Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

Agnes hadn’t liked Moll either. This girl was quiet and self-contained, only seventeen years old, with thick red-gold hair and green eyes. Her face was heavily freckled, which added to her attractiveness, although Elizabeth felt inwardly that there was something wrong about her looks: a certain sharpness of feature that boded an unkind nature.

The prioress saw Agnes glance in her direction before walking to the door that led up to the dorter and infirmary with that sedate, gliding motion of hers. She stood taller than Katerine by at least half a head, and her body was already more full. Her hips were broad, her breasts large, while Katerine had the figure of a boy, much as poor Moll had had.

Agnes was no threat to the smooth running of the convent. She had her faults, but Lady Elizabeth was not of a mind to confront her with them. The priests were often talking about taking splinters out of a man’s eye while a plank remained in your own, and she was uncomfortably aware of her own failings. Either the girl would grow out of her sins or she would leave before taking her vows.

The other nuns returned from the frater. Margherita came out with Joan, talking conspiratorially. They looked odd, Margherita large and square, almost masculine, Joan short and wiry, slim and with the compact frame of an older woman, although whiplash strong. Elizabeth felt a shiver run through her body. Unconsciously she pulled her robes tighter about her, tugging the woollen cloak more firmly over her shoulders. Something didn’t feel right. There was a tension in the air. She could feel their baleful stare even when she turned away.

Constance, the infirmarer, had obviously not got over the death of her charge. Elizabeth regarded her doubtfully. She appeared to be drunk, was red-featured – somewhat sullen, or perhaps nervous? Her shoes dragged and she stumbled every so often, as did Denise, the sacrist. The two seemed to have formed some kind of unholy alliance against the world.

Elizabeth bent her head as if to study the papers before her, but kept her attention fixed on Constance and Denise. They made for Margherita and paused to whisper a moment at her side, their backs turned to the prioress, before walking on.

Last through the door was Emma, the cellaress. Tall, slim, sharp-faced, with a cold and humourless demeanour, she glanced at the prioress only briefly. Seeing Elizabeth’s eye upon her, she gave a dry, unfriendly smile, then walked over to Margherita.

Lady Elizabeth felt ice solidify in her belly. Something was wrong, and she had no idea what it could be.

The treasurer looked across and nodded smugly at the sight of Elizabeth’s pinched and anxious expression.

“I came as quickly as I could, Peter,” Sir Baldwin said, marching quickly into the hall of Peter Clifford, the Dean of Crediton’s canonical church. And so he had, riding speedily over the dangerous roads, wondering all the time what Crediton’s priest could want. It was rare for Peter Clifford to make such an urgent request for Baldwin’s help.

The hall was modern, with a good fireplace set into the wall. Logs hissed and crackled, their flames throwing a healthy glow about the room. The unhealthy fresh air was shuttered out, and wholesome tallow candles spat and smoked in the corners of the room. Peter Clifford’s table stood at the opposite wall from the fire, but on this chilly day he had dragged chairs before the hearth. He was not alone; there was a second man at his side.

“It is good of you to come, old friend,” said Peter. “Permit me to introduce you to Bishop Bertrand, the suffragan bishop of Exeter.”

Bowing his head while Bishop Bertrand solemnly blessed him, Baldwin had to suppress a shudder of revulsion. Bertrand’s voice betrayed his French birth.

Baldwin had nothing against those with a French accent particularly, but a priest was a different matter. He distrusted French priests for the same reason Bertrand would almost certainly have retracted his blessing, had he known that Baldwin was a renegade Templar. The French clergy had joined in the condemnation of the Order almost to a man. Some were no doubt motivated by greed: they had scrambled to take over churches and lands. Others were scared of the Pope’s displeasure; some believed the accusations of sacrilegious and anti-Christian worship and thought it right that they should persecute men who participated in such obscene acts. Bertrand looked to Baldwin as if he fell into the first category. He had the disapproving mien of the professional churchman, as if dubious whether he could be contaminated by being too close to a secular knight of heaven alone knew what background.

Respectfully Baldwin stood back. He had to admit that the man probably had good reason to look suspicious. The knights and barons of England were taking advantage of the weakness of King Edward II to indulge in their own petty land wars, especially those who could rely on the favour of the King, such as the Despenser family. Hugh the Younger, son of Hugh Despenser the Older, seemed to have an insatiable appetite for fresh lands. Baldwin had heard that his greed had led to an upsurge of discontent in the Welsh March, where he was attempting to line his pocket at the expense of his neighbours. It would be no surprise if they should all collaborate against him; the March was ever a source of vicious warfare and was run as a series of private fiefdoms, each lord having his own army. Now matters had grown so serious, Baldwin had been told, that the King himself had travelled to Gloucester to ban any large assemblies of men, but his command had been ignored and armies were gathering.

It was just one more proof of discontent within the kingdom, and Baldwin was growing concerned that England could explode into violence.

“Sir Baldwin,” Peter said, offering him a seat and motioning to a servant to pour wine, “I’m terribly sorry to have asked you here at such short notice, but I wasn’t sure to whom I could turn.”

Peter Clifford was a tall, thin, ascetic priest with a shock of white hair marred by his tonsure. His complexion was pale now, because he had forgone his usual pleasures of hunting and hawking this winter, spending all his free hours in the church’s cloisters bent over the pages of his account books while he tried to finish off the internal decoration of the recently built church. Today, however, Baldwin thought he looked more tired than usual. Underlying his pallid features was a deep anxiety, bred of fear, and at the sight Baldwin realised the seriousness of his summons.

“I am honoured you felt you could turn to me,” he said gently. “But how can I help you?”

Peter Clifford pulled his chair nearer to the knight’s. “Sir Baldwin, what we are about to tell you is confidential. It falls under the same secrecy as the confessional, you understand? It is the business of Holy Mother Church, and must never be divulged.”

“I shall keep secret whatever you tell me.”

Peter glanced over at Bertrand. The bishop gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Peter leaned back in his chair as the bishop rested his elbows on his knees and minutely studied Baldwin.

To Baldwin’s eye the bishop himself looked as though he would have benefited from more exercise and a diet of good red meat. Bertrand was surely in his early fifties, a stooped, prim-looking fellow with a long narrow face and sharp little eyes. His mouth was small and pursed, with bloodless lips, giving his face a sour appearance. His left hand was withered, and he left it in his lap, emphasising points with his right alone.

“Sir Baldwin, I came here to ask the dean for his aid because I find myself caught in a cleft stick. I am sure you know that the good Bishop of Exeter is the Lord High Treasurer, and is with the King. In his absence he instructed me to ensure that the convents within his See are all obeying the strictures of their Rules. I am the visitor, and for the last two months I have been going to all the nunneries and monasteries in the diocese.”