Belladonna at Belstone

Chapter Seventeen

The hardest part for Jeanne was admitting that she had no idea why the suffragan had demanded that Simon and Baldwin should go to Belstone. As far as Bishop Stapledon was concerned, it was ridiculous that two secular men should be sent to a convent for nuns, and strange indeed that the reason for their mission should be concealed. With Jeanne’s permission, he had sent one of her grooms to Crediton on a fast horse, with a request that Peter Clifford should tell him the cause.

Now he paced up and down, the reply gripped tightly in his hand, chewing at his lip and scowling. Walter Stapledon was no fool, and he could easily understand the urgent desire of Bertrand to squash any rumours – especially in a case like this, where the treasurer of the priory had alleged that the murderer was…

He stopped that line of thought. Lady Elizabeth was well-known to him. There was no possibility of her being guilty of this crime. Surely not. Stapledon’s frown deepened; there was that story in 1300, before Stapledon became bishop, that she had given herself to a man… but Stapledon shook his head with decision. That a woman could lapse was not evidence that she could murder. The two crimes were utterly different. Lady Elizabeth was too urbane and refined for murder. No, it must be someone else, and Stapledon could only hope that she had not taken umbrage at Bertrand’s less than subtle manners. Stapledon pursed his lips. There was little likelihood that she would have suffered Bertrand gladly. Stapledon knew both reasonably well and the thought of Bertrand standing before her pointing an accusing finger and declaring her to be a murderer – the bishop winced at the thought.

The only thing that mattered was keeping news of this away from the general public. If it should become common knowledge, the nunnery could be closed, and that was a horrible prospect.

Very well, Stapledon thought to himself with resignation. I shall have to go and make sure that any ruffled feathers are soon smoothed.

Yet when he announced his intention, Jeanne was aghast. “Look at the weather! You can’t go out in this – think what it could be like in an hour or so! And getting to Belstone is not so straightforward as riding to Crediton. It’s much farther – you couldn’t get there before nightfall even if it was summer.”

Going to the door, Stapledon was forced to agree. The snow was light, simply a thin scattering of tiny flakes so far, and the road was not hidden; the air was too warm and the snow melted as soon as it landed, forming a thin, muddy sludge, but Stapledon knew only too well how different the weather could be on Dartmoor, for he was a Devonshire man, born and bred. He gauged distances in his mind and decided. “You’re right. We’d not make it to Belstone today; we shall need to travel as far as possible, though. We should be able to reach Bow before nightfall, and it would be a short enough journey from there. Yes, that would be all right,” he said.

He turned to the buttery and ordered his men to prepare to continue. When he returned to the hall, Jeanne saw his mood had not improved.

“My Lord, please sit and finish your wine,” she said gently.

Stapledon thanked her and sat down in Baldwin’s chair, but he glanced through Peter Clifford’s message once more and then muttered what Jeanne thought must be a curse. “Bertrand!” he exclaimed, and struck the arm of the chair.

As Jeanne watched in horror, the arm fell to the floor. Stapledon forgot his anger and stared at it, but even as he realised what was happening, he felt the rocking, heard the ominous creak. His eyes met Jeanne’s as there was a loud report, and then the seat collapsed.

Simon Puttock sat gaping after the doorkeeper long after the man had left the room. When a lad, Simon had been taught by the canons at Crediton. It had been drummed into him that the Church had a sacred duty to save souls; for them to achieve their duty, all clerics were men of integrity, led by their most responsible and honourable representative. It had been rammed into him while he was a boy, and he had never quite lost the conviction that those who wore religious robes were somehow different from others.

It was hardly incredible that a nun should be guilty of giving birth to a child – Simon was no fool, and news of such incidents were all too common, if regrettable – but that the prioress of a convent should do so had never occurred to Simon. It disgusted him, as if she had openly offered herself to all the men of the village.

Simon took a deep gulp of his wine and then grinned to himself. What was more astonishing was his reaction, he realised, leaning back in his seat. The woman was hardly young, and yet she presumably had only been a prioress for a few years, since her lapse – if the story of her lapse were true. When she had been younger, she had taken a lover, perhaps only the once, and had fallen pregnant. To fail was human; surely since then she must have proved herself to be devout, and that was why she had been elected to lead her community.

Although whether they would do so again was a different matter, he thought, remembering the holes in the roofs of the main buildings and the freezing wind that whistled around the dorter.

He stood. The girl was not here. He would go and try to speak to the prioress. If Jonathan was right and the Lady Elizabeth had spoken to the girl, she herself might have heard something.

