A Mortal Bane Page 8

  “True enough.” A very faint smile touched the bishop’s lips. “But all this does not explain your lie.”

  Magdalene sighed. “Well, at first I did not understand the sacristan at all. He kept roaring at me to confess my crime, and kept saying it was the prior’s fault for his leniency. First of all, I had committed no crime. Whoring may be a sin, but it is no crime in Southwark. Secondly, I would admit no guilt for anything when he made it so plain that he would accuse the prior of having caused the evil. By then, he had made me very angry and when he said murder, of course I denied it and any knowledge of it. We had done no harm to any man. All our clients were away safe—”

  The bishop lifted his hand. “Yes, I see. Once having denied it, you were afraid to admit that the man had been with you.”

  “Yes, but also how could I be sure the man who was dead had been with us? Brother Paulinus told me nothing except that the porter claimed the man had not come through the front gate of the priory. Thus the sacristan assumed he had come through the gate between our house and the churchyard, but I could not be sure….”

  Henry of Winchester shook his head. “But you do seem to be sure. No, do not answer that directly. Begin at the beginning and tell me how it came to pass that Baldassare de Firenze visited your house.”

  “Because he traveled from Rome to London with a naughty student of the priory’s, Richard de Beaumeis—”

  She hesitated slightly as a black frown crossed the bishop’s face, but he waved at her to continue, and she told him the entire tale exactly as it happened, except for the caching of the pouch in Sabina’s room. In the end, she even told him about the horse and of Sabina’s stumbling on the corpse, fearing the smallest chance of a shadow on her veracity.

  “And then the sacristan questioned us all separately,” she said, coming to the end of the tale, “but he was furious when none of us would admit to murder. He said he would see us all hang and—as I said before—that the evil we did was the fault of the prior. My lord bishop, I beg you not to listen to the evil he speaks of the prior. Father Benin is a good man, truly holy—”

  “I am aware,” Winchester said. “And I am also aware that he suffers your presence in the Old Priory Guesthouse with more tolerance than would Brother Paulinus, who seeks the prior’s place.”

  Magdalene smiled and shook her head. “I beg pardon, my lord. I should have known that you would understand without my interference.” Then she sighed. “But if Brother Paulinus should succeed, I fear I would no longer be able to remain at the Old Priory Guesthouse.”

  “I know.” The bishop grimaced. “The sacristan is a fool. He has no compassion, and no common sense either. Lechery is foul in itself, but when contained in one place, it does not contaminate the whole body of society. This the ancients knew and provided relief for their young men. Horace in his First Satire advocates the use of brothels, and since men have not changed, except possibly for the worse, I cannot see that we can do without them.” He shook his head. “If such powerful and godless men as William of Ypres had no outlet for their lusts, might they not seize on innocent sisters, wives, and daughters and befoul them as well as themselves?”

  Magdalene had heard this argument more than once and would not quarrel with it because it was a strong protector of her way of life, but Henry of Winchester was a very intelligent man and she could not resist giving him something to chew upon. “But whores do not lust, my lord,” she said, smiling. “To a whore, coupling is a piece of work for which she is paid as a weaver is paid for a piece of cloth. Just as an anvil accepts the pounding of the blacksmith’s hammer so, and with just as little emotion or pleasure, does the whore accept the pounding of the man who uses her.”

  Winchester flushed slightly. For all his worldliness, he kept the rules: He was abstemious in food and wine; he never touched a woman. Magdalene did not know whether he had ever had a woman, but if he had, it must have been when he was very young and not yet consecrated as a priest.

  “That is not according to common knowledge or theological precept,” he said.

  “No.” Magdalene laughed. “That is from a whore’s own experience, my lord. I assure you I never lusted after men, and as soon as I could, I ceased from receiving them. I am afraid your authorities rest more on the desire of men to justify themselves than on the perception of reality. We are all sinners, my lord, but whores more than any others are totally free of the sin of lechery.”

