A Mortal Bane

by Roberta Gellis

  “Raoul de Samur!” Somer exclaimed.

  “You know him?” William asked.

  “We are acquainted,” Somer replied. “He was friendly with Henry of Essex and Camville and a few others in the king’s Household, but I do not think he had any appointment.”

  “The king’s Household?” Bell echoed. ‘Then why does he carry a cinquefoil badge on a red-and-white ribbon in his purse? The king’s badge is a lion with blue and gold.”

  William of Ypres’s eyes went to Bell, and Magdalene said quickly, “Sir Bellamy of Itchen, the Bishop of Winchester’s knight. I sent for him when I realized this man, Sir Raoul, if Somer says so—intended to force his way into my house will I, nil I. Sir Bellamy lodges near the bishop’s house, just around the street from us, so Dulcie could reach him quickly. You were too far away.”

  William had started to look offended when she said she had sent for Bell, but as she well knew, he did not really care deeply enough to reject a reasonable explanation. He nodded brusquely, but his attention was still on the man his occasional bedmate favored. Bell had now met Ypres’s eyes. Magdalene held her breath and, at the same time had to fight against an impulse to giggle. Their expressions reminded her vividly of two dogs, bristles up, circling. But it was not in the least funny, really.

  Then Bell bowed his head abruptly in a stiff sign of respect. “My master has ordered me to do what I can to discover the murderer of Baldassare de Firenze, who was my friend and his, and to find the pouch he carried.”

  “Most reasonable,” William said. “I would be happy to help in any way I could, but I do not see what that has to do with Beaufort’s man. And which Beaufort?”

  “Why do you not ask me?” Sir Raoul put in.

  All attention switched to the prisoner. “Very well,” William said, “I will ask you. Who is your master and how did you come to know of the papal messenger’s death and the loss of his pouch?”

  “Very simply by visiting a friend I happen to have in the Bishop of Winchester’s Household. I know him from times when the bishop and the king were on better terms, and—”

  “Beg pardon, my lord,” Bell interrupted. “That may be true, but if this man is carrying Beaufort’s badge, he is no longer with the king’s Household.”

  “Which is why I was carrying, not wearing, my badge,” Sir Raoul snapped. “My liking for my friend has nothing to do with our masters and I wished to save him from just such suspicion as I see in you.”

  “That is possible,” William said mildly. “So who is this friend who is a churchman of such pure spirit that he takes no sides between his own master and an avowed enemy, who gossips about important Church business to a most unclerkly friend, and then recommends that friend to the most expensive whorehouse in England?”

  They could all see the struggle in Sir Raoul’s face, but then, knowing he would tell one way or another and that his “friend” was already compromised because, no doubt, the bishop would winnow his Household to find who had a “friend” in the Beaufort Household, he shrugged and said, “Guiscard de Tournai.”

  Bell made a wordless sound, expelled from him by a mixture of outrage—but, he realized even as he felt it, not surprise—and enlightenment. He had always been a little puzzled by the richness of Guiscard’s dress and the luxury of his lodgings, although butchers and physicians could become rich and might indulge a child; still, the answer had left him unsatisfied because Guiscard did not have that indifferent acceptance of wealth that a man born to it has. Now he understood. No doubt Waleran de Meulan paid well for information about the plans and activities of the Bishop of Winchester.

  William flashed a glance at him, but plainly felt no impulse to discover what revelation Bell had had. He returned his attention to Raoul de Samur and asked, “And which Beaufort condones a friendship with his enemies?”

  “The Bishop of Winchester is no enemy to Beaufort. Did he not arrange for Hugh le Poer to obtain Bedford—”

  “This man did not come from Hugh le Poer, who is here in London, in the Tower of Montfichet,” Magdalene said. “He has ridden a long way. Look at his clothing, William. And his horse was exhausted when he came to my gate, covered with dust and mud.”

  “Likely from Nottingham,” William agreed. “It would be an easy transfer from king’s hanger-on to Waleran’s Household.”

