distrusted French priests for the same reason Bertrand would almost certainly have retracted his blessing, had he known that Baldwin was a renegade Templar. The French clergy had joined in the condemnation of the Order almost to a man. Some were no doubt motivated by greed: they had scrambled to take over churches and lands. Others were scared of the Pope’s displeasure; some believed the accusations of sacrilegious and anti-Christian worship and thought it right that they should persecute men who participated in such obscene acts. Bertrand looked to Baldwin as if he fell into the first category. He had the disapproving mien of the professional churchman, as if dubious whether he could be contaminated by being too close to a secular knight of heaven alone knew what background.
Respectfully Baldwin stood back. He had to admit that the man probably had good reason to look suspicious. The knights and barons of England were taking advantage of the weakness of King Edward II to indulge in their own petty land wars, especially those who could rely on the favour of the King, such as the Despenser family. Hugh the Younger, son of Hugh Despenser the Older, seemed to have an insatiable appetite for fresh lands. Baldwin had heard that his greed had led to an upsurge of discontent in the Welsh March, where he was attempting to line his pocket at the expense of his neighbours. It would be no surprise if they should all collaborate against him; the March was ever a source of vicious warfare and was run as a series of private fiefdoms, each lord having his own army. Now matters had grown so serious, Baldwin had been told, that the King himself had travelled to Gloucester to ban any large assemblies of men, but his command had been ignored and armies were gathering.
It was just one more proof of discontent within the kingdom, and Baldwin was growing concerned that England could explode into violence.
“Sir Baldwin,” Peter said, offering him a seat and motioning to a servant to pour wine, “I’m terribly sorry to have asked you here at such short notice, but I wasn’t sure to whom I could turn.”
Peter Clifford was a tall, thin, ascetic priest with a shock of white hair marred by his tonsure. His complexion was pale now, because he had forgone his usual pleasures of hunting and hawking this winter, spending all his free hours in the church’s cloisters bent over the pages of his account books while he tried to finish off the internal decoration of the recently built church. Today, however, Baldwin thought he looked more tired than usual. Underlying his pallid features was a deep anxiety, bred of fear, and at the sight Baldwin realised the seriousness of his summons.
“I am honoured you felt you could turn to me,” he said gently. “But how can I help you?”
Peter Clifford pulled his chair nearer to the knight’s. “Sir Baldwin, what we are about to tell you is confidential. It falls under the same secrecy as the confessional, you understand? It is the business of Holy Mother Church, and must never be divulged.”
“I shall keep secret whatever you tell me.”
Peter glanced over at Bertrand. The bishop gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Peter leaned back in his chair as the bishop rested his elbows on his knees and minutely studied Baldwin.
To Baldwin’s eye the bishop himself looked as though he would have benefited from more exercise and a diet of good red meat. Bertrand was surely in his early fifties, a stooped, prim-looking fellow with a long narrow face and sharp little eyes. His mouth was small and pursed, with bloodless lips, giving his face a sour appearance. His left hand was withered, and he left it in his lap, emphasising points with his right alone.
“Sir Baldwin, I came here to ask the dean for his aid because I find myself caught in a cleft stick. I am sure you know that the good Bishop of Exeter is the Lord High Treasurer, and is with the King. In his absence he instructed me to ensure that the convents within his See are all obeying the strictures of their Rules. I am the visitor, and for the last two months I have been going to all the nunneries and monasteries in the diocese.”
“A miserable time of year for so much travelling,” Baldwin observed.
Bertrand raised his eyes to meet Baldwin’s. “Cold and wet enough, but one is kept warm when on God’s work. He protects His own.”
Baldwin smiled and nodded, but could not help the mental aside that in his experience, whether God was assisting or not, the rain still fell as wet on a traveller’s back. He found he instinctively disliked the bishop. The man looked and sounded like a prig. His manner was affected and prudish, and Baldwin was quite certain in his own mind that Bertrand was not the kind of man with whom he could establish a friendship.
Bertrand frowned. “Sir Baldwin, you will recall that all I am about to tell you is confidential? I have found that there are weaknesses in most of our institutions, and lapses occur not only among novices, but in the ranks of those who have taken the oaths. Even the Abbot of Tavistock regularly eats meat!”
Baldwin recalled the ruddy-cheeked face of Abbot Champeaux. Not only did he eat meat: against all the laws he regularly and cheerfully hunted venison on Dartmoor. Abbot Champeaux was no hypocrite, Baldwin knew. He enjoyed his life to the full, it was true, but that did not affect his dedication to his abbey, nor to his monks or the secular folk of Tavistock.
“It must be difficult for those who live the monastic life,” he said. “St Bernard designed the Rule for convents in warm, southern lands, where the sun is more conducive to study, and where the Nocturns can be attended without the risk of freezing at night.”
“The good Lord keeps warm those who truly give Him their faith and trust,” Bertrand declared sententiously. “And I fear He will not be turning His face to some of the people I have been meeting. Sir Baldwin, I have found a convent in which the prioress is failing in her responsibilities.”
Suppressing a sigh, Baldwin tried to nod understandingly. He was not surprised. In his experience many of the inhabitants of convents took their vows too young, before they could appreciate the lifelong nature of their promises. All too often girls went to a nunnery more from the desire to avoid an unpleasant marriage than from any religious ambition; men would join the monastery after being rejected by a woman, to escape the burdensome duties imposed on serfs, or – and Baldwin had met a Cistercian who admitted this – because he had got drunk while a youth and had dreamed God had called to him. That monk was forever peering into the bottom of his cup, trying to see his vision again.
Baldwin had taken his vows gladly, offering his life to the Order which had saved him from death in the hell-hole of Acre, but he knew many who were even now incarcerated in religious Orders completely unsuited to them. This suffragan did not look like a man likely to forgive an errant nun; if anything he looked the sort who would demand the harshest penance for the slightest infraction of the Rule.
The reflection made Baldwin’s tone harsh. “Where is this: Polsloe, Canonsleigh, or Belstone?” These were the only three he was aware of.
“Belstone.”
Baldwin knew of it, although he had never been there. It was tiny, with only a few nuns, a handful of canons, some novices, and a few lay brethren to do all the hard work. Baldwin was aware that it lay in a small valley with a stream flowing nearby, but had heard that the site was dreadful. He knew the moors well enough; the wind howled over them, and would whistle around a little cloister. From what he had heard, Belstone possessed a tiny amount of land that produced little in the way of usable food. The nuns relied more on the income from their flocks of sheep and their cattle.
“It must be a terrible place for the worship of God,” he ventured.
“God exists in the wilderness as much as in the city,” Bertrand said uncompromisingly. His certainty carried the force of a death sentence. “Nuns should be grateful to have an opportunity to praise His grace in a place where they cannot be distracted.”
“And what is the nature of the good prioress’s failing?”
“I had thought that her sin was the same as that of others, merely weakness, permitting greed and unchastity to run riot unbridled through her community,“ Bertrand said. ”But now I have been told that worse has happened. She is not controlling the place at all; the priory is utterly lawless.“
“What makes you say that?” asked Baldwin sceptically, picking up his drink.
Bertrand’s answer almost made him drop his pot. “Sir Baldwin, a young novice has been murdered.”
Chapter Three
Joan walked slowly from the infirmary to the rere-dorter, hitched up her tunic and eased herself onto the
