Henry frowned and glanced away. “They commit the act of lechery.”
“Yes, my lord.” Magdalene sighed. It was not worthwhile to continue to press her point and perhaps strain the bishop’s friendship. He might think about what she said and find some compassion for her poor sisters—or he might not. “And as for what you said of William of Ypres,” she said, “you are quite right. William is not a patient or gentle person, although he has always been very kind to me. He does not suffer correction gladly. He would be more likely to burn down the priory than to give up his satisfactions if Brother Paulinus preached at him. Oh, he would be sorry later…perhaps….”
Winchester laughed, then sobered. “I am no condoner of sin. I do not like what you do, Magdalene. I do not like my part in it—” He uttered a small self-derisive snort. “Although I like the rent you pay well enough. But it is not for the rent that I look aside from your trade. Worse might follow if great men like William—or others—seized by force what they desired. Feud would follow. War. The destruction of all hope of peace and order in which men can look to God.”
“Lesser men need a vent, too, my lord. If they had not the common stews, there would be many more honest maidens seized and raped.”
The bishop sighed. “That, too, is true. But body as well as soul is endangered; men die in or near the stews—”
“But not in or near my house!” Magdalene said firmly. “That is why my clients pay many times the rate of a common stew, because they know their persons, their purses, and their secrets are safe with us. We are sinners in sins of the flesh, but not in other ways.”
“So I have heard from my bailiff, and from the sheriff also. Your house has a good reputation. Not a single complaint has been lodged against you, at least not by men who have used your services. There have been some complaints by those who were not accommodated.”
Who? Magdalene wondered, suddenly worried. Who had complained against her? But she dared not spend any time in thought just now. She would keep the matter in mind. Her middle felt hollow. Surely it could not be someone wishing to injure her that had killed Baldassare?
She forced the idea out of her mind. “I promised you, when you offered me the Old Priory Guesthouse, that there would be no noise, no brawling, no scandal of any kind. Those who are refused are men who would beat my women, desire unnatural acts, disturb my other clients with gross drunkenness, or cause a riot in the street.”
“I agree it is in your interests to keep a quiet, orderly house. How far would you go—”
“Not as far as murder, my lord!” Magdalene exclaimed indignantly. “And I would not choose such a man as Messer Baldassare to kill. My woman, Sabina, wept when she heard he was dead. She said he was gentle and merry. That means a great deal to such as we. She said it was unfair that the murderer should escape scot-free while the blame was placed on the easiest scapegoat. I swear on my life, on the soul I may yet redeem by contrition, that neither I nor any member of my household is guilty of this abomination.”
The bishop stared at her for a long moment, then slowly nodded his head. “I think you speak the truth. I do not believe you guilty. I knew Messer Baldassare, and taking into consideration his character and manners, there is nothing he would have done that could have roused your ire. But others—” He paused and lowered his eyes to his hands, one of which still held the letter he had been carrying. “Others…yes. Baldassare may have had with him something for which a few might kill.”
Magdalene struggled to keep her face from changing. She suspected the bishop had guessed she knew Baldassare was a papal messenger, and that she knew what he carried. She wished with all her heart that she could tell him about the pouch and where it was. But confessing would be no favor to Henry of Winchester.
Just then her expression did not matter; when he spoke the last sentence, the bishop was still staring at his hands, or the letter, or his ring of office. His eyes then lifted, but not to her; his gaze had moved past her to the door and his face wore an expression of anxiety that changed as she watched to angry determination. Then he looked at her and his lips twisted with a kind of cynical doubt. Magdalene looked back with what she hoped was innocent inquiry, but inside, a cold shiver traveled from her spine to her belly. The bishop knew that William of Ypres used the Old Priory Guesthouse for more than assuaging his lust. Did he wonder if others also used her place for political purposes, purposes that could have led to Baldassare de Firenze’s death?
With his eyes steady on her, he added, “No, I do not believe you or any of your women stabbed Messer Baldassare, but it was from your house that he went to his death. From your house, we must seek his killer.”
Chapter Five
21 April 1139
The Bishop’s House; St. Mary Overy Priory