Belladonna at Belstone Read online

  It was all right for the prioress, Katerine thought. She had her own area set apart from the others, divided by partitions which kept the arctic gusts from ruining her sleep. Not that she would necessarily keep it for much longer, if the rumours were true; if the visitor was about to return, surely the first thing he would demand would be that the recommendations he made at his last visit should be carried out, and one of the first was that Lady Elizabeth’s partitions should come down.

  Not that it would necessarily help much, Katerine considered as she walked down the stairs to the cloister again, then out to the lavatorium to wash and clean herself, going straight to the frater afterwards for a large pot of wine. There she sat at a wall, slightly huddled against the gusts that howled along the building.

  No, what could the visitor be expected to do when the two women were so antagonistic? They hated each other, and never more so than now, with the competition between them for ruling the convent out in the open. That was why Margherita had sent her letter to Bertrand, after all. To show that a new prioress was needed here - one who could command the respect of the other nuns. And that was why she had told the nuns about the allegations in her letter: so that all would look askance at the prioress. By the time the visitor returned, no one would believe anything Lady Elizabeth said.

  Margherita was a clever woman. Dangerous, too, Katerine considered. You had to keep on the right side of her; she might be a good ally for the future. The young novice shivered. This room with its high ceiling, benches and cold stone floor, was one of the chilliest in the place. Draining her cup she hurried to the warming room.

  The calefactory was filled with a glorious orange glow from the fires. Two huge hearths lighted the place, the logs merrily crackling and hissing. Katerine got as close as she could, edging up to the hearth until her face felt deliciously scorched.

  She crouched, staring raptly at the fire, but when she heard steps, rather than be commanded to leave the place, she slid herself back into the shadows. Two nuns entered, walking straight to the chairs and sitting. In their habits Katerine wasn’t sure who they were, but she guessed when she heard them speak.

  “Do you think Prioress Elizabeth could be removed from her post?”

  “Why should she be? Who do you think’s going to be able to prise my Lady Elizabeth from her prioressy? You don’t honestly think she killed Moll, do you?” Katerine recognised that voice: it was Emma, the cellaress, a woman who had not been consecrated because she was no virgin when she entered the convent, not that it ever seemed to give her cause for gloom. She was always happiest with an ale in her hand and a friend to gossip with.

  “No, of course not! Lady Elizabeth is no murderer. No, I think Moll drank too much of Constance’s dwale and it made her blood overheat. You know how these things happen. It opened the wound that fool of a clerk made in her arm. But the prioress is responsible for everything in her convent, and the suffragan will want a scapegoat.”

  Katerine’s ears pricked. This was Anne, the fratress. She had no responsibility in the infirmary, for her job was to see to the chairs and tables in the frater, but because of that she was always about when other nuns talked, so she had access to good sources of information. If she believed Brother Godfrey had operated carelessly, that was probably the view of many others.

  “I wonder if Constance realises her own danger, then.”

  ‘Her danger?“

  “Of course - she mixed the dwale.”

  “Oh yes. I hadn’t thought,” Anne said, and then chuckled quietly and cruelly. “I remember her when she first came to the convent, you know. I said at the time that she was wrong for that job. She had no idea of the importance of getting the mixtures right. Spent most of her time daydreaming. What could you do with someone like her?”

  “Would she have done it deliberately, do you think?” Emma frowned thoughtfully.

  “What - get the mixture so strong?” Anne grinned nastily, and glanced about her before leaning forward conspiratorially. She murmured something so quietly Katerine couldn’t hear, sitting back and nodding sagely and solemnly while Emma absorbed her words, then giggled.

  “You think so? Who - Constance? I find it hard to believe.”

  “You watch her, Emma. It’s not only her. There’s that novice, too - Sir Rodney’s little miss: Agnes. Watch her in church, the way she behaves, especially when young Luke’s near, the strumpet.”

  Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Still, if Constance is proved to be guilty of that stupid child’s death, that won’t help the prioress, will it? Not on top of the visitor’s report. From what Margherita told me, he uncovered so much last time that this will be bound to be the last straw.”

  “So Margherita has taken you aside as well? She’s certainly trying to get around all of us as quickly as possible, isn’t she?”

  “Do you blame her?”

  “Not really… But Lady Elizabeth is a devious cow. I’ll wait and see for a while before I commit myself.”

  The bell rang out calling the nuns back to the church to prepare for Terce and the Morrow Mass. The two women stood, and Katerine remained hidden until both had swept out. Once the way was clear, she too got up and hurried to the door. Their conversation had given her much to mull over: so Anne wasn’t convinced that the prioress would be removed. From what she said, Margherita couldn’t assume she would win the post, which was quite a surprise because Anne was one of Margherita’s familia, one of her most loyal adherents. If even Anne was wavering, then the treasurer wasn’t in so commanding a position as Katerine had thought.

  There was also the other matter, she remembered, trotting quickly along the corridor. It looked as though both Emma and Anne thought Moll had been killed by Constance - not that she’d heard why both thought that. And there was what they had said about Agnes.

  Once inside the church, she slowed her steps, genuflecting to the altar as she passed. Her quick eye caught sight of Agnes. Katerine settled in her pew, and looked over to check her impression. Yes, Agnes was staring at the altar. Her attention was fixed upon the tall, fair-haired priest as he prepared himself to conduct the ceremony: Luke.

  And Katerine felt that bitter jealousy clutching at her breast once more, just as she had when she’d known Luke was with Agnes again - just as she had when she’d seen him chatting up Moll.

  Sir Baldwin was waiting at the door and introduced his wife. Bertrand politely blessed them both, and gave Jeanne his hand so she could kiss his ring, accepting with gratitude her offer of a pot of wine while his men were directed to the buttery.

  “My Lord Bishop, I was not expecting you,” Baldwin said as they stood around the fire. “I thought we agreed that I should come and meet you at Crediton. My house here is far out of your way‘

  “There is more urgency now,” Bertrand explained gravely. “Since we met at Peter’s house we have had news from Bristol. The King is preparing his castles.”

  Baldwin understood the meaning behind those words. “The Despensers?”

  Nodding, Bertrand took his pot from Edgar and sipped. There could be hardly anybody in the country who wasn’t aware of the trouble fomented by that family. Bertrand himself had heard more about them than most from Bishop Stapledon, who had supported them when they had acted as an effective brake on the King’s profligacy; but now Hugh Despenser, the son, appeared ambitious to make himself the most powerful magnate in all the King’s lands. King Edward II, always vacillating and pathetic, seemed keen to let him have his way, even supporting Despenser against the Marcher Lords.

  “Is there any sign he is gathering an army?” Baldwin asked.

  “You mean he might simply be taking defensive measures in case of attack? I understand that the King has demanded money from the Abbot of Gloucester. It can only mean he’s looking to pay men-at-arms.”

  Baldwin thought about this, glancing at his wife. If there were to be another civil war, he would not wish to leave Jeanne alone. Two factors weighed with him: his home was no castle, and he had
little idea how long he would be spending at Belstone. If he should be kept there for weeks on end, it was possible that war could begin, and that the tide of battle could wash over even this tranquil part of Devonshire.

  His thoughts were written on his face, and Bertrand glanced warily at the woman sitting quietly at Baldwin’s side. When he had accepted the role of visitor, he had not anticipated having so much to do with women. Now, here he was, preparing to return to the convent of Belstone, a place so ill-regulated it was almost a sink of corruption, especially now there had been a murder - and this knight wanted to take his wife with him! Bertrand was about to suggest that he and Baldwin should discuss matters in secret, in order that he could firmly reject the idea that Baldwin should bring his wife, when the knight turned to his servant.

