A Mortal Bane Read online

  “You do not want to know that,” the voice murmured, now holding a definite note of satisfaction. “If you know, I will have to kill you. If you do not know….” The last words were unsteady, doubtful. “Never mind,” he continued. “Just tell me at once what you did with Baldassare’s pouch and hope I will let you live.”

  The knife had withdrawn a little. It was no longer pricking her throat. Magdalene shifted away slightly and seized the edge of the coverlet, her hands clenching on it so hard that her knuckles whitened.

  “The pouch?” she whispered. “But—

  “I do not want to hear that tale you told to everyone. It was a pack of lies—

  The low voice stopped abruptly and a hand fell over her mouth, tightening to form a gag, as heavy footsteps went by in the corridor. Magdalene made no movement and no attempt to call out. The hand over her mouth drew away. The dark figure leaned closer, his voice scarcely more than a murmur.

  “I want that pouch now. I do not want to hear any lies. I know Baldassare slept here, and one does not wear a pouch in bed with a whore. Nor does a man like Baldassare leave so precious a burden in the open for a whore to pick over while he sleeps. He hid it here.”

  “No,” Magdalene said. “He hid it in the church.”

  “You stinking slut,” he hissed. “He did not have it when he came into the church. I saw—”

  A very soft scratching sound told of fingers trailing across her door. They paused. The dark figure turned half toward the door and raised the knife higher in threat, but it was displaced by his movement and no longer directly over her. Magdalene yanked hard on the coverlet, striking away the hand that reached down to gag her, and flung the quilt toward her attacker, rolling across the bed, away from him as soon as the cloth left her hands. The man staggered back, trying to free himself from the fabric, which had fallen across his arms, and Magdalene screamed aloud.

  * * * *

  Sabina’s shock had not lasted long. She had stepped into Bell’s chamber and found his bed by the sound of his breathing. “Bell,” she said softly, touching his shoulder, “wake up.”

  She was thrust away so violently that she staggered back and fell against the wall. As she righted herself, she heard the leather straps of the bed creak and then the scrape of metal against stone. He had grabbed his sword from the floor.

  “Who?” Bell growled, coming off the bed.

  Sabina stepped back, and then back again out of the doorway. She was about to say, “It is Sabina. Something is wrong. Magdalene’s door is closed.” But at that moment, Magdalene’s cry rang out. Sabina instinctively moved away from the doorway through which she knew Bell would erupt. She was not wrong about that, but it was not Bell who ran into her. She was hit from the back and left side and flung down on the floor.

  As Magdalene shrieked for help, she also grabbed the candlestick from her table, prepared to use the burning candle or the stick itself to ward off the knife. However, the attacker did not run at her. The moment she cried out, he turned and started for the door—but he had forgotten the quilt. That had fallen to the ground and tangled his feet so that when he tried to get away, he fell flat on his face.

  Magdalene was so surprised that for one moment she just stood staring; then a gust of semi hysterical laughter shook her. She put down the candle, which was about to fall from her hand, but, still whooping, was unable to make any other move. Less hampered than she by near hysteria, the man had managed to free himself of his encumbrance, fling open the door, and run out. Magdalene’s laughter stopped abruptly. He would escape, and he must be the murderer! He had confessed that he had seen Baldassare enter the church.

  Magdalene shouted again for help and ran for the door, snatching up the coverlet on the way, only to stop, gasping. The corridor was a scene of chaos. Two bodies squirmed on the floor while Bell, naked as a jaybird but clutching his sword, stood over them. Ella, holding a bedrobe to her front, had stopped in her doorway and begun shrieking. Letice, wearing a bedrobe and with knife in hand, was emerging from her room. While Magdalene, openmouthed, watched, Sabina, also shrieking, wormed her way out from under the man, who was again flat on his face.

  “He has a knife,” Magdalene cried in warning, but after that, unable to help herself, she began to laugh again.

