A Mortal Bane (27 page)

Very shortly afterward, breathing prayers of thanks to the Merciful Mother for her help and indulgence, Magdalene walked through the open gate of the bishop’s house. He was not personally in the house, Magdalene noted, rather relieved than disappointed. Winchester had looked strange when she mentioned Beaumeis and she had no inclination to say that name to him again, particularly knowing what she now did.

A few blows on the door brought a servant, who looked shocked at seeing a woman, but Magdalene gave him no time to react. She pushed firmly against the door, stepped in, and said, “I wish to speak to Sir Bellamy of Itchen.”

“He is attending on the bishop. He is not within,” the servant said, looking faintly pleased.

Magdalene was sharply disappointed. She had told herself that she was hurrying to the bishop’s house to give Bell the opportunity to question Beaumeis while he was still shocked by the news of Baldassare’s death. Now she realized that she had used that purpose as an excuse for another meeting. Furious with herself, she determined to give her information to anyone responsible and intelligent enough to repeat it adequately.

“Then I must leave a message for him with one of the bishop’s clerks,” she said.

The servant was not pleased with her persistence, but either he remembered that the bishop had been willing to speak to her a few days earlier or he was impressed by her rich cloak and veil, and he directed her to the back of the room. When Magdalene saw that it was Guiscard sitting at the table, she was tempted to turn around and walk out. She resisted the temptation, telling herself that explaining to Guiscard was her penance for not waiting for Bell to stop by the Old Guesthouse.

To her surprise, Guiscard did not shout “Out, whore!” as she approached the table. She felt a flush of gratitude, guessing that the bishop had reprimanded him—or perhaps Bell had. Not that Guiscard had altered his manner as far as cordiality or even civility.

“What do you here?” he asked, barely glancing at her when she stood before the table, and then determinedly looking down at a parchment spread before him.

“I have a message for Sir Bellamy,” she replied.

“Neither Sir Bellamy nor the bishop are here,” Guiscard said without looking up.

“So the servant told me.” Magdalene kept her voice level. “However, I think it important that Sir Bellamy be told that Richard de Beaumeis is back in London. He—”

“Beaumeis?” Guiscard raised his head abruptly. “That is the man who caused the bishop so much grief. Why should Sir Bellamy be interested in him?”

“Because Beaumeis traveled from Rome with Messer Baldassare.”

“He did?” Guiscard stared at her. “Are you sure?”

There was so much interest in Guiscard’s voice and manner, an intentness that contrasted with his normal studied indifference, that Magdalene was rather startled.

“Yes, I am sure,” she said. “Baldassare mentioned him when he stopped at my gate. He said Beaumeis had told him my house was the Bishop of Winchester’s inn.”

“How dared he!” Guiscard snarled, half rising and then forcing himself to sit down again. “Had he not done harm enough? Had Winchester been there when Theobald of Bec was proposed for archbishop, I am sure he could have done something to stop that stupid election. Beaumeis! The presumption of him, demanding that the bishop finish his ordination, after selling himself to Winchester’s enemies.”

“Selling himself?” Magdalene repeated. “To whom?”

Guiscard drew an indignant breath, and then, as if he had not heard her, asked suspiciously, “How did a nothing and no one like Richard de Beaumeis come to be in Rome?”

“He did not tell me, but from what he said, I can guess. I think it possible that Theobald heard about Beaumeis’s ordination being interrupted and felt responsible for it. He may have completed the ordination, and even taken Beaumeis into his Household…no, Beaumeis said he was still tied to St. Paul’s. But I must assume that out of guilt or sympathy, Theobald invited Beaumeis to accompany him to Rome.”

“Guilt or sympathy? Ridiculous. Doubtless it was a reward for ensnaring Winchester and preventing him from protesting the proposal of Theobald for archbishop.”

Magdalene thought about that for a moment. It seemed logical, yet it would mean Theobald knew and was in contact with Beaumeis, which really did not seem likely. She shrugged.

“Whatever the reason, Beaumeis must have traveled in the archbishop’s Household. I cannot believe he is rich enough to make such a journey on his own. He certainly complained bitterly about my prices.”

