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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 wooden seat over the chute. The smell was awful, and she made a mental note to ask that the faeces be cleaned out again.
    So the battle had begun between the treasurer and prioress. It was about time. There was no doubt in Joan’s mind which of the two women was the better: the treasurer was a woman of integrity and honour. Margherita was sincere in her love of the nunnery; she wouldn’t have let it get so run down.
    Joan cleaned herself and walked down to the frater, entering and sitting alone at a table. She was too late to join with the others, but that was a matter of policy nowadays. The younger girls all giggled and chattered so quickly Joan often couldn’t hear a word. Her hearing was getting odd: if many spoke all at once, she would miss everything, no matter how hard she concentrated on the person before her. It was more relaxing to eat and drink alone.
    Inevitably her mind drew her back to the coming fight. It had been precipitated by the death of that novice, Moll. Joan gazed into the distance. The child was so young, it seemed terrible that she should have had her life taken away, and yet Joan couldn’t regret her passing. Moll had been viewed by many as some kind of saint - it was the image she was keen to project - yet she wasn’t. She was a liar. Nor was the girl as pious as she wished the world to believe; she was both devious and malicious.
    There was one good thing to come from Moll’s end, and that was the election of the new prioress. Joan had little doubt about it, because Margherita had told them all earlier. They had all heard the rumours about the prioress, and with the message Margherita had sent to the visitor, he would have to come back and replace Lady Elizabeth.
    As Joan often reminded herself, she had been a nun when Lady Elizabeth was still running naked in the fields, and age hadn’t improved her prioress. She couldn’t control a place the size of Belstone. It needed someone with a better business brain.
    She shivered and scowled. The cold ate into her bones nowadays. The weather grew more chill with each succeeding year, and it was ever more difficult to warm herself. She threw back her head and finished the last of her wine, then stood. At least her legs still worked.
    At the door she eyed the