Sighing, Magdalene fixed her needle into her work and rose to answer. She would have preferred not to need to entertain anyone until one of the women was free, and William’s extra purse would have made it possible to indulge herself, but she had left the bell cord out. That was an invitation that could not be withdrawn without offense. She would let this man in, she told herself, and then pull in the bell cord. Fixing a pleasant smile on her face, Magdalene started toward the gate, only to stop dead a few steps along the path.
The man had let himself in, which always annoyed her, but the face she saw rendered her too speechless to protest.
“Delighted to see me, are you?” Richard de Beaumeis said, grinning broadly. “How did you like the client I sent you?” And when Magdalene still just stared at him, gaping, he laughed and went on. “Baldassare did mention my name, did he not? I told him he should.” He laughed again. “I would wager he was surprised at what he found here. I would have loved to be invisible and have seen his face.”
“I thought you were in Canterbury,” Magdalene got out, still too stunned to say anything sensible.
Beaumeis certainly sounded as if he thought Baldassare was alive. Could he have struck with the knife and then run away without realizing he might have killed the man? There was a kind of self-satisfied spitefulness under his final words that simply did not fit with having already taken the ultimate revenge.
“Canterbury?” Beaumeis repeated. “I brought the archbishop’s news on Friday. The cannons celebrated fittingly on Saturday, and I returned to my duty in St. Paul’s…. Why should I remain in Canterbury? It is a nothing place after London and Rome.”
He started to step around her, and Magdalene was suddenly enraged. “Oh, no,” she said, catching his arm. “You are not welcome here. You do not know the ill you did us with your nasty little jest. Baldassare de Firenze is dead, and I have been accused of killing him.”
“Dead?” Beaumeis’s voice came out as a squawk and his face had gone parchment yellow. “No! No! He cannot be dead. I saw him…. No! He cannot be dead.”
He sounded genuinely shocked, but so he might be if he did not know his blow had struck home. Magdalene said, “He is dead. He was killed on the north porch of the church—
“No! I do not believe you! I cannot believe you! You are a lying whore.”
Beaumeis’s eyes bulged, looked ready to fall out of his head, and he swayed on his feet. Magdalene would have felt sorry for him if not for that last sentence.
“Then go look at his body yourself,” she said coldly. “It is laid out in the small chapel between the monks’ entrance and the church.”
He pushed past her roughly, running toward the back gate. Magdalene called after him, but he did not stop or even turn to look at her, and she shrugged and went into the house, walking quickly through it toward the back door. As she expected, it burst open a few moments later and Beaumeis stood in it, panting. Magdalene blocked his entrance; Dulcie waited in the kitchen doorway, the long-handled pan in her hand. But Beaumeis did not try to push his way in this time.
“The gate is locked,” he shouted. “Give me the key.”
“I do not have a key,” Magdalene said mendaciously. “And keep your voice down. I do not want my clients disturbed.”
“It is never locked,” he said angrily but in a lower voice. “It was open when…when I was last here.”
“When was that?” Magdalene asked. “I do not remember.”
There was more color in Beaumeis’s face now, but he did not meet her eyes when he said, “I do not remember, either, but it must have been before I left the country in January.” He hesitated, then drew a deep, almost sobbing, breath. “Is Baldassare truly dead?”
“Truly. He was murdered on Wednesday night—according to Brother Paulinus, who came to accuse us of the crime on Thursday morning. Where were you on Wednesday night?”
“I do not know,” he muttered. “On the road. Somewhere on the road.” And then, as if the words reminded him, he asked, “What did you do with his horse?”
“I? I did nothing with his horse. He took it with him when he left, I assume.”
“Took it with him? Did he not—” He stopped abruptly, but now he was watching her avidly, appearing more interested than distressed, his color back to normal and a slight supercilious droop to his lips. “When did he die?”
“How would I know that?” Magdalene snapped. “If you are so curious, go ask Sir Bellamy of Itchen, who is trying to discover the facts on the bishop’s behalf.”
“Bishop? Winchester?”
