A Mortal Bane

by Roberta Gellis

  “Of course, how could I fail?” Sabina replied. “It is one we hear far too often—just who you said, the sacristan.”

  “The sacristan was at the door of the north porch that night? But seeing that all are gone is the porter’s duty.”

  “Nonetheless, Brother Paulinus was there. I heard him call out, and something fall, and footsteps running away, and then, a little later, the door close.”

  Letice tapped her knife hilt on the table. Magdalene turned to look at her. Letice shook her head vigorously, made the signs for hushing and then for forgetting.

  “Letice thinks we should stop talking about this and forget the whole thing,” Magdalene said so Sabina would know. Then she sighed. “In a way, I wish we could—that is, I wish it had never happened. Certainly we had nothing to do with it, but I do not think we will be allowed to forget it.”

  “Were we supposed to remember something?” Ella asked, putting down the piece of cold meat she had been about to put in her mouth and looking distressed.

  “No, dearling,” Sabina said. “We are supposed to forget it, so you have done exactly what is right. Pay us no mind.”

  When something did stick in Ella’s mind, however, it niggled at her and she would talk about it, so her comment implied a danger. Ordinarily, like a child, she ignored the talk of the other women, which she found dull and incomprehensible. This time something had caught her attention, possibly Sabina’s saying she had found something, and she was listening. With unspoken agreement, talk on the subject of the murder was suspended until breakfast was over. Then, as a treat, Ella was allowed to go with Dulcie to the market.

  When she was gone, the other women breathed a sigh of relief. Letice and Magdalene took up their embroidery and Sabina sat beside them, but she did not strike the lute she held in her lap.

  “It is wrong!” she said, softly but forcibly. “I liked Messer Baldassare. He was gentle and merry. What happened to him was evil.” Tears oozed out at the corners of her sealed eyes and she raised a hand to wipe them away. “It is not fair that he should not be avenged, and if Brother Paulinus has his way, we will suffer and the true evildoer go scot-free.”

  “That is certainly his intention,” Magdalene replied. “Remember he said he would get us hanged. We can swear and swear that Messer Baldassare was never here, but we are whores. Who will believe us? And what if someone in the street saw him ring the bell? Worse, we stood talking for several minutes at the gate before he came in. That could have been noticed, or someone could have seen him leading in his horse. We must do something to save ourselves.”

  “The horse coming in is a common enough occurrence,” Sabina said. “William of Ypres and his men always bring their horses, as do some of the North London merchants. None of our neighbors would think someone leading in a horse to be strange enough to mention.”

  “Not to mention on their own, but if asked? If Paulinus sends one of the lay brothers to accuse us of murder and to ask if anyone saw the victim with a horse enter our gate?”

  Letice sniffed and made an ugly face, poking her finger against her cheeks and forehead.

  Magdalene uttered a tired laugh. “A pox on Brother Paulinus.” She sighed. “Oh, how I agree. But I doubt that even a pox could take him swiftly enough to stop him from making trouble for us.”

  ‘There is another thing,” Sabina said softly. “He also said he had a friend close to the Bishop of Winchester. The bishop will not want to listen to what will cost him our rent, but if the sacristan’s story is supported by someone who saw Messer Baldassare enter here….”

  “Oh, heavens,” Magdalene breathed. “That would be fatal—” She stopped abruptly and shuddered. The word might turn out to be literally true. “I must tell the bishop. I must tell him everything—”

  Letice jumped from her chair and grabbed Magdalene’s hand, shaking her head furiously and making signs that Magdalene finally figured out referred to the pouch.

  “Oh, no,” she agreed. “I will not tell him about the pouch. We must insist that Baldassare took everything with him when he left here and that he did not intend to return.” She stood abruptly. “I should have gone as soon as I wakened. I must not waste any more time. I will go now. Letice, come help me to dress.”

