“… And in future you will not be drinking until all hours after Compline. This kind of behaviour leads to shame – for you here among your servants, but also abroad, for news of your behaviour will spread to the outside world. It will also lead to oversleeping when you should be at services,” he said glancing meaningfully at Denise, “and that means you miss your duties. This will stop. In future you will all attend all services unless there are excellent reasons why you should not.”
“Thank you, Bishop,” Lady Elizabeth said soothingly. “We understand your anger and we shall of course do all within our power to atone for our past sins.”
“There is one last detail. Sister Margherita wrote to my suffragan suggesting that the prioress here had embezzled funds. That was untrue. She alleged that your prioress was guilty of murder. That was untrue. I find there is reason for censure of Lady Elizabeth, but not sufficient cause to remove her from office. I expect you to support her in her difficult role. I would have removed Margherita and sent her to a more strict convent, but the prioress herself begged for compassion. Because of her pleas I have decided she may remain here.”
Lady Elizabeth smiled graciously. “Now, is there anything else to be discussed?”
In a few minutes the meeting had closed and the nuns were all on their way to their work.
Constance had listened with quiet sadness, and now turned slowly and with a sigh to go to her place of work. There was much to be done now: Cecily was beginning to recover, and Sir Baldwin was healing nicely after his ordeal. She was in the cloister and making her way to the infirmary when the bishop and Bertrand overtook her. They reached the door before her and disappeared. She was about to enter herself when she felt a finger touch her shoulder.
“Prioress?”
“Constance, you looked so tired in there.”
“No, I am fine, my Lady. Just… well, you know. I miss him.”
“Hardly thoughts a young nun should entertain,” the prioress said primly. “Your mind should be set upon higher things, not men like a lovesick novice. How old are you?”
Constance reddened under Lady Elizabeth’s attack and said coldly, “One-and-thirty, my Lady.”
“After so many years you should know your duties. How long have you been a nun?”
“Nine years.”
“My word, really?” the prioress exclaimed.
Constance heard an edge to her tone. She shot the prioress a look. Lady Elizabeth was studying a novice at the far side of the cloister. “Look at that child. She wants to be a nun, but she can hardly set her wimple straight on her head. Three-and-twenty is too young to take the vows. How can a girl tell her vocation at such an age?”
“Some of us know our vocation!” Constance declared with feeling. She was silent as the prioress cast her a sly look.
“Really? And look how they show it!”
“That is unfair. I struggled and was found wanting, but I will not fail again,” Constance said, feeling the tears start. She sniffed and wiped them away.
Lady Elizabeth turned away. The novice was seated at a stone bench set into the wall. “So young… well, no matter. Until she is four-and-twenty, her oaths would be invalid. No woman can become a nun until then.”
So saying she entered the frater, and she smiled as she heard Constance give a short gasp of comprehension even as Elizabeth set her foot upon the first of the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“So! Sir Baldwin, I see you are quite the warrior when it comes to fighting old women.”
The knight eyed the bishop with a bitter grimace. His head was not better for his exertions. “Put it down to chivalry, my Lord Bishop. I wouldn’t wish to hurt a poor woman of her advanced years.”
Stapledon laughed. “I’m glad to see you are well enough to banter. How is it?”
Simon stepped forward. “Godfrey says he needs to rest. Later Godfrey will bleed him to remove some of the evil humours.”
“You say that a surgeon will be called, Bailiff?” Stapledon said pointedly.
“Yes,” Simon grinned. “A surgeon from afar.”
“Good. A clerk in major orders couldn’t undertake such a duty.”
“Do we know what led to all these murders?” Bertrand asked. He stood nervously behind the bishop, reed and ink ready to note any details.
Stapledon glanced at him, considering, but when he faced Simon and Baldwin he nodded. “It should be recorded.”
Simon took his seat upon a stool. “The reasons why are quite straightforward: for reputations. It all started years ago with Sister Bridget, who ran away and became pregnant, giving birth to Margherita. Bridget returned to the convent, although whether she was caught or voluntarily returned…”
“She was caught,” said Lady Elizabeth, who entered at this moment. “But you never heard the beginning. Sir Rodney came here one day because he had fallen from his horse. Bridget was the infirmarer at the time, and the two fell in love while she nursed him. Shortly after he went home she ran away to follow him. I was a young novice at the time, but I remember it well. The bishop had her sought and returned to us, but she carried the proof of her unchaste behaviour: Margherita. Bridget was here for only a few weeks, and then disappeared again. Joan said that Bridget had been despondent and hinted that she had run off again. When she disappeared, we all thought that was what had happened.”
Baldwin spoke softly. “Even then Joan was unhinged. She murdered Bridget and buried her – she said in the floor of a shed near the gates – and then burned it to the ground.”
“I remember it!” Lady Elizabeth said. “We thought that the fire was started to distract us from her escape – that Bridget herself had started it.”
“The fire was designed to conceal her murder,” Baldwin said. He threw a look to Simon, who stirred.
“So we come to the more recent deaths. Joan heard that Moll thought Margherita had stolen from the priory’s funds.”