  The sound of laughter quieted Ella, who then stood staring from one person to another. Letice, seeing Bell was pinning the intended fugitive to the ground and that the erstwhile attacker was doing no more than shivering and crying, lowered her knife. Magdalene now reached down and pulled Sabina, who recognized her scent and touch, into her arms, where she fell silent. Still chuckling, she stood staring over Sabina’s head at Bell and, with an appreciative expression, ran her eyes up and down him.

  “You strip very nice,” she murmured.

  “You think this is funny?” Bell snarled. “If you don’t like rough sex, don’t take money from perverts.”

  “Sex!” Magdalene exclaimed, thoroughly exasperated. “Is that all you think of? Is that creature dressed for sex? Don’t be a jackass. The only thing he pointed at me was a knife.” Then she shrugged. ‘This is no time for your fancies. I think we may have our murderer. He told me he knew Baldassare did not have the pouch when he entered the church, because he had seen him.” She turned to Letice. “Get some stockings, love, so we can tie him up.”

  “No, I did not. I did not,” the man wailed. “I am at fault because it was by my design that Baldassare came to the church, but I did not kill him.”

  No one answered that. While Bell stood guard, Letice fetched several stockings from the ragbag and then pulled off the man’s cloak. A sharp prod with Bell’s sword made the sobbing creature put his hands behind his back; Letice tied them fast, then his feet.

  “This is the second man we have tied up in a week,” Ella said. “I do not like it.”

  “No, there is no reason for you to like it,” Magdalene replied. “I do not like it, either. It is really nothing to do with us. It is because of the trouble in St. Mary Overy church, and I hope that is now ended. You can go back to bed, love.”

  “But what has Richard de Beaumeis to do with the trouble in St. Mary Overy?”

  “Beaumeis?” Magdalene and Bell said together.

  “I have seen the back of his head often enough to know it,” Ella said, and added with uncharacteristic severity, “He is a silly man and very selfish. Often he did not wait for me but only took his own pleasure, even when I explained that he would enjoy it more if he waited.”

  Bell choked. Magdalene said, “Then he was punished, for he spoiled his own joy.”

  “I hope you will not let him come again,” Ella said, turning away. “He always wanted more and said the price was too high for what I gave him.”

  “No, love,” Magdalene said, and handed Sabina to Letice, who signed that she would sit with her; Magdalene nodded and Letice took Sabina into her chamber. Turning back to Ella, Magdalene said, “He will not come again. And I am going to close your door so our voices will not trouble you.”

  Ella yawned. “Good. All that scrubbing in the church has made my arms ache. I really want to sleep.”

  When she was closed in, Magdalene turned to Bell, who was starting to shiver. With another appreciative smile, she suggested—somewhat reluctantly—that he should dress and take Beaumeis to the bishop’s house. Beaumeis immediately began to squirm and object. Bell whacked him with the flat of his sword and he subsided into sobbing.

  “He must be questioned,” Magdalene said, raising her voice over Beaumeis’s whining protests, “but before witnesses who would have credence. What court, specially a Church court, would accept testimony from an excommunicated whore? And there must be two witnesses.”

  Bell grimaced, but he could not deny what she said. “I will take him,” he agreed, started to turn away, and then shook his head, frowning. “No, you must come too. Other churchmen might not be willing to hear you, but Winchester will listen, and you know this little rat better than we do.�
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  Magdalene started to protest and Bell held up a hand. “Not tonight. I do not think the bishop would be pleased to be wakened for what could easily wait for morning. Come to Winchester’s house tomorrow morning soon after Prime. I know he must reconsecrate the church tomorrow, which will make a very full day for him because he has other business that cannot be put aside, but he must eat, too, so he will be able to squeeze us in while he breaks his fast.”

  Either the bishop had still been awake when Bell arrived with his prisoner or Bell had thought better of not waking him and explaining what had happened. In any case, Winchester was certainly taking the matter of whether Beaumeis had murdered Baldassare more seriously than merely asking questions while breaking his fast. When Magdalene arrived, she found what amounted to a court convened in the bishop’s chamber of affairs.

