Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

Joan cast her a sly look, and Constance lifted an eyebrow sardonically. At the sight Joan grinned and settled herself back in her chair.

Constance mixed spices with wine in a jug and set it near the fire. As she passed, she touched Joan’s hand with gratitude, for the older woman’s meaning was all too clear to her: all nuns failed occasionally, and there was always mercy and forgiveness. A moment later, Joan rose and went from the room. Constance returned to her bench; she felt little desire for forgiveness. She would trade it for an hour in Elias’s arms any day, and no matter how many kindly words dear Joan gave her, she would always remember her lover’s strong embrace.

Elias – whom she had told only the previous night that Katerine had threatened to expose them…

“I am deeply sorry that this has happened to your friend,” Lady Elizabeth said when she and Simon arrived in the cloister. “Let me know if there is anything I can do to help you.”

“Thank you. Of course the matter is in Bishop Bertrand’s hands…”

“Let’s not try to fool each other, eh, Bailiff? The good bishop loathes me, and the feeling is mutual. If he can, he will see me thrown from here, while you have a perfectly natural desire to avenge your friend. As far as I am concerned, that makes you much more likely to catch the murderer.”

Simon grinned. “Very well – but Bertrand carries the responsibility. Do you mind if I speak to your nuns here?”

She set her head to one side. “No,” she said at last. “But do treat them gently. Some of the women here are not used to meeting men at all, let alone being interrogated.”

Simon promised to be careful and left her to return to her desk while he walked to the nuns’ frater. He wanted to see if he could learn anything from the women about the dead novice.

There were only two in the room: one nun and a novice, sitting on a bench up near the screens. Recognising the sacrist, Denise, he considered a moment, then approached.

“Ah, the bailiff!” Denise raised her pot in salutation. She was drunk, although not yet incapable. Wine had trailed down her chin to puddle on her breast, and her eyes were too bright. “So you haven’t been harmed yet?”

Simon stiffened, but forced his tone to remain easy. “Denise, you know that Katerine is dead and my friend hurt. Did you see anything?”

She fixed upon him a face filled with the vacuity of drunkenness. Lifting her pot, she drank, spilling more of the drink down her tunic. At last she took the pot away and grunted with pleasure. “Bailiff, this has been a terrible shock. I was sitting in here when I heard someone cry out, and a few minutes later I saw poor Katerine being carried out from the church and taken to rest with Moll. Poor Katerine! Awful! I’m not used to bloodshed, you know,” she declared, peering once more into her cup and taking a deep draught.

“Was anyone here with you?”

“Oh, yes. Agnes here was with me all the time. I don’t know if she noticed anything.”

“I saw nothing. I heard noises from the canons’ cloister, but that’s all.”

“You heard nothing apart from that?” Simon asked. “And you were both in here?”

Agnes wouldn’t meet his look, leaving it to Denise to say, “What else could we have seen, Bailiff? We were here. It’s not as if we would have had any reason to wander in the canons’ side, is it?”

Jeanne was in the hall when she heard them. Immediately she dropped the tapestry she had been stitching and ran to the door.

When she was young, her parents had both been murdered by trail bastons, the foul club-men who had wandered the land in the last years of King Edward I – this king’s father. These sounded like another band of men-at-arms marching. It was a distinctive noise: the tinny clattering of many pots and griddles knocking together where they were hooked on the outside of the wagons, the dull, hollow squeaking of ill-greased axles, the rattle and thump of heavy wheels striking ruts, the tramp, tramp of feet, the occasional shout and jeering laugh. All these noises could be from a large entourage, one with which the King had surrounded himself, and when she fearfully stared out, she saw a procession of men, wagons and carts, all well-covered against the cold, all faceless under their hats.

Since the visit of Stapledon’s messenger, Jeanne had been worried that trail bastons could come here. Furnshill was almost on the road from Tiverton to Exeter. Seeing them now, she was suddenly convinced it was the army of the Despensers.

She was aware of a thickening sensation in her throat, and the hairs on her scalp tingled; her legs felt as if they couldn’t support her. There was a growing muzziness in her head, an inability to think. She wanted to escape – but she couldn’t. Her duty was to her husband’s manor and house; Jeanne was the wife of a knight.

The recollection cured her. By God’s good grace, she would acquit herself like the lady she was. Striding to the door she shouted, “Edgar!” and ran to the yard behind the house. Here, normality prevailed. Men exercised horses, others idled between jobs, passing the time of day with dairymaids and house-servants.

Hearing her shout, Edgar rushed from the stables, an expression of mild surprise on his face.

“There is a force in the road. We must arm the men and…”

She was talking to the air. At her first words Edgar had bolted for the screens, and now he stood at the far side of the threshold, a stout pike hidden behind the door where he could grab it at need.

Feeling somewhat ridiculous, Jeanne trailed after him. “Shall I call the men to arms?”

Edgar surveyed the men who now marched up the lane to the manor, then shook his head. “They don’t look like outlaws, and if they were Despensers, we’d have heard. They’d have razed the land on their way here, and we’d have seen refugees passing for hours.”

“Then who are they?” she demanded, peering over his shoulder.

As she spoke, a man riding a pony near the front rode back to a man on a tall grey destrier. While Jeanne watched, the pony’s rider nodded, whirled around and set off towards the house at a canter. Soon he was at the door, a youngish man with a round face and angry features beneath a wide-brimmed felt hat. He sat hunched on his pony as if frozen.

“My Lord begs your kindness, and asks would it be possible to rest his horses and men here overnight?”

Edgar was about to answer when Jeanne spoke up, her hand on his sleeve. “Normally I’d be glad to offer comfort to weary travellers, but my husband isn’t here, and without his permission I cannot allow strangers to enter.”

The messenger hawked and spat, then tilted his hat back on his head. “Are you sure you couldn’t allow us just a couple of hours before your fire, my Lady? We’ve ridden far this day already, and the air has practically frozen our innards, we’ve been out in it so long.”

“The Lady of the house has spoken,” Edgar said, and although there was no curtness in his voice, his tone sufficed to demonstrate that he would ensure her will was obeyed.

“Oh, very well. I don’t even know why he wanted to come to such a miserable spot!” the young man said, staring at the house with evident distaste. He turned in his saddle to call back. “My Lord, they won’t let us in, not even to sit before the fire.”

“Really?”

And with that voice Jeanne felt her trepidation fall away.

“My Lord Bishop! I didn’t know it was you – of course you are welcome, and your men too!” She gasped with relief and delight.

It was at the door to the infirmary and dorter that Simon saw the old woman. Joan sat contentedly on a bench sipping at a large cup of wine, her legs stretched out before her. She opened her eyes as Simon approached.