“Yes, Winchester. Since Baldassare had come here to Southwark, it is possible he came to see the bishop.”
The remark did not have the effect Magdalene expected. She had hoped to surprise a look or a word confirming that Beaumeis knew about the bull, but he said nothing. He had paled again and looked away as Magdalene spoke, but not quickly enough. She was sure it was rage that thinned his lips, and the concentrated venom of his expression surprised her. She was certain now that Beaumeis was more than a selfish nodcock. He could have arranged to meet Baldassare. He hated Henry of Winchester enough to take some chances to spite him.
In another moment Beaumeis’s face was smooth and indifferent once more, although still rather pale. Magdalene again revised an opinion. He was well able, it seemed, to hide what he was thinking. She was annoyed with herself for her lack of comprehension. Of course he had never tried to hide his honest feelings from her or her women in the past; they were not important enough for him to bother.
Suddenly he seemed to notice that she was blocking his entrance into the house. “You do not need to try to keep me out,” he said, first glancing over her shoulder at Dulcie and then looking down his nose at her. “I am rich enough now to keep my own woman, who will not drip on me the leavings of other men.”
To that, Magdalene made no reply other than stepping back and slamming the door in his face. She did not waste time fuming over so silly an insult, knowing her women were trained to wash carefully between clients and remove any signs of previous use. She peered out the kitchen window in time to catch a flicker of his cloak as he rounded the corner of the house, heading for the front gate.
“I must go out,” she said to Dulcie, who nodded understanding and replaced her pan on a hook by the door.
Magdalene then took the key to the front gate and hurried to her own chamber, where she wound her outdoor veil around her head and face. Taking her cloak, she peered out the door to make sure Beaumeis was gone, then ran to the front gate and pulled in the bell cord. Until she could return, they would do without extra custom. It was more important to tell Bell that Beaumeis was back.
As she walked to the rear gate, unlocked it surreptitiously, and slid through, she tried to decide whether to tell Bell that William had been with her and had remembered that it was Beaumeis whose ordination had been interrupted. She could say she had remembered the name herself, she thought, and then bit her lip. Fool that she was. Of course she must tell Bell—perhaps she had better begin to call him Sir Bellamy again—about William’s visit. She needed to remind him of what she was.
Magdalene slipped by the monk at the gate by pulling the hood of her cloak down so far that her veiled face could not be seen. When she came near the gate, she bent forward and uttered hoarse sobs. Young Brother Patric, as Magdalene had hoped, allowed his soft heart to overcome his strict duty. Although he could not actually remember the arrival of the sad lady, he was sure she must have come in if she was now going out. There was no need to stop her and add to her distress by demanding to know who she was.
Very shortly afterward, breathing prayers of thanks to the Merciful Mother for her help and indulgence, Magdalene walked through the open gate of the bishop’s house. He was not personally in the house, Magdalene noted, rather relieved than disappointed. Winchester had looked strange when she mentioned Beaumeis and she had no inclination to say that name to him again, particularly knowing what she now did.
A few blows on the door brought a servant, who looked shocked at seeing a woman, but Magdalene gave him no time to react. She pushed firmly against the door, stepped in, and said, “I wish to speak to Sir Bellamy of Itchen.”
“He is attending on the bishop. He is not within,” the servant said, looking faintly pleased.
Magdalene was sharply disappointed. She had told herself that she was hurrying to the bishop’s house to give Bell the opportunity to question Beaumeis while he was still shocked by the news of Baldassare’s death. Now she realized that she had used that purpose as an excuse for another meeting. Furious with herself, she determined to give her information to anyone responsible and intelligent enough to repeat it adequately.
“Then I must leave a message for him with one of the bishop’s clerks,” she said.
The servant was not pleased with her persistence, but either he remembered that the bishop had been willing to speak to her a few days earlier or he was impressed by her rich cloak and veil, and he directed her to the back of the room. When Magdalene saw that it was Guiscard sitting at the table, she was tempted to turn around and walk out. She resisted the temptation, telling herself that explaining to Guiscard was her penance for not waiting for Bell to stop by the Old Guesthouse.
