Bone of Contention Page 11

  “Do not be a fool!” Loveday exclaimed even more sharply. “St. Cyr is a practiced man-at-arms. He would kill you. I have enough protectors. Stay away from St. Cyr, Jules.”

  The young man’s face flushed dark red. “Do you think me such a popinjay? Well, you need not. I have friends—” his eyes flicked sideways toward Ormerod “—who are eager to see us married and will support me in keeping St. Cyr from having you.”

  “Jules!” Loveday protested, but it was too late. The young man had rushed away from her back toward The Wheat Sheaf. She looked at Magdalene. “I hope he does not drink too much. He is of those who grow pot-valiant.”

  Magdalene looked up at Ormerod, who sighed. “I will make sure he does nothing dangerous.” Then he grinned. “If anything happened to him and his estate went to the crown, I would never get my money back.”

  Chapter 7

  21 June,

  The Soft Nest, Oxford

  The encounter with Jules of Osney having spoiled their taste for strolling slowly around the Cornmarket, Magdalene and Loveday returned to the Soft Nest. While Magdalene drew patterns for embroidery on the ribbons she had purchased the previous day, Loveday made two copies of her appeal to the king. One, she hoped, Lord William would present to the king, one she would keep, and the third would go to Niall at Noke so he would know what Loveday claimed.

  They had spent the rest of the afternoon in what remained of the back yard, peacefully embroidering the patterns Magdalene had drawn. When the light began to fail, they carried in the stools on which they had been sitting and admired what they had wrought.

  Diccon brought them an evening meal and told them that while running an errand, he had seen Bell in The Wheat Sheaf deep in conversation with men whose clothing was better than that of common men-at-arms.

  “Drunk?” Magdalene asked.

  The boy shrugged. “His face was red, but his eyes…no, not drunk. Not yet, anyway. He’s coming back here later, though. Does he hit when he’s drunk?”

  “Not me, anyway,” Magdalene answered smiling. “I’m not sure I would trust him if a man crossed him. Get him into the back room as soon as possible.”

  “Sir Bellamy is going to sleep here?” Loveday asked.

  “He has no other lodging. You need not be concerned. Drunk or sober, he will not trouble you.”

  That was true. Likely he did not even remember Loveday was in the other bed—to which she had repaired soon after dark, yawning most sincerely because she was accustomed to country hours. Magdalene, embroidering quietly by candlelight, which she often did far into the night in the Old Priory Guesthouse, was on hand to greet him. If not drunk, he was not wholly sober and needed help undoing his buckles and ties, but he did not giggle and jest over his clumsiness while she helped him as he usually did. His mouth was grim and he went to the bed almost without a word.

  Magdalene expected that he would be asleep by the time she had put away her work and undressed herself, but he took her in his arms as soon as she slipped under the covers and held her tight against him.

  “What you heard is not good news,” she said softly.

  He was silent for a time and then said, “You have often told me that most whores hate sex. Just so do most soldiers hate war.”

  He kissed her before she could ask a further question and began to stroke her body and caress her breasts. Magdalene gave herself to him with practiced warmth, but for once her mind was busy with other than the gratification of her senses. Bell, too, either because he remembered Loveday’s presence or because his own mood was too dark, neither thrust nor cried out with his usual abandon. Still passion grew, and when the waves of satisfaction had lifted and cast them down, each was more at peace.

  Resting quietly in the aftermath, Bell yawned and murmured, “I must go report to the dean early tomorrow. I may even have to ride down to Winchester to speak to the bishop.” Then he laughed softly. “ ‘Tell Magdalene and feel better’,” he said, recalling a maxim of Ella’s, and detailed what he had gleaned from conversation with captains sworn to Warenne, Chester, Alain of Brittany, and several others, ending, “I do not know if there will be time, but Salisbury should be warned not to bring too many men into the city.”

  “Not bring too many men in? Will he be safer with fewer to defend him?”

