A Mortal Bane Page 23

  Magdalene raised her brows and let the man see she was examining him carefully. She did not remember ever having a client recommended by the bishop. No, not the bishop. He had said a “friend” in the Household, not the bishop himself. Most of the bishop’s men were as abstemious as he himself was, but there were a few who were not, and one who was an infrequent and very shamefaced client. He could have…and there was Bell. Would Bell send her a client?

  The man’s voice was cultured, his French the kind spoken most commonly among the gentlefolk of England; his clothing was badly travel-stained but of good quality, and the sword belted around his hips had a hilt that glittered with gems on pommel and guards. Behind his high saddle was a thick, heavy roll, covered by oiled leather, that Magdalene guessed was his mail hauberk. Almost certainly a knight, and not poor. But where were his shield and helmet? If he had a place to leave those, why did he ask for lodging?

  “Did your friend also tell you that your lodging and entertainment would be costly?” Magdalene asked.

  “The cost is irrelevant,” he said, but he looked over his shoulder at the road—at the mercer, who was watching from behind his counter, and at several men and women waiting to be served by the grocer, who had also turned to look. Suddenly he stepped forward, forcing Magdalene away from the gate. “Forgive me,” he said quickly, “but I would just as soon not be stared at while entering your house.”

  “My price for lodging and a bed partner is five pence,” Magdalene said, “and payment is taken in advance. An evening meal and breakfast are included if you desire them. There will also be shelter and fodder for your horse in our stable, but you will have to care for the animal yourself. I have no groom.”

  “You certainly do not try to entice a visitor,” the man said, sounding offended.

  “This is not a common stew,” Magdalene replied without warmth. “We entice no one. To speak the truth, we have all the custom we need….” She left the words hanging and glanced at the still-open gate.

  Quite deliberately the man pulled his horse through and shut the gate. “My friend will be annoyed if he learns I have been turned away and must ride back to London to find lodging. I have other friends, too—” He fell silent abruptly, apparently seeing from her expression that far from being intimidated, she was about to order him out and call for help. “Wait.” He smiled and held up a placating hand. “I am willing to pay.”

  Draping the horse’s rein over his arm, he pulled open his purse and poured some coins out into his hand. Since Magdalene suspected he would not obey her, and at the moment she had no way to enforce her order, she did not bid him go. And then she saw among the coins a heavy ring, and a bicolored ribbon, red and probably white, although that was so dirty it looked gray, attached to a badge.

  Magdalene pretended to watch as he picked out three silver pennies, a half penny, and six farthings, but she was trying in swift glances that did not long rest on the object to make out the badge. It seemed to be a simple cinquefoil; unfortunately, that sign appeared on so many shields that it meant little beyond that he was a member of a Household.

  Her alarm was growing steadily. Why should the man put away his helm and shield and take off his badge and colors when it was plain he did not care that she saw the latter? If he was not hiding them from her, then from whom? Even as she came forward, hand outstretched to take the coins, a false smile on her lips, she determined to send Dulcie to collect a few Watchmen to sit in her garden until she was sure whether she would have to rid herself of this visitor by force.

  No, not the Watchmen. If they attempted to interfere, a knight could likely overawe them. William…but William was too far away. By the time Dulcie got to his lodging, it might be too late, and she herself dared not go out to hire a horse or a messenger; she did not trust what this creature might do, and Ella was too timid to resist. Bell. Bell was surely back from St. Paul’s by now.

  Having taken the money her unwelcome guest proffered, Magdalene directed him to the stable and pointed out the door of the house, which she entered. She hurried to her chamber, cut a small piece of parchment and wrote: “A man has come saying one in the bishop’s Household recommended my house. I cannot believe this and do not trust him. Come and look at him—Magdalene.”

  This she folded small, sealed, wrote “Sir Bellamy of Itchen” on the surface, and carried out to the kitchen, where she pushed the note into Dulcie’s hand. Seizing the maid by the shoulders, she said right into her better ear, ‘Take this message to Bell in the bishop’s house. Bell. Bishop’s house. Do you understand?”