About to seek her, he hesitated, remembering Bertrand. He’d last seen the visitor hurrying towards the stables. Bertrand was supposed to be sorting out the trouble here; it was Simon’s duty to tell him about Rose. Simon was torn. He didn’t want to give Bertrand another excuse to proceed against the prioress, but at the same time didn’t feel he had the right to warn Lady Elizabeth.

Simon fretted but his duty was clear; he walked out to find the suffragan.

Baldwin groaned as the pain shot through his skull like a red-hot bolt from a crossbow. He half-expected to smell the singed hair and cooked flesh, and cried out as he tried to move his head again, but his mouth was oddly quiescent, as though it had been bound with velvet cords.

He tried to sit up, but his arms wouldn’t obey and it was only with an effort that he could force his eyelids open.

The room was red, warm, safe. He stared directly ahead of him, feeling the massive weight of his body; it felt so gross, he was sure the bed upon which he lay couldn’t support him. He felt as if he was slowly falling through the mattress, and the panic rose in his breast: he would suffocate! The bedclothes would rise up on either side and swallow him, smothering him in their warm embrace.

Even as he reached this conclusion, he forced down his fear with logic: the mattress was solid. He couldn’t fall through, it was impossible. His fear was the result of the drugs. Pillows and mattresses couldn’t engulf men. He forced himself to breathe slowly, concentrating on the flames of the fire.

A fresh blow of pain battered at his head, and he heard a low moan issue from his lips, as though it came from another person. He was not part of his body; he was near it, but somehow dislocated, a most curious sensation. However, before he could consider his state further, a shadow approached.

Immediately he was convinced that now, while he was incapable of defending himself, he would be attacked. For some reason he was sure that a hand would soon appear above him, from the head of the bed, drifting forward slowly, fingers outspread, before falling to cover his mouth and nose, extinguishing his life.

The feeling disappeared. He saw that the figure approaching was a woman in a nun’s habit. Such a person could be no threat. Dimly, he recognised Constance’s anxious but comforting eyes, and he wanted to smile back, but his mouth wouldn’t obey.

Elias had not joined his brethren for the service. He had sat in the small yard, waiting desperately for Constance so that they could talk; he had to explain why their escape was so essential, but she didn’t appear. Instead, as the singing in the church faded, he had lifted his eyes to meet the stern gaze of the prioress.

“It won’t do, young man. You cannot have her. She is already married to Christ.”

Elias fell back as if struck. Lady Elizabeth walked forward until she was at the metal screen, and Elias couldn’t meet the look in her serious face.

“Nothing to say? Well, Elias, you have misbehaved with her, but now she has partially come to her senses. She is pregnant – you knew that? Ah well, of course you did,” she added almost to herself. “That was why you wanted to take her away from here, wasn’t it? So that you could look to both mother and child somewhere. And how would you have done that?”

“I can smith – I could earn enough for us in any town or village.“

“And which town or village would allow you, a wandering stranger dragging two useless mouths behind you, to stay long enough to demonstrate your skills? Don’t be a fool! You would wander the streets, declaring your love for your wife, for such you would call her, and move from one small town to another, seeking work ever more desperately. And your child would die, of course: how could a baby live in the cold and damp for days without a roof overhead? Constance would have to give birth beneath a hedge, and she would be weak and fractious. You would love her and your offspring at first, but after days or weeks you would grow to hate them both; your child you would detest as a muling, squalling brat, a blob of vomit and excrement; Constance you would grow to loathe, for as you struggled to keep you and she alive, she would always demand more, saying that your baby needed warmer clothes, or a better shelter, or any one of a thousand things a mother wishes for her child.”

“I wouldn’t – I couldn’t grow to hate her!” Elias declared hotly.

“You would,” she stated quietly. “And you would cause the death of your baby.”

“No!”

Seeing the desperate sadness in his eyes she wanted to stop in compassion, but she couldn’t. The thoughts were all there from twenty-one years before when she had run through the same things with Rose’s father, and it all spilled out in a torrent.

“You would refuse to stay near here; you would insist on moving further away to be free from any attempt to recapture you both, from the risk that you would be taken to another convent many miles distant to ensure that you and she never thought of escaping your vows again. While large with child, moaning and complaining that she had no energy left to run, you would force her to walk on,” Lady Elizabeth continued relentlessly. “And even as she gave birth, you would be looking over your shoulder to see whether the Bishop of Exeter’s men were following you.”

“No,” Elias said, but his voice had sunk to a despairing murmur, and his head hung down as he stared at the ground.

