Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

She nodded happily. She trusted Godfrey.

When the three men entered, there was a sudden horrified silence. Too late Baldwin reflected that these women were unused to the sight of men. Soon the shocked glances were cooled as Bertrand was recognised, but everyone felt awkward with the three men standing in the doorway staring about them. The conversation faltered and died.

Frowning, Bertrand finally called to Margherita, who sat at the far wall: “Treasurer, where is the prioress?”

“Alas, visitor, I have not seen her since leaving the church. She was there for Vespers, but when I left the choir I met you, and I don’t know where she went while I spoke to you.”

Bertrand stood quivering with emotion, and was about to explode when Baldwin interposed.

“Do you think you could let her know that we have been seeking her? Tell her the novice was murdered, and not by dwale – she was suffocated and then stabbed. For now we shall return to the canonical cloister, but please inform the prioress that we shall return tomorrow and would be grateful for a moment with her.”

Margherita nodded, and Baldwin walked from the room.

Twilight had fallen, and the air was bitterly cold. He could taste a metallic tang in the air. In these parts, that could only mean severe weather.

He had never stayed on the moors during the winter, but Simon had told him how foul the weather could become; earlier in the year, Baldwin had experienced the misery of riding through what had appeared to be only a slight drizzle: it had left him soaked to the skin in no time at all. That escapade had convinced him that moorland weather could be more inclement than that which he was used to.

And he had no wish to be stuck here, in the middle of nowhere, when war could threaten his home at any time.

Had Jeanne known the turn his thoughts were taking, she would have been gratified to learn that her husband, while incarcerated in a nunnery, was thinking only of her.

In truth, she had no thoughts for him; she had been too busy since his departure. All the servants had been mobilised. First the exterior of the house had been cleared of its covering of ivy and other vegetation, and tomorrow it was to be attacked in force by all those men who could wield a brush or carry a pail of limewash. Any spare souls would be marched to the woodwork and ordered to smother that in new paint.

Indoors she had already finished the removal of fleas, other than those living on Baldwin’s mastiff, who now, after Edgar’s constant tuition, only answered to the name ‘Chops’. He still occasionally displayed signs of itching, but Jeanne had no idea how to remove his infestation.

Now, late in the evening, as dark fell over the house and the animals were all settled for the night, she sat before the fire in the hall, Edgar beside her. Wat the cattleman’s boy sprawled on the floor, pulling a thick lump of rope in a ferocious-sounding game of tug-of-war with Chops.

“Wat! The dog is growling enough, there’s no need for you to as well,” Jeanne called sharply.

Wat threw her a look over his shoulder, and was quieter, murmuring snarls as the mastiff tugged and jerked his toy.

“So, Edgar, with the old linen thrown out, we shall need plenty of new. You will have to arrange for bedclothing, a fresh mattress – that old one is awful – and buy a wall-covering. A good, thick tapestry.”

“What picture would you like on it?” he asked.

There was a particular tone to his voice. Jeanne didn’t look up for a moment while she considered. Edgar had been Baldwin’s sole friend and confidant as well as his servant for many years, according to the little she had heard. It must be painful for him to see all that he had grown used to being discarded on, as he would see it, the whim of a woman.

Jeanne smiled. “What would he like best, do you think?”

Edgar, who was well used to feminine wiles having been a successful philanderer for many years, recognised the appearance of the olive branch and grinned back. “I would think a picture of hunting, or hawking.“ It was not as if he found his new mistress overbearing or difficult; she was a great deal more straightforward than he had feared, if a bit demanding. But after being first Sir Baldwin’s man-at-arms and then his servant for more than thirty years, since they had met in the mess that was Acre in 1291, it was hardly surprising that Edgar found so much change over so short a period unsettling.

He left Lady Jeanne by the fire. A pot was boiling and Edgar took it to his buttery. There he drew off a quart of wine and prepared hypocras, putting broken lumps of sugar into a pan, adding boiling water and spices and leaving them to stew for a while.

He had enjoyed his time with his master, but now things were changing. Sir Baldwin was married, and didn’t need Edgar’s help to buy clothes or organise the estates. And Edgar was finding himself forced to look to his own future. He was handfast to Cristine from the tavern in Crediton, and she was growing impatient with Edgar for his delay in formally giving her his vows. She understood that he had been unable to do much until his master’s wedding was over, but now Cristine wanted their arrangement made binding, and Edgar wasn’t certain how his master would take to having yet another woman about the place – nor was he sure how Lady Jeanne would react.

It added up to a disturbing time, and one in which Edgar found himself confused. All in all, it was most unsettling.

He added the wine to the pot and carried it to the hall, pouring a large measure into a pewter jug. It was as he passed Jeanne the drink that they both heard hooves in the yard and Edgar walked to the door.

“Wat, quiet, boy!” Jeanne snapped, trying to listen. In a few minutes, Edgar came back with a grubby and dirt-stained man, who panted like a dog from exertion.

“My Lady, this man is a messenger for the suffragan bishop, on his way to find him at Peter Clifford’s house. I told him that Bishop Bertrand is not there, but I think you should hear his news.”

Jeanne noted his serious expression and nodded to the man, who dropped onto a bench while Edgar fetched him a large jug of ale. The messenger took a long draught and glanced up at Edgar thankfully, but then recalled his place, and sat upright as he met Jeanne’s eye.

“My Lady,” he declaimed, “I have been sent by Bishop Stapledon of Exeter, who advised me to visit Furnshill to warn his good friend Sir Baldwin, and to inform the bishop’s suffragan in Exeter, that although our King has instructed Humphrey de Bohun, the Earl of Hereford, not to discuss the affairs of the realm nor to have any assemblies of men, the Earl has ignored the King’s command. He has raised his levy to form an army.”

Edgar offered the messenger more drink, but the man refused. “A place to unroll my blanket near a fire is all I crave.”

“Then you must sleep here,” Jeanne said, rising to her feet and indicating the hearth. “Pull a bench to the heat and rest. For my part, I am grateful to you for stopping here on your way to Crediton. When you wake, tell the servants that I expect them to feed you well to keep you going for the remainder of your journey.”

She accepted his thanks, and walked from the room out to the little solar, Edgar close behind her. He took his rest on a bench near the entrance to her private rooms, the mastiff with him. Edgar never took risks when he could avoid them, and although he had little doubt that the messenger was perfectly innocent and honourable, Edgar was not going to leave his mistress unguarded while his master was absent.

Comforted by the knowledge of his nearness, Jeanne sat in a chair in her bedchamber. There was no need to undress yet, especially with the freezing gusts wafting in from the unglazed windows, and she wanted a few moments to consider what she had heard.