Belladonna at Belstone (4 page)

Giggles and laughter were quickly stilled as they approached the cloister and saw their prioress sitting there. She noted that Moll’s death had not affected the novices much. They were young and were bound to recover more quickly; they wouldn’t appreciate the impact this death could have on the priory. Elizabeth gave a grim smile as she caught sight of Katerine: some of them wouldn’t be particularly upset to see Moll go, the prioress thought.

Katerine was a shrewd little thing. Only one-and-twenty, she was dark-haired, with pale skin, a wide mouth and tip-tilted nose that gave her an earnest, cheerful aspect - but the impression was betrayed by the eyes. Brown with green flecks, they were - a pretty combination - but there was nothing pretty about the calculation in them.

Agnes hadn’t liked Moll either. This girl was quiet and self-contained, only seventeen years old, with thick red-gold hair and green eyes. Her face was heavily freckled, which added to her attractiveness, although Elizabeth felt inwardly that there was something wrong about her looks: a certain sharpness of feature that boded an unkind nature.

The prioress saw Agnes glance in her direction before walking to the door that led up to the dorter and infirmary with that sedate, gliding motion of hers. She stood taller than Katerine by at least half a head, and her body was already more full. Her hips were broad, her breasts large, while Katerine had the figure of a boy, much as poor Moll had had.

Agnes was no threat to the smooth running of the convent. She had her faults, but Lady Elizabeth was not of a mind to confront her with them. The priests were often talking about taking splinters out of a man’s eye while a plank remained in your own, and she was uncomfortably aware of her own failings. Either the girl would grow out of her sins or she would leave before taking her vows.

The other nuns returned from the frater. Margherita came out with Joan, talking conspiratorially. They looked odd, Margherita large and square, almost masculine, Joan short and wiry, slim and with the compact frame of an older woman, although whiplash strong. Elizabeth felt a shiver run through her body. Unconsciously she pulled her robes tighter about her, tugging the woollen cloak more firmly over her shoulders. Something didn’t feel right. There was a tension in the air. She could feel their baleful stare even when she turned away.

Constance, the infirmarer, had obviously not got over the death of her charge. Elizabeth regarded her doubtfully. She appeared to be drunk, was red-featured - somewhat sullen, or perhaps nervous? Her shoes dragged and she stumbled every so often, as did Denise, the sacrist. The two seemed to have formed some kind of unholy alliance against the world.

Elizabeth bent her head as if to study the papers before her, but kept her attention fixed on Constance and Denise. They made for Margherita and paused to whisper a moment at her side, their backs turned to the prioress, before walking on.

Last through the door was Emma, the cellaress. Tall, slim, sharp-faced, with a cold and humourless demeanour, she glanced at the prioress only briefly. Seeing Elizabeth’s eye upon her, she gave a dry, unfriendly smile, then walked over to Margherita.

Lady Elizabeth felt ice solidify in her belly. Something was wrong, and she had no idea what it could be.

The treasurer looked across and nodded smugly at the sight of Elizabeth’s pinched and anxious expression.

“I came as quickly as I could, Peter,” Sir Baldwin said, marching quickly into the hall of Peter Clifford, the Dean of Crediton’s canonical church. And so he had, riding speedily over the dangerous roads, wondering all the time what Crediton’s priest could want. It was rare for Peter Clifford to make such an urgent request for Baldwin’s help.

The hall was modern, with a good fireplace set into the wall. Logs hissed and crackled, their flames throwing a healthy glow about the room. The unhealthy fresh air was shuttered out, and wholesome tallow candles spat and smoked in the corners of the room. Peter Clifford’s table stood at the opposite wall from the fire, but on this chilly day he had dragged chairs before the hearth. He was not alone; there was a second man at his side.

“It is good of you to come, old friend,” said Peter. “Permit me to introduce you to Bishop Bertrand, the suffragan bishop of Exeter.”

Bowing his head while Bishop Bertrand solemnly blessed him, Baldwin had to suppress a shudder of revulsion. Bertrand’s voice betrayed his French birth.

