Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

“May I sit with you?” he asked.

She shrugged. “If by that you mean, can you ask me questions, say so!”

Simon grunted as he lowered himself, rubbing at his temples.

Joan gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry. I get so used to being the first person anyone comes to for help that sometimes I make myself sound tetchy to grab a little peace.”

“The nuns all come to you?”

“Oh, yes. I am the oldest. They think I have a monopoly on commonsense and experience.”

“Where were you today when Katerine died?”

She gave a sad smile. “I was walking in the orchard, Bailiff. Alone. I wish I’d been here to pray for poor Katerine, falling like that.”

“She didn’t fall by accident. She was murdered.”

Joan’s eyes opened with horror. “But… How can you be sure? I thought she had slipped or something.”

Simon didn’t explain his theory. “Were you there for long?”

“Not very. I needed to clear my head a little. I am used to work, Bailiff, and spending all my days indoors before a fire seems strangely boring. I had thought sitting at a fire would be a delightful retirement – all pleasures can pale.”

“Did you see anyone here when you came back?”

“Only Denise.” Joan wrinkled her nose. “She was rather drunk again, I am afraid.”

“Where was she?”

“She’s the sacrist. Where would she be? I saw her leaving the church after cleaning up.”

“Alone?” he asked, and Joan nodded.

“Everyone seems to have been alone,” he grumbled.

She chuckled. “It’s the duty of the contemplative life! But there is one thing in my favour.”

“And that is?”

“That I had no reason to want to hurt poor Katerine. I know not all the novices liked her – in fact, I think Agnes and she had fallen out over something – not that either confided in me.”

Simon motioned for her to continue.

“I know little about it. When Agnes first came here, she soon befriended Katerine, but more recently they have hardly spoken.“

“How did Agnes get on with Moll?”

“I think most of the women here found Moll difficult. Someone who wishes to be a saint can be tedious company, especially when she considers it her duty to report any misbehaviour. Not the best way to make friends.“

“Who else could have wanted to see Moll and Katerine dead?”

“Although the nuns and novices here often confide in me, I assure you none of them have admitted to murder,” Joan said. She shivered. “And now I think it is time I returned to the boredom of watching a fire. Alas! Although I find sitting in front of the flames dull, I still crave the heat.”

“One last question, please. Did Denise like Moll and Katerine?” Joan hesitated. “Denise? What on earth makes you ask that?” she said lightly, but as she walked through the door to the infirmary, Simon saw her throw him a look over her shoulder.

Jeanne had a quick eye, and while Edgar organised the servants to see to the bishop’s men, she sat him in Baldwin’s own chair before the fire and served him herself, darting little glances over his embroidered robes, the heavy rings on his fingers, the weighty belt with all the enamelled metalwork, the expensive Spanish boots of such soft, supple leather and the velvet hat which must surely have come from an exotic source. It was plain to her eye that the man who had left Exeter as a well-known but honourable cleric had enhanced himself by his position as the country’s Treasurer.

It wasn’t only the metalwork on his fingers and hanging around his neck, it was his overall form. Bishop Stapledon, the last time Jeanne had seen him, had been quite slim in his build, but now he had grown portly. His second chin had been superseded by a third, and his belt appeared to be finding the task of encircling his girth a sore trial, from the way that it cut into his belly.

But his smile was the same. Bishop Stapledon, Jeanne knew, had already created the new Stapledon Hall at Oxford, and had founded twelve scholarships for students of grammar in Exeter, as well as granting many licences for clergy to live outside their parishes so that they could go to Oxford and improve their learning. He took his bishopric seriously, always trying to improve the men whose task it was to help the souls of the parishioners on their journey to heaven.

“My Lady, you look very well,” he sighed as he leaned back in his chair, pot of warmed wine grasped in his hand. “Marriage must suit you.”

“It would be pleasant indeed, had I more opportunity to enjoy my husband’s company,” she said lightly.

Stapledon laughed. “There are many who think that.”

“And many who will shortly think it,” she agreed sombrely.

“You are thinking of the conflict to come?”

“What else occupies the minds of most people now, my Lord?”

Stapledon idly ran his finger around the rim of his pot. When he looked up to meet her gaze, his face was serious, his brow wrinkled with concern. “It would be troubling indeed if it should come to war. The country doesn’t need the King to fight with the barons.”

“Yet it appears that the King’s friends are forced to go to war,” Jeanne said carefully. She liked the bishop and enjoyed his company, but he was Treasurer to the King, and she had heard that he had won the job from the support of the Despensers. It would be best that she didn’t let him know that her own loyalties were with the Welsh March barons who were showing a united front against the Despensers. Such information could be useful to Baldwin’s enemies; and one never knew when a friend like Stapledon could become a dangerous ally, or an enemy himself. It was best to be circumspect.

He spoke quietly. “The country doesn’t need to rip itself apart. God knows, we have more than enough enemies over the water keen to see us destroy ourselves. And those Scottish bastards are always at our back with their long knives…” He stared into the fire, his face drawn and serious – more so than Jeanne had ever seen before.

She poured wine. “While you are here, let us forget your great position in the country, and talk only of local matters. You great prelates, you often forget that the most important matters are not those which are dealt with by the King’s Parliament, but those which are handled by the burgesses of Crediton, or the tinners of Devon, in their little taverns. That is where the really interesting debates occur, and the issues of great moment are discussed.”

Stapledon smiled, a little sadly, she thought. “Yes. Matters here are a great deal more entertaining. I look forward to spending more time at Exeter – I am on my way there now.”

“Truly?” Jeanne asked. “Can you take time away from your work with the King?”

“With the King? My dear Lady, I have resigned my post. I am no more a national figure, the hated tax-collector of England. I despise the situation we are now in, with threats of war rattling shutters up and down the land, and I am simply the Bishop of Exeter once more. Damn all politicians, say I!”

After Morrow Mass, Simon went with the canons through the church and out to the cloister. Here the canons left him to go to their chapterhouse, the little chamber where they would discuss matters relating to the church and its work. At the other side of the church Simon knew that the prioress was holding her own chapter with all her nuns, and at this moment, alone, without the advice of his friend, without even his servant, Simon suddenly felt abandoned.

He was a bailiff, and as such had hunted down gangs, escaped murderers and felons, and yet now, here in this cloister, he was more aware of his solitude than ever before. It was as if his life before was cut off from him; all the normal props and supports upon which he depended had been removed: his wife, his daughter, his servant and, of course, his friend.