  “Did you not hear me? No one will attack the bishop himself. That would be unthinkable, even to Waleran de Meulan. The men will be used to make Salisbury appear guilty of an offense against the king. Something is planned—what, I could not find out, I think the men with whom I spoke did not know. Some breaking of the peace will occur and Salisbury will be blamed. If he does not have any men in the city other than the guard in attendance on him, they cannot break the peace and he cannot be blamed.”

  “Perhaps he would be better off claiming illness—he is an old man, he could be ill—and not coming at all.”

  “I suspect if he does that, the king will send a Visitor’ most anxious to inquire into his well-being—and into the condition of his keeps.”

  “William…” Magdalene whispered.

  Bell stiffened and pulled free of her. “You have told me many times that I will not be your only lover, but I wish you would not cry for another man when lying in my arms.”

  “Do not be an idiot!” Magdalene spat. “I only meant that it would be William who would have to go to Salisbury, either to pry him out of his keep or to examine it inside and out. May I send him word of what you learned? His men are camped outside the city, but he could order some troops in to wander the market and maybe sit in the alehouses to prevent a riot from starting.”

  After a long silence, Bell sighed and drew Magdalene back to lie with her head on his shoulder. “You may tell him, of course, but I do not think…” He let his voice fade and said no more. Soon the ale he had drunk and the fatigue of his lovemaking had their way, and he slept.

  Bell was gone by the time Magdalene woke in the morning. Loveday, awake with the first light of dawn as was her habit as the mistress of a well-run manor, told Magdalene she had been breaking her fast when he came from the sheltered side of the bed. She had offered him bread and ale, of which they now had ample supply, and he had eaten and drunk.

  “And he will bring us or send us—if he must ride to Winchester—news of Noke.”

  Magdalene grinned and shook her head. “A woman after my own heart,” she said. “You know how to make use of a man, but how did you turn Bell, who knows a thing or two about women, into your messenger boy?”

  Loveday smiled back and explained that to be polite, she asked where he was going. And, of course, when he told her Wytham, it occurred to her that he would ride right by the lane to Noke. She shrugged. Since he already knew the whole story, she then explained that Niall was guarding the manor and that she was dying to know what had happened there and also wished Niall to know about her appeal.

  “He is a good-humored man, and very kind,” Loveday said. “He freely offered to ride the few extra miles to Noke and to bring the third copy of my appeal to Niall. I did not ask Sir Bellamy to tell Niall anything. I am sure Niall will realize he must send or take my letter to his father at Murcot.”

  Along with her amusement over how determined—and manipulative—Loveday was, Magdalene was relieved. Loveday’s problem had slipped her mind, overlaid by anxiety about Salisbury’s fate. But trust Loveday not to lose sight of her ends. Magdalene went out to use the privy smiling broadly.

  On her way in, she saw Diccon and told him to bring in water for washing. When she was dressed, she and Loveday began to discuss what to do with the day that stretched long ahead of them. Both were women accustomed to being busy, but before their enforced idleness could drive them out, despite their concern about being recognized as they had been the previous day, Diccon was back.

  “Man wants to see you, Mistress Magdalene,” he said. “Said you knew him and that he’s sorry to bother you so early but he has to ask you a favor.”

  “He didn’t give a
name?”

  “No, but I think Florete will know. He’s been here before.”

  “Very well, send him in. Loveday, you had better get back into the bed and draw the curtains. Too many people in this area know you.”

  The girl swept off the table any evidence of a second person having eaten and retreated behind her bedcurtains. Diccon scratched at the door and then opened it. To Magdalene’s amazement, Sir Ferrau stood in the doorway.

  “Yes, sir?” she asked.

  “May I come in?” Magdalene hesitated and he added, “I promise that no insult will be offered you.”

  Magdalene bent her head. “Very well. Enter.”

  He closed the door behind him and cleared his throat uneasily. “I come on a very distasteful errand,” he said. “I am sure you have not forgotten that stupid lout that Lord William nearly choked?”

