Belladonna at Belstone (31 page)

Agnes nodded.

“Then you have done something very wrong. But under the Church’s laws you won’t be hanged! And you will be here within the convent for many years. You haven’t taken the threefold oaths yet, you’re too young, and you will be a nun for many years. If you are not a virgin now, you never will be again.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll try to speak more plainly,” Joan said gently. “All I mean is, most of the nuns here who behave so reverently have also done as you have. You will have to give up the man at some point, but you might as well enjoy him while you can.”

And with that she left the astonished novice and, chuckling, went back up the stairs.

When Constance came back into the room, Hugh pointedly picked up the jug and cup. The infirmarer removed them from his grasp, taking them out to her chamber, where she poured the water away and filled the jug from a fresh stoup, adding a small amount of dwale. If Sir Baldwin should wake, it would be better for him to have a draught to help him sleep.

When she returned, Hugh was standing defensively at Sir Baldwin’s side while Joan cackled hoarsely. When she saw Constance, Joan coughed, hawked, and spat a gobbet of phlegm into the fire. “This fine fellow has no sense of humour,” she said, wheezing still with humour.

Hugh was not amused. “I was told to stay here and protect my master’s friend, and that I’ll do.”

“How did Agnes get in?” Constance asked, setting the jug down with a wiped pot. “Didn’t you see her?”

Reddening, Hugh muttered, “I had to go out.“

“He needed a piss!” Joan burst out, and then almost choked as the laughter threatened to throttle her.

“I was only gone a few minutes,” Hugh said sulkily. It was true. He had been as quick as he possibly could be, but in the nunnery he wasn’t sure where he was supposed to go, and finally had slipped between two buildings at the northernmost end of the cloister, well away from the church itself. It had taken some time to find the place, and he’d felt ready to explode by the time he stood at the wall, and then the pressure was so strong, he’d found it hard to relax and empty his bladder. As if to add insult, when he’d left the little alley and returned to the cloisters, a small dog snapped at his ankles. When Hugh almost tripped, several nuns laughed. Only a moment later he heard the prioress calling to the mutt.

Lucky really, he thought. If he’d not heard Lady Elizabeth, he would have swung his foot at the little sod.

“Don’t mind Princess,” she had said as the terrier trotted back to her. “She likes people. It’s just that she will have her little joke when she hears men. Never has liked them much - I suppose she hardly ever sees one in here.”

Hugh had made no comment, but slipped straight back up to the infirmary where he saw Agnes at Baldwin’s side.

Constance glanced at him, and her voice was kindly. “Hugh, if you need to leave the room again, let me know and I’ll stand watch over him. And if you are nervous about me, make sure that Joan is awake, and she and I can look after Sir Baldwin together. You should feel secure knowing that there are two nuns looking after him.”

Hugh said nothing, but his scowling countenance eased a little, and then he gave a faint nod of his head.

Agnes delivered the cushion and walked to her desk near the church, but her mind wasn’t in her work, and soon she slipped along the alley which led from the cloister to the garden beyond.

She’d only gone a few yards when her wrist was gripped, and the startled girl was pulled behind a tall bush. A voice whispered in her ear, “Hello, little lady - would you take pity on a poor man with a broken heart?”

“Luke!” She turned and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him through her veil. “Luke… Ah, Luke, it’s so good to see you.”

“Wasn’t easy.”

She pulled away. “You’ll never guess what I just learned. My sister is here!”

“Your sister?”

“Margherita! She’s Sir Rodney’s daughter as well. He met her mother and got her pregnant years before he met mine.” It was incredible to think that the hard-faced treasurer could be a half-sister.

Luke thought the same. “Will you speak to her about it?”

“Margherita?” Agnes pulled a face. “Would you? Anyway, how did you get here? I heard the prioress was going to lock you out.”

He grinned, his teeth flashing. “I climbed over the roof of the church just to be with you,” he stated solemnly.

She pulled away, studying him with a serious expression. “You came over the roof? That’s where Katerine died… You weren’t up there with her, were you?”

He felt as if his heart had stopped. “What, you think I could have thrown her from the roof? Little Kate? I couldn’t do something like that!”

She looked up at his wide, shocked eyes, and was impressed. If she didn’t know him so well, she’d have automatically and unhesitatingly believed him; but she knew that whatever else he might be, he was a good liar. She’d seen that when he’d denied sleeping with Katerine just before she’d found him in her arms.

The distrust was in her eyes, and he put his hands on her shoulders, shaking his head with apparent stupefaction. “You couldn’t believe
I’d
have chucked her off the roof, could you?”

