Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

Simon sat with a faraway smile on his face, paying scarcely any heed to those around him. Simon Puttock was a tall man with dark hair in which the grey was rapidly becoming prominent. Usually he tended to wear a serious expression, because his position as Bailiff for the Warden of the Stannaries meant that he was one of the most senior law officers on the moors, but today Simon was beaming, and the world was pleasing to his eye, for he was quite sure that his wife would give birth to a son.

They had had a son before – Peterkin – but he had died young. Simon had been so proud to have an heir, and yet when Peterkin become fractious and petulant, crying all night, he had realised there was something seriously wrong. Peterkin had a fever. Soon the poor little lad had diarrhoea, and gradually his squalling faded. Before long it was a muted whimper, and then a pained breath, and the lad passed away quietly early one morning. It was terrible to admit it, but Simon had been almost glad when the end had come, because at least he wouldn’t have to confront his inability to do anything to help his boy.

And now Margaret, his lovely Meg, had fallen pregnant again. It was wonderful to think that she would soon be growing, her belly expanding fruitfully, giving life to a new child after three years of trying to replace poor Peterkin. Grinning broadly, he slapped his servant on the shoulder. “Come on, Hugh, you’ve hardly touched your drink. Hurry up, or I’ll let you collect the reckoning as punishment.”

Glowering morosely, Hugh took a long pull at his quart, but his stomach was not in it. “It’s all right for them as have the money.”

“I pay you well enough, and it’s not as if you have other expenses,” Simon said happily, unaware how his words affected his man. He was sincerely fond of his servant, and would not have wished to hurt his feelings. “You’re not in the same position as Edgar, Baldwin’s man, are you? He’s going to be married soon and has to save every farthing he can.”

“Aye, well he’s welcome,” Hugh retorted, but without his usual vigour.

Simon didn’t notice his remark, but waved at the young prostitute as she returned to the room. She carried a jug, and refilled their ales from it. Hugh looked up at her just as she happened to glance at him, and she smiled.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Me?” Hugh asked, then, “Hugh.”

“I’m Rose. Call me if you want me,” she said.

Her face was plain and round. There was little about her which would usually have attracted Hugh, but today he thought her beautiful. She was perhaps twenty or twenty-one years old, not too tall, and wore her dark hair wantonly loose over her shoulders, but what Hugh noticed most about her was her eyes. They were steady and green, and he was just considering the coins in his pocket when there was a sudden row from the road, and such thoughts were thrust from his mind.

Bishop Bertrand entered regally, pausing in the doorway and perusing the hall with his nose in the air; to Simon he looked like a bad imitation of a cleric from a morality play, but he curbed the comments which rose immediately to his lips and instead stood and bowed, then winked at his friend behind.

“Simon, it is good to see you again,” Baldwin said, crossing the floor and shaking the bailiff’s hand. “Permit me to introduce Bishop Bertrand, the suffragan of Exeter.”

Bertrand held out his hand. Simon made the usual obeisance and kissed his ring, and the bishop sat in Simon’s chair, pulling his coat tight about him.

“It is very bitter out there,” he murmured.

Simon took his quart pot and drank. “Not as bad as it can be, my Lord Bishop. In this last winter, the snow down here was yards deep, and the wind as it comes off the moors is cold enough to flay a man. You could ride out over the moors, they say, and before you’d got halfway, you’d have lost all the flesh from your face.”

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 sunshine while where you are it is all cold, wet, and miserable. These moors have their own climate.”

“Then thanks be to God 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 prostitute passed 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 assumed it was because he was not very experienced in dealing with such girls: tavern whores 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 embarrassment.

“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 assumed 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.