Again Lady Elizabeth was able to help. “Joan was the oldest nun. Many novices would tell her secrets they wouldn’t share with their closest friends.”
“That must have been it,” Simon agreed. “Moll saw what the treasurer was doing and didn’t know what to do with the information.”
“Usually she would speak to whoever was guilty of breaking the Rule in some way” said Lady Elizabeth. “But I think she was awed by the size of the crime and by Margherita’s position. Maybe she sought advice from Joan. Joan was old and Moll probably thought she would know how best to deal with such a thorny problem.”
Stapledon frowned. “How would a novice have learned such a thing?”
“Moll could read and add,” Simon said simply. “It was her misfortune. If she was like the other girls, she would have had no idea what was happening. Although I still don’t know how she realised that Margherita was taking the money.”
Bertrand looked up from his paper. “I can explain that,“ he said.
“I saw the discrepancy myself on the rolls when I looked at the figures given to the priory; I was present at one meeting when money was handed over, and so was Moll. Perhaps she saw the numbers put in the ledger and asked Margherita why they didn’t match.”
“And Joan,” said Simon, “was convinced that when Moll died, Margherita must have done it. Joan never realised Elias killed Moll to conceal his affair with Constance.”
Baldwin agreed. “Joan was intensely protective of Margherita. Perhaps even in her madness Joan felt her guilt of making Margherita an orphan.”
“Which leads us to the other two,” the bishop observed.
Simon took up the story again. “Katerine was sly; she sought out secrets and used them for her own advantage. I think Katerine had learned about Margherita’s theft. Anyway, for whatever reason, Joan decided that she had to be silenced. Joan must have tricked her into going with her to the church then she bludgeoned her skull. Perhaps with a candle-holder. Denise has mislaid one recently. Joan must have carried Katerine’s body up to the roof. There she
saw Baldwin walking about the cloister and thought he must have recognised her.”
“I didn’t,” Baldwin said ruefully. “I had an eyeful of snow at the time.”
“Joan hurled a slate at him before tumbling Katerine’s body over the parapet.”
“Carried her to the roof, did you say?” Stapledon demanded. “A woman her age?”
Baldwin gave a faint smile. “She had been the priory’s cellarer for twenty or more years, Bishop. She could have picked you up and taken you up those stairs, I daresay!”
“Good God!”
“And lastly there was Agnes,” said Simon. “Agnes was carrying on an affair with the priest: Joan decided to end their fun. She knew where Luke and Agnes were to meet – Rose told Simon that Agnes and other nuns used that room on occasion – and she set a tripwire at the doorway, hoping to catch them like beasts in a trap. As soon as Agnes came in, she fell and Joan was on her. The novice didn’t stand a chance. If Luke had arrived first, he would probably be dead now, too.”
“Did no one see her about her murderous business?” Stapledon asked.
Simon said, “Nobody saw Katerine or Joan going to the church: everyone else was at work. As for Agnes, Joan managed to get downstairs while the convent slept. Agnes would have passed her empty bed, but probably thought Joan was still in the infirmary and didn’t realise the woman was to be her nemesis.”
“This is all very well, but I don’t see how she could have thought she could cover up so many deaths. You say she had the interests of the convent at heart, yet if news of these murders gets out, the place will be ruined.”
Baldwin winced as he cocked his head. “It is not easy to understand how a madwoman’s mind works, but I think that the convent and Margherita came together in Joan’s mind. She thought that she must protect the child whose mother she had killed, and that meant seeing Margherita taking Lady Elizabeth’s job; but she also wanted to see that the convent was safe for the future. The two became one in her mind: Margherita, she thought, needed help and Joan must set her in charge of the priory; the convent needed protection because of the way it was falling apart, and the prioress must be replaced because Joan blamed her. Margherita must lead the nuns back to piety.”
“And all Joan managed,” Lady Elizabeth said sadly, “was to wreck our future.”
“Not necessarily,” said Stapledon. He stood. “I shall remove your present vicar, my Lady. I am not sure how he arrived here in the first place, since I personally instructed Bertrand here to send him to a parish in the far west of Cornwall.“ Bertrand squirmed shiftily as the bishop continued, ”But I shall find out the reasons. For now, I propose to visit Sir Rodney and ask him to continue with his generous offer.“
Lady Elizabeth smiled sadly. “I fear he would prefer a monastery to be the recipient of his largesse.“
“Well, I shall have to try. He has responsibilities here. Such as his daughter.”
“That,” said Lady Elizabeth, “is the problem. Agnes is dead.”
“I meant Margherita. I shall point out to him his opportunity of seeing his soul honoured by those he has most wounded in his life,” Stapledon said with an unpleasant smile, “and if he doesn’t listen, I’ll put the fear of God into him!”
Luke was at the altar of the canonical church, praying, when the three came through the communicating door. Hearing them, he started and clambered to his feet. “My Lord Bishop, I am so happy to see you once more and…”
“I doubt it,” Stapledon said drily. “How did you get to come here?”
“To pray today?”
“No. Here in charge of the souls of a convent of nuns.”
“Your orders, Bishop.”
“My orders?”
Luke nodded disingenuously. “Of course, sir.”
