Belladonna at Belstone aktm-8

by Michael Jecks

  “Strenuous? No, not overmuch. Yet I would have preferred to travel straight to Exeter and see how things were rather than having to be diverted all the way here.”

  “I know, my Lord. It is a disgraceful state of affairs,” Bertrand agreed unctuously.

  “Certainly it is,” Stapledon said, peering around at the prioress who stood at his side. “Three murders and the attempt to kill my friend Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. And then,” he added, “a fool tries to suggest that my good friend and sister in Christ, Lady Elizabeth, was herself guilty of murder.”

  “I was called here by…”

  “A woman who wished to remove my Lady to gain power for herself,” Stapledon stated relentlessly. “And I suspect you foresaw your own enhancement in the matter. You thought you might more speedily gain preferment.”

  “Oh, my Lord, no! I was acting for the best interests of the convent.”

  “Then who was the murderer of the three?” Stapledon asked silkily.

  “I fear I do not know, but I am sure that…”

  Stapledon eyed him with chill severity. Then he raised a hand and beckoned. Elias had been standing, unknown to Bertrand, just behind him, and the suffragan felt a sinking feeling as he recognised the canon.

  “Elias, you shall go with the prioress to the dorter. The prioress will show you where to go. The treasurer has a large chest. You will bring it here.”

  Simon rushed from the frater and went to the entrance to the dorter, pounding up the stairs to the infirmary.

  “Sir?” Hugh asked.

  Simon went to Baldwin and peered down at him. “Has Denise been in here?”

  “Yes, sir. She came in to ask about the knight, but then went out.”

  “Which way did she go?”

  “Constance suggested the orchard.”

  Simon paused. “Constance is with her?”

  “Yes, sir. Said she wanted the fresh air.”

  “Shit!”

  The noise had woken Baldwin, although Cecily remained deep in her drugged sleep. Baldwin himself felt groggy, woken too soon from a deep slumber. He yawned and stretched, wincing at the quick pain in his head. “What is it, Simon?”

  “I think Denise is the killer, and now she’s gone out with Constance.”

  “Then go and find them!” Baldwin commanded. “Leave me and go!”

  “Stay here, Hugh,” Simon said and hurried out. On the stairs he came across the prioress and Elias. “Prioress, I think Denise is the murderer, and she’s gone out with Constance to the orchard. Constance might be in danger – where is the orchard?”

  Astonished, she gave him directions, and Simon sped away. Elias hesitated, eyes as wide as a startled deer, staring at the prioress.

  “My child, I don’t know if this is a good idea or not, but Godspeed! Go and guard Constance,” she said, and Elias darted down the stairs after the bailiff.

  The orchard was a clear space at the northernmost edge of the precinct. Although sheep and lambs wandered among the apple and pear trees, mumbling at the shin-high grasses, Simon could see no sign of the two women as he rushed along the wall. He was aware of Elias pounding along behind him, but the bailiff’s attention was fixed upon the small pasturage, staring about, trying to catch sight of either nun.

  He came to a gate, and leaped over, landing solidly and gazed about him wildly. Elias appeared at his side, his head slowly traversing from left to right. It was hard to see anything, the area was so overgrown. Trees stood with their branches unpruned, each looking like a small thicket in its own right, and while the two men should have been able to peer underneath the lowest branches, so many trees had toppled over and the grass itself was so long, that it was impossible to see anything.

  Simon pointed. “You go that way, halfway from here to the far wall, and wait for me. I’ll go a similar distance to the right here, and then we’ll go in. One of us must see them wherever they are.”

  Elias nodded and ran off while Simon made his way further up. Turning, Simon made sure that Elias was in his place, then dived between the ranks of sturdy boughs.

  He had to climb over a trunk within a few paces, and then he slipped and almost fell in a pile of sheep’s dung, but he kept his head moving, peering intently between the trees, to his left, before him, and to his right, his head swinging regularly as he sought the women. At one point he thought he had found them, seeing a dark movement on his right, but even as he stopped and prepared to launch himself in that direction, he saw that it was a sheep covered in mud. Cursing to himself, he carried on.