  “Bell at the bishop’s house,” Dulcie repeated, nodding.

  By the time Magdalene came into the common room, Ella was standing by the table and admiring the altar-cloth design and the man was standing beside her. Magdalene offered the ale she had brought from the kitchen and he accepted a cup.

  “This is a strange thing to see in a whorehouse,” the man said, gesturing toward the design and then sipping his ale. “Even such a whorehouse as this. What is it? A cope? An altar cloth?”

  “An altar cloth, my lord,” Magdalene replied, smiling at him because he had provided an opening to make clear her position. “As the friend in the bishop’s Household may or may not have told you, I do not work as a whore anymore. I am an embroideress. I only make sure the women who do work here are not cheated or mistreated. This is Ella, who is ready to serve you.”

  “Indeed I am,” Ella said, dimpling with smiles. “And I told him my name already.”

  “One moment, love,” Magdalene said as Ella reached for his hand to lead him away. “Our guest looks travel-stained and tired. Perhaps he would enjoy it if you gave him a bath. I do not believe he is in any hurry.”

  “At an extra charge?”

  “No, no charge. The service is included. I also assure you, you will have the tub all to yourself, except, of course, for Ella, who will wash your back and…ah…satisfy any other need.”

  “This may be worth five pence after all,” the man said, and then smiled at Ella, who said she would get the water ready and tripped away.

  Despite the remark, Magdalene was not happy. She was less and less sure any ordinary recommendation had brought the man to her door. So why was he here? Not for sex. Had he been lustful, he would have followed Ella to pinch and pat her while she filled the tub, and he had not.

  “Since most of our clients are longtime friends who return again and again, I am sure they find their visits worth the price,” Magdalene said, making herself smile.

  “But some do not return,” he said, watching her closely and then, when she only stared at him in surprise, he added, “My friend tells me that you had a great excitement here last week. There was a murder—Messer Baldassare, a papal messenger, no less.”

  Magdalene, who had just pulled a pin out of the cloth, dropped it. It rolled to the floor as she turned to face him. “No murder was done in this house,” she said sharply. “The death took place on the north porch of the church of St. Mary Overy. It was nothing to do with us.”

  “But it was,” he said, smiling. “Baldassare came through your gate, so he must have been here.”

  Magdalene fought to keep her breathing smooth. Who was accusing her of murder now? Whoever it was, she did not dare deny flatly that Baldassare had been in her house. She had admitted otherwise to too many.

  “So the porter of the priory says,” she remarked with what she hoped was a casual shrug. “But I did not see him go through the back gate, and between you and me, I think it impossible to get a saddled horse through that gate—you can look at it yourself if you like. However, the porter is a holy man and we here are whores, so who will believe me?”

  “But he was in your house.”

  His insistence made her very nervous, but she could not be faulted if she told him the same story she had told all the others.

  He listened, but shook his head. “But he was in here and could have left something….”

  Magdalene almost sighed al
oud with relief. The pouch! He knew of Baldassare’s pouch and wanted it. For himself? No. There was not about him the feeling of power and authority that hung about William of Ypres and the Bishop of Winchester. He was more like Bell, a man with assurance of his worth and knowledge of his purpose—a man with a powerful master. So he had been sent—but by whom? And how did his master know of the pouch?

  Perhaps she could find out. Magdalene sighed heavily, exaggeratedly. “Another one looking for the lost pouch! I will try to answer all your questions at once. Yes, I believe Messer Baldassare was wearing a pouch, although I did not see it clearly, and no, he did not leave it here. The bishop’s knight searched high and low for it. I am glad we dust our rafters and wash the back of our shelves because there was no spot from cellar to attic into which he did not pry.”

  The man laughed too heartily. “I did not come for the papal messenger’s pouch. I did not know anything about it before you mentioned it. But I am curious about why he stopped here and what he said.”

  So she told him of Beaumeis’s mischief and then said, “Excuse me,” and went down on her knees. “Pins are costly.” And when she found it, she rose and began to fold the cloth.

