She had warned Bell when she finally allowed him into her bed that from time to time there would be, must be, other men, that their coupling could only be for a temporary pleasure, not a symbol of any permanent bonding. She had insisted from their first meeting that she was by profession a whore and would not change.
Magdalene did not sigh because she was aware that Father Etienne was looking at her while he talked, but she felt like sighing. Bell gave lip service to acceptance of her profession. Perhaps his head even acknowledged the truth of her warnings, but she feared his heart did not. Well, he would either learn to control his jealousy or they would come to a parting of the ways.
A funny hollow feeling in Magdalene’s midsection made her shift on her seat. That was wrong, she told herself. To become attached, to desire too much to please, that way lay disaster. She could never again be one man’s woman. Three men were dead from trying to keep her. And, because she had been a whore for many years, even if she agreed to abandon her trade and her business, even if she were as faithful to her man as a nun is to Christ, no man would ever trust her. To any man, no matter what he said, she would always be a whore. It was a very good thing, indeed, that William had summoned her. She was growing too…too wifelike. She must distance herself from Bell and retain her independence. Still, to live with William…Magdalene began to think over the friends and acquaintances she still had in Oxford from the years when she had managed a whorehouse there.
“The king’s power is now nearly absolute,” Father Etienne was saying, “although the bishop of Salisbury and his ‘nephews’ still do much of the day-to-day governing. They have done it for so long—years under the late King Henry and since King Stephen came to the throne—that they are obeyed without question by all the sheriffs and most of the local barons. This is making the king uneasy.”
Something in the priest’s voice snapped Magdalene out of her own thoughts. She peered at Father Etienne’s face, but she could not make out his expression. The room had become too dim. She glanced toward the open windows. It was still light outside and would be for some candlemarks yet because of the long evenings of summer, but the small windows did not let in enough light at this time of day.
“Let me bring some candles,” she said, rising and suiting the action to the words. “And surely you would like something to drink and a bite to eat?” She went to the banked fire in the hearth and lit a long sliver of wood.
“I would be grateful for a cup of wine,” Father Etienne agreed, and smiled self-deprecatingly. “I have been running on, have I not? But Lord William is uneasy…”
“Oh, no,” Magdalene assured him. “I am very eager to hear anything you are allowed to tell me. My usefulness increases the more I know, as I am then unlikely to say the wrong thing to the wrong person.”
Father Etienne laughed. “I cannot imagine you saying the wrong thing to any person, but I will be glad to tell you what I know, which, unfortunately, is more guess than fact. Before I go on, though, I must not forget to ask when it would be best for me to meet your women. They should know me, I think.”
“If you can stay until Vespers, they will all gather for the evening meal. Ella has a partner for the night, but he will come later, after dark. My women should be leading their present clients out at any moment.”
As if her statement had sparked the reaction, a door opened in the corridor and Ella’s little girl voice said, “You do not need to go so soon. See, the sun is not yet set. If you like…”
A man’s low rumble followed and Ella gave a lusty sigh.
“Oh, very well. I know I must not importune you to stay when you say you must go. But we did have a good time… Well, I did! I hope I didn’t displease—” Her voice cut off sharply—perhaps the man kissed her—and was followed by a giggle. “I’m glad.”
The sound of a smacking kiss came and then another giggle, but fading, as if Ella was moving away. In another moment another door opened and closed and returning footsteps heralded the entrance of a girl who made the priest’s eyes widen once more. She was short and beautifully rounded, high white breasts peeping above the low décolletage of a pale blue robe, which obviously covered a naked body. Her hair hung in pure golden ringlets and waves to her hips, her eyes were large and as clear blue as a cloudless summer sky…and just as empty.
When she saw Father Etienne, she stopped short and her rosy lips made an O of consternation. She began to back away, saying, “I am so sorry, Magdalene. I didn’t know you had a client with you.”
“No, no, love,” Magdalene said, getting up and going to the girl, whom the priest would have taken for a blushing innocent as color rose in her cheeks if he had not heard her with the man who had left by the back door. “Come in, Ella, do. This is Father Etienne.”
The look of smiling welcome disappeared from the girl’s face and she stiffened slightly. Then she dropped a curtsey and said, “Father,” in a frightened voice.
Magdalene slipped an arm around her waist and drew her into the room. “There’s no need to fear Father Etienne,” she assured Ella. “He is William’s clerk and has come on business.”
“Oh.” The smile returned to Ella’s lips and her eyes sparkled. She was startlingly lovely. “Lord William’s man,” she said, happily. “He will not lecture me and threaten me with being eternally damned.” Then the smile dimmed. “But you said he was here on business. Does that mean he cannot come and play with me?”
Father Etienne’s lips twitched. “I’m afraid I cannot do that, pretty Ella. My calling forbids.”
“Oh, but—” Ella began, but before Magdalene could speak or even gesture, there was the sound of another door opening.
“Do not be so silly,” a rich contralto voice said. “You know it is my pleasure to pleasure you, and it was a pleasure. You’ve taught me something new, which is a miracle. Would you be angry if I…ah…used it again?”