  “No, I have not forgotten.”

  “He fell into some quarrel with one of William of Ypres’ men on the morning of the day he insulted you and was soundly thrashed, which is why he was all bruised. He claims that while he was unconscious, Lord William’s man cut his purse.”

  “One of William’s men cut Waleran’s man-at-arms’s purse?” Magdalene repeated, looking wide-eyed with surprise. Then she shook her head as if she could not believe it. “Forgive me,” she said, “but what would such a man have in his purse to make it worth stealing? This sounds very unlikely, unless…unless there was something special in the purse?”

  Ferrau sighed heavily. “There was a large sum of money. St. Cyr says he was robbed of nearly a pound in silver, and he is so angry he intended to go to Lord Waleran to complain. He claims there was another man with him at the manor who will swear he saw what happened.”

  “But what has this to do with me? Or you?”

  He sighed again. “It is my misfortune to have met him in the street and have him invite himself to come here with me. You remember how he was put out. It seems when he came to himself he was bemused, and only late yesterday afternoon remembered what had happened. He came to Count Alain of Brittany’s lodging and bawled for me to accompany him to Lord Waleran and bear witness when and how he discovered his purse was missing. I took him to the Lively Hop instead and calmed him. He left happy, but when I returned to my lodging I discovered that my master, Count Alain, had heard him.”

  “I hope you told that idiot St. Cyr that Lord Waleran is not likely to concern himself over the loss of a purse of a common man-at-arms?”

  “Would he not if it was William of Ypres’s man being accused?” Sir Ferrau asked pointedly.

  “I see,” Magdalene breathed.

  Ferrau nodded. “Tensions are so high… I will not trouble you with the cause— I am sure you are indifferent to it—but Lord Waleran and Lord William are already at daggers drawn. Count Alain is most eager that nothing disrupt the king’s Council. Although he knows none of this is my fault, he bade me try to recover the purse to avoid another cause of anger and resentment, however small.”

  “A most worthy purpose,” Magdalene agreed, “but I do not see why you come to me.” She opened her eyes wide. “Surely you do not suspect me of receiving stolen goods?”

  “No! Good Lord, no. Lord William’s woman would have no need to… No, it is your good services Count Alain hopes to engage. That is, the count knows nothing of you but he told me to be discreet. For me to go directly to Lord William…ah…would not be…”

  “Now I see.” Magdalene smiled as witlessly as she knew how. “You want me to ask William to tell his man to give up the purse to you. But which man?”

  “It would be best not to involve Lord William at all,” Sir Ferrau said. “Or me and through me Count Alain. St. Cyr says the man was Niall Arvagh. I hope you know him. I hope you can explain to him how much it would redound to his discredit if Lord William heard of what he had done. Count Alain desires that this not come to either Lord Waleran’s or Lord William’s attention.”

  “Then I suppose you do not want this Niall Arvagh to bring the purse to you…if he took it and is willing to return it.”

  “No, not to me. He would not want to admit to a knight that he cut a man’s purse. That would make him more reluctant to give it up. Let him give it to you.”

  “I suppose I can find Niall Arvagh—the name is not so common—but I fear that if he cut the purse for the silver, the money will no longer be there.”

  Sir Ferrau stared for a moment too long at her, then nodded. “I, too, suppose the silver will be gone. I do not know what the count will wish to do about that. Possibly he will replace it to keep St. Cyr quiet, the money is nothing to him. That will be out of my hands. God knows I wish I had never met St. Cyr or taken pity on him because of the fight. But it is true he did not know the purse was gone until he had to pay Madame Florete—and then I was stuck for the price of the whore—” he bit his lip “—sorry.”

  “No need. That is what I am, a whore.” Magdalene smiled slowly. “But I doubt many could afford my price.” Then she frowned. “Well, I will do what I can. I certainly do not want William troubled with this matter, and I do know several of his captains. I will put out word about the ‘lost’ purse. If it should come into my hand…”

  Ferrau shrugged. “Hold it, or since the money will be gone, you could leave it with Florete. I cannot imagine there would be anything else in it of interest to anyone. I will come by tonight and tomorrow. I do not know whether St. Cyr can be convinced to be patient longer than that.”