  The farther wall was in view now, and there was still no sign of them. Simon walked to it, filled with anxious dismay. There were already three deaths, and he felt panic clutch at his throat at the thought that he might be about to find another body.

  Then he heard a shout from Elias.

  When he looked, he could see no sign of the monk, but he felt sure that Elias needed him. He gave bellow and set off immediately.

  “What was that?” Joan demanded, looking up.

  Hugh sat still, poised on the edge of his seat. He hated sitting here while his master could be in danger, even if only from one mad nun, but he had been given his order.

  Joan ran to the window. “A call – a call from your master, Hugh.”

  He stood, looked down at Baldwin, then over to the window, undecided. “I can’t hear anything,“ he said wretchedly.

  “I could swear it was the bailiff, and he was in pain,” Joan said, her expression anguished.

  “He told me to stay here,” Hugh said, glancing back at the knight.

  Baldwin shifted a little on his bed, groaned as his wound pulled. “Hugh, if Simon is in danger, you should go to him,” he said painfully. “I order you: go! I could never forgive myself if anything were to happen to him.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Simon vaulted over a fallen trunk, ducked beneath a low branch, running along the line of the wall and staring between the trees until he saw the movement of a robe. Turning away from the wall, he soon came to the canon.

  Elias was standing with his arms around Constance, and at her side, blearily glancing from Simon to Elias, was a befuddled-looking Denise.

  Simon was so relieved, he almost sank to his knees in thanksgiving. Nodding to Elias, he said, “Is she all right?” There was no need for Elias to answer. Simon smiled. “You take her back. I’ll bring Denise.”

  Elias and Constance needed no second prompting. They walked back to the convent, he with his arm around her shoulders while she gripped his other hand in both her own. Although her eyes were cast demurely downwards, Simon was sure he saw a tear fall down beneath her veil.

  “Come on, Denise.”

  “Why? What’s going on?” she demanded petulantly. “I wanted to come out for a walk with Constance, and now you want us to return. What right do you have to order me around, eh?“ She was drunk, very drunk, from the look of her, and couldn’t help but slur her words a little, even when she spoke with care, enunciating slowly.

  “It’s no good, Denise,” he said. “We know the truth. Why did the girls have to die?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Where were you last night when Elias ran through the frater?”

  “I told you: out in the buttery. I heard him running, but I only caught a glimpse of him. I was filling my jug.”

  “Why should Katerine and Agnes have died, Denise?”

  “Katerine was a nasty little wench who sought power over others. She even tried to blackmail me, you know. Said I was drunk before a service, the sow! Asked me for money to keep hush. And Agnes… well, she never hid the fact that she liked men. Especially,” she gave a soft belch, “that fair-haired, fair-skinned, fair-featured…” she looked about her blankly for a moment, seeking inspiration, then apparently gave up. “Priest! Nasty little man.”

  “If all that were true, it was no reason to kill them!” Simon said heavily.

  “I never said it was,” Denise agreed.

&n
bsp; “So why did they die, then?”

  “You’ll need to ask the killer,” she said unperturbably.

  Before Simon could speak further, he saw Hugh ahead, waiting at the gate. “What are you doing here?” the bailiff asked.

  “Well, we heard you shout and thought you might need help.”

  “No, no. That was just because Elias had found Constance and Denise. Did you leave someone with Baldwin?”

  “Joan’s there.”

  Joan stood over Cecily, tut-tutting in sympathy. The girl’s features were drawn and appeared almost waxen, as if she would melt in direct sunlight or close to a warm fire.

  It was strange to look down at her and see that abbreviated, mutilated stump where her arm should have been, and Joan crossed herself, thinking how curious it was that the one woman in the priory who was committed to helping the ill and bringing them back to full health had been the agent of God’s will in destroying Cecily. It was not the outcome Joan had anticipated when Cecily had gone sprawling over her leg in the laundry.

