Belladonna at Belstone (5 page)

There was one good thing to come from Moll’s end, and that was the election of the new prioress. Joan had little doubt about it, because Margherita had told them all earlier. They had all heard the rumours about the prioress, and with the message Margherita had sent to the visitor, he would have to come back and replace Lady Elizabeth.

As Joan often reminded herself, she had been a nun when Lady Elizabeth was still running naked in the fields, and age hadn’t improved her prioress. She couldn’t control a place the size of Belstone. It needed someone with a better business brain.

She shivered and scowled. The cold ate into her bones nowadays. The weather grew more chill with each succeeding year, and it was ever more difficult to warm herself. She threw back her head and finished the last of her wine, then stood. At least her legs still worked.

At the door she eyed the women at their work. A convent was always a busy place. It was a shame, but sometimes Joan felt rather left out of things these days. Oh, she was involved in the machinations of the place by Margherita and by the youngsters, who felt the need to confide in someone older without embarrassment. Often their problems were simple - novices often had feminine troubles, and their shame and anxiety wouldn’t allow them to speak to friends or the mistress of the novices. Instead they went to Joan, who could always be relied on to give a sympathetic ear.

Deciding to return to the fire in the infirmary, Joan almost tripped over a flagstone whose edge had lifted. She closed her eyes and patiently offered a prayer, thanking God for allowing her to see it in time.

Margherita wouldn’t have let the place get into this state.

Bertrand’s story took little time to tell. He had visited the priory only a few days before, on his way to Crediton from Buckland; he was methodically progressing from one institution to another, and had intended staying at Crediton for some days before returning to Exeter, when the slightly garbled story of the novice’s death had reached him by letter.

“I met this Moll, Sir Baldwin,” Bertrand said, turning on the knight an intent, serious look. “She was only a child. Scarcely old enough to realise the supreme importance of the vows she must take as a Bride of Christ, and yet now her life is ended.”

“How?” Baldwin was ready to dislike this man intensely. Although his sentiments were reasonable and justifiable, Bertrand looked as though he was almost enjoying being able to demonstrate what an upright man he was; how much integrity he held. Baldwin had no doubt that by the time Bishop Stapledon came to hear of the affair, Bishop Bertrand’s part in resolving it would be greatly magnified, and Baldwin felt contempt for a man who could look to make capital out of a novice’s death. His distaste was so great Baldwin found himself musing on the character of the bishop, and thus missed the beginning of Bertrand’s story.

“… she had a severe headache, and was sent to the infirmary, there to be bled by the phlebotomist. The operation was perfectly successful and she settled quickly, soon dropping off to sleep. The next morning, when the infirmarer went to attend to her after Prime, the girl had apparently haemorrhaged from the site of the bleeding, and died.”

“These accidents will sometimes happen,” Baldwin said.

“This was no accident. I know the clerk concerned myself: Godfrey of Malmesbury. He was at Oxford with me, and his skills are beyond doubt. No, Brother Godfrey would not have slipped and slashed an artery by accident.”

“A
priest
performed the letting?” Baldwin asked with surprise. Men in major Orders had been banned from manual surgery for over a hundred years. Their skills lay in selecting the best prayers and penances to cure the ill, not in butchery. When Baldwin had been a Templar they had enlisted the services of a professional, the local barber, when they needed their veins opened.

“I understand it was considered that a canon trained in surgery would be safer than an outsider when it came to dealing with a nun. Yet it was unorthodox,” Bertrand agreed.

Baldwin sipped thoughtfully at his wine. At last he set his cup on the ground. “You clearly have reason to believe that someone wished to kill her. Why?”

“It’s not my view, Sir Baldwin -I hardly knew the child, I only saw her a couple of times.”

“Then why leap to this conclusion? Your friend the phlebotomist may well be experienced, but sometimes a sharp knife will nick a vessel, and the harm may not be apparent for a day or more. That is why phlebotomists are generally safe from accusations of murder: if they were not, the courts would be filled.”

“Ah, I misled you by my answer. I have no reason to think someone might have wanted to kill her - it is not
my
belief, Sir Baldwin, but the belief of the priory’s treasurer. It was she who wrote to me to state her conviction that the poor girl was murdered.”

