A Mortal Bane

by Roberta Gellis

Magdalene wondered whether he had deliberately ignored her question, but she answered his. “Wednesday night, we think. We only learned on Thursday morning when—”

  “Wednesday night?” Buchuinte echoed, his dark eyes nearly popping from his head. “Wednesday? The day I was here? You mean Baldassare was here, too?”

  “No. That is, yes, he did stop here but he did not stay with us.” She put a hand on his arm. “Oh, do come and sit down, Master Buchuinte. I can see that you have had a dreadful shock. I had no idea you knew Messer Baldassare, or I would not have spoken so bluntly.”

  “I cannot believe it,” he muttered, following her to the table and dropping down on a bench. He looked up, but his eyes did not see her. “He had told me he had to meet someone that night and could not stay. That was why I did not send a messenger to cancel my appointment here.”

  “Did he say whom he would meet? And where?” Magdalene tried to keep her voice low and without inflection.

  “No. No. He spoke of the meeting only because I said I would change my plans for the afternoon. He told me he could not stay because he was later than he had expected to be in arriving at London and a meeting he had arranged was set for that very night. He said that he would come back to London and visit with me after he had delivered a message to the king.” Buchuinte passed a hand over his face and shook his head. “Perhaps he would have told me more but did not wish to speak too freely before his traveling companion.”

  “Was he on ill terms with the man?” Magdalene asked. Baldassare had seemed more amused by Beaumeis’s misdirection than angry. Did Buchuinte, who had been in her house on the night Baldassare was killed, have some reason to make it seem Baldassare and Beaumeis were enemies? That doubt was settled immediately.

  “No, not at all,” Buchuinte said, still looking dazed and as if he was answering while his mind was elsewhere. “I would say he and Richard de Beaumeis liked one another. But Beaumeis was a churchman, a dean in the Archbishop of Canterbury’s service, and what Baldassare was carrying might have been something the pope wished to have kept secret until the person who was to receive it had the news.”

  “Did they leave together, Beaumeis and Baldassare?”

  “Beaumeis left before dinner. He said he needed to ride to Canterbury with all haste on some errand from the new archbishop. Baldassare was not in a hurry and we ate at leisure, but we had begun to talk of old friends and I…I never asked again about the meeting.” He continued to stare at the table for a moment longer, then suddenly raised his head and asked sharply, “And why are you so curious about Baldassare’s movements?”

  “Why do you think?” Magdalene replied, allowing her lips to twist with bitterness. “Because we have been accused of killing him, of course. We are whores. We are here. Thus, we are guilty. My only safety, Master Buchuinte, rests in discovering who truly killed Messer Baldassare.”

  “How can you be guilty if he was killed…you said on the porch of the church?”

  “Oh, we followed him there to prevent him from confessing a sin he had not committed. After that, we stole his purse and—”

  “That is ridiculous,” Buchuinte said. “Not a farthing have I ever lost in this house, not even a ribbon I brought apurpose for my Little Flower. Unless I tell her she is to take it, she will untie it from her very body to hand back to me.”

  Magdalene sighed. “I know it. My livelihood depends on the honesty of my women and the security we provide for our guests. You know it. All my clients know it. But to the monks of the priory, we are whores and thus guilty.”

  “It is far more likely that some felon saw Baldassare’s fat purse.” He stopped abruptly and frowned. “Why was he here, south of London, when the king is in Nottingham?”

  “For the meeting he spoke of?” Magdalene knew that was true; Baldassare had told her his meeting was close by, but she could not admit that. “He did not tell me. When he rang the bell at the gate, he asked for the Bishop of Winchester’s house, which, he had been told—apparently as a joke by that wicked Richard de Beaumeis—was behind the church of St. Mary Overy priory. We spoke for a while. I had to tell him where the bishop’s house really was and he mentioned that the church seemed very close to this house. I said there was a gate that led there, but not large enough for a horse to pass. We parted. It was cold. I had run out without my cloak. I did not stay to see which way he went.”