  “I never denied that,” Sir Raoul said quickly, although his eyes, fixed on Magdalene for a moment, said “bitch and whore” before he added with some bravado, “No reason why I should deny that I am Lord Waleran’s man. No matter what you think, I had some personal business and got leave to come to London. You know it is a four-day ride from Nottingham. There is no way I could have known about the papal messenger when I started out. Curse me if I ever again do more than I am asked to do, but when I heard of the pouch, I just thought that if I could find it, my lord would be pleased.”

  There was enough sincerity in the last sentence to carry conviction to his listeners. William shrugged.

  “Well, it should be easy enough to discover when you started, and in the meantime, you will have to remain a few days as my guest.”

  Sir Raoul paled visibly. William smiled.

  “But, of course, if you make pleasant conversation—and do not in the future make trouble for Magdalene, her house, or any of her women—there is no reason for Lord Waleran to know what kept you. Searching for the messenger’s pouch according to suggestions made by your ‘friend’ and the women of the whorehouse could take some time. It might be dangerous—or it might be profitable.” He smiled again and turned his head to look at Somer de Loo. “You can cut his feet free and put him in my bedchamber. Find him something to eat and a pallet to sleep on—and put a chain around his neck. I will speak to him when I have time.”

  When the door was closed behind Somer and his prisoner, Magdalene said, “Be careful, William. That man has no more sense of honor than a snake.”

  He laughed heartily. “I am always careful, which is why I am still alive.” Then the laughter was gone. “I made one real mistake in my life—and I am still paying for it—but I have been very careful since then.” He suddenly shook himself, as a dog does to shed water, smiled, and looked at Bell. “So you are Winchester’s ferret.”

  “And his bullyboy, too,” Bell said, his nostrils pinching a trifle.

  “I think—” Magdalene put in desperately.

  William raised a hand. “No offense, Sir Bellamy. The bishop is a good man and your work is necessary, but that last word—bullyboy—puts me in mind that Magdalene should have one of those for the next few weeks, until the pouch is found or word can be sent to the pope and the instructions Baldassare carried be replaced.”

  “My clients—” Magdalene began again, but Bell’s voice overrode hers.

  “As of tonight, she has one.”

  William opened his mouth and then shut it and nodded. “Good enough. Your duty to the bishop falls in well with keeping an eye on Magdalene’s house, and you will be more discreet than any of my men.”

  Magdalene detected a faint air of amusement under William’s civil remark, but she hoped it was only because she knew him so well and that Bell would not notice. William, God bless him, was never jealous of her body. He accepted that she was a whore, and he could not care less who slept in her bed when he was not there. He could be amused by Bell’s words and manner, by the knight’s faint air of staking a claim; William had no doubts about her loyalty and fondness for him.

  Nonetheless, to distract the men from each other, she asked, “Did I not prove today that my women and I can take care of ourselves?”

  “So far, chick, so far, but we now have a murderer about. And speaking of that, my men can find no trace of that little rat Beaumeis on the road to Canterbury on Wednesday, at least as far as Rochester. I had a messenger from there not long before you came.”

  “Hmm,” Bell said. “According to Brother Godwine, the porter at the abbey, Beaumeis was there on Wednesday. Brother Godwine believes
he left before Vespers, although he thought he might have seen him later. However, Beaumeis did not go to his lodgings near St. Paul’s.”

  “Could he have started for Canterbury at night?” Magdalene asked. “He said to me he spent Wednesday night on the road.”

  “Is he the kind to lie out under a bush?” William asked doubtfully.

  “Not at all,” Magdalene replied. “He is a most selfish and self-indulgent young man.”

  “Still,” Bell said, “I think that is just what he did, although I will admit I cannot imagine why. I was at St. Paul’s this afternoon and no one there has seen him since he left for Rome. He came back at top speed, too, because he was in his lodging Monday night. The woman who keeps it said he was sick when he came in and had fits of weeping.”

