“Yes, I heard him talking to the black-bearded man, saying that the letter was why they had all had to come here in such a hurry.”
There was a gust of wind, and the papers on the table moved as the window rattled. From the far end of the dorter there came a crash as a tile fell from the roof. Elizabeth winced and turned her eyes heavenwards. “Merciful Father!”
Hearing the footsteps rushing up the stairs, she waved a hand absently, seeing Rose make ready to flee. “It’s not the bishop, child. Stay there.”
Before Jonathan could pound on her door, Elizabeth herself opened it. “Come inside, Jonathan.”
The pale cleric glanced at Rose. “I have come from Bishop Bertrand, my Lady, and he demands that you attend him instantly.“
“How very rude of him,” Elizabeth said primly. “You will tell him that I shall be pleased to see him after Vespers, but that until then I fear I have much to occupy me.”
Jonathan gaped. “My Lady, but he said…”
“You will point out to him that a prioress has other calls upon her time, and that although I have a duty to hospitality and will be happy to lodge him and his men within the precincts of the church, I still have other responsibilities to attend to.”
“Don’t you think you should agree to see him soon?” The ageing cleric stared from her to the door as if expecting the bishop to appear at any moment. “He might think it strange that you don’t go to him to talk about the dead novice.”
“Moll is dead. Talking to him now or after Vespers will make no difference to her. In any case, I doubt not that he will be more than delighted to wander around the place and talk to the other nuns. They will feed him with rumour and allegations to their hearts’ content. I have other work to do. Go along now, and tell him.”
As soon as Jonathan had disappeared, this time walking dolefully in the anticipation of more furious shouting, Lady Elizabeth turned to face Rose. “Very well! The die is cast, and this silly man will do his worst.”
“What will you do?”
“Me? Oh, I shall allow him all the time he needs to investigate poor Moll’s death, and then I shall speak to him. When I am ready.”
Chapter Seven
Agnes hurried along the corridor and turned into the frater. Denise was in there, sitting at a bench, Wearily staring at a jug, and so was Katerine, over near the far door which gave out to the yard behind.
“Katerine?” Agnes hissed. “Have you heard who’s here?”
Katerine turned to her a face from which all emotion had gone. “Who?” she asked flatly.
“The visitor. He’s back to investigate Moll’s death.”
Katerine studied her for a moment or two, absorbing this news. “Then you should be careful, shouldn’t you, Agnes? After all, Moll was happy enough to spread those stories about you.”
“Me? What are you on about?” Agnes asked, the smile fading.
“Oh, nothing.”
“You’re jealous, aren’t you?” Agnes couldn’t stop a grin of delight from spreading over her features.
“Who, me? No, I was merely wondering what the prioress could say…”
“Don’t even think it,” Agnes smiled, but there was steel in her eyes. “If Luke and me get found out, I’ll explain how he services all of us. What is it? Do you want Luke back?”
“What would I do with him?” Katerine demanded scathingly. “A feeble priest!”
As she stood to leave the room, Agnes barred her way. “Not so feeble, Kate. He’s got more stamina than Sir Rodney’s stallion. But if I hear you’ve spread tales about me, I’ll see you regret it. If anyone comes asking me about Luke, I’ll know who has been talking. Understand?”
The older girl curled her lip and pushed her way past to the cloister, while Agnes stared after her thoughtfully. Neither noticed how Denise had absorbed every word.
It was a while after Jonathan’s departure that Bertrand realised he was still holding his robe’s hem, and a whiff of the ordure clinging to it made him hurriedly drop it with a muttered “God’s cods!”
It was infuriating. Here he was, supposedly invested with the power and majesty of the Bishop of Exeter, a man whom these foolish churls should fear as their lord here on earth, a representative of the God Whom they served, and yet they ignored him. They thought that out here, far from the conventions of civilised life in Exeter, they might live as they wished.
Bertrand squared his shoulders: the prioress would not get away with it! Bertrand was convinced that there was serious corruption causing the failings of this convent, here at Belstone. The prioress, if the treasurer was to be believed, was indulging her every sinful whim, and that meant that she was leading the whole nunnery down the path to evil, not even balking at murder.
And yet even he couldn’t quite swallow that. Even now, standing here with the muck and ruin about him, he found it hard to believe that the Lady Elizabeth could be responsible for Moll’s death. No matter how angry he became, that central and horrific idea, that a nun in Holy Orders, a prioress, could commit such a hideous crime, was so abhorrent that it was literally unbelievable – almost. That was why, if he was honest with himself, he had asked Peter Clifford to recommend a man who was able to investigate it for him.
Bertrand had no wish to conduct such an enquiry himself. There was no point. A girl had died – but boys and girls died every day. Many others would die. The death was not important.
No, the crucial thing was the nunnery itself. It was a part of God’s scheme, a place in which servants of God could pray to Him for those who had died. Moll was dead, but if she had lived a good, godly life, she would have merely been hastened on her way to heaven. Bertrand did not worry about her; his concern was directed at the others, the thousands, the tens of thousands whose souls were put in jeopardy by the cancer of disobedience and sin at the heart of St Mary’s. Let the secular Keeper and Bailiff Puttock seek their murderer. Bertrand himself had a duty to the Church, to Bishop Stapledon, to the souls of the dead – to correct the lax and permissive society within the priory.
“Come with me. Let’s see what these rustic cretins have done to the church itself,” he ground out, and set off at a trot.
Hugh walked out of the guests’ hall just as the sun burst free of a fast-moving grey cloud; he stood a moment drinking in the air. It was cold still, but now the low winter sun was striking the far hills with an apricot hue. Rocks and bushes cast long black shadows, and the land appeared to glow with health. Even in his glum mood the sight was soothing to his soul, reminding him of his days in Drewsteignton as a shepherd boy tending his flocks.
There was the sound of chatter from further up towards the church. Hugh felt the need of something to drink, and there was a quality to these voices that seemed to promise wine or ale. He set off towards the noise; it came from a large hall set in the southern side of the cloister, and inside he found many of the lay brothers taking their ease. They sat on long benches at trestle tables, all with quart pots of ale before them to keep them going until Vespers was rung.
As he stood in the doorway the place went silent, and fourteen pairs of eyes fixed on him. Hugh entered bravely and went over to the fire, which here, as in any old hall, lay on a hearth of packed soil in the centre of the room. He held his hands to it with an apologetic grin.
Although the conversation began to flow once more, it was muted, and many of the men studied him suspiciously as they took long pulls at their ales. Then, just as Hugh had begun to doubt whether he would ever see a drink of his own, a younger man stood and walked up to him.
“Are you thirsty?“
Hugh nodded gratefully, and his new and very welcome friend walked out through a door at the back of the hall. Apparently the hall had its own buttery, for when he returned he carried his own pot and a second for Hugh.