  When Magdalene left the house, she was as soberly and elegantly clad as any rich merchant’s wife. A bleached chemise, gathered at the base of the throat with a rolled tie, peeped demurely out of the neck of a soft tan undertunic with long, tight sleeves. Over that she wore a shorter overtunic of warm brown, with bands around the edges of the wide sleeves and down the front exquisitely embroidered in a pattern of climbing roses, golden flowers glinting among the green leaves. To cover her hair she wore a veil, fastened around her forehead with a fillet of the same embroidery as ornamented her gown. The veil was of a thin, delicate fabric but very voluminous, the trailing left edge pulled firmly around her throat and tucked under, the right edge thrown more loosely around the left shoulder so it could be raised to shield her face. She wore no jewelry, and the purse that hung from her embroidered cloth girdle was unadorned and almost flat.

  Although it was much shorter to go through the monastery grounds, Magdalene went out the front gate. She bade a grave good-day to the mercer and grocer who had stalls in front of their shops across the road. Both returned her greeting—the mercer, who sometimes sold Letice’s or Etta’s embroideries, merrily; the grocer with a hasty glance over his shoulder. Magdalene smiled and walked up the road. Likely the grocer’s wife was in the shop and watching.

  Magdalene had invited both men separately when she first arrived, explaining frankly that she wished them to know her house would cause no riots in the street and make no scandal, that it was no common stew. Then she told them her rate and offered to reduce it once and once only for the sake of good neighborly feeling. The mercer continued to come occasionally, when he had made a special profit on one of the embroideries. The grocer was not as friendly. Still, both greeted her as readily as they ever had, which meant, she hoped, that neither sacristan nor lay brother had gone to them with accusations or questions. Relieved, she stepped out more briskly.

  The road from the bridge ran almost due south, but at the end of the monastery grounds, a narrower lane went west and then north, continuing along the priory wall right down to the river, where the monks had a small landing. From the turn north, the side of the lane opposite the priory held four neat houses, then a stone wall, as high and probably stronger than that of the priory. That wall was broken by a large, double-doored gate. This was invitingly open, signaling that the Bishop of Winchester was in residence.

  Magdalene walked through the gate and up the path to the heavy door of a stone-built house somewhat larger and taller than her own; this, however, was a private residence, not a place meant to harbor many guests, and was thus impressive. The door of the house was closed, but Magdalene saw that the pull of the bell was hanging outside. She took a deep breath, not sure whether she was relieved or disappointed. The bell cord indicated that the bishop was not only in residence in Southwark, but actually in the house.

  Better get it over with, she thought, and pulled the cord. Within, the bell rang. The door was opened with reasonable promptness, and Magdalene stepped inside. For a moment she was swept with nostalgia. The great hall was so much like that of her father’s manor. Taking about two-thirds of the length of the building, it was roofed not by rough-hewn beams like her own house, but by handsome stone arches. Between one pair, about midway, was a stone hearth with a good-sized fire burning; two slits in the wall above the hearth drew out most of the smoke. Flanking the hearth were several benches on which were seated a number of men, some of them talking, some idly staring into the flames.

  That was better than her father’s house, Magdalene thought, where the fire had been in the middle of the floor, with the smoke left to find its own way out under the eaves. Of course the Bishop of Winchester’s house had no eaves on this floor. The handsome arches supported
another story, where the bishop had his private chambers.

  It was more the shape of the hall and the busy people moving about that made her think of her father’s manor, she decided. The writing stands near the windows—Magdalene suppressed a smile; no one in her father’s manor could write, except the priest who came when asked—would certainly have been foreign to her father’s hall. Yet the differences were not so great after all, only those between a knight and a clerk. Near the windows, set between other arches, two lighted and closed with thin, oiled parchment, were busy men taking advantage of the light. In her father’s house, men-at-arms would have been caring for armor and weapons; here there were writing stands at which clerks were working. She shook her head and began to walk toward the far end of the hall, which was partitioned off.

  “Mistress? Your purpose, if you will?”

  Magdalene started slightly and realized that the servant who had opened the door for her was asking why she had come. There was a note of impatience in his voice that said he must have asked the question more than once, but she delayed one moment more before answering as another difference between the Bishop of Winchester’s hall and her father’s became clear: Here there were no women, not even one.

