A Mortal Bane(2)

A knife hilt! And around it, something wet, sticky. The odor struck her now. Blood. He was covered with blood. He was dead! She did not dare cry aloud. Oh, God, if he was dead, she was dead also. Who would believe that she had not quarreled with him, buried a knife in him? She rose to run, but her feet were tangled. Then she would have screamed had not her throat been locked with terror, until she realized it was her own staff across her feet. She snatched it up and fled.





Chapter One



19 April 1139





Priory Guesthouse



[page]Magdalene la Batarde, whoremistress, she who had been Arabel de St. Foi until her husband died of a knife in the heart and she had fled before she was accused of murder, lifted her head and looked away from her embroidery frame. The bell at the gate in the wall had sounded faintly through closed doors and windows. She frowned. From the color of the light making the oiled parchment in the window glow, it was nearly sunset. All her clients were already in the house and in the beds of the women with whom they had appointments.

She sat still a moment longer. The Old Priory Guesthouse was not a place where men came casually from the street. But when the bell sounded again, she shrugged and rose. It might be a messenger, or a client who had a sudden need and intended to stay the night. Money was money and every silver penny might be important. Nonetheless, she was anxious, and she thought again as she went to the gate that she should hire a man or a boy to open gates and run errands. As she lifted the latch, she sighed. She could afford that now, since most of her clients were men of wealth or importance and they preferred to be known to as few as possible.

She was shocked to discover that the man at the gate was no common messenger and that she had never seen his face before. Although she kept her expression calm, Magdalene could feel the blood beating in her throat. Anyone recommended to her house would have been told that an appointment was necessary, and hers was no common whorehouse and was not marked in any way to attract passersby. Strangers, who did not know she had powerful protectors, were dangerous. Her fear was diminished, however, when she saw that the man looked more shocked than she felt.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The French he spoke was good, but the accent was not that of France or of England. Magdalene drew an easier breath. Either this was a traveler honestly lost or someone had deliberately sent him here to embarrass him. A mistake or a joke, Magdalene thought, divided between irritation and amusement. Some men never grew up and thought it great fun to send innocent foreigners to her costly whorehouse. Well, it was not this poor man’s fault.

“I am Magdalene la Batarde,” she said. “And this is the Old Priory Guesthouse.” But she had been examining his horse, a well-kept, handsome animal, and his cloak, which, although a sober dark gray, was of exceptionally fine cloth, lined with fur and richly embroidered. The purse at his waist seemed plump, and she suspected there was a large pouch suspended from a strap across his breast, but it was pushed to his back where the cloak hid it. “Please come in,” she added, pulling the gate open wider and stepping back. “If you are lost, I can set you on your way, and if you desire rest or entertainment, I can provide that also.”

“The Old Priory Guesthouse?” he repeated as he led his horse in. “Is that not the church of St. Mary Overy? I was told one could see it from the foot of London Bridge and that the Bishop of Winchester’s house was behind the church.”

Magdalene frowned and her full, beautifully shaped lips thinned. “Someone has a strange sense of humor—or wishes to besmirch Henry of Winchester’s reputation. It is true the Bishop of Winchester owns this house, but he has never personally set foot in it. The Bishop of Winchester’s local dwelling faces the front gate of the priory.”