She was amused to note that Guiscard, who habitually sneered when she mentioned her trade, was too intent this time to react. He was looking at her, but with eyes that did not see, one hand idly smoothing the fur band that bordered the wide sleeve of his fine black gown. As he moved his hand, a ring with a bright stone flashed on one finger. Well found, Magdalene thought. He must be from a family with enough wealth to allow the second or third son they had educated for the church to indulge in fine clothing and jewels. And then she remembered that Bell, too, had been well dressed. The bishop apparently paid well.

“So Beaumeis was in Rome with the new archbishop,” Guiscard murmured.

“That much is sure,” Magdalene agreed, “and that he traveled to England with Messer Baldassare. Perhaps it would be useful for Sir Bellamy to try to discover whether there was some connection between Beaumeis and the archbishop before his election, but what is even more important is what Beaumeis did after he parted from Baldassare.”

For a moment Guiscard’s focus on her sharpened and his mouth twisted, but the look of disgust did not last. Oddly, an expression of satisfaction followed.

“He must have known what Baldassare was carrying in that pouch Sir Bellamy mentioned yesterday,” Guiscard said thoughtfully. “Perhaps Baldassare had with him the papal bull granting the bishop legatine authority. Yes, yes, of course he did. I am sure the pope would be glad to have Winchester as his legate; Innocent’s letters have always been full of praise for the bishop.”

“All that may well be so,” Magdalene said, “but—”

“Listen, you fool. Beaumeis hates the bishop because all those assembled to see him ordained now wonder what evil he did that caused the bishop not only to break off the ordination but refuse to complete it later. Is it impossible to believe that Beaumeis wished to steal the bull or destroy it and thus withhold from Winchester the honor and power it would grant him?”

“Not impossible at all, but when I told him of the murder, I will swear he was much overset.”

“Pooh, pooh.” Guiscard made a brushing gesture. “That Beaumeis is a sneaking, sly creature given to pretense. You should have heard him whining and pleading for the bishop to ordain him before Christmas so that he could be in orders before the holy day. You would have believed him of the most ardent faith.”

“I do not think him very religious, but—”

“Clearly not if he was a common frequenter of your house,” Guiscard said, this time not forgetting his moue of distaste.

“But,” Magdalene continued, ignoring the clerk’s remark, “if he is so fine a pretender as you say, he may well be able to convince others of his innocence. It will not be enough simply to accuse him. Moreover, those who know of the interrupted ordination may well know the true cause. Might they not think this accusation against Beaumeis was bred by spite on the bishop’s part?”

“I would not be so quick to defend Richard de Beaumeis or to accuse the bishop of spite if I were you,” Guiscard snapped. “The Bishop of Winchester does not love Beaumeis, and you would be gutted and hung already if the bishop were not protecting you.”

The threat to tell Winchester that Beaumeis was a client she was trying to protect was implicit behind the angry statement. “I was not defending Beaumeis,” Magdalene protested. “He may well be guilty. And I am well aware of my debt to the Bishop of Winchester. What I do not want to see is Beaumeis escape and the bishop’s name be besmirched because of an accusation without proof.”

“What more proof is needed than the harm he has already done?” Guiscard asked bitterly. “That ungrateful little cur conspired with Lord Winchester’s enemies to keep him from being archbishop. Who can say Beaumeis would not kill to prevent the bishop from receiving an even greater honor?”

Magdalene was surprised by Guiscard’s sincere anger and regret over the loss of the archbishopric and the possibility that Beaumeis had taken the papal bull. She had not thought Guiscard so attached to his master.

“Unless you wish this to come to empty counteraccusations,” she pointed out, “there must be real proof. Beaumeis claims he was on the road to Canterbury on Wednesday night. If he can bring witnesses, would not that make the bishop look a fool or worse?”

Guiscard stared at her, rage and disappointment mingling in his expression. “It is not possible! He must have lied!” he exclaimed.

“Perhaps he did, but if so, witnesses must be found to say he was still in Southwark, or he must be brought to confess his crime. It is not enough to say he is guilty. That is why I came to tell Sir Bellamy that Beaumeis had been at my house, that he was sore overset by the news of Messer Baldassare’s death, and that if he were straitly questioned soon, he might speak more truth than he intended. Will you not pass that message to Sir Bellamy as soon as possible?”

