Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

He got to the garth and skidded on the flags, almost falling, but managed to recover his balance and pelted off along the corridor towards the door to the dorter, and all the way he recalled the happiness on Baldwin’s face when he was married only a few weeks before. Jeanne, too, had been radiant on her wedding day.

Simon reached the door and pressed the latch, panting a moment, then lurched up the stairs. Jeanne would never forgive him if anything had happened to her husband.

Simon would never forgive himself.

Lady Elizabeth stood in horror, automatically stroking Princess.

Joan’s words carried clearly out here to the prioress’s chamber, and yet Lady Elizabeth was so stunned at what she had heard that she was almost convinced she had misheard the whole story.

Carefully she set the dog on the bed and walked to the door. Her duty was clear: she must protect Sir Baldwin, the invalid who had relied on her infirmary for his protection and recovery. As her hand touched the door, she heard the loud crash as Joan fell from Baldwin to the floor, and the sound made the Prioress think again. She went to her chest, threw open the lid, and withdrew a large dagger. Pulling it from its sheath, she went to her door.

She heard the clattering of feet on the bare boards, and Joan’s exultant cry, “See? God puts everything in my hands.”

The prioress thrust the door open. Baldwin lay on his side, a pool of vomit on the floor by his mouth. Joan was standing before him, a razor in her hand. She lifted it as the prioress came in and, with a snarl, launched herself at the startled Lady Elizabeth. The prioress thrust out her arm defensively – the dagger in her hand. Joan sprang forward and ran straight on to the blade, impaling herself. Lady Elizabeth felt it jerk and thrash as Joan screeched, slashing wildly in a futile attempt to cut Lady Elizabeth’s face or stab her throat. As she watched in horror, Joan’s shrieking subsided, and a curious confused expression came into her eyes. Then Lady Elizabeth’s arm was dragged down as the older nun gradually slumped, her body unable to muster the energy to continue. Beneath her robe, the thick blood pooled on the infirmary floor.

When Lady Elizabeth looked down at her, Joan was still alive. She stared up at the prioress with a fierce loathing. Only then did Lady Elizabeth realise that her own arm had been slashed, that the whole upper part was criss-crossed with thin cuts. And only then was she grateful for the length of her arms, and the fact that Joan’s were shorter.

The staircase was steep, and Simon reached the top with his lungs tingling. He wanted to fall to his knees, to gasp, but he forced himself on, lurching to the door.

In the infirmary he found the prioress tending to his friend, who lay on the floor. The acrid stench of vomit filled the room, and Simon saw that Baldwin had been sick, but Lady Elizabeth was dabbing at Baldwin’s face with rosewater.

She looked up as he entered. Simon fell to his knees beside Baldwin and stared. “Is he all right?”

“Yes, though if I had been a few moments longer he wouldn’t have been.” She stood. “I fear Joan has died.“

Following the direction of her gaze Simon saw a slumped body near the door. “What on earth has happened?”

“I heard them talking. She admitted to the murders,” the prioress said in an exhausted tone. She moistened Baldwin’s brow. “She wanted to protect the priory from any stain on its reputation. She thought the three girls were evil, and thus deserved death. She was going to kill you as well, if she could. Purely because she had to stop the spread of rumours about the place. Didn’t want Sir Baldwin or you or other outsiders talking about what you might have seen here.”

She started to her feet, but tottered, and Simon had to go to her side and grip her elbow. Giving him a weak smile, she insisted that he should leave her, and that he and she should lift Baldwin on to a bed, but Simon led her to a chair. She had just sunk down into it when Hugh appeared in the doorway. Denise, behind him, was immediately despatched to let the waiting bishop know what had happened and as she scampered away, Hugh helped Simon lift the knight back to his bed.

Once Baldwin was settled, Simon bent to the figure of Joan. She lay like a crumpled parchment, and there was a stain spreading over the floor. Simon glanced up at the prioress.

“I had no choice,” she said simply. “And now, could you call Godfrey? Your friend needs his help.” And so do I, she added to herself as she felt the sharp tingling of the razor-sliced flesh beneath her tattered habit.

Simon remained at Baldwin’s side in the infirmary, a grim, anxious temper overwhelming him. His friend had taken on a deathly pallor, almost blue-white, his lips grey, his breath coming in stuttering bursts. While Godfrey carefully treated Lady Elizabeth, using a styptic on her wounded flesh and cauterising the worst slashes, Simon watched over Baldwin, miserably convinced that his friend was dying. He had seen so many men die, some from stabbing, others from illness, that the signs before him appeared unequivocal.

Godfrey left Lady Elizabeth to Constance, who set about gently wrapping her wounds. He walked to Simon’s side and took Baldwin’s hand, studying the knight’s face.

Simon wanted to ask whether his friend would survive, whether Baldwin would ever open his eyes again, and he was about to question the canon, when Godfrey walked out to Constance’s room. He soon returned with a small oil lamp and a handful of feathers. These he dropped unceremoniously on Baldwin’s chest. Taking two or three, he held them under Baldwin’s nose while he singed them with the flame.

Baldwin coughed, groaned, his eyelids fluttered, and he winced, before retching and bringing up a small gobbet of vomit.

It was then that Godfrey shrugged. “He’ll be fine.”

The relief made Simon sag on his stool. Suddenly he realised how exhausting the last hours had been. He managed a grin and stood. “I’ll leave him in your care.”

Outside the sun had decided to escape its confinement behind the clouds. The garth was filled with a renewing warmth. Simon stood, eyes closed, soaking in the energy.

“Perhaps you should yourself be resting.”

“Constance, I think I shall have to.”

She walked over to a stone bench, sat and folded her hands in her lap. “Why don’t you sit?”

He took his place at her side, sitting down heavily. “It’s lucky Joan confessed,” he said quietly.

“Yes. Otherwise we might never have known who was responsible.”

“Except she couldn’t have killed Moll.”

Constance shot him a look. “What do you mean?”

“I know little about dwale, but I do know this: the older the person, the faster it will act. And you told us that Joan had taken her dwale.”

“I can’t have given her enough.”

“You think so?” he asked. “You don’t really, do you?”

“The prioress said Joan confessed to the murders. Why should she lie?”

“Simple. To protect someone else. Someone she wanted to protect.”

Constance blanched and gazed at him fearfully. “I swear I had nothing to do…”

“I didn’t mean you, Constance. Joan believed someone else had killed Moll: Margherita.“

“But why should Joan want to protect her?”

“Guilt, perhaps? She had killed Margherita’s mother Bridget, after all. Forever after she was Margherita’s closest ally. She certainly seemed to want her to win the prioressy.”

“Why did she kill the other girls?”

“I think it’s easy to speculate. Moll could read and add, and she saw Margherita embezzling funds. Margherita was a powerful lady here, and Moll wouldn’t have dared to confront her directly. Instead, she went to a woman she trusted – Joan. You all used to go to her with little problems, didn’t you? Or perhaps Moll did dare – yes, that’s it! She told Margherita what she knew, and Margherita refused to confess in chapter; that was when Moll spoke to Joan.”