  Not that it was truly intentional. It wasn’t from malice that Joan had made Cecily fall. It was God’s will; He had made her grab Cecily’s foot in that way so that He could punish Cecily for her foul language.

  Joan shook her head slowly. God was kind. Perhaps He had decided to allow Cecily to survive, even though she would always carry this wound marring her looks and potential – but maybe He would let a new arm grow from the stump! That, Joan thought, would be a miracle to rank with the best.

  She left the lay sister’s side and went over to Baldwin. Sitting at Hugh’s stool, she beamed kindly at him. “How is your head, Sir Knight?”

  “It has been better,” he admitted.

  “I am truly sorry it has given you such pain.”

  Baldwin was half-asleep, groggy and feeble, and he only listened with a part of his attention, but he managed a smile. “It was hardly your fault, Sister.”

  “No. It was God’s will,” she agreed seriously. “And when He decides to act, there is little ordinary people can do.”

  Baldwin said. “It wasn’t God Who attacked me.”

  “Anyone is only a source of good, acting as He tells us, or bad, ignoring His instructions,” she explained gently.

  “Whoever dropped the slate on me was not acting for God,” Baldwin said, closing his eyes. “That person murdered a young novice, which was a blasphemy.”

  “No, for God had ordained it. And she was of little importance, anyway. Just another of the young sluts that populate the world now. She would never have made a nun.”

  “Of course she was important,” Baldwin said. “She was only a youngster, a girl.”

  “You can’t understand, Sir Baldwin. I think God chose to protect the convent in the only way left to Him. He couldn’t help but retaliate when these girls misbehaved so obviously.”

  Baldwin looked at her, puzzled.

  Joan went on carefully, as if trying to help him comprehend something terribly important: “You see, Lady Elizabeth has ruined the place, and that goes against the Rule created to save souls. It’s far too important for a philandering woman like her. She has disgraced her cloth.”

  “Who should be in charge?”

  “That’s down to God, but Margherita’s a good nun, and would make an excellent prioress. She is reliable and pious. I’ve known her all her life. Ever since poor Bridget gave birth to her.”

  Baldwin frowned. His head hurt abominably, but he knew it was crucial to keep concentrating. “That was the nun who ran away?”

  “She did.” Joan gave a thin smile. “And came back with a child – Margherita.”

  “But she ran away again, didn’t she?”

  “No, she didn’t. You see, God was angry that she had disgraced her cloth. He told me to punish her.”

  Baldwin suddenly felt calm. He was sure Joan was mad, and he listened carefully as she spoke.

  “It was because of her affair with Sir Rodney. He was a very good-looking man, you know. He fell from his horse not far from here and was brought in to be nursed. Bridget was the infirmarer in those days, and she took care of him. When I realised what she was about, I remonstrated with her, but she wouldn’t listen, and then she ran away. The bishop himself was involved in fetching her back. The shame she brought upon the convent! God demanded that she be punished, and put a hammer in my hand. I walked with her to a shed near the main gate one night, and inside it I struck her down. Then I buried her beneath the floor and burned it down. God told me to.”

  Her features radiated calmness and reverence. Baldwin found it hard to keep his voice steady as he absorbed her story. “So you would prefer to see Margherita in place?”

  “Yes. I have looked after her since poor Bridget had to die, and God believes she would be the best woman for the convent. She would steer us out of the dreadful state we have got into.”

  “Why did the novices have to die?”

  “Those girls?” For an instant her face altered. An angry frown marred her serenity. “Moll was nasty. I heard her speaking most sharply to Margherita, very disrespectful. And she spread rumours.”

  “How?”

  “She came to me and told me that Margherita was stealing from the priory. Silly. God didn’t want her to tell lies. He had to silence her.”

  “You killed her?”

  “No. God did – to protect Margherita. Katerine was no better: a nasty child, I am afraid, keen to use information about other people to bend them to her will. She had heard about Constance and was going to tell the world about her with her man. Terrible! Think how that would reflect upon the convent.”