  Henry frowned and glanced away. “They commit the act of lechery.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Magdalene sighed. It was not worthwhile to continue to press her point and perhaps strain the bishop’s friendship. He might think about what she said and find some compassion for her poor sisters—or he might not. “And as for what you said of William of Ypres,” she said, “you are quite right. William is not a patient or gentle person, although he has always been very kind to me. He does not suffer correction gladly. He would be more likely to burn down the priory than to give up his satisfactions if Brother Paulinus preached at him. Oh, he would be sorry later…perhaps….”

  Winchester laughed, then sobered. “I am no condoner of sin. I do not like what you do, Magdalene. I do not like my part in it—” He uttered a small self-derisive snort. “Although I like the rent you pay well enough. But it is not for the rent that I look aside from your trade. Worse might follow if great men like William—or others—seized by force what they desired. Feud would follow. War. The destruction of all hope of peace and order in which men can look to God.”

  “Lesser men need a vent, too, my lord. If they had not the common stews, there would be many more honest maidens seized and raped.”

  The bishop sighed. “That, too, is true. But body as well as soul is endangered; men die in or near the stews—”

  “But not in or near my house!” Magdalene said firmly. “That is why my clients pay many times the rate of a common stew, because they know their persons, their purses, and their secrets are safe with us. We are sinners in sins of the flesh, but not in other ways.”

  “So I have heard from my bailiff, and from the sheriff also. Your house has a good reputation. Not a single complaint has been lodged against you, at least not by men who have used your services. There have been some complaints by those who were not accommodated.”

  Who? Magdalene wondered, suddenly worried. Who had complained against her? But she dared not spend any time in thought just now. She would keep the matter in mind. Her middle felt hollow. Surely it could not be someone wishing to injure her that had killed Baldassare?

  She forced the idea out of her mind. “I promised you, when you offered me the Old Priory Guesthouse, that there would be no noise, no brawling, no scandal of any kind. Those who are refused are men who would beat my women, desire unnatural acts, disturb my other clients with gross drunkenness, or cause a riot in the street.”

  “I agree it is in your interests to keep a quiet, orderly house. How far would you go—”

  “Not as far as murder, my lord!” Magdalene exclaimed indignantly. “And I would not choose such a man as Messer Baldassare to kill. My woman, Sabina, wept when she heard he was dead. She said he was gentle and merry. That means a great deal to such as we. She said it was unfair that the murderer should escape scot-free while the blame was placed on the easiest scapegoat. I swear on my life, on the soul I may yet redeem by contrition, that neither I nor any member of my household is guilty of this abomination.”

  The bishop stared at her for a long moment, then slowly nodded his head. “I think you speak the truth. I do not believe you guilty. I knew Messer Baldassare, and taking into consideration his character and manners, there is nothing he would have done that could have roused your ire. But others—” He paused and lowered his eyes to his hands, one of which still held the letter he had been carrying. “Others…yes. Baldassare may have had with him something for which a few might kill.”

  Magdalene struggled to keep her face from changing. She suspected the bishop had guessed she kn
ew Baldassare was a papal messenger, and that she knew what he carried. She wished with all her heart that she could tell him about the pouch and where it was. But confessing would be no favor to Henry of Winchester.

  Just then her expression did not matter; when he spoke the last sentence, the bishop was still staring at his hands, or the letter, or his ring of office. His eyes then lifted, but not to her; his gaze had moved past her to the door and his face wore an expression of anxiety that changed as she watched to angry determination. Then he looked at her and his lips twisted with a kind of cynical doubt. Magdalene looked back with what she hoped was innocent inquiry, but inside, a cold shiver traveled from her spine to her belly. The bishop knew that William of Ypres used the Old Priory Guesthouse for more than assuaging his lust. Did he wonder if others also used her place for political purposes, purposes that could have led to Baldassare de Firenze’s death?

  With his eyes steady on her, he added, “No, I do not believe you or any of your women stabbed Messer Baldassare, but it was from your house that he went to his death. From your house, we must seek his killer.”

