Belladonna At Belstone Part 4

Bertrand gave him a look of open disbelief. "Here? You jest with me."

"No, my Lord. You can stand up on top of the nearest hill here, Cosdon, and stare out over the land, and when you look to the north you can see suns.h.i.+ne while where you are it is all cold, wet, and miserable. These moors have their own climate."

"Then thanks be to G.o.d that I shall soon be away from the place!" Bertrand muttered. "It's bad enough that I should be here again already because of the disgraceful behaviour of these blasted women, without having to freeze myself into an early grave."

Simon listened as the bishop explained why he and Baldwin had been asked to accompany Bertrand. Gradually his mouth fell open with astonishment, and he absentmindedly took his third quart of ale as the young prost.i.tute pa.s.sed by. "So you think the prioress could have been guilty of this murder? But what of the canons in the priory? Surely murder is a man's crime?"

"Women can be evil," Bertrand said sententiously. "Do not forget that they are responsible for the Fall; it was Eve's crime which drove us from Eden." As he spoke his attention wandered over the room. Catching sight of the girl, he watched as she joked and teased the other men. When one of his guards called out to ask her fee, she stood and contemplated him, hands on her hips, before laughingly asking whether she should offer to please so young a boy free of charge for the honour of being his first woman.

The guard blushed, the girl winked and served another customer with ale, and Bertrand noted the guard's name for future punishment.

Seeing the direction of his look, Simon glanced around. Bertrand reddened. Simon a.s.sumed it was because he was not very experienced in dealing with such girls: tavern wh.o.r.es were often more audacious than ordinary women, which was bound to make them alarming to a priest, he thought.

"If the priory is efficiently run it would be impossible for a canon to gain admission," Baldwin pointed out. He had not been watching and had missed the bishop's embarra.s.sment.

"There are always ways for the sinful to meet the innocent," said Bertrand shortly. "And this priory is the least efficiently run of all those I have seen."

Baldwin nodded, suppressing a fond memory. Before he had gone through the full ceremony to join the Templars, he could recall nights when he had made the acquaintance of the women of Cyprus. Like all the novices he knew which areas of the precinct's walls could be most easily scaled in order to spend an evening in the fleshly delights available outside the Temple. Now he was married and could once again enjoy natural, carnal pleasures, it astonished him that he had remained celibate for so long.

Simon waved the girl over again and had his pot refilled. The ale tasted stronger than when he had first arrived, and he a.s.sumed that she had fetched the house's best in deference to the bishop. He was aware of a growing somnolence. He put the pot on the table and concentrated. It was not so easy as before, and he determined to slow his consumption.

For his part, Hugh was bored. Talk of high affairs in a convent were of little interest to him. Picking up his pot, he wandered to another bench and sat down. He had no desire to stay in the bishop's company. Whatever was happening in the little priory in Belstone was nothing to do with him, and he didn't want to listen to a prelate sounding off about its apparently dishonourable occupants.

Here he was nearer the entrance, and the draught was more noticeable, blowing in through the badly fitting planks that made up the door, and he yanked his fustian cloak closer about him. The local men stood silently, eyeing Bertrand, Baldwin and Simon, while some of the bishop's guards sat nearby.

The priest was describing some of the infractions of the Rule which he had witnessed while he had stayed at the priory, then he went on to explain to Simon and Baldwin what the treasurer had told him in her letter.

"And do not tell the prioress of this," he said, fixing Simon with a meaningful eye.

The bailiff pulled a face, scratching meditatively at his ear. "You want us to hide the fact that her most senior deputy has accused her of murder?"

"If it is true that she is guilty of this heinous felony, I shall remove her from office."

Simon was sceptical. "You can do that? I thought a priory was more or less an individual lords.h.i.+p in its own right."

"I can tell her that I shall report her action to the bishopa If she refuses to listen, I can demand to speak to the full chapter and let them know what she has done."

"That presupposes she's guilty," Simon said bluntly. "And you're asking us to conceal the disloyalty of her most senior nun."

