“If the decision had been made,” William replied, yawning, “and it may have been, because I doubt the pope would waste much time over it. I expect he did send a letter. It makes sense to send one messenger with both documents. But there has never been any doubt what that decision would be. William de Corbeil, who was then the pope’s legate as well as Archbishop of Canterbury, had accepted Stephen as the rightful king. The pope is not likely to reverse that decision.”
“No, but one of my clients felt that there was a great difference between that old approval by a legate and the pope’s personal decision recorded and sealed by the curia. He seemed to fear that an attack by the empress was planned and that her partisans would feel that news of the pope’s decision would discourage men from flocking to her banner. If so, it would certainly be worthwhile to destroy the document and, perhaps, the messenger, who might know what he carried and cry aloud of the theft.”
“One of your clients—”
William’s stare challenged, but Magdalene ignored it. He knew she would not reveal the name of a client unless the need was acute. She said, “This client could not have been involved with the murder. He was in Berkhampstead on Wednesday night, fetching his son home from fostering. However, he might well fear invasion. He comes from the south, although he never told me exactly where his lands lie.”
“Fear of invasion, or hope for it?”
“If he hoped the empress were coming, would he have mentioned the idea of someone killing Messer Baldassare to keep the pope’s decision secret?”
“Likely not.”
William sighed and pushed away the platter from which he had been eating, took a last drink of wine, and allowed himself to fall sideways onto the bed so that his head was on the pillow. Magdalene jumped forward to get the table out of his way before he kicked it over as he lifted his feet onto the bed. Setting the table aside, she went to remove his shoes and undo his cross garters. When she looked at his face, his eyes were barely open.
“Tired,” he mumbled, and then, “When I wake, remind me of the names of my men who are allowed to come to you and know the ways of your house and about the back gate. I will be able to clear most or all of them, which will save your Bell from needing to pry into my affairs.”
Chapter Thirteen
24 April 1139
Old Priory Guesthouse
By midmorning on Monday, William was gone, having cleared all but two of the men sworn to him who frequented the Old Priory Guesthouse. Those two had been away from Rochester on his business, and it would be easy enough for him to discover where they were on Wednesday night and let Magdalene know.
By accident, while talking about who was with the king in Nottingham, William had also cleared five other noble clients. Although he had chosen not to join the court himself—mostly, he said sourly, because he had been hoping to bring the papal messenger with him when he next approached the king—William knew who was there and what was going forward almost day by day. A stream of messengers—sent by this man and that who owed him favors (or wanted one), or who simply hated Waleran de Meulan—flowed out of Nottingham to Rochester and would follow him to London.
Magdalene was tempted to ask him about the rest of the noblemen on her list, partly because she felt very fond of him that morning and she knew her confidence would please him, but she resisted. William could not really be trusted with information that might conceivably be exploited to apply pressure to a person he could use. He would apply that pressure, without regard to anyone else, if it would forward his own plans and ambitions.
Fortunately, he never guessed her temptation or her resistance to it, and they parted quite tenderly. Although he had been too fast asleep to take her when she came to bed, he had wakened very amorous, and had loved her—a little to the surprise of each—very successfully, so that both had risen from her bed sated and pleased with themselves. That, Magdalene told herself, should diminish any interest she felt in the less predictable and possibly dangerous Bell.
William was very merry at breakfast, teasing Somer, who did look rather heavy-eyed, and the women until the room rang with laughter. He grew serious, however, while Somer went to saddle the horses, assuring Magdalene as she walked with him to the gate that he would stay in London to be certain no harm came to her until the murderer was found or she was cleared in some other way. She flung her arms around him and kissed him, but she laughed, aware that the offer was not completely altruistic, and promised, without prompting, to let him know if she possibly could, if the pouch was found.
“Good girl,” he said, flicking the tip of her nose with a finger. “And I promise that Winchester and your Bell won’t lose by it.”