Winchester had been holding was still in his hand. Either what the bishop had heard in his inner chamber was so absorbing he had forgotten to put it down or the letter itself was important. The bishop raised the hand with the letter toward him; Bell started forward to take it, feeling slightly disappointed, but Winchester shook his head and looked past him, out toward the hall as if he were seeking a new messenger. Bell stood still, thinking with pleasure that the bishop might have more interesting work for him than delivering letters, unless…but at that moment, Guiscard stood up. Winchester looked at him.
“Ah, Guiscard,” he said. “I was going to send Bell to the Archdeacon of London with this letter and a request that he bring to me all the particulars about the quarrel between St. Matthew’s and St. Peter’s. But you will serve my purpose better. You can explain to the archdeacon that I will tolerate no more delay. I wish to see that matter settled before I leave for Winchester again.”
Guiscard stood up, his mouth turned down in a discontented arch. Bell swallowed a chuckle. Doubtless Guiscard considered it beneath his dignity to be a messenger. “But my lord,” he protested, “the murder…the whore. She is not to be trusted. The sacristan of St. Mary Overy has often complained of her insolence, her unwillingness to be guided to a better life. Would it not be better if I—”
“No,” the bishop said, a certain rigidity about his mouth telling Bell that he probably wanted to laugh. “I have bethought me that you are better fitted than Bell to deal with the archdeacon. Bell would have no idea what was a just objection, which you will surely understand. On the other hand, Bell is just the man to deal with murderers and whores.”
Bell bowed slightly, now wanting to laugh himself. He took what the bishop said as a compliment, not an insult, but Guiscard de Tournai, the common physician’s son, would probably think the bishop had been denigrating him. He felt a flash of admiration for Winchester’s cleverness and then found himself grateful rather than amused. As one of the bishop’s secretaries, Guiscard could make a nuisance of himself if he took a person in despite. Bell’s messages could get lost or garbled, his stipend delayed. Not that the bishop had been thinking of him, Bell reminded himself; he was relatively new to Winchester’s service, having been taken into the Household only three years back. By soothing Guiscard with a few words, Winchester was trying to avoid a discord between his servants that might interfere with his business.
“You can send young, Phillipe, to sit here until you return,” the bishop continued to Guiscard. “I do not expect any visitor of note until nearly Vespers.” He turned to Bell. “You come with me.”
Telling Guiscard to set Phillipe to watch the door was another clever move, Bell thought, following his master into the private chamber. Had Henry asked for one of his other secretaries, Guiscard might have thought secrets were being kept from him and he would certainly have been jealous. The young clerk, Phillipe, was no threat. Ahead of him, the bishop stopped and turned. Bell stopped also, looked in the direction of the bishop’s gaze—and froze.
Enormous eyes, the color of a slightly misty sky, an infinitely deep, soft gray-blue, met his. Above them arched nut-brown brows, which were almost touched by long, thick, curling lashes. A straight nose, but with a barely tilted tip, which begged to be kissed, perched above a mouth to which lips must go next: full, soft, perfectly arched, with corners that had been curved up to greet the bishop but tucked themselves back at the intensity of his scrutiny.
Bell blinked, looked away from her face to the cloak she had removed and carried now over her arm, but what he saw was a firm and shapely bosom and, falling over her shoulder, tresses of thick, shining, honey-gold hair exposed by the loosening of her veil.
“Ah, Guiscard,” he said. “I was going to send Bell to the Archdeacon of London with this letter and a request that he bring to me all the particulars about the quarrel between St. Matthew’s and St. Peter’s. But you will serve my purpose better. You can explain to the archdeacon that I will tolerate no more delay. I wish to see that matter settled before I leave for Winchester again.”
Guiscard stood up, his mouth turned down in a discontented arch. Bell swallowed a chuckle. Doubtless Guiscard considered it beneath his dignity to be a messenger. “But my lord,” he protested, “the murder…the whore. She is not to be trusted. The sacristan of St. Mary Overy has often complained of her insolence, her unwillingness to be guided to a better life. Would it not be better if I—”
“No,” the bishop said, a certain rigidity about his mouth telling Bell that he probably wanted to laugh. “I have bethought me that you are better fitted than Bell to deal with the archdeacon. Bell would have no idea what was a just objection, which you will surely understand. On the other hand, Bell is just the man to deal with murderers and whores.”
Bell bowed slightly, now wanting to laugh himself. He took what the bishop said as a compliment, not an insult, but Guiscard de Tournai, the common physician’s son, would probably think the bishop had been denigrating him. He felt a flash of admiration for Winchester’s cleverness and then found himself grateful rather than amused. As one of the bishop’s secretaries, Guiscard could make a nuisance of himself if he took a person in despite. Bell’s messages could get lost or garbled, his stipend delayed. Not that the bishop had been thinking of him, Bell reminded himself; he was relatively new to Winchester’s service, having been taken into the Household only three years back. By soothing Guiscard with a few words, Winchester was trying to avoid a discord between his servants that might interfere with his business.
“You can send young, Phillipe, to sit here until you return,” the bishop continued to Guiscard. “I do not expect any visitor of note until nearly Vespers.” He turned to Bell. “You come with me.”
Telling Guiscard to set Phillipe to watch the door was another clever move, Bell thought, following his master into the private chamber. Had Henry asked for one of his other secretaries, Guiscard might have thought secrets were being kept from him and he would certainly have been jealous. The young clerk, Phillipe, was no threat. Ahead of him, the bishop stopped and turned. Bell stopped also, looked in the direction of the bishop’s gaze—and froze.
Enormous eyes, the color of a slightly misty sky, an infinitely deep, soft gray-blue, met his. Above them arched nut-brown brows, which were almost touched by long, thick, curling lashes. A straight nose, but with a barely tilted tip, which begged to be kissed, perched above a mouth to which lips must go next: full, soft, perfectly arched, with corners that had been curved up to greet the bishop but tucked themselves back at the intensity of his scrutiny.
Bell blinked, looked away from her face to the cloak she had removed and carried now over her arm, but what he saw was a firm and shapely bosom and, falling over her shoulder, tresses of thick, shining, honey-gold hair exposed by the loosening of her veil.
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