To her surprise, Guiscard did not shout “Out, whore!” as she approached the table. She felt a flush of gratitude, guessing that the bishop had reprimanded him—or perhaps Bell had. Not that Guiscard had altered his manner as far as cordiality or even civility.
“What do you here?” he asked, barely glancing at her when she stood before the table, and then determinedly looking down at a parchment spread before him.
“I have a message for Sir Bellamy,” she replied.
“Neither Sir Bellamy nor the bishop are here,” Guiscard said without looking up.
“So the servant told me.” Magdalene kept her voice level. “However, I think it important that Sir Bellamy be told that Richard de Beaumeis is back in London. He—”
“Beaumeis?” Guiscard raised his head abruptly. “That is the man who caused the bishop so much grief. Why should Sir Bellamy be interested in him?”
“Because Beaumeis traveled from Rome with Messer Baldassare.”
“He did?” Guiscard stared at her. “Are you sure?”
There was so much interest in Guiscard’s voice and manner, an intentness that contrasted with his normal studied indifference, that Magdalene was rather startled.
“Yes, I am sure,” she said. “Baldassare mentioned him when he stopped at my gate. He said Beaumeis had told him my house was the Bishop of Winchester’s inn.”
“How dared he!” Guiscard snarled, half rising and then forcing himself to sit down again. “Had he not done harm enough? Had Winchester been there when Theobald of Bec was proposed for archbishop, I am sure he could have done something to stop that stupid election. Beaumeis! The presumption of him, demanding that the bishop finish his ordination, after selling himself to Winchester’s enemies.”
“Selling himself?” Magdalene repeated. “To whom?”
Guiscard drew an indignant breath, and then, as if he had not heard her, asked suspiciously, “How did a nothing and no one like Richard de Beaumeis come to be in Rome?”
“He did not tell me, but from what he said, I can guess. I think it possible that Theobald heard about Beaumeis’s ordination being interrupted and felt responsible for it. He may have completed the ordination, and even taken Beaumeis into his Household…no, Beaumeis said he was still tied to St. Paul’s. But I must assume that out of guilt or sympathy, Theobald invited Beaumeis to accompany him to Rome.”
“Guilt or sympathy? Ridiculous. Doubtless it was a reward for ensnaring Winchester and preventing him from protesting the proposal of Theobald for archbishop.”
Magdalene thought about that for a moment. It seemed logical, yet it would mean Theobald knew and was in contact with Beaumeis, which really did not seem likely. She shrugged.
“Whatever the reason, Beaumeis must have traveled in the archbishop’s Household. I cannot believe he is rich enough to make such a journey on his own. He certainly complained bitterly about my prices.”
She was amused to note that Guiscard, who habitually sneered when she mentioned her trade, was too intent this time to react. He was looking at her, but with eyes that did not see, one hand idly smoothing the fur band that bordered the wide sleeve of his fine black gown. As he moved his hand, a ring with a bright stone flashed on one finger. Well found, Magdalene thought. He must be from a family with enough wealth to allow the second or third son they had educated for the church to indulge in fine clothing and jewels. And then she remembered that Bell, too, had been well dressed. The bishop apparently paid well.
“So Beaumeis was in Rome with the new archbishop,” Guiscard murmured.
“That much is sure,” Magdalene agreed, “and that he traveled to England with Messer Baldassare. Perhaps it would be useful for Sir Bellamy to try to discover whether there was some connection between Beaumeis and the archbishop before his election, but what is even more important is what Beaumeis did after he parted from Baldassare.”
For a moment Guiscard’s focus on her sharpened and his mouth twisted, but the look of disgust did not last. Oddly, an expression of satisfaction followed.
“He must have known what Baldassare was carrying in that pouch Sir Bellamy mentioned yesterday,” Guiscard said thoughtfully. “Perhaps Baldassare had with him the papal bull granting the bishop legatine authority. Yes, yes, of course he did. I am sure the pope would be glad to have Winchester as his legate; Innocent’s letters have always been full of praise for the bishop.”
