Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

Gently she rested a hand on his cheek, and was gratified to see his face ease a little, a smile lifting one corner of his mouth. He gave a quiet grunt, which she interpreted as one of pleasure, and then he was still. Watching her, Hugh was struck by the kind, maternal expression on her face. The servant knew he should distrust her as much as any of the other nuns, but he couldn’t. Her prettiness, her gentleness, her calm dedication; all militated against her being able to murder.

Constance quietly took her hand away and went back to her chamber.

Elias stood with his back to the wall gazing heavenwards for what felt like an age. The prioress must have spoken to his Constance, but surely she wouldn’t listen to the old dragon and ignore her heart? Constance knew she loved him, just as she must know he loved her – and how much! Elias groaned and clenched his teeth, his eyes closed as he shook his head from side to side. He couldn’t leave her here: what, go away without seeing his own child brought into the world? Never see his own baby? It would be unbearable! To live without Constance was intolerable, but what had the prioress said? Hadn’t she implied Constance thought he could have killed Moll?

His eyes snapped wide as he recalled her words. She had said Constance might consider that whoever had access to the dwale and had been in the infirmary… But Constance couldn’t think that he’d hurt Moll, could she? Elias slid down the wall and gripped his thighs, resting his head on his knees. Moll was an evil little minx, but why should Constance think him capable of killing her? The Lady Elizabeth had said that Katerine was dead, too. Why should anyone think him capable of hurting her?

Elias felt a cold shiver flutter down his spine, and he looked about him with a sudden premonition of doom. He would be accused and condemned; sent far away, up to the Scottish Marches, to the freezing cloisters of the North, where he would live the rest of his life in awful penance, without meat or strong wines, without ale or thick soups, but living on dry bread and cold water, perhaps locked forever in manacles.

If his own lover thought him guilty of killing the girl, how could he look to anyone else to believe in his innocence?

Elias shivered again. “Someone walking over my grave,” he said to himself automatically, and then gave a deathly grimace as he realised what he had said. It gave him an impetus. He forced himself to his feet and set off towards the stables.

“Bishop Bertrand?” Simon shouted, but he could see no one. He strolled along the path which led to the great gate, past the stables, the mill, the storerooms, garths in which cattle and sheep wandered, a great shed which held the tools and wagons, and last the smithy at the far end, far enough away for the forge to pose less of a fire risk. After this was a stable, some hundred yards away.

Simon approached the building. Peering inside, he called for the bishop again, but there was no answer, and he stood outside and kicked at pebbles while he considered what to do. Bertrand had come this way – Simon had seen him. “Rot him,” he muttered bitterly, and began to make his way back towards the guestroom.

As he passed by the smithy, he glanced inside, and happened to see a slim figure dart behind a post at the far side of the room. Simon’s feet had already taken him beyond the entrance, and he had turned his head to face the cloister when he was prompted to return and take another peep.

When the cavalcade had left, the bishop looking curiously sheepish, Jeanne and Edgar returned to the hall and stood gazing at the broken pieces of wood.

Edgar had swept all into a small pile beside the hearth, and both instinctively looked from it to the flames like a pair of conspirators.

Clearing his throat Edgar glanced at Jeanne. “My Lady…”

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “But first you need to send for a carpenter. The best in Crediton, mind. I want a new chair.”

As Simon disappeared, Bishop Bertrand gave his companion a sharp glance again, grumbling, “This is mad, we’ve been here for ages. Are you sure he was there?”

Paul smiled gently and nodded. Again.

Shifting his weight, Bishop Bertrand grunted with dissatisfaction. This was quite ridiculous. The lad had told him about the message, and remembering the way that Elias had been waiting at the grille, Bertrand could believe the young smith was about to try to leave with his woman, a nun.

To Bertrand’s mind, this was deeply suspicious behaviour. After all, two novices had been killed and the knight wounded. Even so, if Elias had nothing to do with the murders, Bertrand could understand why he might want to leave. Any canon living in a sink of corruption like this would want to get away. Although no honourable canon would subvert a nun to join him, Bertrand reminded himself.

There was no doubt that two were planning to go. Paul and Bertrand had uncovered the pair of bundles. In one Bertrand had found the little package, carefully wrapped in bits and pieces of linen. That, he knew, was incriminating and Bertrand rather looked forward to seeing how the canon tried to wriggle out of it.

Bertrand wriggled himself. His buttocks had gone to sleep. He had rested here for what felt like an age, and all they had seen so far was an apparently endless succession of dull-looking, placid horses or stolid oxen being led by equally dim-looking grooms or vapid farmworkers. The only man who looked remotely human had been the bailiff.

And it was damned uncomfortable, sitting here in the dark without a stool or even a pillow on which to rest his buttocks.

He’d tried sitting on the floor, but now he was on the packages themselves. They didn’t protect him from the freezing ground and Bertrand was uncomfortably aware that his left leg, which he had once broken in a fall from a horse, would not work when he tried to stand. It had gone to sleep some while ago.

“Where is the man? I see no sign of anyone coming. How long will the fool be?”

Paul’s face reflected none of his own doubts. “He is sure to be here shortly. I cannot say how long. No, he shall find it impossible to conceal his guilt, I think.” He froze, head cocked to one side. “Can you hear that?” he whispered.

Bertrand listened. There was the sound of hurried footsteps, ragged breathing, and a thump as someone barged the door wide open with his shoulder. Then he saw Elias dart over the floor, reach down and pull the straw aside.

“Elias?” Paul asked, standing.

“Who’s there?”

Bertrand pointed a finger solemnly and intoned, “We know what you seek, Canon. It proves your guilt that you search for it there.”

Giving a bitter laugh, Elias stood aside. “Why, Bishop? What was I looking for? There’s nothing here – see for yourself.”

“I know there isn’t,” said Bertrand. “Because we rescued it.” He tugged the bundle from beneath him and lifted it up, pulling the little flask free. “And we rescued this, Elias: your nice little bottle of poison.”

After divesting himself of his robes Luke walked slowly to the door that connected the nuns’ side of the church to the canons’ cloister. He had enjoyed himself here so often, it was always difficult to return to the men’s side.

Agnes had been an enthusiastic bedfellow for many weeks now. At first she had appeared to believe his repeated assurances that his absolution was enough to protect her, but it was obvious that her own enjoyment was the spur to her continuing assignations with him. The only time there had been any difficulties between them had been when she had seen him with Katerine.

It had not been a pleasant meeting. Katerine had taken him almost as if she was testing herself in some way, pushing herself to see how far she dared go. She had lain there with her eyes closed, silent. Not at all like Agnes. And while he was idly comparing the two, Agnes had walked in.