Bone of Contention (3 page)

“You should not ride in late on Sunday. You will be sleeping in the street if you do, I am afraid.”

“Oxford!” Diot exclaimed. “But are there no whores in Oxford that Lord William must—”

“None like Mistress Magdalene,” Father Etienne said.

Magdalene twitched her fingers, and Diot bit her lip, indicating she knew she had spoken amiss. Magdalene saw her glance uneasily at Father Etienne, but his eyes had moved toward the corridor, where Letice had scraped a slipper against the wall to draw attention. He shrugged his shoulders, taking in a totally different kind of near perfection. Letice’s skin was dark, her eyes nearly black, and her hair a smooth, shining curtain that hung to her knees and had something of the sheen of a crow’s feathers.

She came forward, smiling, extending a hand, and although she made no sound, it was clear that Father Etienne felt her welcome. Magdalene smiled with satisfaction as she performed her introduction again. Letice could not speak but now she could read and write. She had made enormous strides in the two months since Magdalene had begun to teach her, her desperation to find an outlet to express herself changing the drudgery of lessons into a precious gift.

As she watched Letice silently charm the priest, Magdalene dismissed her worries about how the Old Priory Guesthouse would function during her absence. Letice had worked in the place for a long time, and she had come as a volunteer. Despite her name, she was neither English nor Christian, she had communicated to Magdalene that in her culture whoring was an acceptable profession—not as honorable as being a wife, but not reviled. Letice had every reason to ensure the continued success of the Old Priory Guesthouse.

Letice knew how the whorehouse worked; she knew most of the clients, she knew the prices. Father Etienne could do the accounts, but he would not know if there were subtle disruptions in the services provided or minor dissatisfactions among the clients that would make them resent the high prices Magdalene charged. Letice would know, and now she had a way to transmit even involved information. And since Diot could not read and write, she would never know that Letice was compiling a day-by-day account of what was happening.

About midmorning on Friday, Magdalene checked once more that her undertunic was tied in a chaste bow around the base of her throat, that her linen gown was unsoiled and not laced too tightly. The color was a soft blue-gray, suitable for a warm day and modest enough for a merchant’s wife’s everyday wear. She drew a light veil the same color as the gown over her hair and the lower part of her face, felt for the letter concealed in the pocket tied around her waist, and set out for the bishop of Winchester’s house.

She had been there several times before, and when she was admitted, she did no more than glance around the large, stone-vaulted room. It looked even larger today because it was far emptier than on her previous visits. There were no writing stands near the windows set between several of the arches and only four men lounged on the benches at right angles to the stone hearth about midway in the room. The fire was banked to dull embers in this mild weather but never allowed to die because the stone walls retained a chill.

She was by now accustomed to the surprise that showed on the face of the servant who had admitted her. The bishop of Winchester, abstemious in his habits, received few women, and Magdalene told the servant quickly that she had come to leave a message to be sent on to Winchester. He waved her toward the back of the room, where a partition provided a private area for the bishop to talk business. In front of the partition was a handsome table. Magdalene approached the priest, who sat on a stool behind it.

He looked more shocked than the servant, but said, “The bishop is not here, mistress.”

“I know,” Magdalene said. “I am one of the bishop of Winchester’s tenants. Sir Bellamy of Itchen collects the rent…”

Behind her veil she smiled bitterly as the young priest stiffened and moved back on his stool. Sir Bellamy was one of the bishop’s knights, a strong secular arm to enforce the will of the prelate when Churchly admonition failed. He was no simple bailiff and collected rents only where there might be danger, which was nearly always from the whorehouses owned by the Church. The young priest, Phillipe something-or-other, had realized she was a whoremistress and recoiled.

“I must leave Southwark,” Magdalene continued, “and I wish to inform Sir Bellamy that there will be no one who can pay the rent for several weeks. I will, of course, pay the full sum as soon as I return. I have been a tenant of the Old Priory Guesthouse for over five years and have never been late or short with my rent.”

