Belladonna at Belstone

Chapter Four

Looking out through the doorway from the frater, Margherita, like Constance, saw the lay sister fall in the muck. Although she couldn’t help but smile, she was shocked to hear the girl swear. There was no excuse for blasphemy. The treasurer noted which girl it was. She would be punished later.

Margherita liked the view from here. She could see the whole of the courtyard behind the cloisters looking north, and that meant she could observe almost all of the activities of the lay sisters. Her only regret was that she couldn’t keep an eye on the men in the southern cloister, but that would be unthinkable, of course.

Not that all the women were so scrupulous. Margherita knew that some of the nuns were better informed about the male body than they should be. She had heard men here in the cloister. That was why she walked about the place at night, to find out who the men were, and who the women were who dared invite them in.

At least that slut Rose wasn’t a novice any more. The girl had been a source of shame to the whole place. Good riddance to her.

Margherita recalled that it was from here that she had seen Moll walking about the garden in earnest discussion with Rose. As soon as a nun had appeared, both girls quickly separated, but Margherita saw them return to each other’s side when the nun had hurried past.

A girl who was prepared to consort with Rose was not the sort to take up the veil; that was what Margherita believed, and she would defy anyone who tried to persuade her otherwise. Before that Moll had shown some promise, indeed she had given every appearance of piety; a rare attribute in most modern girls. But that was no excuse for going about with the likes of Rose. Someone like Joan was much better company for a young girl; she had experienced all the doubts, suspicions and fears that a young nun was likely to come across. Whatever happened, Joan had to be better than a common whore.

Margherita set her pot on a table and made her way to the cloister. She herself needed no confidante. She could understand why other nuns might like sharing information, and even made use of their garrulity every now and again, but she was content with herself as sole custodian of her private thoughts. Her sisters were simply useful for disseminating the little snippets she occasionally wished to let slip. She smiled to herself as she sat at her desk, then sighed and gave the papers before her a small frown. It was hard to sit here when the sun shone, when the birds were singing in the orchard and the whole world appeared to be waking from the long, slow sleep of winter, but she must show her dedication and settle down to the accounts.

Resignedly she picked up her quill, a small reed, dipping it in her ink, staring gloomily at the long columns. Running her finger down one of them, she came to the money brought in by the beadle: only a few pennies were recorded. With secret satisfaction, she recalled the heavy leather purse which the man had given her. That was safe in her personal chest now.

It was fortunate that young Moll was no longer able to poke her nose in and ask about the financial discrepancies, she thought.

Closing her eyes, she shuddered at the recollection. The silly girl had come here and asked what had happened to the beadle’s money, stating that she had seen the money brought in – and yet it wasn’t listed in the accounts. Fortunately, the quick-thinking Margherita had been able to discredit her memory, saying that she was thinking of money brought in by the warrener, not the beadle. At this Moll had become confused, for she hadn’t expected so confident a denial, and she didn’t dare make any further comment. However the scene had scared Margherita: she hadn’t realised her assistant was both lettered and numerate. She must be more careful in future.

She turned from the unpleasant memory. There were more important affairs for her to consider: she must decide the best means of persuading her sisters to support her and not the prioress.

Her familia, the women who regularly messed with her in the frater some little while after Lady Elizabeth and her own little coterie of hangers-on had left, were already for her. It was the others Margherita needed to convince. The woman curled her lip at the thought of them: mostly they were fools and incompetents, yet sprinkled among them were a few Margherita would be happy to subvert, and some of these were wavering. They might be persuaded to join her camp. She had declared that her desire to run the convent was based upon a wish to see that it survived; faced with that, what could a nun say? No one could seriously suggest that Lady Elizabeth could look after the place better than Margherita. The very idea made the treasurer give a sardonic smile.

The trouble was, Prioress Elizabeth knew her well; she was quite well aware that Margherita would be doing just this. And at the same time, Elizabeth would be wooing Margherita’s friends.

The treasurer idly chewed her reed until she tasted the bitterness and spat out the ink she had inadvertently sucked. Her saliva left a black spot on the flag, and Margherita stared at it. A black spot – like the mark which would be set against the convent’s record soon. She wondered idly what the visitor would do to the Lady Elizabeth. After all, Margherita was able to give the most damning evidence against her.

Especially since she could explain why the virtuous, the important ‘high-born’ Lady Elizabeth had good reason to want to kill Moll – and Margherita could bear witness against her before the suffragan when he arrived.

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and she considered her familia. There was no point mentioning Lady Elizabeth’s guilt to other nuns. No, it would be best to win them over by guile, but pointing out how their lives could improve with Margherita in charge, or in the case of the more religiously inclined, she could point out how much more pious she was, and how much more inspiring she would be as leader of the community.

