Roberta Gellis Read online

  A right turn took him past a pepperer’s shop and a large, double counter displaying staples. Before the open door to the next shop was a long trestle, invitingly heaped with bolts of cloth and hanks of yarn, a mercer. Beyond that was a closed door and a narrow, heavily barred goldsmith’s window. Bell stopped by the mercer’s counter.

  “William Dockett?” he asked the man at the counter.

  To his surprise, the young man’s eyes widened and then filled with tears. “He is dead, sir, this six months.” Then he swallowed and added, “Can I help you?”

  “My business would be with your new master, then,” Bell said, relaxing the severity of his tone. “Would you tell him that the bishop of Winchester’s man has come to talk about an order that was paid for but never delivered.”

  He kept all threat from voice and manner. It seemed there was adequate excuse for the delayed delivery. If Docket had died after the order was made and paid for, there might well have been confusion. He was thus surprised again when the journeyman looked rather frightened and, instead of calling into the shop for his master, began a rambling defense of being sure all goods had been shipped as ordered.

  “Then you had better carefully examine your deliverymen because the goods did not arrive, either at the bishop of Winchester’s London residence or at Winchester. Now, why do you not call your new master? I have with me the original order and the tally stick showing payment. We can examine these and your master’s records together and see when this order was made up, by whom, who carried it….”

  “I cannot leave the stall now, good sir,” the journeyman said, his voice quavering a little. “And I am not sure that my master is within. Perhaps you could come back at some later time—”

  “I will come back with the sheriff in a quarter of a candlemark,” Bell said, his voice rising. “I have more important things to do than to return over and over to suit the convenience of a merchant who is months late in fulfilling—”

  “Now just a moment!”

  The voice was loud and angry. Bell’s hand dropped to his sword hilt, but he did not begin to draw. The new arrival was unarmed and dressed in a long gown that was not meant for action. In addition, he had seen that the man’s glance flicked to the threat and dismissed it, instead fixing on his clothes. As the merchant took in Bell’s short, emerald green overtunic, lavishly embroidered around the neck and hem with Magdalene’s most fanciful work, the rich brown chausses with cross-garters to match the tunic, and elegant knee-high leather boots, his expression grew more and more bland.

  When he spoke again, having also absorbed the excellent quality not only of Bell’s outer garments but even of his lemon-yellow undertunic and fine white linen shirt, his voice and words were far more civil. And, when he heard Bell’s complaint, he invited him in at once and waved him ahead toward the left side of the shop where a steep flight of stairs went up to a second story. Two doors opened at right angles to each other on the small landing. He opened the door facing the stairs to show an office full of boxes of parchments and tally sticks. Toward the back, where a window gave good light, was a table with a stool behind it and two in front.

  As he selected one box from a neat pile to the left of the table, he introduced himself as Lintun Mercer, who had taken over William Dockett’s business when he had died, very suddenly, the previous November. He quickly found the order, of which Bell had a copy, and then the other half of the tally stick Bell also carried, which proved payment had been made. He frowned then and bit his lip, but then shrugged and drew a deep breath.

  Bell was agreeably surprised when, instead of beginning an argument about the difference in price at the time of the order and now or trying to shift the blame, Master Mercer acknowledged that the order had been made, paid for, and not delivered. He apologized profusely, excusing himself by mentioning the grief and confusion caused by William Dockett’s sudden and unexpected death. Then he offered to deliver the bolts of cloth to the Southwark house within the week or to Winchester within a month.

  Without the smallest hesitation, Bell accepted the apology and settled for delivery to the Southwark house. Carts constantly travelled between Winchester and Southwark on the bishop’s business, and he felt the merchant should be rewarded by saving the cost of cartage for his quick offer of restitution. Bell had expected an extended argument about whose fault the loss of the cloth had been and had expected to be occupied at least until dinnertime before he obtained an admission of culpability from the merchant. He was delighted at the quick solution that allowed him almost a whole free day.

