A Mortal Bane(3)

A wary expression had widened the stranger’s large, dark eyes and tightened the corners of his mouth as she spoke, but his face cleared and he laughed when she came to the last sentence. “Ah,” he said, “that was how the confusion came about. My traveling companion told me that the bishop’s house was behind the church and, if one rides across the bridge, a house at the front of the priory would look to be behind the church.”

“That is possible, I suppose,” Magdalene said, and shivered suddenly. She had come out without a cloak because she expected to do no more than take a message from someone’s hand or let a client in. She had thought she would be able to scold the client in comfort by the fire while he waited for one of her women to be free. “If you like,” she went on, huddling her arms around herself, “I will send my servant to guide you to the bishop’s house, but she is rather deaf and it will take me a few moments to make what I want clear. You may wait here if you prefer, or you may come in.” She smiled. “I assure you this is not the kind of place where men are seized upon and robbed or forced to stay.”

He laughed again at that. “With a face like yours, madame, I should think you would have more trouble driving men away than keeping them.”

“I thank you,” she said stiffly, stepping aside so he could lead the horse past her, “but I no longer take clients. And there is no one free to serve you at the moment. You would have to wait—”

Illumination and amusement changed his expression again. “Ah, it is a special kind of guesthouse. I understand.” He laughed again. “That is why you thought my friend might be trying to besmirch the bishop’s reputation.” He hesitated and frowned, glancing up at the church spire. “How close the church looks. Is there a short way to reach it from here?”

“Yes, there is,” Magdalene replied. “But I do not like to stand at the gate as if I were soliciting custom. Let me fetch my servant if you do not wish to come in.”

[page]“I will come in,” he said, his expression thoughtful. “Where do I leave my horse?”

“In the stable.” Magdalene gestured to the right, where a well-built stable was backed against the stone wall that encircled the house. “I am sorry there is no one to help you, but I have no manservants. Our clients prefer to do for themselves. The door of the house is open. Just walk in when you have settled the horse.”

He set off, and Magdalene closed and latched the gate. She glanced once toward the stable and then hurried back into the house. Inside, she walked to the fire in the hearth on the west wall and stood beside it looking into the flames as she considered the stranger. She then sat down on a stool, turning her embroidery frame so she could face the door. She had not yet pulled her needle from the cloth where she had set it before rising to open the gate, when the man came in. He stared around at the room, surprise plain in his face.

Magdalene suppressed a smile as she rose and asked if she could take his cloak. Most of her clients had been using her facilities for years; they were familiar with and accepted the comfortable appearance of a family solar. It was not until someone new entered and registered amazement that there were not pallets in the corners with grunting couples on them, or near-naked women sitting or lying about, that Magdalene was reminded of how different her house was from the usual kind of stew. After a second glance around, the man undid the handsome brooch and handed her his cloak, which she laid on a chest under the window.

“I have just bethought me,” he said, “that Richard de Beaumeis did not say this was the Bishop of Winchester’s house. He called it the Bishop of Winchester’s inn.”