Baldwin had nothing against those with a French accent particularly, but a priest was a different matter. He distrusted French priests for the same reason Bertrand would almost certainly have retracted his blessing, had he known that Baldwin was a renegade Templar. The French clergy had joined in the condemnation of the Order almost to a man. Some were no doubt motivated by greed: they had scrambled to take over churches and lands. Others were scared of the Pope’s displeasure; some believed the accusations of sacrilegious and anti-Christian worship and thought it right that they should persecute men who participated in such obscene acts. Bertrand looked to Baldwin as if he fell into the first category. He had the disapproving mien of the professional churchman, as if dubious whether he could be contaminated by being too close to a secular knight of heaven alone knew what background.

Respectfully Baldwin stood back. He had to admit that the man probably had good reason to look suspicious. The knights and barons of England were taking advantage of the weakness of King Edward II to indulge in their own petty land wars, especially those who could rely on the favour of the King, such as the Despenser family. Hugh the Younger, son of Hugh Despenser the Older, seemed to have an insatiable appetite for fresh lands. Baldwin had heard that his greed had led to an upsurge of discontent in the Welsh March, where he was attempting to line his pocket at the expense of his neighbours. It would be no surprise if they should all collaborate against him; the March was ever a source of vicious warfare and was run as a series of private fiefdoms, each lord having his own army. Now matters had grown so serious, Baldwin had been told, that the King himself had travelled to Gloucester to ban any large assemblies of men, but his command had been ignored and armies were gathering.

It was just one more proof of discontent within the kingdom, and Baldwin was growing concerned that England could explode into violence.

“Sir Baldwin,” Peter said, offering him a seat and motioning to a servant to pour wine, “I’m terribly sorry to have asked you here at such short notice, but I wasn’t sure to whom I could turn.”

Peter Clifford was a tall, thin, ascetic priest with a shock of white hair marred by his tonsure. His complexion was pale now, because he had forgone his usual pleasures of hunting and hawking this winter, spending all his free hours in the church’s cloisters bent over the pages of his account books while he tried to finish off the internal decoration of the recently built church. Today, however, Baldwin thought he looked more tired than usual. Underlying his pallid features was a deep anxiety, bred of fear, and at the sight Baldwin realised the seriousness of his summons.

“I am honoured you felt you could turn to me,” he said gently. “But how can I help you?”

Peter Clifford pulled his chair nearer to the knight’s. “Sir Baldwin, what we are about to tell you is confidential. It falls under the same secrecy as the confessional, you understand? It is the business of Holy Mother Church, and must never be divulged.”

“I shall keep secret whatever you tell me.”

Peter glanced over at Bertrand. The bishop gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Peter leaned back in his chair as the bishop rested his elbows on his knees and minutely studied Baldwin.

To Baldwin’s eye the bishop himself looked as though he would have benefited from more exercise and a diet of good red meat. Bertrand was surely in his early fifties, a stooped, prim-looking fellow with a long narrow face and sharp little eyes. His mouth was small and pursed, with bloodless lips, giving his face a sour appearance. His left hand was withered, and he left it in his lap, emphasising points with his right alone.

“Sir Baldwin, I came here to ask the dean for his aid because I find myself caught in a cleft stick. I am sure you know that the good Bishop of Exeter is the Lord High Treasurer, and is with the King. In his absence he instructed me to ensure that the convents within his See are all obeying the strictures of their Rules. I am the visitor, and for the last two months I have been going to all the nunneries and monasteries in the diocese.”

“A miserable time of year for so much travelling,” Baldwin observed.

Bertrand raised his eyes to meet Baldwin’s. “Cold and wet enough, but one is kept warm when on God’s work. He protects His own.”

Baldwin smiled and nodded, but could not help the mental aside that in his experience, whether God was assisting or not, the rain still fell as wet on a traveller’s back. He found he instinctively disliked the bishop. The man looked and sounded like a prig. His manner was affected and prudish, and Baldwin was quite certain in his own mind that Bertrand was not the kind of man with whom he could establish a friendship.

Bertrand frowned. “Sir Baldwin, you will recall that all I am about to tell you is confidential? I have found that there are weaknesses in most of our institutions, and lapses occur not only among novices, but in the ranks of those who have taken the oaths. Even the Abbot of Tavistock regularly eats meat!”

