he sighed. But at least Agnes was still alive.