  “If the count is willing to pay him a few pence on account,” Magdalene said, “St. Cyr will get himself too drunk to remember his outrage, and certainly too drunk to present any complaint to Lord Waleran.”

  Sir Ferrau laughed. “An excellent suggestion. And my thanks.” He hesitated, then added tentatively, as if he were afraid to offend, “And since I will have my master’s gratitude if this is done quietly, more than simple thanks will be forthcoming if you can help.”

  Although she kept her expression bland, Magdalene was amused. Ferrau was obviously uncertain as to what her true position was. If Lord William was her sole protector and she was all but his wife, which his ferocious protection of her implied, she was nearly a lady and must be treated like one. But here she was, lodged in a whorehouse rather than kept in private quarters. If she was merely a favorite whore, then she would expect to be paid for any service she performed.

  “I will try,” Magdalene said, with perfect calm but no intention of clarifying anything for him, as she stepped to the door and opened it.

  Sir Ferrau said farewell and went out. Magdalene closed the door. She heard a soft sound and shook her head in a signal to Loveday to remain where she was. After a few moments more, she opened the door as if to come out. The corridor was empty. Florete’s table was unoccupied, and the front door was closed. She watched a moment longer, then pulled her door shut.

  Loveday slipped out from behind the bedcurtains, her mouth set with anger. “Why did you speak as if Niall would steal that creature’s money?”

  “Hush! Because I wanted to find out if Ferrau knew that the forged betrothal agreement was also in the purse.”

  “Did you?”

  Magdalene sighed. “No. There was nothing in his face or manner to say he knew. And his willingness to leave the purse with Florete implies that he believes, once the money is gone, that the purse has no value. Was there a pound of silver there?”

  “Oh, I don’t know! I was frightened to death and shaking all over. I don’t really remember Niall giving me the purse. I know I didn’t look into it. All I could think of was getting away from there before that monster came back with a full troop and killed Niall and raped me or killed me. I threw it…where did I throw it?” She wrung her hands, which were shaking with the memory. “Yes. I threw it into the strongbox when I took out money for living in Oxford.”

  “Then it is safe enough for now.” But still Magdalene stood staring into nothing until she said, “You did see that agreement, did you not?”


  “Yes. St. Cyr showed it to me the second time he came, the time he tried to rape me. Why?”

  “I just wondered who had witnessed the document.” She raised her brows. “Could the so-elevated, so-pious, so-proper Count Alain have put his signature and seal—?”

  “There was no seal at all on the document. I noticed that because I was looking for the royal seal. But why in the world should Count Alain witness my betrothal? I don’t know him and I will swear neither did my father.”

  Magdalene sniffed. “He would not be the first high and mighty lord to put his sign and seal on a document for a price.

  Could St. Cyr have been carrying a pound in silver to pay the count to use his seal? Well, you said there was no seal. So perhaps he had not yet paid to have the document sealed and thought if he could claim you by coupling with you he would not need to pay. Who were the witnesses?”

  Loveday shook her head and looked miserable. “I don’t know. I didn’t look. I’d seen the part that said that I gave into the hands of my betrothed husband all my goods, servants, chattels, and so on, and that no provision was made for me at all. I saw there was no royal seal, and I thrust it back at him and said I would not sign. He laughed and said that was all taken care of, that I had signed already.”

  “Oh well,” Magdalene shrugged, “it doesn’t matter. It would just be something funny to tell William. He hates it when people with French-court ways look down their noses at him. If he knew that Alain was selling his seal and signature…oh, I know. When Niall brings the purse to return it to St. Cyr, he can bring the betrothal agreement too, and I can look at the names of the witnesses before we destroy it.”

  “Are we going to give back the money, too? A whole pound.”