Belladonna at Belstone aktm-8

by Michael Jecks

  At least with a head wound it was quick. Hugh had seen a few of them in his time. If a man was scratched or cut in a limb it could take an age for the poor bastard to croak. Often the surgeon would hack off more and more of the surrounding muscle and skin in a vain attempt to save the life, but commonly the cure was enough only to exacerbate the problems, and the patient would expire in agony, killed by the regular removal of mortified flesh rather than the actual sweet-smelling gangrene itself.

  With a head wound, it was easier. The patient simply died.

  He frowned as the pressure in his bladder increased. Joan, over by the fire, was nodding gently, close to sleep. Hugh could see shadows moving out in the chamber beyond, where Constance worked. It wouldn’t be sensible to leave the room until she was back, he knew. He couldn’t take the risk, not with Sir Baldwin’s safety.

  Suddenly he knew he was going to have to go. If he didn’t make a swift journey down to his little alley soon, the floor would be awash. Constance was still out there, and now Hugh had no choice. He rose and dashed to the chamber, gasping, “Please look to the knight – I have to go. Back in a minute!” before hurrying back the way he had come.

  In the alley the relief was enormous as he stood leaning, one hand pressed against the wall before him, sighing with the exquisite pleasure of emptying himself. With a brief fart, he resettled his hose, then turned to return to the cloister, but stopped, hearing a noise.

  Frowning, he peered up the alley. It had been a faint, hoarse, inarticulate little cry, and Hugh recognised the sound. It was impossible not to. Private chambers were rare, and most husbands and wives had to couple in alcoves in their master’s hall, or if free, made love in the bed they shared with all their children. It was a woman’s cry of release – a woman with her man.

  Hugh had no prurient desire to see who it could be, but he knew that at a time like this, when two young women had died, he had a duty to see who was making love with a nun. Someone guilty of that might be guilty of anything.

  Setting his jaw, Hugh stepped silently up the alley. At the end was an open space, a low wall, several bushes. Approaching the wall, he heard something again and he peered over it.

  The couple were shielded by the wall and the straggling bushes. She was kneeling atop her man, her habit raised to her breast, her long fair hair loose and trailing down her spine as she rocked gently back and forth, biting her lip to control the urge to cry out. As he watched, she turned, her eyes closed in ecstasy, and he ducked out of sight, but not before he had recognised her. It was Agnes, the novice he had seen spying on Baldwin in the infirmary.

  With a shock Hugh realised he was witnessing a novice breaking her vow, and somehow when he saw her lover was Luke, it came as no surprise. If a beautiful young girl like Agnes could behave in such a manner, there was nothing wonderful about a man taking advantage. Stealthily Hugh turned to make his way back to the infirmary.

  He felt as if the sight had punctured his very soul. There had been a sense of sadness before at the thought that the women here would not look at him, but that knowledge was tempered by the certainty that they would not be tempted by another man either. Now he knew only grief and a dreadful increase of his desperate loneliness, as if Agnes was in some way betrothed to him and he had just witnessed her treachery; he felt betrayed.

  As he came to the alley he saw Denise coming towards him.

  She smiled and stood to one side to let him pass, but he stopped. If she continued she could hardly miss the two lovers. In a generous frame of mind, Hugh cleared his throat loudly so that Agnes and Luke should be warned before being discovered.

  His kindness failed. There was a brief squeak, a tearing of cloth, then a high giggling. Denise’s attention flew to the wall, and she peered keenly at it, then lifted an eyebrow to Hugh. “I trust that they have finished now,“ she said loudly and coldly, and turning, swept back the way she had come to lock the church’s connecting door.

  Agnes clapped a hand over her mouth to stopper the giggle that rose naturally. Luke stared up at her with a horrified gaze. She let her finger touch his mouth. “It’s only Denise, love. She won’t tell. She’ll only be jealous and make some carping comment later.”

  But the young priest had lost his enthusiasm. She felt him wither within her, and smiled broadly. “No more? Had enough?”