“All that may well be so,” Magdalene said, “but—”
“Listen, you fool. Beaumeis hates the bishop because all those assembled to see him ordained now wonder what evil he did that caused the bishop not only to break off the ordination but refuse to complete it later. Is it impossible to believe that Beaumeis wished to steal the bull or destroy it and thus withhold from Winchester the honor and power it would grant him?”
“Not impossible at all, but when I told him of the murder, I will swear he was much overset.”
“Pooh, pooh.” Guiscard made a brushing gesture. “That Beaumeis is a sneaking, sly creature given to pretense. You should have heard him whining and pleading for the bishop to ordain him before Christmas so that he could be in orders before the holy day. You would have believed him of the most ardent faith.”
“I do not think him very religious, but—”
“Clearly not if he was a common frequenter of your house,” Guiscard said, this time not forgetting his moue of distaste.
“But,” Magdalene continued, ignoring the clerk’s remark, “if he is so fine a pretender as you say, he may well be able to convince others of his innocence. It will not be enough simply to accuse him. Moreover, those who know of the interrupted ordination may well know the true cause. Might they not think this accusation against Beaumeis was bred by spite on the bishop’s part?”
“I would not be so quick to defend Richard de Beaumeis or to accuse the bishop of spite if I were you,” Guiscard snapped. “The Bishop of Winchester does not love Beaumeis, and you would be gutted and hung already if the bishop were not protecting you.”
The threat to tell Winchester that Beaumeis was a client she was trying to protect was implicit behind the angry statement. “I was not defending Beaumeis,” Magdalene protested. “He may well be guilty. And I am well aware of my debt to the Bishop of Winchester. What I do not want to see is Beaumeis escape and the bishop’s name be besmirched because of an accusation without proof.”
“What more proof is needed than the harm he has already done?” Guiscard asked bitterly. “That ungrateful little cur conspired with Lord Winchester’s enemies to keep him from being archbishop. Who can say Beaumeis would not kill to prevent the bishop from receiving an even greater honor?”
Magdalene was surprised by Guiscard’s sincere anger and re
gret over the loss of the archbishopric and the possibility that Beaumeis had taken the papal bull. She had not thought Guiscard so attached to his master.
“Unless you wish this to come to empty counteraccusations,” she pointed out, “there must be real proof. Beaumeis claims he was on the road to Canterbury on Wednesday night. If he can bring witnesses, would not that make the bishop look a fool or worse?”
Guiscard stared at her, rage and disappointment mingling in his expression. “It is not possible! He must have lied!” he exclaimed.
“Perhaps he did, but if so, witnesses must be found to say he was still in Southwark, or he must be brought to confess his crime. It is not enough to say he is guilty. That is why I came to tell Sir Bellamy that Beaumeis had been at my house, that he was sore overset by the news of Messer Baldassare’s death, and that if he were straitly questioned soon, he might speak more truth than he intended. Will you not pass that message to Sir Bellamy as soon as possible?”
The secretary’s expression grew eager and hopeful as she spoke, and he even unbent so far as to nod agreement. Plainly, he was looking forward to offering up Beaumeis to the bishop as the man who killed Baldassare.
“And where is Sir Bellamy to seek for Beaumeis, since you say he is no longer in your house?”
“He might still be at the church of St. Mary Overy. He kept saying he could not believe that Messer Baldassare was dead and rushed off to see the body when I told him it was laid out in the chapel of St. Mary Overy church. If he is gone from there, I do not know, unless…of course, someone at St. Paul’s will have the directions of their deacons, but I am not sure Sir Bellamy knows Beaumeis is tied to St. Paul’s. You will tell him that, too, will you not?”
“Yes, I will tell Sir Bellamy and the bishop. You may be sure I will,” Guiscard said.
Magdalene left the bishop’s house better satisfied than she expected to be after she heard the servant say that Bell was out. Ordinarily she did not trust Guiscard de Tournai. When she had been in the process of restoring the Old Priory Guesthouse and had needed Winchester’s approval for changes she wished to make, messages she had sent by Guiscard to the bishop had never reached him, or had been long delayed.
A Mortal Bane Page 21