"I see no other way of conducting this inquest." Bertrand held out his hands, palms up in a gesture of openness. "What would you do? Tell her, and then, if the treasurer is wrong and the prioress is innocent, wait to see what damage will be done?"

Baldwin stirred and shook his head. "I see no point in this duplicity. If, as you say, the prioress is innocent, you cannot leave the treasurer under her authority after this allegation. She will need to be moved to another nunnery."

"I am prepared to cross that bridge when I need to. For now I intend to investigate whether the prioress herself is guilty as the treasurer claims."

Baldwin and Simon exchanged a glance and shrugged. Simon said, "It's up to you, of course."

"Yes, it is," Bertrand replied firmly. His eye landed on Hugh over by the door, idly staring into his pot. The servant's relaxed pose sparked a brief sense of resentment in Bertrand. At that moment the visitor longed for the luxury of having no responsibility, of not having to worry.

Hugh, meanwhile, had noticed that his pot was empty, and he was looking about for the serving girl, Rose. She was attending the bishop, and Hugh couldn't attract her attention; she was doing her job, looking after the best customers. That realisation made Hugh feel even more alone: stuck, as he was, between the local men who wanted nothing to do with a stranger, and the bishop who was so superior to him that Hugh would be lucky to receive a *good morning' from him. Even the tavern's girl had no interest in him. He was insignificant: a poor man with no wife, no child -nothing to give him any status.

One thing struck him after a while: the girl was hanging around near the bishop, as if listening very intently to all he was saying.

Agnes saw the prioress walking round and round the cloister garth, evidently deep in thought, and the sight made her pause.

Lady Elizabeth looked peevish. Despite the confident image she projected to the other nuns, it was noticeable that her familia had shrunk. There was normally a fair grouping of sycophantic nuns about her, but now they'd all faded away. Agnes was sure it must be due to something Margherita had said.

Agnes went to her desk and opened the book she was copying. The colours of the original were glorious and attracted the eye, and she sighed at the sight, knowing she'd never be able to reproduce such perfection. Resignedly she took her pumice and began smoothing her vellum. She had just taken up her bodkin to mark off the lines when she was aware of someone approaching. Looking up, she saw Lady Elizabeth.

The prioress wore the same preoccupied expression. Apparently unaware of Agnes at her table, she walked right past her and made for the dorter's door. Agnes gazed after her; the older woman was obviously under a great deal of pressure. It was one thing to be threatened by someone like Margherita when supporters rallied round, but a different matter when old friends disappeared.

That was part of the reason why Agnes had found it so difficult when Luke had been unfaithful to her. She knew she depended more on her friends than they did on her; that was why she could understand the awful sense of being apart from others that Lady Elizabeth must feel: one of a community, but isolated by her responsibilities.

It had been terrible when she'd found him with Kate. The sight of them lying together had appalled her. In a way she wished she'd thrown something at the pair of them, or punched and kicked them, but she'd had no energy, felt numb all over. Two people she'd trusted had failed her. She could hardly comprehend Luke's disloyalty. His treachery.

She was glad she'd got him back, though. It was a slap in the face to Katerine: poor Kate, she thought sneeringly.

Like poor little Moll, always slightly behind the times! Moll had told Agnes how she'd seen her with Luke. Oh? Where was that, then? Agnes demanded. And why hadn't she gone to summon the prioress or one of the other nuns? At this, Moll reddened and began to stammer. She'd seen Agnes in the field behind the frater, lying in the gra.s.s with Luke, she said, and she'd seen a man entering the dorter at strange hours.

Agnes dared her to bring it before the prioress. When Moll said angrily that Agnes should confess her sins in chapter, before the whole community, the other girl just laughed.

Did Moll really think that Agnes could give a d.a.m.n what she thought? If the silly b.i.t.c.h wanted to go and blab to the prioress, she could do so and welcome, but Moll had better remember that Agnes was the last hope of the convent. Moll might wish to flaunt her immature piety, but if Sir Rodney got to hear the nuns weren't abiding by their oaths, his money would remain in his purse, and none would ever be showered on the chapel.

