Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

“What is it?” Simon hissed. “If you’re going to complain, I’ll give you something serious to complain about.”

Hugh knew his master was as unenthusiastic about early rising as he himself. “Sir, it’s what I saw last night in the frater while you were with the nuns.”

Quickly he told his master about the prostitute, and Simon gave a low whistle. As the queue moved into the church, Simon whispered the gist of it to Baldwin.

At last they were in, but even inside there was nothing to take the edge from the bitter weather. With no fire, many gaps between ill-fitting doors and the hole in the roof, the four walls about them might have not existed for all the use they were. And Hugh became aware of another effect: at least outside while walking his feet had remained reasonably safe; now, standing on the tiled floor, it felt as though the heat was being sucked away through the soles of his boots, leaving the rest of his body frigid.

In these circumstances, Hugh looked about him to find something – anything! – which could distract him from the misery of the hour and the temperature.

The canons appeared to be taking a great deal of time to prepare for the services. They muttered amongst themselves, occasionally throwing interested glances towards the four strangers, but no one appeared to make any effort to observe the rituals. Then he realised that they were waiting for a signal from the other side of the wall where the nuns congregated, and when a single, male voice rose from the nuns’ cloister, suddenly the canons joined in.

It was all new to Hugh. He had never been in a cloister before, and the ceremony was strange and not a little threatening. He was used to the little shed-like church at Drewsteignton, and after that the chapel at Sandford, then the larger building at Lydford, but at none of them was there anything like this. Keeping his mouth tightly shut to save himself embarrassment, he looked at the others. Bertrand, he saw, sang along, his head high and a curious expression of suspicious concentration on his face. Hugh guessed that he was listening to the women, but had no idea why. Simon tried to join in at first, but then resorted to moving his mouth silently. The strange Latin words were unfamiliar, and he couldn’t keep up with the others; Baldwin appeared to know the service, and sang quietly in his deep bass.

The place was odd even without the singing. As Hugh looked along from where they were standing, towards the altar, he found himself feeling strangely out of place.

It wasn’t only the sense of dislocation caused by the hour. He had no idea what the time was, but he had heard that this first service of the day was held in the middle of the night because it was intended to herald the new day, which according to the priests began somehow during the night. To Hugh this was daft: he knew, like everyone, that day started at dawn, but there was no point arguing with priests. They believed what they wanted to.

No, it wasn’t just the time, it was the whole atmosphere: the men facing each other in the choir forming a tunnel, the distance between them emphasised by the candles in their brackets behind, which seemed to create another tunnel, this one of light; while incense wafted, and reinforced the oddly otherworldly nature of the sight, creating a kind of fog around the men’s ankles, almost as if they were floating on a whitish, yellowish smoke that rose in whisps and peaks where the gusts from outside caught it. And all the time the high voices of the nuns floated above them, reaching over the high wall which separated the cloisters.

Hugh wasn’t fanciful, but as he stared along the ranks of canons, he had the impression that he was dreaming. The voices were not as smooth, refined, or pleasant upon the ear as they should have been; they didn’t match with the female singing, which itself sounded harsh and unmusical; the whole appeared even to Hugh’s ear to be too fast, and in some parts he thought the nuns were gabbling their words, like women keen to return to their beds.

There was none of the religious atmosphere he would have expected, and when he glanced at Baldwin and the bishop, he saw that they felt the same. Sir Baldwin stood stiffly, his eyes drifting along the lines of men in the choir, and every so often his gaze would rise to the dividing wall as if in disbelief at the racket from the other side.

The nuns’ choir was a long, darkened tunnel, filled with the scent of incense; candles guttered, giving sufficient light to see the nuns’ features, and the priest’s up at the altar, each face flickering into clarity as a nearby candle responded to a short gust, then dimming once more. The great doors creaked and rattled. At one point there was a long slithering sound as a slate slipped free from its moorings and hurtled down the incline of the roof to shatter into fragments on the cloister, but this was too regular a noise to cause any of the freezing nuns to look up.

Lady Elizabeth winced as yet another psalm was hurried, but she was more intrigued by the gap in the ranks of her nuns.

Margherita was there, as was Denise, and most of the others, but there was a plain gap where the infirmarer should have been standing.

Presumably one of her patients was unwell, Lady Elizabeth thought. At least that overblown fool Bertrand wasn’t here in the nuns’ choir to see her absence. If his raised voice yesterday was anything to go by, Lady Elizabeth felt sure he would throw off his lightly worn cloak of urbanity at the faintest provocation, and rant. She found herself looking forward to the spectacle.

In the meantime she had many other considerations; the peace of the church, with its familiar psalms, prayers and rites, was the perfect setting for concentration. She allowed her mind to run over her problems while her voice joined with the others in the cadences.

First there was Princess. The poor little terrier had been unwell again during the evening, whining, then panting and lying down, eyes wide, tongue lolling, and vomiting while her bowels opened. The prioress reflected that she would have to get one of the lay sisters to clean up, but that was hardly the issue. She had never known a dog suffer from so appalling a flux before. Oh, several of her pets in the past had been sick – that was hardly surprising for a dog which scavenged, as all did – but this was worse, and Lady Elizabeth was worried.

Then there was Bertrand. The suffragan’s aim was clear: he wanted to get rid of her. Moll’s death had given him the ideal excuse. Allied to this was the headache posed by Margherita. The treasurer had ever been keen on taking over the leadership of the convent; she had her sights firmly fixed upon Lady Elizabeth’s post, and had obviously enlisted Bertrand to help her.

As the first part of the service ended, Lady Elizabeth unconsciously glanced up towards the windows. Matins. She felt a small smile rise to her face as the first soaring notes rose to the ceiling.

Alas, her delight was shortlived. Even as she felt her spirits join with the music and climb upwards, she saw the white flakes begin to pour in through the hole above. Snow floated down, wafting as it was caught by the side-blast travelling the length of the nave.

The sight made her close her eyes, but not before she caught the treasurer’s triumphant expression.

Once more, the Lady Elizabeth peered back towards the gap in the pews where Constance should have stood. She suddenly found herself hoping that the young infirmarer had not run away. Not only would that be a confession of guilt, it would also involve almost certain death if the weather were to turn, and from the look of the snow, it had.

When the last notes faded in the grey dawn light, and the canons rose, shuffling towards the door, Godfrey too got to his feet, but before he could slip through, he heard his name called out. Stifling a momentary panic, he fitted a subservient smile to his face and turned to face the bishop.