A Mortal Bane (24 page)

He was considerably disappointed when Father Benin listened to him with a rather distracted air and said no more than, “You must find young Beaumeis and make him explain. I suspect he will have a good reason for being here and be able to clear himself. As to his character” —he sighed— “it was not what I would have wished for a churchman. He was clever enough, but also shallow, selfish, and lazy. It was shocking to me because he was nephew—sister’s son—to the abbot of St. Albans, who recommended him to our school and paid his fees.” He shook his head. “I would not like to think so ill of Richard. More likely the guilty one is among those of Magdalene’s clients who bear arms. How would Beaumeis know where to stab a man?”

The fatal knife wound could have been an accident, Bell thought, but many of Magdalene’s clients
were
knights and some could be attached to the Empress Matilda’s party. Still, he would expect an accounting of every minute of Beaumeis’s time before forgetting that the man had traveled all the way from Rome with Baldassare. All the way from Rome? And never found an opportunity to steal the bull or murder his companion? The journey together was something Bell had not considered.

“It
is
most worrisome,” Father Benin said, and Bell realized the prior had been telling him something he had not taken in.

“I am sorry—” he began.

“Oh, please do not say that Brother Paulinus must be the thief because he was the only one who had a key to the safe box. Sometimes Brother Paulinus can be difficult—even violent—because of his strong convictions, but I cannot believe he would steal from the church.”

Bell blinked. “Steal from the church? For what purpose? Not for luxurious living. What did you say was stolen? I am afraid I was still thinking about the murder.”

Father Benin, who was as much troubled by the theft of the pyx because of the shadow it cast on Brother Paulinus as by the death of Baldassare, told the story again willingly, repeating in a voice that now trembled with doubt how impossible it was for the sacristan, even to repair his beloved buildings, to be guilty.

“And when did this theft take place?” Bell asked.

Father Benin sighed. “We do not really know. It would have to be after the plate was cleaned and inspected for the Sunday service last week and before it was again removed from the safe box yesterday.”

“It could have been stolen Wednesday night, then?”

“The same night as the murder? Would that not be too much of a coincidence?”

“If it was a coincidence at all,” Bell said.

Chapter Twelve

23 April 1139

Old Priory Guesthouse

“That Brother Patric be a nice boy,” Dulcie said as she brought in a large bowl of porridge and began to serve it into smaller bowls. “He said he be sorry I had t’ walk so far t’ attend th’ service this mornin’ ‘stead o’ just coming across th’ back like I did before.”

Magdalene waited until Dulcie’s eyes came to her face and said slowly and loudly, “Most of the monks do not blame you for our sins. They know one must work to eat.” She saw Dulcie nod, to indicate that she had understood, and went on. “That was why I said you must go to Mass. You are still a good daughter of the Church, not excommunicate. If you swear under oath we were all here when Baldassare was murdered, they must accept your word.”

Dulcie laughed at that. “It even be true—not that it matters,” she said. “I be dead in th’ street if you didn’ take me in. Yair, I be a good daughter o’ th’ Church. An’ don’ I know how easy it be t’ get absolution fer a lie—a lie tol’ t’ help a friend. No need t’ say what lie. Priest never asks. If penance be in silver—you pay. I know that. ‘Nd I don’ mind extra aves. Like to pray, I do. Sounds pretty in me head.”

Finished serving out the porridge, she brought a platter of thin-sliced ham from the kitchen and a tray of yesterday’s bread fried in lard. Then she went back to fetch pitchers of milk and ale before sitting down at the end of the table, as she often did when there were no clients and none were expected. Sunday breakfast was a big, leisurely meal. The morning was always free because nearly everyone was in church, and those hardened sinners who did not attend Mass were not the kind of men that Magdalene accepted as clients.

All of Sunday was usually quiet; Magdalene took no regular appointments. That made a good impression on clients with uneasy consciences, and actually, she lost very little. Between the time taken by attending religious observances and that given to family obligations, and the reluctance of most men to stain a soul newly cleansed by going to confession and hearing several Masses, few clients wished to visit a whorehouse on Sunday.