“Course not.” A male giggle. “That’s why I taught you, because I like it.”
“But that means you intend to come again.” The rich voice was full of hope and expectation.
A male laugh, not girlishly high but not a man’s full-chested tone. “M’father said to come and paid. Said it was worth being a little thin on other things. He’s no fool, m’father. He was right, but I’ll lay odds he won’t short me, that he’ll come up with the silver. I’ll be back as soon as I can touch him for the price.”
The back door opened and closed. Father Etienne looked expectantly toward the opening to the corridor. A moment later he was rewarded by the entrance of a woman of ordinary height—but that was the only thing ordinary about her. Her eyes were as bright and clear as the emerald glass in a church window. Auburn hair, brown but with enough red to give a hot glow, tumbled over back and shoulders to her hips in deep waves. Her skin was very pale, almost the milky white of a true redhead but with a gleaming lustre, and her smile was an invitation to confide.
“This is Diot,” Magdalene said, patting Ella on her bottom, and telling her to run and tell Dulcie there would be an extra person for the evening meal, “Diot is neither silly, mute, nor blind…”
As she said the words, Magdalene faltered and a great weight she had not even realized was crushing her dropped off. There would be no need for her to seek among the retired whores or whoremistresses she knew for a substitute. Diot had not been with her long enough for complete trust, but she would be far more trustworthy than anyone not connected to the Old Priory Guesthouse. She was happy here and would not want to do any damage to the business, and overseen by Father Etienne, she would not be able to steal. Not that Magdalene suspected Diot of thieving under ordinary circumstances, but the temptation to keep unexpected revenues for herself would be strong, particularly as she would be doing double duty. She would have to manage her own clients and others… Magdalene pushed the thoughts away. There would be time enough tomorrow to explain to Diot, who did not lack for sense.
“…and she has the patience of a saint with self-important youn
glings,” Magdalene went on with only the barest hesitation.
Diot laughed. “Ah well, it’s easy enough to pretend the old, old ploys are new and that they enthrall me. It tells me what the younglings like and what will not shock them, poor innocents. And at least I do not need to exhaust myself to bring their standing men to attention.”
“I cannot imagine any man—myself included, although I am forbidden to satisfy the impulse—being slow to rise to your invitation,” Father Etienne said, grinning.
Diot’s brows lifted questioningly and Magdalene said, “This is Father Etienne, who has come as William’s messenger. I will have to leave for Oxford the day after tomorrow—” She turned and said to the priest, “That will do, will it not?”
The priest’s brows drew together. “Ah, how long will it take you to reach Oxford? A baggage train—”
Magdalene shook her head. “I need no baggage train. I will ride and take a mule to carry what I need. If any of William’s men are going back, I could ride with them, or I could hire a man or two from the Watch to accompany me. In any case, if I leave on Saturday, I will be in Oxford either late on Sunday or early on Monday.”
“You should not ride in late on Sunday. You will be sleeping in the street if you do, I am afraid.”
“Oxford!” Diot exclaimed. “But are there no whores in Oxford that Lord William must—”
“None like Mistress Magdalene,” Father Etienne said.
Magdalene twitched her fingers, and Diot bit her lip, indicating she knew she had spoken amiss. Magdalene saw her glance uneasily at Father Etienne, but his eyes had moved toward the corridor, where Letice had scraped a slipper against the wall to draw attention. He shrugged his shoulders, taking in a totally different kind of near perfection. Letice’s skin was dark, her eyes nearly black, and her hair a smooth, shining curtain that hung to her knees and had something of the sheen of a crow’s feathers.
She came forward, smiling, extending a hand, and although she made no sound, it was clear that Father Etienne felt her welcome. Magdalene smiled with satisfaction as she performed her introduction again. Letice could not speak but now she could read and write. She had made enormous strides in the two months since Magdalene had begun to teach her, her desperation to find an outlet to express herself changing the drudgery of lessons into a precious gift.
As she watched Letice silently charm the priest, Magdalene dismissed her worries about how the Old Priory Guesthouse would function during her absence. Letice had worked in the place for a long time, and she had come as a volunteer. Despite her name, she was neither English nor Christian, she had communicated to Magdalene that in her culture whoring was an acceptable profession—not as honorable as being a wife, but not reviled. Letice had every reason to ensure the continued success of the Old Priory Guesthouse.
Letice knew how the whorehouse worked; she knew most of the clients, she knew the prices. Father Etienne could do the accounts, but he would not know if there were subtle disruptions in the services provided or minor dissatisfactions among the clients that would make them resent the high prices Magdalene charged. Letice would know, and now she had a way to transmit even involved information. And since Diot could not read and write, she would never know that Letice was compiling a day-by-day account of what was happening.
Chapter 2
16 June,
Bishop of Winchester’s House
About midmorning on Friday, Magdalene checked once more that her undertunic was tied in a chaste bow around the base of her throat, that her linen gown was unsoiled and not laced too tightly. The color was a soft blue-gray, suitable for a warm day and modest enough for a merchant’s wife’s everyday wear. She drew a light veil the same color as the gown over her hair and the lower part of her face, felt for the letter concealed in the pocket tied around her waist, and set out for the bishop of Winchester’s house.
