“Why should she be? Who do you think’s going to be able to prise my Lady Elizabeth from her prioressy? You don’t honestly think she killed Moll, do you?” Katerine recognised that voice: it was Emma, the cellaress, a woman who had not been consecrated because she was no virgin when she entered the convent, not that it ever seemed to give her cause for gloom. She was always happiest with an ale in her hand and a friend to gossip with.
“No, of course not! Lady Elizabeth is no murderer. No, I think Moll drank too much of Constance’s dwale and it made her blood overheat. You know how these things happen. It opened the wound that fool of a clerk made in her arm. But the prioress is responsible for everything in her convent, and the suffragan will want a scapegoat.”
Katerine’s ears pricked. This was Anne, the fratress. She had no responsibility in the infirmary, for her job was to see to the chairs and tables in the frater, but because of that she was always about when other nuns talked, so she had access to good sources of information. If she believed Brother Godfrey had operated carelessly, that was probably the view of many others.
“I wonder if Constance realises her own danger, then.”
“Her danger?”
“Of course – she mixed the dwale.”
“Oh yes. I hadn’t thought,” Anne said, and then chuckled quietly and cruelly. “I remember her when she first came to the convent, you know. I said at the time that she was wrong for that job. She had no idea of the importance of getting the mixtures right. Spent most of her time daydreaming. What could you do with someone like her?”
“Would she have done it deliberately, do you think?” Emma frowned thoughtfully.
“What – get the mixture so strong?” Anne grinned nastily, and glanced about her before leaning forward conspiratorially. She murmured something so quietly Katerine couldn’t hear, sitting back and nodding sagely and solemnly while Emma absorbed her words, then giggled.
“You think so? Who – Constance? I find it hard to believe.”
“You watch her, Emma. It’s not only her. There’s that novice, too – Sir Rodney’s little miss: Agnes. Watch her in church, the way she behaves, especially when young Luke’s near, the strumpet.”
Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Still, if Constance is proved to be guilty of that stupid child’s death, that won’t help the prioress, will it? Not on top of the visitor’s report. From what Margherita told me, he uncovered so much last time that this will be bound to be the last straw.”
“So Margherita has taken you aside as well? She’s certainly trying to get around all of us as quickly as possible, isn’t she?”
“Do you blame her?”
“Not really… But Lady Elizabeth is a devious cow. I’ll wait and see for a while before I commit myself.”
The bell rang out calling the nuns back to the church to prepare for Terce and the Morrow Mass. The two women stood, and Katerine remained hidden until both had swept out. Once the way was clear, she too got up and hurried to the door. Their conversation had given her much to mull over: so Anne wasn’t convinced that the prioress would be removed. From what she said, Margherita couldn’t assume she would win the post, which was quite a surprise because Anne was one of Margherita’s familia, one of her most loyal adherents. If even Anne was wavering, then the treasurer wasn’t in so commanding a position as Katerine had thought.
There was also the other matter, she remembered, trotting quickly along the corridor. It looked as though both Emma and Anne thought Moll had been killed by Constance – not that she’d heard why both thought that. And there was what they had said about Agnes.
Once inside the church, she slowed her steps, genuflecting to the altar as she passed. Her quick eye caught sight of Agnes. Katerine settled in her pew, and looked over to check her impression. Yes, Agnes was staring at the altar. Her attention was fixed upon the tall, fair-haired priest as he prepared himself to conduct the ceremony: Luke.
And Katerine felt that bitter jealousy clutching at her breast once more, just as she had when she’d known Luke was with Agnes again – just as she had when she’d seen him chatting up Moll.
Sir Baldwin was waiting at the door and introduced his wife. Bertrand politely blessed them both, and gave Jeanne his hand so she could kiss his ring, accepting with gratitude her offer of a pot of wine while his men were directed to the buttery.
“My Lord Bishop, I was not expecting you,” Baldwin said as they stood around the fire. “I thought we agreed that I should come and meet you at Crediton. My house here is far out of your way.”
“There is more urgency now,” Bertrand explained gravely. “Since we met at Peter’s house we have had news from Bristol. The King is preparing his castles.”
Baldwin understood the meaning behind those words. “The Despensers?”
Nodding, Bertrand took his pot from Edgar and sipped. There could be hardly anybody in the country who wasn’t aware of the trouble fomented by that family. Bertrand himself had heard more about them than most from Bishop Stapledon, who had supported them when they had acted as an effective brake on the King’s profligacy; but now Hugh Despenser, the son, appeared ambitious to make himself the most powerful magnate in all the King’s lands. King Edward II, always vacillating and pathetic, seemed keen to let him have his way, even supporting Despenser against the Marcher Lords.
“Is there any sign he is gathering an army?” Baldwin asked.
“You mean he might simply be taking defensive measures in case of attack? I understand that the King has demanded money from the Abbot of Gloucester. It can only mean he’s looking to pay men-at-arms.”
Baldwin thought about this, glancing at his wife. If there were to be another civil war, he would not wish to leave Jeanne alone. Two factors weighed with him: his home was no castle, and he had little idea how long he would be spending at Belstone. If he should be kept there for weeks on end, it was possible that war could begin, and that the tide of battle could wash over even this tranquil part of Devonshire.
His thoughts were written on his face, and Bertrand glanced warily at the woman sitting quietly at Baldwin’s side. When he had accepted the role of visitor, he had not anticipated having so much to do with women. Now, here he was, preparing to return to the convent of Belstone, a place so ill-regulated it was almost a sink of corruption, especially now there had been a murder – and this knight wanted to take his wife with him! Bertrand was about to suggest that he and Baldwin should discuss matters in secret, in order that he could firmly reject the idea that Baldwin should bring his wife, when the knight turned to his servant.
“Edgar, you will have to stay here to protect the house, and do as you see fit to keep the place secure.”
Margherita was on tenterhooks; Agnes could see that. The treasurer sat for the most part gazing out of the windows, over the cloister, without seeming to hear or comprehend what was going on about her, even when the young novice dropped a pottery inkwell, smashing it to pieces on the flags and spattering black ink all over.
“Never mind, just get a cloth to clean it up.”
Agnes stood a moment gaping, but then hurried to obey. It took little time to wipe away the worst of the mess, though she was convinced the stain would never disappear. When she’d replaced the bucket and cloth in the kitchen and returned to Margherita, it was clear the nun still wasn’t concentrating on the task at hand. She stared unseeing in any direction other than at her desk.
It was intriguing. Agnes was used to Margherita snapping at her, urging novices to hurry. Margherita was known for her acerbity; finding her in this reflective mood was weird. Of course Moll’s death had affected everyone, and the treasurer was probably upset at the ridiculous way that the girl had expired: surgeon’s mistake, everyone said.
Agnes studied her doubtfully, then decided it was more likely that Margherita was worried about herself. Rumours abounded, and the strongest was that Margherita suspected Lady Elizabeth of murder. If that was the case, Agnes could understand her distraction.
Sometimes Agnes thought she understood Margherita better than anyone else. There was a tie that connected them: illegitimacy. That was why Sir Rodney had wanted Agnes away from his estate, because she was the constant reminder of an evening of passion – and sin. For the pious Sir Rodney, that was intolerable. Margherita didn’t even know who her father was, nor where her mother had gone, and that made Agnes look on her with sympathy. She could quite comprehend the desperate desire Margherita had to prove herself by running the priory.
