Katerine obeyed sullenly, but as she walked to the cloister, she wondered what was happening. First there was Constance, who must have been dreadfully upset to have got so maudlin drunk; then Margherita in a high old state of anxiety.
Both were bound to be perfect sources for conjecture among the novices after Compline, when all went to their beds, and she quite looked forward to holding the younger girls spellbound while she related the curious behaviour of Constance in the kitchen.
Perhaps it was the impact of the visitor. His arrival, for the second time in so short a space, was certain to cause some concern amongst the nuns. Katerine was only young, but she wasn’t blind. The nuns flagrantly ignored their Rule. Many wouldn’t obey even the lightest part of their duties: they didn’t get up in the middle of the night to help conduct the Nocturnes and Matins as they should. And the drinking after Compline was excessive, just as if the nuns were members of a select lord’s party, and entitled to consume as much wine as any wished without a thought to the fact that they should all have gone to their beds after this last service of the day.
Not that it bothered Katerine. For her, the more drunk and incapable the nuns were, the easier her own affairs became. She could learn much more when they were in their cups, and all information was potentially profitable. Such as Constance with her man – or Agnes with Luke. Katerine’s face took on a bitter aspect as she considered them. Agnes – once her friend, and Luke – once her lover.
The tavern was a ramshackle, cruck-built house with a thin, moss-covered thatch, and when Bailiff Simon Puttock rode up to the door and gave it a once-over, the whistle died on his lips. Smoke floated from the louvre in the roof, but the limewash was a mess with green lichen and moss growing thickly, and his confidence in the builder was somewhat diminished by the rubble at the side of the place where a large portion had collapsed. Still, he reflected, it should last long enough for lunch. He nodded to his companion.
“Hardly looks the sort of place Baldwin would pick. More like one of your grotty little alehouses, Hugh.”
Hugh, his servant, ignored the jibe. He was a wiry, short man, and wore a perpetual frown on his face, as though he knew the world was making fun of him.
Today he felt particularly disgruntled, and as he hopped from his horse he tugged his thick fustian cloak about him more tightly. “I’d be happier staying in an alehouse than going on in this weather,“ he grunted.
“Enough grumbling, Hugh. Look on the bright side – Peter’s message makes it look like there’ll be women enough willing to warm you up at Belstone! So long as you don’t let this pisshead priest Baldwin’s bringing with him find you in one of his nun’s beds!”
Hugh snorted contemptuously, ignoring his master’s joke. The idea that nuns would grant sexual favours wasn’t new, it was the fantasy of every adolescent male – and many weak-minded adult males, too. Hugh had heard plenty of stories about such women, especially the ones who escaped from convents. They often couldn’t lift their tunics fast enough, from what he’d been told. Not that they were running any great risks; for if they returned to their nunnery they would be welcomed with open arms, even if they had to accept a penance of some sort to show the Church’s displeasure. But there was one aspect to all this Hugh was convinced of. “They’d not look at me,” he muttered.
Simon grinned broadly. “So that’s what has got to you – you reckon you’re too lowly for them.”
“Nuns are all well-born, aren’t they? Daughters of nobles and lords and such. Nah, they’d not look at my sort.”
Dropping from his horse and tossing the reins to the waiting ostler, Simon chuckled aloud. “In that case, be happy, Hugh, because you’ll not be risking your eternal soul by fornicating with a woman dedicated to Christ.” He caught a glimpse of his servant’s black expression. “Hell’s teeth! Try to cheer up!”
Simon Puttock, the Bailiff of Lydford under the Warden of the Stannaries, was far too happy to tolerate his servant’s dour expression. While Hugh looked over the landscape and saw grass smothered under a freezing white covering, skeletal trees with no leaves, paths and tracks made treacherous with ice and no prospect of a warm meal until they arrived at the priory, Simon saw the world differently: to him the land was delicately rimed with frost which served to emphasise its soft contours, the trees were full of the promise of spring, their branches preparing to explode with fresh green leaves, the roads on which they travelled were solid and dry instead of spattering them with mud, and the alehouse held the certainty of a reward after having come so far: there would be ale heated at the side of the fire. There was good reason for his cheerful humour, for his wife was pregnant again.
