Belladonna at Belstone aktm-8

by Michael Jecks

He saw her shake her head in irritation, and then her eyes lit upon the table. On it was Godfrey’s toolbag. His blood-stained saw and razor lay near. Baldwin was about to try to jump forward and knock them from her when she pounced and snatched up the razor. Turning to him, she held it out. “See? God puts everything in my hands.”

  Baldwin could think of nothing to say. His head was swimming, his legs felt like putty, and his vision was slipping out of focus even as the pain in his head appeared to grow. He tried to move back further, but stumbled, and felt himself going over backwards. He was close to the wall, and although he flung an arm behind him to break his fall, his head caught the wall before his hand touched the floor, and agony thundered in his head – a sickening, throbbing spasm that made his belly clench and vomit up all its contents.

  Baldwin could make out Joan’s feet approaching him even as he felt himself slide away from consciousness and into a deep sleep.

  “Joan?” Simon repeated. “You left him in her care?”

  “She’s all right, isn’t she?”

  “If I’d been wrong and someone else was the murderer, Joan’d hardly be strong enough to protect Baldwin, would she?” Simon pointed out.

  “Have you caught the murderer, then?” Denise asked innocently.

  “You,” Hugh said sternly. “We know you did it.”

  Denise stopped dead in her tracks, her face a picture of shocked denial. “Me!“ she squeaked.

  Simon said, “You were all alone on the night Moll died…”

  “So were others!”

  “And no one saw you when Katerine was killed.”

  “I was in the frater.”

  “And when Agnes was murdered, you were alone again.”

  “I was in the buttery getting a drink!”

  Simon looked her up and down, sceptically. “Conveniently alone yet again.”

  “So was Margherita, and the prioress, and Joan…”

  “Certainly,” said Simon grimly.

  Hugh frowned. “You say you saw Joan last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “In the cloisters. I saw her walking about in the moonlight before I went to the frater. She’s often there while the others sleep.”

  Simon made his way at full speed to the gate, then along the wall, back to the cloisters. All the way he cursed his stupidity, his inane foolishness at following his gut feelings instead of staying with his friend.

  He got to the garth and skidded on the flags, almost falling, but managed to recover his balance and pelted off along the corridor towards the door to the dorter, and all the way he recalled the happiness on Baldwin’s face when he was married only a few weeks before. Jeanne, too, had been radiant on her wedding day.

  Simon reached the door and pressed the latch, panting a moment, then lurched up the stairs. Jeanne would never forgive him if anything had happened to her husband.

  Simon would never forgive himself.

  Lady Elizabeth stood in horror, automatically stroking Princess.

  Joan’s words carried clearly out here to the prioress’s chamber, and yet Lady Elizabeth was so stunned at what she had heard that she was almost convinced she had misheard the whole story.

  Carefully she set the dog on the bed and walked to the door. Her duty was clear: she must protect Sir Baldwin, the invalid who had relied on her infirmary for his protection and recovery. As her hand touched the door, she heard the loud crash as Joan fell from Baldwin to the floor, and the sound made the Prioress think again. She went to her chest, threw open the lid, and withdrew a large dagger. Pulling it from its sheath, she went to her door.

  She heard the clattering of feet on the bare boards, and Joan’s exultant cry, “See? God puts everything in my hands.”

  The prioress thrust the door open. Baldwin lay on his side, a pool of vomit on the floor by his mouth. Joan was standing before him, a razor in her hand. She lifted it as the prioress came in and, with a snarl, launched herself at the startled Lady Elizabeth. The prioress thrust out her arm defensively – the dagger in her hand. Joan sprang forward and ran straight on to the blade, impaling herself. Lady Elizabeth felt it jerk and thrash as Joan screeched, slashing wildly in a futile attempt to cut Lady Elizabeth’s face or stab her throat. As she watched in horror, Joan’s shrieking subsided, and a curious confused expression came into her eyes. Then Lady Elizabeth’s arm was dragged down as the older nun gradually slumped, her body unable to muster the energy to continue. Beneath her robe, the thick blood pooled on the infirmary floor.

