A Mortal Bane

A MORTAL BANE

Roberta Gellis

Prologue

19 April 1139

St. Mary Overy

Only a thread of moon remained, and the hair-thin crescent cast no light on the path. That made no difference to the blind woman whose staff swept back and forth, pausing infinitesimally as it touched the grass verge on either side. She knew the way so well that she could have trod it easily without the staff, but the sturdy oak rod gave her confidence. There was little protection for a whore, especially a blind one, in London in the year of Our Lord 1139, and she could wield the staff quite effectively against anyone who came close enough to strike her or seize her. She was not afraid now, however. The path between the Old Priory Guesthouse, where she plied her trade, and the church to which it had once belonged was through a walled garden.

The next sweep of her staff scraped gently on a hard surface. The blind woman pulled the staff back toward her, took another careful step, and stretched her hand toward the gate that opened the wall between the garden and the churchyard. The latch lifted; she went through and continued up the path until the staff touched the verge more quickly on the left than on the right. That was where the walk turned around the apse of the church. The blind woman adjusted her direction, took another step.

“Who is there?”

She stopped abruptly, recognizing the voice of the sacristan of the priory and knowing he would not welcome her, an excommunicate whore, into the church. In the next moment her keen ears picked up a soft thump and then the sound of running feet. She stood where she was quietly, her lips curved into a gentle, amused smile because she was sure the monk had come across a young couple sheltering in the dark of the porch for a caress or two. She listened intently for the footsteps of the sacristan pursuing them, but she heard nothing except the soft sound of the door closing.

After a while she started forward again. Either the sacristan had gone back through the church, intending to catch the intruders as they came around to the front, or he felt he had startled the pair enough to discourage them and had gone into the monastery. It would be safe for her to go into the church now and pray for a little while. Priests said she must give up the life she led before God would listen to her prayers, but that made no sense at all. For what could she pray, born without eyes as she was, except not to starve—and was that not why she whored? Better to go on whoring and pray for forgiveness.

The path turned again, more abruptly, and the staff scraped against another hard surface—the first step to the north porch of the church. She brought her foot to the staff, mounted the step, mounted the next, and brought the staff forward to judge whether she was clear of the wall of the porch. The staff did not touch the stone step. It did not swing freely. There was something large and soft lying on the porch. The blind woman drew in a sharp breath, recalling the thud she had heard and that she had heard only one set of footsteps running. Could the meeting have been for a purpose less innocent than a kiss? Could the sacristan, who had a sour temper, have struck one of the young people without realizing he had caused serious harm?

The blind woman knelt, felt immediately that it was indeed a person lying on the porch floor, slid her hand toward a shoulder gently, intending to help the person up…and froze. Surely her sensitive fingers knew that cloth, the embroidery on that tunic. Holding her breath, she brought her hand up, touched thick, curly hair, a shaven cheek, a long, fine nose, lips…oh, yes, she knew those lips! Shaking now, she reached out to turn the face more toward her and her hand struck what did not belong, could not possibly be part of the man or his clothing. The breath she had held quavered out in a low, terrified whimper.

A knife hilt! And around it, something wet, sticky. The odor struck her now. Blood. He was covered with blood. He was dead! She did not dare cry aloud. Oh, God, if he was dead, she was dead also. Who would believe that she had not quarreled with him, buried a knife in him? She rose to run, but her feet were tangled. Then she would have screamed had not her throat been locked with terror, until she realized it was her own staff across her feet. She snatched it up and fled.

Chapter One

19 April 1139

Priory Guesthouse

Magdalene la Bâtarde, whoremistress, she who had been Arabel de St. Foi until her husband died of a knife in the heart and she had fled before she was accused of murder, lifted her head and looked away from her embroidery frame. The bell at the gate in the wall had sounded faintly through closed doors and windows. She frowned. From the color of the light making the oiled parchment in the window glow, it was nearly sunset. All her clients were already in the house and in the beds of the women with whom they had appointments.

She sat still a moment longer. The Old Priory Guesthouse was not a place where men came casually from the street. But when the bell sounded again, she shrugged and rose. It might be a messenger, or a client who had a sudden need and intended to stay the night. Money was money and every silver penny might be important. Nonetheless, she was anxious, and she thought again as she went to the gate that she should hire a man or a boy to open gates and run errands. As she lifted the latch, she sighed. She could afford that now, since most of her clients were men of wealth or importance and they preferred to be known to as few as possible.

She was shocked to discover that the man at the gate was no common messenger and that she had never seen his face before. Although she kept her expression calm, Magdalene could feel the blood beating in her throat. Anyone recommended to her house would have been told that an appointment was necessary, and hers was no common whorehouse and was not marked in any way to attract passersby. Strangers, who did not know she had powerful protectors, were dangerous. Her fear was diminished, however, when she saw that the man looked more shocked than she felt.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The French he spoke was good, but the accent was not that of France or of England. Magdalene drew an easier breath. Either this was a traveler honestly lost or someone had deliberately sent him here to embarrass him. A mistake or a joke, Magdalene thought, divided between irritation and amusement. Some men never grew up and thought it great fun to send innocent foreigners to her costly whorehouse. Well, it was not this poor man’s fault.