The women, even Ella, were glad of a day free of men. They had time for long, lingering baths, for mending garments damaged by too-eager clients, for examining their clothing and underclothing, their ribbons and laces, and deciding whether they wished to go to the East Chepe market the coming week. All had money in plenty, since Magdalene paid them the very generous fee of ten pence a week each, all found; the brothel absorbed the cost of rent and food.

To Magdalene’s relief, this Sunday was no exception. The women cleaned and mended, talked about their clothing, told each other tidbits of news and gossip suppressed during the week by the press of work or fatigue. This Sunday, as she sometimes did, Letice spent the afternoon with her countryfolk. Magdalene did not think she plied her trade among them, but she never asked. The farthings those poor folk could pay meant nothing to her—and likely nothing to Letice, if she took money from them at all. She came back in good time for the evening meal.

Ella and Letice had already gone to bed, and Sabina had just handed her emptied wine cup to Dulcie when the sounds of horses’ hooves and men’s shouting came over the wall and through the shuttered windows. Although Sabina and Magdalene turned their heads toward the noise, neither was troubled. Parties of men did come over the bridge, even at night. But this time the sounds did not rise to a crescendo and die away. They rose and increased, as if the men were milling around near the Old Priory Guesthouse gate. Sabina rose slowly to her feet, her face white.

“They are not going away,” she whispered, stretching a hand to feel for her staff.

Magdalene also got to her feet. She caught Sabina’s hand and held it tight. “Perhaps they only—

“There are too many,” Sabina breathed. “They cannot have come for our services. It is my fault. Because I found the dead man!”

The bell rang. “Do not be silly, Sabina,” Magdalene managed to say between stiff lips. “No one knows of that but the bishop and his knight. And they believe us innocent.”

The bell rang again. Sabina clutched at Magdalene. “Do not go out,” she whispered. “We can bar the door.”

The bell rang yet again, more insistently. Several men shouted. Dulcie, now aware of the fear Magdalene and Sabina were displaying, asked, “What’s wrong?”

“A large party of mounted men are at the gate. Far too many for us to serve. Could the sacristan have….”

Magdalene stopped and took a deep breath. It was useless to add to Sabina’s terror, but she could not forget how near madness the sacristan seemed to be the previous day. Could the prior’s order that he not accuse her and her women without proof have driven him over the edge? Could he deliberately have spread the tale that they were guilty of murder and being protected because of what they paid in silver and service? Could he have urged some too-righteous folk to exact justice on their own?

Peal after peal now came from the bell, as if whoever was pulling the cord was determined to continue until someone answered. Magdalene swallowed hard.

“Oh, Lord. They will waken everyone on the street,” she murmured. “The bishop will get complaints about us.” Then she bit her lip and took a deep breath and said loudly, “Dulcie, get me the key and come with me. Let us put the bar across the gate. I will unlock it. Then you take the key and go with Sabina, Letice, and Ella to the back gate. Unlock it and go into the priory grounds. I will see if I can calm—

“No!” Sabina cried, clinging to her. “God knows what they will do to you.”

Dulcie had grabbed up a candle and scuttled toward the kitchen, where the keys were hung.

“If you hear blows against the gate,” Magdalene said to Sabina, “run to the prior’s house and call for help. Father Benin does not believe us guilty and will send help, I am sure.”

“Quick enough to save you?”

Magdalene did not answer that, but unwound Sabina’s arms from her. Dulcie came running back. Sabina was weeping and shaking. Magdalene was shaking, too, but actually she was already less frightened as she pushed Sabina toward Dulcie. If so large a group of men had come to wreak violence, surely they would have forced the gate by now. But, aside from the continued pealing of the bell, there seemed to be less noise from the street. Then a single stentorian voice called out. With a quick, indrawn breath, Magdalene snatched the key from Dulcie and ran out the door.

“William?” she cried as she reached the gate. “William? Is that you?”

“Of course it is, you stupid slut! Who else would arrive at this time of night with twenty men-at-arms? Let me in! I have been ahorse since Prime.”

