CHAINS OF FOLLY
Roberta Gellis
Prologue
The man hauling on the rope paused, panting heavily. The body he was pulling up through the window was, literally, a dead weight and somehow heavier than any live body. It was stiffer than it should be, he thought, almost as if it were alive and afraid. But that was ridiculous. The woman had been dead for some time, and his companion, who was steadying the body from below so it did not bump against the wall of the house, would have had hysterics at any sign of life.
He snorted softly and began to haul on the rope again. Steadying the body was about all his companion was good for. Well, the idea of bringing it here to be rid of it had been his, but the fool had meant it for a joke. And for a while, when he had pointed out the advantages of doing it, he had thought the lily-livered churl might run away and leave him with the woman’s corpse. How he had ever been knighted was a puzzle; as for knightly skills or courage…pfui!
The next drag brought a sharp check. The man pulled again but could not gain an inch. Cursing under his breath, he walked forward, gathering in the rope as he came toward the window. When he leaned out, however, he was relieved to see that the woman’s head had caught on the windowsill, preventing her from rising further. He cursed again briefly, but without real anger, thought for a moment, then wrapped the rope around his waist so the body would not slide down.
With both hands free, he could lean out, free the body’s head from the sill, and drag the corpse in. In spite of the woman being small and light, he had to lift and rest, lift and rest, several times. At last he had her laid out on the floor and he stood above her sighing with relief. It had never been likely that anyone would notice what he and his companion had been doing, but now, with the corpse inside, an accidental exposure was impossible.
After a few minutes rest, he unwound the rope from his waist and crouched beside the woman to untie it from around her. That took longer, the pressure on the knots had drawn them tight, but he undid them at last and was able to unwrap the blankets with which they had concealed and padded the corpse.
It was not nearly as dark in the room as it had been when he had first climbed up the rough stones of the house and slid his knife between the shutters to raise the bar and open them. The moon had finally risen. That would make getting out a little more dangerous; climbing up had been slow, but he did not need to climb down—only a moment to get out the window, hang by his hands, and drop the few extra feet to the ground. His companion should help break the fall, too.
He looked down at the body on the floor. He could not leave it there, so near the window. That would give too strong a hint as to how the dead woman arrived. He glanced around the room. Too bad the bed was gone, but that was too expensive a piece of furniture to duplicate. Ah. Beyond the hearth was a table and behind it…oh, joy!…a chair.
With a slight grunt he lifted the corpse, frowning as he felt its resistance to bending. He hurried, but with care to be silent, to the table, laid the body down on it so he could move the chair away without scraping its legs on the floor. It was cursedly heavy and he had to stop to breathe when he had set it gently down again. He was not certain where the two servants and the old clerk slept and did not wish to chance waking them.
Then he lifted the body again and tried to seat it, but it did not simply fold into the chair. He had to exert a fair amount of force to bend it to fit. He stood frowning in puzzlement, and then smiled. Why did not matter. The woman was dead and he realized he could fix her corpse upright and it would not sag. He giggled softly. Yes, she would not be slumped over the side or fallen to the ground. She would be sitting upright to greet the great man when he came in.
The man’s good humor survived until he was hanging by his hands from the windowsill and his companion did not reach up to support his legs. He blasphemed luridly as he let go, cursing the fool and coward to the deepest hell for not waiting to help him; however, he did not waste any time on it, rising quickly from the crouch into which he had fallen and running toward the gate, which he had carefully barred to keep from alarming the watch.
It was open, held by no more than the latch! If the watch had raised an alarm… Panic tightened the man’s throat a moment, but a soft snort and the sound of a horse’s hoof scraping the ground steadied him. At least that weak bowelled fool had not stolen his horse, and he could see that his saddlebags were fastened as he had left them.
He shrugged. Good enough. He had been abandoned and he need not consider that fool any longer. He could find a haven in Baynard’s castle; those there would be very glad to hear of what he had placed in the bishop’s house.
Chapter 1
No matter how carefully one prepared, Magdalene thought, events would take one by surprise. When she had left London to stay in Oxford three weeks ago, she had bought everything she could think of that the women of her whorehouse might need. She had been right about the linens and most of the staples, but of all things they were nearly out of honey. William’s clerk had a passion for sweets. He even added honey to his wine, and other spices too.
Magdalene paused for a moment with a pot of honey in her hand, thinking about William of Ypres, who had protected—and used—her for so many years. He was with the king now, preparing to take the massive stronghold of Devizes. Inside, Magdalene shivered, her hand tightening on the honey pot. She prayed for his safety. A tight bond had grown between William and herself over the years, and it was no longer only because William stood between her—a whore with no rights and no other protection—and the law that she worried about him.
“It is the best honey, mistress,” the grocer said. “I do not think you will find better anywhere in this market.”
“I do not doubt its quality,” Magdalene replied, smiling. “I was trying to think whether the guest who is so fond of it will be staying long enough for me to buy two pots.”
The grocer looked gratified. “It will not spoil, mistress. You know how well honey keeps, but it is not cheap.”
He named a price and Magdalene raised her brows. “If I buy two pots,” she said, “surely you can make it cheaper.”