  “I have news for the bishop, urgent news.”

  “The bishop sees few women,” the servant said doubtfully, but his eyes were measuring the fine cloth of which her sober gown was made, the delicacy of the embroidery, the soft, high-polished shoes that peeped out beneath her long undertunic.

  “If you will take my name to him and tell him I have urgent news, I am sure he will see me.”

  “That is not my duty, mistress. However, you may go to the end of the room. One of his secretaries, Guiscard de Tournai, is there. He will bring your name to the bishop if he thinks your news truly urgent.”

  Behind the veil she had lifted to shield her face when she pulled the bell, Magdalene grimaced. Because Guiscard already knew her, it was to her advantage that he was on duty, but she had never liked the man. Regardless, she had to tell Henry of Winchester what had really happened. She walked quickly toward the partition that provided the bishop with a private chamber in which to do business.

  * * * *

  In front of that partition was an open area, delineated by one of the arches, into which the bustle of the great hall did not intrude. The space held a handsome, heavy table carrying writing materials. On one end of the table perched Sir Bellamy of Itchen, a tall, well-muscled man wearing a short maroon tunic cinched by a heavy sword belt. The tunic exposed, almost to his strong thighs, bright red, long-legged, footed chausses, cross-gartered in the color of the tunic, above calf-high leather boots. He had fair, curly hair, cut unfashionably short to his ears so that it would not get in his way when he was wearing mail and raised the hood of his hauberk.

  Sir Bellamy looked down at Guiscard de Tournai, who wore dark but rich clerical robes. The clerk was seated on a stool set about the middle of the table. A brazier burned at his elbow and a sheet of parchment lay before him.

  “Where the devil have you been for the last three days, Guiscard?” Sir Bellamy asked.

  The clerk lifted his head. Although he was seated and Sir Bellamy loomed over him, he managed to give the impression that he was looking down his nose. “I do not see that it is any of your affair, but I do not mind telling you. I was in St. Albans, visiting my mother.”

  “Sorry.” Bell smiled, one side of his mobile mouth lifting higher than the other. “I forgot. You go to visit her whenever we are in London.”

  Guiscard, who always pretended to be deep in the bishop’s confidence and indispensable, often annoyed him, but Bell swallowed his irritation because he understood; Guiscard was only a physician’s son—worse, a butcher’s grandson—and he felt the need to be important, to make himself the equal of the better-born secretaries. Still, he visited his “common” mother. Bell now felt guilty, and ashamed.

  “You are a good son—” he began and stopped.

  A tall woman, holding her veil modestly before her face, approached the table. There was, however, nothing else modest in the woman’s manner. She had not lingered on the outer edge of the quiet area, waiting to be gestured forward. After casting him a single glance that dismissed him, she came to face the clerk.

  “I have urgent news for the bishop, Master Guiscard,” she said. “Would you please tell him I am here and that if he has the time, I would like a few words in private.”

  Bell blinked, partly at the demand but equally at the assurance in the low, rich voice. It was quite plain that the woman expected Guiscard to recognize her and to accede to her request.

  The clerk glanced at her and then away, as if he did know her but did not wish to. However, he spoke in a civil if colorless voice. “The Bishop of Winchester does not receive women in private. If you will leave your name and describe your business, I will see that he is informed of it as soon as he has time.”

  “Do not be ridiculous,” the woman began, then sighed. “Sorry, Master Guiscard. I thought you would recognize me. I am Magdalene la Bâtarde of the Old Priory Guesthouse. You must remember. William of Ypres recommended me to the bishop and you came with an offer to rent the guesthouse. You showed me the house. Really, I must speak with the bishop. I assure you I would not intrude on him without good reason.”

  “I do not care who you are,” Guiscard retorted sharply. “Only the king himself could expect so busy a man as the Bishop of Winchester to put aside all his affairs to attend to him on the moment. For such a woman as you—”

  “I tell you my news is urgent and the bishop needs to hear it,” she exclaimed, her voice rising.