  Luke squirmed away and felt his robe fall to his ankles with relief as he stood. “What if someone should find us?”

  She watched him peer fearfully over the wall. Standing, she settled her own clothing and began tying up her hair, setting it in place. “If they find us, that’s that,” she said with finality. “But I’m no nun yet, and maybe I never will be.”

  Catching sight of his expression, she let her own features soften. “It’s dangerous for us here, but no one’s usually here at this time of day.”

  “We were mad!”

  “Then we’ll have to find somewhere more secure, won’t we?” she said, walking behind him and putting her arms around his waist. He was slim, and she felt her passion rising at his musky, masculine scent. “There’s a place I know,” she whispered. “A room behind the frater, if you can get back here tonight.”

  Simon was somewhat surprised to be summoned to the nuns’ cloister, but he obeyed with alacrity. He found the prioress and treasurer standing well apart from all the other nuns, who nonetheless watched intently as Simon went to Lady Elizabeth’s side.

  “Thank you, Bailiff, for coming so promptly,” she said, and there was a happy musical tone to her voice which made Simon smile, but which he noticed gave no pleasure to Margherita.

  “It’s my pleasure, my Lady,” he responded. “But what do you wish me to…?”

  “Merely listen, please, Bailiff. Ah, here it is!”

  Turning, Simon saw a young novice hurrying to them. In her hands she carried a massive book. Lady Elizabeth smiled at the girl, and then gripped the crucifix at her belt with one hand while she rested her other on the cover of the book. “Please witness, Bailiff, that I here swear on my oath, on the Bible and on the Cross, that what I am about to say is entirely true, and I desire God to take my life this instant if I deviate from the absolute truth in any way. May I be punished for all Eternity if I lie. There, that should do it, I think. Thank you, child. Take the book back to the cupboard now, please.”

  The novice dutifully left them. Meanwhile Lady Elizabeth motioned to the other two and allowed herself to sit. When they were all comfortable, she continued: “Bailiff, I have been accused of murdering Moll: I did not and I swear that I had no part in her death. Second, I have been accused of taking the young priest Luke as my lover: I have not. Third, I am accused of entertaining Luke in my chamber on the night that Moll died…”

  “I heard you,” Margherita asserted, her face red with anger and bitterness, and, yes, if she was honest with herself, with fear that Elizabeth might be able to wriggle out of this.

  “You heard me, correct. But you put a dreadful interpretation on what you heard. Princess,” she called suddenly. “Come here, Princess!”

  Simon had never liked little dogs. He wasn’t particularly keen on any dogs at all, although he accepted the fact that some performed a useful purpose, such as hunters, guards or fighters for the ring, but this thing was a long-haired, pampered little barrel. He smiled at it insincerely, but as it leaped onto the prioress’s lap it bared its teeth.

  Lady Elizabeth stroked the little monster’s head. “Bailiff, Margherita has accused me of calling to Luke while he panted and I moaned in my room. That was the drift of your accusation, wasn’t it, Margherita? Well, Bailiff, I deny her charge. On the night Moll died, not only was I not making love to Luke, I did not entertain Luke in any way. I couldn’t – for the simple reason that I thought my dog here, little Princess, was dying.” She shot a look of utter contempt at Margherita. “While you were listening at my door, woman, I was anxiously nursing my dog.”

  Hugh sat back on his bench. Constance left him and returned to h
er chamber, but his mind was elsewhere. Hugh was not sure whether the news about Agnes and Luke being lovers was something that Simon would be interested in. After all, it was hardly anyone else’s business. God’s, perhaps, he amended with a quick glance upwards, but no one else’s.

  It made him wonder, though. Like any man, he had heard stories about the rampant sexual desires of nuns in their convents, and still more about the nuns who willingly escaped from their convents and threw off their habits just so that they could find and marry men. Such stories abounded, but while Hugh had always considered them potentially true, he was somewhat shocked to have been given proof. Luke and Agnes were breaking their vows within a holy precinct, and that was distasteful.

