‘No, she was perfectly quiet and meek throughout the operation,’ Godfrey said with surprise.
‘Then I am sure you cannot help us further,’ Baldwin said pleasantly. ‘Unless . . . Could you tell us what sort of a girl she was? Do you know whether anyone bore her a grudge?’
‘As to what sort of girl, I should say she was an uncommonly religious young lady. She came from a good family, I believe, the daughter of a minor knight, and I think she had always had a hankering after the religious life. Her father wasn’t too keen, but agreed to allow her to follow her vocation.’
‘Was she always well-behaved?’
‘Yes, from what I’ve heard. You have to bear in mind that I only rarely go to the nuns’ cloister – mainly when the infirmarer has a problem, such as young Moll’s blood-letting. But as far as someone holding a grudge against her, well . . .’ he smiled suddenly. ‘The idea is ridiculous. Who could hold a grudge against a nun? Surely not another nun.’
Baldwin held his eye for a moment. ‘I suspect you have heard of such things before. Who else could have had the opportunity to see her in the infirmary overnight? Which man could enter the convent?’
Godfrey’s attention wavered and he allowed his gaze to move to Bertrand. ‘Nobody that I am aware of, naturally. And yet I refuse to believe that a nun could be responsible.’
‘What of the nun of Watton?’
Godfrey’s expression hardened, his eyes flashing back to Baldwin’s face, but before he could answer Bertrand interrupted furiously, talking in a low hiss. ‘Are you mad, Sir Baldwin? Don’t raise such matters! You have no right to bring up something like that.’
‘I have every right. We are here in a convent, investigating a crime which only a nun could have committed – unless, like at Watton, the place has been run with such extreme laxity that any act of wickedness is possible.’
‘It is! The prioress in charge is incompetent to run a pigsty, let alone a . . .’ Bertrand blustered.
Godfrey gave him a startled look. ‘Rubbish! This place is—’
‘Quiet!’ Baldwin commanded. ‘Godfrey, have men regularly gained access to the nuns’ cloister?’
The man shook his head. ‘Oh, I’m sure not,’ he declared, but even he could hear the lack of conviction in his voice.
Bertrand ignored him. ‘Men are probably getting over there and committing sins with the nuns every other day. It’s appalling, but it’s also proof that the prioress has failed in her duty.’
‘No, honestly,’ Godfrey protested. ‘I don’t think the canons have been behaving like that.’
Now neither Bertrand nor Baldwin paid him any heed. They sat staring at each other, silently. It was left to Simon to say something. He took a deep breath.
‘Perhaps the girl suffered a fit or something? Couldn’t she have banged her head against the bed, and bruised her face that way, and thrown her arm about and caught it on something, ripping the flesh?’
‘The skin was cut with a knife,’ said Baldwin. ‘No, the question is, who had the chance of getting to her? Was it only women, or were there men in there as well?’
‘It’s a disgrace, but I believe that some of the canons were in the habit of visiting the nuns and any one of them could be responsible for Moll’s death. No doubt he shall confess and be given his penance,’ Bertrand said heavily. ‘In the meantime, the most important thing is to replace this foolish prioress with someone who can lead this place with piety.’
‘No!’ Godfrey said. ‘Lady Elizabeth is honourable.’
Baldwin nodded, asking, ‘And what of the girl who has died, Bishop? Shall she be left unavenged?’
Bertrand stood. ‘This is not some petty bickering in a town, Sir Baldwin. This is a convent for the celebration of God’s goodness. Why should we avenge a girl who has been fortunate enough to be taken to His side?’
Baldwin was about to get to his feet, but Bertrand waved a hand patronisingly. ‘Please remain here, Sir Baldwin. You have helped me greatly. I must now go and seek the prioress. There is no need for you to join me. I shall be returning to the nuns’ cloister.’
‘How am I to search for the killer?’ Baldwin demanded. ‘I have to speak to the prioress as well, and the infirmarer.’
‘There’s no need. You are too keen to bring up salacious events which are better left forgotten, Sir Knight. I have reached my conclusions. Now, I suggest you and the bailiff here finish your drinks, and then pack your belongings. You are no longer required, gentlemen. I am sure you would prefer to return to your wives.’