Yes, that was the right approach: damn Lady Elizabeth before the suffragan and remind the others how miserable their lives had become because of the prioress. And make sure all the nuns got to hear about Lady Elizabeth’s guilt.

Later, when she had won the most senior position, she could produce her secret funds to make good the dilapidated buildings.

Bishop Bertrand rode up the long sweeping track to Sir Baldwin’s house at Furnshill with a feeling of impending doom.

The men Peter Clifford had insisted upon sending appeared dull, impassive types, better than the simple thugs who usually offered themselves for hire, but not as reassuring as men of the Bishop of Exeter’s own retinue. If it had been up to him, Bertrand would have sent to Exeter for more men from the cathedral, but as Peter Clifford had pointed out, not only would that involve an unnecessary delay, it would also mean entering into negotiations with the dean and chapter as to how many men Bertrand would need and for how long. The good Bishop Stapledon had himself taken many of them to protect him while he travelled to see the King, and the dean could be expected to argue strenuously against any further depletion of the cathedral’s strength. Far easier, Peter said, for him to take all the spare guards from Crediton.

Bertrand clattered up towards the stableyard. The house added to his feeling of glumness. It was a well-appointed place, obviously quite ancient, with solid cob walls to the hall at the centre, and two projecting arms at either side constructed of good timber, the plaster limewashed. The welcome sight it presented, with smoke rising from the louvre in the thatched roof and children playing with young dogs on the frosted lawn in front, only compounded his sombre spirits. It would be such a difficult place to defend, he thought, and with the news Peter had that morning received from Bristol, every man might soon be grateful for a place that was better protected.

After Prime, Katerine the novice walked out of the church with her head cast submissively downwards as she had been taught, not speaking, but moving slowly and contemplatively. Not that anyone could give a damn, not now with all the chatter. Katerine privately considered she could have run naked through the cloisters and no one would have noticed, not even the mistress of the novices. Everyone was too busy assessing Margherita’s chances.

They all knew the level of the antipathy between prioress and treasurer. In a place like this even the mildest arguments soon became common knowledge, but when the cause of the quarrel was the desire of one to oust the other from her post, the affair soon became vitriolic, and involved the whole community. Especially now Margherita appeared to have the upper hand. Lady Elizabeth herself seemed to have given up: she wore a perpetual worried, hunted expression.

To Katerine their mutual dislike was amusingly intense. Like boiling poison it had bubbled away for ages, every word between them acting like additional powders tossed into the brew until the potion was complete. All it had needed was the death of Moll to bring it to boiling point, but now it was ready, and the venom was destroying the whole convent.

For someone who knew who to use information, there could be opportunities, she thought.

Katerine would never have described herself as unpleasant. She had been orphaned when young, and the lesson this had taught her was that she must look to herself for everything. She was entirely self-reliant. When she learned something that could be profitable, she used it. There was no guilt in doing so: it was simply a means of survival. Blackmail was not something she had heard of, but if it was explained to her, she would in all honesty have felt it a justifiable means of gaining wealth: no worse than owning land and forcing serfs to work it and making them pay for the privilege; no worse than a lord raping a man’s wife merely because he had an urge and the power to do so.

Back in the cloister, she strode purposefully along the western corridor and up to the dorter, throwing a disgusted look up at the ceiling as she changed into her day shoes. The ragged hole allowed in so much water and wind it was a miracle none of the nuns or novices had frozen in their beds. As it was, Joan had escaped to the infirmary. The daft old sow couldn’t cope with the chill at her age.

It was all right for the prioress, Katerine thought. She had her own area set apart from the others, divided by partitions which kept the arctic gusts from ruining her sleep. Not that she would necessarily keep it for much longer, if the rumours were true; if the visitor was about to return, surely the first thing he would demand would be that the recommendations he made at his last visit should be carried out, and one of the first was that Lady Elizabeth’s partitions should come down.

Not that it would necessarily help much, Katerine considered as she walked down the stairs to the cloister again, then out to the lavatorium to wash and clean herself, going straight to the frater afterwards for a large pot of wine. There she sat at a wall, slightly huddled against the gusts that howled along the building.

No, what could the visitor be expected to do when the two women were so antagonistic? They hated each other, and never more so than now, with the competition between them for ruling the convent out in the open. That was why Margherita had sent her letter to Bertrand, after all. To show that a new prioress was needed here – one who could command the respect of the other nuns. And that was why she had told the nuns about the allegations in her letter: so that all would look askance at the prioress. By the time the visitor returned, no one would believe anything Lady Elizabeth said.

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 shivered. 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 pricked. 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 Godfrey 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 really… 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 Mass. 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 assume 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 passed. 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 gratitude her offer of a pot of wine while his men were directed to the buttery.

“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 Devonshire.

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 anticipated 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, smashing 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 passion – 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.