  Baldwin snorted and gave a loud cry as he moved. Hugh leaped to his feet, but before he could get to the knight’s side, Constance returned to the room. In her hand she carried a small bowl, and she smiled shyly at Hugh as she sat at Baldwin’s side, gentling him like a mother does a child, stroking Baldwin’s cheek and beard and murmuring soft words. As she spoke, she dropped a little liquid from the bowl onto his bedding and pillow.

  “It is only oil of lavender, to help him sleep,” she said in answer to Hugh’s silent question. She yawned, and pulled a face, rubbing at an eye. “I don’t think I shall need anything to help me rest tonight.”

  “At least you should be able to sleep unhindered,” Joan said from her chair.

  Constance didn’t look at her, but Hugh could see the flush colouring her cheeks, although when he glanced at Joan, she was sitting innocently enough, smiling in a friendly manner.

  “Yes, Joan, if you don’t wake me with your snoring.”

  “Me snore? I think not!” the old woman exclaimed. “Hugh, you wouldn’t say I snored, would you?”

  Hugh maintained a careful silence, not wishing to offend either of them, and eventually Joan gave a throaty, wheezing chuckle and stood. Standing upright, she stumbled on a loose board. Hugh made a move to go to her side but she gave him a stern look. “You stay there, young man, and protect your knight. I hardly need your help to go for a piss, do I?” And she made her way from the room.

  “I was only going to help her,” Hugh grumbled.

  “She’s fine. The only reason she’s here is because the prioress fears she will suffer from the cold in the dorter at her age,” Constance explained. “She isn’t ill, so don’t worry. She hardly needs help to go to the rere-dorter.”

  “I was only trying to help,” Hugh said again. A thought struck him. “Could she have got up during the night when Moll was killed?”

  Constance smiled at him. “Not a chance, no. I gave her so much dwale to make her sleep that not even the King’s artillery could have woken her.” Her gaze shot guiltily towards Cecily. “Cecily could have kept her awake otherwise,” she added defensively.

  Hearing a muffled whimper, as if on cue, Constance hurried to Cecily’s side. She took a cloth from a bowl of scented water and wiped the girl’s brow. The invalid’s eyes opened, but they were unfocused, and stared without recognition. Constance was aware that Hugh had joined her, and the two looked down without speaking for a few moments, but then the lay sister gave a cry and made as if to pull the bedclothes from her, tossing her head from side to side.

  “She’s not improving,” Constance said, almost to herself. “If her fever grows, it might burst her heart.”

  “It smells, too.”

  She shot Hugh a look, but saw only concern in his face; and when she sniffed, she too could smell the sweet stench of rotting flesh. She put a hand out towards the dressed arm, but the girl snatched it away, crying out as she struck a post of the bed with it. Constance was sure that Hugh was right. The girl had flushed cheeks, and her eyes looked unnaturally bright in the candlelight. Constance very gently reached out again to take hold of the arm, murmuring softly to reassure the girl, but Cecily whipped it free. Only when Hugh gripped her shoulders and held her upper arm could Constance get to the dressing, and before she removed it, she knew her efforts so far had been in vain. The smell was sickly and repellent, and as Constance took hold of the upper arm and felt the heat within the limb, she couldn’t help but throw a look at Cecily’s face.

  Hugh, gripping the lay sister’s shoulders, saw Constance’s expression. It briefly reflected her sadness, her compassion – and a kind of guilt – before she set to unravelling the long strip of cloth with which the arm was bound.

  Luke quietly slipped over the wall and across the yard to the western corner of the claustral buildings. From here he could look south to the church; there was no one in sight. All the nuns should by now, this late in the afternoon, be studying around the main claustral garth.

  At the church, he checked along the little alley that led to the cloisters before making his way inside through the small door to the nuns’ part of the church. It was surely close to time for Vespers. He walked across the nave, genuflected absentmindedly, and was about to slip through the connecting door, which Denise had left unlocked, when the door behind him opened.

