A Mortal Bane

by Roberta Gellis

  “Of course I am sure. As you know, usually we clean the church plate on Friday so that it will be perfect for Sunday, but we have been all turned around by Brother Knud being questioned, so the work was not completed Friday. Today, when Brother Knud was about to finish that task, something moved me to examine the safe box, and I counted over every piece. The pyx was gone.” His face contorted as if he were about to burst into tears. “I have failed my trust. And” —he whirled about and glared at Magdalene— “it is her fault. She stole it!”

  “Paulinus!” The prior got to his feet. “How can that be true? How could she steal the pyx out of a locked chest?”

  “Who else could do it? Is she not a whore? Does not the foul sin she commits corrupt the whole being of those who engage in its evil practices? Is this not proof that the whores murdered the pope’s messenger?”

  “Proof?” Magdalene cried. “What has a stolen pyx to do with Messer Baldassare’s death?”

  “Who else but a whore and a murderess would dare steal from the church, from the storage closet beneath the very altar itself? Indeed that must be why you killed him. He must have seen you stealing the pyx.”

  “Father Benin,” Magdalene protested, “this is madness. I never left my house the night Messer Baldassare was killed. My women and I were together after Vespers. My maid, who is not a whore, not excommunicate, and a faithful daughter of the church, will attest to that.”

  Dulcie would not have to lie, she told herself. They had all been together after Vespers, and had remained so until Sabina went to bed with Baldassare, but he was certainly lively enough then. And she had not left the house after he did.

  “And after Thursday morning,” Magdalene continued before either the sacristan or the prior could speak, “the gate between the church and the Old Guesthouse was locked, so I could not come into the priory grounds unseen. You may ask your porter if I passed the gate since then—”

  “You did, you lying whore. You were here yesterday.”

  Magdalene blinked, for a moment terrified by the notion that Brother Paulinus had suborned the porter or one of his assistants to say she had entered the monastery—and then she remembered and smiled. “Yes, I was. I came with Sir Bellamy of Itchen, the bishop’s knight, to look at the dead man to see if I recognized him, which I did, and so did Sir Bellamy. But Brother Paulinus, I was in his presence and that of Brother Porter the whole time. Are you trying to say that Sir Bellamy and Brother Godwine either ignored me or watched me break open the safe box and take out the pyx?”

  “You bemused them. You cast an evil glamour—”

  “Hush, Brother Paulinus,” the prior said, coming around his desk and putting his hand on the distraught sacristan’s arm. “You are beside yourself with worry. I am sure it is not through any neglect of yours that the pyx is missing. Just calm yourself.” Then he turned to Magdalene. “Did you say you were with Sir Bellamy? How is he involved in this?”

  “He was bidden by the bishop to discover, if he could, who had killed Messer Baldassare and what had happened to the pouch Messer Baldassare was carrying.”

  “I was blamed for that, too,” the sacristan burst out. “Sir Bellamy accused me of not sending word to the bishop about the murder, but this priory owes no obedience to the bishop. I sent word to the abbot. Now the pyx is gone—”

  The prior was looking desperately confused, and Magdalene said, “I told the bishop a man had been killed on the church porch when I went to speak to him on Friday morning. He was distressed by the news and by the fact that he had to hear it from me, particularly when he learned that the victim was Messer Baldassare, a papal messenger. He then ordered his knight, Sir Bellamy, to discover the identity of the killer.”

  “He need not look very far if he will only look honestly,” the sacristan spat. “And I will insist a search for the pyx be made in your premises.”

  “You may search and welcome,” Magdalene said, laughing. “Sir Bellamy all but scratched the dirt out between the boards of the floors when he searched on Friday.”

  “He searched your house? Why?” Father Benin asked.

  “He was looking for Master Baldassare’s pouch. I had seen it under his cloak, although I had not seen it clearly because he had thrust it to the back. But the pouch was not found with the body. The bishop wondered if Messer Baldassare had hidden the pouch in my house because he did not trust the person he was supposed to meet. And since the bishop is sure that Messer Baldassare had come with important documents from the pope, he is eager that Sir Bellamy find the pouch if he can.”