  When Lady Elizabeth looked down at her, Joan was still alive. She stared up at the prioress with a fierce loathing. Only then did Lady Elizabeth realise that her own arm had been slashed, that the whole upper part was criss-crossed with thin cuts. And only then was she grateful for the length of her arms, and the fact that Joan’s were shorter.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The staircase was steep, and Simon reached the top with his lungs tingling. He wanted to fall to his knees, to gasp, but he forced himself on, lurching to the door.

  In the infirmary he found the prioress tending to his friend, who lay on the floor. The acrid stench of vomit filled the room, and Simon saw that Baldwin had been sick, but Lady Elizabeth was dabbing at Baldwin’s face with rosewater.

  She looked up as he entered. Simon fell to his knees beside Baldwin and stared. “Is he all right?”

  “Yes, though if I had been a few moments longer he wouldn’t have been.” She stood. “I fear Joan has died.“

  Following the direction of her gaze Simon saw a slumped body near the door. “What on earth has happened?”

  “I heard them talking. She admitted to the murders,” the prioress said in an exhausted tone. She moistened Baldwin’s brow. “She wanted to protect the priory from any stain on its reputation. She thought the three girls were evil, and thus deserved death. She was going to kill you as well, if she could. Purely because she had to stop the spread of rumours about the place. Didn’t want Sir Baldwin or you or other outsiders talking about what you might have seen here.”

  She started to her feet, but tottered, and Simon had to go to her side and grip her elbow. Giving him a weak smile, she insisted that he should leave her, and that he and she should lift Baldwin on to a bed, but Simon led her to a chair. She had just sunk down into it when Hugh appeared in the doorway. Denise, behind him, was immediately despatched to let the waiting bishop know what had happened and as she scampered away, Hugh helped Simon lift the knight back to his bed.

  Once Baldwin was settled, Simon bent to the figure of Joan. She lay like a crumpled parchment, and there was a stain spreading over the floor. Simon glanced up at the prioress.

  “I had no choice,” she said simply. “And now, could you call Godfrey? Your friend needs his help.” And so do I, she added to herself as she felt the sharp tingling of the razor-sliced flesh beneath her tattered habit.

  Simon remained at Baldwin’s side in the infirmary, a grim, anxious temper overwhelming him. His friend had taken on a deathly pallor, almost blue-white, his lips grey, his breath coming in stuttering bursts. While Godfrey carefully treated Lady Elizabeth, using a styptic on her wounded flesh and cauterising the worst slashes, Simon watched over Baldwin, miserably convinced that his friend was dying. He had seen so many men die, some from stabbing, others from illness, that the signs before him appeared unequivocal.

  Godfrey left Lady Elizabeth to Constance, who set about gently wrapping her wounds. He walked to Simon’s side and took Baldwin’s hand, studying the knight’s face.

  Simon wanted to ask whether his friend would survive, whether Baldwin would ever open his eyes again, and he was about to question the canon, when Godfrey walked out to Constance’s room. He soon returned with a small oil lamp and a handful of feathers. These he dropped unceremoniously on Baldwin’s chest. Taking two or three, he held them under Baldwin’s nose while he singed them with the flame.

  Baldwin coughed, groaned, his eyelids fluttered, and he win
ced, before retching and bringing up a small gobbet of vomit.

  It was then that Godfrey shrugged. “He’ll be fine.”

  The relief made Simon sag on his stool. Suddenly he realised how exhausting the last hours had been. He managed a grin and stood. “I’ll leave him in your care.”

  Outside the sun had decided to escape its confinement behind the clouds. The garth was filled with a renewing warmth. Simon stood, eyes closed, soaking in the energy.

  “Perhaps you should yourself be resting.”

  “Constance, I think I shall have to.”

  She walked over to a stone bench, sat and folded her hands in her lap. “Why don’t you sit?”

  He took his place at her side, sitting down heavily. “It’s lucky Joan confessed,” he said quietly.

  “Yes. Otherwise we might never have known who was responsible.”

  “Except she couldn’t have killed Moll.”

  Constance shot him a look. “What do you mean?”