  Chapter Five

  21 April 1139

  The Bishop’s House; St. Mary Overy Priory

  “Oh, yes, my lord!” Magdalene exclaimed, clasping her hands together to keep from hugging him. If the bishop would back her search for the murderer, she and her women had a far better chance of succeeding than they would on their own. “We will do everything we can to find the killer.”

  The Bishop of Winchester’s brows rose. “You do not fear retribution? That your clients will not like too much curiosity associated with your house?”

  Controlling her impulse to swallow hard, Magdalene smiled faintly. “You think it strange I should be so eager to help? It is not, not at all. If the murderer is not found, will not Brother Paulinus’s accusations seem more and more likely? Our only hope of complete vindication is that the true killer will be found and exposed. And as to my clients, some will never know but others may wish to help.” Magdalene hesitated for a moment, then looked aside and said, “William of Ypres would not be sorry to see your enemies discomfited.”

  “Perhaps he would not,” the bishop said, “but—” His voice checked as the bells of St. Mary Overy rang for Sext. His lips thinned. “I have no more time to spare for you just now, Magdalene, but if you wish to help, you must have an innocent reason to come here. You may say I have given you a commission to embroider an altar cloth for my private chapel and need my opinion, and…yes, a woman is too confined by custom to move about and freely question. Wait here. I will bring in Sir Bellamy of Itchen, who does for me such tasks as are more suitable to a knight than to a clerk.”

  When the door of the bishop’s closet opened. Bell got quickly to his feet. He was interested to see that the letter Winchester had been holding was still in his hand. Either what the bishop had heard in his inner chamber was so absorbing he had forgotten to put it down or the letter itself was important. The bishop raised the hand with the letter toward him; Bell started forward to take it, feeling slightly disappointed, but Winchester shook his head and looked past him, out toward the hall as if he were seeking a new messenger. Bell stood still, thinking with pleasure that the bishop might have more interesting work for him than delivering letters, unless…but at that moment, Guiscard stood up. Winchester looked at him.

  “Ah, Guiscard,” he said. “I was going to send Bell to the Archdeacon of London with this letter and a request that he bring to me all the particulars about the quarrel between St. Matthew’s and St. Peter’s. But you will serve my purpose better. You can explain to the archdeacon that I will tolerate no more delay. I wish to see that matter settled before I leave for Winchester again.”

  Guiscard stood up, his mouth turned down in a discontented arch. Bell swallowed a chuckle. Doubtless Guiscard considered it beneath his dignity to be a messenger. “But my lord,” he protested, “the murder…the whore. She is not to be trusted. The sacristan of St. Mary Overy has often complained of her insolence, her unwillingness to be guided to a better life. Would it not be better if I—”

  “No,” the bishop said, a certain rigidity about his mouth telling Bell that he probably wanted to laugh. “I have bethought me that you are better fitted than Bell to deal with the archdeacon. Bell would have no idea what was a just objection, which you will surely understand. On the other hand, Bell is just the man to deal with murderers and whores.”

  Bell bowed slightly, now wanting to laugh himself. He took what the bishop said as a compliment, not an insult, but Guiscard de Tournai, the common physician’s son, would probably think the bishop had been denigrating him. He felt a flash of admiration for Winchester’s cleverness and then found himself grateful rather than amused. As one of the bishop’s secretaries, Guiscard could make a nuisance of himself if he took a person in despite. Bell’s messages could get lost or garbled, his stipend delayed. Not that the bishop had been thinking of him, Bell reminded himself; he was relatively new to Winchester’s service, having been taken into the Household only three years back. By soothing Guiscard with a few words, Winchester was trying to avoid a discord between his servants that might interfere with his business.

  “You can send young, Phillipe, to sit here until you return,” the bishop continued to Guiscard. “I do not expect any visitor of note until nearly Vespers.” He turned to Bell. “You come with me.”

