Belladonna at Belstone aktm-8

by Michael Jecks

  “Why in front of men?” Hugh said, glancing doubtfully from one to the other.

  “Who knows what you men would make of us if you knew what truly went on in our minds, young fellow?” Joan chuckled.

  Constance felt her face redden, and she busied herself with cleaning some pots and carefully drying them.

  “People think nuns are religious and spend their whole time walking about with their hands in their sleeves, heads down, daydreaming about the life to come, don’t they? Or they think all women in convents are so starved of sex that any man who cuts a well-shaped thigh and ankle in hose would be exhausted after two seconds flat in a place housing so many lusty young women. That’s right, isn’t it?” she said, her voice suddenly louder.

  Hugh was startled into a partial reply. “I doubt it. Most men think women in the cloisters are already part of the way to heaven, so they don’t figure much in our thoughts.“

  “Ah, but why? Because the women are the Brides of Christ, or because it’s too much bother to walk all the way to their convents, and too much like hard work to go to the effort of climbing the claustral wall to get at them, especially when the precinct might have guards to defend the women’s innocence?”

  Hugh was flustered by her questioning and shrugged again, his face growing darker with his suspicion that Joan’s conversation had a point, and that point was to belittle Hugh.

  Joan watched him like a viper staring at a mouse, bolt upright, her watery blue eyes intent, but then she suddenly sank back. “I know what men are like, young fellow; after living here for more than fifty years, I have a good idea what goes on in the mind of the average villein or freeman, because I meet them when they come here, and always it’s the same. Nuns are either mad because they can’t cope with “real men” in the “real world” and run away from the smelly and rather foolish acrobatics which go hand in glove with sex – and if they don’t think that, they assume that all nuns are lusty wenches who will fulfil every erotic dream of the most pox-ridden and pox-marked bastard born to a serf.“

  “I’m sorry,” Hugh said and his head was hanging now, recalling his thoughts in the tavern on his way to this place. He had been persuaded that the only reason why his hose would stay resolutely tied to his tunic was the fact that he was too low-born for a wealthy nun, he recalled and now, listening to the bitter, tired old woman, he felt guilty.

  “Don’t be so silly, fellow! What sort of a churl are you?” Joan said. “You forget that women here are the same as women outside, except we have taken the vow of chastity. We have the same dreams and desires as any woman who lives outside. Often nuns will fail in their oaths, but they can be forgiven that, because to fail is human. Such women can regain their position in God’s love, because He understands our frailty, and while many will enter His kingdom after a life of unremitting effort and good works, I always like to think that He would prefer one or two darker horses up there with Him, just to protect Him from the utter tedium of dealing with the most perfect people.” She suddenly shot him a sharp glance. “Don’t you think He would soon be bored with only do-gooders to talk to?”

  Hugh mumbled, but Constance gave a short laugh. “Joan, you are cruel to tease the fellow. He knows he shouldn’t answer: if he agrees with you, you’ll tell him he’s no better than a heathen, and if he disagrees you’ll tell him he’s a fool. Leave him be.”

  Joan cast her a sly look, and Constance lifted an eyebrow sardonically. At the sight Joan grinned and settled herself back in her chair.

  Constance mixed spices with wine in a jug and set it near the fire. As she passed, she touched Joan’s hand with gratitude, for the older woman’s meaning was all too clear to her: all nuns failed occasionally, and there was always mercy and forgiveness. A moment later, Joan rose and went from the room. Constance returned to her bench; she felt little desire for forgiveness. She would trade it for an hour in Elias’s arms any day, and no matter how many kindly words dear Joan gave her, she would always remember her lover’s strong embrace.

  Elias – whom she had told only the previous night that Katerine had threatened to expose them…

  “I am deeply sorry that this has happened to your friend,” Lady Elizabeth said when she and Simon arrived in the cloister. “Let me know if there is anything I can do to help you.”

