It was not a prepossessing sight. Shutters hung lopsidedly from windows; broken carts, dung and other mess lay in the yards behind the gatehouse; a small house had apparently burned down years before and had been left to rot; a series of outhouses looked as if they had simply collapsed, their component beams and tiles lying all about like scattered pieces from a child’s game.
The outlying lands, where sheep should have been grazing and cattle roaming, were a waste. There were sheep aplenty, further up on the moors, but down here were only a few, the halt and lame, which hobbled about the grasslands. Cattle stood hesitantly by the dairy’s sheds, waiting for the lay workers to allow them inside. Behind were the orchards, which should have been full of trees about to burst into blossom ready for the bees waking from their long winter’s sleep. Instead the trees stood malformed, their branches unpruned, many years of growth leaving them unbalanced. Several had fallen, and yet they had not been cut up and stored – ludicrously wasteful to Baldwin’s tidy mind – while the grasses grew tall and straggling between them.
Baldwin could see no vegetable plots with their serried ranks of winter cabbages, early peas and kale. The lands about the priory showed the same depressing bleakness: there was little cultivated vegetation, only weeds and furze; the land was rock-strewn and suitable only for sheep and goats.
“God’s blood, but the devil would be pleased to think he could so devastate a holy site – and here one woman has wreaked his will.”
Bertrand’s scathing tone made Baldwin feel a curious sympathy for the woman who was about to suffer the lash of his tongue. This French bishop was apparently determined to persecute this priory, just as his brethren had been keen to persecute Baldwin and his friends in the Knights Templar. This reflection lent an acid tone to his voice. “It is always a tall order for women to maintain an abbey or priory, especially since nuns cannot attract so much investment as their male brethren.”
“It matters not a jot!” Bertrand snapped. “Look at this place; if they were to work harder they could make this a small Garden of Eden, as is their duty. Instead they squander their money on fripperies.”
Baldwin noted his words, wondering what the bishop was referring to. Had he noticed too many of the trappings of wealth: fur linings in cloaks; or squirrel edging on coats? Somehow he doubted it. The nuns in Belstone would be hard set to profit from the lands they owned.
The men set their horses down the slope towards the gate. At the gatehouse, Simon sent Hugh to knock.
By the side of the door was a large metal ring, and Hugh pulled at it, ringing a bell. Soon a small door opened behind an iron grille, and an eye peered out at them, an eye which widened noticeably with surprise as it took in the retinue.
“The Bishop of Exeter’s Visitor is here to speak with the prioress,” Baldwin called.
There was a squeak as the door shut, then the squeal of unoiled metal bolts protesting at being forced open, the rumble of a wooden bar being slid back into its socket in the wall, and before long the great gate was hauled wide by an anxious, older cleric. Other canons stood gaping at the sight of Bertrand and his guards riding through. While the visitor sat rigidly in his saddle and stared straight ahead of him, Baldwin found himself looking at the faces of the working men.
A priory like this did not only contain nuns. There were canons, men who served the church and ran the daily services, for nuns couldn’t perform religious services. Moreover a place such as this was forced to rely on a large number of unconsecrated folk; the men and women who had taken the vows and wore the robes of the Order, but whose service was not spiritual but manual. In place of their prayers, perhaps because of their feeble wits or poor education, they gave their physical efforts.
The lay sisters who lived in the nuns’ cloister saw to the laundry and the brewing; they tended the vegetables and herbs in the little garden, and plied their needles to ensure that all had clothes to wear. Meanwhile, lay brothers tended the flocks and cattle and made good the ravages of nature, seeing to the buildings, repairing roofs and windows, painting walls and woodwork, and generally making the place look as though it was cared for.
Although from the look of this place, they had failed, Baldwin reckoned.