Chapter Thirteen
The woman most on Bertrand’s mind was at that moment surprised, on opening her door, to find a nun, weeping piteously, waiting in her room.
‘My daughter, what’s the matter?’ she asked solicitously, crossing the room to Constance’s side. ‘Come – sit here, and tell me all about it.’
Constance allowed herself to be drawn away from the window, and rested in a chair, gratefully taking the cup of wine which her prioress thrust into her hands.
It was miserable, this existence. She had only wanted to do good and look after others, but now she thought she’d have done better never to have come to Belstone. She had never wanted to join a convent, and if she’d had any say, she’d have remained outside, living in peace, but when her brother Paul had insisted that she should find a husband, one with whom he could work, her life changed for ever. The only man to suit her, in Paul’s opinion, was someone who already had a good fortune or possessed a ship for trade. It was all Paul ever thought of – money and the means of securing more power for his family. There was never any consideration for his sister’s feelings: Constance was only a useful pawn to be swapped in exchange for suitable concessions.
It was that which led to her incarceration here. She would not have come to Belstone, except the only man whom Paul could find for her who possessed the right attributes was Master Gerald, a burgess in Exeter: a gross, fat man, with pendulous jaws and slack mouth, piggy eyes, and perpetually sweating brow. Master Gerald was certainly rich, but he was repulsive as well. The thought of his drooling mouth approaching her in their marital bed was repellent, and Constance had instantly spoken to the local priest, declaring her intention of joining a cloister.
That was over nine years ago, when she had been already old, at almost two-and-twenty. In truth she could say that she had never had any difficulty with her vows. She had made them in good faith, and intended to stick to them. When she came to the convent, she was a virgin and believed that she could keep to the claustral life. Celibacy was a small price to pay for the escape from Master Gerald, and as for poverty and obedience – well, poverty was her lot now that she was cut off from her family, and obedience was a feature of everyone’s daily existence. We all obeyed someone else, a lord, a king, an abbot – or a husband.
And then everything changed again – for she had met Elias.
Constance was tending to her tiny herb garden out at the western edge of the cloister, behind the lay sisters’ dorter, and picking leaves for a poultice when she had cut her thumb on her little sharp knife. She had been down at the southernmost corner of the garden, where the wall dividing the canonical side from the nunnery was a simple metal fence with iron bars to separate men and women without leaving all the nuns’ plants in the shade. As Constance stood, staring at her bloodied finger with dismay, Elias had appeared in the grille, and from that moment Constance had known love.
She felt the prioress’s arm about her shoulder, and drank again. Lady Elizabeth was a kind woman, Constance knew, though sometimes her advice was not useful.
Lady Elizabeth sat at her desk and gazed sympathetically at the weeping nun.
‘I wondered why you did not attend Matins,’ she said softly. ‘But I see you wouldn’t have been able to concentrate. Well and good. It is better that you should come to sing praises to Christ with a happy heart, not one which is downcast.’
‘My . . . my Lady,’ Constance stammered. ‘I have broken
my vows.’
‘You have made love with a canon?’
Constance stared up at the prioress. ‘You knew?’
‘My dear, I know much of what goes on here, but it did not require great intuition to guess what you meant. It was a sin, but you could hardly have broken the oath of poverty without my knowing, and as for obedience, I have always found you most straightforward. What else could it be, then? Now, you are not the first to have done this. Are you with child?’
Feeling her face redden, Constance turned away in her shame.
‘That is a pity, my dear – a child can be an embarrassment, and it is difficult to conceal something that can grow so large. Still, there are ways of keeping such matters quiet.’
‘But it’s not the point! What of my promise to God?’
‘He has many problems to look at, and I fear your lapse is only one of many, even among nuns. He has other, more serious issues to occupy Him.’
‘But what about Moll? I killed her!’