  “That was after he learned on Monday afternoon that Baldassare was dead.” Magdalene frowned. “I told him when he came in, pleased with himself for having sent an unsuspecting foreigner to me. And I could swear he was truly shocked…although if he is as good an actor as Guiscard says….”

  “Perhaps he is.” Bell shrugged. “He was at Baldassare’s burial on Tuesday morning and carried on as if he were the man’s brother…or wife. I tried to catch him to speak to him, but Buchuinte stopped me to ask if I had learned anything new about the murder or recovered the pouch—Buchuinte thinks he could use Baldassare’s letter of credit to pay for the burial and Masses—and Beaumeis escaped me.”

  “Guiscard told me Beaumeis is a skilled pretender, that he can counterfeit emotion, and that he used that skill with such fervor and fear that he induced Winchester to agree to ordain him on that last day of the conference.”

  “But why should he pretend so much grief over Baldassare?” Bell asked. “A little, yes. A few tears and head shakings for a friend with whom one has traveled for weeks and of whom one has become fond—that is reasonable. But Beaumeis drew too much attention to himself. He was white and shaking, utterly distraught.”

  “To prove he could not have killed a man he loved so much?” But the doubt in William’s voice was clear.

  “Because of guilt?” Magdalene suggested.

  “That seems—” There was a noise at the door, and William looked up and said, “Yes?”

  “The evening meal, my lord. Shall I bring it up?”

  “Magdalene? Sir Bellamy? Will you join me?” William asked courteously.

  Magdalene could think of nothing more horrible than being trapped between Bell and William exchanging light conversation. While they were both engaged in serious discussion on a subject on which they were cooperating, they were safe. The moment they were just two men together, one or both would remember they had a bone of contention.

  She shook her head. “Unless you feel that this conversation should be continued and could lead somewhere important, I would like to go home. There is no one at the guesthouse to deal with anyone who might stop by.”

  “You work too hard, chick,” William said, frowning. “I want to talk to you about that someday, but it will have to wait. Do you want me to send a man—”

  “I will see her home, my lord,” Bell said.

  That time William let his amusement show and Magdalene held her breath, but before Bell could react, William had risen and said to the servant waiting by the door, “I will come down and eat with the men.” He waved the servant off and grinned at Bell, adding, “After that, perhaps I will have a little talk with the ‘guest’ Magdalene was so clever as to furnish.”

  As he came abreast of them, he gave Magdalene a rough hug and kissed the top of her head. When he released her, he gave Bell a friendly buffet. “Remember, I was there first. And don’t try to teach your grandfather to suck eggs.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  25 April 1139

  Old Priory Guesthouse; St. Mary Overy Church

  “There is no need at all for you to change your lodging to my house,” Magdalene said somewhat stiffly when they were again in the cart driving the mule back up Thames Street toward the bridge. “As you saw, my women and I were well able to—”

  Bell, who had been silently considering the interview with William of Ypres and unable to decide what he felt about it, turned his head sharply. “Are you telling me I am not welcome, that one of Lord William’s men would be preferable to you?”

  “I am telling you that my women and I do not need a guard.”

  “I do not believe you—and you do not believe it, either. Why do you not want me? Because you are William of Ypres’s woman?”

  “I am no man’s woman, not William of Ypres’s, not yours, not anyone’s. I am a whore. I am every man’s woman. William knows that, and until you know it, too, I do not want you in my house, glowering at my clients and making them uncomfortable.”

  “I thought you told me you were retired.” His voice was low, ice-cold with rage.

  “Whether I am or not makes no difference,” she flung back defiantly. “I am a free woman, femme sole in law, nor will I have any ado with any man who thinks I can be his alone and wishes to deny me to other men.”

  The answer left him speechless, not with surprise because she had said as much before, but because he realized he had nothing he could offer as an inducement for her to give up her freedom. “I will protect you” was exactly what she was trying to avoid.