  Telling Guiscard to set Phillipe to watch the door was another clever move, Bell thought, following his master into the private chamber. Had Henry asked for one of his other secretaries, Guiscard might have thought secrets were being kept from him and he would certainly have been jealous. The young clerk, Phillipe, was no threat. Ahead of him, the bishop stopped and turned. Bell stopped also, looked in the direction of the bishop’s gaze—and froze.

  Enormous eyes, the color of a slightly misty sky, an infinitely deep, soft gray-blue, met his. Above them arched nut-brown brows, which were almost touched by long, thick, curling lashes. A straight nose, but with a barely tilted tip, which begged to be kissed, perched above a mouth to which lips must go next: full, soft, perfectly arched, with corners that had been curved up to greet the bishop but tucked themselves back at the intensity of his scrutiny.

  Bell blinked, looked away from her face to the cloak she had removed and carried now over her arm, but what he saw was a firm and shapely bosom and, falling over her shoulder, tresses of thick, shining, honey-gold hair exposed by the loosening of her veil. The cloak. Bell forced his eyes to look at something that was not part of a seemingly perfect woman. The cloak was a decent, sober brown, modest until one noticed it was of the very best cloth and lined with fur. A whore…perhaps, but no common woman for all of that.

  “Magdalene,” the bishop was saying. “This is Sir Bellamy of Itchen, my knight. I suppose you would call him my man-of-all-work. He hires and trains men-at-arms, he corrects those who will not listen to gentler remonstrances; he was the one who drove out the harpies that were infesting the Old Priory Guesthouse before you came to take it. I want you to tell him your tale—the tale you told me, not the one you told Brother Paulinus. He also knew and liked Baldassare—”

  “Baldassare?” Bell echoed. “You do not mean to tell me that he was the one who was killed?”

  “I am afraid so, but I am not sure,” Magdalene said.

  “What do you mean, you are not sure?”

  “No, no,” the bishop put in. “Do not begin in the middle as you did with me. Remember, the whole story.”

  The warning. Bell thought, was not only for the woman. He colored faintly—the curse of his fair complexion—knowing that the bishop had seen how hard her beauty had struck him. And her displeasure, Bell thought further and felt his color deepen, was not because of what the bishop had said but because she, too, had seen his admiration, and did not welcome it. Well, beauty or not, she was safe. He was not going to meddle with William of Ypres’s woman.

  “Very well,” Magdalene said.
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  “Not here, though,” the bishop remarked. “I will need this chamber for business. Take him back to the guesthouse with you. Perhaps he can think of things he wishes to ask your women. One of them might have noticed something you did not. And, oh, I just remembered some other business I need to discuss with him. Wait outside.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Magdalene said with a cold look at Bell.

  I hope what you tell him is to keep his hands off, she thought as she closed the door behind her. Because Guiscard called me “whore,” doubtless that self-satisfied churl will think I will yield my body to ensure a favorable report from him to the bishop.

  Within, much the same ideas, only from the opposite point of view, were being voiced. “Have a care,” the bishop was saying. “I know she is a woman of almost transcendent beauty and it is hard, even for me, to question what she says. You must. You must discover who killed Baldassare and discover what he was carrying and who has it now. You must get the pope’s messages back for me or, if they have been destroyed, discover that fact so that I can send to Innocent, tell him what happened, and ask him to send duplicates.”

  “Can you tell me what you think was in the messages?”

  “What I think he had was the result of the challenge Matilda made to the king’s right to the throne. It is almost impossible that Innocent could deny Stephen’s right since his legate already approved it, but the letter will quiet doubts. I can see that Matilda’s party might not want the pope’s final approval of Stephen to become public if they plan another rebellion. Still, it is hard to believe that would be worth killing over.”

  “It might be,” Bell said slowly. “It might make the difference between a large number of men swearing to Matilda because they once promised the old king to support her. The pope’s decision would ease their consciences and keep them faithful to King Stephen.”