There was a particular tone to his voice. Jeanne didn’t look up for a moment while she considered. Edgar had been Baldwin’s sole friend and confidant as well as his servant for many years, according to the little she had heard. It must be painful for him to see all that he had grown used to being discarded on, as he would see it, the whim of a woman.
Jeanne smiled. “What would he like best, do you think?”
Edgar, who was well used to feminine wiles having been a successful philanderer for many years, recognised the appearance of the olive branch and grinned back. “I would think a picture of hunting, or hawking.“ It was not as if he found his new mistress overbearing or difficult; she was a great deal more straightforward than he had feared, if a bit demanding. But after being first Sir Baldwin’s man-at-arms and then his servant for more than thirty years, since they had met in the mess that was Acre in 1291, it was hardly surprising that Edgar found so much change over so short a period unsettling.
He left Lady Jeanne by the fire. A pot was boiling and Edgar took it to his buttery. There he drew off a quart of wine and prepared hypocras, putting broken lumps of sugar into a pan, adding boiling water and spices and leaving them to stew for a while.
He had enjoyed his time with his master, but now things were changing. Sir Baldwin was married, and didn’t need Edgar’s help to buy clothes or organise the estates. And Edgar was finding himself forced to look to his own future. He was handfast to Cristine from the tavern in Crediton, and she was growing impatient with Edgar for his delay in formally giving her his vows. She understood that he had been unable to do much until his master’s wedding was over, but now Cristine wanted their arrangement made binding, and Edgar wasn’t certain how his master would take to having yet another woman about the place – nor was he sure how Lady Jeanne would react.
It added up to a disturbing time, and one in which Edgar found himself confused. All in all, it was most unsettling.
He added the wine to the pot and carried it to the hall, pouring a large measure into a pewter jug. It was as he passed Jeanne the drink that they both heard hooves in the yard and Edgar walked to the door.
“Wat, quiet, boy!” Jeanne snapped, trying to listen. In a few minutes, Edgar came back with a grubby and dirt-stained man, who panted like a dog from exertion.
“My Lady, this man is a messenger for the suffragan bishop, on his way to find him at Peter Clifford’s house. I told him that Bishop Bertrand is not there, but I think you should hear his news.”
Jeanne noted his serious expression and nodded to the man, who dropped onto a bench while Edgar fetched him a large jug of ale. The messenger took a long draught and glanced up at Edgar thankfully, but then recalled his place, and sat upright as he met Jeanne’s eye.
“My Lady,” he declaimed, “I have been sent by Bishop Stapledon of Exeter, who advised me to visit Furnshill to warn his good friend Sir Baldwin, and to inform the bishop’s suffragan in Exeter, that although our King has instructed Humphrey de Bohun, the Earl of Hereford, not to discuss the affairs of the realm nor to have any assemblies of men, the Earl has ignored the King’s command. He has raised his levy to form an army.”
Edgar offered the messenger more drink, but the man refused. “A place to unroll my blanket near a fire is all I crave.”
“Then you must sleep here,” Jeanne said, rising to her feet and indicating the hearth. “Pull a bench to the heat and rest. For my part, I am grateful to you for stopping here on your way to Crediton. When you wake, tell the servants that I expect them to feed you well to keep you going for the remainder of your journey.”
She accepted his thanks, and walked from the room out to the little solar, Edgar close behind her. He took his rest on a bench near the entrance to her private rooms, the mastiff with him. Edgar never took risks when he could avoid them, and although he had little doubt that the messenger was perfectly innocent and honourable, Edgar was not going to leave his mistress unguarded while his master was absent.
Comforted by the knowledge of his nearness, Jeanne sat in a chair in her bedchamber. There was no need to undress yet, especially with the freezing gusts wafting in from the unglazed windows, and she wanted a few moments to consider what she had heard.
No matter what the deeper political problems were, one thing was quite obvious: the country was teetering on the brink of disaster once more. The King and his friends the Despensers, father and son, were rushing towards another civil war with the barons.
Jeanne found herself praying to God that her husband would not be sent to fight. She didn’t want to be widowed so soon after finding him.
Constance smiled at Joan as she sipped her dwale, pulling a face as the bitter mixture went down. After the death of Moll, Constance had been very cautious with the measures of belladonna, but tonight she had added more poppy syrup. She needed the security of knowing that she could see Elias.
Joan settled back against her pillows and closed her eyes, and soon her breath was more stertorous as she slipped into unconsciousness. With a brief sigh of relief Constance left her and went to the door, where she listened carefully. Compline was a while ago, and all the nuns should be asleep, but someone might still be up and about. Constance had little to be happy about. Her guilt felt like a heavy weight pressing upon her breast, almost stifling her, and she longed for Elias to hug her and whisper soothing promises of how their lives would change.
Elias had promised to rescue her as soon as he had heard the first gossip. Many in the convent were convinced that Constance had given Moll too much dwale. Margherita was trying to persuade everyone that the prioress was guilty, but Constance knew better. She had doubted the sense in running away, but now her misgivings were bent in the other direction. She couldn’t stay here any longer.
There was no sound. She lifted the latch and walked out to the stairs. The dorter was silent apart from the snuffling and sighing of sleeping women. Reassured, Constance lifted the hem of her tunic and tiptoed down the stairs. Opening the door, she went through to the cloister. The church door was in front of her, and she pulled the dorter door shut before setting off along the corridor towards it.
It was when she reached the corner that she felt the hand on her shoulder.
“Hello, Constance. Couldn’t you sleep?” Katerine said, and Constance recoiled at the cruel expression in her sharp little features.
Elias sat biting his nails. The last service had finished an age ago, and he would have expected Constance to have arrived by now. She had promised to get here after Compline, and he wanted to set off as quickly as possible, now he had their packages ready. His face was screwed up with fearful expectation. He was waiting in the church, for the prioress never saw fit to lock the dividing door, and he and Constance used to meet here often to talk when they had first confessed their affection for each other, although more recently, like the night when Moll had died, he had gone to meet her in her own chamber at the rear of the infirmary.
That night had been wonderful: she had agreed to leave the convent with him. From that day his every spare waking moment had been spent arranging their escape. And tonight they would go.
But she should have been here by now. The suspense was unbearable, and Elias stood, walking to the door. As he opened it, he saw his woman approaching hurriedly.
“Thank God, my love. I thought…” Although there was little light, with heavy clouds scudding across the sky and no moon, he could sense her agitation. “Constance? What is it?”
“I can’t leave with you,” she whispered brokenly.
“Why? Everything is ready.”
“Katerine knows everything. She accused me of killing Moll!”
Elias felt his heart lurch within him. “Forget her,” he said harshly. “It’s because of the rumour that we have to go. I can protect you. Look, all the food is ready, everything’s packed. If we…”
“No, Elias,” she said, touching his cheek. Her voice was strained as though she was close to crying. She swallowed. “Moll saw you coming to my room one night, and told Katerine. She guessed, I suppose, or perhaps she watched herself. What does it matter? She won’t let on because she wants me to give her my enamelled brooch. I have to go back now and give it to her.”
“The thieving slut!”
“It’s better that I should let her have it.”
Elias was silent. His plans, their future together, everything was fallen into ruin. It was only with a struggle