  “Edgar, you will have to stay here to protect the house, and do as you see fit to keep the place secure.”

  Margherita was on tenterhooks; Agnes could see that. The treasurer sat for the most part gazing out of the windows, over the cloister, without seeming to hear or comprehend what was going on about her, even when the young novice dropped a pottery inkwell, smashing it to pieces on the flags and spattering black ink all over.

  “Never mind, just get a cloth to clean it up.”

  Agnes stood a moment gaping, but then hurried to obey. It took little time to wipe away the worst of the mess, though she was convinced the stain would never disappear. When she’d replaced the bucket and cloth in the kitchen and returned to Margherita, it was clear the nun still wasn’t concentrating on the task at hand. She stared unseeing in any direction other than at her desk.

  It was intriguing. Agnes was used to Margherita snapping at her, urging novices to hurry. Margherita was known for her acerbity; finding her in this reflective mood was weird. Of course Moll’s death had affected everyone, and the treasurer was probably upset at the ridiculous way that the girl had expired: surgeon’s mistake, everyone said.

  Agnes studied her doubtfully, then decided it was more likely that Margherita was worried about herself. Rumours abounded, and the strongest was that Margherita suspected Lady Elizabeth of murder. If that was the case, Agnes could understand her distraction.

  Sometimes Agnes thought she understood Margherita better than anyone else. There was a tie that connected them: illegitimacy. That was why Sir Rodney had wanted Agnes away from his estate, because she was the constant reminder of an evening of passion -and sin. For the pious Sir Rodney, that was intolerable. Margherita didn’t even know who her father was, nor where her mother had gone, and that made Agnes look on her with sympathy. She could quite comprehend the desperate desire Margherita had to prove herself by running the priory.

  Not that Agnes felt committed to supporting Margherita. The prioress was a shrewd and cautious woman, and Agnes reckoned she’d never be dragged from her office without a fight. There was no way the Lady Elizabeth would allow herself to be exiled to the fringes of priory business.

  For now Agnes would keep her counsel.

  Chapter Five

  It wasn’t only Margherita who was feeling strained. Joan was in the frater when she heard a call, followed by weeping. She got to her feet just as Ela, the kitcheness, entered from the yard, desperately clinging hold of Constance, who was reeling drunk. Joan was astonished: if Constance had drunk one more pint of wine she’d have been in a stupor. Of course there was nothing scary about seeing a woman drunk. Such sights were common enough even in a nunnery, and Joan wasn’t upset by it, but she was a little shocked to see Constance in such a state. The infirmarer always gave the impression of being so self-possessed.

  Constance was lured to a chair. She half-fell into it, and when she was refused more wine she burst into tears, blubbering like a teenaged girl deserted by her first lover. Ela went to fetch water and bread, and Joan sat with Constance, patting her hand comfortingly until Ela returned. Joan left them chatting and sat near the door to the yard.

  It was while she was there that Margherita walked in. She gave Constance a contemptuous glance, and walked past her to approach Joan. Her expression made Joan frown. Constance didn’t deserve to be scorned: she was a good woman, dedicated to the convent, obeying God by helping the sick. It was understandable that she should feel guilty at what had happened to Moll while the girl had been under her charge in the infirmary.

  Margherita saw her reproachful expression and had the grace to look shamefaced. “I am sorry, Joan, but no matter how she feels, allowing herself to get into this condition is simply not acceptable. Look at her! Constance is a disgrace to her robes.“

  “She has had one of her patients die in her room,” Joan remonstrated. “Show mercy. That’s what a prioress should do.”

  The shot hit the mark and Margherita nodded. “Very well, dear Joan. I shall remember. Though I still feel that being sluttish drunk is contemptible for a nun.”