  He wondered briefly whether he should mention the obvious unease of the young journeyman over the undelivered order. Could it have been diverted from its rightful goal rather than never leaving Dockett’s shop? But there could be other causes than theft for the journeyman’s behavior, and Bell was reluctant to get him into trouble.

  Later, as he walked quickly toward the bridge and the stews of Southwark, Bell asked himself whether he had wished to save the journeyman or to avoid spending the time talking about the subject. A twinge of guilt assailed him, but he told himself that if the young man had taken advantage of the chaos following William Dockett’s sudden death, it was not the kind of situation that was likely to be repeated. Likely, too, he had been so frightened by the discovery that the cloth had gone astray that any temptation to help himself again would be cured. And, finally, Bell thought, his duty was to protect the bishop, not to worry about merchants who were too trusting. The ten bolts of fustian would be delivered. He had fulfilled his duty.

  Unfortunately, finding a new woman for Magdalene was not so easily accomplished. He managed to visit four stews before hunger drove him to a cookshop, where he sat scowling at the food and thinking how much better he would have enjoyed dining at the Old Priory Guesthouse. He was still not willing to yield to the necessity that Magdalene should take men to her bed, but he had to admit that not one of the raddled, broken, filthy, foul-mouthed creatures he had seen could possibly be presented to the clients of the Old Priory Guesthouse.

  Nonetheless, he continued his search through the afternoon, telling himself that there must be one, at least one, who was new enough to the trade to be salvaged. He had repeated that to himself for perhaps the tenth time when he opened the door to a place he knew too well. At least five times in the past half year he had been sent to wrench from the whoremaster rent he had not paid, to seek for stolen items, to investigate complaints about women beaten or not paid, and once to question the whores and the whoremaster about a body pulled from the river (just across the road) who someone swore had been seen entering that place.

  Taking a deep breath, Bell stepped into what he always thought must look like the entrance to hell. It was dark and the air was hot and moist from the constant splashing out and refilling of the two huge tubs, the token baths. Someone was always screaming, sometimes with laughter and sometimes with pain, and the sound echoed off the water and the slimy ceiling, while along the walls and in the corners, dark figures humped and squirmed, moaning with lust (or, for the whores, groaning with boredom).

  The whoremaster was not at his usual place, half athwart the door where he could trip or seize any customer who had not paid. Bell had just opened his mouth to shout for him when a door to one of the back rooms slammed open and a woman’s voice, rich and musical despite the fact that it was loud enough to override all other sounds, began to revile some spluttering male in language that opened Bell’s eyes but in an accent that was purer than that of his own mother or sisters.

  There was the sound of a slap followed by a male howl of pain, and a woman darted between the two tubs and then turned to stand at bay, having picked up a heavy, long-handled metal ladle, which she gripped with grim determination to defend herself. The man who followed her, gasping and limping, was the whoremaster himself. Bell grinned, guessing he had tried to sample the merchandise without offering to pay.

  The whore backed away toward Bell; the whoremaster followed, w
aving his fists and angling around to drive the woman into a space where she could be trapped. The movement brought her hair and then her face into the light of a dirt-smeared window, and Bell drew a deep breath.

  “That’s enough!” Bell roared as the whoremaster gestured to two men emerging from the shadows and the whore raised the ladle, but with a sob of terror.

  “Who the hell—” the whoremaster began, turning his head just enough to see Bell, whereupon he uttered an obscenity and waved off his bully boys. He had tried once to have Bell overpowered and gained nothing but two crippled servants, a visit from the sheriff, and a huge fine. “I paid my rent,” he snarled. “You got no right to interfere—”

  “The bishop has a right to do anything he wants,” Bell snapped, “including to put you out of this place, so do not tell me what I have and have not a right to do. Who is this woman? I have not seen her before.”

  “They come and go. Who? She says her name’s Diot.”

  “Come here, Diot,” Bell said, gesturing her toward a place where the light would fall more fully on her.