He strode over the threshold into the dim, fuggy hall. Two candles smoked at one wall, and a cold draught came in from the high, unglazed windows, but the fire was smouldering nicely, and the household’s iron pot hung over it, a thick soup bubbling gently. There were only a few men inside, two near the fire watching a third man lying atop a slatternly looking girl on a rug in a far corner.
Simon hesitated, but seeing a man near the door to the buttery, waved to him and ordered two ales, then took a seat. Hugh soon joined him, and eyed the two on the floor. It wasn’t the sort of behaviour he could understand. He had made use of prostitutes himself before – which man hadn’t? – but he’d never been tempted to couple in public like these two; it reminded him too much of dogs in the street. Although now Hugh was almost tempted to nudge her and ask whether he could have her later.
For Hugh was lonely. It was a novel sensation to him, because he had been a shepherd out on the moors near Drewsteignton as a lad, and most of his youth had been spent many miles from other people, especially girls; his early adult life had been one of complete self-reliance, with only his charges and a dog for company, and although Simon, his master, had rescued him from the boredom – and damp – of that existence, still the change had prevented Hugh from meeting women of his own level. Those with whom he came into contact at Lydford were mostly suspicious of someone from so far away, for Hugh’s accent set him apart from the servants of the busy stannary town, and when he returned with his master to their old town of Crediton, the women were prone to see him as a feeble-witted and awkward country fellow, someone of little account and useful only as the butt of jokes.
It was now over two years since Hugh had been romantically involved with a woman. There were whores in the taverns near Lydford which lined the busy roads north and south, but that was very different. And now Simon was to be a father again, Hugh was aware of a kind of jealousy. He hated feeling that way about his master, but he couldn’t help it. Especially when Simon was so tediously proud.
Hugh watched as the whore and her bawd rose, the man joining the other two by the fire, casting suspicious looks at the strangers as he retied his hose and the girl went out to the room at the back.
Simon sat with a faraway smile on his face, paying scarcely any heed to those around him. Simon Puttock was a tall man with dark hair in which the grey was rapidly becoming prominent. Usually he tended to wear a serious expression, because his position as Bailiff for the Warden of the Stannaries meant that he was one of the most senior law officers on the moors, but today Simon was beaming, and the world was pleasing to his eye, for he was quite sure that his wife would give birth to a son.
They had had a son before – Peterkin – but he had died young. Simon had been so proud to have an heir, and yet when Peterkin become fractious and petulant, crying all night, he had realised there was something seriously wrong. Peterkin had a fever. Soon the poor little lad had diarrhoea, and gradually his squalling faded. Before long it was a muted whimper, and then a pained breath, and the lad passed away quietly early one morning. It was terrible to admit it, but Simon had been almost glad when the end had come, because at least he wouldn’t have to confront his inability to do anything to help his boy.
And now Margaret, his lovely Meg, had fallen pregnant again. It was wonderful to think that she would soo
n be growing, her belly expanding fruitfully, giving life to a new child after three years of trying to replace poor Peterkin. Grinning broadly, he slapped his servant on the shoulder. “Come on, Hugh, you’ve hardly touched your drink. Hurry up, or I’ll let you collect the reckoning as punishment.”
Glowering morosely, Hugh took a long pull at his quart, but his stomach was not in it. “It’s all right for them as have the money.”
“I pay you well enough, and it’s not as if you have other expenses,” Simon said happily, unaware how his words affected his man. He was sincerely fond of his servant, and would not have wished to hurt his feelings. “You’re not in the same position as Edgar, Baldwin’s man, are you? He’s going to be married soon and has to save every farthing he can.”
