“Oh, no,” she agreed. “I will not tell him about the pouch. We must insist that Baldassare took everything with him when he left here and that he did not intend to return.” She stood abruptly. “I should have gone as soon as I wakened. I must not waste any more time. I will go now. Letice, come help me to dress.”
When Magdalene left the house, she was as soberly and elegantly clad as any rich merchant’s wife. A bleached chemise, gathered at the base of the throat with a rolled tie, peeped demurely out of the neck of a soft tan undertunic with long, tight sleeves. Over that she wore a shorter overtunic of warm brown, with bands around the edges of the wide sleeves and down the front exquisitely embroidered in a pattern of climbing roses, golden flowers glinting among the green leaves. To cover her hair she wore a veil, fastened around her forehead with a fillet of the same embroidery as ornamented her gown. The veil was of a thin, delicate fabric but very voluminous, the trailing left edge pulled firmly around her throat and tucked under, the right edge thrown more loosely around the left shoulder so it could be raised to shield her face. She wore no jewelry, and the purse that hung from her embroidered cloth girdle was unadorned and almost flat.
Although it was much shorter to go through the monastery grounds, Magdalene went out the front gate. She bade a grave good-day to the mercer and grocer who had stalls in front of their shops across the road. Both returned her greeting—the mercer, who sometimes sold Letice’s or Etta’s embroideries, merrily; the grocer with a hasty glance over his shoulder. Magdalene smiled and walked up the road. Likely the grocer’s wife was in the shop and watching.
Magdalene had invited both men separately when she first arrived, explaining frankly that she wished them to know her house would cause no riots in the street and make no scandal, that it was no common stew. Then she told them her rate and offered to reduce it once and once only for the sake of good neighborly feeling. The mercer continued to come occasionally, when he had made a special profit on one of the embroideries. The grocer was not as friendly. Still, both greeted her as readily as they ever had, which meant, she hoped, that neither sacristan nor lay brother had gone to them with accusations or questions. Relieved, she stepped out more briskly.
The road from the bridge ran almost due south, but at the end of the monastery grounds, a narrower lane went west and then north, continuing along the priory wall right down to the river, where the monks had a small landing. From the turn north, the side of the lane opposite the priory held four neat houses, then a stone wall, as high and probably stronger than that of the priory. That wall was broken by a large, double-doored gate. This was invitingly open, signaling that the Bishop of Winchester was in residence.
Magdalene walked through the gate and up the path to the heavy door of a stone-built house somewhat larger and taller than her own; this, however, was a private residence, not a place meant to harbor many guests, and was thus impressive. The door of the house was closed, but Magdalene saw that the pull of the bell was hanging outside. She took a deep breath, not sure whether she was relieved or disappointed. The bell cord indicated that the bishop was not only in residence in Southwark, but actually in the house.
Better get it over with, she thought, and pulled the cord. Within, the bell rang. The door was opened with reasonable promptness, and Magdalene stepped inside. For a moment she was swept with nostalgia. The great hall was so much like that of her father’s manor. Taking about two-thirds of the length of the building, it was roofed not by rough-hewn beams like her own house, but by handsome stone arches. Between one pair, about midway, was a stone hearth with a good-sized fire burning; two slits in the wall above the hearth drew out most of the smoke. Flanking the hearth were several benches on which were seated a number of men, some of them talking, some idly staring into the flames.
That was better than her father’s house, Magdalene thought, where the fire had been in the middle of the floor, with the smoke left to find its own way out under the eaves. Of course the Bishop of Winchester’s house had no eaves on this floor. The handsome arches supported another story, where the bishop had his private chambers.
It was more the shape of the hall and the busy people moving about that made her think of her father’s manor, she decided. The writing stands near the windows—Magdalene suppressed a smile; no one in her father’s manor could write, except the priest who came when asked—would certainly have been foreign to her father’s hall. Yet the differences were not so great after all, only those between a knight and a clerk. Near the windows, set between other arches, two lighted and closed with thin, oiled parchment, were busy men taking advantage of the light. In her father’s house, men-at-arms would have been caring for armor and weapons; here there were writing stands at which clerks were working. She shook her head and began to walk toward the far end of the hall, which was partitioned off.