They chaffered for a while and came to an agreement. Magdalene really had not minded the price. William had been very generous when he compensated her for her trip to Oxford. Perhaps he had felt a little guilty because she had remained to serve his political purposes against her lover’s will, and that had infuriated Sir Bellamy of Itchen so much that he had left her.
Tears rose in her eyes and she set her teeth and blinked them away. A whore does not cry over a man, she reminded herself, keeping her gaze on the coins she had emptied into her hand from her pocket. She chose out what to pay the grocer and found a smile as she handed him his money.
When the honey and spices and some specially coarse ground wheat that Dulcie wanted had been added to what was already in her basket, Magdalene pulled her veil across her face and left. Not that a woman’s veiling her face was common in London this year of Our Lord 1139, but Magdalene, who was cursed with startling beauty, had found it safer to go veiled when she was in the streets alone.
She hesitated on the step a moment, letting her ears grow accustomed to the bedlam of the market, to the apprentices calling their wares to passersby, to street vendors appealing for custom, to sellers and customers shouting contrary offers at each other to come to a bargain.
Magdalene smiled. It was a cheerful din. She made her way around the outdoor counter where the grocer’s journeyman sold less pricey goods, turned right, and began to walk briskly—or at least as briskly as was possible in the East Chepe. She did stop several times to examine goods, but bought nothing.
When she came to Lime, she turned her head briefly to look north, wondering whether her fr
iend, the saddler Mainard, had yet sold the expensive house he owned there. His first wife had insisted he buy it for her, but after her murder he had married the blind whore Sabina, whom he had met in Magdalene’s house. Sabina insisted on living in the rooms above Mainard’s shop. She said it was because she needed to be near him, which made the horribly birth-marked Mainard weep with pleasure, but Magdalene suspected it was because Sabina wanted him to be sure that no man but he was ever admitted to her rooms.
That thought made Magdalene’s throat tighten. Bell had never been able to accept the fact that she was a whore, that although she was retired, except if William wanted her, she could not change her past. A sudden stench of fish, fresh and foul, assaulted her nose and she hurried past Fish Street on the far side of the market, started to cross to the south side, and then changed her mind and continued ahead toward Gracechurch Street. She was really in no mood to visit Mainard and Sabina. Their cloying affection would turn her sick today.
Despite good intentions, Magdalene’s basket was a good deal heavier by the time she had fought her way across the bridge. She had bought three pounds of apricots, some early apples, a large round of candied violets wrapped in cool water lily leaves, and a whole side of a smoked salmon. Fortunately the Old Priory Guesthouse was only a short distance from the foot of the bridge down the road that ran along the wall of St. Mary Overy Priory.
Thinking of her goal, Magdalene smiled. She hoped the souls of the very strict order of nuns who had had the Guesthouse built were not tormented by its current use. Their order had excluded all males, except the priest who said mass and confessed them, and even females who had not taken religious vows, so a fine guesthouse had been built outside the wall of the convent to accommodate visitors.
The monks who now lived in the priory were not so strict. Finding the guesthouse outside the walls inconvenient, even though it was connected to the priory by a gate in the wall, a new guesthouse had been built as a wing of the priory itself.
The monks had been far too practical to destroy the old guesthouse, which was a very good building. It was stone built with a tile roof and protected by a high stone wall with a strong gate. Thus it had been rented for various purposes until, after falling into very low hands indeed, on the urging of William of Ypres it had been rented by the bishop of Winchester to Magdalene.
There was nothing shocking to the bishop of Winchester about Magdalene intending to use the premises as a bawdy house. Something on the order of two-thirds of the stews in Southwark were owned by the Church…most of the remainder belonged to the Crown. However, Magdalene knew the bishop was particularly happy with her as a tenant. She paid her exorbitant rent promptly and there had never been a single complaint about her well-run premises. Moreover, when a Church messenger had been murdered on the north porch of St. Mary Overy Church, Magdalene had solved the crime and saved the bishop’s life.
As she approached her home, however, Magdalene forgot history and began to think about how she was going to manage to juggle her burdens so she could lift the latch of the gate and open it. At the gate, she realized it would be easier to pull the bell rope because the latch was heavy and firmly set. A few moments later the latch lifted and the gate opened to the extent of a sturdy chain that allowed Diot, one of the three whores Magdalene employed, to peer out.
“Oh, my goodness,” she cried, laughing, as soon as she saw Magdalene’s veiled face and overflowing arms, “you really have been shopping.”
The chain was immediately unhooked, the gate swung open, and Diot relieved Magdalene of a few of the packages in the basket. This created almost more of a problem than it solved by unbalancing the rest of the bundles. Magdalene and Diot hurried to the house and through the open door, without another word, rushing to set everything down on the table before they dropped the easily bruised fruit or tore the fragile wrapping of the candied violets and smoked salmon.
Everyone in the house rushed toward the table to prevent anything from sliding down on the floor, all laughing heartily, but Magdalene froze momentarily with shock. Overriding the high, childish laughter of the exquisite but simple-minded blonde Ella was a strong baritone voice Magdalene knew all too well. She looked up. It was Bell. She had not, out of longing, mistaken another’s voice for his.