  He was convinced that his heart actually stopped beating for a second; certain that it was the prioress. No matter what his carefully laid plans with the bishop might be, if she should find him here, she could have him thrown bodily from the priory, and all opportunities for advancement would be gone. His career would be over, and he would be sent to some ruined abbey or parish in the worst, most rundown part of the realm.

  When he saw it was Simon, Luke almost fell to his knees in thanks to God. He turned and made as if to walk to the sacristy.

  “Ah, Father Luke, I’m glad to have found you. You’ll be getting ready for the service, I suppose, but could I speak to you later?”

  “Oh, Bailiff, I am most sorry. I was deep in thought and didn’t hear you approach. You wish to make your Confession?”

  “Um no. Actually I was hoping you could tell me a little about the people here. Just your general impressions of them.”

  Luke reflected quickly. If anyone was to enter the church, the bailiff would be giving him the perfect alibi for being in here: a questioning. The prioress would want to know how Luke and Simon had got into the province of the females, but Luke could defend himself against any charges of impropriety easily enough.

  “Ask me anything – but don’t expect me to break the secrecy of the Confessional, of course.” Luke led the way to a bench at the wall and took a seat.

  “I wouldn’t dream of doing that,” Simon protested. “But I am intrigued about this place and how the women all get on together.”

  “It’s much like anywhere else where women congregate, I imagine.”

  “No. Not at all. Rarely do you find women jockeying for position in such a flagrant manner, all racing to win the prize – Lady Elizabeth’s position.”

  Luke forced a sad smile to his face. “It’s hardly a surprise, is it? Just look at the state of things here: two girls dead, the fabric of the buildings falling apart, the rumours…” he hesitated “… rumours of incontinence among some of the novices, and nuns too. It is said that they occasionally take men to their beds.”

  What a hypocrite! Simon recalled Rose’s words about Luke but held his tongue: he didn’t want to lose the young vicar’s assistance yet. “And who would you think could be involved in such goings-on?”

  “There are many rumours, Bailiff. One shouldn’t make too much of them. I believe there have even been malicious stories spread about me!”

  “What sort of stories?”

  “Untruthful stories, Bailiff. The sort of things that girls, nuns, and even some of the old women in the canonical cloister would discuss. You can’t trust such gossip, it is all too prevalent. I’ve heard tales of almost all the men, and according to the stories, they are constantly making love with every nun in the cloister. There is one thing common to all the men and women in this place: frustration. The men know the women are here, and vice versa. It is bound to create tension, isn’t it? And when there is little else for people to
talk about, it is easy to see how they turn to imagining things.”

  “So you think that there hasn’t been any sort of misbehaviour between the sexes?”

  “If there has, I am sure that Lady Elizabeth will resign.”

  “Are you?”

  “Bailiff, she would have to. She is already condemned for the amount of damage done to this place – look at the roof above you! – but if any of her women were actually fornicating, that would really be the end of her.”

  Simon considered. This was more complicated than he had anticipated. Every person he spoke to hinted at misdemeanours, but none was prepared to give full voice to their suspicions. “Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to murder Moll and Katerine?”

  “The very idea is ridiculous. No, in short. The pair of them were lovely things, delightful. Moll was so endearing, especially with her constant search for the holy in everything. She would ask a question, and fix those lovely eyes upon you, and you felt nearer to God by her presence. And Katerine was different, but no less wonderful. She was always trying to improve things. Often she would come to me to suggest something that others hadn’t noticed. She was a sweet girl.”

  Simon was unimpressed. He noted that all Luke had said so far corroborated Rose’s suggestion that he could be enjoying an affair with a nun. Out of sheer malice, Simon then asked, “And what do you think about Agnes?”

  “Agnes?” Luke’s voice took on a haughty distance. “She seems to be a very serious-minded and sensible young novice. Of course, I could hardly claim to have spoken to her often, but she confesses to me regularly, and appears penitent.”

  He was clearly not going to elucidate. Simon could almost hear the lock snapping shut when Luke closed his mouth. Instead the bailiff attempted a different tack. “And what of the treasurer? She strikes me as very dedicated.”