  Winchester sat at a long table, Father Benin on a stool beside him. Guiscard was at one short end, parchment, pens, and ink ready, and Bell stood near the other short end. Standing in a group not far from the door through which she entered were the sacristan, the infirmarian, Brothers Patric and Elwin, Knud, and the two brothers who were guarding him, whose names she did not know. Across the chamber near the window was Master Buchuinte.

  The shock of seeing him made her hesitate as she stepped over the threshold. She was grateful for the veil that hid her face, although ten years of habit in not recognizing any client in public should have kept her expression unchanged. Fortunately, the monks had all turned to look at her, which was reason enough for her hesitation. Then Bell, wearing not only his sword but full armor, came forward and drew her to stand a little farther back, near the wall, at the short end of the table. No one spoke. A few moments later, the priest and archdeacon who officiated at St. Paul’s entered the room.

  They spoke briefly to the bishop and then went to stand beyond Guiscard, near Master Buchuinte, whom they both acknowledged with nods. The bishop gestured to Bell, who turned and went out.

  They all heard Beaumeis before they saw him, wailing, “I did not! I did not!” Then Bell entered and went back to stand at the end of the table, where he could see the bishop, and two of the bishop’s men-at-arms dragged Beaumeis into the room. They brought him to stand before the table, but the moment they released his arms, he fell to his knees.

  “I did not kill Messer Baldassare!” he shrieked. “I did not! I did not!”

  His face was swollen with weeping, and Magdalene could not help but feel sorry for him. The bishop glanced at him once, so coldly that Magdalene understood better why as many hated Winchester as admired him. Beaumeis shuddered and was still. The bishop looked across the room.

  “Master Buchuinte,” he said, “stand forth and say when you last saw Richard de Beaumeis.”

  So that is why he is here, Magdalene thought, listening to the story that was already familiar to her. Buchuinte explained how Beaumeis had come from the ship with Baldassare, refused to dine with himself and the papal messenger, claiming that he must ride at once to Canterbury with news from the archbishop. The priest and the Archdeacon of St. Paul’s then stated, with some reluctance, that Beaumeis had not come to St. Paul’s that afternoon. Last, Brother Patric reported that Beaumeis had been seen in the priory before Vespers and had said he had come because he missed his old school and wished to attend the Vespers service.

  “Richard de Beaumeis,” the bishop said, “do you admit that the testimony of these men is true?”

  “Yes,” Beaumeis said. “I was at St. Mary Overy priory, but that does not mean I killed Messer Baldassare.”

  “Then why did you admit to Sir Bellamy of Itchen last night that you were responsible for Baldassare’s death?” the bishop asked sternly.

  “Only because he went to St. Mary Overy church on my word. I never hurt him. I never came near him,” Beaumeis shouted.

  “And why did you send him to St. Mary Overy?”

  There was a silence. Bell took half a step forward, and Beaumeis said sullenly, “I told him that you wanted the papal bull naming you legate to be delivered in secrecy so your enemies in the court could not cause trouble.”

  “And to whom was the bull to be delivered? Neither I nor any member of my Household received a message to come to the church that night.”

  Another silence. This time the bishop did not wait for Bell to move but himself said sharply, “Well?”

  Beaumeis’s head dropped. “I intended to receive the bull,” he whispered, and then, louder, almost indignantly, “There was no harm in it. It could not have mattered to you if you received the bull a few months later, and Archbishop Theobald would by then have been known to his bishops, and…and….”

  Winchester unloosened his jaws, which had gritted together, and asked, almost mildly, “Why should we believe you did not kill Messer Baldassare? You wanted the bull. You wanted it badly enough to come to the Old Priory Guesthouse last night and threaten Magdalene with a knife.” He turned his head. “Come forth, Magdalene la Bâtarde and tell us what happened.”

  Lowering her veil so that her face could be observed, Magdalene described being wakened by the knife pricking her throat and described the remaining events of the previous evening. The priest of St. Paul’s moved uneasily. Magdalene’s lips thinned. She knew he was going to ask haughtily why anyone should believe the word of a whore over that of an ordained deacon of the Church. Before he could speak, the bishop turned baleful eyes on Beaumeis.