  “Will that not smear your design?” the man asked, as if eager to change the subject. “It is only drawn in charcoal and cannot last long.”

  Magdalene was not sorry to change the subject herself; she had thought of another way to pursue her purpose. “If I do not rub the cloth, the lines will remain, and it does not matter if it does not last. It is only to show the design to the bishop.”

  The deliberate untruth got an immediate reaction. “To the bishop,” he repeated sharply. “I did not know you were familiar with the bishop.”

  “I am not familiar with him, but my lord of Winchester has some hope of redeeming me. Thus, since I am a good embroideress, he is generous enough to provide work so I will not need to resort to whoring to fill my belly. I am very glad of his commission and wish to show him my design for an altar cloth for his chapel tomorrow.”

  Magdalene could almost see a sharp command rise to his lips; she certainly saw the effort it took to swallow it back and speak gently.

  “Ah, I would prefer if you did not mention that one of his Household recommended this place to me. Winchester might not understand. I would not want to make trouble for my friend.”

  But he had hidden his colors and badge from the “friend,” or was it from the others in the bishop’s Household? Could his friend be carrying tales to…to whom? Winchester had many enemies. Magdalene could not take time to think about it; she needed to reply. She shook her head.

  “We will talk about the altar cloth, not about the business of this house,” she assured him. “Lord Winchester never asks unless there is trouble. I could not lie to the bishop, but I can promise I will give him no reason to ask about you.”

  She took the cloth and laid it on a shelf where it would be safe and was about to ask if he would like another cup of ale when Ella came back into the room. After a few exchanges, which left the man grinning, they went off together.

  Magdalene immediately took the pitcher of ale back to the kitchen. The bathing room was just the other side of the kitchen and she would hear easily if Ella screamed. Although there were no untoward sounds from the bathing room, the longer she puttered about, the lower her heart sank. She was sure that Dulcie had had time enough to walk to the bishop’s house, give Bell the message, and walk back with him. Either he was not there or he would not come.

  She jumped with tension when she heard a door open, quickly turned her back, and bent over the fire to hide her face. But her breathing eased when she heard a familiar voice say, “Why not? I would be good to you, Sabina, you know that. Is it because of my looks?”

  “My dear Master Mainard, you know that cannot be true. I cannot see your looks, and your voice tells me you look good and kind. I am always glad to hear you come and sorry when you go. I would be happy if you came more often and stayed longer. Indeed, if it is a question of the cost that prevents you, I could take less—”

  “No! I would never deprive you. Anyway, it is not cost, it is time. I cannot get away to come here more often, and I do not only want to lie with you, although you have made me a man again when I thought that power was gone from me. Sabina, I need you where I can come and say a word to you and hear you answer me with the kindness that is part of you. Let me establish you above my workshop. You would have every comfort there—I swear it.”

  “I do not know,” Sabina said sadly. “It is true I do not like being a whore. If I sinned with one man alone, I would not be excommunicate, but I would have to leave Letice and Ella, whom I love. They are true sisters to me, which I never had. Oh, I do not know. I will talk to Magdalene and hear what she says.”

  “I will pay to free you. Anything…almost anything.”

  There was a brief delay; Magdalene guessed that Sabina had kissed her client. Then she heard Sabina say, “I am not a slave, or bonded, but I cannot decide. Try to be patient with me.”

  He sighed. “I must go. I will be patient. There is no one like you, Sabina.”

  When Magdalene heard the back door close, she came out into the corridor and drew Sabina into the kitchen. “Listen to what goes forward in the bathing room,” she murmured, “and tell me what you hear.”

  Sabina’s ears were far keener than her own, and Magdalene went back to the common room so that the man would not find them all clustered together if he came out suddenly.

  “Nothing unusual,” Sabina said softly when she, too, had come into the common room. “Perhaps Ella was not laughing as much as usual, but I heard her speak and she did not sound frightened nor was she crying.”