  “Whore!” Guiscard snarled. “How dare you! Get you out—”

  Bell stood up, troubled by Guiscard’s reaction and by the woman’s urgency. He knew what the Old Priory Guesthouse was; he had been the one sent to clean out the nest of vipers that had gathered there over the years until word of the excesses came to Henry of Winchester. So the woman probably was literally a whore, not merely so named because Guiscard was annoyed with her. But if the woman was William of Ypres’s whore, she had a powerful protector, and it was not likely she would have come to Winchester unless her news concerned the bishop himself.

  “Guiscard,” Bell began just as the door opened and the Bishop of Winchester himself came out.

  He was holding a letter in his hand and also said, “Guiscard—” but the woman quickly stepped around the end of the table, passed Bell without a glance and said, “My lord bishop, I am Magdalene la Bâtarde, and I have very urgent news for you about the murder that took place on the north porch of St. Mary Overy church.”

  “Murder!” Henry of Winchester exclaimed. “What murder? When?”

  Bell turned from the woman to face the bishop. Behind him, he heard a wordless exclamation from Guiscard. For a moment, while shock prevented any deeper emotion from taking hold, he wondered whether Guiscard’s protest was one of indignation at the whore’s boldness or dismay at the news of the murder. They might, Bell thought, be of about equal weight with Guiscard.

  “I was told of it yesterday morning, just past Prime,” the whore said, “but the sacristan insisted the victim had come from my house and implied that he had been killed Wednesday night.”

  “God help him—and us,” Winchester breathed, not undevoutly, then beckoned to her. “Come, come within and tell me what you know of this.”

  ‘Too much,” Magdalene said when the door had closed behind them. She dropped her veil. “I…I have made trouble for myself—”

  “Murder is not just a little trouble,” the bishop snapped.

  “Oh, no, my lord. I and my women had nothing to do with the man’s death. If the dead man is the person I believe him to be, he left the Old Priory Guesthouse with all his belongings, hale and hearty and well pleased with his entertainment, but—” She bit her lip and drew in a deep breath. “But I lied about his being in my house and taking his pleasure with one of my women. I am v
ery sorry, my lord. I was frightened and lost my temper with Brother Paulinus. I knew none of us had harmed Messer Baldassare—”

  “Who?” Henry of Winchester cried. “What did you say was the man’s name?”

  “He told me he was Baldassare de Firenze, my lord, when he first came to the gate. And he is the only one who could have departed my house and come to harm without my knowledge. If any of the others had not reached home safely, you see, someone would have come to ask about them.”

  “Baldassare,” the bishop breathed.

  Clearly, the bishop was very distressed. Magdalene abandoned the effort to explain how she knew it was her client who was dead without admitting that Sabina had recognized him.

  “You knew him, my lord?” she asked.

  “I fear so. Was he…was he carrying anything?”

  “There were saddlebags on his horse, and he wore a purse and carried a pouch. But he took everything with him. Sabina was careful to remind him to look well. He was not a regular client, you see, so we did not wish to be accused of stealing if he left anything behind. And after Brother Paulinus told us he was dead, we looked again with double care.”

  “Why did you lie to the brother if you are innocent?”

  “Innocent? To Brother Paulinus? He had already decided I had killed Messer Baldassare, and when I asked him why I should do such a dreadful thing, which would ruin my business and my reputation, he said it was because I was so filled with evil that I could not bear that the man should clean my sin from his soul by confessing in the church.”

  “The sacristan said you committed murder to prevent the man from confessing?” The bishop’s lips twitched.

  “Yes. Brother Paulinus said I followed him and killed him so he would remain stained with sin. My lord, I know my trade is sinful; if my clients become uneasy, I would lose them. Thus my women and I have always encouraged those who felt guilty over visiting us to ease their consciences in the church. And the prior was never unduly harsh with them. Although pure himself, he understood that others might be frail, might sin and regret it. We understand, too. We have never committed any outrage—”