“You saved my life, Magdalene,” he said, “at some risk to your own. I am very grateful. But why?”
“Because you are
wilting
to be grateful to a whore, my lord,” she said, and smiled.
He laughed. “And how am I to reward you for so great a service?”
Magdalene shrugged. “In a sense, you owe me nothing. I am afraid I did not think so much of your life, my lord, as of how much harder my own would be without you. Nor do I really remember thinking clearly that I
would
do this thing. I—I just did it.”
Winchester stared at her for a moment, then said, “I do not like a sense of obligation hanging over my head.”
She laughed and shrugged again. “If you feel so, my lord, then money is always useful to a whore. The more I have, the closer is the day when I can leave my work.”
“Ah, you should not have said that.” Winchester shook his head, but he was smiling. “It might make me parsimonious. Not for greed, at least not
mostly
for greed, but because I am not so sure that I want you to leave the Old Priory Guesthouse.” He sighed ostentatiously. “However, I know it is a sin for a churchman not to try to wean a whore from her lechery, and I owe you for a great increase in the prior’s peace of mind also.”
“The prior?” Magdalene repeated, surprise giving her a small spurt of strength, which permitted her to keep her eyes open and not sag back against the wall.
The bishop struggled with his mouth and kept himself from grinning. “The prior will be rid of the sacristan, who is much chastened. This day has finally hammered home to Brother Paulinus that his hatred of you and your work has led him to excess and to misuse of his power as sacristan. He has requested permission to give up his place to Brother Boniface and go back to the mother house to restore his soul.”
“Brother Boniface?” she breathed, and then bit her lip to keep from laughing.
Brother Boniface was as much the opposite of Brother Paulinus as a monk could be. Although he loved the buildings of the priory and would see to their welfare devotedly, he was round and jolly and one of the few monks who was an occasional patron of her house. She had sense enough, however, to look down and say no more, hoping the bishop would not realize she knew Brother Boniface. And at last she was able to yield openly to the exhaustion that was turning her bones to water. Sighing, she allowed herself to fall back against the wall and close her eyes.
“She needs to go home and rest, my lord,” Bell said.
Winchester nodded. “Yes. I would like to go above and rest myself, but I must reconsecrate the church.” He sighed. “I think I will need my litter to get there.”
Bell smiled. “At least you will sit in it alone, without a knife at your throat. I was getting so desperate I was wondering if I could thrust my sword in and skewer Guiscard without giving him time to skewer you. I’ll go and tell the men now.”
Magdalene simply sat, hoping the bishop would not speak again. He did not, and slowly the aches and tremblings of her body that resulted from the shock eased away. At first the fading of her reaction left her even weaker and more flaccid, but by the time she heard the sound of Bell’s footsteps returning, she was already feeling better. Nonetheless, she continued to sit with closed eyes, leaning back against the wall as Bell helped the bishop to his feet and, she assumed, lent him a strong arm to lean on as they made their way to the litter.
She expected Bell back, but he did not come and she wondered if the bishop had forgotten her and ordered Bell to accompany him. Well, it did not matter, she thought. She would be better off if he avoided her in the future. He had killed one man already, partly because of her, and she was afraid there would be more if he continued to desire her. Enough! She opened her eyes and got to her feet.
“And where are you going, Mistress Magdalene?”
She smiled, a bit wryly when she realized that the time between his leaving with the bishop and his return was less than her eagerness for his return had made it seem. “I was going home to rest and to put on a clean gown. I do not want to frighten my clients by being covered with blood.”
“Sit down again. I will see if I can find a litter for you. I think—”
“No, thank you. I am quite well enough to walk, and I do not think anyone will object today if I go through the priory grounds, so it is not far.”
He watched her make her way slowly but steadily enough to the end of the table, then came and offered his arm. She hesitated momentarily, remembering that she really should not encourage him, and he dropped his arm and turned his face a little, almost as if she had slapped him.
“I am sorry I did not stop him before he was able to hurt you,” he said. “I have failed most thoroughly, for if not for you, Winchester would have died.”
All practical considerations flew away in the face of Bell’s pain. She hastily took another step toward him and took his hand. “Don’t talk so silly. How could you have guessed what Guiscard would do? I thought he would be enraged and go for the goldsmith, too, but he may have noticed Master Domenic when you brought him in and got over his first rage and terror. Likely he was planning what to do all the while Master Domenic and the bishop were talking.”
Bell sighed. “Perhaps. Still, I should have—” He shook his head, raised his arm, and placed her hand on it. “Are you sure this is support enough?”
She smiled up at him. “Yes. If I tire, we can stop in the churchyard….” Her voice drifted away. “I think we should stop. I would like to visit Messer Baldassare’s grave.”
“He is avenged,” Bell said through thinned lips as he steered her out of the bishop’s chamber and started through the hall. As they neared the outer door, he added, “The Church does not take blood vengeance, but I am no churchman.”
His voice was cold and hard, yet Magdalene felt a great lightening of her spirit. Yes, Bell had killed apurpose, and one reason had surely been because Guiscard had attacked her, but he would have done the same for the bishop or for any other person in danger. Moreover, the small injury done her could easily have been avenged—more than avenged—by whatever punishment the Church decreed for murder and Guiscard’s threat to the bishop. It was
Baldassare ‘s death,
not the attack, that had called for blood and made Bell tilt his knife at just the angle that would find Guiscard’s heart.
They spoke no more until they had passed through the priory gate—Brother Elwin, as she had predicted, only nodded at her as he opened for them—and into the graveyard. For a few moments more, they were silent, looking down at the wooden marker.