“Aye, well he’s welcome,” Hugh retorted, but without his usual vigour.
Simon didn’t notice his remark, but waved at the young prostitute as she returned to the room. She carried a jug, and refilled their ales from it. Hugh looked up at her just as she happened to glance at him, and she smiled.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Me?” Hugh asked, then, “Hugh.”
“I’m Rose. Call me if you want me,” she said.
Her face was plain and round. There was little about her which would usually have attracted Hugh, but today he thought her beautiful. She was perhaps twenty or twenty-one years old, not too tall, and wore her dark hair wantonly loose over her shoulders, but what Hugh noticed most about her was her eyes. They were steady and green, and he was just considering the coins in his pocket when there was a sudden row from the road, and such thoughts were thrust from his mind.
Bishop Bertrand entered regally, pausing in the doorway and perusing the hall with his nose in the air; to Simon he looked like a bad imitation of a cleric from a morality play, but he curbed the comments which rose immediately to his lips and instead stood and bowed, then winked at his friend behind.
“Simon, it is good to see you again,” Baldwin said, crossing the floor and shaking the bailiff’s hand. “Permit me to introduce Bishop Bertrand, the suffragan of Exeter.”
Bertrand held out his hand. Simon made the usual obeisance and kissed his ring, and the bishop sat in Simon’s chair, pulling his coat tight about him.
“It is very bitter out there,” he murmured.
Simon took his quart pot and drank. “Not as bad as it can be, my Lord Bishop. In this last winter, the snow down here was yards deep, and the wind as it comes off the moors is cold enough to flay a man. You could ride out over the moors, they say, and before you’d got halfway, you’d have lost all the flesh from your face.”
Bertrand gave him a look of open disbelief. “Here? You jest with me.”
“No, my Lord. You can stand up on top of the nearest hill here, Cosdon, and stare out over the land, and when you look to the north you can see sunshine while where you are it is all cold, wet, and miserable. These moors have their own climate.”
“Then thanks be to God that I shall soon be away from the place!” Bertrand muttered. “It’s bad enough that I should be here again already because of the disgraceful behaviour of these blasted women, without having to freeze myself into an early grave.”
Simon listened as the bishop explained why he and Baldwin had been asked to accompany Bertrand. Gradually his mouth fell open with astonishment, and he absentmindedly took his third quart of ale as the young prostitute passed by. “So you think the prioress could have been guilty of this murder? But what of the canons in the priory? Surely murder is a man’s crime?”
“Women can be evil,” Bertrand said sententiously. “Do not forget that they are responsible for the Fall; it was Eve’s crime which drove us from Eden.” As he spoke his attention wandered over the room. Catching sight of the girl, he watched as she joked and teased the other men. When one of his guards called out to ask her fee, she stood and contemplated him, hands on her hips, before laughingly asking whether she should offer to please so young a boy free of charge for the honour of being his first woman.
The guard blushed, the girl winked and served another customer with ale, and Bertrand noted the guard’s name for future punishment.
Seeing the direction of his look, Simon glanced around. Bertrand reddened. Simon assumed it was because he was not very experienced in dealing with such girls: tavern whores were often more audacious than ordinary women, which was bound to make them alarming to a priest, he thought.
“If the priory is efficiently run it would be impossible for a canon to gain admission,” Baldwin pointed out. He had not been watching and had missed the bishop’s embarrassment.
“There are always ways for the sinful to meet the innocent,” said Bertrand shortly. “And this priory is the least efficiently run of all those I have seen.”
Baldwin nodded, suppressing a fond memory. Before he had gone through the full ceremony to join the Templars, he could recall nights when he had made the acquaintance of the women of Cyprus. Like all the novices he knew which areas of the precinct’s walls could be most easily scaled in order to spend an evening in the fleshly delights available outside the Temple. Now he was married and could once again enjoy natural, carnal pleasures, it astonished him that he had remained celibate for so long.
