Belladonna at Belstone (41 page)

Simon took up the story again. “Katerine was sly; she sought out secrets and used them for her own advantage. I think Katerine had learned about Margherita’s theft. Anyway, for whatever reason, Joan decided that she had to be silenced. Joan must have tricked her into going with her to the church then she bludgeoned her skull. Perhaps with a candle-holder. Denise has mislaid one recently. Joan must have carried Katerine’s body up to the roof. There she saw Baldwin walking about the cloister and thought he must have recognised her.”

“I didn’t,” Baldwin said ruefully. “I had an eyeful of snow at the time.”

“Joan hurled a slate at him before tumbling Katerine’s body over the parapet.”

‘Carried her to
the roof, did you say?“ Stapledon demanded. ”A woman her age?“

Baldwin gave a faint smile. “She had been the priory’s cellarer for twenty or more years, Bishop. She could have picked
you
up and taken you up those stairs, I daresay!”

“Good God!”

“And lastly there was Agnes,” said Simon. “Agnes was carrying on an affair with the priest: Joan decided to end their fun. She knew where Luke and Agnes were to meet - Rose told Simon that Agnes and other nuns used that room on occasion - and she set a tripwire at the doorway, hoping to catch them like beasts in a trap. As soon as Agnes came in, she fell and Joan was on her. The novice didn’t stand a chance. If Luke had arrived first, he would probably be dead now, too.”

“Did no one see her about her murderous business?” Stapledon asked.

Simon said, “Nobody saw Katerine or Joan going to the church: everyone else was at work. As for Agnes, Joan managed to get downstairs while the convent slept. Agnes would have passed her empty bed, but probably thought Joan was still in the infirmary and didn’t realise the woman was to be her nemesis.”

“This is all very well, but I don’t see how she could have thought she could cover up so many deaths. You say she had the interests of the convent at heart, yet if news of these murders gets out, the place will be ruined.”

Baldwin winced as he cocked his head. “It is not easy to understand how a madwoman’s mind works, but I think that the convent and Margherita came together in Joan’s mind. She thought that she must protect the child whose mother she had killed, and that meant seeing Margherita taking Lady Elizabeth’s job; but she also wanted to see that the convent was safe for the future. The two became one in her mind: Margherita, she thought, needed help and Joan must set her in charge of the priory; the convent needed protection because of the way it was falling apart, and the prioress must be replaced because Joan blamed her. Margherita must lead the nuns back to piety‘

“And all Joan managed,” Lady Elizabeth said sadly, “was to wreck our future.”

“Not necessarily,” said Stapledon. He stood. “I shall remove your present vicar, my Lady. I am not sure how he arrived here in the first place, since I personally instructed Bertrand here to send him to a parish in the far west of Cornwall.“ Bertrand squirmed shiftily as the bishop continued, ”But I shall find out the reasons. For now, I propose to visit Sir Rodney and ask him to continue with his generous offer.“

Lady Elizabeth smiled sadly. “I fear he would prefer a monastery to be the recipient of his largesse.“

“Well, I shall have to try. He has responsibilities here. Such as his daughter.”

“That,” said Lady Elizabeth, “is the problem. Agnes is dead.” “I meant Margherita. I shall point out to him his opportunity of seeing his soul honoured by those he has most wounded in his life,“ Stapledon said with an unpleasant smile, ”and if he doesn’t listen, I’ll put the fear of God into him!“

Luke was at the altar of the canonical church, praying, when the three came through the communicating door. Hearing them, he started and clambered to his feet. “My Lord Bishop, I am so happy to see you once more and—‘

“I doubt it,“ Stapledon said drily. ”How did you get to come here?“

“To pray today?”

“No.
Here
in charge of the souls of a convent of nuns.”

“Your orders, Bishop.”

‘
My
orders?“

Luke nodded disingenuously. “Of course, sir.”

Bertrand felt the eyes of the bishop light upon him. “I only obeyed your orders, Bishop. I wouldn’t have sent Luke here if you hadn’t told me to.”

“I think we shall find that my records show you are wrong,” Stapledon said smoothly. “No matter. Luke, prepare to leave this place. I have a pleasant new post for you.”

“You wish me to be vicar of a little parish?” Luke asked hopefully.

