Chains of Folly Read online

  There was almost no purpose now to going to the Lime Street house, Magdalene thought. Obviously Linley had been telling the truth about his engagement with Master Rhyton and Linley’s fellow knights in Surrey’s household accounted for his whereabouts for the rest of the night. Nonetheless, Magdalene thought as she crossed the road and turned right again, it would be interesting to see how Claresta felt about the betrothal, and if she could sell some of Ella’s embroidery the girl would be thrilled.

  Magdalene still did not want to arrive loaded down with parcels, but she did stop to look at a selection of colored thread. That could go into her basket. She caught herself picking too many blues and greens, colors that flattered Bell’s fair hair and blue eyes, and then chose more deliberately some of the brilliant shades that Letice loved and the pinks and yellows that were most attractive to Ella. For Diot…Magdalene did not know her taste so well but she found a rich amber that would show off her hair, and a glowing green that was much the shade of Diot’s eyes.

  Naturally, having stopped to buy, Magdalene was almost besieged by other apprentices and journeymen along the street, who called out and reached out to her to show their wares. Some very thin cloth caught her eye. The worst heat of the summer was yet to come. She looked, felt, said she had an appointment to which she could not carry anything beyond her basket but that if the cloth was still there when she returned, she would consider it.

  Finally, having stopped only once again, this time to buy and pop into her mouth a small round of rose leaves in crystallized honey, Magdalene turned left once more onto Lime Street. About a third of the way north on the street, before one came to the crossing with Fenchurch, was what had been Mainard’s house. It was a rather elegant two story structure, set well back from the street with no provision for a shop out front, which marked it ostentatiously as being a rich man’s dwelling.

  The servant who came to the door in response to the sound of the bell, opened his eyes wide when he saw Magdalene’s veiled face. She was almost equally surprised by him. Jean had been Mainard’s first wife’s slave, starved to emaciation, dressed in rags. Now he was almost plump, his clothing was dark and plain but decent. His manner alone had not changed. Subdued and respectful, hinting that a harsh word would make him cringe.

  “Mistress Magdalene,” he nearly whispered, “Master Mainard does not live here anymore.”

  “I know, Jean. He sold the house to Master Rhyton. But what in the world are you doing here?”

  “When the house was sold. Master Mainard offered us our freedom and asked if we would like to remain with the house. It seems that the purchaser was coming from Guildford and not bringing his servants with him. We were all afraid, but it seemed safest to us to stay where we knew we could go to Master Mainard for help…if, if the new master was not kind. But he is. Not like Master Mainard, but Master Rhyton pays us fairly and is in no way unreasonable.”

  “Well.” Magdalene smiled. “I am happy to know that you are so well settled.”

  The man swallowed nervously. “But Master Rhyton is not here. He is in his shop at the corner of Botolph, but…but…I am afraid…”

  Magdalene grinned under her veil. “It’s all right, Jean. I am not come to solicit custom from Master Rhyton. I am come to see Mistress Claresta. I have heard that she is soon to be betrothed and I wish to show her my embroidery. Perhaps she will order items for her wedding chest.”

  “Embroidery?”

  “Yes, Jean.” She took the cloth off the top of her basket and displayed the wares. “We are listed as a house of embroiderers and we do embroider and sell our work. I am sure that Mistress Claresta would not be interested in our other activities.”

  “Your other activities?” Jean looked aside uneasily. “Oh, no. No. Mistress Claresta would not be interested in that but these—” he gestured to the embroidered ribbons and the sample square “—those are beautiful. Mistress Claresta might be interested in those.”

  “Then may I come in? And will you tell her that an embroideress has come to show her some samples?” Magdalene hesitated and then said pointedly, “And I hope that is all you will say of me.”

  Down the corridor, Jean scratched and then opened the door into the main room. Magdalene heard the soft murmur of Jean’s voice and then a lighter, clearer voice saying, “An embroideress…” And then another male voice, young but a rich baritone: “Then I will leave the samples of cloth with you. Mistress Claresta, and you can tell your father—” But the woman’s voice interrupted, “No, don’t go Spencer. You might as well look at the embroidery also. And if it is such that we wish to buy, you can escort her to the shop.”