Simon waved the girl over again and had his pot refilled. The ale tasted stronger than when he had first arrived, and he assumed that she had fetched the house’s best in deference to the bishop. He was aware of a growing somnolence. He put the pot on the table and concentrated. It was not so easy as before, and he determined to slow his consumption.
For his part, Hugh was bored. Talk of high affairs in a convent were of little interest to him. Picking up his pot, he wandered to another bench and sat down. He had no desire to stay in the bishop’s company. Whatever was happening in the little priory in Belstone was nothing to do with him, and he didn’t want to listen to a prelate sounding off about its apparently dishonourable occupants.
Here he was nearer the entrance, and the draught was more noticeable, blowing in through the badly fitting planks that made up the door, and he yanked his fustian cloak closer about him. The local men stood silently, eyeing Bertrand, Baldwin and Simon, while some of the bishop’s guards sat nearby.
The priest was describing some of the infractions of the Rule which he had witnessed while he had stayed at the priory, then he went on to explain to Simon and Baldwin what the treasurer had told him in her letter.
“And do not tell the prioress of this,” he said, fixing Simon with a meaningful eye.
The bailiff pulled a face, scratching meditatively at his ear. “You want us to hide the fact that her most senior deputy has accused her of murder?”
“If it is true that she is guilty of this heinous felony, I shall remove her from office.”
Simon was sceptical. “You can do that? I thought a priory was more or less an individual lordship in its own right.”
“I can tell her that I shall report her action to the bishop… If she refuses to listen, I can demand to speak to the full chapter and let them know what she has done.”
“That presupposes she’s guilty,” Simon said bluntly. “And you’re asking us to conceal the disloyalty of her most senior nun.”
“I see no other way of conducting this inquest.” Bertrand held out his hands, palms up in a gesture of openness. “What would you do? Tell her, and then, if the treasurer is wrong and the prioress is innocent, wait to see what damage will be done?”
Baldwin stirred and shook his head. “I see no point in this duplicity. If, as you say, the prioress is innocent, you cannot leave the treasurer under her authority after this allegation. She will need to be moved to another nunnery.”
“I am prepared to cross that bridge when I need to. For now I intend to investigate whether the prioress herself is guilty as the treasurer claims.”
Baldwin and Simon exchanged a glance and shrugged. Simon said, “It’s up to you, of course.”
“Yes, i
t is,” Bertrand replied firmly. His eye landed on Hugh over by the door, idly staring into his pot. The servant’s relaxed pose sparked a brief sense of resentment in Bertrand. At that moment the visitor longed for the luxury of having no responsibility, of not having to worry.
Hugh, meanwhile, had noticed that his pot was empty, and he was looking about for the serving girl, Rose. She was attending the bishop, and Hugh couldn’t attract her attention; she was doing her job, looking after the best customers. That realisation made Hugh feel even more alone: stuck, as he was, between the local men who wanted nothing to do with a stranger, and the bishop who was so superior to him that Hugh would be lucky to receive a ‘good morning’ from him. Even the tavern’s girl had no interest in him. He was insignificant: a poor man with no wife, no child – nothing to give him any status.
One thing struck him after a while: the girl was hanging around near the bishop, as if listening very intently to all he was saying.
Agnes saw the prioress walking round and round the cloister garth, evidently deep in thought, and the sight made her pause.
Lady Elizabeth looked peevish. Despite the confident image she projected to the other nuns, it was noticeable that her familia had shrunk. There was normally a fair grouping of sycophantic nuns about her, but now they’d all faded away. Agnes was sure it must be due to something Margherita had said.
Agnes went to her desk and opened the book she was copying. The colours of the original were glorious and attracted the eye, and she sighed at the sight, knowing she’d never be able to reproduce such perfection. Resignedly she took her pumice and began smoothing her vellum. She had just taken up her bodkin to mark off the lines when she was aware of someone approaching. Looking up, she saw Lady Elizabeth.
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