Later he would go to the church and try to soothe his soul and cleanse his spirit with prayer. After two pints of wine, the bitterness of his frustration had worn away.
There was nothing new about this sense of desperation. He had suffered from it often enough, especially when he was younger. Somehow the desires began to fade a little as he grew older, but that simply meant that there was a poignancy to each fresh encounter. He loved, but knew that his love could never be requited. It was his unending doom – a living hell in which he was forced to deny his own emotions.
The whole world appeared to abhor his kind of lust. His father certainly did, which was why Jonathan had been condemned to a life of prayer and service to God, in order that he could atone for the sin of his perverted attraction, and incidentally remain far away from his family where he could never again embarrass them.
Yet now he had heard that he was not alone. It wasn’t just he who found the male body infinitely more attractive than the female; rumours abounded that the King himself, Edward II, had taken the younger Hugh Despenser to be his lover, just as he had previously taken Piers Gaveston until that man’s execution by the King’s enemies. And that was why Jonathan now needed to sit alone before the fire, ignoring the summons to the chapterhouse, refusing to attend the church services; he knew his life was irrelevant. If he had been born to wealth, like the King, maybe he could have enjoyed the love he craved, but God had seen fit to deny him that solace; to punish him with this fixation. If he was King he could flout the law – but he wasn’t King.
He gazed sombrely at the bailiff who came and sat at his side. “How is your companion?” he asked.
“Sir Baldwin is resting, I thank you. He was fortunate. If he had been standing even a short distance to one side…” Simon held up his hands helplessly. “He was lucky.”
“Some luck,” Jonathan said. He drained his pot and set it at his side, fixing Simon with a steady eye. “So did you come here to comment on an ageing doorkeeper’s laziness, or to chat about your friend’s near-death? Or perhaps there was some more pressing reason for your walking in here?”
“I wanted to ask, er…” Simon met Jonathan’s gaze, and suddenly his resolve faded.
“Whether I was on top of the church and pushed the girl at your friend?”
“She was murdered before she got up there.”
The canon gaped, but then blinked and gave Simon a curious look, his head set to one side like an intrigued terrier. “You’re not so foolish as you can appear, my friend. Let me assist you to another pint of wine. My pot is empty.”
“Here, have some of this,” Simon said, pouring from his own jug.
Jonathan sat back and held his feet to the fire, wiggling his toes. “I had no idea the poor little thing was murdered. She was killed and tossed over the wall like a rock hurled at a besieging army? That’s disgusting.”
“Whoever it was also threw a tile at Baldwin intending to kill him. I want to know where people were when all this happened.”
“It was between Prime and Terce, wasn’t it? You’ll have your work cut out to discover where everyone was at that time. The canons should all sit and read in the cloister, but that only happens in the really well-regulated priories, and I am sure you will have observed that this one…” he waved a hand airily and belched “… this one is hardly on that sort of level. No, here everyone gets on and sees to themselves. Some come and chat here in the frater; others go to the cloisters, it’s true, while some walk in the gardens, thinking.”
“Where were you?”
“Me?” Jonathan asked sadly. “I was alone in the orchard, waiting for a friend to meet me, but I fear he didn’t come.“
Simon saw his mood, but he had no time to worry himself about the reason’s behind it. “Did you see anyone there?”
“I did see the smith, Elias. He was hanging around by the wall to the nunnery, but I saw no one else.“
“There was a girl here last night. A whore servicing the canons – is that right?”
“Yes. So what? Even canons have desires, you know.”
“But… chastity?”
“God’s bones! What of it? Do you think all those who live in cloisters are capable of meeting each and every strict demand of the Orders we serve? I doubt whether God could be so cruel.”
“Does the prioress know?”
Jonathan took a deep breath. “My dear fellow, there is next to nothing ever happens in this place without her knowledge. She is the spider, sitting in the middle of her web, with strands reaching into every nook and crevice of the priory, and when a canon sneezes or coughs, she knows. Did she know that a girl was here yesterday, you ask? Well, I answer, yes. She not only knew, she probably spoke to the girl.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“Bailiff, I retract my suggestion that you are not so foolish as you look. Have you not heard of the prioress’s sin? The girl is Rose – Lady Elizabeth’s daughter.”
Chapter Seventeen
The hardest part for Jeanne was admitting that she had no idea why the suffragan had demanded that Simon and Baldwin should go to Belstone. As far as Bishop Stapledon was concerned, it was ridiculous that two secular men should be sent to a convent for nuns, and strange indeed that the reason for their mission should be concealed. With Jeanne’s permission, he had sent one of her grooms to Crediton on a fast horse, with a request that Peter Clifford should tell him the cause.
Now he paced up and down, the reply gripped tightly in his hand, chewing at his lip and scowling. Walter Stapledon was no fool, and he could easily understand the urgent desire of Bertrand to squash any rumours – especially in a case like this, where the treasurer of the priory had alleged that the murderer was…
He stopped that line of thought. Lady Elizabeth was well-known to him. There was no possibility of her being guilty of this crime. Surely not. Stapledon’s frown deepened; there was that story in 1300, before Stapledon became bishop, that she had given herself to a man… but Stapledon shook his head with decision. That a woman could lapse was not evidence that she could murder. The two crimes were utterly different. Lady Elizabeth was too urbane and refined for murder. No, it must be someone else, and Stapledon could only hope that she had not taken umbrage at Bertrand’s less than subtle manners. Stapledon pursed his lips. There was little likelihood that she would have suffered Bertrand gladly. Stapledon knew both reasonably well and the thought of Bertrand standing before her pointing an accusing finger and declaring her to be a murderer – the bishop winced at the thought.
The only thing that mattered was keeping news of this away from the general public. If it should become common knowledge, the nunnery could be closed, and that was a horrible prospect.
Very well, Stapledon thought to himself with resignation. I shall have to go and make sure that any ruffled feathers are soon smoothed.
Yet when he announced his intention, Jeanne was aghast. “Look at the weather! You can’t go out in this – think what it could be like in an hour or so! And getting to Belstone is not so straightforward as riding to Crediton. It’s much farther – you couldn’t get there before nightfall even if it was summer.”
Going to the door, Stapledon was forced to agree. The snow was light, simply a thin scattering of tiny flakes so far, and the road was not hidden; the air was too warm and the snow melted as soon as it landed, forming a thin, muddy sludge, but Stapledon knew only too well how different the weather could be on Dartmoor, for he was a Devonshire man, born and bred. He gauged distances in his mind and decided. “You’re right. We’d not make it to Belstone today; we shall need to travel as far as possible, though. We should be able to reach Bow before nightfall, and it would be a short enough journey from there. Yes, that would be all right,” he said.
He turned to the buttery and ordered his men to prepare to continue. When he returned to the hall, Jeanne saw his mood had not improved.
“My Lord, please sit and finish your wine,” she said gently.
Stapledon thanked her and sat down in Baldwin’s chair, but he glanced through Peter Clifford’s message once more and then muttered what Jeanne thought must be a curse. “Bertrand!” he exclaimed, and struck the arm of the chair.