  Baldwin nodded seriously. “And Agnes?”

  “Ah, yes. Agnes,” Joan said primly. “Well, she was a demon in human guise. She seduced that poor priest and bedded him many times. In the convent’s precinct here, if you would credit it! Within the cloisters, often in that room where she died. Denise saw her only yesterday, out in the garden copulating like a wild beast! Disgusting!”

  “And me?”

  “I am sorry about the tile, but it was intended to kill you, not to cause a painful injury. I thought you saw me on the roof – and now God wouldn’t want you to continue with your investigations. News would spread and if you finished your enquiry, the convent might be closed. And that would be displeasing to Him.”

  “So it is best that I should be silenced?” Baldwin asked. He gave a small smile when she nodded. “And then the bailiff? And after him the bishop?”

  “Oh no. It’s only the secular folk whose mouths must be stilled. I only have to dispose of your friend the bailiff and his servant.” She stopped, her head on one side as if listening. “Oh yes, and Rose, of course. The prioress’s bastard, the whore from the vill. She must die for her sins.”

  “What of the prioress herself? She gave birth to Rose, after all.”

  “She confessed and was given absolution,” Joan pointed out in a surprised tone. “She has been pardoned by God.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “I’m very sorry,” she repeated. As she spoke she reached into her robe and pulled forth a pair of small bottles. “Dwale from Constance’s stores,” she said, holding up one. “And a bottle of pure hemlock juice. Her dwale contains some, you know, but there is enough in here to kill.”

  She emptied the dwale into his cup, and held it out to him.

  Baldwin shook his head slowly. “I fear I cannot drink it, Sister. I choose not to submit to my murder.”

  Joan sighed and set the pot back down on the table. Then, faster than Baldwin would have expected, she leaped on to him, straddling his chest. Picking up the cup again, she held it beneath his nose so that he could inhale the rich aroma of spiced wine. “Come along, Sir Baldwin. If you drink this, you’ll know nothing about the hemlock, I promise you. There’s enough poppy syrup in this to make you forget everything and sleep. Otherwise I’ll have to force you to drink the hemlock neat, and that wouldn’t be pleasant.”

  Baldwin was sur
prised at his defencelessness. Joan could only weigh a few stones, and yet he was suddenly aware that with her seated on his chest, her knees pressing on his upper arms, in his weakened state he was almost incapable of protecting himself. She pressed the rim of the cup to his lips, trying to force him to open his mouth, pushing harder and harder, until he became anxious that she might break his teeth. He opened his mouth and took a long draught, but as she smiled down at him, he spat it full in her face.

  While she gasped with disgust, wiping her cheek ineffectually with her sleeve, he lifted his legs and rolled to one side, using the leverage of his whole body. She was tipped a little off-balance, enough for him to be able to free an arm, and he shoved at her hard. With a short squawk she fell.

  Quickly he stood, but almost immediately reeled. Rising after the burst of energy disorientated him, and he toppled backwards, raising a hand to his head. It felt as though someone had slammed a sledgehammer at the back of his skull, and he retched with a sudden sickness that seemed to come up from the soles of his feet while the room span about him.

  He became aware that Joan was up again. She glowered at him as she might at a recalcitrant novice, one who was resolutely incompetent at repeating the dies irae. Muttering under her breath, she retrieved her little bottle, and approached again. “I’m sorry about this, it’s bitter, but the dwale has gone so you’ll have to take the hemlock neat.”

  “I think I prefer not to,” Baldwin said. He was suddenly struck with the impression that this was a weird dream. It must surely end soon.

  “It’s God’s will,” she said relentlessly. “Do you want to oppose Him?”

  Baldwin retreated. He had no wish to fight with her; she had a wiry strength in her body, and in his present enfeebled state he wasn’t sure he could protect himself. “I only oppose you, Sister Joan. I think you have mistaken His will.”