  “Thank you. Of course the matter is in Bishop Bertrand’s hands…”

  “Let’s not try to fool each other, eh, Bailiff? The good bishop loathes me, and the feeling is mutual. If he can, he will see me thrown from here, while you have a perfectly natural desire to avenge your friend. As far as I am concerned, that makes you much more likely to catch the murderer.”

  Simon grinned. “Very well – but Bertrand carries the responsibility. Do you mind if I speak to your nuns here?”

  She set her head to one side. “No,” she said at last. “But do treat them gently. Some of the women here are not used to meeting men at all, let alone being interrogated.”

  Simon promised to be careful and left her to return to her desk while he walked to the nuns’ frater. He wanted to see if he could learn anything from the women about the dead novice.

  There were only two in the room: one nun and a novice, sitting on a bench up near the screens. Recognising the sacrist, Denise, he considered a moment, then approached.

  “Ah, the bailiff!” Denise raised her pot in salutation. She was drunk, although not yet incapable. Wine had trailed down her chin to puddle on her breast, and her eyes were too bright. “So you haven’t been harmed yet?”

  Simon stiffened, but forced his tone to remain easy. “Denise, you know that Katerine is dead and my friend hurt. Did you see anything?”

  She fixed upon him a face filled with the vacuity of drunkenness. Lifting her pot, she drank, spilling more of the drink down her tunic. At last she took the pot away and grunted with pleasure. “Bailiff, this has been a terrible shock. I was sitting in here when I heard someone cry out, and a few minutes later I saw poor Katerine being carried out from the church and taken to rest with Moll. Poor Katerine! Awful! I’m not used to bloodshed, you know,” she declared, peering once more into her cup and taking a deep draught.

  “Was anyone here with you?”

  “Oh, yes. Agnes here was with me all the time. I don’t know if she noticed anything.”

  “I saw nothing. I heard noises from the canons’ cloister, but that’s all.”

  “You heard nothing apart from that?” Simon asked. “And you were both in here?”

  Agnes wouldn’t meet his look, leaving it to Denise to say, “What else could we have seen, Bailiff? We were here. It’s not as if we would have had any reason to wander in the canons’ side, is it?”

  Jeanne was in the hall when she heard them. Immediately she dropped the tapestry she had been stitching and ran to the door.

  When she was young, her parents had both been murdered by trail bastons, the foul club-men who had wandered the land in the last years of King Edward I – this king’s father. These sounded like another band of men-at-arms marching. It was a distinctive noise: the tinny clattering of many pots and griddles knocking together where they were hooked on the outside of the wagons, the dull, hollow squeaking of ill-greased axles, the rattle and thump of heavy wheels striking ruts, the tramp, tramp of feet, the occasional shout and jeering laugh. All these noises could be from a large entourage, one with which the King had surrounded himself, and when she fearfully stared out, she saw a procession of men, wagons and carts, all well-covered against the cold, all faceless under their hats.

  Since the visit of Stapledon’s messenger, Jeanne had been worried that trail bastons could come here. Furnshill was almost on the road from Tiverton to Exeter. Seeing them now, she was suddenly convinced it was the army of the Despensers.

  She was aware of a thickening sensation in her throat, and the hairs on her scalp tingled; her legs felt as if they couldn’t support her. There was a growing muzziness in her head, an inability to think. She wanted to escape –
but she couldn’t. Her duty was to her husband’s manor and house; Jeanne was the wife of a knight.

  The recollection cured her. By God’s good grace, she would acquit herself like the lady she was. Striding to the door she shouted, “Edgar!” and ran to the yard behind the house. Here, normality prevailed. Men exercised horses, others idled between jobs, passing the time of day with dairymaids and house-servants.

  Hearing her shout, Edgar rushed from the stables, an expression of mild surprise on his face.

  “There is a force in the road. We must arm the men and…”

  She was talking to the air. At her first words Edgar had bolted for the screens, and now he stood at the far side of the threshold, a stout pike hidden behind the door where he could grab it at need.