  “I see. Well, I must say I am greatly relieved to learn that Sir Bellamy has been ordered to discover who committed this crime. I have found him to be honest and clever when he did the bishop’s work in the past.”

  “He is not so honest now,” Brother Paulinus hissed. “He is bedazzled by this whore and his sole purpose is to remove any stigma from her. I tell you, she stole the pyx.”

  The last idea Magdalene wanted fixed in the prior’s mind was that Bell was enamored of her. Better let him think about the missing pyx. “How did I steal it?” Magdalene cried. “Do I look strong enough to break open a safe box?”

  “Your strength does not matter—the box was not broken open.”

  Both Magdalene and Father Benin drew a sharp breath and turned to stare at the sacristan. Now Magdalene knew why he was acting like a madman. He had always been strongly opposed to having even so discreet a house of pleasure as hers adjoining the monastery and had always been more rigid about carnal sin than most. His effort to involve her and her women in the murder, once he learned that Baldassare had come through the back gate, was not really unreasonable; however, his insistence that she had stolen the pyx, which was impossible, was mad. But if the safe box had not been broken, someone who had the key must have stolen the pyx…and the person who held the key to the safe box was the sacristan.

  “Oh, dear,” Magdalene whispered.

  She did not like the sacristan. In his passionate desire for purity, Brother Paulinus could be cruel and, as she had seen when he struck Ella, violent. She could easily imagine him murdering Baldassare in some mistaken fit of righteousness; she could even imagine him blotting out the memory, or convincing himself that God had directed his act for the purpose of driving out the whores and their corruption. But what reason could Brother Paulinus possibly have for stealing the church plate? And she learned the answer in the next breath.

  “It is not possible,” Father Benin had murmured simultaneously, and then, smiling wryly, said, “No, not even to repair the belfry roof. Even if you hold the key, Brother Paulinus, there must be another answer.”

  “It cannot be the only key,” Magdalene said.

  “Do not you dare defend me!” Brother Paulinus shouted. “Your evil purpose lies like a putrid glow over you. You—”

  “Hush, Brother Sacristan,” Father Benin said. ‘The woman may be a sinner, but she means well in this. Why do you not go to my prie-dieu and say a prayer to calm yourself.”

  That was not really a suggestion; no matter how gentle the voice, it was an order. And when the gaunt monk had walked to where the prior’s crucifix hung on the wall near his bed and knelt before it, the prior turned to Magdalene.

  “I think you should leave us now, daughter. Go down to the chamber below and Brother Fareman will see you home.”

  “Thank you, Father Prior,” she said, and then, struck by a notion, added softly, “Is it possible that because the little pyx is so small, it was left out when the other vessels were cleaned and returned? Could it be that after the box was locked, the person who forgot it was afraid to admit his fault and hid it somewhere in the church, intending to return it today when the box was opened to make the vessels ready for Sunday? If the church were searched—”

  “You are a good-hearted, forgiving creature,” Father Benin said, smiling. “I am supposed to be humble and submissive to God’s will, but I do not know whether I could try so hard to help someone so eager
to harm me. I will certainly ask the sacristan’s assistant if the pyx could have been mislaid, and I will also speak to Sir Bellamy about the murder to learn what he knows and to offer what help I can. Go with God, my daughter.”

  Feeling somewhat guilty for gaining Father Benin’s good opinion on completely false premises, Magdalene bowed, kissed the hand he held out to her, and left the room. Her purpose in suggesting the pyx had been mislaid with good intentions had been to get the church searched and Baldassare’s pouch found, not to protect Brother Paulinus, of course. Unfortunately, Father Benin had not taken the notion seriously. She could not decide whether she was more annoyed with him for being so good-hearted himself that he saw her suggestion in that light, or pleased at being called “daughter” just as if she were not an excommunicated whore.

