“Denise,” he said seriously, “you know that the prioress has tried to ban me from the nunnery, but do you know why?”
“Because of your behaviour with the novices,” she giggled, and clapped a hand over her mouth. It was wrong to laugh at such things here, in the nave of the church.
Luke smiled sadly. “No, Denise. That was all invented by the prioress herself. I am to be removed because she made an advance to me which I rejected. Now she wants a new priest, someone whom she can mould to her will. But Bishop Bertrand has seen this, and he is to report her behaviour to Bishop Stapledon so that Lady Elizabeth can be forced to resign her post. Then we will have anew leader.”
“Margherg… Margherita, you mean?”
“Yes… perhaps. Or maybe someone else. Someone in whom the bishop can place his trust. But I must fetch his key, mustn’t I?”
Denise gazed about her vacuously. “I have to go and get my food,“ she muttered as her belly rumbled alarmingly.
“You go, then. Leave me to find the purse, and return later to lock the door,” Luke said.
It was all too confusing. Denise could feel one of her headaches coming on, and wished she was sitting back in the frater with a cool pint of wine before her. She didn’t need grief from this tomfool of a priest. The prioress had ordered her to stay and lock the door after him, but if Luke was only trying to find the key to the bishop’s chest, surely the bishop’s needs would take precedence over the prioress’s order, and that would mean that Luke could stay and search if he wanted. Serve him right if there was no food left when he returned.
“Very well, you may stay a while. But I will be back to lock the door when I have eaten my lunch.”
“You were ever a kind and thoughtful woman, Denise,” Luke said, and continued on his way to the sacristy. It was not until he had heard the door to the church close that he allowed himself to chuckle.
Chapter Twenty
After her meal late in the afternoon, Agnes was sent to the prioress’s chamber to fetch a cushion for Lady Elizabeth’s chair. She found it as instructed, but once outside the room, standing on the small landing, she hesitated, then walked to the infirmary.
The room was dark, the interior lit only by guttering candles and the flickering flames of the fire. Clutching the cushion to her breast, she went to where Baldwin lay, breathing stertorously, his mouth open.
Agnes hadn’t seen him from close to before, and she studied him with interest. He was not so good-looking as Luke, she reckoned. Luke was slender and fair, with his golden hair and bright blue eyes, while this knight had the thicker body of an older man, muscled and powerful, certainly, but too old, too worn. Knackered. She shook her head. This man wasn’t someone she could fancy; she was much happier with a younger lover.
“What’re you doing here?” Hugh demanded. He entered the room belligerently, his brows black.
Immediately the curtain to Constance’s chamber twitched aside, and the infirmarer herself hurried into the room. “Agnes? How long have you been in here?”
The novice retreated at the appearance of Hugh. He shoved past her rudely to stand staring at the sleeping knight, who mumbled and gave a vague groan before snuffling and settling himself once more. Sniffing suspiciously at the jug and pot at Baldwin’s side, Hugh looked back at Agnes again, who stared uncomprehendingly at him.
Constance cleared her throat. “I shall replace it with a clean one and fresh water.”
Hugh nodded, but still eyed the quailing novice with a truculent glower. “Well? What were you doing snooping around in here?”
“I just wanted to see the knight – make sure he’s all right,” she wailed. “The prioress sent me to get a cushion, and I thought I’d look in. That’s all.”
“Did you touch him?” Hugh demanded.
Agnes felt the tears spring and run down both cheeks. “No!”
“It’s true, Master Hugh. She didn’t touch him. I was watching,” said a voice from behind her, and when Agnes spun around, she saw old Joan sitting near the fire.
“Nor put anything in the jug?” Hugh demanded.
“She did nothing, master. Stop scaring the girl with your fury. It won’t do her any good to be weeping when she delivers the cushion to the prioress, will it? Agnes, come here, and sit for a moment. You need to calm yourself.”
Nothing loath, Agnes gratefully walked to Joan’s side. The old woman patted her hand, and motioned to a seat. Sniffling, Agnes dropped upon it, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.
“He’s a good-looking fellow, isn’t he?” Joan said with a twinkle in her eye. “I once came up here to see a man who had fallen from a horse. It was Sir Rodney – such a fine-looking lad. We all wanted to see what men were wearing and how they had their hair cut and so on, and my friend Bridget was here before me; we both studied him and it was a bit sad really.” Her gaze was unfocused as she reached back through her memory. “Nothing had changed. All was the same as when I entered the convent. But then the last King, Edward the First, was a stickler. Never let his men wear beards, never let them wear any finery. Said that fashionable clothes like the French wore were for pansies or women, not for the men he commanded. He always was a stern old devil.”
“You met the King?”
Joan shook her head. “No. Only Sir Rodney.”
“Was Bridget a nun?” Agnes asked.
“Yes. Many years before your time. But then she went off with Sir Rodney – to the shame of the convent. Now, wipe your face. Don’t worry – we won’t tell anyone, and it wouldn’t matter if we did. Everyone knows what it’s like to want a little taste of what the world outside is like. What did you think of the good knight?”
“I…” Agnes hung her head. “He’s ancient – and I don’t like his beard,” she confessed.
Joan chuckled and took the novice’s hand, patting it gently. “It’s all right, dear. I never liked beards either. Now help me up, and I’ll come down with you. I daresay this good servant would like to be alone to protect his master’s friend.”
Hugh couldn’t help feeling relieved when he was alone in the infirmary once more. He glanced at the sleeping knight and muttered, “For the love of God, get better quickly. I can’t stand this dump much longer.”
After several pints of ale Bertrand was in a cheerful mood. He had demanded the convent’s accounts from Jonathan, and now sat in the guestroom studying the large roll which detailed all transactions for the last two years. The accounts had not been ready when he had arrived on his official visitation earlier, and now they made interesting – and sorry reading.
The roll showed that the nuns had not enough grain or hay to feed their cattle, and the land was unfit for much other than pasture. There were foreign lands, way off towards Exford and Crediton, but these never seemed to bring in what even Bertrand, who was no expert in such matters, would have expected after viewing accounts from other priories, especially since he had seen money from Iddesleigh’s bailiff passed to the treasurer while he was last here, a healthy sum.
In terms of money, it was obvious that the priory couldn’t survive. The prioress had been accused of paying her vicar too much, but there were few sums going to him according to the rolls. Perhaps the place was investing too heavily in wine and other foods, Bertrand wondered, and ran his finger along some of the columns, reading off the numbers. Even this area looked no worse than he would have expected. Then he came to a point far down, near the bottom of a page. It made him stop, blink, and peer again.
“God’s bollocks!” he shouted, appalled. Then clapped a hand over his mouth and blushed deeply when he caught sight of Paul’s scandalised face.
Carrying the cushion, Agnes walked down the stairs with Joan and was about to open the door to the cloister when the old nun stopped her. “Come, child, what is it? It’s clear enough that you’re depressed.”
