Magdalene la Batarde, whoremistress, she who had been Arabel de St. Foi until her husband died of a knife in the heart and she had fled before she was accused of murder, lifted her head and looked away from her embroidery frame. The bell at the gate in the wall had sounded faintly through closed doors and windows. She frowned. From the color of the light making the oiled parchment in the window glow, it was nearly sunset. All her clients were already in the house and in the beds of the women with whom they had appointments.
She sat still a moment longer. The Old Priory Guesthouse was not a place where men came casually from the street. But when the bell sounded again, she shrugged and rose. It might be a messenger, or a client who had a sudden need and intended to stay the night. Money was money and every silver penny might be important. Nonetheless, she was anxious, and she thought again as she went to the gate that she should hire a man or a boy to open gates and run errands. As she lifted the latch, she sighed. She could afford that now, since most of her clients were men of wealth or importance and they preferred to be known to as few as possible.
She was shocked to discover that the man at the gate was no common messenger and that she had never seen his face before. Although she kept her expression calm, Magdalene could feel the blood beating in her throat. Anyone recommended to her house would have been told that an appointment was necessary, and hers was no common whorehouse and was not marked in any way to attract passersby. Strangers, who did not know she had powerful protectors, were dangerous. Her fear was diminished, however, when she saw that the man looked more shocked than she felt.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The French he spoke was good, but the accent was not that of France or of England. Magdalene drew an easier breath. Either this was a traveler honestly lost or someone had deliberately sent him here to embarrass him. A mistake or a joke, Magdalene thought, divided between irritation and amusement. Some men never grew up and thought it great fun to send innocent foreigners to her costly whorehouse. Well, it was not this poor man’s fault.
“I am Magdalene la Batarde,” she said. “And this is the Old Priory Guesthouse.” But she had been examining his horse, a well-kept, handsome animal, and his cloak, which, although a sober dark gray, was of exceptionally fine cloth, lined with fur and richly embroidered. The purse at his waist seemed plump, and she suspected there was a large pouch suspended from a strap across his breast, but it was pushed to his back where the cloak hid it. “Please come in,” she added, pulling the gate open wider and stepping back. “If you are lost, I can set you on your way, and if you desire rest or entertainment, I can provide that also.”
“The Old Priory Guesthouse?” he repeated as he led his horse in. “Is that not the church of St. Mary Overy? I was told one could see it from the foot of London Bridge and that the Bishop of Winchester’s house was behind the church.”
Magdalene frowned and her full, beautifully shaped lips thinned. “Someone has a strange sense of humor—or wishes to besmirch Henry of Winchester’s reputation. It is true the Bishop of Winchester owns this house, but he has never personally set foot in it. The Bishop of Winchester’s local dwelling faces the front gate of the priory.”
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.”