A Mortal Bane(156)

When his victim and safe-conduct tore free of his hold, Guiscard knew he was dead. Unable to find better prey—he knew the bishop’s layers of rich vestments would armor him against the blade of the little knife, and that the bishop was no physical weakling—he turned on Magdalene as he tore the scarf from his head.

“Bitch! Whore!” he shrieked, striking at her face. “No one will ever wish to lie with you again!”

She raised her arms instinctively to protect herself, felt the sting as the sharp blade pierced through her sleeve to cut her arm. She tried to back away, but he was upon her, dragging her arms down, screaming obscenities. She saw the knife rise, realized it was aimed for her eye, and tried desperately to fight his grip and free herself.

Then he screamed wordlessly and she was able to pull her head away. The knife came down, but only slid against her neck, which was covered by her gown. And then he fell away altogether, and she was looking at Bell, who had a long poniard dripping red in his hand.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No,” she whispered, backing so she could lean against the wall.

“Give her the stool or she will fall,” the bishop said, and Bell pulled the stool out from under the table and set it beside her so she could sink down upon it.

“And you, my lord, are you hurt?” Bell asked anxiously. “I am so sorry. Fool that I am, I thought he would go for Master Domenic.” He bent and righted the bishop’s chair. “Sit down, my lord. I will fetch the infirmarian.”

“Is it safe to leave Guiscard without a guard?” Winchester asked, sitting down rather heavily and looking at the body on the floor.

“He is dead, my lord,” Bell said. “I am sorry about that, too. I did not mean to kill him, but in a fight…I had no time to draw my sword, and when I hold a knife…habit and training, my lord.”

Magdalene had closed her eyes at first, but they snapped open when Bell said Guiscard was dead. She could see only the side of Bell’s face, and his eyes were down, looking at the bishop, but they flicked once sideways to her and she knew he was not at all sorry. He had meant to kill, and he meant it because Guiscard had been threatening her.

Then her eyes closed again. She did not faint, nor did she slip off the stool, but she was not really conscious of what was happening around her—beyond a blurred and indistinct sound of voices coming and going—until someone lifted her arm. She uttered a low cry because the movement made her aware of the ache.

“You said you were not hurt!” Bell’s voice, low and angry.

[page]She opened her eyes, saw the bishop still in his chair, now with a bandage around his neck, the infirmarian loosening her sleeve, which was marked with a wide stain of blood, Bell behind the monk, bending forward to see her wound, his face anxious. Drawing a deep breath, she looked down. Guiscard’s body was gone. Raising her eyes, she saw that Master Domenic and Master Buchuinte, the priest and the Archdeacon of St. Paul’s, the prior and the monks—all except for the infirmarian—were also gone. On the table near her was a pot of salve and more bandages.

“It was only a small cut,” she said.

“It bled enough,” Bell retorted.

“The knife touched a small vein,” the infirmarian put in, “but the bleeding has stopped now, and it assures a clean wound.” As he spoke, he reached for the salve, applied it gently, and wrapped her arm in the waiting bandage. He came upright and looked at her carefully. “Hmm. There is another small spot near your neck. I think the point just touched you there. Take the salve and apply it if you need it.”