Paint peeled; roofs were breached and leaking; weeds had cracked pathways, pushing aside stones and pebbles; cob and plaster walls had disintegrated, and were stained with the damp that had seeped beneath; fences designed to retain pigs had failed and the occupants of sties had wandered into the fields; hives lay ruined where the wind had tossed them. Near the orchard Baldwin saw a shed. It lay fallen upon the ground, its roof slates lying about it in a mess almost like a pool of grey blood. Everywhere was disrepair and dilapidation.
It wasn’t so bad – or at least, it wasn’t so noticeable – from the gate itself, but as they rode to the stables Baldwin could see even the scruffier of Bertrand’s guards gazing about them with near disbelief.
“You see how they have let the place fall apart?” Bertrand demanded. He waved a hand as they stopped in the stableyard. The dung was an inch deep all over. “Look at this! It’s even worse than when I was last here. Then at least some of the manure was shovelled away.”
This really was an outrage. He had mentioned it to the prioress when he was here before, but she had ignored his commands. How the woman expected her nuns to study and serve God in this midden was a wonder!
Muttering a short, “Benedicite!” in his anger and annoyance, he hitched up his robe and dropped to the ground, then froze in horrified revulsion as his legs and robe were beslubbered with faeces. He pursed his lips angrily and threw down his robe’s hem before stamping off towards the main buildings, leaving his men to collect together his trunks.
His hand had been stained and he rubbed it against his now-filthy clothing as he marched. It really was quite intolerable! The stupid bitch in charge here could at least have shown willing. But oh no, actually exercising herself to make the convent look like a real place of worship would be too much for her. Or, rather, she knew damn well there was little chance that a visitor would be here again for a while, and assumed that she’d be able to get the place organised beforehand. Not looking where he was going, he stepped in a large cowpat and the muck spattered over his tunic, forcing him to suck in his breath to hold back the profanity that struggled for release.
That obnoxious woman would suffer for this! he promised himself. She was making Bertrand look foolish in front of his master, the Bishop of Exeter, by ignoring his strict injunction to smarten up the place. He wouldn’t let her get away with it, though. Oh no, he swore to himself, scowling up at the walls of the nuns’ cloister.
He most certainly would not allow her to get away with it.
The room Hugh was taken to was large, with good-sized beds set against the wall. He grunted as he dropped the heavy bags to the floor. As well as beds there were two chairs, a bench, a table, and a chest.
When he opened the shutter of the unglazed window, he saw a bleak view south, with endless rolling hills, their summits whitened with frost, and threatening clouds overhead. He slammed the shutter closed and surveyed the room. It was warm enough, for there was a good fire in the room beneath, and the thick tapestries on the walls stopped the worst of the draughts while the large candles gave the feeling of heat and a false impression of comfort.
Hugh picked up a bag and set it on the bed, untying the neck and inspecting the contents, but he dropped onto the bed without removing any of the clothes, staring instead at the far wall.
Since he’d worked for Simon he’d been happy enough, it was true, but now he felt only gloom. The girl upon whom he doted, Simon and Meg’s daughter Edith, was growing older and didn’t want to spend her spare time with Hugh any more. He tried not to grudge her the freedom to mix with youngsters of her own age, for she was fourteen now, and old enough to be wedded. It was natural that a young woman like her should seek friends of her own age, and yet to Hugh she was still a child and he found deeply hurtful her sudden – seemingly disloyal – desire to mingle with others.
It wasn’t only her, though, and he knew in his heart that it was unfair of him to put the blame for his depression on Edith. His melancholy was caused by something deeper: this new sense of loneliness.
He was not sure how old he was. When he had been born such things weren’t important – not like keeping track of the sow’s age or the cow’s. Hugh felt empty, as though his life was drifting past idly. All his energies were spent in looking after his master and the family, and in the meantime he never had a chance to seek his own woman. His life was being used up in serving another, and soon he would be dead, leaving nothing behind save Simon’s gratitude.
Never before had Hugh been so overwhelmed with non-fulfilment. It was as if he knew he was worth