“The bishop is having a fitting gravestone carved,” Bell said softly. “There is a Latin verse praising Baldassare’s devotion to his duty.”
“It should praise his intelligence and good nature, too.” Magdalene raised a hand to wipe her eyes. “He was a good man, and a kind one. I know we are not supposed to question the will of God, but why? He did not die for
any
reason, just by the accident of coming into the church at the wrong time and because Beaumeis was too great a coward to call out. Perhaps if he had taken the pouch—”
“He hid it in your house, did he not?” Bell’s voice was accusatory.
Magdalene turned her head, her eyes now dry and defiant. “I could not admit that, not even to the bishop. Stop and think of the result if Winchester had demanded that I give him the pouch after the messenger was murdered.”
Bell’s face, which had been angry, suddenly went blank. Then he drew her away from the grave and began walking toward the gate to her house. After a moment he asked, “Were you really thinking of Winchester when you hid that pouch in the church?”
“And myself.” Now Magdalene’s voice was hard and cold. “Winchester would have had to admit how he came by the pouch, and I and my women would have been accused of murder. That would not have done the bishop any good, because he is known to be my landlord. Would not all say he was the most likely one to bid me murder Baldassare? Never mind there was no reason in the world for him to do so, for Baldassare was bound to give him the bull in any case. But blaming the bishop would not have helped me, either, for I would have been gutted and hanged for the crime, no matter who gave the order. I am a whore and thus guilty, remember.”
“I know why you did it,” Bell said, waving dismissal of her reasoning, “but I thought you could have trusted me. You told William of Ypres.”
“I did not! I told William that Brother Godwine had been murdered, the church would have to be purified, and since Baldassare had not hidden the pouch in my house, it was possible he had been inside the church, had hidden it there, and the cleaning might expose it. If he guessed what you guessed, he gave no sign of it. And since William is not one to cry over spilt milk, I doubt he cares how the pouch got into the church. It is enough that he was there when it was discovered.”
“Well, he did not hint to the bishop that there was any doubt about who hid it—not that it matters; Winchester knows now, but obviously he will not make an issue of it, or of anything else that might cause you trouble. And anyway, he got what he wanted. Lord William did try to convince him of the benefits of bringing the pouch to the king intact and allowing the king to bestow the bull, but when Winchester said flatly he would not accept it from the king without the pope’s special order, Lord William agreed that the bishop should take the bull. Winchester sweetened that by suggesting that he would not announce receiving the bull or use it until it was absolutely necessary, so that the king would believe it had been sent by a different messenger.”
Magdalene sighed. William had not got everything he wanted, but he had the letter confirming the king’s right, and he had a fascinating story to tell. He would be back in full favor—for a time, anyway.
“I am delighted to hear they came to a peaceable agreement,” she said. “Is that where you were when we were all scrubbing the church? Acting bodyguard for the bishop lest William lose his temper and take the bull by force?”
Bell laughed. “No, I heard by accident. I was waiting to report to the bishop about my search for the goldsmith who made those copies of the church plate. Neither Lord William nor Lord Winchester even noticed I was in the bishop’s private closet. I spoke at once, but they both waved me to wait. Thank God they seem to trust me to hold my tongue” —he looked surprised and shook his head— “which I have not done. God help me, talking to you, Magdalene, is like talking to myself.”
“And what you said will go just as far. I am accustomed to hearing what is dangerous to know. If William can trust me, you can.”
“Oh, yes, unless my interest conflicts with his.” His voice was bitter.
They had stopped by the gate; the latch lifted readily and Bell swung it open. Magdalene passed through, then turned back to face him.
“William has a right to my loyalty. He has been my patron, my protector—my lord, since you will understand that term best—for over ten years. I am no man’s woman, not even William’s, but I do put his interests above those of others. If you cannot understand and accept that, I am most truly sorry.”
There was a little silence. Bell watched her as if he expected her to slam the gate in his face and walk away. Finally he said, “I suppose you want me to gather my things and go back to my former lodging.”
Magdalene looked up at him over the gate and put out her hand to keep it half open between them. He had
not
killed Guiscard over her. He had
not
flown into a rage over her repeated statement of her obligation to William. Maybe training would tame him. She smiled.
“Not unless you cannot bear to live among us any longer, or you think the bishop would disapprove. I would miss your company, which I enjoy. And it is comforting to have a man in the house whom we can trust to defend us. I will gladly exchange that for the cost of your board,
if
you can remember that I am a whore and can belong to any man for only his five-pence worth of time, you are welcome to stay…if you wish.”
“You said you were retired.”
“So I am, but that does not change what I am.”
He grinned. “Now that Baldassare’s murderer is taken, I will begin in earnest to convince you that total retirement is not so blessed as you think.”
“I look forward to the contest,” she said, laughing.
The twist of Bell’s lips in response was sour, but he stepped through the gate, shut it behind him, and walked companionably beside her to the back door of her house. Both reached for the door latch simultaneously and their fingers touched. She snatched hers away, which restored Bell’s good humor and he laughed aloud. But he did not try to follow his advantage. He lifted the latch and opened the door, looking down at her, his eyes sparkling.
“We will both enjoy the contest, I think.”
To my husband, Charles,
whose help, patience, and understanding
have kept me sane throughout the vicissitudes
of writing and publishing.
Copyright © 1999 by Roberta Gellis
Originally published by Tor [081257236X]
Electronically published in 2012 by Belgrave House
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.