“Did she say by whom?”

Bertrand looked down at his withered hand as if wondering at the accusation he had heard. “By the prioress herself, Sir Baldwin,” he said eventually.

Peter leaned forward. “You see the good bishop’s difficulty? Bishop Stapledon is away and cannot be consulted, and if news of this were to be rumoured about…‘

“I cannot ignore the accusation of so senior a nun,” Bertrand murmured.

“Not that you would wish to,” Baldwin stated sharply. Now he understood Bertrand’s expression. The suffragan would have preferred to burn the letter and put this novice’s death down to an accident so that the Bishop of Exeter would have a shining example of a perfect deputy when he received Bertrand’s report. Clearly that was impossible now the treasurer had put her suspicions in writing; but Bertrand could still win the good bishop’s gratitude by clearing up the business quickly or performing some sort of cover-up. “If this is truly an act of murder,” Baldwin growled, “it must be investigated.”

“Quite,” said Peter. “So could you go and look into it?”

“Me? But I have no jurisdiction,” Baldwin protested with surprise.

“Of course not! This matter falls under the Canon Law, but you have experience, and you may be able to assist the good bishop,” said Peter.

“Surely you would do better to seek the aid of a coroner.”

“Sir Baldwin, this matter is
utterly
confidential,” Peter said with emphasis.

Baldwin nodded and grinned his understanding. The King’s man in Exeter was a hard-drinking, whoring fool, to Baldwin’s mind. Coroners were among the most corrupt of all the King’s officers, for they had much work to see to and received no pay -other than what they could extort from felons prepared to pay for their release.

“No, we need someone on whom we can rely not only to advise Bishop Stapledon’s man, but who shall also be discreet,” Peter said.

“Well, the Warden’s Bailiff, then. Simon Puttock does at least have some secular authority in Dartmoor.”

“I have already sent a message asking him to meet you there,” Peter smiled. “He will be at the inn at the road to Belstone, the one at the foot of the cleave.”

Baldwin remembered it. A small tavern at the bottom of the Belstone Valley, near a mill, where the Taw River rushed constantly. The memory did nothing to allay his concerns and he considered the proposal doubtfully. Admittedly there was little enough to do at his manor; his official duties would not be seriously affected, were he to ignore them for a week or two, and this affair
had
captured his interest, but… ‘I hardly think the prioress would be happy to have a complete stranger, someone who is neither priest nor monk, arrive to perform such an enquiry, especially bearing in mind the serious nature of the accusation against her.“

“She should be glad to have anyone in whom she can place her trust,” said Bertrand shortly. “The woman struck me as being open to accusations of almost every possible impropriety.” He mused a moment, brow wrinkled. “Take this as an example, Sir Baldwin. I raise it only as an indication of her behaviour, you understand: this prioress has permitted the church roof and that of the dormitory to fall so far into disrepair that both have holes in them. Apparently they were leaking noticeably last autumn, and yet now, months later, the choir of the church is open to the elements and nuns can’t sleep in parts of their dorter.”

“I have heard of other places where similar difficulties have arisen,” Baldwin pointed out with rising irritation. That Bertrand’s words were true Baldwin did not doubt, but Baldwin wondered about his motivation. There were priests who would be pleased to harry a convent to destruction if it would enhance their political status within the Church, and this Bertrand looked very like one of that sort. After all, there were many religious establishments whose basic fabric was so ancient and worn that the obedientiaries were unable to repair them. Perhaps it was less common in Benedictine and Cistercian monasteries, for such places attracted wealth, but a poor place like Belstone wouldn’t be able to seduce rich patrons so easily.

“There are some which have unfortunately suffered from damage, yes,” Bertrand allowed, but then he fixed Baldwin with a glittering eye. “But in how many of these cases have the relevant treasurers accused their prioress of lascivious and lustful disregard, because the money she should have used to fix the roof was put to another use?”

