Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

Then he heard a shout from Elias.

When he looked, he could see no sign of the monk, but he felt sure that Elias needed him. He gave bellow and set off immediately.

“What was that?” Joan demanded, looking up.

Hugh sat still, poised on the edge of his seat. He hated sitting here while his master could be in danger, even if only from one mad nun, but he had been given his order.

Joan ran to the window. “A call – a call from your master, Hugh.”

He stood, looked down at Baldwin, then over to the window, undecided. “I can’t hear anything,“ he said wretchedly.

“I could swear it was the bailiff, and he was in pain,” Joan said, her expression anguished.

“He told me to stay here,” Hugh said, glancing back at the knight.

Baldwin shifted a little on his bed, groaned as his wound pulled. “Hugh, if Simon is in danger, you should go to him,” he said painfully. “I order you: go! I could never forgive myself if anything were to happen to him.”

Simon vaulted over a fallen trunk, ducked beneath a low branch, running along the line of the wall and staring between the trees until he saw the movement of a robe. Turning away from the wall, he soon came to the canon.

Elias was standing with his arms around Constance, and at her side, blearily glancing from Simon to Elias, was a befuddled-looking Denise.

Simon was so relieved, he almost sank to his knees in thanksgiving. Nodding to Elias, he said, “Is she all right?” There was no need for Elias to answer. Simon smiled. “You take her back. I’ll bring Denise.”

Elias and Constance needed no second prompting. They walked back to the convent, he with his arm around her shoulders while she gripped his other hand in both her own. Although her eyes were cast demurely downwards, Simon was sure he saw a tear fall down beneath her veil.

“Come on, Denise.”

“Why? What’s going on?” she demanded petulantly. “I wanted to come out for a walk with Constance, and now you want us to return. What right do you have to order me around, eh?“ She was drunk, very drunk, from the look of her, and couldn’t help but slur her words a little, even when she spoke with care, enunciating slowly.

“It’s no good, Denise,” he said. “We know the truth. Why did the girls have to die?”

“How should I know?”

“Where were you last night when Elias ran through the frater?”

“I told you: out in the buttery. I heard him running, but I only caught a glimpse of him. I was filling my jug.”

“Why should Katerine and Agnes have died, Denise?”

“Katerine was a nasty little wench who sought power over others. She even tried to blackmail me, you know. Said I was drunk before a service, the sow! Asked me for money to keep hush. And Agnes… well, she never hid the fact that she liked men. Especially,” she gave a soft belch, “that fair-haired, fair-skinned, fair-featured…” she looked about her blankly for a moment, seeking inspiration, then apparently gave up. “Priest! Nasty little man.”

“If all that were true, it was no reason to kill them!” Simon said heavily.

“I never said it was,” Denise agreed.

“So why did they die, then?”

“You’ll need to ask the killer,” she said unperturbably.

Before Simon could speak further, he saw Hugh ahead, waiting at the gate. “What are you doing here?” the bailiff asked.

“Well, we heard you shout and thought you might need help.”

“No, no. That was just because Elias had found Constance and Denise. Did you leave someone with Baldwin?”

“Joan’s there.”

Joan stood over Cecily, tut-tutting in sympathy. The girl’s features were drawn and appeared almost waxen, as if she would melt in direct sunlight or close to a warm fire.

It was strange to look down at her and see that abbreviated, mutilated stump where her arm should have been, and Joan crossed herself, thinking how curious it was that the one woman in the priory who was committed to helping the ill and bringing them back to full health had been the agent of God’s will in destroying Cecily. It was not the outcome Joan had anticipated when Cecily had gone sprawling over her leg in the laundry.

Not that it was truly intentional. It wasn’t from malice that Joan had made Cecily fall. It was God’s will; He had made her grab Cecily’s foot in that way so that He could punish Cecily for her foul language.

Joan shook her head slowly. God was kind. Perhaps He had decided to allow Cecily to survive, even though she would always carry this wound marring her looks and potential – but maybe He would let a new arm grow from the stump! That, Joan thought, would be a miracle to rank with the best.

She left the lay sister’s side and went over to Baldwin. Sitting at Hugh’s stool, she beamed kindly at him. “How is your head, Sir Knight?”

“It has been better,” he admitted.

“I am truly sorry it has given you such pain.”

Baldwin was half-asleep, groggy and feeble, and he only listened with a part of his attention, but he managed a smile. “It was hardly your fault, Sister.”

“No. It was God’s will,” she agreed seriously. “And when He decides to act, there is little ordinary people can do.”

Baldwin said. “It wasn’t God Who attacked me.”

“Anyone is only a source of good, acting as He tells us, or bad, ignoring His instructions,” she explained gently.

“Whoever dropped the slate on me was not acting for God,” Baldwin said, closing his eyes. “That person murdered a young novice, which was a blasphemy.”

“No, for God had ordained it. And she was of little importance, anyway. Just another of the young sluts that populate the world now. She would never have made a nun.”

“Of course she was important,” Baldwin said. “She was only a youngster, a girl.”

“You can’t understand, Sir Baldwin. I think God chose to protect the convent in the only way left to Him. He couldn’t help but retaliate when these girls misbehaved so obviously.”

Baldwin looked at her, puzzled.

Joan went on carefully, as if trying to help him comprehend something terribly important: “You see, Lady Elizabeth has ruined the place, and that goes against the Rule created to save souls. It’s far too important for a philandering woman like her. She has disgraced her cloth.”

“Who should be in charge?”

“That’s down to God, but Margherita’s a good nun, and would make an excellent prioress. She is reliable and pious. I’ve known her all her life. Ever since poor Bridget gave birth to her.”

Baldwin frowned. His head hurt abominably, but he knew it was crucial to keep concentrating. “That was the nun who ran away?”

“She did.” Joan gave a thin smile. “And came back with a child – Margherita.”

“But she ran away again, didn’t she?”

“No, she didn’t. You see, God was angry that she had disgraced her cloth. He told me to punish her.”

Baldwin suddenly felt calm. He was sure Joan was mad, and he listened carefully as she spoke.

“It was because of her affair with Sir Rodney. He was a very good-looking man, you know. He fell from his horse not far from here and was brought in to be nursed. Bridget was the infirmarer in those days, and she took care of him. When I realised what she was about, I remonstrated with her, but she wouldn’t listen, and then she ran away. The bishop himself was involved in fetching her back. The shame she brought upon the convent! God demanded that she be punished, and put a hammer in my hand. I walked with her to a shed near the main gate one night, and inside it I struck her down. Then I buried her beneath the floor and burned it down. God told me to.”