The secretary’s expression grew eager and hopeful as she spoke, and he even unbent so far as to nod agreement. Plainly, he was looking forward to offering up Beaumeis to the bishop as the man who killed Baldassare.

“And where is Sir Bellamy to seek for Beaumeis, since you say he is no longer in your house?”

“He might still be at the church of St. Mary Overy. He kept saying he could not believe that Messer Baldassare was dead and rushed off to see the body when I told him it was laid out in the chapel of St. Mary Overy church. If he is gone from there, I do not know, unless…of course, someone at St. Paul’s will have the directions of their deacons, but I am not sure Sir Bellamy knows Beaumeis is tied to St. Paul’s. You will tell him that, too, will you not?”

“Yes, I will tell Sir Bellamy
and
the bishop. You may be sure I will,” Guiscard said.

Magdalene left the bishop’s house better satisfied than she expected to be after she heard the servant say that Bell was out. Ordinarily she did not trust Guiscard de Tournai. When she had been in the process of restoring the Old Priory Guesthouse and had needed Winchester’s approval for changes she wished to make, messages she had sent by Guiscard to the bishop had never reached him, or had been long delayed.

This time she believed what she wanted fit so well with what Guiscard thought was his own advantage that she was sure her message would be transmitted—and as soon as possible. Of course it might be garbled into something she had never said, but since Bell would surely come to find out what she had learned from Beaumeis, she could untangle any knots Guiscard had tied in the truth.

She took the long way home, knowing it would be impossible for a woman to enter the priory without identifying herself. She would not be welcome, and even if the porter admitted her, she could not get home through the back gate, which was supposed to be locked. Not that she minded the walk; she needed the exercise. She had hardly been out of the house except for her visit to the bishop since Baldassare’s death. Well, she had all but finished her embroidery commission. Perhaps tomorrow she would take it to the mercer in the East Chepe.

Having arrived at the Old Guesthouse and closed the gate behind her, Magdalene looked at the bell cord, thought of the purse William had left, and smiled. She was just about to turn her back and leave the cord inside when she remembered the message she had left for Bell. She glanced at the sun and decided she could not leave the cord inside. There was time enough for Bell to come.

He did not come, however, neither that afternoon nor even after the evening meal, by which time Magdalene was sure he would have returned to the bishop’s house. She was furious, one moment calling herself a fool for having trusted Guiscard to do anything right, and the next, calling herself a worse fool for believing Bell would respond when she—a known whore—asked him to come. She was even more ashamed and enraged because she had waited long after dark, after Ella and Letice had gone to bed…and he had not come.

Chapter Fourteen

25 April 1139

East Chepe, London;

Later, Old Priory Guesthouse

One good thing came of Magdalene’s fruitless waiting for Bell—she finished her embroidery. The next morning when Bell still had not appeared after they had had breakfast, she wrapped her work in a clean cloth, swathed her head and face in her veil, and set out for the East Chepe. It was a long walk, across the bridge and up Fish Street to the Chepe, but since both sides of the bridge were lined with stalls selling all kinds of baubles, trinkets, and household wares, Magdalene did not mind a bit.

The cries of the vendors calling people to their stalls mingled with those of the sellers of sugared fruits and flowers, of hot breads, rolled savories, and yes, less fortunate women of her own profession. Not that one could concentrate solely on the proffered wares. Traffic moved along the center of the bridge, and a failure to dodge brought shrieks and curses and could result in bruises or real injury if one were too absentminded.

Magdalene bought a cup of violets in crystallized honey. Dulcie’s were probably better, but there was a kind of joy in having a half farthing to spend and knowing she would not need to sacrifice some other desire.

That made the fruit all the sweeter. She stopped to look at embroidered bands ready to be sewn onto the collars and facings of gowns and shook her head firmly at the mercer’s apprentice. They were poor things compared with her own work. Even Ella could do better.

A bolt of linen so soft and fine one could see through it on the next counter held her attention. She fingered the cloth, held it up to the light, pressed a fold of it against the inside of her wrist. A lovely, soft green that would have flattered her skin and hair, but when the journeyman murmured a price, and not unreasonable, she still sighed and turned away. She had no occasion for any garment made of such revealing cloth and never would have. The last thing in the world she wanted was to tempt a man.