“I assume often. There are many conflicting demands on a—‘

“I know that perfectly well, Sir Baldwin,“ Bertrand said sharply, ”but I saw how much wealth was being brought to the priory while I was there. I saw the money given to the treasurer by the bailiff of the priory’s lands at Iddesleigh - it was a tidy sum. And the allegation is that instead of paying for a roof, the prioress had given it to her new vicar, a man whom she sees regularly, alone, and at night!“

Constance reached the infirmary where she worked and had to blink to keep the tears at bay when she saw Moll’s empty bed, the palliasse rolled up neatly on top of the rope mattress, just as she had left it.

Her head hurt. She was unused to so much strong wine before Vespers, and now she felt slightly confused. It was odd to be drunk at this time of day, before Terce, but kind of Denise to take pity on her and sit for so long, listening to her tale of misery. Not that she could tell Denise all.

It was so hard. She had known that her weakness would lead to evil, but she had no idea how cruel the result could be. Yet now she was a murderer. All because of her very human frailty.

There was a faint cough from the corner of the room, and Constance forced down her guilt, crossing the floor to where Joan sat. The old nun stared at the flames, but when she heard Constance she turned to her with a smile.

“Ah, Constance - are you going to give me some more of your dwale? I think I may need some tonight. The pain is coming again.”

“Of course, if it will help you.”

“How’s Cecily?”

“She’ll be fine. No need to worry,” Constance said gently, pulling a woollen blanket over the older woman’s lap. “It’s cold out in the cloister today, isn’t it?”

“For these old bones, eh?” Joan grinned.

Constance smiled down at her. The infirmarer found it easy to like Joan. She was a permanent fixture of the convent: rather wrinkled now, and white-haired, with peering, weak blue eyes. She was the first sister whom Constance had come to meet, and had always been kind and understanding. When Constance thought about what she’d done, and what she’d
almost
done to poor Joan, she could have broken down into tears again.

Joan was speaking. “I’ll soon be gone anyway, and if the Lord decides to take me while I’m lying in my bed before I can rise for Nocturns, I’ll be happy enough.”

The young infirmarer shot her a quick look. There was an understanding expression on Joan’s face, and Constance felt the pit of her stomach sink as if a lead weight had fallen upon it. “Before Nocturns?” she managed to stammer.

“Oh yes, dear. It would be such a good time to die. Why, when could be better? It’s peaceful, you don’t have to get up early the next morning and make the effort of going to church. No, instead you get taken up by Christ after a pleasant night’s sleep. Much better.”

Constance tried to chat to her for a while longer, but all the time her mind was racing. It seemed so obvious the older woman was telling her that she knew.

She couldn’t stand there with the fear filling her body, the certainty that Joan had seen what she had done. Apologising, Constance left the old woman and went to her partitioned chamber. It was sparsely furnished: only a bed and a chest, within which were her medicines. She dropped to her bed and covered her face in her hands.

Guilt tore at her, although if she was honest, it wasn’t so much the guilt of the act that terrified her, it was the fear of being discovered. At least Joan could hold her tongue, Constance thought.

She forced herself to set aside her morbid torpor and lifted the lid of her chest. Carefully she measured the ingredients of her dwale into a jug of wine.

It wasn’t only for Joan, but for Cecily as well. Cecily was a notorious coward, and although Constance had tried to set and splint her wrist, it had proved impossible. The girl screamed and writhed uncontrollably, swinging her good fist at the novice helping Constance and using quite the foulest language the infirmarer had ever heard. Most of the nuns showed a stoic courage: they were content with a simple charm to grip and a leather strap to chew, but neither would suffice in this case. Constance had checked the makeshift dressing, but it clearly wasn’t working, and she knew she would need to reset the bones properly. For that the woman would have to be compliant, so Constance intended giving her a draught to make her peaceful.

Dwale was ideal for this. It was a mixture that Constance made up specially, of belladonna, hemlock, henbane and syrup of poppy seed. It tasted foul, very bitter, but it would certainly put the lay sister to sleep. Shaking the mixture, Constance stood near the window and gazed out.

From here she looked directly north, up towards the vill of Belstone, although it was concealed from view by a hill. Far beneath her, lay sisters worked in the dairy and out in the yard, hanging washing from lines. The wind was tearing at the clothes, pulling the lines taut as bowstrings, snatching clothes from the women’s baskets and whipping them over the mud if given an opportunity.