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women at their work. A convent was always a busy place. It was a shame, but sometimes Joan felt rather left out of things these days. Oh, she was involved in the machinations of the place by Margherita and by the youngsters, who felt the need to confide in someone older without embarrassment. Often their problems were simple - novices often had feminine troubles, and their shame and anxiety wouldn’t allow them to speak to friends or the mistress of the novices. Instead they went to Joan, who could always be relied on to give a sympathetic ear.
    Deciding to return to the fire in the infirmary, Joan almost tripped over a flagstone whose edge had lifted. She closed her eyes and patiently offered a prayer, thanking God for allowing her to see it in time.
    Margherita wouldn’t have let the place get into this state.
    Bertrand’s story took little time to tell. He had visited the priory only a few days before, on his way to Crediton from Buckland; he was methodically progressing from one institution to another, and had intended staying at Crediton for some days before returning to Exeter, when the slightly garbled story of the novice’s death had reached him by letter.
    “I met this Moll, Sir Baldwin,” Bertrand said, turning on the knight an intent, serious look. “She was only a child. Scarcely old enough to realise the supreme importance of the vows she must take as a Bride of Christ, and yet now her life is ended.”
    “How?” Baldwin was ready to dislike this man intensely. Although his sentiments were reasonable and justifiable, Bertrand looked as though he was almost enjoying being able to demonstrate what an upright man he was; how much integrity he held. Baldwin had no doubt that by the time Bishop Stapledon came to hear of the affair, Bishop Bertrand’s part in resolving it would be greatly magnified, and Baldwin felt contempt for a man who could look to make capital out of a novice’s death. His distaste was so great Baldwin found himself musing on the character of the bishop, and thus missed the beginning of Bertrand’s story.
    “… she had a severe headache, and was sent to the infirmary, there to be bled by the phlebotomist. The operation was perfectly successful and she settled quickly, soon dropping off to sleep. The next morning, when the infirmarer went to attend to her after Prime, the girl had apparently haemorrhaged from the site of the bleeding, and died.”
    “These accidents will sometimes happen,” Baldwin said.
    “This was no accident. I know the clerk concerned myself: Godfrey of Malmesbury. He was at Oxford with me, and his skills are beyond doubt. No, Brother Godfrey would not have slipped and slashed an artery by accident.”
    “A priest performed the letting?” Baldwin asked with surprise. Men in major Orders had been banned from manual surgery for over a hundred years. Their skills lay in selecting the best prayers and penances to cure the ill, not in butchery. When Baldwin had been a Templar they had enlisted the services of a professional, the local barber, when they needed their veins opened.
    “I understand it was considered that a canon trained in surgery would be safer than an outsider when it came to dealing with a nun. Yet it was unorthodox,” Bertrand agreed.
    Baldwin sipped thoughtfully at his wine. At last he set his cup on the ground. “You clearly have reason to believe that someone wished to kill her. Why?”
    “It’s not my view, Sir Baldwin -I hardly knew the child, I only saw her a couple of times.”
    “Then why leap to this conclusion? Your friend the phlebotomist may well be experienced, but sometimes a sharp knife will nick a vessel, and the harm may not be apparent for a day or more. That is why phlebotomists are generally safe from accusations of murder: if they were not, the courts would be filled.”
    “Ah, I misled you by my answer. I have no reason to think someone might have wanted to kill her - it is not my belief, Sir Baldwin, but the belief of