A Mortal Bane(109)

“Bell at the bishop’s house,” Dulcie repeated, nodding.

By the time Magdalene came into the common room, Ella was standing by the table and admiring the altar-cloth design and the man was standing beside her. Magdalene offered the ale she had brought from the kitchen and he accepted a cup.

“This is a strange thing to see in a whorehouse,” the man said, gesturing toward the design and then sipping his ale. “Even such a whorehouse as this. What is it? A cope? An altar cloth?”

“An altar cloth, my lord,” Magdalene replied, smiling at him because he had provided an opening to make clear her position. “As the friend in the bishop’s Household may or may not have told you, I do not work as a whore anymore. I am an embroideress. I only make sure the women who do work here are not cheated or mistreated. This is Ella, who is ready to serve you.”

“Indeed I am,” Ella said, dimpling with smiles. “And I told him my name already.”

“One moment, love,” Magdalene said as Ella reached for his hand to lead him away. “Our guest looks travel-stained and tired. Perhaps he would enjoy it if you gave him a bath. I do not believe he is in any hurry.”

“At an extra charge?”

“No, no charge. The service is included. I also assure you, you will have the tub all to yourself, except, of course, for Ella, who will wash your back and…ah…satisfy any other need.”

“This may be worth five pence after all,” the man said, and then smiled at Ella, who said she would get the water ready and tripped away.

Despite the remark, Magdalene was not happy. She was less and less sure any ordinary recommendation had brought the man to her door. So why was he here? Not for sex. Had he been lustful, he would have followed Ella to pinch and pat her while she filled the tub, and he had not.

“Since most of our clients are longtime friends who return again and again, I am sure they find their visits worth the price,” Magdalene said, making herself smile.

“But some do not return,” he said, watching her closely and then, when she only stared at him in surprise, he added, “My friend tells me that you had a great excitement here last week. There was a murder—Messer Baldassare, a papal messenger, no less.”

Magdalene, who had just pulled a pin out of the cloth, dropped it. It rolled to the floor as she turned to face him. “No murder was done in this house,” she said sharply. “The death took place on the north porch of the church of St. Mary Overy. It was nothing to do with us.”

“But it was,” he said, smiling. “Baldassare came through your gate, so he must have been here.”

Magdalene fought to keep her breathing smooth. Who was accusing her of murder now? Whoever it was, she did not dare deny flatly that Baldassare had been in her house. She had admitted otherwise to too many.

“So the porter of the priory says,” she remarked with what she hoped was a casual shrug. “But I did not see him go through the back gate, and between you and me, I think it impossible to get a saddled horse through that gate—you can look at it yourself if you like. However, the porter is a holy man and we here are whores, so who will believe me?”

“But he was in your house.”

His insistence made her very nervous, but she could not be faulted if she told him the same story she had told all the others.

[page]He listened, but shook his head. “But he was in here and could have left something….”

Magdalene almost sighed aloud with relief. The pouch! He knew of Baldassare’s pouch and wanted it. For himself? No. There was not about him the feeling of power and authority that hung about William of Ypres and the Bishop of Winchester. He was more like Bell, a man with assurance of his worth and knowledge of his purpose—a man with a powerful master. So he had been sent—but by whom? And how did his master know of the pouch?