along the track towards the house. She was relieved, because it was already close to dusk, and she was anxious about him riding so far on treacherous roads.
Not that she’d had time to indulge herself in fears about her husband. Edgar was in many ways an almost perfect servant, but in some matters of hygiene she thought him hidebound. It had been quite a shock to her when, after only a short time in the hall, she had discovered the first fleas on her body. She could see that Baldwin himself was repelled by the creatures, and yet Edgar appeared to be almost untroubled by them, convinced that his traps – trenchers of bread smeared with glue, with a lighted candle sitting atop – were all that was necessary. He asserted that the fleas were attracted to the trenchers by the light, and then got stuck and died.
It was an interesting concept. On present experience, it was also utterly ineffective.
Only the previous week Jeanne had set up her own defences, just as she had learned in Bordeaux. The bedchamber had three large sheets laid on the floor which had remained there for six days, on which any fleas must fall upon leaving Baldwin’s clothing, her own, or their bed. These she had today ordered to be folded and carried out to the shed where the cider was made, and here the sheets had been placed in the great press. Next she had taken out all of Baldwin’s tunics and set them inside as well, with the bedlinen on top of the lot, before closing the press and ordering that it should be tightly squeezed.
The servants, especially Edgar, had all looked askance at this curious demand, but complied with gusto when bribed with the offer of ale. Jeanne, not being particularly trusting with servants whom she did not know well, stood by and ensured that the men compressed the clothes to the utmost of their strength, and while they strained and swore, she explained to Edgar that fleas needed light and space to move. After being imprisoned in this manner the fleas would die. It was obvious that Baldwin’s servant thought this was all moonshine and that he was going to be hard-pressed to keep her humoured, from the condescending smile he gave her.
But Jeanne ignored his patronising attitude. It was enough for her that she knew her methods would succeed. In time Edgar would come to have faith in her. Jeanne refused to allow herself to get despondent.
Here she was, a woman of some thirty summers, already once widowed, yet with no children, and she was having to start her life again. This was her fourth beginning: first when she was born, second after her orphanage when her uncle in Bordeaux took her in, the third when she wed Ralph of Liddinstone, and last of all this new start with Baldwin. Each time she had been forced to learn new ways, submit to new rules, satisfy new needs. It was fortunate her own wants were so few. All she craved was the love of a husband who could respect her intelligence. Lady Jeanne was not a woman to be imprisoned in a manor like a feeble-minded courtesan.
And Jeanne would not bow to the will of her husband’s servant. Edgar would have to learn to accede to her commands with alacrity. He would not browbeat her.
He heard Baldwin’s approach at the same time as she, and was about to hurry back to the hall to welcome him when Jeanne told him to go to the buttery to fetch warmed wine and bring it to the hall. Then she walked in herself to wait for Baldwin.
When Baldwin entered, she was by the fire, and as soon as he crossed the threshold, Jeanne stepped forward to welcome him, leading him to his favourite chair by the hearth. It creaked as he sat on it. It was ancient, and the worms had got into it. She cast it a dubious look. It sounded as if it might give way at any time.
Edgar appeared and filled pots for Baldwin and his wife.
Baldwin drank slowly, deep in thought. Jeanne thought he looked like a man with an unpleasant duty to perform, and she was concerned what the priest might have said to worry him so much.
At last he held out his cup to Edgar, set it refilled on the floor by his side, and threw his wife a smile of gratitude. “Thank you for not badgering me as soon as I arrived. You have that wonderful gift of knowing when words are unwelcome, my love, and a perfect peacefulness about you that makes it a pleasure to return. I am sorry to have been so uncommunicative, but the ride was not long enough to consider all the details.”
“There is some difficulty at Crediton?” she asked quietly.
“Not there, no. It is another ecclesiastical institution. I am afraid I shall have to leave home tomorrow for a few days.”
She looked at him enquiringly, but he only grinned. Jeanne knew that sometimes her man could be called from their home and forced to travel abroad on business, but she was surprised that he would say nothing of the nature of his mission. Still, she reflected, it would give her time to get the manor into order. Jeanne was not concerned about being left alone, although she would miss her husband.
As he stood and made to leave the hall, she asked where he must go; he said apologetically: “I am sorry, Jeanne, but I have been sworn to secrecy.“
With that he left the room, leaving Jeanne sitting surprised, but as she stared at the doorway, a smile spread slowly over her face.
While he was gone, she could execute her own plans.
Chapter Four
Looking out through the doorway from the frater, Margherita, like Constance, saw the lay sister fall in the muck. Although she couldn’t help but smile, she was shocked to hear the girl swear. There was no excuse for blasphemy. The treasurer noted which girl it was. She would be punished later.
Margherita liked the view from here. She could see the whole of the courtyard behind the cloisters looking north, and that meant she could observe almost all of the activities of the lay sisters. Her only regret was that she couldn’t keep an eye on the men in the southern cloister, but that would be unthinkable, of course.
Not that all the women were so scrupulous. Margherita knew that some of the nuns were better informed about the male body than they should be. She had heard men here in the cloister. That was why she walked about the place at night, to find out who the men were, and who the women were who dared invite them in.
At least that slut Rose wasn’t a novice any more. The girl had been a source of shame to the whole place. Good riddance to her.
Margherita recalled that it was from here that she had seen Moll walking about the garden in earnest discussion with Rose. As soon as a nun had appeared, both girls quickly separated, but Margherita saw them return to each other’s side when the nun had hurried past.
A girl who was prepared to consort with Rose was not the sort to take up the veil; that was what Margherita believed, and she would defy anyone who tried to persuade her otherwise. Before that Moll had shown some promise, indeed she had given every appearance of piety; a rare attribute in most modern girls. But that was no excuse for going about with the likes of Rose. Someone like Joan was much better company for a young girl; she had experienced all the doubts, suspicions and fears that a young nun was likely to come across. Whatever happened, Joan had to be better than a common whore.
Margherita set her pot on a table and made her way to the cloister. She herself needed no confidante. She could understand why other nuns might like sharing information, and even made use of their garrulity every now and again, but she was content with herself as sole custodian of her private thoughts. Her sisters were simply useful for disseminating the little snippets she occasionally wished to let slip. She smiled to herself as she sat at her desk, then sighed and gave the papers before her a small frown. It was hard to sit here when the sun shone, when the birds were singing in the orchard and the whole world appeared to be waking from the long, slow sleep of winter, but she must show her dedication and settle down to the accounts.
Resignedly she picked up her quill, a small reed, dipping it in her ink, staring gloomily at the long columns. Running her finger down one of them, she came to the money brought in by the beadle: only a few pennies were recorded. With secret satisfaction, she recalled the heavy leather purse which the man had given her. That was safe in her personal chest now.
It was fortunate that young Moll was no longer able to poke her nose in and ask about the financial discrepancies, she thought.
Closing her eyes, she shuddered at the recollection. The silly girl had come here and asked what had happened to the beadle’s money, stating that she had seen the money brought in – and yet it wasn’t listed in the accounts. Fortunately, the quick-thinking Margherita had been able to discredit her memory, saying that she was thinking of money brought in by the warrener, not the beadle. At this Moll had become confused, for she hadn’t