Stapledon looked at him. “I think I can do better than that.“

Hugh entered the infirmary as soon as the bishop and the others walked out. Simon was at the window, chatting to Baldwin and he scarcely appeared to notice Hugh. There appeared little point in remaining, not with Simon entertaining the knight, so Hugh accepted Constance’s offer of a cup of wine and followed her down the stairs to the frater.

The nuns were so well-used to the sight of men in their cloister by now that they scarcely glanced in his direction, but Hugh felt out of place nonetheless. He wasn’t used to the presence of so many women in religious garb.

Constance was quiet, sipping slowly at her drink. Hugh was confused when he watched her. The infirmarer was sad, and every so often she glanced about her at the other nuns, all of whom appeared keen to avoid meeting her eye.

“I’m sorry Elias has been sent away,” Hugh said kindly.

She toyed miserably with her cup. “It’s as if there’s a hole in my life. Everything I had planned, expected, aimed for - has gone. I was happy as a nun, dedicating my life to God seemed better than some of the alternatives, but when Elias touched me, it was as if I’d been hit by a thunderbolt, and all my life changed. Especially when I found I was pregnant,” she said thoughtfully, looking down at her belly.

“What’ll you do now?”

“Leave.”

Hugh blinked. “But you can’t, can you? You’re here for life now you’ve made your oaths.”

“I made my oaths before I was old enough. The prioress has told me I can leave whenever I want.“

Unaccountably, her eyes filled with tears. Hugh glowered at the table as she snuffled and wiped them with her sleeve. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that last week I had a lover and now I am carrying a murderer’s child.”

“Better than carrying a murderer.”

“I suppose.”

“Or someone like Bishop Bertrand.”

She laughed at that, chuckling drily at first, but then, when Hugh joined her, laughing with sheer pleasure for the first time since Moll’s death.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

It was a month since the bishop had left the convent, but Luke felt no comfort. He couldn’t remember such irrelevant matters, not when his stomach was close to rebelling again. As the distant horizon rose, circled, swooped and suddenly dived before him, he closed his eyes in anguish. As if in sympathy, the contents of his belly rose and he leaned over the rail to retch.

The master of the boat strolled along to him with a blankly surprised expression on his face. “You all right?”

“When will this storm abate?”

The master eyed him dubiously, then cast a look at the mild swell. “Don’t rightly know, Father,” he answered diplomatically. “But we’m soon in port and safe there.”

Luke gave one more heave and collapsed on the bare boards, wincing from the bile. His mouth was sour, his teeth roughened by acid, and his only desire was to leave this miserable cog before it was wrecked. Death was attractive.

“Damn the bishop!” he groaned, then returned to the side of the ship.

It was all Stapledon’s fault he was here. A new place, he’d said. Somewhere Luke would be safe from fleshly temptations.

In Ireland.

Luke made his way to the barrel of fresh water and rinsed his mouth. He dared not swallow any, for fear of more sickness, but swilling and spitting it out made him feel a little refreshed.

“Will this gale never cease?”

Luke felt another spasm threaten. “Only when we arrive in port,” he grunted.

“Where is this Trim, anyway?”

“Bertrand, if you don’t know where, that’s your trouble.”

Bishop Bertrand sank weakly to the deck. “Stapledon has sent us to our graves,” he lamented.

Luke spat again. The gobbet was caught by a gust, flew along and landed on Bertrand’s shoulder.

This was Stapledon’s sense of humour, Luke knew. Bertrand wanted promotion, and Luke had to be found a place where he would find it difficult to molest women; the answer was to send both to the wild lands of Ireland. Together. Luke would be the vicar to the de Greville family at their castle at Trim, and Bertrand would serve the bishop. Bertrand would have no opportunity for politicking in a new place where he knew no one, and where all his colleagues would distrust him as a foreigner - worse, an Englishman.

And matters would be as bad for Luke. Set down on this grim and forbidding island to see to the miserable garrison of the castle, there would be little opportunity to seek out interesting companions to relieve the monotony.

Although at present, Luke thought, rolling forward to rest his slackly open mouth against the gunwale, a little monotony would be infinitely preferable to this terrible wretchedness.