While she was speaking she had thrust her hand through the slit in her skirt and pulled her pocket through it. As she opened it to extract the letter, she noticed that the rigidity of the priest’s body relaxed somewhat when she named the Old Priory Guesthouse, and she wondered whether Bell had spoken of her or whether young Father Phillipe remembered the involvement of her women in solving the murder of the papal messenger back in April.

“If you will be kind enough to send this letter on to Sir Bellamy in Winchester, I think he will be willing to let my account ride for the time of my absence and not frighten my women with demands for money they do not have.”

“But Sir Bellamy is here,” Father Phillipe said, sounding surprised. “He is in the bishop’s chamber.”

“Ah,” Magdalene said, her face expressionless despite her shock. So Bell was in Southwark, and he hadn’t let her know. “Then I can give him my letter myself.”

“Wait!” Father Phillipe exclaimed as she started to turn. “You cannot go into the bishop’s chamber.”

“Of course not,” Magdalene agreed. “I was only putting my pocket back under my skirt. Shall I wait here, or will you tell Sir Bellamy to come to the Old Priory Guesthouse?”

Despite the pain she felt over Bell’s abandonment, she had to make a conscious effort to keep from smiling at the agony of indecision in the young priest’s face. He could not decide whether it was worse to have her standing by his desk, contaminating the atmosphere with her sinfulness, or to send Bell to the den of iniquity that was a whorehouse.

“Wait there,” Father Phillipe said, “I will tell him you are here and he can decide whether he wishes to speak to you or…not.”

He rose from behind the table and went through the door in the partition into the bishop’s chamber. Magdalene blinked once or twice to clear a slight mist from her eyes. There had not been the smallest sign that Bell was tiring of her the last time they were together. In fact, it had been a Sunday, and they had had such a lively night they had both slept late. And then he had lingered so long over breaking his fast and laughing with and teasing her women, that he had told her he would have to ride far into the night to arrive in Winchester at the time he had promised the bishop he would be there.

Could he have been set upon by outlaws? Could he have had some other accident on the way to Winchester that made him think he had been punished for sinning in her company? She drew a deep breath. Well, if that were so, at least she would not need to quarrel with him over obeying William’s command. Perhaps she should just leave the letter… No, she couldn’t do that! It was full of affection and apology. She must—

“Magdalene!”

She had turned toward the outer door but swung back to face Bell when she heard his voice. He was dressed with his usual elegance in footed dark blue chausses cross-gartered in pale green. His tunic, short enough to expose his powerful thighs and give him freedom of movement if fighting became necessary, was also light green, faced and collared with an elaborate multicolor pattern bordered in dark blue. Magdalene’s lips tightened. That embroidery was her work.

There were new touches to his clothing, however. His broad swordbelt was now decorated with gold wire, although the well-worn grip was still plain wrapped leather as was the hilt of his long fighting poniard, also sheathed on the belt. The eating knife was another story. That was new, it had a chased silver hilt with a semiprecious stone pommel—a typical gift from a woman.

“Sir Bellamy.” She bowed her head very slightly.

Her voice had been cold, but he came toward her without reluctance, holding out his hand. “How did you know I had come?”

“Father Phillipe just told me.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Now he hesitated, frowning.

“I find I must leave Southwark for several weeks, so I—”

“Leave Southwark? To go where? Why?”

Magdalene widened her eyes as if she were surprised by his questions. The fool. A rent collector would not care where she went or why. She deliberately looked over his shoulder at Father Phillipe, who had also come out of the bishop’s chamber, and then around at the servants and the men-at-arms near the hearth, who were looking toward them.

She ignored the questions and continued her own sentence as if he had not interrupted. “So I wanted to let you know that there would be no one at the Old Priory Guesthouse to pay the rent. I hope you will allow me to pay it all at once when I return. You know I have never failed to pay—”

He made an impatient gesture of acceptance. “Yes, of course. I will let the bishop know. But where—” Magdalene shook her head at him, annoyed. Bell was not usually so slow to understand. It was, after all, for his sake, not hers that she acted as if their relationship was only that of tenant and rent collector. She was a known whore and her reputation could not be damaged by association with any man. He was the bishop’s knight, he would not be much criticized for using a whore, but befriending one was another matter entirely.