But Moll had been a threat. Especially when Agnes won Luke back, because no matter what Sir Rodney wanted, if he found that his embarra.s.sment, his shame, as he called Agnes, had seduced a priest, he'd be furious, and would certainly take Agnes away from the convent.

That was the threat Moll posed. That was why Agnes was pleased Moll was dead.

Chapter Six.

Rose hurried back to the tiny parlour that was her room, ripping off her dirty clothing as soon as she entered and replacing it with a clean s.h.i.+ft and tunic.

It gave her a feeling of shame that she should have been lying there on the floor when the first two walked in. Men from the village were one thing; complete strangers were different. Still, she reflected, pulling her hood over her face and stepping outside, at least the prim little priest hadn't seen her coupling like a dog before the fire. A smile fleeted over her face: maybe he'd have liked to have seen that. The clergy often enjoyed watching others, as she knew only too well from her evenings at the priory.

Her mission nudged at her memory, and she scurried off along the track towards Belstone. After all she had heard, she must hurry to warn Lady Elizabeth about this cold-hearted bishop.

After all, Rose had a debt to pay to the Lady Elizabeth.

From the tavern Baldwin and the others made a slow progress, keeping to the side of the swift-flowing stream. When the ground grew boggy, they turned right and began climbing the western side of the valley.

Usually Baldwin liked the gurgling and chuckling of water, but today he was wet and uncomfortable. If there had been some sun it would have made a difference, but the sun couldn't reach down into this cleft, and all was chill. The air had a metallic edge that hinted at snow, while all the water on the track had frozen. Although it was afternoon there was a dank, icy fog lying over the water which seemed to sink into his marrow. Baldwin knew only too well that his blood had been thinned by his life in the hotter climates of southern countries, but the knowledge was no help. It was a relief when at last they broke out into bright sunlight.

Baldwin was astonished by the view that presented itself to him as they came above the line of trees. The hill opposite was thickly wooded up to a certain level, with clear moorland above. This early in the year, the sun was still low in the sky, and its rays suffused the moors with a glow like liquid gold tinged with pink. It lifted his heart, and he could see that it had the same impact on those about him. Whereas in the valley their mounts had walked along stolidly enough, now they had more of a spring to their steps; the men themselves relaxed and looked about them with interest. Even Bertrand's mood appeared to lighten.

The road wound along, rising gently, until they came out to a wide s.p.a.ce of moor. Their path here was mired, but fortunately it was still frozen, so they were not covered in mud, and it was only when they reached the vill of Belstone itself, a tiny hamlet clinging to the inhospitable hilltop, that they found the ground softening; a farmer had brought his cattle along the way, and their hooves had broken up the ice, but soon Bertrand's retinue were out on the moor again, once more at the side of the stream, following a winding track that led them into the sun.

Their path took them almost due south. Although they were still climbing, the hills rose high above them: on their right a c.l.i.ttered mess with gigantic tors at the very peak, while left the ground fell away into the river's valley. Beyond it Baldwin saw a ma.s.sive round hill, which dropped to a rock-strewn jumble at the water's edge. The moors here were windswept and gave the impression at first glance of being barren, with nothing growing taller than the stunted gorse. It was this which made Baldwin think the moors were so unappealing.

Between a mile and a mile and a half from Belstone they came across signs of cultivation. The bare, stony soil had been turned, and appeared to have been ploughed, although when Baldwin looked down at it he could hardly keep from shuddering at the thought of trying to grow anything in it. His manor had gorgeous, thick red soil in which any plant thrived and on which his cattle and horses grew fat with little help; here the scrubby, dark-coloured stuff looked almost poisonous. Baldwin pitied those who tried to farm it.

The hill on their right threw out spurs around which the river curled. These outgrowths obscured their view of the land ahead, but just as Baldwin was beginning to feel certain that his feet would never thaw, that his hands would shatter like ice if struck, and was idly dreaming of spiced wine before a roaring hearth, there was a cry from the front of their party, and when he looked he saw the priory.

Here the valley was broad, and the priory huddled low among the surrounding hills, a squat little habitation skulking away from view. Baldwin thought it looked as if it was embarra.s.sed to be seen, it was so run-down: like an ageing wench ashamed of her raddled flesh and trying to gull young churls into paying for her services while keeping always to the shadows.