She gave him a faint smile. “And when your child was dead, and you had buried it unblessed at the roadside for fear that any clergyman you begged to speak the words might tell your pursuers, then Constance would hate you as well. She would blame you for the death of her child, probably the only child she would or could ever conceive, and for the mortal sin of burying it without its soul having the benefit of a christening or priest’s blessing. And you would see her expression, and if you had any manhood left, you would cringe, and in a short time, yes, you would become disgusted with her…”

“No!” Elias shouted, and ran forward to grip the railings, meeting her gaze at last with conviction. “I love her, and there’s nothing you can say will alter that!“

“Love!” she sneered. “What do you know of love? You have sworn to love your God, yet you’re prepared to forsake Him in exchange for the fleshy delights of a woman’s body. How can Constance trust your promises now, eh? Not that it matters, for she will remain here. Do not bother to sit here idling, young fellow. Constance will be staying in the infirmary, for there is a badly injured man for her to look after, and she takes her work very seriously, as she should. It is a pity that you apparently do not.”

She spun on her heel and walked away, but then stopped and fixed him with a glittering look.

“But before I go, Elias, consider this: first, I shall in future ensure that all doors and grilles between the male and female convents are locked or covered over. There should be no communication between cloisters. And second, you should know that I believe Constance to be very concerned that whoever killed Moll was someone who got into the infirmary. Someone whom she feels might have had access to dwale and who also wanted to silence Moll. And now Katerine is dead, perhaps that same someone also wanted her made quiet?”

In the infirmary, Hugh sat on a stool by the wall, idly musing on the novice he had seen in the cloister.

She had so slim a body, Hugh could almost have believed she was a boy, but her lips and those welcoming eyes were surely those of a woman. He might have seen her again, were he to walk in the cloister. Perhaps she would speak to him. Ask him about his life. In his wildest imaginings he couldn’t dream of her as a lover, she would surely scorn any such suggestion. But she had, he considered, looked quite beautiful standing there in the sunlight.

At the other side of the chamber, Constance had little time for thoughts about her lover, even after old Joan had started nodding. She had gently wiped the weeping wound at the back of Baldwin’s head, then bound it up again. Now he appeared to doze.

“Don’t worry, Hugh. He’ll sleep well tonight.”

Hugh nodded and gave her a shy grin. She returned it more easily. It was not difficult, for Hugh was obviously overwhelmed by being inside a nunnery, and by her proximity. Constance could see his wretchedness. It made her wish to embrace him to calm his anxiety.

She pulled the counterpane up to Baldwin’s chest and smiled down at him, aware of the patient’s troubled sleep. Sir Baldwin was dreaming, she saw, and fleetingly wondered what avenues his mind was running along. It was obvious that he was under the influence of the poppy syrup; she had seen his pupils reduce to pinpricks, his flesh was very warm, he was sweating, and his breathing had slowed before he fell into sleep. He moaned to himself, frowned, and once sat upright, glowering around as if staring at enemies invisible to her or to Hugh. It had taken Hugh and her some time to calm him and ease him back down to the pillows.

Gently she rested a hand on his cheek, and was gratified to see his face ease a little, a smile lifting one corner of his mouth. He gave a quiet grunt, which she interpreted as one of pleasure, and then he was still. Watching her, Hugh was struck by the kind, maternal expression on her face. The servant knew he should distrust her as much as any of the other nuns, but he couldn’t. Her prettiness, her gentleness, her calm dedication; all militated against her being able to murder.

Constance quietly took her hand away and went back to her chamber.

Elias stood with his back to the wall gazing heavenwards for what felt like an age. The prioress must have spoken to his Constance, but surely she wouldn’t listen to the old dragon and ignore her heart? Constance knew she loved him, just as she must know he loved her – and how much! Elias groaned and clenched his teeth, his eyes closed as he shook his head from side to side. He couldn’t leave her here: what, go away without seeing his own child brought into the world? Never see his own baby? It would be unbearable! To live without Constance was intolerable, but what had the prioress said? Hadn’t she implied Constance thought he could have killed Moll?

His eyes snapped wide as he recalled her words. She had said Constance might consider that whoever had access to the dwale and had been in the infirmary… But Constance couldn’t think that he’d hurt Moll, could she? Elias slid down the wall and gripped his thighs, resting his head on his knees. Moll was an evil little minx, but why should Constance think him capable of killing her? The Lady Elizabeth had said that Katerine was dead, too. Why should anyone think him capable of hurting her?

