“Here, take this.”
“Thanks,” Hugh said, his eyes closing as he swallowed almost a third in one long draught. “I needed that! You have good ale.”
“Some of the best in Devon, I reckon. Where are you to?”
“Me?” Hugh paused, his drink at chin level. “Where are you to?” meant “Where are you from?” in Devon dialect, and just now Hugh wasn’t sure. It was on the tip of his tongue to say he came from Drewsteignton, but he hardly remembered the place, he had left it so long ago; then again the place he really thought of as his home, the farmhouse at Sandford near Crediton, he had left five years ago; yet in his present mood, he was sure that Lydford, where he and his master’s family lived out on the western moors, wasn’t his home. He stared before him at the fire. “Where am I to?” he murmured, then drank. “Me, I come from Drewsteignton,” he said finally.
“Thought I recognised the accent. My name is Elias. I work in the smithy.”
Hugh had already guessed that from the dirt ingrained in the other man’s fingers. A smith could always be recognised by the coarse black skin of his hands.
Elias continued, “I’ve lived here for over ten years now, I think, working the forge and keeping all the tools in good order, or making new tyres for the cart-wheels. Before that I was apprentice to the smith in Moretonhampstead. I was born out that way, see, but when I’d learned my trade I decided I wanted to serve a religious house.”
He fell silent, expecting a similar brief summary of Hugh’s life, and under his interested gaze Hugh found himself retailing his history. By the second quart of ale his temper had improved, and by the third he and Elias were enjoying each other’s company.
It was as they sat with their fourth pots that Hugh noticed two canons walking quickly from the room.
“Come on, Paul. There’s no point in either of us staying here,” said one, a moderately ancient man in Hugh’s eyes.
“But Godfrey, I…” This one was much younger, maybe only twenty or so. He caught sight of Hugh and closed his mouth sharply, hurrying from the room.
When Hugh saw what had made them both leave, the servant’s mouth fell open.
Elias followed his look and gave a weary smile. “If you like her you can hire her.”
Hugh shook his head. He liked Rose and now, after a few ales, he could feel the first amorous stirrings, but through the warm haze that blurred his thinking, he knew he must tell Simon that she was here. After all, it wasn’t often that a young whore could be found consorting with canons within a priory’s precinct.
Baldwin walked into the church after Bertrand and gazed about him with a feeling of sadness.
In his day, the Knights Templar had possessed hundreds of little churches, all based upon the same design as Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem: unlike parish churches they were all circular. Although they were always spartan, they were as well-maintained as human ingenuity could manage, and if they needed money spent, they got it. This poor little church seemed as dilapidated as the rest of the priory.
They had entered through the southern side, from the men’s cloister, and stood in the nave where men and travellers could congregate. The northern wall of the nave was some ten feet high, designed to conceal the ‘Brides of Christ’ from the lascivious gaze of men.
It was poorly decorated. Baldwin saw paint on the wall over the altar, and could just make out the figure of Christ, but the colours were so faded and flaked that it was hard to see what scenes were being represented. The walls at the southern side had been painted as well, and the pillars, but these too had lost all definition, especially where the plaster had fallen away because of the damp beneath. It was in a very sorry state, and Baldwin felt almost guilty, as though the church was a living creature and he was intruding on its death.
The altar was well appointed. Baldwin particularly noticed the large silver cross studded with precious stones, but this one area of perfection could not distract from the general aura of decay, an impression reinforced by the hole in the roof over the partition wall. Seeing that void overhead was like seeing a mutilated body.
“Good God!” Bertrand cried, staring upwards with a devoutly shocked expression.
Baldwin shot him a look. He had no need to remind himself that Bertrand had spoken of the hole at Peter Clifford’s house. The bishop’s surprise was feigned: there was surely nothing odd in finding it unmended so short a time after his visit – especially as a novice had died since; the nuns had other things to consider.
Some clerics looked upon such matters differently. The fabric of a building like this was holy: it was a demonstration of the priory’s godliness, proof that the daily round of services served a purpose, protecting the souls of the living and the dead. The whole place was God’s own and, if allowed to moulder, that itself could be viewed as a rejection of God. The death of the novice had merely hastened her soul on its journey to heaven, to such eyes.
But Baldwin was not of a mood to allow a murder to go unavenged. If, as the treasurer had alleged the prioress had assisted in the death of this young girl, then he, Baldwin, would insist on seeing her charged by a correctly constituted ecclesiastical court. She should suffer her penance for so heinous a crime.
“The roof leaks,” he agreed testily. “Now, shall we go and see this prioress and make a start on our inquest?”
Bertrand reluctantly allowed his eyes to return to earth, as if he would have liked to contemplate the seriousness of the damage to the church for a little longer – or perhaps, Baldwin wondered, he merely wanted Baldwin and Simon to add their own expressions of disgust at such a flagrant act of dereliction. Whatever the reason, Baldwin was unimpressed. He was tired, hungry and thirsty, and reasonably sure that Bertrand was motivated by his own political agenda.
A door near the altar which gave into the nuns’ choir opened, and a man walked through, a youngish cleric, fair and good-looking, who bowed to Bertrand and kissed his ring before continuing on his way.
Simon jerked a thumb after him. “Who’s that?”
“The vicar,” Bertrand scowled.
Baldwin stared after the man. He felt rather than saw Simon turn to the bishop.
“So, Bertrand, this prioress. Tell us a little about her.”
Baldwin looked away to stop himself chuckling. He knew how his old friend’s mind worked: Simon and he had investigated too many cases together, and the tone of bright innocence in Simon’s voice told Baldwin that the bailiff had little trust in the bishop.
“She is lazy. Look about you!” Bertrand said shortly.
“Is she young and indolent?” Simon pressed.
“Or perhaps she is too flighty?” Baldwin asked.
Bertrand sniffed. “You shall meet her,” he said and stomped away.
Simon touched Baldwin’s arm. “Bertrand wants us to think an ageing trout like Lady Elizabeth could tempt a youngster like that vicar into her bed?”
“You know the lady?” Baldwin murmured.
“I know almost everyone living on my moors,“ Simon grinned.
“I question this bishop’s motive in asking us here,“ Baldwin said. His friend’s eyes narrowed as they both watched the bishop. ”He must have known that there was little likelihood of her attracting so young a priest.“
“So he’s looking to ruin her for another reason,” Simon acknowledged. “And that is why we are here – to help him. For promotion?”
Baldwin nodded. Simon had secured his position by his own efforts and was often quick to spot another man’s politicking. Baldwin spoke softly. “He’s more keen on impressing Bishop Stapledon than worrying about a young girl’s death.”
Simon eased his shoulders. “He may not find my approach to his taste,” he said happily. “For I intend finding the murderer – whatever the impact on Bertrand’s prospects!”
As the two made their way to the bishop’s side, Jonathan came scurrying up.
“My Lord Bishop?” he quavered.
“Where’s the prioress?” Bertrand growled.
“She…” Jonathan’s voice rose to a nervous falsetto. “She apologises, but pleads her heavy workload, my Lord. She begs that you will leave her until after Vespers. Um… Perhaps I could offer you refreshments? Or maybe you would like to speak to some of the nuns?”
Bertrand opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Baldwin interrupted him. “I should first of all like to
