Masques of Gold (16 page)

At the time he had taken the house he had been negotiating a marriage, and knew the girl had already chosen and ordered her own bed. But the marriage had fallen through when he discovered the girl was terrified of him. He might not have dropped the negotiations on that account, expecting that he could teach her he was no monster, but fortunately he had overheard her talking to a young man whom she favored and did not fear at all and discovered that her blank looks and nonsensical remarks were not owing to terror but to lack of wit; in fact, he had almost been trapped with a woman stupider than he could bear.

After disentangling himself from the family, Justin had never got around to ordering a bed, partly because he never thought of it when he had the time and partly because a bed was often a substantial part of a wife's dowry. To have two beds would be ridiculous; it was rare even for great noble families to have more than one bed. On the other hand, two chairs, Justin thought, his mind going back to his dinner with Thomas as he stripped off his clothes, were a reasonable extravagance. His uncle, while he was alive, used to visit him often; Justin had many older, important visitors, and he did not relish sitting on a lowly stool in his own house.

Still, on cold winter nights like this one, as he slid his shivering body into the cold cot, he swore he would have a bed made for him at once so that he could sleep warm and soft in feather beds. A slow smile parted his lips. He did not need to order a bed for that, only dismiss the guards who were watching Lissa's house and find a way in that would not wake the old woman. A deeper warmth pervaded him than that normally reflected by his own body from the furs on which he slept and drew over him, and Justin allowed his eyes to close. Tomorrow.

Lissa's mother had told her, when she was a child and wept because nothing she did could ever please her father, that the only use for tears was to clear the eyes. Over the years she had found that to be true; God knew the bitter tears she wept over her mother's death did not bring her mother back. And now the bitter tears did not soften the blow Thomas had dealt her.

At least she was sure now, she told herself. She need no longer sit at home waiting in hope that Justin would come. Whatever his reasons for deciding that their mutual delight was a mistake, he had made it plain that he did not wish to see her again. Lissa wiped the tears from her cheeks with the heel of her hand and unrolled the list of Peter's clients again. Tomorrow early, she would go to Master Hamo Finke and ask him to find a trustworthy agent for her. And meanwhile, she told herself firmly, she had better decide whom the agent should see and for what he should ask.

Although there had as yet been no rush of creditors beating on the door, despite the inevitable spread of the news that Peter's sons had fled with his strongboxes, two merchants had asked to speak to her. Witta had turned them away without difficulty, simply saying his mistress could see no one yet but promised to attend to them on the first Monday coming. Peter's position and the open support of Goscelin and the other goldsmiths had quieted anxiety and permitted her a little time to gather her wits, but Monday was only three days hence, and she must be ready.

The thought repeated itself, and Lissa looked down at the parchment in her lap, only then realizing, because it was growing too dark to read, that she must have been sitting for some time utterly blank of mind. She shivered, not only cold but shocked at how much she had allowed her disappointment over Justin to affect her. That was stupid. She was a widow now, in control of her own dowry and independent of her father. She could marry any man to whom she took a fancy; some of those who had wanted her were still unwed and sought her eyes hopefully. Lissa nearly burst into tears again, and decided that was not the best way to cheer herself. Well, she was free of any master, within reason; she need not marry at all.

The dim, empty room mocked that thought. She did not want to live alone. Hastily Lissa got up to throw more wood on the fire and, when the flames began to dance again, went around the room lighting candles. When that was done she felt better for the brightness and went to close the shutter. As she took hold of it, to her surprise, Lissa thought she heard her father's voice. She hesitated, tempted to unloosen a corner of the oiled parchment that let in some light and kept out the cold, but the voice had stopped by then and she did not bother, certain she had been mistaken. There was no reason for her father to come back after their quarrel in the morning. His habit was to give her a day or two to “forget” and then broach in a new way the demand they had argued over.

Below the solar window, Binge retained her scowl as the bitch's father said farewell and gave a nod that was almost a bow. A courtesy like that made her suspicious, as did the second silver penny she clutched tight under the cloth that protected her gown while she was cooking. When Bowles's dark cloak had disappeared out of the gate, Binge sidled into the kitchen shed near to the fire, lifted her gown and shift, and slid the penny into the purse she wore against her flesh.

As she pulled down her skirts, Binge considered her source of new wealth. She had promised to open the back door to the new wife's father tonight. That was what he asked her to do when he gave her the first penny the day after the master had been buried. She had not answered him yea or nay then, even when he promised another penny after the door was open. And today, he had given her a second penny and promised three more when the door was open. So his need to get into the house was very great, far greater than could be caused by his ill will toward the bitch.

