Magdalene had held her breath when Bell leaned forward. She had seen from the angle of his body that he intended to throw himself across the table and try to push Guiscard to the right, toward her and away from Winchester. Although the bishop had not apparently moved, she thought she had seen a shadow under his chair shift very slightly, and she hoped he was setting his feet so he could lunge away from the knife.
Guiscard had been too wary, however. Worse, Magdalene knew the abortive effort had fixed his attention on Bell so firmly that Bell would not be able to try again to attack him. She caught her lip between her teeth and bit down hard when Guiscard’s slip about not wanting to kill Winchester “before” confirmed her fear that he intended to murder the bishop no matter what. And if Winchester were dead, her easy life and prosperity might also be over—and one of the few churchman who had at least tried to be fair to a whore would be lost. Bell, too, if Guiscard could somehow manage it.
She stood as still as the stones themselves against the wall, hardly breathing. Guiscard did not care enough about her now to try to hurt her, but if she interfered, she would be the only one close enough on whom to vent his rage. Was it worth the risk to try?
“The key to your chest,” Bell said desperately. “You never gave it to me.”
He moved an open hand slowly toward Guiscard, who instinctively started to relax his grip on the bishop’s head. But he did not make that mistake, either, and instead, shouted, “Out! Get the litter!”
In the same moment, never having answered the question she had asked herself, Magdalene took two steps forward, threw the scarf she had been holding between her hands over Guiscard’s head, and yanked him toward her with all the strength she had.
As she pulled, she screamed, “Jump!” at Winchester, who showed himself as brave as he was clever. Instead of trying to wrench himself to the left, away from the prick of the knife but against the pressure of Guiscard’s hand, he rose straight upward, knocking his heavy chair backward with the force of his movement. The knife scored a long line down his neck, but because Guiscard’s left hand had lost its grip on his head as he rose, he was able to lean away from the pain, and the blade did no more than slice the skin.
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.