"A depressing place," commented Bishop Bertrand.

"The good nuns have little money," Baldwin said, feeling an urge to defend the priory against the bishop's contempt.

"There's corruption at the heart of the place," Bertrand said bitterly. The ride had done little for his temper, reminding him that he should now, if matters had gone as he had planned, be back in Exeter and writing up his report for his master, Bishop Stapledon. "They should have got their villeins to do any work that was needed."

Baldwin had to admit that the priory did look as though it had not been maintained for years. The gatehouse was impressive, but the gates looked poorly hung, and he wondered whether they shut properly.

Behind, the precinct was protected by a moorstone wall which stood taller than a man, grey and intimidating, but there were sections which had fallen. Its protection was symbolic. Over it Baldwin could see the buildings lying within: a convent was not only a place to praise G.o.d, it was a self-contained unit capable of providing everything needed by the people inside, and this priory looked well-equipped with buildings. Directly before him was a long block; Baldwin felt sure this must be the priory's main barn, filled with hay and straw. South of the barn's yard lay another great building, probably the grange, where sufficient grain would be stored to bake bread and brew ale for the whole population. To the east of the yard were two buildings from which clouds of smoke and steam mingled: the malthouse and a kiln, both with slated roofs to protect against sparks. From the lowing of cattle there were stables and ox-stalls mixed at the western edge of the barnyard, and grooms moved about feeding and exercising their charges. To one side was the first of several storerooms with carts unloading at its entrance, then there was a low stone block with chimneys that would be the smithy. On the bank of the fast-flowing river stood the priory mill, and nearby the brewery.

There was the constant rumble and squeak of iron-tired wheels and wooden axles, a clattering and hammering from the forge, and the noise of many tens of villeins working, of c.o.c.ks crowing, lambs bleating and horses snorting and blowing. It was certainly a busy priory, from the look of it.

The church was a good stone hall, set roughly in the middle of the precinct, and the first of the two cloisters was visible. Baldwin glanced up at the sun. It was standard procedure for the canons to have their area, like monks in a monastery, at the southern side of the church, while the nuns commonly lived to the north. Obviously both communities would live utterly apart, so that there could be no tomfoolery between them, and even the church itself would have two separate sections, one for each s.e.x: the men based in the southern side. The riders had approached from the north, so presumably the nearer cloister was that of the nuns.

It was not a prepossessing sight. Shutters hung lopsidedly from windows; broken carts, dung and other mess lay in the yards behind the gatehouse; a small house had apparently burned down years before and had been left to rot; a series of outhouses looked as if they had simply collapsed, their component beams and tiles lying all about like scattered pieces from a child's game.

The outlying lands, where sheep should have been grazing and cattle roaming, were a waste. There were sheep aplenty, further up on the moors, but down here were only a few, the halt and lame, which hobbled about the gra.s.slands. Cattle stood hesitantly by the dairy's sheds, waiting for the lay workers to allow them inside. Behind were the orchards, which should have been full of trees about to burst into blossom ready for the bees waking from their long winter's sleep. Instead the trees stood malformed, their branches unpruned, many years of growth leaving them unbalanced. Several had fallen, and yet they had not been cut up and stored - ludicrously wasteful to Baldwin's tidy mind - while the gra.s.ses grew tall and straggling between them.

Baldwin could see no vegetable plots with their serried ranks of winter cabbages, early peas and kale. The lands about the priory showed the same depressing bleakness: there was little cultivated vegetation, only weeds and furze; the land was rock-strewn and suitable only for sheep and goats.

"G.o.d's blood, but the devil would be pleased to think he could so devastate a holy site - and here one woman has wreaked his will."

Bertrand's scathing tone made Baldwin feel a curious sympathy for the woman who was about to suffer the lash of his tongue. This French bishop was apparently determined to persecute this priory, just as his brethren had been keen to persecute Baldwin and his friends in the Knights Templar. This reflection lent an acid tone to his voice. "It is always a tall order for women to maintain an abbey or priory, especially since nuns cannot attract so much investment as their male brethren."