  Whereupon Magdalene loosened her veil and Jean came out to lead her into the room, after which he went out, closing the door behind him. The most interesting thing to Magdalene was that the young man Claresta had called Spencer was staring down at the girl and she up at him. Her hand lay on a small pile of cloth swatches, rich fabrics, but they were carelessly piled together as if she was not particularly interested in them.

  Magdalene stood for a moment, realizing that she would need no adroit questioning to discover whether Claresta liked Sir Linley. It was all too plain that it was Spencer that held her interest. Magdalene assessed him and repressed a smile. She was accustomed to big men. William was tall and powerful. Bell even more so, but Spencer was a young giant—and a beautiful giant to boot. His hair was dark brown, thick and curly, his brows ran straight across his forehead but without being ragged and unkempt. No hair grew from his strong nose or from his ears and his rounded but determined chin was clean-shaven with no ugly stubble marring it or his cheeks.

  Now all Magdalene had to learn was whether the girl yearned even more deeply to be called ‘lady’. “I beg your pardon,” Magdalene said.

  Claresta started and turned to look at her. Spencer also looked at her…and looked back at Claresta. Magdalene’s eyes opened a fraction wider. My, she thought, if my face will not distract him, he is truly devoted. Poor man. And stupid girl if she will give that up to be called “lady” in a marriage of convenience.

  “Oh, yes, the embroideress,” Claresta said. “My father does not usually deal in decorative pieces—

  Magdalene shook her head. “I am sorry. I am afraid there was a misunderstanding. I do not manage a large shop that sells to mercers and such outlets. We are only four women, and we do very special work. I had heard from friends in the East Chepe that you are on the way to being betrothed to a gentleman. I thought it possible you would be looking for some special ornamentation for the clothing and the linens for your wedding chest, something suitable for the lady of a fine manor.”

  “I must go,” Spencer said, his voice harsh. “Your father will be wondering what could have taken me so long.”

  “Then you can take these back to him,” Claresta said, snatching together the fabric samples and pushing them toward the young man’s hand. “And you can tell him I said I would rather wear homespun all my life than need to go clothed each day in such finery.”

  Spencer’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  Well, that was the answer Magdalene had wanted and again she did not even need to put a question. Claresta had not been the one to initiate the idea of marriage into the nobility. Now all she needed to do was get Claresta to put a time to how long Linley had stayed on Thursday. It was clear enough that Claresta would not lie to protect Linley.

  “If you do not mind. Mistress,” Magdalene put in in a soothing, low voice, “please to leave the fabric. I am sure it can be returned at any time and I seldom see cloth of such quality. I would like to look at it.”

  As she spoke, Spencer backed away and without making a sound slipped out of the door. Claresta gasped—Magdalene could not tell whether with rage or loss—and jumped to her feet as if to follow. Magdalene caught at her sleeve.

  “Let him go,” she said. “If you send back the cloth with him and with such a message, it is all too likely that your father will guess or know more
certainly what is between you. Likely he would dismiss him without his Master’s badge and without recommendation. That would ruin him. Is that what you desire?”

  Claresta stood still, staring at the door with tears in her eyes, but she made no further move to follow the young man. “I think my father has run mad,” she breathed with a sob. “When we were in Guildford and my mother was alive, he was a good merchant and took pleasure in his work but he always had time to make merry. But after my mother died, he gave all his attention to business and laughed no more.”

  “Business was his anodyne for sorrow.”

  “I hoped he would marry again, but he never even looked at another woman. Instead he made me part of the business as if to turn me into the son my mother could not give him. Oh, I did not mind that! I liked it. And after some years he took Spencer as a senior journeyman from a small house that was going to close. I…I thought…”

  “And Spencer also thought he had been chosen for you?”