Absently Binge stirred the soup she had made for the evening meal. Bowles had said he needed his daughter at home, but Heloise was lazy and stubborn and did not want to return to her duty of keeping his house and attending to his business. She wished to live in idle luxury, and he did not dare force her because she might, to spite him, mix poison instead of medicine. She must be frightened into leaving Flael's house and believe her father was doing her a favor to take her in. Thus, Bowles had said, he would pretend to be a thief and beat her because there was nothing to steal in the house. After that, she would be afraid to stay, and Binge would be left to care for the place until Flael's sons came home from Canterbury.

The whole idea was very appealing to Binge. The thought of Lissa getting a good beating and then leaving the house so that Binge would have it all to herself was delightful. The only trouble was that she did not believe a word the bitch's father said. Could this be planned between the two of them to be rid of her? No, that was silly. With all the true family gone, the bitch could be rid of her without needing any excuse. Still, perhaps she should not open the door? But then she would have to give back the pennies, and she might be beaten and thrown into the street anyway. That was the bitch's threat, and for all she hated her father she would believe him above a servant's word.

Binge looked at the wall between the kitchen shed and the house. She would never have done it, never have let a thief into the house, if the mistress were alive, not for ten silver pennies, not even for thirty. It was different now, with even the master dead and the boys run away. Canterbury, he said. That was a lie. Binge knew the boys had not gone to Canterbury, although they had told her nothing. They must have done something wrong after the mistress died and there was no one to keep them straight.

Maybe the bitch had led the master wrong, tempted him into some evil act. Surely it was her fault he was killed. That lord with the hard face, who made Binge shiver when he questioned her, was plainly seeking evidence of the bitch's guilt, so it would be right to get that one in trouble. Maybe I can, too, Binge thought. No one knew that young Peter had given her all his keys, so the fact that all the inside doors were open would be blamed on the bitch's carelessness. It was true too. The bitch never locked the doors the way the real mistress always had. But Binge knew the first one accused by the wardens was always the servant. She would have to take care that if it all went wrong, she would not be blamed and no one would know she had let the bitch's father into the house. If the silver pennies were found, would they betray her? On the thought she nervously pressed her left hand against the hardness of the purse under her clothes.

“Got a pain, I hope,” Witta sang out as he dashed from the house and into the kitchen.

Binge shrieked with shock and dropped the spoon into the soup pot, splashing herself with the hot liquid so that she shrieked again.

Witta laughed and danced around her, grabbing the heel of bread and an irregular piece of cheese that had been left lying on one of the tables used for cutting.

“Thief,” Binge screamed, snatching up the spoon and throwing the hot liquid from it at the boy.

“Am not!” Witta exclaimed impudently, stopping dead, but well away so the shower from the spoon missed him. “Mistress Lissa never holds back on food. Boys got to eat. She said so. I'll tell—”

“Tell!”

Binge's voice rose hysterically and her face changed, twisting, the toothless mouth open, panting, the eyes showing white all around in a way that both frightened Witta and wrenched at his heart because he could remember a terror that was beyond screams. He had been playing with the old woman, teasing, not realizing until it happened that he had gone too far.

“No, no, I won't tell,” he promised. “I know you're scared mistress will put you out, but she won't. She gets mad sometimes and says bad things, but she's good, really good. She never hurts anyone, never.”

It was fortunate that all Binge had in her hand was a wooden spoon. She threw it with intent to kill, and it flew truer than the liquid that had been in it and struck Witta on the side of the head as he turned to run. He gasped, but did not cry out, as he fled into the house. Binge took a few steps after him, then stopped, picked up the spoon, which she wiped absently on her gown, and turned back. The bitch's father would have to kill Witta because the boy had seen where Binge's money was hidden. She would not let Bowles in until he promised that, and she would threaten to confess that he forced her to admit him if he did not keep that promise.

As she came to that decision, Binge suddenly realized that it might be impossible to let Bowles in at all if Witta was sleeping in the workroom with her. The boy usually slept deeply, but she had noticed that he always woke, sometimes with a cry of fear, when she lifted the bar of the door. If he woke he would interfere, cry out, warn the bitch; the whole plan would fail and Binge knew who would be punished. She hissed with irritation, realizing she should have locked Witta in the hut while she had him outside, but then she shook her head. Better she had not tried. She might not have been strong enough to handle that little devil, and even if she got him in, he would not have sat still and waited; he might have forced his way out. But maybe she could get the mistress herself to banish him. There was one thing she could say that might get him driven out of the house and would certainly stop his mouth about where she kept her money, because to admit he knew that would prove her complaint.

