“Mistress? Your purpose, if you will?”
Magdalene started slightly and realized that the servant who had opened the door for her was asking why she had come. There was a note of impatience in his voice that said he must have asked the question more than once, but she delayed one moment more before answering as another difference between the Bishop of Winchester’s hall and her father’s became clear: Here there were no women, not even one.
“I have news for the bishop, urgent news.”
“The bishop sees few women,” the servant said doubtfully, but his eyes were measuring the fine cloth of which her sober gown was made, the delicacy of the embroidery, the soft, high-polished shoes that peeped out beneath her long undertunic.
“If you will take my name to him and tell him I have urgent news, I am sure he will see me.”
“That is not my duty, mistress. However, you may go to the end of the room. One of his secretaries, Guiscard de Tournai, is there. He will bring your name to the bishop if he thinks your news truly urgent.”
Behind the veil she had lifted to shield her face when she pulled the bell, Magdalene grimaced. Because Guiscard already knew her, it was to her advantage that he was on duty, but she had never liked the man. Regardless, she had to tell Henry of Winchester what had really happened. She walked quickly toward the partition that provided the bishop with a private chamber in which to do business.
In front of that partition was an open area, delineated by one of the arches, into which the bustle of the great hall did not intrude. The space held a handsome, heavy table carrying writing materials. On one end of the table perched Sir Bellamy of Itchen, a tall, well-muscled man wearing a short maroon tunic cinched by a heavy sword belt. The tunic exposed, almost to his strong thighs, bright red, long-legged, footed chausses, cross-gartered in the color of the tunic, above calf-high leather boots. He had fair, curly hair, cut unfashionably short to his ears so that it would not get in his way when he was wearing mail and raised the hood of his hauberk.
Sir Bellamy looked down at Guiscard de Tournai, who wore dark but rich clerical robes. The clerk was seated on a stool set about the middle of the table. A brazier burned at his elbow and a sheet of parchment lay before him.
“Where the devil have you been for the last three days, Guiscard?” Sir Bellamy asked.
The clerk lifted his head. Although he was seated and Sir Bellamy loomed over him, he managed to give the impression that he was looking down his nose. “I do not see that it is any of your affair, but I do not mind telling you. I was in St. Albans, visiting my mother.”
“Sorry.” Bell smiled, one side of his mobile mouth lifting higher than the other. “I forgot. You go to visit her whenever we are in London.”
Guiscard, who always pretended to be deep in the bishop’s confidence and indispensable, often annoyed him, but Bell swallowed his irritation because he understood; Guiscard was only a physician’s son—worse, a butcher’s grandson—and he felt the need to be important, to make himself the equal of the better-born secretaries. Still, he visited his “common” mother. Bell now felt guilty, and ashamed.
“You are a good son—” he began and stopped.
A tall woman, holding her veil modestly before her face, approached the table. There was, however, nothing else modest in the woman’s manner. She had not lingered on the outer edge of the quiet area, waiting to be gestured forward. After casting him a single glance that dismissed him, she came to face the clerk.
“I have urgent news for the bishop, Master Guiscard,” she said. “Would you please tell him I am here and that if he has the time, I would like a few words in private.”
Bell blinked, partly at the demand but equally at the assurance in the low, rich voice. It was quite plain that the woman expected Guiscard to recognize her and to accede to her request.
The clerk glanced at her and then away, as if he did know her but did not wish to. However, he spoke in a civil if colorless voice. “The Bishop of Winchester does not receive women in private. If you will leave your name and describe your business, I will see that he is informed of it as soon as he has time.”
“Do not be ridiculous,” the woman began, then sighed. “Sorry, Master Guiscard. I thought you would recognize me. I am Magdalene la Batarde of the Old Priory Guesthouse. You must remember. William of Ypres recommended me to the bishop and you came with an offer to rent the guesthouse. You showed me the house. Really, I must speak with the bishop. I assure you I would not intrude on him without good reason.”
“I do not care who you are,” Guiscard retorted sharply. “Only the king himself could expect so busy a man as the Bishop of Winchester to put aside all his affairs to attend to him on the moment. For such a woman as you—”
“I tell you my news is urgent and the bishop needs to hear it,” she exclaimed, her voice rising.