  She went down the inner stair into the chamber below and almost ran into Brother Fareman, who was staring up at her with a troubled expression. He said he was sorry her interview with the prior had been interrupted and exclaimed over the sacristan’s behavior in thrusting him aside and intruding on the prior without leave or announcement. Magdalene promptly told him about the lost pyx.

  Brother Fareman was shocked, but now he understood why the sacristan had been so distraught. He tched and clucked, wondering how anyone could have broken open the safe box, it being so strong and bound in iron. But when he took out the huge ring of keys he was carrying to open the gate for her, Magdalene suddenly remembered her own question to the prior.

  “But the box was not broken,” she said. “It must have been unlocked.”

  “Nonsense!” the secretary said. “I do not like Brother Paulinus—I cannot deny it; he makes Father Prior very unhappy from time to time—but steal from the church? Nonsense.”

  Magdalene laughed. “Well, the prior said something about money for the leaking belfry, but the first question that came to my mind was, who had another key?”

  “Who? I. Father Prior has duplicates of all the keys to the church and the monastery, and those keys are in my charge. Are you suggesting—”

  “Of course not. That is even more ridiculous. It is barely possible that Brother Paulinus could blind himself to the impropriety of taking the pyx for some purpose like repairing the belfry and call what he did God’s will; he is not a reasonable or clear-sighted person. You could never be so self-deluded. But you and Father Benin were away last week. Is it not possible that someone found your keys—”

  “I took them with me.” Brother Fareman grimaced and then sighed. “I did not intend to take the keys to the church and the monastery, just those to Father Prior’s house and personal chests, but I was in a hurry and instead of taking the time to separate them, I took them all.”

  “That does seem to fix the blame more surely on Brother Paulinus.” But her doubt still sounded in her voice.

  “Who could imagine that such things would happen? A murder on our very doorstep! And now a theft. We have never had anything stolen. Oh, a little food now and again when the novices find themselves still hungry on a fast day, and once—yes, I remember, it was soon after the Bishop of Winchester was appointed to administer the London diocese—a monk’s robe was stolen. Brother Almoner was annoyed. He does not like carelessness. But nothing came of his seeking and questioning. Likely it was taken by some poor soul in need of a warm cloak.” He sighed and pulled open the gate for her. “Poor Father Benin. He will blame himself for all of this.”

  Magdalene stepped through, but put out her hand to stop the secretary from closing the gate for a moment. “The murder at least is nothing to do with Father Benin, Brother Fareman. Send for Sir Bellamy of Itchen, the bishop’s knight. He will explain what happened to Messer Baldassare, and Father Benin will understand at once that there would have been nothing he could have done even if he had been here.”

  “Sir Bellamy?” The secretary looked relieved. “Then the bishop is seeking the killer?”

  “Yes, and not in my house, thank God.”

  She let go of the gate, and the secretary closed and locked it. Magdalene sighed and then thought perhaps it was just as well. If more mayhem took place in the priory, she and her women would be safer with the gate locked. She thought Father Benin had been joking about stealing the pyx to obtain money to repair the leaking belfry, but a chill went down her back. Was Brother Paulinus insisting that she was guilty to cover his own crime?

  She did not voice that doubt to her women, who rushed to greet her and discover what the prior had wanted. She did tell them about the missing pyx and Paulinus’s accusation, which drew gasps of alarm until she pointed out that the fact the safe box was kept locked had absolved her completely. Reassured, Ella and Letice picked up their embroidery and Sabina began to practice a new song. Magdalene went to her chamber and pored over a copy of the list she had given Bell, putting a check here and there.

  “Magdalene?” It was Sabina at the door. “The bell at the gate is ringing.”

  Chapter Eleven

  22 April 1139

  Old Priory Guesthouse

  “Master Hugo Basyngs,” Magdalene said as she opened the gate to a familiar but not frequent visitor. “You are very early, but do come in.”