Then Magdalene saw that his fair curls were tousled, far more unruly than the ordered waves in which he usually combed his hair, and the skin beneath his blue eyes was dark and bruised looking with lack of sleep. A gleam of hope that it was business rather than indifference that had kept him away lightened the gloom of acceptance of separation, but she suppressed it firmly.

“You are tired, Sir Bellamy,” she said. “I will not keep you any longer.” And she started to walk away.

“God damn it, Magdalene!” he roared. “I’m too busy—”

Something heavy hit the ground. Magdalene hoped Bell hadn’t run into poor Father Phillipe as he attempted to follow her, she repressed a giggle but she didn’t turn around. Perhaps that wasn’t wise. A lowly whoremistress should obey the bishop’s knight, but he hadn’t issued any order, merely expressed his exasperation. Then she heard the door to the bishop’s private room slam and her amusement died. Bell hadn’t been following her.

She was much tempted to go back to the Old Priory Guesthouse and have a good cry, but the self-pity did not last very long. By the time she had walked from the house to the gate, stepped out into the road and turned left, her impulse to weep had changed to one for slightly bitter laughter. Whores did not cry over men…and anyway she had a great many more important things to do before she could start for Oxford the next day.

She needed some items for the trip. It had been so long since she left the London area that her travel baskets had been adapted for other purposes. She would have to get at least one new one so her gowns would not be too badly wrinkled. For the rest, her undergarments and toilet articles and such, she thought a good strong piece of canvas and two leather straps should serve. Then she must be sure that no necessary item would be used up in the Old Priory Guesthouse while she was gone. First and foremost sheets—keeping the linen clean in a whorehouse was very hard on sheets; they tended to thin from being washed so often and then tear when the action abed became vigorous.

Musing on other supplies that might be needed before she returned, Magdalene walked briskly along the wall of St. Mary Overy priory, past the gate, which was only a hundred feet or so from the gate to the bishop’s house, and on toward the river. At the end of the road was a small dock belonging to the priory. Magdalene glanced at it, but there was no boat tied up there and it would take longer to try to signal one than to walk to London Bridge. Besides, the bridge was lined with merchant’s stalls. She might see something she wanted.

In fact the fine spring weather had caused the merchants and peddlers to spill off the bridge itself into a broad apron around it. Magdalene tightened her veil around her face against the tugging and brushing it would receive in the press of people ahead. A curious glance or two, because it was not customary for women to veil their faces—especially on the Southwark side of the river where prostitution was a major business—made her reflect unhappily on the flawless beauty that would
gain
far less welcome attention if she walked bare-faced. She had been told she was beautiful enough to stop a man’s breath. Perhaps, but unveiled she was more likely to experience grabbing hands than breathlessness.

The wry thoughts slipped away as pie-sellers thrust trays at her, ribbon vendors offered multicolored streamers for her inspection— Magdalene did stop to look, she and all of her women embroidered and ribbons were always needed, but these were too coarse—and shouted praise of these wares and those drew her attention from one side to another. Despite a resolution not to be seduced, she was a handful of sweetmeats the poorer by the time she got onto the bridge itself.

Here were the established merchants, those who owned stalls along each side of the bridge, although one still had to push past and around itinerant sellers of small items and food as well as by purchasers and passersby who just wanted to cross the bridge. She could only thank God that the bridge was not roofed; even open to the air and the sky the noise was deafening. Journeymen and apprentices bawled their masters’ wares, peddlers bawled their own, purchasers shouted offers at merchants who shouted back higher prices, and those who wanted to cross pushed and excused themselves and cursed as the mood took them.

In fact, Magdalene found her travel basket on the bridge. It was actually a pair of long, narrow baskets, just about the length of a horse’s body so they could be mounted on pads or a frame without getting in the horse’s way. The baskets were long enough to hold a gown and one fitted into the other. There were open handles woven into both baskets about a third of the way from each end. One could pass a rope or a strap through those to secure the baskets together and attach the bindings to straps on the animal’s harness. Magdalene paid for the baskets and left them with the merchant to be picked up on her way back.