Baldwin recalled the ruddy-cheeked face of Abbot Champeaux. Not only did he eat meat: against all the laws he regularly and cheerfully hunted venison on Dartmoor. Abbot Champeaux was no hypocrite, Baldwin knew. He enjoyed his life to the full, it was true, but that did not affect his dedication to his abbey, nor to his monks or the secular folk of Tavistock.

“It must be difficult for those who live the monastic life,” he said. “St Bernard designed the Rule for convents in warm, southern lands, where the sun is more conducive to study, and where the Nocturns can be attended without the risk of freezing at night.”

“The good Lord keeps warm those who truly give Him their faith and trust,” Bertrand declared sententiously. “And I fear He will not be turning His face to some of the people I have been meeting. Sir Baldwin, I have found a convent in which the prioress is failing in her responsibilities.”

Suppressing a sigh, Baldwin tried to nod understandingly. He was not surprised. In his experience many of the inhabitants of convents took their vows too young, before they could appreciate the lifelong nature of their promises. All too often girls went to a nunnery more from the desire to avoid an unpleasant marriage than from any religious ambition; men would join the monastery after being rejected by a woman, to escape the burdensome duties imposed on serfs, or - and Baldwin had met a Cistercian who admitted this - because he had got drunk while a youth and had dreamed God had called to him. That monk was forever peering into the bottom of his cup, trying to see his vision again.

Baldwin had taken his vows gladly, offering his life to the Order which had saved him from death in the hell-hole of Acre, but he knew many who were even now incarcerated in religious Orders completely unsuited to them. This suffragan did not look like a man likely to forgive an errant nun; if anything he looked the sort who would demand the harshest penance for the slightest infraction of the Rule.

The reflection made Baldwin’s tone harsh. “Where is this: Polsloe, Canonsleigh, or Belstone?” These were the only three he was aware of.

“Belstone.”

Baldwin knew of it, although he had never been there. It was tiny, with only a few nuns, a handful of canons, some novices, and a few lay brethren to do all the hard work. Baldwin was aware that it lay in a small valley with a stream flowing nearby, but had heard that the site was dreadful. He knew the moors well enough; the wind howled over them, and would whistle around a little cloister. From what he had heard, Belstone possessed a tiny amount of land that produced little in the way of usable food. The nuns relied more on the income from their flocks of sheep and their cattle.

“It must be a terrible place for the worship of God,” he ventured.

“God exists in the wilderness as much as in the city,” Bertrand said uncompromisingly. His certainty carried the force of a death sentence. “Nuns should be grateful to have an opportunity to praise His grace in a place where they cannot be distracted.”

“And what is the nature of the good prioress’s failing?”

“I had thought that her sin was the same as that of others, merely weakness, permitting greed and unchastity to run riot unbridled through her community,“ Bertrand said. ”But now I have been told that worse has happened. She is not controlling the place at all; the priory is utterly lawless.“

“What makes you say that?” asked Baldwin sceptically, picking up his drink.

Bertrand’s answer almost made him drop his pot. “Sir Baldwin, a young novice has been murdered.”

Chapter Three

Joan walked slowly from the infirmary to the rere-dorter, hitched up her tunic and eased herself onto the wooden seat over the chute. The smell was awful, and she made a mental note to ask that the faeces be cleaned out again.

So the battle had begun between the treasurer and prioress. It was about time. There was no doubt in Joan’s mind which of the two women was the better: the treasurer was a woman of integrity and honour. Margherita was sincere in her love of the nunnery;
she
wouldn’t have let it get so run down.

Joan cleaned herself and walked down to the frater, entering and sitting alone at a table. She was too late to join with the others, but that was a matter of policy nowadays. The younger girls all giggled and chattered so quickly Joan often couldn’t hear a word. Her hearing was getting odd: if many spoke all at once, she would miss everything, no matter how hard she concentrated on the person before her. It was more relaxing to eat and drink alone.

Inevitably her mind drew her back to the coming fight. It had been precipitated by the death of that novice, Moll. Joan gazed into the distance. The child was so young, it seemed terrible that she should have had her life taken away, and yet Joan couldn’t regret her passing. Moll had been viewed by many as some kind of saint - it was the image she was keen to project - yet she wasn’t. She was a liar. Nor was the girl as pious as she wished the world to believe; she was both devious and malicious.