Elias walked into the frater just as the bishop hurried out, and Elias had to stand back as Bertrand shoved past, rude in his urgency. He left Elias standing at the doorway staring after him with surprise as the suffragan darted back along the cloister towards the church. When Elias peered into the frater, he saw Baldwin and Simon, both looking bitterly angry, and Godfrey sitting opposite them with an expression of resentment marring his normally pleasant features. Hugh sat close to his master, looking sulky.
Although he had no wish to be questioned by the knight or the bailiff, Elias was thirsty, and he also wondered whether he could learn anything useful about the investigation. He walked in and collected himself a jug of ale before wandering as if idly to a bench nearby. This early in the morning the frater was nearly empty. Elias sat as close as he could without looking conspicuous; he was at the next table with Jonathan, a man whom Elias usually tried to avoid, but today he had little choice if he wished to hear what the men were saying.
At first he could hear little, and what he did hear made no sense to him.
Baldwin: ‘What do you think, Godfrey?’
Godfrey, peevishly: ‘Me? Why do you persist in asking me? The good bishop has decided upon his actions. He’s wrong, though. My Lady Elizabeth is—’
Baldwin: ‘You know about Watton. Almost anyone in a double convent like this will have heard of the story. Could it have happened here?’
Godfrey, dismissively: ‘Oh, rumours! If you listen to half the gossip that circulates around a nunnery, you’ll believe that the Devil invented them for his own amusement.’
Baldwin: ‘Has the same crime been committed here?’
Godfrey: ‘Leave me alone, Sir Knight. I don’t know anything about this Watton.’
It was at this point that Jonathan nudged Elias. ‘I think that knight has got a shrewd idea what’s been going on here. You should watch yourself, Elias, eh?’
Elias could have hit him. The canon sat with a suggestive leer on his face, nodding knowingly when he saw his bolt strike the mark. Instead, Elias stared over the other man’s shoulder and spoke softly from the corner of his mouth. ‘You think so, Jonathan? If I were under any danger, it would be as nothing compared to what would happen to you if I were to tell our Lady the Prioress whom you have been trying to tup.’
Jonathan’s face changed. ‘Come, there’s no need for that. I only made a comment in jest, Elias.’
‘So did I. Don’t make me have to repeat it in seriousness, will you?’
Jonathan gave him a fawning smile and moved further along the bench, leaving Elias fuming. He knew his behaviour was wrong, against the teachings of St Benedict, and ran utterly against the Rule designed for their convent; he was guilty of failing in two of his oaths – he had been neither obedient nor celibate – and still worse, he had tempted a nun to fail in her own oaths.
Yet that wasn’t the worst of it, he reminded himself. Far worse even than that was the fact that he was planning to remove Constance from the convent, leading her into the crime of apostasy.
‘Watton!’ Godfrey exclaimed. ‘You keep referring to it. I know nothing of the place.’
‘Then allow me to inform you,’ Baldwin said steadily.
Simon cast a look at Hugh. His servant was staring away, plainly bored by the conversation, and Simon could well understand why. Baldwin appeared to be talking about something that had no relevance.
‘Watton,’ the knight said, ‘was a small convent far from here, but it was not dissimilar to St Mary’s. It was Gilbertine, I think, which means it was a double convent, with the two cloisters, just like this one.’
Godfrey sipped from his pot and refilled it carelessly, Simon thought, as though slopping the drink over the table was proof that he was hardly paying heed to Baldwin’s words.
‘But in this little place there was a great sin committed,’ Baldwin continued. ‘Because in Watton it was discovered that a nun had been dallying with a monk, and the nuns were deeply shocked; more so still when they found that the girl concerned was now with child. Of course this sort of thing is common enough, isn’t it, Godfrey? We know how it can happen, but at Watton, the nuns took an extreme view. They condemned the girl and the man. They forced her to cut off his . . . let’s just say that he was gelded by her. And then the nuns locked her away in a cell. In chains. She was allowed to give birth to her child, I think, and the baby was brought up in the monastery, but the mother was never released.’
‘An interesting story, Sir Baldwin. But hardly relevant to our—’
‘What I always wondered, after I heard that tale, was how had the two managed to meet?’ Baldwin said, peering into his cup. ‘If they were in a double convent, then there would have been great controls over who could cross between the cloisters, wouldn’t there? Like there are here.’