"It matters not a jot!" Bertrand snapped. "Look at this place; if they were to work harder they could make this a small Garden of Eden, as is their duty. Instead they squander their money on fripperies."

Baldwin noted his words, wondering what the bishop was referring to. Had he noticed too many of the trappings of wealth: fur linings in cloaks; or squirrel edging on coats? Somehow he doubted it. The nuns in Belstone would be hard set to profit from the lands they owned.

The men set their horses down the slope towards the gate. At the gatehouse, Simon sent Hugh to knock.

By the side of the door was a large metal ring, and Hugh pulled at it, ringing a bell. Soon a small door opened behind an iron grille, and an eye peered out at them, an eye which widened noticeably with surprise as it took in the retinue.

"The Bishop of Exeter's Visitor is here to speak with the prioress," Baldwin called.

There was a squeak as the door shut, then the squeal of unoiled metal bolts protesting at being forced open, the rumble of a wooden bar being slid back into its socket in the wall, and before long the great gate was hauled wide by an anxious, older cleric. Other canons stood gaping at the sight of Bertrand and his guards riding through. While the visitor sat rigidly in his saddle and stared straight ahead of him, Baldwin found himself looking at the faces of the working men.

A priory like this did not only contain nuns. There were canons, men who served the church and ran the daily services, for nuns couldn't perform religious services. Moreover a place such as this was forced to rely on a large number of unconsecrated folk; the men and women who had taken the vows and wore the robes of the Order, but whose service was not spiritual but manual. In place of their prayers, perhaps because of their feeble wits or poor education, they gave their physical efforts.

The lay sisters who lived in the nuns' cloister saw to the laundry and the brewing; they tended the vegetables and herbs in the little garden, and plied their needles to ensure that all had clothes to wear. Meanwhile, lay brothers tended the flocks and cattle and made good the ravages of nature, seeing to the buildings, repairing roofs and windows, painting walls and woodwork, and generally making the place look as though it was cared for.

Although from the look of this place, they had failed, Baldwin reckoned.

Paint peeled; roofs were breached and leaking; weeds had cracked pathways, pus.h.i.+ng aside stones and pebbles; cob and plaster walls had disintegrated, and were stained with the damp that had seeped beneath; fences designed to retain pigs had failed and the occupants of sties had wandered into the fields; hives lay ruined where the wind had tossed them. Near the orchard Baldwin saw a shed. It lay fallen upon the ground, its roof slates lying about it in a mess almost like a pool of grey blood. Everywhere was disrepair and dilapidation.

It wasn't so bad - or at least, it wasn't so noticeable - from the gate itself, but as they rode to the stables Baldwin could see even the scruffier of Bertrand's guards gazing about them with near disbelief.

"You see how they have let the place fall apart?" Bertrand demanded. He waved a hand as they stopped in the stableyard. The dung was an inch deep all over. "Look at this! It's even worse than when I was last here. Then at least some of the manure was shovelled away*

This really was an outrage. He had mentioned it to the prioress when he was here before, but she had ignored his commands. How the woman expected her nuns to study and serve G.o.d in this midden was a wonder!

Muttering a short, "Benedicite!" in his anger and annoyance, he hitched up his robe and dropped to the ground, then froze in horrified revulsion as his legs and robe were beslubbered with faeces. He pursed his lips angrily and threw down his robe's hem before stamping off towards the main buildings, leaving his men to collect together his trunks.

His hand had been stained and he rubbed it against his now-filthy clothing as he marched. It really was quite intolerable! The stupid b.i.t.c.h in charge here could at least have shown willing. But oh no, actually exercising herself to make the convent look like a real place of wors.h.i.+p would be too much for her. Or, rather, she knew d.a.m.n well there was little chance that a visitor would be here again for a while, and a.s.sumed that she'd be able to get the place organised beforehand. Not looking where he was going, he stepped in a large cowpat and the muck spattered over his tunic, forcing him to suck in his breath to hold back the profanity that struggled for release.