  They had reached the bridge without speaking again and both started when a voice called a challenge. A lifted lantern showed a shock of filthy, unkempt hair, a raised cudgel, several dimmer forms behind. Bell called his name, identified himself as the Bishop of Winchester’s man, said that he and his companion had been unexpectedly delayed. He named the sheriff of Southwark. The Watchman waved him on. At the other side of the bridge, Tom the Watchman knew Magdalene well, and they were spared further delay.

  At her door, Bell jumped down and helped her to the ground. As she pulled the bell rope, he asked, “Are any of the clients who are due tomorrow yours?”

  “It happens not,” she replied coldly, “but I cannot swear that one to whom I owe a favor will not arrive. In any case, it is none of your business.”

  He smiled faintly. “In this case, it is. If you do not take any client to your bed, I can promise that I will not glower at them, nor even feel disapproving. And I really think that until this matter of Baldassare and his pouch is resolved, you should have a man to answer your gate.”

  As if to prove his statement, Sabina’ s voice, wavering with nervousness, called, “Who is there?”

  “Bell and Magdalene,” he answered.

  “Oh, thank God,” Sabina cried, and they heard the key in the lock.

  “What has happened, love?” Magdalene asked, pushing the gate open as soon as the latch lifted and taking a trembling Sabina into her arms.

  “Nothing,” Sabina replied with a sob. “But I am frightened to death and cannot seem to calm myself.”

  Behind her, Dulcie stood holding her long-handled pan. “Ella’s as bad,” she said. “When she ‘eard th’ bell, she ran in ‘er room ‘nd pulled th’ covers over ‘er ‘ead. ‘Nd Letice’s been out twice wit’ eyes big’s servin’ plates.”

  “You win,” Magdalene said to Bell. “We will make up the room you asked questions in. I hope you will keep your promise.”

  The question remained unanswered, largely because there was no challenge to it. Bell drove the cart back to the Bishop of Winchester’s stable, took his horse and armor and clothing from his lodging, and returned to the Old Priory Guesthouse. There Dulcie and Magdalene had brought a bed down from the loft, set it up, and furnished it with a well-stuffed mattress and clean, if worn, linens and blankets. Since there were no other visitors that night and everyone was tired from tension and anxiety, they did not linger long after the evening meal but went to bed.

  In the morning, Bell went to the bishop’s residence. He told Guiscard de Tournai, who was presiding at the table near the entry as usual, that he wished to report his change of lodging. When Guiscard went to the bishop’s chambers to announc
e him, fury swept Bell at his own stupidity. How could he not have noticed that Guiscard so often held that place? Well, he had noticed, but thought it a kind of silly pride, a desire to be known as Winchester’s gatekeeper. Bell bit his lip. Perhaps Meulan was not the only contributor to Guiscard’s purse. Others might want to know who came to see Winchester, and sometimes even learn for what purpose.

  With some effort, Bell subdued the desire to pick Guiscard up and kick him out of the house. Simultaneously, he wondered if he could convince Winchester not to dismiss the man. If Guiscard were sent away, word would get back to Meulan. Would he connect that with Sir Raoul? Would that spoil William of Ypres’s plans to use Sir Raoul? Bell’s preoccupation permitted him to manage a civil nod as he passed Guiscard to climb the stair to the bishop’s private apartment. The door was open; he entered and closed it behind him.

  Winchester pushed aside a plate of cheese and smoked eels and looked up as Bell crossed the room. “You do not look happy, Bell,” he said.

  “Guiscard de Tournai is in the pay of Waleran de Meulan and perhaps others,” he said, and went on to tell Winchester about Raoul de Samur’s revelation of his “friend” and how he had been involved.

  Winchester sighed. “I am very sorry to hear this.”

  He looked disappointed, and he had had so many disappointments recently that Bell became angry again. “Do you want him beaten soundly before I cast him out?”

  “No, no.” The bishop sighed again, then signaled Bell to get a stool and sit down. “The fault is as much mine as his.”

  “Do you mean, my lord, that you did not pay him quite enough to furnish him out in silks and velvets and diamonds and gold? I have not found you ungenerous.”