A Mortal Bane(32)

Better get it over with, she thought, and pulled the cord. Within, the bell rang. The door was opened with reasonable promptness, and Magdalene stepped inside. For a moment she was swept with nostalgia. The great hall was so much like that of her father’s manor. Taking about two-thirds of the length of the building, it was roofed not by rough-hewn beams like her own house, but by handsome stone arches. Between one pair, about midway, was a stone hearth with a good-sized fire burning; two slits in the wall above the hearth drew out most of the smoke. Flanking the hearth were several benches on which were seated a number of men, some of them talking, some idly staring into the flames.

That was better than her father’s house, Magdalene thought, where the fire had been in the middle of the floor, with the smoke left to find its own way out under the eaves. Of course the Bishop of Winchester’s house had no eaves on this floor. The handsome arches supported another story, where the bishop had his private chambers.

It was more the shape of the hall and the busy people moving about that made her think of her father’s manor, she decided. The writing stands near the windows—Magdalene suppressed a smile; no one in her father’s manor could write, except the priest who came when asked—would certainly have been foreign to her father’s hall. Yet the differences were not so great after all, only those between a knight and a clerk. Near the windows, set between other arches, two lighted and closed with thin, oiled parchment, were busy men taking advantage of the light. In her father’s house, men-at-arms would have been caring for armor and weapons; here there were writing stands at which clerks were working. She shook her head and began to walk toward the far end of the hall, which was partitioned off.

[page]“Mistress? Your purpose, if you will?”

Magdalene started slightly and realized that the servant who had opened the door for her was asking why she had come. There was a note of impatience in his voice that said he must have asked the question more than once, but she delayed one moment more before answering as another difference between the Bishop of Winchester’s hall and her father’s became clear: Here there were no women, not even one.

“I have news for the bishop, urgent news.”

“The bishop sees few women,” the servant said doubtfully, but his eyes were measuring the fine cloth of which her sober gown was made, the delicacy of the embroidery, the soft, high-polished shoes that peeped out beneath her long undertunic.

“If you will take my name to him and tell him I have urgent news, I am sure he will see me.”

“That is not my duty, mistress. However, you may go to the end of the room. One of his secretaries, Guiscard de Tournai, is there. He will bring your name to the bishop if he thinks your news truly urgent.”

Behind the veil she had lifted to shield her face when she pulled the bell, Magdalene grimaced. Because Guiscard already knew her, it was to her advantage that he was on duty, but she had never liked the man. Regardless, she had to tell Henry of Winchester what had really happened. She walked quickly toward the partition that provided the bishop with a private chamber in which to do business.



In front of that partition was an open area, delineated by one of the arches, into which the bustle of the great hall did not intrude. The space held a handsome, heavy table carrying writing materials. On one end of the table perched Sir Bellamy of Itchen, a tall, well-muscled man wearing a short maroon tunic cinched by a heavy sword belt. The tunic exposed, almost to his strong thighs, bright red, long-legged, footed chausses, cross-gartered in the color of the tunic, above calf-high leather boots. He had fair, curly hair, cut unfashionably short to his ears so that it would not get in his way when he was wearing mail and raised the hood of his hauberk.