“Baldwin, you were struck on the head. You’ve got a great gash in your scalp. It’s not serious, but you’ll have to rest.”
Vague memories came back to him now. They were in a convent, the one at Belstone, and they were helping someone… a bishop. Not Stapledon, though, someone else. Baldwin struggled to recall what they were doing here, but his head was hurting abominably. Every time he shifted on the bed it felt as if someone was thrusting a red-hot knife into his skull.
“Baldwin? Can you hear me?” Simon said again, and when there was no reply, he took his friend’s hand, repeating his question and watching Baldwin’s face anxiously until he felt the knight’s hand grip his own. For Simon it was proof that his friend was not in immediate danger. Simon, like most men, had witnessed plenty of tournaments and mock battles, and had seen men in the ring fighting with clubs and swords. He knew as well as any man that, provided the injured man could hear and move after a few minutes, he was unlikely to die. The others, the ones who expired, were the men who could neither hear nor move after an hour or so. They seemed to pass from unconsciousness into catalepsy, and then died.
Simon leaned back, overcome with relief at the thought that his friend would probably recover. Not that there was any guarantee, of course. Locked-jaw always lingered after a cut no matter how small, and once that hideous disease had taken a man in its terrible grip, it would squeeze the life from him without compunction. Simon feared the locked-jaw more than the madness, the foaming at the mouth that a mad dog’s bite could give a man. Locked-jaw led to a slow, agonising starvation while the mind was left free to appreciate the complete indignity and horror of the death.
And someone had tried to inflict this on his friend. Simon felt blind fury rising again, and had to force it down. Such emotions were not seemly in a nunnery.
Seeing the prioress beckon, he went to her side.
“Bailiff, this is the infirmarer, Constance. She has had some experience of wounds like your friend’s.”
“The best cure for him is sleep, Bailiff,” Constance said earnestly. “But with that horrible wound, he’ll not be able to get it. I want to give him a draught that will let him rest.”
“What sort of draught?” Simon asked suspiciously.
The prioress laughed quietly. “I know your mind, Bailiff. Trust me, and trust my infirmarer. Constance here knows what is needful for your friend.”
So she might, Simon thought to himself, but if she was the murderer, she might also know what was needful for her own protection. He watched with worried eyes while the infirmarer poured a few drops of syrup from a bottle and mixed them with wine from a jug. Then, tenderly holding Baldwin by the nape of his neck, she held the cup to his lips. As soon as he had finished the draught, Simon saw his friend’s eyes wrinkle slightly at the corners as though he was smiling in gratitude. Constance carefully helped him to lie back on the pillows, his head turned sideways. Baldwin’s breathing became more even and less laboured as soon as his head touched the pillow.
Simon glanced enquiringly at the prioress. She gestured towards the door, and the bailiff nodded and followed her out. Once at the landing area above the stairs, he stopped, and beckoned Hugh, grasping his servant by the shoulder.
“Hugh, don’t let Baldwin out of your sight, all right? Someone might try to kill him in here, so keep your eyes open and your wits about you.”
Luke heard the canons talking about Katerine’s death when he was approaching the church for Terce and the Morrow Mass. He saw Jonathan and curled his lip, hurrying past. Luke knew perfectly well about Jonathan’s liking for young men and Luke had no wish to be the latest focus of his desires.
All the canons knew about Jonathan. He was a pleasant enough fellow when sober, but every now and again he would get drunk, and when he did, if a youthful or impressionable man was nearby, Jonathan could fix upon him to the embarrassment of the rest of the clergy.
Jonathan never intended to cause offence, but equally he knew that his interest in other men was viewed by most of his clerical brothers to be an abomination. He was convinced of it himself. That was why he went on his knees to pray, to try to expiate the sin of his lust.
Usually his – Luke could only think of them as infatuations – would wear out quickly, just as soon as the object of his desires became aware of the direction of his thoughts. Recently, Brother Paul had appeared to be humouring the older man, and Luke wondered whether he should bring the matter to the attention of the prioress – but only for a moment. He was too open to accusations of seducing novices himself.
When Jonathan saw Luke, he hurried over to him. Luke froze, but quickly forgot his revulsion as Jonathan told him what had happened to Sir Baldwin and the novice.
Luke raised his brows and expressed astonishment. “But this is terrible! We’ll have to pray for the knight’s full and speedy recovery. Did anyone see the girl jump?”
“No one, unless the knight himself did,” Jonathan said. “Apparently Sir Baldwin looked up just before he was struck, or so Paul says.”
“Oh?” said Luke. “Well, no doubt Sir Baldwin will have told the suffragan.”
“No, the knight was unconscious when they took him to the frater, and now he’s safe in the nuns’ infirmary, but still not talking, so I hear.”
Luke carried on, but at a slower pace. Troubling thoughts occupied his mind as he slowly dressed himself for the service. It was a great shame about Kate.
Hearing the shuffling of feet in the nave, Luke fitted a contemplative expression to his face and walked slowly to the altar. There he genuflected to the cross, and began the service.
Uttering the words he knew so well, Luke found his mind wandering. It was good to be here, safe in this little convent. Agnes was a very willing companion, and there would always be other novices when she lost her charm or became too demanding. That was the good thing about being in a convent; there was no need to be tied to any one girl.
Women were confusing. Luke had been so certain that Moll was giving him the eye. But when he got her on her own and she realised what he wanted, she’d gone frigid, then pious. Worst of all, she had started preaching, urging him to give up his life of debauchery. He told her of Agnes’s willingness, thinking to make her jealous, but the shot went wide of the mark. Moll said he must confess his sins, then she hinted that she would speak to Agnes.
Luke shook at the thought. Agnes was terribly jealous. If she heard that he’d tried it on with Moll, she would be furious.
Moll was not only pretty, she had the attraction of being a challenge. Agnes had the face of an angel but was a nervous type, always looking for praise. She could be boring – complaining about how others were putting her down.
In contrast Katerine had been assured and self-confident. Luke knew she was experienced with men the first time she kissed him. Like Agnes she hadn’t needed much persuading. The one who was different was Moll. She believed in her vocation; wouldn’t swallow his guff about a priest being able to take upon himself any sin. No, that kind of rubbish was only accepted by nuns who wanted an excuse. It wouldn’t work with Moll; just as it hadn’t worked with the worldly wise Katerine.
Katerine, when he had whispered to her in the few moments he had managed to snatch with her when no one – and especially not Agnes – was watching, had not reddened, but simply met his look with a measuring gaze. Luke had tried to use his arts of persuasion on her, but she had laughed, mocking his pseudo-religious arguments, saying, “If you want to bed me, say so and have done.”
And then, as if to demonstrate that she was worth his while, she had reached up and kissed him full on the lips, with a loose, lubricious lustiness that made him squirm just to remember it.
It was a shame she was dead, he sighed. But at least Agnes was still alive.
Chapter Sixteen