‘Of course. No one is permitted to go to the nuns’ area unless—’
Baldwin interrupted him once more. ‘Unless they have a good reason to. Like, for example, a doctor, a specialist in the arts of surgery.’
Godfrey avoided his eye. His hands were shaking slightly, like a man suffering from too much wine the night before, and his face was red. ‘I don’t think I understand you,’ he managed after a few moments.
‘I think you do, Godfrey,’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘I think some of your colleagues have enjoyed visits over to the nunnery. Perhaps you yourself have made the trip occasionally, eh?’
Godfrey set his cup down and made as if to rise.
Baldwin grabbed his wrist. ‘Godfrey, the girl is dead.’
‘May she rest in peace. I know nothing about that. I did everything in my power to save the poor child,’ the brother said in a low voice.
‘And what of her soul, Godfrey? Did you do all you could to save that as well?’
Suddenly exhausted, Godfrey dropped back down into his seat. ‘I didn’t touch her. Never! I only opened her vein that one time.’
‘How is it done normally?’ Baldwin said, his tone cold and relentless. ‘You tell the young nun or novice that she need not fear, that making love with a priest is no rejection of her vows to God. Is that not how it’s done? And then, of course, the priest gives absolution. He can confess her, so she need not even look to another man for forgiveness, which could be embarrassing. No, she can gain that from the man who serviced her.’
‘It’s not like that!’ Godfrey said, and now at last he looked up. He held Baldwin’s gaze a moment, then his eyes dropped again. ‘It’s not like that,’ he repeated, and glanced over the room. Luckily the place was almost deserted, with most of the canons having gone about their duties, some to study, others to work. He didn’t see Elias, who sat behind him. ‘Sir Baldwin, I shall tell you all I know, but you must trust me when I say that I am innocent.’
‘Tell us what you know.’
‘I know that the connecting door between the cloisters is rarely locked. Men can cross from one to the other as often as they wish. I have to visit the infirmary regularly enough when Constance
needs assistance. But I also go to talk to ladies whom I know.’
Baldwin nodded, but his face showed no compassion or sympathy. He had been a monk himself, and once he had taken the vows, he had never broken them. To him, an oath was itself sacred, and he knew perfectly well that breaking one of them meant breaking his own solemn word. If a man could do that, he was capable of anything. ‘What of the dead girl?’
‘Moll? She never knew of my visits.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Easy, Sir Baldwin!’ Godfrey gave a sheepish smile. ‘When she knew of any such affairs, she would instantly break with the nun concerned, and try to persuade her to alter her evil ways!’
‘You mean that your “friends” never had such a conversation, so Moll never saw them with you. Would you say that Moll was a very religious young woman?’
‘How should I know?’ Godfrey said, taking a drink from his pot. ‘It’s hard to tell with these young novices. Some of them look ever heavenwards, others are always concentrating on the world here, professing their purity as a means to acquire power. When they’re playing that game, it’s hard to see what they’re really like,’ he added gloomily. ‘I mean, they don’t react like real women. Look at that appalling woman, the treasurer. I wouldn’t trust Sister Margherita further than I could throw her. She’s determined to win power, and God Himself knows what she’ll do with it.’
‘But Moll never gave you the impression that she was not honourable and devout?’
‘She never gave me cause to doubt her sincerity, no. Others, maybe, but not her.’
‘Who did?’
‘That little Agnes. She’s been put here by Sir Rodney as the first of the women he claims the right to install here, because of his generous donation towards the Lady Chapel, but she is hardly chaste, from what I’ve seen. Perhaps that’s why Sir Rodney decided to have her imprisoned here.’
‘You have seen her misbehaving with a canon?’
Godfrey gave him a twisted grin. ‘I appear to be talking more than usual, Sir Baldwin. Perhaps I have seen her, perhaps I haven’t – but I seem to recall the good suffragan telling you that you should consider packing your things. So why should I tell you any more?’ He stood. ‘I shall leave you. If you want to know anything else, find another informer.’
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