Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

“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.

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.