  He had hardly listened, apparently, for with his eyes fixed on her but not seeing her, he next said, “Yes, I am sure he had a full purse, because after I arranged for the horse he would ride, he said he would go to the goldsmith—Basyngs, it was. He left and I finished up some work, then I came here.” His eyes came into focus on her face. “What time did he come to the gate?”

  “It was near sunset.”

  “Then he did not come here from my house,” Buchuinte said. “He must have gone to the goldsmith and spent some time there. Near sunset? I suppose I was asleep when he arrived. Ella was very” —a slight smile touched his lips— “very much herself. I woke later than usual. If only I had been awake! If I had heard his voice, I could have gone with him—”

  Magdalene laid a hand over his. “Master Buchuinte, he was ahorse, you afoot. You could not have gone together. And the bishop’s knight, Sir Bellamy of Itchen, says Messer Baldassare was not seized and stabbed from behind as a thief would do. He said Baldassare knew the killer, that he may have walked with him, talked to him…trusted him. Are you sure Messer Baldassare gave no hint of whom he was to meet?”

  He shook his head. “And now he is dead! Oh, I cannot believe it. He overcame so many dangers in the years he served the pope! How could this happen on the porch of a church, right in the doorway to salvation? I cannot believe it!” He sighed heavily and stood up. ‘Tell Ella I am sorry, but I cannot…I simply cannot….”

  His hand went to his purse. Magdalene laid hers atop and prevented him from taking out the coins. “We grieve with you. Just send a message and Ella will be waiting whenever you wish to see her.”

  He sighed again. “Likely at my usual time next week. I do grieve, but mostly from shock. I liked Baldassare. He was a good man. But he was not a friend I saw every day and will miss bitterly. I saw him only twice or thrice a year.” He sighed once more. “Nonetheless, we both came from Firenze; our families were acquainted. I must arrange for his burial and for masses for his soul and…and I suppose I must write to the pope….”

  “No. That will be taken care of by the bishop, I am sure. I brought him the news this morning and he was also shocked and grieved.” She hesitated, and then continued. “You know, Master Buchuinte, if you wish to know more than what Sir Bellamy was willing to tell me, you should go and speak to the bishop, or to Sir Bellamy. They will be more open to you, I am sure.” And you will think that is how they learned you were here that night and not feel I betrayed you, she thought. “Also, perhaps, because of their knowledge of Church affairs, one of them can guess more from what Messer Baldassare said to you than you or I could.”

  “Well thought of, Magdalene. Well thought of. Yes, I will do that.”

  He turned toward the door, but cast a rather longing glance at the corridor that led to Ella’s room. Magdalene suppressed a smile. The shock over, she guessed that he was regretting the postponement of his visit with Ella and restrained only by the impropriety of making love so soon after hearing of his friend’s death. He knew how Ella would be waiting—sitting up in the bed naked, her hair plaited like that of a little girl, the braids hanging down beside her enchanting breasts, because that was what he found exciting.

  Magdalene kept her face placid, although black memories of what she had seen flashed through her mind. She found a smile. Thank God Master Buchuinte was satisfied with Ella’s “childishness.” There were those men who literally demanded children. Well, not in her house! She rose to see him out. Once more Buchuinte sighed.

  ‘Tell Ella that I will bring her something pretty to make up for missing her company today,” he said.
<
br />   The bell at the gate pealed. Magdalene smiled at him. “Come out the back way, Master Buchuinte. Unfortunately, I cannot take you through the gate to the church. The sacristan locked the gate after Messer Baldassare’s death, so you will have to go the long way around.”

  He was so reluctant to go that he lingered for some time in the garden, talking to her, hoping, she guessed, that she would urge him to change his mind and come back to the house. She did think about it, but decided that although he did not wish to be deprived of his pleasure, that pleasure would turn sour in his mouth when he thought about it later. And, of course, he would blame her for his lust, telling himself that he would have gone to the church to see Baldassare but that she was greedy for the fee and had over-persuaded him so as not to lose it.