“She was a pain, wasn’t she?” Agnes pointed out sharply. “She couldn’t stand you dumping her for me. What if she’d threatened to tell the prioress about us?”

“If she had, I’d have reminded my Lady Elizabeth that her own little bastard was screwing the canons, and she’d have shut up. What sort of trouble could Katerine have given us even if she’d wanted to?” He smiled, secure in the knowledge that Agnes didn’t know he had carried on with Kate even
after
Agnes had found them together. Of course, she never would find out now…

“The prioress might’ve sent you away,” Agnes said quietly.

Luke gave a grimace. “She might anyway,” he said drily, and told Agnes about his conversation with her.

Agnes’s response was predictable. Her arms slipped around his neck again, and she sniffed back the tears as she held him close. Breathily she whispered into his ear while she nuzzled the angle between his neck and shoulder. “Luke, I can’t see you go without just one more time…‘

Margherita stalked along the cloister, evading the prioress with that contemplative expression on her stupid face. There was no point in the old woman trying to gain her sympathy. Margherita knew what she had been up to, and now the ridiculous baggage wanted to try to make Margherita regret her actions. Well, she wouldn’t. Prioress Elizabeth had to go, and that was that.

She couldn’t help casting Elizabeth a quick look, and almost immediately she regretted it. The prioress was watching her, and as Margherita glanced up, she saw the prioress lift her chin imperiously and beckon.

Margherita had to obey. Obedience was one of the cardinal virtues of a nun. She slowly made her way along the cloister, observing Agnes appearing with a cushion, which she passed to Lady Elizabeth, before retreating. The prioress shoved it down between her and the chair’s back.

“Always was a problem, my back,” she said brightly when Margherita was before her. “My mother had the same trouble.”

It was so small a comment, and yet so perfectly selected for impact, Margherita thought. The great lady had known her mother only too well, while Margherita, born a bastard, had not known hers. She couldn’t tell whether her mother had a bad back or any other ailments. Not that she cared.

They were quite alone. Elizabeth leaned forward. “I wanted to have a chat with you, Margherita. In part about your accusation that I murdered the novice Moll, but also because I needed to warn you about the risks you are running.“

“Risks, Elizabeth? I see none.”

“Perhaps you don’t. But there are so many things that could happen in the near future, and I thought you should be quite certain of the sequence.”

Margherita gave a small sigh of boredom and bent her head in vague and disrespectful assent.

Lady Elizabeth eyed her with irritation. “Margherita, I know what you wrote to the suffragan bishop, Bishop Bertrand. I know you accused me of having an affair with the priest, that you accused me of wishing to murder Moll, and that I killed her.”

Margherita felt the first cold, clammy suspicion that something was wrong. There was a positive tone in Elizabeth’s voice that struck like a dagger into Margherita’s vitals.

“It’s nonsense, Margherita. I’ve not had an affair with Luke. The idea is ludicrous in the extreme. Apart from anything else, even if I were to wish a liaison with him, I feel it hardly likely that so youthful and attractive a man would look at me.”

“I heard you.”

“Pardon?” Elizabeth enquired, momentarily off-balance.

“I heard you. With him - in your room. I heard you the night that Moll died. The man went up to your room. I saw someone while I was outside, and he darted into the dorter’s stairway. He wasn’t up with the nuns, so where was he if not with you?”

“Are you sure of this?” Elizabeth asked, but internally she was cursing the foolishness of men.

“You ask me whether I am sure?” Margherita demanded haughtily. “Then who was it who panted and made you sigh and weep? Who was it who made you call quietly to your love? Who was it, if not Luke? If some other man was with you, I’d be content to declare
his
guilt instead of Luke’s.”

Lady Elizabeth sat back in her chair dumbfounded, and Margherita allowed herself a small sneer of pleasure. Except that it was wiped away almost immediately by the prioress’s bellow of laughter.

Chapter Twenty-One

Hugh finished his pot of ale and glanced thankfully at Constance, who smiled in return. Belching, Hugh leaned back against the wall, but he was aware of the pressure in his bladder, and he wondered whether he dared leave the room a second time. It was warm in the infirmary, especially since the windows were closed, and he yawned as he peered at Baldwin.

The knight was asleep, and now his rest appeared untroubled. He snored loudly, his mouth open, and although every so often he would shift restlessly, which usually caused him to grunt as the dressing rubbed against the pillow and caused a ripple of pain to echo within his wound, he looked well enough. Hugh was not worried about him yet: concern for his health would come later, when the wound had had enough time to fester, and the infirmarer could smell whether he would live or die.

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.