“To who?” Dulcie asked. “It’ll get us hung if we don’ be rid ‘f it.”
Magdalene bit her lip. Letice drew her knife again and pointed to the red-sealed letter. Magdalene wrung her hands for a moment and then nodded. “Yes, all right. Try to lift the seal, Letice. Maybe I will find a name, a few words that look familiar….”
A nerve-racking period followed while Letice found a thin enough and broad enough knife for her purpose. Then came the task of heating it evenly, bracing the letter, sliding the glowing blade under half the seal, easing the parchment out from under the knife while it still supported the seal. Half the time Magdalene found herself unable to look, but Letice was amazingly skilled. She had done this often before, Magdalene thought, as Letice signed to her to unfold the parchment while she eased the seal off the cooling blade so it would not stick and then slid the knife back to support the fragile wax. Because she is mute, Magdalene thought. Because her previous master had assumed she could never tell what she had done. They had used her to remove seals, and perhaps to affix them on different documents.
With an effort, she brought her mind back to this document. The letter was, as she had guessed, in Latin, but the first few lines told her something. It was from the pope—she recognized the name Innocent II and it was to King Stephen. Well, she had expected that, too, but it was a disappointment; if it had been to one of the bishops, she would have considered getting rid of it. The Church would easily survive a delayed instruction from the pope. But the king…she scanned the letter anxiously, found the name Matilda, and groaned.
“What is it?” Sabina asked anxiously.
“A letter to the king about Empress Matilda, old king Henry’s daughter, who was supposed to be queen but the barons would not have it.”
“Because she was a woman?” Sabina asked.
“Not only that. There was much talk about her in Oxford—all those students and clerics and churchmen gossip ten times worse than women do—about her pride and stubbornness. Well, she did not oppose Stephen when he first took the crown, and then we moved here, where we have fewer clerks among our clients. But I know that Matilda had set a plea before the pope, claiming that she was the rightful queen because Stephen had violated his oath to the late King Henry to accept her as queen. That clerk of the Bishop of Rochester’s who comes to visit us every time he is in London told me that when he was waiting to see Letice.”
The mute nodded and made an urgent gesture, followed by several others. Tears rose to her eyes when she saw that neither Magdalene nor Dulcie looked enlightened. She bit her lip and moved a finger as if she were writing.
“The clerk,” Magdalene said. “He told you….”
Letice made the sign of a peaked hat over her head, held out her hand, pointed to the finger on which a bishop wears his ring.
“About his bishop.”
Letice pointed south, moved her hand like waves, then pointed to the pouch and the bull.
“The bishop went to the pope? About Matilda’s plea?”
Letice pointed to her ear, then made the sign of writing.
“The clerk and the bishop were going to listen and report about Matilda’s plea?”
To that, Letice nodded. Sabina shifted on the bench, reaching out to touch the pile of coins and smiling slightly. “Why should it matter to us whether Stephen is king or Matilda queen?” she asked.
“Because a contest between them might involve London in war.” Magdalene had looked back at the letter, then shrugged. “But I think this confirms Stephen. Here are the words fedei defensor, which I am sure mean ‘defender of the faith.’ The pope would not call a man he has just deprived of a throne ‘defender of the faith.’ So the letter must say that the pope has confirmed Stephen as king. Well, that is important, but not important enough to chance the danger of hanging. It is the bull that worries me.”
Magdalene spoke somewhat absently, her eyes fixed on the letter, noticing that some of the words were very like French. And then, toward the end, another name caught her eye: Henry de Blois, episcopus Winchesteri. That would be Henry of Blois, Bishop of Winchester. She scanned the lines around the name, word by word, found felix, which she was sure meant “happy,” and then legatus.
“Oh,” she exclaimed. “The bull must be to give legatine powers to the Bishop of Winchester.” She looked up, met Letice’s and Dulcie’s eyes. “That must be delivered!”