  Feeling somewhat ridiculous, Jeanne trailed after him. “Shall I call the men to arms?”

  Edgar surveyed the men who now marched up the lane to the manor, then shook his head. “They don’t look like outlaws, and if they were Despensers, we’d have heard. They’d have razed the land on their way here, and we’d have seen refugees passing for hours.”

  “Then who are they?” she demanded, peering over his shoulder.

  As she spoke, a man riding a pony near the front rode back to a man on a tall grey destrier. While Jeanne watched, the pony’s rider nodded, whirled around and set off towards the house at a canter. Soon he was at the door, a youngish man with a round face and angry features beneath a wide-brimmed felt hat. He sat hunched on his pony as if frozen.

  “My Lord begs your kindness, and asks would it be possible to rest his horses and men here overnight?”

  Edgar was about to answer when Jeanne spoke up, her hand on his sleeve. “Normally I’d be glad to offer comfort to weary travellers, but my husband isn’t here, and without his permission I cannot allow strangers to enter.”

  The messenger hawked and spat, then tilted his hat back on his head. “Are you sure you couldn’t allow us just a couple of hours before your fire, my Lady? We’ve ridden far this day already, and the air has practically frozen our innards, we’ve been out in it so long.”

  “The Lady of the house has spoken,” Edgar said, and although there was no curtness in his voice, his tone sufficed to demonstrate that he would ensure her will was obeyed.

  “Oh, very well. I don’t even know why he wanted to come to such a miserable spot!” the young man said, staring at the house with evident distaste. He turned in his saddle to call back. “My Lord, they won’t let us in, not even to sit before the fire.”

  “Really?”

  And with that voice Jeanne felt her trepidation fall away.

  “My Lord Bishop! I didn’t know it was you – of course you are welcome, and your men too!” She gasped with relief and delight.

  It was at the door to the infirmary and dorter that Simon saw the old woman. Joan sat contentedly on a bench sipping at a large cup of wine, her legs stretched out before her. She opened her eyes as Simon approached.

  “May I sit with you?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “If by that you mean, can you ask me questions, say so!”

  Simon grunted as he lowered himself, rubbing at his temples.

  Joan gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry. I get so used to being the first person anyone comes to for help that sometimes I make myself sound tetchy to grab a little peace.”

  “The nuns all come to you?”

  “Oh, yes. I am the oldest. They think I have a monopoly on commonsense and experience.”

  “Where were you today when Katerine died?”

  She gave a sad smile. “I was walking in the orchard, Bailiff. Alone. I wish I’d been here to pray for poor Katerine, falling like that.”

  “She didn’t fall by accident. She was murdered.”

  Joan’s eyes opened with horror. “But… How can you be sure? I thought she had slipped or something.”

  Simon didn’t explain his theory. “Were you there for long?”

  “Not very. I needed to clear my head a little. I am used to work, Bailiff, and spending all my days indoors before a fire seems strangely boring. I had thought sitting at a fire would be a delightful retirement – all pleasures can pale.”

  “Did you see anyone here when you came back?”

  “Only Denise.” Joan wrinkled her nose. “She was rather drunk again, I am afraid.”

  “Where was she?”

  “She’s the sacrist. Where would she be? I saw her leaving the church after cleaning up.”

  “Alone?” he asked, and Joan nodded.

  “Everyone seems to have been alone,” he grumbled.

  She chuckled. “It’s the duty of the contemplative life! But there is one thing in my favour.”

  “And that is?”

  “That I had no reason to want to hurt poor Katerine. I know not all the novices liked her – in fact, I think Agnes and she had fallen out over something – not that either confided in me.”

  Simon motioned for her to continue.

  “I know little about it. When Agnes first came here, she soon befriended Katerine, but more recently they have hardly spoken.“

  “How did Agnes get on with Moll?”

  “I think most of the women here found Moll difficult. Someone who wishes to be a saint can be tedious company, especially when she considers it her duty to report any misbehaviour. Not the best way to make friends.“

  “Who else could have wanted to see Moll and Katerine dead?”

