A Mortal Bane(112)

“In your room,” he said, letting her come even with him and walk to her door.

Magdalene heard her apologize over some small disorder in the room before the door closed; then she put aside her embroidery and went to the bathing chamber. Fortunately, she did not find Ella in tears, and after helping her empty the tub, she was able to step softly from the bathing room to Sabina’s door. There she caught the low murmur of Sabina’s voice, was about to walk on, and then stiffened with alarm. The man’s reply was low and snarling. She pressed her ear to the door.

“You lie, whore! If you saw Messer Baldassare for only a moment, why are you crying? Did you kill him yourself?”

“No,” Sabina sobbed. “He was only here for a short time, but he was a good man, a kind man. He knew just how to lead me from my stool to the table. I would never have harmed him. I weep because I am sorry for any man who died so.”

“Liar!”

Magdalene was already reaching for the door latch when she heard the sound of a slap and a thump as Sabina, thrown off balance, fell. She flung the door open.

“Stop that,” she snapped. “I told you I did not allow my women to be hurt.”

“And how will you stop me?” he spat back and laughed. “What can you do? I am not afraid of your protectors. My master is more powerful than either William of Ypres or Winchester, who was not elected archbishop.” He advanced on Magdalene. “You may curse the Bishop of Worcester for not agreeing to my lord’s will. If he had not refused to block Winchester’s advancement or we had known what the messenger carried or when he would come—or if you give me the pouch right now, I would not have to smash your pretty face.”

[page]“I do not have it,” Magdalene breathed, backing away along the wall as if she were mindlessly trying to get as far from him as possible, but that made him turn to keep her in sight. “Really, I do not. I swear it. And why should your master care what was in the messenger’s pouch?”

He laughed when she came up against Sabina’s chest and reached toward the water pitcher but let her hand drop as if she knew throwing it could not save her. By then, the door was at his back. He did not notice Sabina squirming along the floor toward it…or did not care.

“None of your business why, whore!” He stretched an arm toward her, but she had got out of reach and leaned farther away toward the chest. “All whores are liars,” he said. “I tell you now that what will happen to you for admitting you stole the pouch is nothing compared to what will happen if you do not give it to me. If you do, I will let you be—after a kick or two to abate your pride.”

“I do not have it!” Magdalene whispered, raising a hand in a pleading gesture and dropping it.

“You do, and you might as well tell me before I smash in your nose and cut off your ears as tell me after the pain has broken you. If you do not tell me at once, I will break your fingers, too, beyond mending—so you cannot even embroider. You will starve in earnest if you do not give me that pouch immediately.”





Chapter Fifteen





25 April 1139





Old Priory Guesthouse; Tower Of London



The man took a threatening step forward. The hand Magdalene had dropped with seeming hopelessness grasped the edge of Sabina’s slop bowl and swung it viciously toward him. The dirty water sprayed into his face; the edge of the heavy bowl hit his cheekbone. He took one staggering step back, began to roar wordlessly with rage, and choked and gagged as the liquid running down his face filled his mouth. Even before he caught his breath, he started forward again, only to be propelled ahead a great deal faster than he intended by a violent blow in the back from Sabina’s staff.