Baldwin and Simon arrived back at Baldwin’s house just as a carter was setting off. Baldwin gave it an anxious look before glancing suspiciously at his house.

“More furniture?” Simon asked, laughing at his friend’s expression.

“I could swear that was William Lodestone,” Baldwin agreed. “He makes chests. We have enough chests. Why should a chest-maker be here?”

“Perhaps your lady doesn’t think you have enough.”

“Possibly not.”

Simon watched as Baldwin swung his leg over his horse and dismounted carefully. Baldwin was not happy to be helped. “Makes me feel like an old man. Get your hands off,” were his most common comments, but Simon was nervous to see how he was pushing himself.

With his stubbled hair where Godfrey had shaved his scalp and the wicked scar that reached from the top of his scalp to behind his ear and down almost to his shoulder, Baldwin looked like a man who had returned from a vicious battle.

Grooms took their mounts and a falconer took their birds.

“When will he be back?” Baldwin asked.

“I told him he could stay away as long as he wanted, but I don’t think he’ll be very long.”

“He hasn’t left permanently?”

“I don’t think so. Hugh’s a miserable bugger at the best of times. Never really talks much, as you know. But I think he likes the family too much to stay away for long. He’s helping her, that’s all. He won’t marry her.”

Baldwin glanced at his friend. He was about to speak when Edgar appeared in the doorway. Edgar took the heavy satchel of game from Simon before leading the way inside.

At the sight of his wife, Baldwin grinned. Jeanne was sitting innocently at the fire, her hands decorously clasped as if she had never met a carpenter or joiner in her life and never opened his purse to one.

“Husband, I thought you would be out for longer.”

“Aha! I know that well enough. What is it? A new chest, or maybe a table?”

For all his banter she could see he was exhausted. There were dark rings beneath both eyes and although he didn’t teeter, he gave every indication of being close to falling. Yet she knew he hated to be cosseted, or to admit to needing assistance. The nearest he had ever come to losing his temper with her was when she had tried to help him across the hall when he and Simon had first arrived back from Belstone.

Jeanne was not devious, but she was worried for her husband. That was why she was glad to be able to give him something useful. She stood and motioned to Edgar. “Bring it now, please.”

With Wat helping him, Edgar brought in the new chair and set it near the fire.

Baldwin walked over to it. It was a solid throne of fresh, light-coloured oak, carved ingeniously to incorporate his arms. “It is lovely,” he breathed.

“Then sit in it, husband, and make sure it is comfortable,” she said lightly. She took the tray from the girl who had brought the wine and poured for Simon and her man, and as she leaned over Baldwin to give him his cup, she whispered, “And may it persuade you never to leave me again.”

“To go somewhere and leave you to destroy all my chairs?” he asked and lifted an eyebrow sardonically. “To be frank, if I never see Belstone again, I would be delighted.”

He sat and felt the muscles ease in his legs, the tiredness washing over him. He knew that matters would get worse. The reports from the Marches hinted at men-at-arms preparing to fight the King’s army. Once more the barons of England were being forced to wage war because of the King’s favourites; his patronage.

But at this minute, Baldwin only knew that the chair fitted him like a glove. War could wait.

The bell rang and the cloisters echoed to the slap of monks’ sandals pattering along the pavings towards the church.

Here the air was chill. Their breath froze, forming plumes before them in the nave as they shuffled uncomfortably into their pew stalls, leaning back against the tiny shelves designed to save their legs during the long hours of standing and singing or praying.

The candles guttered, the cheap tallow forming a noisome barrier to all thoughts of beauty. Swinging and delivering its perfumed cloud, the censer failed to overcome the other stenches: unwashed bodies from the lay brothers’ stalls, damp woollen clothing, badly tanned leather.

At the signal the monks opened their mouths and began the first service.

Elias huddled miserably. He tried to keep up with the singing, but found it hard to concentrate. It was impossible with his workload and lack of sleep. There were no nuns here, so he was saved from temptation, but for all that his thoughts were constantly with Constance. He remembered her brow, her wide-spaced eyes, her lips, her breasts, her flanks, her belly.

When Stapledon had ordered that Elias be sent here to the wastes of Yorkshire, the bishop had thought he was setting Elias somewhere he could forget Constance and could live as a penitent, his faith saving him from depression.