Michael JECKS: Belladonna at Belstone

She didn’t feel ill any more; the migraine had gone even before the bleeding. When it struck she had thought she would faint; the mistress of the novices had released her from her duties and sent her here to the infirmary, where she had been told to fill a flask with urine so her condition could be assessed. It was in vain for her to explain that the headache had quite disappeared, for Constance, the infirmarer, refused to listen until she had received her instructions. In the meantime, Moll was filled with red meat and a thick broth, the best food she had eaten since her arrival.

It was all quite normal, of course, and Moll herself was ready when the phlebotomist, Godfrey, had arrived, a smiling cleric of fifty or more, short in the body, with a good paunch and an almost circular face. He had kept up a constant chatter while he tied a cord about her upper arm and passed her the bowl to hold while he stropped his razor on the leather, explaining that her body had accumulated noxious humours in her liver, and possibly her spleen. She must have them evacuated by letting blood flow from the basilic vein, near the elbow.

He paused a moment, knife in hand, a twinkle in his eye, then winked before making a careful cut, drawing the bowl in her hand underneath to catch the drips. “That was easy, now, wasn’t it?”

She nodded, watching her blood. Her father had been a firm believer in the prophylactic benefits of purging the system regularly, and Moll had been bled at least twice a year. There was no pleasure in seeing the wound, but there was nothing to fear about it either. As for the pain – well, that was only a faint tingle from so sharp a blade. The irritation would come later, when the scab formed and the skin puckered.

When he considered that enough had been taken, the physician anointed the wound with a styptic and wrapped it up in bandages. “There! That should be enough for now. Now you stay here for three days, and when that time is done, you may go back to the cloister.”

Godfrey had tiptoed from the room as if she had already been asleep, still smiling, and she’d not realised he had left one of his knives and a small parcel behind until he had gone. Constance came in a little later, pouring out measures of her narcotic drink, ready mixed with strong red wine. Moll told her about the priest’s parcel, but the nun was indifferent: his memory always was dreadful, but he would soon be back for another novice’s vein, and he could collect the knife then.

Remembering him, Moll recalled his insistence that she should drink wine to cleanse her system. She licked her lips. It was warm, and she was thirsty. At the table by her side was the cup measured out by Constance. Moll had tasted it when Constance had served them all. Now Moll tried it again. The first sip made her wince: it was hideously bitter. She was about to set the cup back down again, but there was nothing else to drink, and Constance must have left it there to help her sleep. With a resolute air Moll upended the cup and emptied it, setting it down on the table before falling back and smacking her lips in disgust.

Later, Moll woke with a start. There was a curious clenching sensation in her belly, as if someone had grasped her stomach and was regularly tightening their grip; a hollowness at her throat made her feel as if she was going to be sick.

She opened her eyes. There was no light, apart from a dull glow in the hearth. Joan wasn’t snoring for once and Cecily was whistling heavily as she exhaled in a deep sleep. All Moll could hear over Cecily’s breathing was a light step. She heard the door open then close, and the creaking of the stairs, the murmur of voices. It hardly seemed important.

Soon she would be well again, Moll thought dreamily, and would be released from this room to undertake her mission. That was how she looked upon it: a sacred mission to cleanse the priory. God had sent her here to show the women how they were failing Him: Agnes by her lewd behaviour with the priest, Katerine with her greed, Denise with her gluttony and drunkenness, and the treasurer with her avarice. All were guilty – not least the prioress herself.

But thought was becoming difficult. Moll was befuddled, found it hard to concentrate. The wine mixed with her medicine must be very strong, she thought. The room seemed to be whirling, and she still had that feeling of nausea.

God was pleased. As she drifted off to sleep, that reflection soothed her. She had begun to show each of her sisters the error of their ways, and she was convinced that her words would soon begin to bear fruit, no matter how much they disliked it – or her.

Lady Elizabeth of Topsham, prioress of St Mary’s in Belstone, jerked awake, her eyes opening wide in an instant.

She hardly dared move. Something must have caused her to waken, and in the dark of her curtained bed her imagination took flight: a draw-latch had broken in and was even now preparing to attack her; a serf, bitter at the priory’s taxes, had decided to take revenge on the woman responsible – herself; or maybe it was a felon desperate for sex, full of lusty dreams of young, nubile nuns. Her heart thumped; she was almost sure she could hear the rasping breath of a broken-down villein, hear his shuffling footsteps approach, his hand gripping a dagger. Cowering back, she glanced about her for a weapon, but there was nothing – what would there be on a bed?

Shrinking back, covered in a cold sweat, she prepared for the inevitable, determined to behave with dignity. But suddenly she realised her dog was silent. The intruder must have silenced Princess! With a courage born of the desire to protect her dog, Lady Elizabeth resolved to look her attacker in the face. She reached out and jerked the bed’s curtains aside.

Her fire crackled in the hearth, its glow giving off enough light to see that she was safe: the chest at the foot of her bed was unopened, as was the small cupboard at its side; her door was still shut, the window shuttered, although the movement of the tapestry showed breezes were gaining entry through the broken panes.

Princess, who slept on her own cushion near Elizabeth’s bed, gazed up at her with bleared eyes. The terrier yawned, stretched and shook herself, before slowly making her way to the bedside and gazing up. Lady Elizabeth reached down and lifted her onto the bed. Princess nuzzled affectionately at her chin before curling up. Smiling, the prioress scratched at the terrier’s head, glad that the dog appeared well again. Earlier Elizabeth had thought Princess might die. The dog had been taken with another severe bout of vomiting.

Elizabeth wondered what could have woken her. It wasn’t Princess, for she had been asleep, so who – or what – had? Her heart was still beating with almost painful intensity; her waking terror had not left her. She hardly thought it could be a dream, yet there was nothing to concern her.

It was a huge relief to hear footsteps. Crisp, echoing, in the chill air of the cloister, they were proof that her world was unchanged. It was the nun going to the bell to call everyone to prayer.

She pulled her miniver counterpane up to her chin, snuggling down beneath her blankets, squirming. Princess grumbled to herself at being disturbed.

It was impossible to ignore the dog. Princess had been the prioress’s companion for seven years, and over that time had taken a firm hold on the woman’s heart. That was why Princess’s repeated seizures were becoming so alarming. First the dog whined, then began panting, before vomiting and emptying her bowels. Last evening Elizabeth had been worried lest the terrier wouldn’t see the dawn, but after an hour or two Princess had lapped thirstily at her bowl of water, into which Elizabeth had put a little wine for strength, and fallen into a deep sleep.