Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

However there was a pile of unfitted slates near the low parapet, as if the builders had left them for use as spares as and when needed, or perhaps the canons thought this was the best place to leave them, rather than taking up storage space in the undercrofts.

When Simon examined them, he was struck by their new appearance. All looked unused. Even the top one was perfectly cut, its surface a smooth blue-black colour.

Simon turned slowly back from the pile and stared down at the roof at his feet. The girl had obviously been up here a while, for the snow had been swept clear of much of the area, and where she had clambered over the parapet she had cleared a small space of snow.

He froze; utterly immobile for a moment, he held his breath. It was so obvious, so clear that someone had tried to murder Baldwin that Simon was unable to turn and confirm the proof for a moment, fearing to find his recollection was wrong.

Slowly he swivelled around and walked the two steps back to the pile of new slates.

The slates which had no snow upon them.

Constance returned to the infirmary and found Joan sitting before the fire. Pouring her a cup of spiced wine, Constance stood back to watch the older woman drink. It was peaceful now that Cecily was asleep again, this time drunk on wine rather than dwale and poppy seed, and Joan was clearly enjoying the quiet.

There was no such peace for Constance. She was confused, anxious and scared. It was while she was still talking to the prioress that the message had arrived that poor Katerine was dead, fallen from the roof, almost braining Sir Baldwin en route.

Everyone had heard stories of nuns who lost their faith and believed that they had the right to end their lives, denying God’s own supreme responsibility for choosing how and when to call His people to Himself, but Constance would never have believed that of Katerine. Especially since she had always appeared so full of life. She was the last person to look for death. Constance privately thought the girl must have slipped – but that begged the question of what Katerine was doing on the roof in the first place. Spying on the canons?

It was a thought. The girl was always happy to use information to her own advantage, as Constance knew only too well, although what she could have hoped to have seen up on the roof was a puzzle.

Constance left the jug by the fire and walked back to the little chamber, standing in the doorway and staring about her.

Only a few nights ago, when Moll died, she had told Elias of their joint parenthood, while they lay naked in each other’s arms on her mattress. At first he had not wanted to believe it, his face registering shock, but that was only for a moment. Then his expression changed. His eyes had creased, his mouth broke into a wide smile and he had pulled her towards him, embracing her fervently.

It was his idea to leave the convent. How could they stay? he had demanded, his strong, muscled arms wrapped about her, talking softly into the side of her neck while she stared up at the ceiling, tears filling her eyes.

He still wanted her to go with him, she knew; he would be waiting for her down at the iron grille that separated the nunnery from the canons. Waiting for her answer.

And she would have gone, if Katerine hadn’t accosted her. That had forced her to decide: Elias or the convent. At least the prioress had been kind; understanding. There were rumours that she herself had once fallen in love, and had only come to this convent after being thrown from another in disgrace. Perhaps that was why she was less harsh with her nuns and novices: because she knew what it was to hold a man in her arms, to feel doubt and dual loyalties, one to God, and the other to a man.

Constance stared at her belly with near revulsion. It had never occurred to her that she could come to this. Elias had been a flirtation, an amusement snatched between services and the routines of claustral life. She had enjoyed flirting so much that one day she had shamefully passed near the grille, and when he made to catch at her robe, she made a show of sweeping it away, casually allowing her hand to pass so close to his that he could hardly help but catch it.

As soon as his fingers gripped hers, she felt the blood stop in her veins. She was frozen in time; her eyes transfixed by his powerful fingers; scarred, grime-ingrained fingers they were, but to her they were beautiful. She imagined how they would feel upon her body, scratching slightly as the nicks and calluses scraped over her. She pulled away, scared of her own emotions, and for the rest of that day she had lived in a dream, a wonderful dream in which Elias held her hand and smiled at her.

It had not been easy for him to get to her room. She had tutored him carefully, and had given her patients dwale to ensure their silence. The only risk had been that he might be seen entering the dorter, and then, once inside, that Princess might hear him. The little dog barked whenever she heard a man in the nuns’ area. It was because of her that Constance had given Elias a bottle of poppy syrup. Princess often went to the men’s cloister, and there would steal any food available. Elias lured her into eating marrow bones, and fed her small pieces of bread soaked in poppy syrup.

Each time Elias had gone to see Constance the dog had been unconscious. In fact, the poppy juice worked so well that when Elias proposed that they should leave together, Constance hadn’t quibbled when he asked for a larger bottle, this time to ensure that the gatehouse was still as they passed through; they wouldn’t have to concern themselves with over-inquisitive gatekeepers.

But now Constance couldn’t leave. Partly it was the talk she had had with Lady Elizabeth. The prioress made her feel she was wanted. Oh, she’d made it clear enough that Constance would be committing a sin by leaving, but Constance believed that conceiving her child already put her beyond the pale. No, it was Elizabeth’s understanding that had struck Constance. She truly appeared to understand Constance’s confusion and fear.

There was another reason why she wasn’t sure about running away. She thought Elias might be the murderer.

Simon took a pace back from the parapet. It was a hideous drop, made still more repulsive by that revolting smear. Now he knew what he was looking for, he could see the traces of red on the wall itself. Not on the roof below – that puddle was perfectly clear. No, now he could see the vertical path cleared in the snow was not merely an area remarkable by the absence of snow, but also by a smear of red.

He was as sure as he could be that Katerine had been murdered: these traces of her blood up on the roof of St Mary’s meant that she had already been hurt before falling. Simon felt his stomach churn but not now with squeamishness. A hot, focused rage was guiding him – a rage composed of the desire for vengeance on whoever had tried to assassinate his closest friend, plus requital for the slaughter of two young women.

It was not that the two were novices, but rather that they were girls just like his own daughter Edith and the thought that someone had taken it into his or her head to kill them was so atrocious that Simon was determined to repay the debt on behalf of the two victims.

How could he prove Katerine had been murdered? Obviously if someone had heaved her over the parapet, either they had carried the dead girl up here or they had attacked her when she was already here – but if she had been conscious she would have screamed as she was pushed.

Simon was no expert, but he would have thought that carrying a girl up so many stairs would be difficult. He crouched by the door in the tower to see if there was blood on the top stairs – either drips from a bleeding wound, or smear-marks on the circular tower walls from a wounded body touching its surface as it was carried up over someone’s shoulder. There was nothing in the area around the door.