second, you should know that I believe Constance to be very concerned that whoever killed Moll was someone who got into the infirmary. Someone whom she feels might have had access to dwale and who also wanted to silence Moll. And now Katerine is dead, perhaps that same someone also wanted her made quiet?”
In the infirmary, Hugh sat on a stool by the wall, idly musing on the novice he had seen in the cloister.
She had so slim a body, Hugh could almost have believed she was a boy, but her lips and those welcoming eyes were surely those of a woman. He might have seen her again, were he to walk in the cloister. Perhaps she would speak to him. Ask him about his life. In his wildest imaginings he couldn’t dream of her as a lover, she would surely scorn any such suggestion. But she had, he considered, looked quite beautiful standing there in the sunlight.
At the other side of the chamber, Constance had little time for thoughts about her lover, even after old Joan had started nodding. She had gently wiped the weeping wound at the back of Baldwin’s head, then bound it up again. Now he appeared to doze.
“Don’t worry, Hugh. He’ll sleep well tonight.”
Hugh nodded and gave her a shy grin. She returned it more easily. It was not difficult, for Hugh was obviously overwhelmed by being inside a nunnery, and by her proximity. Constance could see his wretchedness. It made her wish to embrace him to calm his anxiety.
She pulled the counterpane up to Baldwin’s chest and smiled down at him, aware of the patient’s troubled sleep. Sir Baldwin was dreaming, she saw, and fleetingly wondered what avenues his mind was running along. It was obvious that he was under the influence of the poppy syrup; she had seen his pupils reduce to pinpricks, his flesh was very warm, he was sweating, and his breathing had slowed before he fell into sleep. He moaned to himself, frowned, and once sat upright, glowering around as if staring at enemies invisible to her or to Hugh. It had taken Hugh and her some time to calm him and ease him back down to the pillows.
Gently she rested a hand on his cheek, and was gratified to see his face ease a little, a smile lifting one corner of his mouth. He gave a quiet grunt, which she interpreted as one of pleasure, and then he was still. Watching her, Hugh was struck by the kind, maternal expression on her face. The servant knew he should distrust her as much as any of the other nuns, but he couldn’t. Her prettiness, her gentleness, her calm dedication; all militated against her being able to murder.
Constance quietly took her hand away and went back to her chamber.
Elias stood with his back to the wall gazing heavenwards for what felt like an age. The prioress must have spoken to his Constance, but surely she wouldn’t listen to the old dragon and ignore her heart? Constance knew she loved him, just as she must know he loved her – and how much! Elias groaned and clenched his teeth, his eyes closed as he shook his head from side to side. He couldn’t leave her here: what, go away without seeing his own child brought into the world? Never see his own baby? It would be unbearable! To live without Constance was intolerable, but what had the prioress said? Hadn’t she implied Constance thought he could have killed Moll?
His eyes snapped wide as he recalled her words. She had said Constance might consider that whoever had access to the dwale and had been in the infirmary… But Constance couldn’t think that he’d hurt Moll, could she? Elias slid down the wall and gripped his thighs, resting his head on his knees. Moll was an evil little minx, but why should Constance think him capable of killing her? The Lady Elizabeth had said that Katerine was dead, too. Why should anyone think him capable of hurting her?
Elias felt a cold shiver flutter down his spine, and he looked about him with a sudden premonition of doom. He would be accused and condemned; sent far away, up to the Scottish Marches, to the freezing cloisters of the North, where he would live the rest of his life in awful penance, without meat or strong wines, without ale or thick soups, but living on dry bread and cold water, perhaps locked forever in manacles.
If his own lover thought him guilty of killing the girl, how could he look to anyone else to believe in his innocence?
Elias shivered again. “Someone walking over my grave,” he said to himself automatically, and then gave a deathly grimace as he realised what he had said. It gave him an impetus. He forced himself to his feet and set off towards the stables.
“Bishop Bertrand?” Simon shouted, but he could see no one. He strolled along the path which led to the great gate, past the stables, the mill, the storerooms, garths in which cattle and sheep wandered, a great shed which held the tools and wagons, and last the smithy at the far end, far enough away for the forge to pose less of a fire risk. After this was a stable, some hundred yards away.
Simon approached the building. Peering inside, he called for the bishop again, but there was no answer, and he stood outside and kicked at pebbles while he considered what to do. Bertrand had come this way – Simon had seen him. “Rot him,” he muttered bitterly, and began to make his way back towards the guestroom.
As he passed by the smithy, he glanced inside, and happened to see a slim figure dart behind a post at the far side of the room. Simon’s feet had already taken him beyond the entrance, and he had turned his head to face the cloister when he was prompted to return and take another peep.
When the cavalcade had left, the bishop looking curiously sheepish, Jeanne and Edgar returned to the hall and stood gazing at the broken pieces of wood.
Edgar had swept all into a small pile beside the hearth, and both instinctively looked from it to the flames like a pair of conspirators.
Clearing his throat Edgar glanced at Jeanne. “My Lady…”
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “But first you need to send for a carpenter. The best in Crediton, mind. I want a new chair.”
As Simon disappeared, Bishop Bertrand gave his companion a sharp glance again, grumbling, “This is mad, we’ve been here for ages. Are you sure he was there?”
Paul smiled gently and nodded. Again.
Shifting his weight, Bishop Bertrand grunted with dissatisfaction. This was quite ridiculous. The lad had told him about the message, and remembering the way that Elias had been waiting at the grille, Bertrand could believe the young smith was about to try to leave with his woman, a nun.
To Bertrand’s mind, this was deeply suspicious behaviour. After all, two novices had been killed and the knight wounded. Even so, if Elias had nothing to do with the murders, Bertrand could understand why he might want to leave. Any canon living in a sink of corruption like this would want to get away. Although no honourable canon would subvert a nun to join him, Bertrand reminded himself.
There was no doubt that two were planning to go. Paul and Bertrand had uncovered the pair of bundles. In one Bertrand had found the little package, carefully wrapped in bits and pieces of linen. That, he knew, was incriminating and Bertrand rather looked forward to seeing how the canon tried to wriggle out of it.
Bertrand wriggled himself. His buttocks had gone to sleep. He had rested here for what felt like an age, and all they had seen so far was an apparently endless succession of dull-looking, placid horses or stolid oxen being led by equally dim-looking grooms or vapid farmworkers. The only man who looked remotely human had been the bailiff.
And it was damned uncomfortable, sitting here in the dark without a stool or even a pillow on which to rest his buttocks.
He’d tried sitting on the floor, but now he was on the packages themselves. They didn’t protect him from the freezing ground and Bertrand was uncomfortably aware that his left leg, which he had once broken in a fall from a horse, would not work when he tried to stand. It had gone to sleep some while ago.
“Where is the man? I see no sign of anyone coming. How long will the fool be?”
Paul’s face reflected none of his own doubts. “He is sure to be here shortly. I cannot say how long. No, he shall find it impossible to conceal his guilt, I think.” He froze, head cocked to one side. “Can you hear that?” he whispered.
Bertrand listened. There was the sound of hurried footsteps, ragged breathing, and a thump as someone barged the door wide open with his shoulder. Then he saw Elias dart over the floor, reach down and pull the straw aside.