  Magdalene finally got him out the gate and headed up toward the lane that followed the priory wall. She grinned as she turned back to the house. Likely Master Buchuinte was thoroughly annoyed with her for not permitting him to fry his peas and still use them as seed, but he would never admit that to himself. And it would do her no harm, because his anger would fade in his glow of righteousness at having conquered his lust for the sake of his dead friend. He would be back on Monday with a clear conscience and an even greater taste for the pleasures Ella offered.

  As she entered the house Magdalene paused. When she left, Sabina had been sitting by the fire, humming softly to herself. Now she was gone. Apparently she had got Dulcie to go with her to let in the client while Magdalene was in the back garden with Buchuinte. She was surprised not to see Letice yet. Her guest was keeping her later than usual, unless he had left and the late-afternoon client had already come? She had not heard the bell, but several clients liked to walk in without the courtesy of ringing it. And just as the thought formed, the peal sounded. Magdalene laughed at herself for that prick of pride. The last thing a whore needed was pride. Smiling, she went out to the gate again.

  “Somer!” she exclaimed when she saw the man who had just dismounted. “Did you send a message for me to expect you?”

  “No, because I did not know I was coming until late last night. I have been on the road since first light. Take me in and feed me at least, and give me a bed for the night, even if none of the girls can lie in it with me.”

  “Ah, I can do better than an empty bed—” She broke off abruptly, remembering why Ella’s bed was empty, then grasped his hand and drew him in. “Good Lord,” she said as she shut the gate behind him, “you are the man I should have prayed to see if I had a grain of sense. Put your horse in the stable and come in. I will get Dulcie to find something for you to eat. I have news I think William should hear.”

  Somer de Loo grimaced when Magdalene said she had news for his master, but he nodded and led his horse briskly to the stable. Magdalene understood the expression. Somer was one of William of Ypres’s most trusted mercenary captains. He had doubtless come from Rochester to London on some business of William’s, since he said he had been on the road since first light; however, business done, he probably had William’s permission to spend some time enjoying the delights of the city—including several visits to Magdalene’s house at his master’s expense. It was a reward William often offered his men for good service that was not dangerous enough or important enough to be rewarded in gold. Now Somer guessed he would have to ride back to Rochester with the news Magdalene had mentioned.

  When he came in he was still scowling, but the expression changed to a smile when he saw a place at the table provided with a large wedge of pasty, several slices of fat roast pork on a trencher, a bowl of stewed greens, a tall footed cup filled with wine, and to the side, a substantial piece of tart, spilling a luscious-looking filling into the baking pan—and Ella, sitting on the bench beside his place and dimpling with smiles.

  “I am starving,” he said, sitting down and kissing her.

  She returned the salute with enthusiasm, embracing him with one arm and breaking off a chunk of the pasty with her free hand. As soon as he came up for air, she popped the tidbit into his mouth. Between laughing and trying to chew, he almost choked. Ella patted him on the back and apologized anxiously, so he kissed her again, but after that he gave his attention to the food, and Ella slid away from him when he drew his knife to spear a piece of meat.

  “There is plenty more if you want it,” Magdalene assured him.

  He paused with the meat on the point of his knife and raised his brow at her tone of voice. Magdalene shrugged. Somer bit off a substantial chunk of meat.

  “None of us had much appetite for dinner with the bishop’s man searching our house while we ate.”

  Somer’s eyes bulged as he struggled to swallow his mouthful of food. “Searching?” he croaked. “Searching for what?”

  “The papal messenger’s pouch.”

  “What?”

  It was as well he had swallowed the meat, Magdalene thought, or he would have choked in earnest. “Baldassare de Firenze, a papal messenger, was murdered on the north porch of the church of St. Mary Overy priory on Wednesday night.”

  There was a moment of silence. Somer laid down the knife still holding a bite of the pork. “The damned fool,” he said. “Why did he not come—” He cut that remark off and went on hurriedly. “Then the king’s matter has been decided and the messenger killed before the pope’s decision could be announced. So the bishop’s man searched for the pouch and did not find it. Where is it?”