  She hesitated a moment, then lowered the ladle and came. Bell drew another deep breath. She was not as beautiful as Magdalene; her mouth was wider and its shape not so perfect, her nose broader, not so fine and delicate, but her eyes were a clear green, large and well lashed, and her hair, even though now it was dirty and stringy, when clean would be the rich color of oak leaves in the autumn. She was wearing little more than filthy rags and sported a number of dark bruises that showed through rents in the fabric, but the skin would be very white, Bell thought, once the grime was gone. He took a farthing from his purse and put it in her hand. Without a word, she turned and led him back into the room from which she had erupted.

  There was a torch burning to the right of the door, and the resinous, smoky smell battled with the miasma of stale sweat, stale sex, old vomit, and overused bodies. Worse, the torch cast enough light to expose the thin, filthy pallet near the back wall. A crumpled blanket lay in a heap on it; what color either had been was impossible to guess—both were dark gray and shiny with filth now—but Bell could see a darting movement here and there on pallet and blanket that showed how many six-legged pests inhabited the bed.

  Although he closed the door, Bell did not move farther into the room. “Well, Diot,” he said, “what was the cause of that altercation?”

  “He’ll say I stole from him. It isn’t true. He wanted to use me without payment. I had given him his tithe when I came. If he wants more, he must pay just like any other.”

  Bell let his breath out, only realizing then that he had been holding it. The voice was lovely and the speech as good clear French as was spoken in the household of any nobleman of England.

  “Perhaps you should not have been quite so forceful,” he remarked, smiling. “Men do not readily forgive having their nuts cracked. I do not think this stew will be a safe place for you to work.” He saw her nostrils flare, her lips tighten; the sheen of tears that dimmed her green eyes.

  “Then I will go elsewhere. There are stews enough in Southwark.”

  The words were bold, but there was the faintest unsteadiness in the voice. Bell smiled more broadly when he took in her increased anxiety. Likely she had stood up for her “rights” in other places and been cast out; this was not one of the more desirable houses. He shook his head.

  “I do not think so. I think you have already made yourself unwelcome in too many places. I think you had better come away with me. I know of a very special house where you might do well and be happy.”

  “Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “I will take my chances in the ditches and alleys before I go to such a place. At least I will die quick and clean in the streets.”

  Bell laughed aloud. “Not that kind of special. This is a place that serves only the rich, and the woman who keeps the place does not allow her whores to be mistreated. She might be willing to accept you as a replacement for one of her women who has gone to live with a client. You are very beautiful, and you speak a fine French. Do you speak English too?”

  “You want me to speak English while we couple?” she asked in that language. “Good enough. I will not even charge you extra for it.”

  Bell shuddered visibly. “Couple in this place? It is worse than a sty. I would sooner be celibate forever. Well, Diot, will you come with me? I swear you will be safe and free to leave if Magdalene will not accept you.”

  When she did not answer, he opened the door and went out, loosening his knife from its scabbard as he came into the main room. Leaning on each of the baths, watching the door, the whoremaster’s brutes were waiting. Diot must have peered out of the door behind him and seen them too.

  “Wait,” she called. “I am coming.”

  Chapter Two

  12 MAY

  MASTER MAINARD’S SHOP

  Master Mainard Saddler raised his eyes and his knife from his work at the same moment. His lifted head exposed a monstrous countenance. One third of his face, from mid-forehead to just below the right jaw, was raised and puckered, a shiny deep red blotched with purple. The dreadful birthmark ran right up over almost half his scalp and, where it lay, he was bald. That made the luxuriant growth of russet curls on the rest of his head look like a travesty of a wig set askew. His nose was oddly flattened, with too-wide nostrils, and his mouth was horribly distorted, a harelip having been inexpertly sewn together in infancy.

  The very thin man in a tattered tunic who had spoken his name did not flinch away from the raised knife or Master Mainard’s face and knew he need not be afraid although Mainard was a good foot taller and half a man of hard, solid muscle wider than he. He looked only at Mainard’s one beautiful feature, a pair of meltingly warm brown eyes.