  “Perhaps you do, but letting people know won’t help you, will it?” Joan chuckled. “What’s more, the prioress is a wily old vixen. If you give her an opportunity, she’ll stab you before you see her attack forming.” She helped herself to wine from a jug. Most of her spare time for the last thirty-nine years had been taken up with teaching this woman all she knew, and she had little desire to see that investment wasted. She finished her wine, cast a glance at Constance, and murmured, “I think I should return to the infirmary. Cecily might need something, and poor Constance is in no fit state.”

  “A good idea.” Margherita watched Joan rise and walk to the door. It was hard sometimes to remember how old Joan was, she reflected, looking at the woman’s solid gait. She practically marched out - stolid, dependable, and resolute as a rock.

  Margherita waited. Soon more nuns would enter, coming to snatch a snack to keep them going through the morning. However, as she poured herself more wine, a shadow fell across the doorway. It was Lady Elizabeth, who walked in and, ignoring her, went straight to the infirmarer, crouching at Constance’s side in the humblest manner possible, speaking gently and quietly. When Elizabeth stood, a hand resting on the young infirmarer’s shoulder, she met Margherita’s gaze. This time there was no fear in her eyes, only cold, naked determination.

  Margherita shivered as the prioress swept from the room.

  When Katerine entered the frater a little later, Constance was still sitting with Ela, her head supported on both hands as she stared blearily at the wall. Nearby Denise was in her favourite place, and as Ela returned to her kitchen, Denise passed her pot to Constance, who drank greedily.

  Glancing at the drunk infirmarer, Katerine was not inclined to hang around this unsavoury scene. She was on her way to the kitchen to beg a meat pie and eat it when, to her disgust, she felt Constance grab hold of her arm.

  “What’d you do, eh? How can I ever get forgiven?”

  “Constance, she’s only a novice,” Denise giggled, reaching over to try to prise Constance’s fingers free.

  “So? She can love, can’t she?” the nun demanded. “She’s got a heart like you or me, hasn’t she?” Her truculence spent, she snivelled to herself a moment, still keeping a firm grip on Katerine. “It’s not fair, it’s not! She can have her bastard, but we’re stuck in here, supposed to keep away from men, and if we happen to enjoy just a short time with one, we’re forced to leave ‘em. But she’s a lady, so she can do what she wants. Where’s the fairness in that, eh?”

  “Run along, girl,” Denise hissed as she finally loosened Constance’s grip. “Go on, get out of here! As for you,”‘ she added, grasping Katerine’s robe as the novice made to escape, hauling her close so that she had to inhale Denise’s foul breath, “if I hear that there are any stories circulating among the novices suggesting that the infirmarer has been drunk, I’ll flay the hide off you. Understand? Now piss off!”

  Shaken despite herself, Katerine scurried away; it was only when she arrived at the door to the cloister that she realised she hadn’t fetched herself the pie. Irritated, she decided to avoid the frater by taking the
longer route to the kitchen, so she turned up the alley that followed the back wall of the frater to the yard and the kitchen door.

  The cook grinned as Katerine scoffed a small squab pie. It was common enough for the younger novices to feel the pangs of hunger between their meals, and Ela believed in filling them up. She watched indulgently while Katerine swallowed the last mouthful, licking her fingers and wiping them dry on her tunic. Thanking the kitcheness, she made her way back to the cloister. At the rear door to the frater she paused.

  Inside was Margherita, in full flow. Before her were three other nuns, all drinking from large pots of wine, while the treasurer exhorted them to consider the best interests of the nunnery, forgetting their own private ambitions. The woman was using all her powers of persuasion.

  “When the visitor comes back, he’ll not just be looking at the prioress,” she declared, “he’ll be watching all of us. He’s not going to be as polite and friendly as last time. Oh no. This time he’ll be asking about the death of a novice, investigating how we sisters could have allowed it to happen. It’s not as if he’s going to be able to hide this matter from his master, our bishop. We all know what’s going on. It’s Lady Elizabeth and her man…‘ Margherita caught sight of Katerine. ”You - girl! Stop listening to chapter business that doesn’t concern you!“