Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

“I was only trying to help,” Hugh said again. A thought struck him. “Could she have got up during the night when Moll was killed?”

Constance smiled at him. “Not a chance, no. I gave her so much dwale to make her sleep that not even the King’s artillery could have woken her.” Her gaze shot guiltily towards Cecily. “Cecily could have kept her awake otherwise,” she added defensively.

Hearing a muffled whimper, as if on cue, Constance hurried to Cecily’s side. She took a cloth from a bowl of scented water and wiped the girl’s brow. The invalid’s eyes opened, but they were unfocused, and stared without recognition. Constance was aware that Hugh had joined her, and the two looked down without speaking for a few moments, but then the lay sister gave a cry and made as if to pull the bedclothes from her, tossing her head from side to side.

“She’s not improving,” Constance said, almost to herself. “If her fever grows, it might burst her heart.”

“It smells, too.”

She shot Hugh a look, but saw only concern in his face; and when she sniffed, she too could smell the sweet stench of rotting flesh. She put a hand out towards the dressed arm, but the girl snatched it away, crying out as she struck a post of the bed with it. Constance was sure that Hugh was right. The girl had flushed cheeks, and her eyes looked unnaturally bright in the candlelight. Constance very gently reached out again to take hold of the arm, murmuring softly to reassure the girl, but Cecily whipped it free. Only when Hugh gripped her shoulders and held her upper arm could Constance get to the dressing, and before she removed it, she knew her efforts so far had been in vain. The smell was sickly and repellent, and as Constance took hold of the upper arm and felt the heat within the limb, she couldn’t help but throw a look at Cecily’s face.

Hugh, gripping the lay sister’s shoulders, saw Constance’s expression. It briefly reflected her sadness, her compassion – and a kind of guilt – before she set to unravelling the long strip of cloth with which the arm was bound.

Luke quietly slipped over the wall and across the yard to the western corner of the claustral buildings. From here he could look south to the church; there was no one in sight. All the nuns should by now, this late in the afternoon, be studying around the main claustral garth.

At the church, he checked along the little alley that led to the cloisters before making his way inside through the small door to the nuns’ part of the church. It was surely close to time for Vespers. He walked across the nave, genuflected absentmindedly, and was about to slip through the connecting door, which Denise had left unlocked, when the door behind him opened.

He was convinced that his heart actually stopped beating for a second; certain that it was the prioress. No matter what his carefully laid plans with the bishop might be, if she should find him here, she could have him thrown bodily from the priory, and all opportunities for advancement would be gone. His career would be over, and he would be sent to some ruined abbey or parish in the worst, most rundown part of the realm.

When he saw it was Simon, Luke almost fell to his knees in thanks to God. He turned and made as if to walk to the sacristy.

“Ah, Father Luke, I’m glad to have found you. You’ll be getting ready for the service, I suppose, but could I speak to you later?”

“Oh, Bailiff, I am most sorry. I was deep in thought and didn’t hear you approach. You wish to make your Confession?”

“Um no. Actually I was hoping you could tell me a little about the people here. Just your general impressions of them.”

Luke reflected quickly. If anyone was to enter the church, the bailiff would be giving him the perfect alibi for being in here: a questioning. The prioress would want to know how Luke and Simon had got into the province of the females, but Luke could defend himself against any charges of impropriety easily enough.

“Ask me anything – but don’t expect me to break the secrecy of the Confessional, of course.” Luke led the way to a bench at the wall and took a seat.

“I wouldn’t dream of doing that,” Simon protested. “But I am intrigued about this place and how the women all get on together.”

“It’s much like anywhere else where women congregate, I imagine.”

“No. Not at all. Rarely do you find women jockeying for position in such a flagrant manner, all racing to win the prize – Lady Elizabeth’s position.”

Luke forced a sad smile to his face. “It’s hardly a surprise, is it? Just look at the state of things here: two girls dead, the fabric of the buildings falling apart, the rumours…” he hesitated “… rumours of incontinence among some of the novices, and nuns too. It is said that they occasionally take men to their beds.”

What a hypocrite! Simon recalled Rose’s words about Luke but held his tongue: he didn’t want to lose the young vicar’s assistance yet. “And who would you think could be involved in such goings-on?”

“There are many rumours, Bailiff. One shouldn’t make too much of them. I believe there have even been malicious stories spread about me!”

“What sort of stories?”

“Untruthful stories, Bailiff. The sort of things that girls, nuns, and even some of the old women in the canonical cloister would discuss. You can’t trust such gossip, it is all too prevalent. I’ve heard tales of almost all the men, and according to the stories, they are constantly making love with every nun in the cloister. There is one thing common to all the men and women in this place: frustration. The men know the women are here, and vice versa. It is bound to create tension, isn’t it? And when there is little else for people to talk about, it is easy to see how they turn to imagining things.”

“So you think that there hasn’t been any sort of misbehaviour between the sexes?”

“If there has, I am sure that Lady Elizabeth will resign.”

“Are you?”

“Bailiff, she would have to. She is already condemned for the amount of damage done to this place – look at the roof above you! – but if any of her women were actually fornicating, that would really be the end of her.”

Simon considered. This was more complicated than he had anticipated. Every person he spoke to hinted at misdemeanours, but none was prepared to give full voice to their suspicions. “Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to murder Moll and Katerine?”

“The very idea is ridiculous. No, in short. The pair of them were lovely things, delightful. Moll was so endearing, especially with her constant search for the holy in everything. She would ask a question, and fix those lovely eyes upon you, and you felt nearer to God by her presence. And Katerine was different, but no less wonderful. She was always trying to improve things. Often she would come to me to suggest something that others hadn’t noticed. She was a sweet girl.”

Simon was unimpressed. He noted that all Luke had said so far corroborated Rose’s suggestion that he could be enjoying an affair with a nun. Out of sheer malice, Simon then asked, “And what do you think about Agnes?”

“Agnes?” Luke’s voice took on a haughty distance. “She seems to be a very serious-minded and sensible young novice. Of course, I could hardly claim to have spoken to her often, but she confesses to me regularly, and appears penitent.”

He was clearly not going to elucidate. Simon could almost hear the lock snapping shut when Luke closed his mouth. Instead the bailiff attempted a different tack. “And what of the treasurer? She strikes me as very dedicated.”

“Dedicated?” Luke repeated with a frown. “Yes, certainly that. Although she has her own troubles, I fear. Largely the result of her background.”