That obnoxious woman would suffer for this! he promised himself. She was making Bertrand look foolish in front of his master, the Bishop of Exeter, by ignoring his strict injunction to smarten up the place. He wouldn't let her get away with it, though. Oh no, he swore to himself, scowling up at the walls of the nuns' cloister.

He most certainly would not allow her to get away with it.

The room Hugh was taken to was large, with good-sized beds set against the wall. He grunted as he dropped the heavy bags to the floor. As well as beds there were two chairs, a bench, a table, and a chest.

When he opened the shutter of the unglazed window, he saw a bleak view south, with endless rolling hills, their summits whitened with frost, and threatening clouds overhead. He slammed the shutter closed and surveyed the room. It was warm enough, for there was a good fire in the room beneath, and the thick tapestries on the walls stopped the worst of the draughts while the large candles gave the feeling of heat and a false impression of comfort.

Hugh picked up a bag and set it on the bed, untying the neck and inspecting the contents, but he dropped onto the bed without removing any of the clothes, staring instead at the far wall.

Since he'd worked for Simon he'd been happy enough, it was true, but now he felt only gloom. The girl upon whom he doted, Simon and Meg's daughter Edith, was growing older and didn't want to spend her spare time with Hugh any more. He tried not to grudge her the freedom to mix with youngsters of her own age, for she was fourteen now, and old enough to be wedded. It was natural that a young woman like her should seek friends of her own age, and yet to Hugh she was still a child and he found deeply hurtful her sudden - seemingly disloyal - desire to mingle with others.

It wasn't only her, though, and he knew in his heart that it was unfair of him to put the blame for his depression on Edith. His melancholy was caused by something deeper: this new sense of loneliness.

He was not sure how old he was. When he had been born such things weren't important - not like keeping track of the sow's age or the cow's. Hugh felt empty, as though his life was drifting past idly. All his energies were spent in looking after his master and the family, and in the meantime he never had a chance to seek his own woman. His life was being used up in serving another, and soon he would be dead, leaving nothing behind save Simon's grat.i.tude.

Never before had Hugh been so overwhelmed with non-fulfilment. It was as if he knew he was worth something, but had never achieved his value.

He sighed, stood, and began to unpack the bag. It was rare for him to feel so strong a melancholy. He resolved to seek a pot or two of ale when he was done up here.

Sir Baldwin and Simon walked with the enraged suffragan to meet the prioress.

Simon had a compulsion to laugh out loud at Bertrand's expression, in which frustration vied with pure fury. It was plain that Bertrand had realised his relative impotence in the face of the prioress's disregard of his instructions. The bishop was controlling his temper only with extreme difficulty; his anger was so apparent Simon thought Bertrand would have been incandescent if it had been dark.

The reason for his mood was obvious. Their path led them past the nuns' cloister to the southern side of the buildings. Here, at the canon's side, they entered an unguarded doorway. Even here, within the monastic clearing, Simon was struck by how shabby and filthy the place was. The buildings were in a bad state, but the problems lay deeper than that. As they pa.s.sed the square of gra.s.s in the middle of the canonical cloister, he saw that a dog had been there: excrement lay on the gra.s.s. At one point Simon clearly smelt vomit, as if a monk had drunk too much and thrown up on the gra.s.s.

There came the sound of running feet, and when Simon glanced behind them, he saw the canon from the gate running to catch up with them, a younger one trailing in his wake. The cleric called out in a voice near breaking from his exertion: *My Lord Bishop, my Lady Elizabeth will be so pleased that you are here. Let me go and tell hera'

Simon saw the bishop stop dead in his tracks and turn slowly.

*Pleased, Jonathan?" Bertrand hissed. "I am surprised you could think my return would be in any way pleasurable. When I see that none of my commands have been obeyed, I find it hard to antic.i.p.ate any d.a.m.ned pleasure!"

Whatever his words, Jonathan himself didn't look joyful at the reunion. He was a scrawny man, perhaps fifty years old, although Simon always found it hard to guess the age of men who wore the tonsure. Anxious eyes flitted over Simon and Baldwin, as if Jonathan was trying to a.s.sess the reason for their presence.

"Bishop, I know the circ.u.mstances of your returna*