  Magdalene shook her head nervously. “I do not know,” she said. “When the messenger came here he was carrying a pouch, but he took it with him when he left. I doubt whether it has been destroyed, however. Sir Bellamy of Itchen, the Bishop of Winchester’s knight, thought Messer Baldassare was not wearing the pouch when he was killed. Baldassare could have hidden it.” Then, as Somer’s mouth hardened, she added, “You had better hear the whole tale from the beginning—as much as I know myself—and let William decide for himself what he wants to do.”

  21 April 1139

  The Bishop’s House

  When Bell left the Old Priory Guesthouse, he was so sick and angry that he was sure he had been trapped, tricked, lied to, and led around by the nose like a newly ringed bull. All that sweetness and light. All that eager cooperation. Now everything the women had said seemed false, and Magdalene’s winning smiles and dulcet tones were the falsest of all.

  “Whore,” he muttered to himself, striding along the street, so blind with rage that he did not realize he had passed the priory gate until he walked into the bishop’s house. Then he stood in the midst of the hall, shaking with shame and self-disgust. He was so taken up with jealousy over a common whore that he had forgotten he wanted to speak to the sacristan’s assistant and the infirmarian. About to turn on his heel, he heard Guiscard call his name. He took a deep breath and walked to the end of the room.

  “So how did you make out with your whore?” Guiscard asked, smiling knowingly. “You do not have to tell me. You are now sure she is innocent.” He chuckled. “Do not let it trouble you. She can even convince the bishop that the sun is shining when it rains.”

  Bell struggled to keep his lips from thinning with fury; he would not give Guiscard the satisfaction of knowing his shaft had struck home. He raised his brows. “You are wrong about the bishop,” he remarked, pleased by the indifference in his voice. “He warned me against Magdalene’s charms.”

  Guiscard frowned, his hand stroking the rich, shining velvet of his gown. “But he himself is not invulnerable to them. She diddled him out of nearly half the rent I could have got for the house. And cheated me out of my fee as agent, too.”

  “Oh-ho.” Bell grinned, feeling better. What Magdalene told him about renting the house was true. “She told me she rented direct from the bishop, but she did not admit that any agent’s fee was involved. She said you did not offer her a leasehold.”

  “Who offers a whore a leasehold—except a man befuddled by her beauty? You let a whore rent from week to week, if she does well, you raise the
rent.” Guiscard sniffed. “The bishop is too indulgent toward sin.”

  Bell watched the clerk’s hand stroke his velvet gown. There were sins and sins, he thought. “I worry more about guilt than sin,” he said. “And despite her trade, I cannot find any reason to think Magdalene guilty of murder.”

  Guiscard sniffed again. “Well, I do not like her, but I agree she would not be likely to murder unless Baldassare was carrying so rich a purse that she could not resist killing him for it, or” —his lips turned down with distaste— “her great patron paid her well to kill.”

  “Baldassare—” Bell began, and then the last thing Guiscard said struck him. “You mean William of Ypres? But why under heaven should William of Ypres want the papal messenger killed? And how could he know Baldassare would go to Magdalene’s house?”

  “Because he had arranged to meet him there? It is a common place of resort to those who wish to talk to William of Ypres. And murder is the first thing Ypres would think of to make trouble, coarse and brutal as he is.”

  “Coarse and brutal I will allow, but not stupid,” Bell said. “William of Ypres does not need more trouble.”

  The bishop had commented, however, that Ypres used the Old Priory Guesthouse for purposes other than lechery. Could one of Ypres’s men have met Baldassare there and killed him? For what? The pouch? But if the pouch held a decision in favor of the king and a bull granting legatine power to Winchester, William of Ypres should want it delivered.

  Guiscard shrugged. “You were the one who needed reasons. If you were not bedazzled by her, you would know the whore was guilty and not look further.”

  It was too common a sentiment for Bell to allow his anger to show. “Unfortunately, until I know who is truly guilty,” he said, “I will not know what happened to Baldassare’s pouch, and the bishop wants that pouch.”

  “Pouch!” Guiscard exclaimed, paling. “What pouch?”

  “A papal messenger carries a pouch—and it was not with the body.”