Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

Simon lifted his leg so that he sat straddling the bench, facing the young girl. She spoke with an easy assurance based upon certainty, and Simon was experienced enough in interrogating felons to recognise the truth in her voice. All his life he had held priests, monks, nuns, canons, canonesses and all the other confusing clerical folk in high esteem, thinking them somehow above such foolery and pettiness. Now he saw that all men and women were alike: if they wanted power, they would fight for it, and those who sought power over other people were by definition the very men and women who should never be allowed it.

Naturally he excluded himself from this calculation.

Rose added, “Margherita has dropped poison into the ears of all the nuns at every opportunity. That my mother killed the first novice is only the latest lie.”

“How did you hear that?”

“You spoke loudly in the tavern.”

He had to grin in mute recognition of her skill as a spy while she laughed aloud once more. Then a faint creasing of her brow made him give her an enquiring look.

She glanced away, almost coquettishly “I just wonder whether Margherita has told any other stories,” she said.

“Forgive me, but you appear very attached to your mother for a girl who left this place to rebel.”

“Is it any surprise? I was terribly upset when I found she was my mother, and tried to hurt her as cruelly as I could. I whored for pennies, when all my mother wanted was for me to be happy and safe. She was trying to protect me from shame and save me embarrassment, but all I saw was that she had hidden herself from me – rejected me, if you like.”

“Although in reality she had managed to keep you with her all your life, instead of being sent away to another convent, and presumably she made sure you were educated.”

“Educated? Oh, yes. I could read to you from any book in the convent, or add up any of the figures on any of the account rolls. Not many here can do so well as me. I think I even made Margherita nervous.”

“Why so?”

“Oh, when I went too near, she’d cover up her accounts before she’d talk to me, as though she was hiding them in case she’d made a mistake. The last treasurer often messed things up. In fact, Margherita had to correct many of the older account rolls when she took on the job.”

“I’ve heard so much about money here,” Simon mused. “It seems the most important thing in the life of this convent.”

“Of course it is. Without money the place would collapse. Haven’t you heard about Polsloe? Bishop Stapledon himself has had to order them to keep better control of their accounts, keeping records of what the bailiffs and reeves bring in, and making sure that everything is noted down. That’s the only way to prevent the lazy buggers thieving all the convent’s money.”

“You don’t have a very high regard for the men,” Simon observed with a smile.

She didn’t return it. In a cold voice, she said, “When you sell your body to a man you lose respect for him. You soon learn that one man is much like another when his tunic is lifted and his hose are down.”

Simon cleared his throat with swift embarrassment, but she grinned and widened her eyes at him. “Mind, I’d be happy to keep an open mind with you, Bailiff.”

Outside the church, Luke stood trying to keep a calm demeanour while the painful thudding of his heart threatened to burst his chest asunder. That poisonous old bitch! She had no right to rail at him for his misbehaviour, not after giving birth to Rose. Luke knew all about Rose, oh yes. Who didn’t inside this damned convent? At least he’d never fathered a child on a nun; his sins were trifling compared to hers.

But her threat had struck home with a terrifying accuracy. It had only been a short time before that he had been thinking about his good fortune in knowing the right cleric to bribe in Exeter, but if the prioress was to go over his head to Walter Stapledon, the Bishop of Exeter, then Luke could be dragged from this place in a moment. And knowing Stapledon, that was just what the pompous bastard would do. He would remember his message to Bertrand and demand that Luke be shoved away, far away.

Luke’s one consolation was that the place had lost much of its attraction now with the communicating door locked there was going to be little opportunity for meeting Agnes or any of the other girls.

Wincing, Luke pushed himself away from the church wall upon which he had been leaning and headed for the frater. From the look of the sky he had another hour before he had to preside over Sext, High Mass and None. Plenty of time for a jug of wine. He fetched a large jug and pot and sat on a bench in the doorway. The snow had all but gone in the cloister, and while the air was chilly, Luke hardly noticed it.

It was blasted irritating, he thought, throwing his head back to polish off the first cup. Sombrely he refilled it. Knowing he would be evicted from this pleasant and convenient job was almost enough to make him weep with rage. There were other novices whose virtues he had hardly had an opportunity to study. The only ones he had really got close to were Moll, Katerine, and Agnes. And only Agnes had fulfilled his needs.

No, it wasn’t right that he should be thrown from the place. He would have to find a way to escape the sentence – but how?

At that moment he saw the suffragan bishop return through the alley into the cloister, accompanied by a hang-dog figure whom Luke was surprised to recognise as Elias. Paul appeared to be waiting for them, and Luke saw Bertrand beckon the canon imperiously.

Intrigued, Luke knocked back his third pot and stretched his legs out, watching the three men through narrowed eyes. Bertrand issued instructions and waved off the two others like a herder shooing his geese before turning and making his way to the frater. He wore the smile of a man who had achieved something and anticipated a reward before too long.

Luke reviewed all he had heard of the suffragan. Bertrand was vain, self-opinionated, and very ambitious. He longed for an opportunity of advancement – everyone knew that – and yet was stuck here in Stapledon’s see. Given the right prompting, Luke felt sure that Bertrand could be a useful ally in his defence, and he smiled politely up at the suffragan bishop, waving at the seat next to him and filling his own cup, he offered it to Bertrand.

The bishop took it gladly. His buttocks and thighs ached after sitting so long in that cramped position, and the strong red wine smelled wonderfully good. “It is most kind of you, my friend,” he said, dropping down on the bench. Ah yes, very good! I have been in need of this!“

“You’ve been inspecting the grounds?”

Bertrand glanced at his innocent, enquiring expression over the rim of his pot. “I have been investigating a couple of things. Taking a careful look around.”

“Terrible about the two girls,” Luke said sorrowfully. “One can only imagine how the good Bishop, my Lord Walter Stapledon will respond.”

“He’ll respond with extreme anger, as any good priest should.”

“Why of course! And yet, he’d not want the village gossips to get wind, would he?” Luke said. “While the prioress still holds sway she must be supported. Even if it means finding scapegoats.”

“There will be no scapegoats. Only the guilty will be punished,” Bertrand growled. “Where did you hear such a rumour?”

“Oh, her Ladyship wouldn’t confide in me, I assure you,” said Luke off-handedly.

“Why not?”

“Let’s just say that she and I have often had our disagreements.”

Bertrand refilled his pot and gazed at Luke contemplatively. “I have the impression that many wouldn’t mourn her passing if she were to be moved to a new convent.”