Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

“Or whether the infirmarer herself was the murderer,” Baldwin mused thoughtfully, absently shaking a glass beaker with a pale white powder inside. He set it back on the shelf. “If she was, then why should she have bothered to smother Moll? All she needed do was give the girl a stronger dose of dwale, enough to make her, unconscious, and then open her vein.”

“Perhaps she got the quantity wrong,” Simon suggested. “Anyway, why should the infirmarer wish to kill the girl?”

“An excellent question,” Baldwin said. “And yet if Margherita is right and a man did come up these stairs, he could have gone into the infirmary. Drugging the patients would guarantee they wouldn’t see him.”

Lady Elizabeth sat in the chapterhouse and watched as Simon and Baldwin left the building and strolled to meet the visitor. Bertrand was bitter at being frustrated in his wish to see her. His anger would have increased if he had known how his dramatic gestures, intended to demonstrate his irritation, only served to make her smile broaden.

“Where on God’s good earth is that woman?” demanded Bertrand. “God’s balls, but she’ll regret this! I’m tempted to go and wait in her room; force her to see me. She’s avoiding us, and that’s a clear enough sign of her guilt.”

“I feel we should seek her down here rather than waiting in the nuns’ dorter. Were we to be found in the nuns’ sleeping area, I think it might give rise to talk,” Baldwin mentioned with a twinkle in his eye.

Bertrand was not of a mood to see the humour of the situation, but at last he gave his ungracious agreement. The last thing he needed was an accusation of impropriety against himself. Glancing about the quadrangle, he saw two novices walking to the frater.

“If I know the religious mind at all,” Baldwin said, following his gaze, “they will be drinking until Compline.”

“Well, they can’t object to our joining them,” Bertrand said with determination, and set off after the two girls.

“Baldwin,” Simon said quietly. “The visitor has obviously made up his mind. If he could, he’d have the prioress strung up for murder.”

“Yes,” Baldwin agreed. “And to be fair, he may well be right. But I want to give the woman the benefit of the doubt. And even if she were guilty in some way, that doesn’t mean no one else helped and was not equally to blame. Is it conceivable that the prioress helped mix the dwale, or helped pass it to the invalids?”

“If the infirmarer was her accomplice, yes. You’re quite convinced it was murder?”

Baldwin nodded. “There is no doubt. Moll had something thrust over her face, and her arms kept still while her artery was opened. She died of asphyxiation, but someone wanted to cover their tracks. There was a clear second cut that went to the artery.” They had come to the door that gave into the frater. Simon’s face held a worried frown. “Do you reckon the prioress could have done it?”

“Moll was a young girl, but strongly enough built,” Baldwin theorised. “She should have been able to fight – but not while drugged.”

“Which makes the infirmarer more suspicious than the prioress.”

“I suppose so. Although I confess I am beginning to think they all are. Margherita wandered the cloisters regularly, as did Joan; Denise liked sitting up with a drink, and from the sound of it, Moll herself and this other novice, Agnes, both saw men about the place. Do any of these nuns stick to their Rule? Can we take anything for granted about their behaviour?“

And with that quiet reflection, Baldwin walked into the frater.

When the bell for Vespers tolled, Elias the smith had walked out with his companions, but then ducked back as if realising he had left something behind while the others continued on to the service. He could be punished for not attending, but that was of little concern to him now.

It was rare that he had an opportunity to rest peacefully and meditate, and he felt the need of it more than ever just now. The service wouldn’t last long, and he wished to make the most of the time he had, to consider his plans and review his options.

Westwards the sun was failing, leaving the cloisters in shadow as it sank behind the tall hill, and there was an icy freshness in the air that sank through his heavy robes. He shuddered from the sudden change in temperature, pulled his coat tighter about his shoulders, and walked slowly along the side of the building.

They ran a great risk, he knew, but they had little choice. Especially now. If they were to remain living as they did they were an insult to God. He hadn’t taken the full vows like her, but that was no excuse. Both of them would be committing apostasy by going. She would be sought with the utmost energy of the Church, and brought back here to continue to serve for the rest of her life. He wasn’t sure what would happen to him.

Not that his mind could concentrate well. Whenever he tried to think about what they would do, a vision of Moll’s face kept springing into his mind. He fetched a jug of ale and sat down.

Hearing the canons and lay brethren leave the church, he drained his pot of ale. It was the signal to end his maudlin reverie. Outside, he straightened his shoulders with resolution and strode along the canons’ cloister to the dim little passageway that led out to the stables southwards.

There was a small outhouse leaning against the stables, and it was here that he had stored his bundles, hiding them under a pile of straw. One for her, one for him: two packages tightly wrapped, containing dried meat and fruit, tinder, a parcel of bread each, a pair of wineskins, and cloaks, sheepskins, furred boots, jacks, and even spare hose for them. He was leaving nothing to chance.

Well, it was a huge responsibility, knowing he was going to be a father, he thought as he carefully concealed the lot beneath the straw again, after checking it was all still there. He sprinkled spare dirt over the top, then stood back to make certain that his disruption of the cache was not visible. Satisfied, he left the room and, looking about him swiftly, walked back to the cloister. He sneaked into the church, sat in a pew and bent his head in prayer, waiting. She had said she would try to leave an hour or two after Compline, so he had a while to wait.

All because of Moll. That treacherous little snake had died, and now everyone thought Constance had done it.

Elias had to rescue his woman before she could be accused.

The smith would have been more anxious still if he had known that as soon as he had returned to the cloister, a figure had moved out from the shadow of a buttress supporting the stables and silently stepped into the lean-to. Rose soon found the hidden parcels and knelt, sniffing at them, opening them to see what was there before carefully rewrapping and hiding them again.

It was obvious that Elias was going to make a run for it. That news might well be useful to the prioress, Rose didn’t know. She couldn’t tell what things were useful to Lady Elizabeth, but she herself was intrigued. She knew Elias as the strong-willed brother who had always refused her charms, and here he was planning to escape. With whom? She could hazard a guess.

But she couldn’t go and see Lady Elizabeth about it, not now. The prioress had enough to worry her with the suffragan bishop. Rose eyed the spot where the bags were hidden. What if Elias returned in the meanwhile and fled the convent?

Behind her was the doorway to the great smithy. The forge was still alight, filling the place with a warm glow. She dragged a bench to the door. From here she could keep watch and make sure Elias didn’t run. Tomorrow she would seek out Brother Godfrey and ask him for his advice: should she tell Lady Elizabeth about this, or could Godfrey speak to Elias and prevent his running away?