  “Oh.” Claresta blushed. “Oh, no. He thought he had been hired because of his special knowledge of wool. He never…never looked at me.”

  Magdalene laughed softly. “He looked at you.”

  Claresta blushed again. “But we spoke only about the mercery. Spencer is quick and learned so much about the business. He took over…well, with my oversight…much of the everyday buying and selling. My father…he dealt with the other mercers and…and he grew richer and richer. And then he began to talk about founding a noble line, and no matter what I said he dragged us from Guildford to London.”

  “Founding a noble line? But I do not believe that King Stephen is so hard pressed, specially after taking what was stored in Salisbury’s castles, that he is ready to ennoble a commoner. And surely the word is all over the Chepe that your father intends to marry you into a noble line.”

  “That was after he discovered that money alone will not buy a place among the lords. Dress and manner and speech and the ability to wield weapons are necessary. This desire to leave his class may be a little mad, but my father is not so mad he did not understand that he was far too old to learn. And then he realized that titles, unlike money, which can be passed by will to anyone, descend in the male line.”

  “Ah. Which brought him to look for a man willing to marry a commoner for a price.”

  Claresta stared at Magdalene and then put a hand to her lips. “What have I said?” she breathed. “Why am I telling you—a complete stranger—the secrets of my heart, speaking in such a way of my father who has always taken such care of me and treated me with such kindness.”

  Magdalene smiled. “Perhaps because I am a stranger and thus it seemed to you these secrets would go no further. And that I can promise readily. I do not have a shop in the East Chepe. I do not have a shop at all. My three women and I do our embroidery in a private house and we have little inclination or time for gossip. Even my maid is safe. She is deaf. So what we say to each other does not get carried to the other servants in the neighborhood.”

  For a long moment there was a war in Claresta’s face. A series of emotions flicked across—embarrassment, anger, shame, relief. The relief seemed to predominate at last, and Claresta waved toward the table on which the swatches of cloth lay and to the stools that stood near.

  “You said you had embroidery to show me. Sit, and let me see what you have.”

  Magdalene first straightened the cloth that Claresta’s angry gathering had crumpled. Then she uncovered her basket, took out the strips of ribbon, Diot’s square picture, and after a very brief hesitation, the piece that Letice had done. Claresta leaned over the table, touching each piece of work gently, and then sat down. Magdalene also sat. Another moment passed. Claresta’s fingers moved from Magdalene’s work—a chase of silver hounds through green fronds on a darker blue background—to the non-pictorial swirls and interweaving of Letice’s work.

  “Where did you come by this?” Claresta asked. “By trade?”

  “No, one of my women is from a far land. Unfortunately I cannot ask her which one or when she came because she is mute.” Magdalene shrugged. “That makes no difference in the work she does.”

  “I could find a market for this work. And also for the embroiderer who did the dogs.”

  Magdalene laughed. “As I said before, there are not enough of us to provide you with goods for a market. I came because I thought you would want special embroidery for your wedding clothes and wedding chest. One piece at a time is what we sell. The price is not cheap, but the work is worth the cost.”

  “I have no doubt of that,” Claresta said, touching with a gentle finger a jeweled blue eye on a silver dog. “But I have no heart to buy fine garments or rich linen. I do not want to marry Sir Linley of Godalming.”

  “Is there some fault you find in Sir Linley?”

  Claresta sighed heavily. “No, not at all. He is well looking, well spoken, reasonably clever—although totally ignorant concerning trade. I can find no true fault in him. I wish I could.” Suddenly her lips trembled. “If only he were crude or brutal, I could say I was afraid and appeal to my father not to put me in peril, but I cannot lie to my father, and he wants this so much. It is not Sir Linley I fear but just what my father most desires.”

  “The bearing of children?” Magdalene was puzzled.

  Every woman feared childbirth and with some justice. Everyone knew of women who died in their attempt to bring forth new life. Nonetheless most women desired to marry and looked forward to having children.