  “Mistress Bertrild wants you home,” he said.

  The voice could have reflected the arrogance of the words, but it did not. There was only resignation in it. Master Mainard nodded and drew an oiled cloth over the piece of leather into which he had been carving an elaborate and very beautiful design. He did not answer directly but looked across at his journeyman who was using a very strong, sharp, wickedly hooked knife to cut the seat of a saddle from thick, stiff horsehide.

  “Codi, see what is left from your dinner and give it to Jean to eat on his way home.” He looked back at the servant, who had murmured thanks with real gratitude. “Tell your mistress that I will come as soon as I have put away my tools,” he said, and began to clean the knife with which he had been working.

  As soon as Codi had handed Jean a packet done up in a clean rag, the servant left the workroom and went out of the shop, nearly trotting. Mainard quickly finished wiping the knife and tucked it away into an iron-banded box that stood under the table. Having closed the box and slipped a lock through the hasp, he also went into the shop, but he did not go out of the door. Instead, he climbed the steep stair, which was guarded on its open side by a new-looking railing.

  At the door at the top of the stair, he paused and called, “Sabina.”

  “Come in,” a sweet voice replied at once.

  He opened the door, stepped inside, and caught his breath, then uttered a low chuckle. She had been with him almost a month; he saw her at least once a day, often three or four times—as often as he could find an excuse to go up to her chamber—but he still was not accustomed to the delighted smile with which she greeted him or to her beauty. He looked at the mass of dark hair, the deep red-brown of a well-polished chestnut falling to her hips in deep waves, at the oval face with its short slightly broad nose and wide, deep-rose mouth. Even the closed, sunken eyes, their dark lashes lying on her creamy skin, added to the beauty by giving an air of mystery to her smiling face.

  “Haesel,” he said, addressing the girl child who was wrapping up a heel of a loaf of bread to put on one of the shelves to the left of the hearth. “Do not bother to save what is left of our meal. Take it over to the church and give it to whoever is feeding the beggars there. Here is a penny. Buy some pottage and half a
roasted chicken and a sweet—less sweet and more food,” he told her, shaking a finger at her, “for your evening meal.”

  The child grinned at him, took the penny, and pushed it through the opening in her gown into the pocket tied around her waist. If she had been afraid of his ugliness when he first took her from the churchyard where she had been left when her parents abandoned her, she was accustomed to it now and was as lively and saucy as any well-fed child of ten should be. She promptly dumped odds and ends of meat, the soaked trenchers off which they had eaten, some rinds of cheese, and the broken remains of a pasty into a basket, and skipped out of the room.

  When the door closed behind her, Sabina said, “You will not have the evening meal with us, my love?”

  “Are you bored and lonely, Sabina?” he asked.

  A sweet smile made her face even more beautiful, and she held out her hand. He hurried forward and took it. “I am always lonely when you are not with me, Mainard.”

  He sighed heavily. “That was what I feared. You are accustomed to the company of the other women of the Old Priory Guesthouse. There is no one to talk to here—”

  “Oh, you silly man.” Her laughter was sweet and low, an invitation to intimacy. “Can you not recognize a compliment when you hear one? It is your company I crave, love, not that of my ‘sisters,’ fond as I am of them. I am not bored or lonely. I have songs to make up and Haesel to teach. You chose well, when you chose her. She is very clever and already speaks a little French.”

  He kissed her hand and then, when she raised her head invitingly, her lips.

  She clung for a moment, then said hesitantly, “Would it be easier for you, dearling, if I went back? At first I thought your wife would not care since she did not want you, but now I know she is angry at my being here….”

  “Don’t!” Mainard fell to his knees and buried his face in her lap. “Do not leave me!” He drew a sobbing breath. “If you want other men, have them. I will look the other way. Only do not leave me.”