“I am Magdalene la Bâtarde,” she said. “And this is the Old Priory Guesthouse.” But she had been examining his horse, a well-kept, handsome animal, and his cloak, which, although a sober dark gray, was of exceptionally fine cloth, lined with fur and richly embroidered. The purse at his waist seemed plump, and she suspected there was a large pouch suspended from a strap across his breast, but it was pushed to his back where the cloak hid it. “Please come in,” she added, pulling the gate open wider and stepping back. “If you are lost, I can set you on your way, and if you desire rest or entertainment, I can provide that also.”

“The Old Priory Guesthouse?” he repeated as he led his horse in. “Is that not the church of St. Mary Overy? I was told one could see it from the foot of London Bridge and that the Bishop of Winchester’s house was behind the church.”

Magdalene frowned and her full, beautifully shaped lips thinned. “Someone has a strange sense of humor—or wishes to besmirch Henry of Winchester’s reputation. It is true the Bishop of Winchester owns this house, but he has never personally set foot in it. The Bishop of Winchester’s local dwelling faces the front gate of the priory.”

A wary expression had widened the stranger’s large, dark eyes and tightened the corners of his mouth as she spoke, but his face cleared and he laughed when she came to the last sentence. “Ah,” he said, “that was how the confusion came about. My traveling companion told me that the bishop’s house was behind the church and, if one rides across the bridge, a house at the front of the priory would look to be behind the church.”

“That is possible, I suppose,” Magdalene said, and shivered suddenly. She had come out without a cloak because she expected to do no more than take a message from someone’s hand or let a client in. She had thought she would be able to scold the client in comfort by the fire while he waited for one of her women to be free. “If you like,” she went on, huddling her arms around herself, “I will send my servant to guide you to the bishop’s house, but she is rather deaf and it will take me a few moments to make what I want clear. You may wait here if you prefer, or you may come in.” She smiled. “I assure you this is not the kind of place where men are seized upon and robbed or forced to stay.”

He laughed again at that. “With a face like yours, madame, I should think you would have more trouble driving men away than keeping them.”

“I thank you,” she said stiffly, stepping aside so he could lead the horse past her, “but I no longer take clients. And there is no one free to serve you at the moment. You would have to wait—”

Illumination and amusement changed his expression again. “Ah, it is a special kind of guesthouse. I understand.” He laughed again. “That is why you thought my friend might be trying to besmirch the bishop’s reputation.” He hesitated and frowned, glancing up at the church spire. “How close the church looks. Is there a short way to reach it from here?”

“Yes, there is,” Magdalene replied. “But I do not like to stand at the gate as if I were soliciting custom. Let me fetch my servant if you do not wish to come in.”

“I will come in,” he said, his expression thoughtful. “Where do I leave my horse?”

“In the stable.” Magdalene gestured to the right, where a well-built stable was backed against the stone wall that encircled the house. “I am sorry there is no one to help you, but I have no manservants. Our clients prefer to do for themselves. The door of the house is open. Just walk in when you have settled the horse.”

He set off, and Magdalene closed and latched the gate. She glanced once toward the stable and then hurried back into the house. Inside, she walked to the fire in the hearth on the west wall and stood beside it looking into the flames as she considered the stranger. She then sat down on a stool, turning her embroidery frame so she could face the door. She had not yet pulled her needle from the cloth where she had set it before rising to open the gate, when the man came in. He stared around at the room, surprise plain in his face.

Magdalene suppressed a smile as she rose and asked if she could take his cloak. Most of her clients had been using her facilities for years; they were familiar with and accepted the comfortable appearance of a family solar. It was not until someone new entered and registered amazement that there were not pallets in the corners with grunting couples on them, or near-naked women sitting or lying about, that Magdalene was reminded of how different her house was from the usual kind of stew. After a second glance around, the man undid the handsome brooch and handed her his cloak, which she laid on a chest under the window.

“I have just bethought me,” he said, “that Richard de Beaumeis did not say this was the Bishop of Winchester’s house. He called it the Bishop of Winchester’s inn.”

“Richard de Beaumeis!” Magdalene repeated, beginning to laugh as she returned to her seat. “Oh, that wicked young man. It was pure mischief to send you here with that explanation. Richard de Beaumeis attended school in the priory, and he knows very well what kind of guesthouse this is. He has availed himself often enough of our Ella’s company.”

The man laughed also. “He told me that he had attended the priory school. He said nothing of the extracurricular activities he enjoyed.”

“Naughty!” Magdalene sighed. “He has an antic sense of humor I never suspected, but I fear he has done you an ill turn. There is no decent inn to which I can recommend you on this side of the river. Of course, if you do not mind the plain food, the prayers, and the early hours, you may ask for lodging in the true priory guesthouse” —she smiled and shook her head— “which is now on the grounds of the priory. Or, if you have business with the Bishop of Winchester, who is in residence just now, I am sure you will be made welcome—”

“No,” he said, “I have no business with the bishop, but I do have an appointment for a meeting on this side of the river, not far from here, around Compline. So, if you will have me, I think I will stay here.”

“We are rather costly, I am afraid,” Magdalene said. Her guest shrugged and waved a hand at the surroundings. His appreciative glance took in the floor bestrewn with clean, sweet-smelling rushes, the scrubbed table with a long bench on each side and two short ones at head and foot, the grouping of stools near the hearth, one with a lute on it and the two others with sewing baskets beside them. At the north end of the room there was an open corridor, and on the wall at each side, a set of shelves holding pewter and wooden platters and cups and some drinking horns. The lowest shelves held several large hard-leather vessels and sealed crocks.