Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

“I can guarantee that the infirmarer is safe. She was not involved in the first death, and as for the second – well, she was with me.”

A canon helped Hugh carry Baldwin on a stretcher improvised from a door, while Simon and the prioress watched, calling out useful exhortations to be careful which twice almost caused an accident.

The knight was partly conscious now; blearily, he gazed about him as he was carried through the church and into the nuns’ cloister. Here he was taken past a row of silent, awestruck women, all of whom stared at him: one or two, Simon noticed, with that speculative expression that denoted an interest in more than just his wound as they took in his broad shoulders, strongly muscled arms and thick neck.

Hugh also saw their covert glances, and tried to avert his gaze. It was only one day ago he had been so overcome by loneliness that he had been thinking about silken-skinned, available women, and now he was confronted by what felt like a horde of them; whereas he had expected them to look down upon him, he was now given the unsettling impression that most were mentally undressing him. It made him want to cover his groin with a hand.

He noticed one in particular. A slim young woman stood near the angle of a wall, slightly apart from the others. Her thin linen veil appeared transparent the way the sun slanted down at her, and he was sure he could see the line of her lips beneath, soft and full. As her eyes met his, he could swear that her smile broadened, and she gave him a look he would have interpreted as inviting if he had seen it on a girl like Rose in a tavern. He could have wept.

Baldwin felt as weak as a newborn puppy. His head was excruciating; liquid fire was running up and down the side of his scalp; his brain had expanded, or his skull contracted, he knew not which, and his eyes were apparently being forced from their sockets, like pips squeezed between finger and thumb. It made it necessary to keep his eyes closed for as long as possible.

“Can you hear me?” He heard Simon’s voice from his side, but if he was to move his mouth the top of his head would surely explode. He twitched his hand, frowning with the pain.

“Baldwin, you were struck on the head. You’ve got a great gash in your scalp. It’s not serious, but you’ll have to rest.”

Vague memories came back to him now. They were in a convent, the one at Belstone, and they were helping someone… a bishop. Not Stapledon, though, someone else. Baldwin struggled to recall what they were doing here, but his head was hurting abominably. Every time he shifted on the bed it felt as if someone was thrusting a red-hot knife into his skull.

“Baldwin? Can you hear me?” Simon said again, and when there was no reply, he took his friend’s hand, repeating his question and watching Baldwin’s face anxiously until he felt the knight’s hand grip his own. For Simon it was proof that his friend was not in immediate danger. Simon, like most men, had witnessed plenty of tournaments and mock battles, and had seen men in the ring fighting with clubs and swords. He knew as well as any man that, provided the injured man could hear and move after a few minutes, he was unlikely to die. The others, the ones who expired, were the men who could neither hear nor move after an hour or so. They seemed to pass from unconsciousness into catalepsy, and then died.

Simon leaned back, overcome with relief at the thought that his friend would probably recover. Not that there was any guarantee, of course. Locked-jaw always lingered after a cut no matter how small, and once that hideous disease had taken a man in its terrible grip, it would squeeze the life from him without compunction. Simon feared the locked-jaw more than the madness, the foaming at the mouth that a mad dog’s bite could give a man. Locked-jaw led to a slow, agonising starvation while the mind was left free to appreciate the complete indignity and horror of the death.

And someone had tried to inflict this on his friend. Simon felt blind fury rising again, and had to force it down. Such emotions were not seemly in a nunnery.

Seeing the prioress beckon, he went to her side.

“Bailiff, this is the infirmarer, Constance. She has had some experience of wounds like your friend’s.”

“The best cure for him is sleep, Bailiff,” Constance said earnestly. “But with that horrible wound, he’ll not be able to get it. I want to give him a draught that will let him rest.”

“What sort of draught?” Simon asked suspiciously.

The prioress laughed quietly. “I know your mind, Bailiff. Trust me, and trust my infirmarer. Constance here knows what is needful for your friend.”

So she might, Simon thought to himself, but if she was the murderer, she might also know what was needful for her own protection. He watched with worried eyes while the infirmarer poured a few drops of syrup from a bottle and mixed them with wine from a jug. Then, tenderly holding Baldwin by the nape of his neck, she held the cup to his lips. As soon as he had finished the draught, Simon saw his friend’s eyes wrinkle slightly at the corners as though he was smiling in gratitude. Constance carefully helped him to lie back on the pillows, his head turned sideways. Baldwin’s breathing became more even and less laboured as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Simon glanced enquiringly at the prioress. She gestured towards the door, and the bailiff nodded and followed her out. Once at the landing area above the stairs, he stopped, and beckoned Hugh, grasping his servant by the shoulder.

“Hugh, don’t let Baldwin out of your sight, all right? Someone might try to kill him in here, so keep your eyes open and your wits about you.”

Luke heard the canons talking about Katerine’s death when he was approaching the church for Terce and the Morrow Mass. He saw Jonathan and curled his lip, hurrying past. Luke knew perfectly well about Jonathan’s liking for young men and Luke had no wish to be the latest focus of his desires.

All the canons knew about Jonathan. He was a pleasant enough fellow when sober, but every now and again he would get drunk, and when he did, if a youthful or impressionable man was nearby, Jonathan could fix upon him to the embarrassment of the rest of the clergy.

Jonathan never intended to cause offence, but equally he knew that his interest in other men was viewed by most of his clerical brothers to be an abomination. He was convinced of it himself. That was why he went on his knees to pray, to try to expiate the sin of his lust.

Usually his – Luke could only think of them as infatuations – would wear out quickly, just as soon as the object of his desires became aware of the direction of his thoughts. Recently, Brother Paul had appeared to be humouring the older man, and Luke wondered whether he should bring the matter to the attention of the prioress – but only for a moment. He was too open to accusations of seducing novices himself.

When Jonathan saw Luke, he hurried over to him. Luke froze, but quickly forgot his revulsion as Jonathan told him what had happened to Sir Baldwin and the novice.

Luke raised his brows and expressed astonishment. “But this is terrible! We’ll have to pray for the knight’s full and speedy recovery. Did anyone see the girl jump?”

“No one, unless the knight himself did,” Jonathan said. “Apparently Sir Baldwin looked up just before he was struck, or so Paul says.”

“Oh?” said Luke. “Well, no doubt Sir Baldwin will have told the suffragan.”

“No, the knight was unconscious when they took him to the frater, and now he’s safe in the nuns’ infirmary, but still not talking, so I hear.”

Luke carried on, but at a slower pace. Troubling thoughts occupied his mind as he slowly dressed himself for the service. It was a great shame about Kate.