***

Lissa dismissed from her mind the silly notion that she had heard her father's voice. She must be desperate indeed, she thought, if she started imagining her father had come rather than be alone. Idleness was her fault; sitting and dreaming like a fool about what existed only in her own mind. When she was busy, she did not have foolish fancies.

She then walked briskly into her bedchamber, took the list of creditors from the chest, and carried it back with her into the warm, bright solar where she began to compare it with the list of debtors. Lissa had remembered that one goldsmith often borrowed from another to lend to a third party, outside the guild, at a higher rate. If she found such cases, she decided, she would simply sign over the debt to the creditor, splitting the difference between what Peter owed the creditor and the debtor owed Peter. This arrangement would give the creditor a greater profit than he would have collected from Peter and the debtor a lesser payment. Everyone would be very happy, Lissa thought—and when her father discovered what she was doing he would have a fit. That made a wan smile curve her lips, until Binge's and Witta's voices in mingled outrage, floated up the stairway.

“Filthy animal,” Binge was shrieking, “I won't let you sleep in the workroom. I won't!”

“She's crazy, mistress,” Witta cried, bursting into the room. “Why would I want to look at her dried up old dugs and behind? I never did! I never did!”

“You did! You did!” Binge panted, following hard on the boy's heels. “I saw your eye at the door!”

“You can't even see to cut meat for the pot—”

“Be quiet!” Lissa shouted, getting to her feet and facing the pair.

“He's a dirty beast,” Binge wailed. “He picks up the blanket at night and looks at me. I feel the cold. I know. I won't have him in the workroom with me.”

The stunned disbelief on Witta's face, the way his eyes popped and his mouth hung open, working but producing nothing, was a good indication to Lissa that Binge's accusation was without foundation. Still, it was not beyond belief that a boy of Witta's age might, out of curiosity, peep at any woman, even one as old as Binge, and Lissa credited his denial no more than she credited Binge's first accusation—apparently that Witta watched her on the pot. Binge's complaint was pure madness. Whatever Witta's curiosity, it was not possible that he had managed to perform what amounted to a miracle for the poor reward of peering at the old woman's body in the dim light of the night-candle. He would have had to unwind her blankets and lift or even remove her clothes—for on these cold nights no one who slept on a straw pallet on a stone floor would think of taking off any clothing—and then restore everything, all without waking her.

Lissa, who had opened her mouth to tell Binge not to be an idiot, closed it again as the word “idiot” echoed in her head. To say what she had said, Binge must be beyond reason, so it would be useless to argue with her.

“Mistress,” Witta cried, finding his voice, “I—”

“Be quiet, I said,” Lissa snapped at him.

“He's to go out to the hut,” Binge yelled. “He's—”

“One word more from you, and
you
will go out to the hut,” Lissa cried, turning on her.

“I'll freeze,” the old woman wailed. “You want to kill me. You told him to look at me, to spy on me. I won't go out! I won't! I won't! You'll have to drag me. I'll scream. I'll—”

“Be still!” Lissa commanded at the top of her voice. “No one will put you out in the cold tonight. I am not a murderer. But I will not put Witta out either.”

She hesitated because Binge looked utterly stricken, but a moment later the old woman cackled with laughter and said, “Just as you say, mistress. Just as you say.”

Lissa found that she had gone cold all through. God knew what the crazy old woman would do. She might kill the boy in his sleep. Repressing a shudder, Lissa said, “Very well, Binge, you may sleep alone in the workroom tonight and try to calm yourself. Witta, go down and get your pallet and blankets. You may sleep in this room for tonight.” She followed the boy to the stair landing outside the door and said softly, “Look to see if there is a key in the door between the workroom and the shop. I do not think so, but if there is, take it out.”

She turned quickly, but Binge had not moved and was not even looking toward her. The old woman had a thoughtful expression that changed to satisfaction while Lissa was watching. What Binge could find satisfying in the fact that Witta would have more comfortable quarters than she herself Lissa did not want to attempt to guess, but she took a position near the door to prevent Binge from rushing out and pushing Witta over the rail or down the stair when his arms were full. In fact, Binge did nothing but mutter a few words to herself when Witta came in and dumped his pallet and blanket near the hearth. Lissa felt rather foolish, but not so foolish that she failed to send Witta out—through the front door—to buy a simple evening meal for them at a cookshop rather than eat the soup Binge had prepared. And when she went down to check that the bars had been set into the front and back doors, Lissa turned the key that had been Peter's in the lock of the door that closed off the workroom from the shop.