Bell was his usual elegant self, except that his face was flushed. He was wearing, over a shirt a great deal whiter and cleaner than most men’s—Magdalene knew he paid his laundress extra to produce the effect—a sleeveless tunic of bright blue that came only to mid-thigh. The neck and hem of the tunic were bordered with dark blue ribbon, fancifully embroidered. Magdalene did not need to look at that; it was her own work. The dark blue matched the footed chausses that covered his legs, held to their shapely form with cross garters of the bright blue of the tunic.
He had removed the broad leather belt that supported his sword, but it was draped over one of the short benches near the table with the sword propped so he could seize it easily. Not that Bell expected to be attacked in Magdalene’s house but, like always wearing a tunic short enough not to tangle his legs and interfere if he had to fight, the sword was always ready.
“I see that you expected Bell,” Ella said, as she peeped under the wrappings of the violets and the salmon. “Why did you not tell us he was coming?”
“No,” Magdalene said, “I did not expect to see Bell here today. I just thought a little celebration was in order. I am so very glad to be at home.” She had swallowed down the shock of joy she felt on seeing him, damping it with the memory of the misery of the last three weeks.
“I did not expect to be here either,” Bell said, voice harsh. The flush had receded, leaving him very pale. “I am here on the bishop’s business. Let your women put your shopping away while I tell you.”
She stared for a moment, then said, “Come into my chamber where we can be private.”
Ella giggled, but Diot and Letice exchanged troubled glances. They had been aware, as Ella was not, that Magdalene’s spirits were not what they should have been. Until now, they had put her oppression down to the dangerous political situation and the danger into which Lord William, her protector, was going. Now each suspected the trouble was more personal.
“This had better be urgent business for the bishop,” Magdalene said as soon as she had closed the door of her bedchamber behind her. “You are not welcome here. You cannot tear a great hole in my heart and expect to hop back into the space whenever it pleases you. The hurt is sealed over already. A whore learns not to trust men.”
“Is a dead woman sitting in the chair behind the table in Winchester’s bedchamber urgent enough?” Bell snapped.
“What?” Magdalene gasped. “I never heard a hint that women were Winchester’s vice.”
“No, nor are they,” Bell snarled. “Winchester was leagues away from London in my company and that of at least twenty other clerks and armsmen when that woman was placed in his chair.”
“You mean she did not go up to his chamber and sit in the chair and die…or…or take her own life?”
“Not with a broken neck and fingermarks on her throat. I never yet heard of anyone who could break her neck and then walk up a flight of stairs and seat herself in a chair.”
There was a silence and then Magdalene asked angrily, “But what have I to do with this?” She wondered suddenly if Bell’s love had turned to hate as it sometimes did and he was attempting somehow to involve her in the death. “My women are all here safe and sound, and I certainly would not wish to embarrass or annoy the bishop of Winchester who has been kind to me.”
Bell grimaced. “You have nothing to do with the woman or her death, but she was dressed as a whore and the bishop bade me ask if you would discover who she was and why she was brought to his bedchamber.”
“The bishop sent you here?”
Flushed again, Bell said, “He thought it very funny. He said he had a mission for me that he was sure I would enjoy.”
Magdalene said nothing, and after a
moment Bell went on. “There is something else, something that could be very bad in these times. The woman was carrying a letter addressed to Winchester from Robert of Gloucester.”
“What?” Magdalene said again. This time as if she could not believe her ears. “It cannot be real. Where would a whore get a letter from Robert of Gloucester addressed to the bishop of Winchester?”
“It is real enough. Winchester recognized the seal. He saw it often enough before Gloucester cried defiance. As to how she got it, there are a number of answers to that, but the simplest is that it was given to her to deliver to Winchester.”
Magdalene stared at him for a long moment, slowly shaking her head and then said, “I cannot believe it. If the letter was meant to be given secretly to the bishop, all the messenger had to do was go to his house and ask for audience. Winchester is well known for listening to petitions.”
“Unless the messenger who had the letter from Gloucester was already known as Winchester’s enemy.”
“Even so, to entrust such a thing to a common whore—”
“I think she was better than that,” Bell said. His lips tightened as he added, “Not so grand and rich as you, but not out of the common stews.”
Magdalene almost smiled at the painful admission, but managed to control her lips and only nodded acceptance. She knew he had said it to hurt her, but it did not. Indeed, it gave her the only glimmer of hope she had felt since he had rolled his armor in his gambeson in Oxford and walked away.
If only she could bring Bell to accept what she was—to acknowledge that nothing could change the fact that she had been a whore for many years and, for a favored few, still plied the trade—perhaps they could come to a modus vivendi. No, she would not allow herself even to think about it.
“How was she dressed?” she asked, sternly quelling a hope she should not feel. “What did she look like?” And then before he could answer, she added, “No. Stay for dinner with us and tell everyone. It is possible that Diot will recognize her, or Letice, although Letice does not mingle much with the other whores. Among her people, whoring is a respectable trade, so she is welcome to them and she finds those who practice the trade here disgusting because of their filth and crudity.”
Chains of Folly Page 1