She had been there several times before, and when she was admitted, she did no more than glance around the large, stone-vaulted room. It looked even larger today because it was far emptier than on her previous visits. There were no writing stands near the windows set between several of the arches and only four men lounged on the benches at right angles to the stone hearth about midway in the room. The fire was banked to dull embers in this mild weather but never allowed to die because the stone walls retained a chill.
She was by now accustomed to the surprise that showed on the face of the servant who had admitted her. The bishop of Winchester, abstemious in his habits, received few women, and Magdalene told the servant quickly that she had come to leave a message to be sent on to Winchester. He waved her toward the back of the room, where a partition provided a private area for the bishop to talk business. In front of the partition was a handsome table. Magdalene approached the priest, who sat on a stool behind it.
He looked more shocked than the servant, but said, “The bishop is not here, mistress.”
“I know,” Magdalene said. “I am one of the bishop of Winchester’s tenants. Sir Bellamy of Itchen collects the rent…”
Behind her veil she smiled bitterly as the young priest stiffened and moved back on his stool. Sir Bellamy was one of the bishop’s knights, a strong secular arm to enforce the will of the prelate when Churchly admonition failed. He was no simple bailiff and collected rents only where there might be danger, which was nearly always from the whorehouses owned by the Church. The young priest, Phillipe something-or-other, had realized she was a whoremistress and recoiled.
“I must leave Southwark,” Magdalene continued, “and I wish to inform Sir Bellamy that there will be no one who can pay the rent for several weeks. I will, of course, pay the full sum as soon as I return. I have been a tenant of the Old Priory Guesthouse for over five years and have never been late or short with my rent.”
While she was speaking she had thrust her hand through the slit in her skirt and pulled her pocket through it. As she opened it to extract the letter, she noticed that the rigidity of the priest’s body relaxed somewhat when she named the Old Priory Guesthouse, and she wondered whether Bell had spoken of her or whether young Father Phillipe remembered the involvement of her women in solving the murder of the papal messenger back in April.
“If you will be kind enough to send this letter on to Sir Bellamy in Winchester, I think he will be willing to let my account ride for the time of my absence and not frighten my women with demands for money they do not have.”
“But Sir Bellamy is here,” Father Phillipe said, sounding surprised. “He is in the bishop’s chamber.”
“Ah,” Magdalene said, her face expressionless despite her shock. So Bell was in Southwark, and he hadn’t let her know. “Then I can give him my letter myself.”
“Wait!” Father Phillipe exclaimed as she started to turn. “You cannot go into the bishop’s chamber.”
“Of course not,” Magdalene agreed. “I was only putting my pocket back under my skirt. Shall I wait here, or will you tell Sir Bellamy to come to the Old Priory Guesthouse?”
Despite the pain she felt over Bell’s abandonment, she had to make a conscious effort to keep from smiling at the agony of indecision in the young priest’s face. He could not decide whether it was worse to have her standing by his desk, contaminating the atmosphere with her sinfulness, or to send Bell to the den of iniquity that was a whorehouse.
“Wait there,” Father Phillipe said, “I will tell him you are here and he can decide whether he wishes to speak to you or…not.”
He rose from behind the table and went through the door in the partition into the bishop’s chamber. Magdalene blinked once or twice to clear a slight mist from her eyes. There had not been the smallest sign that Bell was tiring of her the last time they were together. In fact, it had been a Sunday, and they had had such a lively night they had both slept late. And then he had lingered so long over breaking his fast and laughing with and teasing her women, that he had told her he would have to ride far into the night to arrive in Winchester at the time he ha
d promised the bishop he would be there.
Could he have been set upon by outlaws? Could he have had some other accident on the way to Winchester that made him think he had been punished for sinning in her company? She drew a deep breath. Well, if that were so, at least she would not need to quarrel with him over obeying William’s command. Perhaps she should just leave the letter… No, she couldn’t do that! It was full of affection and apology. She must—
“Magdalene!”
She had turned toward the outer door but swung back to face Bell when she heard his voice. He was dressed with his usual elegance in footed dark blue chausses cross-gartered in pale green. His tunic, short enough to expose his powerful thighs and give him freedom of movement if fighting became necessary, was also light green, faced and collared with an elaborate multicolor pattern bordered in dark blue. Magdalene’s lips tightened. That embroidery was her work.
There were new touches to his clothing, however. His broad swordbelt was now decorated with gold wire, although the well-worn grip was still plain wrapped leather as was the hilt of his long fighting poniard, also sheathed on the belt. The eating knife was another story. That was new, it had a chased silver hilt with a semiprecious stone pommel—a typical gift from a woman.
“Sir Bellamy.” She bowed her head very slightly.
Her voice had been cold, but he came toward her without reluctance, holding out his hand. “How did you know I had come?”
“Father Phillipe just told me.”
“Then what are you doing here?” Now he hesitated, frowning.
“I find I must leave Southwark for several weeks, so I—”
Bone of Contention Page 2
