“I take pleasure in serving you, William, because you have done so much for me.”
He came forward then, smiling, and gave her a rough hug, which made her bite the inside of her lip as his mail cut into her flesh again. “Whore you are,” he said, “but only with your body. Your heart is steadier than most of the men sworn to me, some of them with more reason to be grateful to me than you.”
“I suppose it is because the selling of their bodies is not considered a sin and a shame,” she said, laughing up at him.
He relaxed his grip suddenly and stared down into her face. “Is that why you are so faithful?” he asked, grinning. “You believe in a special bond between us? That we are two sides of the same coin? That I am a whore, like you, because I sold my body to the king?”
Magdalene lifted her head, eyes wide. She had forgotten again that William might be coarse and brutal but his mind was quick, as quick as Winchester’s. He had understood more than she meant him to. Fortunately he had a wry sense of humor, but, she thought, he was tired, and under his surface good spirits, irritable. She did not want him thinking of the comparison she had made. She shook her head.
“Not that. Only that because a mercenary’s trade is not condemned like a whore’s, a mercenary can afford a slip or two in honor and honesty and expect it to be overlooked. A whore, who is thought to be evil by nature, must take care never to be dishonest with those whose trust she desires.”
“Yet there is that bond between us, that we both sell our bodies.” His lips tightened. “And if Waleran de Meulan has his way, I may be forced into true whoredom, selling myself to others than the king.”
“I do not believe that,” Magdalene said.
“No.” He shook his head. “I have given my faith and I will hold by it.” His mouth twisted. “Perhaps for the same reason as you. Waleran, who exacts lands and honors from the king for ‘love’ rather than for service, can afford a little betrayal here and there. I, who have been granted lands and honor for service, cannot.”
“Nor would you wish to,” Magdalene exclaimed. He stared at her, then snorted with wry laughter and tightened his grip in appreciation of her defense of his honor. She gasped with pain but smiled up at him. “William, love,” she said, “do let me help you undress. My skin is going to look like fishnet tomorrow from being bruised by your armor.”
For the answer, he gave her an even tighter squeeze, making her squeal. Then he let her go, allowing her to untie the laces that held his hood. When that hung loose, he bent double at the waist; Magdalene pulled the hood over his head as he lifted his arms even with his ears. She transferred her grip to the sleeves and hauled them forward. The whole mail shirt followed as William backed away, and Magdalene gathered it to her, staggering a little under the weight but holding it firmly until she could lay it out on top of her chest. Free of the armor, he sighed deeply and went to sit on her bed.
As if the relative silence was a signal, there was a scratch on the door. Magdalene let Dulcie in with a laden tray. She hurried to bring the small table from against the wall and set it beside Lord William. Dulcie deposited the tray and went out. William looked at the food blankly.
“You really are tired, love,” Magdalene said. “Why not sleep for a while. I will be here whenever you want me.”
He did not seem to hear her. “I hardly believed it when Somer told me the pope’s messenger was dead,” he said, his mouth hard. “I thought I had a way to remind Stephen how ill Waleran had advised him.” He ran a hand through his matted hair. “Ernulf, Bishop of Rochester, agreed it would be wise for Winchester to be legate. He promised to speak to the pope in Winchester’s favor. Well, all of them would, even the Bishop of Worchester, despite Waleran’s order that he should not.”
“Perhaps because of Waleran’s order?” Magdalene suggested, not because she cared, but because any hint of opposition to Waleran de Meulan would please William.
“That did not matter. They all trust Henry and were glad Stephen asked for legatine powers for him. But I wanted to put the bull into Stephen’s hands so that he could give it to Winchester himself and smooth over the breach between them. Ernulf agreed that that would be better than having the bull delivered to Winchester by the papal messenger. He said he would suggest it to the pope if he could, or try to convince the messenger to stop at Rochester—
“Oh, my God,” Magdalene interrupted, “was it your man the messenger was supposed to meet? Winchester’s knight is convinced that the man Baldassare met killed him.”