his voice.
Bertrand ignored him. “Men are probably getting over there and committing sins with the nuns every other day. It’s appalling, but it’s also proof that the prioress has failed in her duty.”
“No, honestly,” Godfrey protested. “I don’t think the canons have been behaving like that.“
Now neither Bertrand nor Baldwin paid him any heed. They sat staring at each other, silently. It was left to Simon to say something. He took a deep breath.
“Perhaps the girl suffered a fit or something? Couldn’t she have banged her head against the bed, and bruised her face that way, and thrown her arm about and caught it on something, ripping the flesh?”
“The skin was cut with a knife,” said Baldwin. “No, the question is, who had the chance of getting to her? Was it only women, or were there men in there as well?”
“It’s a disgrace, but I believe that some of the canons were in the habit of visiting the nuns and any one of them could be responsible for Moll’s death. No doubt he shall confess and be given his penance,” Bertrand said heavily. “In the meantime, the most important thing is to replace this foolish prioress with someone who can lead this place with piety.”
“No!” Godfrey said. “Lady Elizabeth is honourable.”
Baldwin nodded, asking, “And what of the girl who has died, Bishop? Shall she be left unavenged?”
Bertrand stood. “This is not some petty bickering in a town, Sir Baldwin. This is a convent for the celebration of God’s goodness. Why should we avenge a girl who has been fortunate enough to be taken to His side?“
Baldwin was about to get to his feet, but Bertrand waved a hand patronisingly. “Please remain here, Sir Baldwin. You have helped me greatly. I must now go and seek the prioress. There is no need for you to join me. I shall be returning to the nuns’ cloister.”
“How am I to search for the killer?” Baldwin demanded. “I have to speak to the prioress as well, and the infirmarer.“
“There’s no need. You are too keen to bring up salacious events which are better left forgotten, Sir Knight. I have reached my conclusions. Now, I suggest you and the bailiff here finish your drinks, and then pack your belongings. You are no longer required, gentlemen. I am sure you would prefer to return to your wives.”
Chapter Thirteen
The woman most on Bertrand’s mind was at that moment surprised, on opening her door, to find a nun, weeping piteously, waiting in her room.
“My daughter, what’s the matter?” she asked solicitously, crossing the room to Constance’s side. “Come – sit here, and tell me all about it.”
Constance allowed herself to be drawn away from the window, and rested in a chair, gratefully taking the cup of wine which her prioress thrust into her hands.
It was miserable, this existence. She had only wanted to do good and look after others, but now she thought she’d have done better never to have come to Belstone. She had never wanted to join a convent, and if she’d had any say, she’d have remained outside, living in peace, but when her brother Paul had insisted that she should find a husband, one with whom he could work, her life changed for ever. The only man to suit her, in Paul’s opinion, was someone who already had a good fortune or possessed a ship for trade. It was all Paul ever thought of – money and the means of securing more power for his family. There was never any consideration for his sister’s feelings: Constance was only a useful pawn to be swapped in exchange for suitable concessions.
It was that which led to her incarceration here. She would not have come to Belstone, except the only man whom Paul could find for her who possessed the right attributes was Master Gerald, a burgess in Exeter: a gross, fat man, with pendulous jaws and slack mouth, piggy eyes, and perpetually sweating brow. Master Gerald was certainly rich, but he was repulsive as well. The thought of his drooling mouth approaching her in their marital bed was repellent, and Constance had instantly spoken to the local priest, declaring her intention of joining a cloister.
That was over nine years ago, when she had been already old, at almost two-and-twenty. In truth she could say that she had never had any difficulty with her vows. She had made them in good faith, and intended to stick to them. When she came to the convent, she was a virgin and believed that she could keep to the claustral life. Celibacy was a small price to pay for the escape from Master Gerald, and as for poverty and obedience – well, poverty was her lot now that she was cut off from her family, and obedience was a feature of everyone’s daily existence. We all obeyed someone else, a lord, a king, an abbot – or a husband.
And then everything changed again – for she had met Elias.
Constance was tending to her tiny herb garden out at the western edge of the cloister, behind the lay sisters’ dorter, and picking leaves for a poultice when she had cut her thumb on her little sharp knife. She had been down at the southernmost corner of the garden, where the wall dividing the canonical side from the nunnery was a simple metal fence with iron bars to separate men and women without leaving all the nuns’ plants in the shade. As Constance stood, staring at her bloodied finger with dismay, Elias had appeared in the grille, and from that moment Constance had known love.
She felt the prioress’s arm about her shoulder, and drank again. Lady Elizabeth was a kind woman, Constance knew, though sometimes her advice was not useful.
Lady Elizabeth sat at her desk and gazed sympathetically at the weeping nun.
“I wondered why you did not attend Matins,“ she said softly. ”But I see you wouldn’t have been able to concentrate. Well and good. It is better that you should come to sing praises to Christ with a happy heart, not one which is downcast.“
“My… my Lady,” Constance stammered. “I have broken my vows.“
“You have made love with a canon?”
Constance stared up at the prioress. “You knew?”
“My dear, I know much of what goes on here, but it did not require great intuition to guess what you meant. It was a sin, but you could hardly have broken the oath of poverty without my knowing, and as for obedience, I have always found you most straightforward. What else could it be, then? Now, you are not the first to have done this. Are you with child?”
Feeling her face redden, Constance turned away in her shame.
“That is a pity, my dear – a child can be an embarrassment, and it is difficult to conceal something that can grow so large. Still, there are ways of keeping such matters quiet.”
“But it’s not the point! What of my promise to God?”
“He has many problems to look at, and I fear your lapse is only one of many, even among nuns. He has other, more serious issues to occupy Him.”
“But what about Moll? I killed her!”
Elias walked into the frater just as the bishop hurried out, and Elias had to stand back as Bertrand shoved past, rude in his urgency. He left Elias standing at the doorway staring after him with surprise as the suffragan darted back along the cloister towards the church. When Elias peered into the frater, he saw Baldwin and Simon, both looking bitterly angry, and Godfrey sitting opposite them with an expression of resentment marring his normally pleasant features. Hugh sat close to his master, looking sulky.
Although he had no wish to be questioned by the knight or the bailiff, Elias was thirsty, and he also wondered whether he could learn anything useful about the investigation. He walked in and collected himself a jug of ale before wandering as if idly to a bench nearby. This early in the morning the frater was nearly empty. Elias sat as close as he could without looking conspicuous; he was at the next table with Jonathan, a man whom Elias usually tried to avoid, but today he had little choice if he wished to hear what the men were saying.
At first he could hear little, and what he did hear made no sense to him.
Baldwin: “What do you think, Godfrey?”
Godfrey, peevishly: “Me? Why do you persist in asking me? The good bishop has decided upon his actions. He’s wrong, though. My Lady Elizabeth is…”