Elias felt a cold shiver flutter down his spine, and he looked about him with a sudden premonition of doom. He would be accused and condemned; sent far away, up to the Scottish Marches, to the freezing cloisters of the North, where he would live the rest of his life in awful penance, without meat or strong wines, without ale or thick soups, but living on dry bread and cold water, perhaps locked forever in manacles.

If his own lover thought him guilty of killing the girl, how could he look to anyone else to believe in his innocence?

Elias shivered again. “Someone walking over my grave,” he said to himself automatically, and then gave a deathly grimace as he realised what he had said. It gave him an impetus. He forced himself to his feet and set off towards the stables.

“Bishop Bertrand?” Simon shouted, but he could see no one. He strolled along the path which led to the great gate, past the stables, the mill, the storerooms, garths in which cattle and sheep wandered, a great shed which held the tools and wagons, and last the smithy at the far end, far enough away for the forge to pose less of a fire risk. After this was a stable, some hundred yards away.

Simon approached the building. Peering inside, he called for the bishop again, but there was no answer, and he stood outside and kicked at pebbles while he considered what to do. Bertrand had come this way – Simon had seen him. “Rot him,” he muttered bitterly, and began to make his way back towards the guestroom.

As he passed by the smithy, he glanced inside, and happened to see a slim figure dart behind a post at the far side of the room. Simon’s feet had already taken him beyond the entrance, and he had turned his head to face the cloister when he was prompted to return and take another peep.

When the cavalcade had left, the bishop looking curiously sheepish, Jeanne and Edgar returned to the hall and stood gazing at the broken pieces of wood.

Edgar had swept all into a small pile beside the hearth, and both instinctively looked from it to the flames like a pair of conspirators.

Clearing his throat Edgar glanced at Jeanne. “My Lady…”

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “But first you need to send for a carpenter. The best in Crediton, mind. I want a new chair.”

As Simon disappeared, Bishop Bertrand gave his companion a sharp glance again, grumbling, “This is mad, we’ve been here for ages. Are you sure he was there?”

Paul smiled gently and nodded. Again.

Shifting his weight, Bishop Bertrand grunted with dissatisfaction. This was quite ridiculous. The lad had told him about the message, and remembering the way that Elias had been waiting at the grille, Bertrand could believe the young smith was about to try to leave with his woman, a nun.

To Bertrand’s mind, this was deeply suspicious behaviour. After all, two novices had been killed and the knight wounded. Even so, if Elias had nothing to do with the murders, Bertrand could understand why he might want to leave. Any canon living in a sink of corruption like this would want to get away. Although no honourable canon would subvert a nun to join him, Bertrand reminded himself.

There was no doubt that two were planning to go. Paul and Bertrand had uncovered the pair of bundles. In one Bertrand had found the little package, carefully wrapped in bits and pieces of linen. That, he knew, was incriminating and Bertrand rather looked forward to seeing how the canon tried to wriggle out of it.

Bertrand wriggled himself. His buttocks had gone to sleep. He had rested here for what felt like an age, and all they had seen so far was an apparently endless succession of dull-looking, placid horses or stolid oxen being led by equally dim-looking grooms or vapid farmworkers. The only man who looked remotely human had been the bailiff.

And it was damned uncomfortable, sitting here in the dark without a stool or even a pillow on which to rest his buttocks.

He’d tried sitting on the floor, but now he was on the packages themselves. They didn’t protect him from the freezing ground and Bertrand was uncomfortably aware that his left leg, which he had once broken in a fall from a horse, would not work when he tried to stand. It had gone to sleep some while ago.

“Where is the man? I see no sign of anyone coming. How long will the fool be?”

Paul’s face reflected none of his own doubts. “He is sure to be here shortly. I cannot say how long. No, he shall find it impossible to conceal his guilt, I think.” He froze, head cocked to one side. “Can you hear that?” he whispered.

Bertrand listened. There was the sound of hurried footsteps, ragged breathing, and a thump as someone barged the door wide open with his shoulder. Then he saw Elias dart over the floor, reach down and pull the straw aside.

“Elias?” Paul asked, standing.

“Who’s there?”

Bertrand pointed a finger solemnly and intoned, “We know what you seek, Canon. It proves your guilt that you search for it there.”

Giving a bitter laugh, Elias stood aside. “Why, Bishop? What was I looking for? There’s nothing here – see for yourself.”

“I know there isn’t,” said Bertrand. “Because we rescued it.” He tugged the bundle from beneath him and lifted it up, pulling the little flask free. “And we rescued this, Elias: your nice little bottle of poison.”