Belladonna at Belstone by Michael Jecks Page A

grew tall and straggling between them.
    Baldwin could see no vegetable plots with their serried ranks of winter cabbages, early peas and kale. The lands about the priory showed the same depressing bleakness: there was little cultivated vegetation, only weeds and furze; the land was rock-strewn and suitable only for sheep and goats.
    “God’s blood, but the devil would be pleased to think he could so devastate a holy site - and here one woman has wreaked his will.”
    Bertrand’s scathing tone made Baldwin feel a curious sympathy for the woman who was about to suffer the lash of his tongue. This French bishop was apparently determined to persecute this priory, just as his brethren had been keen to persecute Baldwin and his friends in the Knights Templar. This reflection lent an acid tone to his voice. “It is always a tall order for women to maintain an abbey or priory, especially since nuns cannot attract so much investment as their male brethren.”
    “It matters not a jot!” Bertrand snapped. “Look at this place; if they were to work harder they could make this a small Garden of Eden, as is their duty. Instead they squander their money on fripperies.”
    Baldwin noted his words, wondering what the bishop was referring to. Had he noticed too many of the trappings of wealth: fur linings in cloaks; or squirrel edging on coats? Somehow he doubted it. The nuns in Belstone would be hard set to profit from the lands they owned.
    The men set their horses down the slope towards the gate. At the gatehouse, Simon sent Hugh to knock.
    By the side of the door was a large metal ring, and Hugh pulled at it, ringing a bell. Soon a small door opened behind an iron grille, and an eye peered out at them, an eye which widened noticeably with surprise as it took in the retinue.
    “The Bishop of Exeter’s Visitor is here to speak with the prioress,” Baldwin called.
    There was a squeak as the door shut, then the squeal of unoiled metal bolts protesting at being forced open, the rumble of a wooden bar being slid back into its socket in the wall, and before long the great gate was hauled wide by an anxious, older cleric. Other canons stood gaping at the sight of Bertrand and his guards riding through. While the visitor sat rigidly in his saddle and stared straight ahead of him, Baldwin found himself looking at the faces of the working men.
    A priory like this did not only contain nuns. There were canons, men who served the church and ran the daily services, for nuns couldn’t perform religious services. Moreover a place such as this was forced to rely on a large number of unconsecrated folk; the men and women who had taken the vows and wore the robes of the Order, but whose service was not spiritual but manual. In place of their prayers, perhaps because of their feeble wits or poor education, they gave their physical efforts.
    The lay sisters who lived in the nuns’ cloister saw to the laundry and the brewing; they tended the vegetables and herbs in the little garden, and plied their needles to ensure that all had clothes to wear. Meanwhile, lay brothers tended the flocks and cattle and made good the ravages of nature, seeing to the buildings, repairing roofs and windows, painting walls and woodwork, and generally making the place look as though it was cared for.
    Although from the look of this place, they had failed, Baldwin reckoned.
    Paint peeled; roofs were breached and leaking; weeds had cracked pathways, pushing aside stones and pebbles; cob and plaster walls had disintegrated, and were stained with the damp that had seeped beneath; fences designed to retain pigs had failed and the occupants of sties had wandered into the fields; hives lay ruined where the wind had tossed them. Near the orchard Baldwin saw a shed. It lay fallen upon the ground, its roof slates lying about it in a mess almost like a pool of grey blood. Everywhere was disrepair and dilapidation.
    It wasn’t so bad - or at least, it wasn’t so noticeable - from