Magdalene already had the gate unlocked. As she swung it open, two of the mounted men came down from their horses. One strode through the gate. The other caught the rein of the loose horse and followed, leading the horses behind him. While William of Ypres strode toward the house, the second man led the horses toward the stable. Magdalene saw a third man gesture, and the troop turned their mounts to ride back up the street to the bridge. She closed the gate, relocked it, and ran to catch up to Lord William.

“I am so sorry,” Magdalene gasped as she reached his side. “I was afraid because of the murder.”

“What the shit has that to do with you?” he growled.

“The sacristan of the priory has been accusing us of killing Messer Baldassare. He says because we are whores, we must be murderers, too. I thought he had preached against us before the prior told him not to—or that because the prior had silenced him, he bade someone punish us for our crime.”

His step checked and he put an arm around her, pulling her roughly against him. “Forgot about that, chick. Nothing to fear now. I’m here. I’ll send word to the sheriff and the Watch that the Old Guesthouse is under my protection and I’ll have the ears and skin off anyone who hurts you.”

His mail was biting painfully into Magdalene’s arm and side, but she did not pull away. “Thank you, William,” she said.

He reached out and opened the house door, stepping to the side and shoving her through in front of him. Magdalene could not help smiling. He had just offered her protection but instinctively used her as a shield in case an ambush had been laid for him in her house. Not that he really expected an ambush in her house, but caution was a habit long ingrained in William of Ypres.

“Hello, girls,” he bellowed as he came in behind her, and then, taking in Ella’s and Letice’s half-open gowns over naked bodies, added, “All ready for work, I see.”

Letice wriggled and Ella put her thumb in her mouth. She was overawed by Lord William and never aggressive toward him. Sabina smiled and set her staff against the wall.

“We are very glad to know you are our visitor, Lord William,” she said, having easily recognized his voice and manner. “We were afraid it was someone who did not appreciate our art. Each and all of us are more than willing to entertain you, separately or all together.”

He laughed loudly. “Each and all, separately and together, eh? Well, once I might have been able to take you all, but a hard life has tamed me a little, especially after being in the saddle since dawn. Tonight I will be content with Magdalene. You girls can play with Somer” —he laughed again, even louder— “if he can get it up after riding almost without stopping for four days.”

“Those three can get it up on a dead man,” Somer de Loo said from the doorway, coming in from the stable. And then, into the tense silence that followed his words, “Oops! Didn’t think.”

“The dead man is nothing to do with us,” Magdalene said, shaking her head at the younger man. And then, turning back to her patron, “Are you hungry, William?”

“In your room,” he said. “I don’t want a lot of chatter and giggling distracting me. Bread and cheese and my wine will do, if you’ve nothing else.”

Dulcie, who heard his bellow well enough to understand that he wanted food, dropped a curtsy and scuttled toward the kitchen. Magdalene smiled, knowing that Dulcie would bring the best of everything they had, and preceded her guest into her chamber. She was aware that William of Ypres was watching her as she closed the door, and turned to smile at him, her hand going to the veil that covered her hair. His face had no expression at all as she asked, “Shall I help you to undress now, or would you like to unlace me first?”

He did not move and one brow lifted. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he said. “One would think that God had designed you specially for the purpose of rousing and futtering a man. Yet you take little pleasure in the congress between men and women.”

“I take pleasure in serving you, William, because you have done so much for me.”

He came forward then, smiling, and gave her a rough hug, which made her bite the inside of her lip as his mail cut into her flesh again. “Whore you are,” he said, “but only with your body. Your heart is steadier than most of the men sworn to me, some of them with more reason to be grateful to me than you.”

“I suppose it is because the selling of their bodies is not considered a sin and a shame,” she said, laughing up at him.

He relaxed his grip suddenly and stared down into her face. “Is that why you are so faithful?” he asked, grinning. “You believe in a special bond between us? That we are two sides of the same coin? That I am a whore, like you, because I sold my body to the king?”

Magdalene lifted her head, eyes wide. She had forgotten again that William might be coarse and brutal but his mind was quick, as quick as Winchester’s. He had understood more than she meant him to. Fortunately he had a wry sense of humor, but, she thought, he was tired, and under his surface good spirits, irritable. She did not want him thinking of the comparison she had made. She shook her head.