  “No.” Claresta shook her head. “Well, no more than any woman fears it. I meant I fear to go to Godalming… I do not even know where Godalming is, nor do I care. I do not want to pretend to be a lady, to limpingly ape ways that are not natural to me, to hear whispers and titters behind my back as my mistakes make me ridiculous…to be forever a stranger in a strange place.”

  Magdalene really did not know what to say to that. Mostly those who were eager to climb up into a class to which they had not been born either did not understand the trials they would face or did not care. She had considerable sympathy for Claresta, however. She, coming down the ladder from baron’s wife to common whore, had been sneered at and even beaten for her “false” high-class pretensions.

  “It will not be so bad,” she said, trying to offer some comfort. “You have already moved from Guildford to London, so you have some experience with adapting to new customs and manners of dress and speech. You will learn quickly.”

  “But I do not want to learn,” Claresta wailed. “I want to marry Spencer and the two of us together assist my father and, when he is gone, continue the business. And now it seems all hope is gone. The bargain is made.”

  “When was it made?”

  “Thursday. Sir Linley came before I had hardly choked down my breakfast and he and my father went apart. There must have been some sticking points because Sir Linley not only stayed to dinner but to the evening meal and beyond. Oh, how I hoped they would not come to terms.”

  “How late did Sir Linley stay?”

  “I do not really know, except that it was after dark. I had called the servants to light lamps and candles for me to see my sewing. I tried to speak to him when my father went to the jakes and said I did not want to intrude upon his life. But he only patted me kindly on the shoulder and said he had an aunt who would make all easy for me. You know what that means, do you not? The aunt will manage all, oversee the servants and what on the estate is women’s work. I will be left to sit and sew and regret what I had lost. So then I went to bed to weep in peace.”

  Chapter 8

  Bell arrived at the bishop’s house in good time to choose the armsmen who would accompany them. After a moment’s indecision he bade them arm as if for traveling and he went to get his own armor. He was nearly certain there would be no second attack, but he would need the men to clear the bridge so the bishop could cross with ease. Also, if he did have time to get to the Tower and look for the big man, a knight’s armor would save argument and ex
planation.

  He had given orders about saddling Monseigneur and the bishop’s palfrey and just settled his mail as comfortably as possible when one of the bishop’s clerks came to fetch him. On the table behind which the dead woman had been seated was the remains of a breakfast much like that Bell himself had eaten, but the bishop had left the table and was bending over a long chest to the right of his bed. To Bell’s surprise, Winchester pulled from the chest a wicked looking mace.

  “Good, my lord, but I hope you do not have premonitions of trouble,” Bell said.

  “No,” Winchester replied, smiling grimly. “I leave that to you, my dear Bell. But I did not at all enjoy my feeling of helplessness the other day when men were fighting all around me and I had not even a poniard in my belt. This ‘holy water sprinkler’ is familiar to me, and I have not forgot how to use it. I will carry it henceforward.”

  The mace did not have the reach of a sword, but Bell assumed Winchester was not intending to attack. Certainly, the weapon would discourage anyone who wanted to seize the bishop physically or lead his horse away. One worry less he would have; Bell nodded.

  “For today, my lord, hang it from the pommel. By tomorrow I will have a socket for it affixed to your saddle.”

  The bishop laughed aloud. “You do not, like my appalled looking clerks, think I should better rest my safety on praying for succor?”

  Bell glanced at the clerks, who did look shocked, but he only said, “God succors most swiftly those who strongly defend themselves. And along that line of thought, if you will permit, I will carry the satchels of documents. Thus your clerks will be in less danger and you will be more certain that the documents will not be torn away.”

  This time, however, the preparations were not necessary. No one was lying in wait on the one street from the bishop’s house to the bridge. The folk on the bridge cleared off when the men-at-arms ordered them away, grumbling but without real animosity, and the ride along Candlewick Street to Watling was without incident. Even in the bailey of St. Paul’s they were not mobbed, as they had been the first time the bishop came through. Father Holdyn had apparently followed the bishop’s orders about weeding out the dishonest and aggressive peddlers who used the open area as a market.