Bertrand felt the eyes of the bishop light upon him. “I only obeyed your orders, Bishop. I wouldn’t have sent Luke here if you hadn’t told me to.”
“I think we shall find that my records show you are wrong,” Stapledon said smoothly. “No matter. Luke, prepare to leave this place. I have a pleasant new post for you.”
“You wish me to be vicar of a little parish?” Luke asked hopefully.
Stapledon looked at him. “I think I can do better than that.”
Hugh entered the infirmary as soon as the bishop and the others walked out. Simon was at the window, chatting to Baldwin and he scarcely appeared to notice Hugh. There appeared little point in remaining, not with Simon entertaining the knight, so Hugh accepted Constance’s offer of a cup of wine and followed her down the stairs to the frater.
The nuns were so well-used to the sight of men in their cloister by now that they scarcely glanced in his direction, but Hugh felt out of place nonetheless. He wasn’t used to the presence of so many women in religious garb.
Constance was quiet, sipping slowly at her drink. Hugh was confused when he watched her. The infirmarer was sad, and every so often she glanced about her at the other nuns, all of whom appeared keen to avoid meeting her eye.
“I’m sorry Elias has been sent away,” Hugh said kindly.
She toyed miserably with her cup. “It’s as if there’s a hole in my life. Everything I had planned, expected, aimed for – has gone. I was happy as a nun, dedicating my life to God seemed better than some of the alternatives, but when Elias touched me, it was as if I’d been hit by a thunderbolt, and all my life changed. Especially when I found I was pregnant,” she said thoughtfully, looking down at her belly.
“What’ll you do now?”
“Leave.”
Hugh blinked. “But you can’t, can you? You’re here for life now you’ve made your oaths.”
“I made my oaths before I was old enough. The prioress has told me I can leave whenever I want.“
Unaccountably, her eyes filled with tears. Hugh glowered at the table as she snuffled and wiped them with her sleeve. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that last week I had a lover and now I am carrying a murderer’s child.”
“Better than carrying a murderer.”
“I suppose.”
“Or someone like Bishop Bertrand.”
She laughed at that, chuckling drily at first, but then, when Hugh joined her, laughing with sheer pleasure for the first time since Moll’s death.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was a month since the bishop had left the convent, but Luke felt no comfort. He couldn’t remember such irrelevant matters, not when his stomach was close to rebelling again. As the distant horizon rose, circled, swooped and suddenly dived before him, he closed his eyes in anguish. As if in sympathy, the contents of his belly rose and he leaned over the rail to retch.
The master of the boat strolled along to him with a blankly surprised expression on his face. “You all right?”
“When will this storm abate?”
The master eyed him dubiously, then cast a look at the mild swell. “Don’t rightly know, Father,” he answered diplomatically. “But we’m soon in port and safe there.”
Luke gave one more heave and collapsed on the bare boards, wincing from the bile. His mouth was sour, his teeth roughened by acid, and his only desire was to leave this miserable cog before it was wrecked. Death was attractive.
“Damn the bishop!” he groaned, then returned to the side of the ship.
It was all Stapledon’s fault he was here. A new place, he’d said. Somewhere Luke would be safe from fleshly temptations.
In Ireland.
Luke made his way to the barrel of fresh water and rinsed his mouth. He dared not swallow any, for fear of more sickness, but swilling and spitting it out made him feel a little refreshed.
“Will this gale never cease?”
Luke felt another spasm threaten. “Only when we arrive in port,” he grunted.
“Where is this Trim, anyway?”
“Bertrand, if you don’t know where, that’s your trouble.”
Bishop Bertrand sank weakly to the deck. “Stapledon has sent us to our graves,” he
lamented.
Luke spat again. The gobbet was caught by a gust, flew along and landed on Bertrand’s shoulder.
This was Stapledon’s sense of humour, Luke knew. Bertrand wanted promotion, and Luke had to be found a place where he would find it difficult to molest women; the answer was to send both to the wild lands of Ireland. Together. Luke would be the vicar to the de Greville family at their castle at Trim, and Bertrand would serve the bishop. Bertrand would have no opportunity for politicking in a new place where he knew no one, and where all his colleagues would distrust him as a foreigner – worse, an Englishman.
And matters would be as bad for Luke. Set down on this grim and forbidding island to see to the miserable garrison of the castle, there would be little opportunity to seek out interesting companions to relieve the monotony.
Although at present, Luke thought, rolling forward to rest his slackly open mouth against the gunwale, a little monotony would be infinitely preferable to this terrible wretchedness.
Baldwin and Simon arrived back at Baldwin’s house just as a carter was setting off. Baldwin gave it an anxious look before glancing suspiciously at his house.
“More furniture?” Simon asked, laughing at his friend’s expression.
“I could swear that was William Lodestone,” Baldwin agreed. “He makes chests. We have enough chests. Why should a chest-maker be here?”
“Perhaps your lady doesn’t think you have enough.”
“Possibly not.”
Simon watched as Baldwin swung his leg over his horse and dismounted carefully. Baldwin was not happy to be helped. “Makes me feel like an old man. Get your hands off,” were his most common comments, but Simon was nervous to see how he was pushing himself.
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