  Basyngs smiled and apologized for his untimely arrival. He said he knew that Saturday was a busy day for the women of the Old Priory Guesthouse and that he wanted to catch them when they still had time for him. Magdalene led him in, offered Sabina’s company, which he accepted and paid for graciously, but it soon became apparent that he was in no hurry to go off with her. What he wanted was to talk about the murder, particularly to ask if a letter of credit had been found and to bewail the fact that he had not offered Baldassare lodging for the night.

  “He was with me that very afternoon,” Basyngs said, shaking his head slowly. “He came from Messer Buchuinte’s house after dinner to change Italian money for English and to draw some silver against his letter of credit. I should have bade him lodge with us, but I was promised to spend the night at my son’s house in Walthamstow, his wife having delivered a third son the day before. I only came back on Friday.”

  Walthamstow was north of London, and Basyngs’s son would be easy to find. Another to cross off her list, except…. “How did you hear of Messer Baldassare’s death?” she asked.

  “From Buchuinte.”

  She should have guessed that, she thought. Likely Basyngs was Buchuinte’s banker, and Buchuinte might even have recommended him to Baldassare. She told him then what she had told almost everyone, but Basyngs had no new information. Baldassare had not mentioned any meeting to him. And, since Sabina had been standing beside him and tickling his ear, he rose and went off with her a few moments later.

  He was not the only one who came to ask about Baldassare’s death. About half a candlemark later, a cordwainer, Bennet Seynturer, arrived. He pushed roughly past Magdalene as soon as she opened the gate. Slamming it closed behind him, he hurried her back to the house, where he also slammed the door. He told her, in a voice choked with fury, that he had heard of the murder from the sacristan, whom he had come to see on business. Was it true, he asked, that Messer Baldassare had come from her house?

  Seynturer, married to a frigid, fanatically religious wife who had taken all too seriously the Church pronouncement that one should eschew any sexual congress except for the purpose of procreation, was one of those regular clients who came through the priory gate to conceal his visits. Having been told, with significantly raised brows, that the gate between the Old Priory Guesthouse and the priory was now locked, he had leapt to the conclusion Brother Paulinus desired and assumed the whores were guilty.

  Desperate to assure himself his secret would be kept, Seynturer had come to the front gate, hooded to hide his face. He was livid with fury, excoriating Magdalene for “her crime”—less, it seemed to her, because he minded the murder than because it might lead to his exposure—and demanding that she keep his use of her establishment a secret. Although she felt like bursting into tears and shrie
king curses at the sacristan, Magdalene dared not make a counteraccusation. She made herself laugh lightly.

  “If you can prove to me that you are innocent of murder,” she said, “you need not fear that any of my women will spread the news that you are our client. Silence is part of our service.”

  He gobbled at her, incoherent with anger for a moment, then gasped, “You are mad!”

  “Why? After all, it is as likely that you are guilty as that we are. More likely, perhaps. For all I know, you and Messer Baldassare were deadly enemies. As for us, it is in our interest to protect any who come to our house from harm. Your own reaction should be proof that I speak the truth. If one client is hurt, the others abandon us.”

  He stared at her, hesitating because he recognized the good sense in what she said, yet he still protested, “But—but you are whores! And you were here, where the murder was committed. I was at a guild dinner on Wednesday. Many guilds have their dinners on Wednesdays.”

  That was an interesting piece of information, Magdalene thought—and true, too, she believed. She realized, now that the fact had been brought clearly to her mind, that few craftsmasters visited the Old Priory Guesthouse on Wednesdays. She nodded slowly.

  “We were here, but all of us were together, all of us behind locked doors. I cannot make you take my word, but I will take yours that you are innocent, and I will protect you to the best of my ability.”

  That was not a lie. She had already given Bell his name, but she would certainly urge Bell to be discreet. Nonetheless, it would do no harm to lay a base to push blame elsewhere.

  Before he could speak again, she went on. “But you must know that if you gave yourself away to the sacristan, there is no way I can silence him. It is he who is mad, driven not by any evidence against us, but by his own hatred of carnal weakness. If he guessed— She shrugged.