Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

No matter what the deeper political problems were, one thing was quite obvious: the country was teetering on the brink of disaster once more. The King and his friends the Despensers, father and son, were rushing towards another civil war with the barons.

Jeanne found herself praying to God that her husband would not be sent to fight. She didn’t want to be widowed so soon after finding him.

Constance smiled at Joan as she sipped her dwale, pulling a face as the bitter mixture went down. After the death of Moll, Constance had been very cautious with the measures of belladonna, but tonight she had added more poppy syrup. She needed the security of knowing that she could see Elias.

Joan settled back against her pillows and closed her eyes, and soon her breath was more stertorous as she slipped into unconsciousness. With a brief sigh of relief Constance left her and went to the door, where she listened carefully. Compline was a while ago, and all the nuns should be asleep, but someone might still be up and about. Constance had little to be happy about. Her guilt felt like a heavy weight pressing upon her breast, almost stifling her, and she longed for Elias to hug her and whisper soothing promises of how their lives would change.

Elias had promised to rescue her as soon as he had heard the first gossip. Many in the convent were convinced that Constance had given Moll too much dwale. Margherita was trying to persuade everyone that the prioress was guilty, but Constance knew better. She had doubted the sense in running away, but now her misgivings were bent in the other direction. She couldn’t stay here any longer.

There was no sound. She lifted the latch and walked out to the stairs. The dorter was silent apart from the snuffling and sighing of sleeping women. Reassured, Constance lifted the hem of her tunic and tiptoed down the stairs. Opening the door, she went through to the cloister. The church door was in front of her, and she pulled the dorter door shut before setting off along the corridor towards it.

It was when she reached the corner that she felt the hand on her shoulder.

“Hello, Constance. Couldn’t you sleep?” Katerine said, and Constance recoiled at the cruel expression in her sharp little features.

Elias sat biting his nails. The last service had finished an age ago, and he would have expected Constance to have arrived by now. She had promised to get here after Compline, and he wanted to set off as quickly as possible, now he had their packages ready. His face was screwed up with fearful expectation. He was waiting in the church, for the prioress never saw fit to lock the dividing door, and he and Constance used to meet here often to talk when they had first confessed their affection for each other, although more recently, like the night when Moll had died, he had gone to meet her in her own chamber at the rear of the infirmary.

That night had been wonderful: she had agreed to leave the convent with him. From that day his every spare waking moment had been spent arranging their escape. And tonight they would go.

But she should have been here by now. The suspense was unbearable, and Elias stood, walking to the door. As he opened it, he saw his woman approaching hurriedly.

“Thank God, my love. I thought…” Although there was little light, with heavy clouds scudding across the sky and no moon, he could sense her agitation. “Constance? What is it?”

“I can’t leave with you,” she whispered brokenly.

“Why? Everything is ready.”

“Katerine knows everything. She accused me of killing Moll!”

Elias felt his heart lurch within him. “Forget her,” he said harshly. “It’s because of the rumour that we have to go. I can protect you. Look, all the food is ready, everything’s packed. If we…”

“No, Elias,” she said, touching his cheek. Her voice was strained as though she was close to crying. She swallowed. “Moll saw you coming to my room one night, and told Katerine. She guessed, I suppose, or perhaps she watched herself. What does it matter? She won’t let on because she wants me to give her my enamelled brooch. I have to go back now and give it to her.”

“The thieving slut!”

“It’s better that I should let her have it.”

Elias was silent. His plans, their future together, everything was fallen into ruin. It was only with a struggle that he could keep his voice from breaking as he pleaded, “Then come straight back and we’ll go.”

There was a crack, as of a pebble kicked uncautiously against a wall. Constance drew in her breath sharply. “Tomorrow – tomorrow at the grille. I’ll see you there after Matins.”

Elias watched her hurry away, and as she disappeared along the cloister he saw the shadow of someone else flit past the alleyway to his side. The shadow of a nun.

Hugh opened an eye and pulled a face. It was the darkest hour of the night. Pulling his coat up to his chin, he thrust his head beneath his pillow. Even then he couldn’t keep the row from his ears.

The tolling bell was still more unwelcome because of the relative silence of the world. There was no birdsong, no barking, no crowing of cocks or clucking of hens; only a dead, dull nothing that somehow emphasised the melancholy nature of the hour. The bell itself sounded flat and doomladen, as if it heralded the Day of Judgement which the priests so enjoyed predicting.

To Hugh it was intolerable. His head ached, and although he knew he would soon have to rise to go and find a urinal-pot somewhere, he longed to put off that hideous moment when he must emerge from his blanket and coats, and expose his body to the stark gelidity of the cloister.

A groan and muffled comment of “God’s blood!“ told him that his master had not managed to sleep through it either, and when Hugh opened his eye again and peered through the gloom towards the bed, he saw that Sir Baldwin had already got to his feet, and at the other side of the room the bishop was out of his bed and stood huddled, his robes pulled tight around him.

Seeing Baldwin haul Simon’s bedclothes from him with a chuckle, Hugh hunched his shoulders against the horrible prospect, but soon he was exposed, and found himself glowering up at the repellently cheerful knight.

“Come on, Hugh. Even your master has managed to get up.”

It was many years since Hugh had spent the nights out with the sheep and lambs on the moors near Drewsteignton in sub-zero temperatures, and ever since he had enjoyed the sensation of snugness that a warmed hall gave him. There was no such comfort here.

Wind penetrated every corner of the room, whistling and moaning gently, and bringing with it the promise of snow, while doors rattled against their latches and shutters complained. Each breeze managed to find a fresh gap between Hugh’s clothing, or perhaps it simply forced its way through, like daggers of ice. He stood, shivering, trying to pull on tunic, jack and cloak in one movement before he froze into a block.

Out of their room it was no better. Bertrand led the way, walking at a solemn pace which gave the men no opportunity to warm themselves. They went from their guestroom down a ladder to the ground floor, and from thence to the passageway that gave on to the cloister itself. Here the cold was, if anything, still more intense, for the wind eddied and blew around the buildings. It was like a mischievous animal suddenly released, enjoying the freedom of the garth by whipping around unprotected legs, delving down through the neck of shirts, or searching upwards from loose-fitting hose.

Hugh trailed miserably after the other two men to the church and waited with them in the queue at the door while the canons filed inside. Remembering what he had seen the night before, he tugged at Simon’s sleeve. “Sir?” he asked quietly.