  Magdalene sighed. To keep her hands busy, she had cut a section of deep crimson ribbon to the right length for the headband the mercer had ordered. In a low voice, she told Sabina about the visitor, her suspicions about him, and her anxiety because Dulcie had not returned with Bell. All the while, she used a decorative stitch to hem into place the blunt arrow formed by the turned-in corners of the ribbon, into which she had fixed another very narrow, matching ribbon for tying at the back of the head.

  They had fallen into an uneasy silence until a door slammed open and the stranger’s voice said, “Enough, girl. Empty out the bath or whatever else you want to do. I need to talk to the mistress of the house.”

  Sabina bit her lip. Magdalene stood up.

  “That girl is an idiot!” the man exclaimed as he entered the room. He was wearing one of the bedgowns kept in the bathing room for guests and carrying his sword and clothing. He looked from Magdalene to Sabina. “I need someone to whom I can talk,” he said. “Is this one an idiot, too? Why is she closing her eyes?”

  “Sabina’s eyes are closed because she is blind,” Magdalene said. “Ella is simple but not an idiot, and she has a great enthusiasm for her work. Most men like her very much.”

  “Well, I do not. I paid for a whole night, and I will strangle that one if I must spend it with her. So this one is blind, is she? I’ll bet she has good ears. I’ll try this one.”

  Magdalene drew breath to offer him his money back and invite him to leave. Before she could speak, Sabina shook her head and rose, putting out her hand. Her staff was not in its leather socket attached to the stool, however, she had left it in her chamber as she sometimes did when she did not intend to leave the house. Misunderstanding, the stranger seized her hand and yanked her toward him.

  “Go and comfort Ella if she needs you,” Sabina told Magdalene, and then turned her head toward the man who was pulling at her. “I am ready, sir. About what would you like to talk?”

  “In your room,” he said, letting her come even with him and walk to her door.

  Magdalene heard her apologize over some small disorder in the room before the door closed; then she put aside her embroidery and went to the bathing chamber. Fortunately, she did not find Ella in tears, and after helping her empty the tub, she was able to ste
p softly from the bathing room to Sabina’s door. There she caught the low murmur of Sabina’s voice, was about to walk on, and then stiffened with alarm. The man’s reply was low and snarling. She pressed her ear to the door.

  “You lie, whore! If you saw Messer Baldassare for only a moment, why are you crying? Did you kill him yourself?”

  “No,” Sabina sobbed. “He was only here for a short time, but he was a good man, a kind man. He knew just how to lead me from my stool to the table. I would never have harmed him. I weep because I am sorry for any man who died so.”

  “Liar!”

  Magdalene was already reaching for the door latch when she heard the sound of a slap and a thump as Sabina, thrown off balance, fell. She flung the door open.

  “Stop that,” she snapped. “I told you I did not allow my women to be hurt.”

  “And how will you stop me?” he spat back and laughed. “What can you do? I am not afraid of your protectors. My master is more powerful than either William of Ypres or Winchester, who was not elected archbishop.” He advanced on Magdalene. “You may curse the Bishop of Worcester for not agreeing to my lord’s will. If he had not refused to block Winchester’s advancement or we had known what the messenger carried or when he would come—or if you give me the pouch right now, I would not have to smash your pretty face.”

  “I do not have it,” Magdalene breathed, backing away along the wall as if she were mindlessly trying to get as far from him as possible, but that made him turn to keep her in sight. “Really, I do not. I swear it. And why should your master care what was in the messenger’s pouch?”

  He laughed when she came up against Sabina’s chest and reached toward the water pitcher but let her hand drop as if she knew throwing it could not save her. By then, the door was at his back. He did not notice Sabina squirming along the floor toward it…or did not care.

  “None of your business why, whore!” He stretched an arm toward her, but she had got out of reach and leaned farther away toward the chest. “All whores are liars,” he said. “I tell you now that what will happen to you for admitting you stole the pouch is nothing compared to what will happen if you do not give it to me. If you do, I will let you be—after a kick or two to abate your pride.”