  “I know little about dwale, but I do know this: the older the person, the faster it will act. And you told us that Joan had taken her dwale.”

  “I can’t have given her enough.”

  “You think so?” he asked. “You don’t really, do you?”

  “The prioress said Joan confessed to the murders. Why should she lie?”

  “Simple. To protect someone else. Someone she wanted to protect.”

  Constance blanched and gazed at him fearfully. “I swear I had nothing to do…”

  “I didn’t mean you, Constance. Joan believed someone else had killed Moll: Margherita.“

  “But why should Joan want to protect her?”

  “Guilt, perhaps? She had killed Margherita’s mother Bridget, after all. Forever after she was Margherita’s closest ally. She certainly seemed to want her to win the prioressy.”

  “Why did she kill the other girls?”

  “I think it’s easy to speculate. Moll could read and add, and she saw Margherita embezzling funds. Margherita was a powerful lady here, and Moll wouldn’t have dared to confront her directly. Instead, she went to a woman she trusted – Joan. You all used to go to her with little problems, didn’t you? Or perhaps Moll did dare – yes, that’s it! She told Margherita what she knew, and Margherita refused to confess in chapter; that was when Moll spoke to Joan.”

  “So Joan did murder her?”

  “No. But when Moll died, Joan was convinced it was Margherita. And when she heard Katerine telling the same story, spreading it among the novices, Joan decided to protect her candidate for the prioressy by killing off the story at its source.”

  “What about Agnes?”

  “I think Joan was mad. She couldn’t bear to see her priory being ruined, and she thought that the place was falling about her ears; she wanted Margherita to take over Lady Elizabeth’s job. That way, she thought, Belstone would be protected. But Agnes was a threat. If news of her behaviour with Luke should get out, Sir Rodney wouldn’t dream of supporting the place.”

  “Surely Sir Rodney would take a more pragmatic attitude? He wanted a place for his bones, and at least St Mary’s is near his home.”

  “He would be very pragmatic, I think. He’d think only the priest can hold Mass over his chapel; Luke, a man who has been subverting novices and enjoying their bodies. Surely the least desirable priest in the country.”

  “So Joan thought she should kill Katerine and Agnes to protect the convent?”

  “And to protect the woman she loved.”

  Constance shook her head in slow disbelief. “So you think Margherita…”

  “No!” Simon said. “She was innocent; she swore that on the Bible, although she wouldn’t swear a lie about taking the money.”

  “Then who?”

  “What happened on the night Moll died?”

  “I gave out dwale before Compline.”

  “To all your patients? Did you do that every night?”

  “Not usually. But Elias was coming to see me.”

  “Was it the same mixture you gave to all?”

  “All of my patients had the same.”

  “What then?”

  “Elias arrived some time after, and when I went to the door, he made a sign to be silent. He had heard Margherita behind him. Soon she was there, but she stood on the landing for some time before knocking at my door.”

  “She’d have been listening to see if the man was in with Lady Elizabeth.”

  “After a while she came and banged on my door. She was so noisy.”

  Simon drew in a breath. “Where was Elias?”

  “In my chamber.”

  “Margherita didn’t see him?”

  “I blocked the door and pushed her out, talking to her on the landing.”

  “And then?”

  “I told her not to be so silly and went back to Elias,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “I had to tell him about our child, and he hugged me and began planning our departure from the convent.”

  “Did he leave you then?”

  “No. We were together all the time. I didn’t sleep,” she asserted with a maidenly blush. “When it was near the time for the bell we rose and went down to the cloister; he needed time to get back to the canonical cloister, and I had to wash.”

  “Moll was alive then? So you left him when you went to the laver?”

  “Yes, but I’d seen him go to the church already.”

  “What would have stopped him turning and returning to the infirmary?”

  “There was no need!”

  Simon looked away. “What if Margherita’s noise had woken Moll, for example, and she saw Elias there?”

  Elias sat alone on a bench near the frater. Simon saw him from the church’s door and crossed the grass to him.

  “Elias, Joan is dead. She confessed to the killing of Katerine and Agnes.”

