“You have heard there has been another murder in the town?” Iseult said in an effort to make conversation with the woman across from her. Although their husbands worked together, they had little of common interest to share, but Iseult was bored and had come to the moneyer’s house in the hope that Blanche would be willing to engage in the gossip buzzing about the town.
“Yes,” Blanche replied. “An apprentice to a silversmith named Warner Tasser, I believe.”
Iseult nodded, becoming slightly more animated. “It is said that Tasser is responsible-that his apprentice became privy to the silversmith’s nefarious dealings and Tasser killed him to ensure his silence.”
Blanche pursed her mouth in disapproval. Iseult had come to Lincoln with her husband two days before and was staying in the exchange while he assayed a quantity of coinage. The rooms above the exchanger’s office could be lonely while Simon was at work and Iseult had come to Blanche for company to while away the tedium. From prattle told to Blanche’s maid by the girl that served Iseult-which had in turn been repeated to Blanche by her maidservant-the moneyer’s wife knew that Partager had only insisted on his wife accompanying him to Lincoln because he feared she would be keeping his place in their bed at Canwick warm with his employer, Walter Legerton.
Blanche flashed a glance from beneath her brows at the woman who sat across from her. Iseult was beautiful, it was true, but her prettiness was too bold for a married woman. Blanche was not sure if Legerton was the first man on whom Iseult had bestowed her adulterous favours in her short married life, but she was certain he would not be the last.
“Many things are carelessly said after someone is murdered,” Blanche said reprovingly, “but that does not mean they are true. You would do well to remember, Iseult, that my husband’s clerk was also murdered. Would you be so anxious to repeat gossip that accused Simon, or my Helias, of killing him?”
Iseult reared back in her chair, shocked. She did not particularly like Blanche and knew the feeling was mutual, but never before had the moneyer’s wife spoken to her in such acerbic tones.
“There is no one who would dare accuse my husband of murder,” Iseult said defensively. “He is a respected man.”
“So is mine,” Blanche said placidly. “But that does not mean they do not have enemies who would be only too pleased to spread gossip harmful to their reputations.” She gave Iseult a piercing look. “You should be more careful of repeating rumours, mistress. The Bible admonishes us not to judge lest we be judged. Are you so free of sin you have no fear of finding yourself a target for malice one day?”
Iseult stood up, her nostrils flaring. “Any who would say evil words about me are just jealous, that is all.” She tossed her head and the heavy yellow braids under her coif slithered forward enticingly over her ample bosom. Her eyes narrowed as she reached for her cloak, which she had thrown over the back of a settle when she came in. “Women, especially older ones, always bear enmity towards those who are young and beautiful. Their comments do not interest me, nor do I take heed of them.”
With this vituperative pronouncement, she flung the cloak about her shoulders and left the room. Blanche heard the outer door slam as Iseult left the house. The moneyer’s wife smiled to herself and went back to stitching her tapestry. Now she would not have to endure the burden of listening to Iseult’s inane chatter for the rest of the afternoon.
At Canwick, Walter Legerton was sitting in the little chamber where he and Partager had spoken to Bascot. With him was his sister, Silvana. Together they were reviewing the household accounts.
“You have been too generous with the gifts you purchased for New Year’s Day, Brother,” Silvana said in gentle admonition. “There was no need to buy that costly jewelled comb for Partager’s wife. The gold bracelet you gave her just a few weeks ago was surely enough to sate her hunger for expensive finery.”
Legerton’s florid face flushed an even deeper red. “Simon is a good assayer. Whatever I give his wife is merely my way of showing appreciation for his industry.”
Silvana gave him a sceptical glance. “Or that you value his wife’s company in your bed?”
“That will soon be over,” her brother replied defensively. “It was amusing for a time, but my interest in her is waning.”
“Then perhaps it is not wise to give her such an expensive trinket,” Silvana said thoughtfully. “Otherwise she will believe she retains your favour.”
Legerton sighed. “You are right, Silvana,” he agreed. “I will give her something more in keeping with her position.”
As her brother returned his eyes to the list of figures in front of him, Silvana felt a surge of affection smother her impatience with his lechery. She knew Walter was a weak man but she loved him dearly all the same. They had been together for many years now, ever since their father, a widower and a prominent silversmith in Lincoln, had died. Their sire, an upright and extremely moral man, had curbed Walter’s excesses while he was alive but, soon after their father’s death, her brother had sold the business he inherited and used the funds to buy the manor house at Canwick. Silvana had gone with him for, since the death of Walter’s wife in childbirth some years before, she had taken over the running of her brother’s household as well as the care of his two sons. It suited them both; Silvana had never had any desire to wed and enjoyed the position of a married woman without the onerous task of bedding a husband, while Walter was ensured that the person in charge of his domestic affairs was one he could trust. Their fortune in life was bound up in each other, tied securely by the bond of shared blood.
But lately Silvana had come to fear her brother was putting the financial security of their small family in jeopardy. She had advised him against selling their father’s business, but he had not listened to her, his eyes too eagerly set on living a life of ease away from the hard work of toiling in the silver manufactory. Once he had been awarded the post of exchanger-which he secured only by paying a hefty fee to the royal official who held the gift of the office in his hands-Walter had believed the commission he derived from the post would provide more than enough for him and his family to live on. But it had not taken long for him to realise that his hedonistic inclinations were proving far too expensive for his means. Entertaining and feeding the number of guests at Canwick during the feast of this year’s Christ’s Mass was too costly by far and Walter knew it, but he had invited all of them just the same, fearing he would be seen as parsimonious if he did not. Only Silvana knew of the desperate measures he was in and that he had borrowed money from one of the Jewish usurers in Lincoln to replenish his empty coffers.
“Walter, you must curb your spending,” Silvana said gently. “Once Epiphany is over, and our guests have gone home, we must try to live simply. There is no need to have expensive viands at every meal and strew the manor house with costly trappings. If you do not bring yourself to practice more thrift, we will soon be reduced to penury.” The softness in her voice removed any sting from the rebuke.
Walter looked up at his sister, at the features so like his own. Silvana had the same thick dark hair, which she wore braided and neatly coiled under a close-fitting coif, and the identical rosiness of cheek. Although she was five years younger than he, Silvana had always seemed as though she were the elder, for she watched over his well-being as though she were their long-dead mother. From any other, the words she had just spoken would have invoked his wrath, but he knew her castigation was well meant and given only out of concern for him and her nephews.
“You are right, Silvana,” he said with a groan of despair, his habitual haughtiness absent in the presence of his sister. “I promise that after Epiphany it will be as you say. I fear I do not have any choice in the matter.”