  “Is what the whore has told us true?” he thundered.

  Beaumeis cowered and began to weep again. “What if it is?” he sobbed. “She is only a whore, and I thought she had stolen the pouch from Baldassare.”

  Winchester shook his head. “Are you trying to tell me that Baldassare left a whore’s house without noticing his most precious possession was missing? Do not take us for idiots! You thought he trusted you so little that he had preferred to leave his pouch in a whore’s care and she had hidden it after she heard he was dead. But he had not. Baldassare might visit a whore, but he had faith. He had placed the pouch in safer hands, in the church. The pouch was found behind the statue of St. Christopher and the Christ Child yesterday morning.”

  “That is impossible!” Beaumeis exclaimed, his weeping checked by surprise and disbelief. “I saw Baldassare enter the church from the north door. I was far back in the nave because I did not want him to see me, but there were torches and tapers in the chancel and I could see him. It was a mild night. His cloak was thrown back. He did not have the pouch. There! There is the proof I did not kill him. Why should I kill him if he was not carrying the pouch I wanted?”

  Magdalene’s breath drew in sharply. She knew what Beaumeis said was true. She saw Bell’s head turn, his eyes flash a glance at her, saw that he also knew Beaumeis was speaking the truth, and that he had always suspected the pouch had been hidden in her house and later moved to the church.

  Winchester must have known too, but his expression did not change, nor did he look toward her. To Beaumeis, he said, “Ah, you admit you were there and you noticed that Baldassare was not carrying his pouch. You must have asked him for it and killed him because he would not tell you where it was. Then you began to search for it. When Magdalene reported the murder, she told me her stable was searched, nearly torn apart.”

  “But that was before,” Beaumeis protested. “I came in through the front gate before it was locked and searched the stable. I saw the horse there. That was how I knew Baldassare did stay in Magdalene’s house.”

  Father Benin looked startled. All the monks moved restlessly, and Brother Paulinus uttered a squawk of protest, but Brother Infirmarian hushed him. The bishop did not acknowledge their reactions and they subsided, realizing that Magdalene must have told him the truth; he only gestured to Beaumeis to continue.

  “I thought Baldassare would have hidden the pouch in the stable, not wanting to bring it into a whorehouse. I thought I could get it and get away without ever meeting him in the church, without ever taking the chance that
he would recognize me.”

  “But he did recognize you when you came to ask for the pouch, so you had a double reason to silence him.”

  “No, I did not. I did not. I never came near him,” Beaumeis cried, beginning to sob again. “I never had a chance to ask for the pouch. I told you. I was in the back of the nave and I saw he did not have the pouch, but I could not approach him. He had stayed near the north door, waiting for the monks and those who came to the service to leave. I had to wait, too, of course, and I was thinking, how to disguise my voice and who I should say I was. And it was dark, because when the monks left, they took their torches and tapers with them, so I was feeling my way forward when I saw a light coming from the monks’ entrance.”

  Everyone tensed with interest. Father Benin and several others in the room drew breath sharply. Another witness, even another suspect, would be welcome. All knew of the grudge Winchester held against Beaumeis. All were sure they had been summoned to listen to Beaumeis so they could testify that he was guilty and that the bishop had not punished him to satisfy his own spite; and all feared everyone would say they bowed to Winchester’s will only because they feared him.

  Perfectly aware of his audience’s emotions, Winchester asked eagerly, “Who was it? Did he see Baldassare?”

  “I do not know who it was.” Beaumeis sounded exhausted now, almost indifferent. “One of the monks. He wore a robe with the hood pulled well forward. And he did not see Baldassare at first. He just walked across the chancel to the apse, went behind the altar, and started to stoop down.”

  Although he was disappointed that Beaumeis could not identify the man, Winchester was not completely dissatisfied. Once a miscreant reached exhaustion, he was very likely to tell everything he knew, being more eager to escape the questioning and rest than to save himself.

  “Your eyes must have been accustomed to the dark by then.” Winchester made his voice sharp and accusatory. “The light from the altar lamp and his taper should have been bright enough for you to see him clearly.”