  “Although the nuns and novices here often confide in me, I assure you none of them have admitted to murder,” Joan said. She shivered. “And now I think it is time I returned to the boredom of watching a fire. Alas! Although I find sitting in front of the flames dull, I still crave the heat.”

  “One last question, please. Did Denise like Moll and Katerine?” Joan hesitated. “Denise? What on earth makes you ask that?” she said lightly, but as she walked through the door to the infirmary, Simon saw her throw him a look over her shoulder.

  Jeanne had a quick eye, and while Edgar organised the servants to see to the bishop’s men, she sat him in Baldwin’s own chair before the fire and served him herself, darting little glances over his embroidered robes, the heavy rings on his fingers, the weighty belt with all the enamelled metalwork, the expensive Spanish boots of such soft, supple leather and the velvet hat which must surely have come from an exotic source. It was plain to her eye that the man who had left Exeter as a well-known but honourable cleric had enhanced himself by his position as the country’s Treasurer.

  It wasn’t only the metalwork on his fingers and hanging around his neck, it was his overall form. Bishop Stapledon, the last time Jeanne had seen him, had been quite slim in his build, but now he had grown portly. His second chin had been superseded by a third, and his belt appeared to be finding the task of encircling his girth a sore trial, from the way that it cut into his belly.

  But his smile was the same. Bishop Stapledon, Jeanne knew, had already created the new Stapledon Hall at Oxford, and had founded twelve scholarships for students of grammar in Exeter, as well as granting many licences for clergy to live outside their parishes so that they could go to Oxford and improve their learning. He took his bishopric seriously, always trying to improve the men whose task it was to help the souls of the parishioners on their journey to heaven.

  “My Lady, you look very well,” he sighed as he leaned back in his chair, pot of warmed wine grasped in his hand. “Marriage must suit you.”

  “It would be pleasant indeed, had I more opportunity to enjoy my husband’s company,” she said lightly.

  Stapledon laughed. “There are many who think that.”

  “And many who will shortly think it,” she agreed sombrely.

  “You are thinking of the conflict to come?”

  “What else occupies the minds of most people now, my Lord?”

  Stapledon idly ran his finger around the rim of his pot. When he looked up to meet her gaze, his face was serious, his brow wrinkle
d with concern. “It would be troubling indeed if it should come to war. The country doesn’t need the King to fight with the barons.”

  “Yet it appears that the King’s friends are forced to go to war,” Jeanne said carefully. She liked the bishop and enjoyed his company, but he was Treasurer to the King, and she had heard that he had won the job from the support of the Despensers. It would be best that she didn’t let him know that her own loyalties were with the Welsh March barons who were showing a united front against the Despensers. Such information could be useful to Baldwin’s enemies; and one never knew when a friend like Stapledon could become a dangerous ally, or an enemy himself. It was best to be circumspect.

  He spoke quietly. “The country doesn’t need to rip itself apart. God knows, we have more than enough enemies over the water keen to see us destroy ourselves. And those Scottish bastards are always at our back with their long knives…” He stared into the fire, his face drawn and serious – more so than Jeanne had ever seen before.

  She poured wine. “While you are here, let us forget your great position in the country, and talk only of local matters. You great prelates, you often forget that the most important matters are not those which are dealt with by the King’s Parliament, but those which are handled by the burgesses of Crediton, or the tinners of Devon, in their little taverns. That is where the really interesting debates occur, and the issues of great moment are discussed.”

  Stapledon smiled, a little sadly, she thought. “Yes. Matters here are a great deal more entertaining. I look forward to spending more time at Exeter – I am on my way there now.”

  “Truly?” Jeanne asked. “Can you take time away from your work with the King?”

  “With the King? My dear Lady, I have resigned my post. I am no more a national figure, the hated tax-collector of England. I despise the situation we are now in, with threats of war rattling shutters up and down the land, and I am simply the Bishop of Exeter once more. Damn all politicians, say I!”