Prioress Elizabeth had to go, and that was that.
She couldn’t help casting Elizabeth a quick look, and almost immediately she regretted it. The prioress was watching her, and as Margherita glanced up, she saw the prioress lift her chin imperiously and beckon.
Margherita had to obey. Obedience was one of the cardinal virtues of a nun. She slowly made her way along the cloister, observing Agnes appearing with a cushion, which she passed to Lady Elizabeth, before retreating. The prioress shoved it down between her and the chair’s back.
“Always was a problem, my back,” she said brightly when Margherita was before her. “My mother had the same trouble.”
It was so small a comment, and yet so perfectly selected for impact, Margherita thought. The great lady had known her mother only too well, while Margherita, born a bastard, had not known hers. She couldn’t tell whether her mother had a bad back or any other ailments. Not that she cared.
They were quite alone. Elizabeth leaned forward. “I wanted to have a chat with you, Margherita. In part about your accusation that I murdered the novice Moll, but also because I needed to warn you about the risks you are running.“
“Risks, Elizabeth? I see none.”
“Perhaps you don’t. But there are so many things that could happen in the near future, and I thought you should be quite certain of the sequence.”
Margherita gave a small sigh of boredom and bent her head in vague and disrespectful assent.
Lady Elizabeth eyed her with irritation. “Margherita, I know what you wrote to the suffragan bishop, Bishop Bertrand. I know you accused me of having an affair with the priest, that you accused me of wishing to murder Moll, and that I killed her.”
Margherita felt the first cold, clammy suspicion that something was wrong. There was a positive tone in Elizabeth’s voice that struck like a dagger into Margherita’s vitals.
“It’s nonsense, Margherita. I’ve not had an affair with Luke. The idea is ludicrous in the extreme. Apart from anything else, even if I were to wish a liaison with him, I feel it hardly likely that so youthful and attractive a man would look at me.”
“I heard you.”
“Pardon?” Elizabeth enquired, momentarily off-balance.
“I heard you. With him – in your room. I heard you the night that Moll died. The man went up to your room. I saw someone while I was outside, and he darted into the dorter’s stairway. He wasn’t up with the nuns, so where was he if not with you?”
“Are you sure of this?” Elizabeth asked, but internally she was cursing the foolishness of men.
“You ask me whether I am sure?” Margherita demanded haughtily. “Then who was it who panted and made you sigh and weep? Who was it who made you call quietly to your love? Who was it, if not Luke? If some other man was with you, I’d be content to declare his guilt instead of Luke’s.”
Lady Elizabeth sat back in her chair dumbfounded, and Margherita allowed herself a small sneer of pleasure. Except that it was wiped away almost immediately by the prioress’s bellow of laughter.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hugh finished his pot of ale and glanced thankfully at Constance, who smiled in return. Belching, Hugh leaned back against the wall, but he was aware of the pressure in his bladder, and he wondered whether he dared leave the room a second time. It was warm in the infirmary, especially since the windows were closed, and he yawned as he peered at Baldwin.
The knight was asleep, and now his rest appeared untroubled. He snored loudly, his mouth open, and although every so often he would shift restlessly, which usually caused him to grunt as the dressing rubbed against the pillow and caused a ripple of pain to echo within his wound, he looked well enough. Hugh was not worried about him yet: concern for his health would come later, when the wound had had enough time to fester, and the infirmarer could smell whether he would live or die.
At least with a head wound it was quick. Hugh had seen a few of them in his time. If a man was scratched or cut in a limb it could take an age for the poor bastard to croak. Often the surgeon would hack off more and more of the surrounding muscle and skin in a vain attempt to save the life, but commonly the cure was enough only to exacerbate the problems, and the patient would expire in agony, killed by the regular removal of mortified flesh rather than the actual sweet-smelling gangrene itself.
With a head wound, it was easier. The patient simply died.
He frowned as the pressure in his bladder increased. Joan, over by the fire, was nodding gently, close to sleep. Hugh could see shadows moving out in the chamber beyond, where Constance worked. It wouldn’t be sensible to leave the room until she was back, he knew. He couldn’t take the risk, not with Sir Baldwin’s safety.
Suddenly he knew he was going to have to go. If he didn’t make a swift journey down to his little alley soon, the floor would be awash. Constance was still out there, and now Hugh had no choice. He rose and dashed to the chamber, gasping, “Please look to the knight – I have to go. Back in a minute!” before hurrying back the way he had come.
In the alley the relief was enormous as he stood leaning, one hand pressed against the wall before him, sighing with the exquisite pleasure of emptying himself. With a brief fart, he resettled his hose, then turned to return to the cloister, but stopped, hearing a noise.
Frowning, he peered up the alley. It had been a faint, hoarse, inarticulate little cry, and Hugh recognised the sound. It was impossible not to. Private chambers were rare, and most husbands and wives had to couple in alcoves in their master’s hall, or if free, made love in the bed they shared with all their children. It was a woman’s cry of release – a woman with her man.
Hugh had no prurient desire to see who it could be, but he knew that at a time like this, when two young women had died, he had a duty to see who was making love with a nun. Someone guilty of that might be guilty of anything.
Setting his jaw, Hugh stepped silently up the alley. At the end was an open space, a low wall, several bushes. Approaching the wall, he heard something again and he peered over it.
The couple were shielded by the wall and the straggling bushes. She was kneeling atop her man, her habit raised to her breast, her long fair hair loose and trailing down her spine as she rocked gently back and forth, biting her lip to control the urge to cry out. As he watched, she turned, her eyes closed in ecstasy, and he ducked out of sight, but not before he had recognised her. It was Agnes, the novice he had seen spying on Baldwin in the infirmary.
With a shock Hugh realised he was witnessing a novice breaking her vow, and somehow when he saw her lover was Luke, it came as no surprise. If a beautiful young girl like Agnes could behave in such a manner, there was nothing wonderful about a man taking advantage. Stealthily Hugh turned to make his way back to the infirmary.
He felt as if the sight had punctured his very soul. There had been a sense of sadness before at the thought that the women here would not look at him, but that knowledge was tempered by the certainty that they would not be tempted by another man either. Now he knew only grief and a dreadful increase of his desperate loneliness, as if Agnes was in some way betrothed to him and he had just witnessed her treachery; he felt betrayed.
As he came to the alley he saw Denise coming towards him.
She smiled and stood to one side to let him pass, but he stopped. If she continued she could hardly miss the two lovers. In a generous frame of mind, Hugh cleared his throat loudly so that Agnes and Luke should be warned before being discovered.
His kindness failed. There was a brief squeak, a tearing of cloth, then a high giggling. Denise’s attention flew to the wall, and she peered keenly at it, then lifted an eyebrow to Hugh. “I trust that they have finished now,“ she said loudly and coldly, and turning, swept back the way she had come to lock the church’s connecting door.
