Belladonna at Belstone by Michael Jecks Page B

the gate itself, but as they rode to the stables Baldwin could see even the scruffier of Bertrand’s guards gazing about them with near disbelief.
    “You see how they have let the place fall apart?” Bertrand demanded. He waved a hand as they stopped in the stableyard. The dung was an inch deep all over. “Look at this! It’s even worse than when I was last here. Then at least some of the manure was shovelled away‘
    This really was an outrage. He had mentioned it to the prioress when he was here before, but she had ignored his commands. How the woman expected her nuns to study and serve God in this midden was a wonder!
    Muttering a short, “Benedicite!” in his anger and annoyance, he hitched up his robe and dropped to the ground, then froze in horrified revulsion as his legs and robe were beslubbered with faeces. He pursed his lips angrily and threw down his robe’s hem before stamping off towards the main buildings, leaving his men to collect together his trunks.
    His hand had been stained and he rubbed it against his now-filthy clothing as he marched. It really was quite intolerable! The stupid bitch in charge here could at least have shown willing. But oh no, actually exercising herself to make the convent look like a real place of worship would be too much for her. Or, rather, she knew damn well there was little chance that a visitor would be here again for a while, and assumed that she’d be able to get the place organised beforehand. Not looking where he was going, he stepped in a large cowpat and the muck spattered over his tunic, forcing him to suck in his breath to hold back the profanity that struggled for release.
    That obnoxious woman would suffer for this! he promised himself. She was making Bertrand look foolish in front of his master, the Bishop of Exeter, by ignoring his strict injunction to smarten up the place. He wouldn’t let her get away with it, though. Oh no, he swore to himself, scowling up at the walls of the nuns’ cloister.
    He most certainly would not allow her to get away with it.
    The room Hugh was taken to was large, with good-sized beds set against the wall. He grunted as he dropped the heavy bags to the floor. As well as beds there were two chairs, a bench, a table, and a chest.
    When he opened the shutter of the unglazed window, he saw a bleak view south, with endless rolling hills, their summits whitened with frost, and threatening clouds overhead. He slammed the shutter closed and surveyed the room. It was warm enough, for there was a good fire in the room beneath, and the thick tapestries on the walls stopped the worst of the draughts while the large candles gave the feeling of heat and a false impression of comfort.
    Hugh picked up a bag and set it on the bed, untying the neck and inspecting the contents, but he dropped onto the bed without removing any of the clothes, staring instead at the far wall.
    Since he’d worked for Simon he’d been happy enough, it was true, but now he felt only gloom. The girl upon whom he doted, Simon and Meg’s daughter Edith, was growing older and didn’t want to spend her spare time with Hugh any more. He tried not to grudge her the freedom to mix with youngsters of her own age, for she was fourteen now, and old enough to be wedded. It was natural that a young woman like her should seek friends of her own age, and yet to Hugh she was still a child and he found deeply hurtful her sudden - seemingly disloyal - desire to mingle with others.
    It wasn’t only her, though, and he knew in his heart that it was unfair of him to put the blame for his depression on Edith. His melancholy was caused by something deeper: this new sense of loneliness.
    He was not sure how old he was. When he had been born such things weren’t important - not like keeping track of the sow’s age or the cow’s. Hugh felt empty, as though his life was drifting past idly. All his energies were spent in looking after his master and the family, and in the meantime he never