Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

Bertrand’s story took little time to tell. He had visited the priory only a few days before, on his way to Crediton from Buckland; he was methodically progressing from one institution to another, and had intended staying at Crediton for some days before returning to Exeter, when the slightly garbled story of the novice’s death had reached him by letter.

“I met this Moll, Sir Baldwin,” Bertrand said, turning on the knight an intent, serious look. “She was only a child. Scarcely old enough to realise the supreme importance of the vows she must take as a Bride of Christ, and yet now her life is ended.”

“How?” Baldwin was ready to dislike this man intensely. Although his sentiments were reasonable and justifiable, Bertrand looked as though he was almost enjoying being able to demonstrate what an upright man he was; how much integrity he held. Baldwin had no doubt that by the time Bishop Stapledon came to hear of the affair, Bishop Bertrand’s part in resolving it would be greatly magnified, and Baldwin felt contempt for a man who could look to make capital out of a novice’s death. His distaste was so great Baldwin found himself musing on the character of the bishop, and thus missed the beginning of Bertrand’s story.

“… she had a severe headache, and was sent to the infirmary, there to be bled by the phlebotomist. The operation was perfectly successful and she settled quickly, soon dropping off to sleep. The next morning, when the infirmarer went to attend to her after Prime, the girl had apparently haemorrhaged from the site of the bleeding, and died.”

“These accidents will sometimes happen,” Baldwin said.

“This was no accident. I know the clerk concerned myself: Godfrey of Malmesbury. He was at Oxford with me, and his skills are beyond doubt. No, Brother Godfrey would not have slipped and slashed an artery by accident.”

“A priest performed the letting?” Baldwin asked with surprise. Men in major Orders had been banned from manual surgery for over a hundred years. Their skills lay in selecting the best prayers and penances to cure the ill, not in butchery. When Baldwin had been a Templar they had enlisted the services of a professional, the local barber, when they needed their veins opened.

“I understand it was considered that a canon trained in surgery would be safer than an outsider when it came to dealing with a nun. Yet it was unorthodox,” Bertrand agreed.

Baldwin sipped thoughtfully at his wine. At last he set his cup on the ground. “You clearly have reason to believe that someone wished to kill her. Why?”

“It’s not my view, Sir Baldwin – I hardly knew the child, I only saw her a couple of times.”

“Then why leap to this conclusion? Your friend the phlebotomist may well be experienced, but sometimes a sharp knife will nick a vessel, and the harm may not be apparent for a day or more. That is why phlebotomists are generally safe from accusations of murder: if they were not, the courts would be filled.”

“Ah, I misled you by my answer. I have no reason to think someone might have wanted to kill her – it is not my belief, Sir Baldwin, but the belief of the priory’s treasurer. It was she who wrote to me to state her conviction that the poor girl was murdered.”

“Did she say by whom?”

Bertrand looked down at his withered hand as if wondering at the accusation he had heard. “By the prioress herself, Sir Baldwin,” he said eventually.

Peter leaned forward. “You see the good bishop’s difficulty? Bishop Stapledon is away and cannot be consulted, and if news of this were to be rumoured about…”

“I cannot ignore the accusation of so senior a nun,” Bertrand murmured.

“Not that you would wish to,” Baldwin stated sharply. Now he understood Bertrand’s expression. The suffragan would have preferred to burn the letter and put this novice’s death down to an accident so that the Bishop of Exeter would have a shining example of a perfect deputy when he received Bertrand’s report. Clearly that was impossible now the treasurer had put her suspicions in writing; but Bertrand could still win the good bishop’s gratitude by clearing up the business quickly or performing some sort of cover-up. “If this is truly an act of murder,” Baldwin growled, “it must be investigated.”

“Quite,” said Peter. “So could you go and look into it?”

“Me? But I have no jurisdiction,” Baldwin protested with surprise.

“Of course not! This matter falls under the Canon Law, but you have experience, and you may be able to assist the good bishop,” said Peter.

“Surely you would do better to seek the aid of a coroner.”

“Sir Baldwin, this matter is utterly confidential,” Peter said with emphasis.

Baldwin nodded and grinned his understanding. The King’s man in Exeter was a hard-drinking, whoring fool, to Baldwin’s mind. Coroners were among the most corrupt of all the King’s officers, for they had much work to see to and received no pay – other than what they could extort from felons prepared to pay for their release.

“No, we need someone on whom we can rely not only to advise Bishop Stapledon’s man, but who shall also be discreet,” Peter said.

“Well, the Warden’s Bailiff, then. Simon Puttock does at least have some secular authority in Dartmoor.”

“I have already sent a message asking him to meet you there,” Peter smiled. “He will be at the inn at the road to Belstone, the one at the foot of the cleave.”

Baldwin remembered it. A small tavern at the bottom of the Belstone Valley, near a mill, where the Taw River rushed constantly. The memory did nothing to allay his concerns and he considered the proposal doubtfully. Admittedly there was little enough to do at his manor; his official duties would not be seriously affected, were he to ignore them for a week or two, and this affair had captured his interest, but… “I hardly think the prioress would be happy to have a complete stranger, someone who is neither priest nor monk, arrive to perform such an enquiry, especially bearing in mind the serious nature of the accusation against her.”

“She should be glad to have anyone in whom she can place her trust,” said Bertrand shortly. “The woman struck me as being open to accusations of almost every possible impropriety.” He mused a moment, brow wrinkled. “Take this as an example, Sir Baldwin. I raise it only as an indication of her behaviour, you understand: this prioress has permitted the church roof and that of the dormitory to fall so far into disrepair that both have holes in them. Apparently they were leaking noticeably last autumn, and yet now, months later, the choir of the church is open to the elements and nuns can’t sleep in parts of their dorter.”

“I have heard of other places where similar difficulties have arisen,” Baldwin pointed out with rising irritation. That Bertrand’s words were true Baldwin did not doubt, but Baldwin wondered about his motivation. There were priests who would be pleased to harry a convent to destruction if it would enhance their political status within the Church, and this Bertrand looked very like one of that sort. After all, there were many religious establishments whose basic fabric was so ancient and worn that the obedientiaries were unable to repair them. Perhaps it was less common in Benedictine and Cistercian monasteries, for such places attracted wealth, but a poor place like Belstone wouldn’t be able to seduce rich patrons so easily.

“There are some which have unfortunately suffered from damage, yes,” Bertrand allowed, but then he fixed Baldwin with a glittering eye. “But in how many of these cases have the relevant treasurers accused their prioress of lascivious and lustful disregard, because the money she should have used to fix the roof was put to another use?”