  “I had heard. News like that gets around quickly.”

  “I thought you could help me with Moll’s death.”

  “Me?” Elias attempted a surprised note, but only succeeded in sounding peevish and fearful. “Why me?”

  Simon stared at his boot. “Because you were in the room with Constance. Joan was asleep – the dwale – and Margherita knocked on the door but was turned away by Constance. But Margherita made a lot of noise. I think Moll woke and saw you.”

  Elias closed his eyes and let his head fall into his hands. When he looked up it was with a kind of resolution. “I saw her eyes widen. You don’t know what she was like! She stored up anything to threaten other people. Any sort of information; it didn’t matter what, so long as it served to make her look holy.

  “Margherita banged on the door and Constance kept her from entering. I think Margherita was pleased Constance was alone because it confirmed her thoughts about the prioress. When she’d gone, that was when Constance came back and told me about our child. That was when I realised how much of a threat Moll was. If she was to tell the prioress, we’d be separated for ever. Constance would be sent away to another convent, and I’d be shipped to a strict monastery in Scotland or Ireland. I’d never see my own child.

  “The only thing in my mind was that Moll could ruin everything. It kept going round and round in my head, that I was to have a child, and that Constance and I should try to run away and escape. And that Moll threatened us both, and our child.”

  “How did you kill her?”

  Elias swallowed hard. “I sat on her chest and held a pillow to her face until she stopped breathing. Then I slit her artery.”

  “And this was while the church service went on? You were alone in there?”

  “Before the church service. Constance and I went down, and I walked off towards the church, but it was as if I was pulled back to silence Moll. I didn’t want to, but she threatened our future lives.”

  Simon nodded and stood.

  Elias gripped his robe. “You don’t have to tell anyone, Bailiff. Leave it to me to confess. I shall, I swear, just as soon as I…”

  Simo
n shrugged himself free. “I was sent here to investigate a murder. Do you expect me to keep the truth from the bishop?”

  It was two days later that Bishop Stapledon stood in the chapterhouse and eyed the nuns with a scowl.

  “You have heard the story, God help us all. Does anyone have any further comments?” he rumbled.

  Margherita stepped forward. Her head was lowered, as it had been for the previous days, and her voice was muted. “I beg forgiveness from my sisters. I have behaved appallingly, and don’t deserve to be forgiven, but I have confessed my sins and the good bishop has given me my penances.”

  “Sister Margherita has insulted the whole convent,” Stapledon said. “She has shown herself to be contemptible and cannot continue as treasurer. As well as her personal penances, she must demonstrate her absolute humility. I have decided that for the next year she must lie at the door to your church at every service. You will all step over her on your way inside.”

  “I have returned all the money I took,” Margherita said, and her voice trembled. “And I have thrown away my chest.”

  “As will the rest of you,” Stapledon growled. “This is a convent. Your Rule forbids private possessions. Likewise, when the roof has been mended, any partitions will be taken down. You are all equal here, and all will have the same space, the same belongings…”

  Lady Elizabeth could not help her mind wandering as he continued. Would there be mention of her dog? Ah yes.

  “And no more dogs! The only pets suitable for you are cats, because at least they perform a useful function. But you won’t have them in the church during services or at any other time.”

  Lady Elizabeth winced, but wasn’t overly concerned. Princess was not going to be thrown from the convent. She would remain with the prioress, no matter what the bishop said.

  Stapledon moved on. In this speech he covered every aspect of their Rule, and when he was sure they understood, he turned to watch Bertrand while he wrote furiously confirming the bishop’s commands. Bertrand did not look happy, Lady Elizabeth noted with pleasure.

  Neither did some of her nuns. Denise had not recovered from the bailiff’s accusation that she might be a murderer, and she stood glowering bitterly at her place. Constance was unhappy too. The nun stood with her face cast down, like a young novice accepting a severe sentence after misbehaviour. Lady Elizabeth shook her head slowly. So young to be so unhappy, but she had taken the vows. The prioress frowned, but was drawn away from dangerous thoughts by the Bishop’s raised voice: