“If the trouble were only for me, I would not care. You have given me back my life, made me a man again. But others will pay, and I cannot bear that.”
They kissed once more, and Sabina let him out, laying a hand on his arm and allowing him to lead her. That was something else about Mainard that bound her to him—he never seized her and pulled or pushed her; he even let her lead if she wished, never implying that she was helpless or stupid because she could not see.
When they reached the front door, Sabina drew Master Mainard toward her for one last kiss, then reached into the tall basket near the door and pulled out a sturdy stick with a bulge of straw matted with resin and fat at the top. She handed him the torch and stepped aside to allow him to light it at the torchette and open the door. As he closed it behind him, she stood there for a few moments thinking about his repeated offer to make her his mistress. Tonight he had offered her a contract, a legal lease on the apartment above his shop and a monthly stipend, “for services provided.”
She let herself smile. The Church would duly register the contract, never asking what kind of services she owed. That would make it a sin for her to withhold her “service.” Her smile broadened. Would that cancel the sin of cohabiting outside of marriage? She started back to her room, but her mind was so busy with her novel idea that she did not orient herself perfectly and brushed against the table when she reached it. Startled, she stepped away, lost her bearing and had to go forward cautiously, feeling for the wall of the corridor.
There was nothing to her right, but after a few steps, the fingers of her left hand just touched the edge of the shelves. Trailing her hand across the wall, she moved with more confidence, felt the door frame of Magdalene’s door and then the door itself. The door? Closed?
A wave of uneasiness passed through Sabina. Magdalene never closed her door, unless Lord William…but Lord William had not come. Likely he was gone from London altogether with Baldassare’s pouch. And the door had been open when she went to fetch an evening meal for herself and Master Mainard a little while ago. She put her hand out to open it, then drew it back hastily.
What a fool she was. Bell must be in there. He had asked for Magdalene and sounded very disappointed when he heard she had gone to bed. He said he had something important to tell her. Sabina grinned. What she had heard in his voice made plain that the important thing he had to tell Magdalene was more ready to leap out of his chausses than off his tongue.
Still grinning, Sabina hurried past Magdalene’s door, unwilling to eavesdrop on a private pleasure. Overhearing a client with one of the other women was one thing; one listened to make sure all was well. A private lovefest was no one’s affair but the two involved.
As the thoughts went through her mind, Sabina heard and dismissed Letice’s breathing, with its little characteristic whistle, and Ella’s very delicate snore. As she was about to enter her own doorway, she stopped and uttered an irritated little snort; she had been so taken up with Mainard that she had forgotten to take the keys to lock the gate and the house when she let him out. That was the duty of whoever’s client left last. Sighing, for she was tired, Sabina turned toward the kitchen where the keys hung—and stopped dead in the corridor. A different snore, not terribly loud but much heavier and more rasping than that of any of the women—and from the door beyond hers—told her that Bell was asleep in his room. Sabina stood frozen. But if Bell was asleep in his bed, who had closed the door to Magdalene’s room?
Magdalene looked at the gleam of light on the polished metal blade and breathed, “Who are you?”
“You do not want to know that,” the voice murmured, now holding a definite note of satisfaction. “If you know, I will have to kill you. If you do not know….” The last words were unsteady, doubtful. “Never mind,” he continued. “Just tell me at once what you did with Baldassare’s pouch and hope I will let you live.”
The knife had withdrawn a little. It was no longer pricking her throat. Magdalene shifted away slightly and seized the edge of the coverlet, her hands clenching on it so hard that her knuckles whitened.
“The pouch?” she whispered. “But—
“I do not want to hear that tale you told to everyone. It was a pack of lies—
The low voice stopped abruptly and a hand fell over her mouth, tightening to form a gag, as heavy footsteps went by in the corridor. Magdalene made no movement and no attempt to call out. The hand over her mouth drew away. The dark figure leaned closer, his voice scarcely more than a murmur.
“I want that pouch now. I do not want to hear any lies. I know Baldassare slept here, and one does not wear a pouch in bed with a whore. Nor does a man like Baldassare leave so precious a burden in the open for a whore to pick over while he sleeps. He hid it here.”
“No,” Magdalene said. “He hid it in the church.”