Bone of Contention Page 17

  “Who are all?”

  “Sir Bellamy, myself, and Loveday. We all felt that it would be better to publish the proof of Niall’s innocence before he arrived…or if you prefer, he could come to the town carrying the proof that he could not have attacked St. Cyr. I felt that it the sheriff first arrested Niall, there would be unpleasant words said about your influence, even if you went with proof to free him.”

  After a moment, William nodded. “Likely you are right about that. Ordinarily I would not care or might even prefer that it be thought my influence was so strong as to free a murderer, but not here and now.”

  He bent over his bowl of stew, reaching absently for the bread Magdalene put near his hand, but she did not think he was much aware of eating, guessing that soldiers’ habit drove him. Still, she quickly emptied her bowl and wiped it clean, finally adding a little water from the jug on the shelf and drying it. She cleaned the spoon too, then put a helping of the sweet pudding in the bowl and brought it to the table. William was using the last of the bread to scour his bowl.

  “Will you have some sweet?” she asked.

  He looked up and at the bowl she was proffering as if he had never seen such a thing before and said, “I was fool enough yesterday to ask two or three if they knew of St. Cyr. I am more cautious usually, but it was so strange that Waleran should have chosen such a man that I grew curious, I wonder if…no, that is too convoluted even for Waleran.”

  Magdalene put the bowl of pudding down on the table.

  “There is a chance that this has nothing to do with you, William.”

  “No?” He reached for the bowl and put a spoonful of pudding into his mouth.

  “It seems that Aimery St. Cyr knew a number of highborn men and that he may have coerced one of them to get the forged betrothal agreement he presented to Loveday. If that ‘friend’ grew impatient or frightened, could he not have killed St. Cyr?”

  “Perhaps, but how did you learn this?”

  “There was no message for you left with Florete from Raoul de Samur?”

  “No, there was not.”

  “Oh, then it was just for the woman he came, and possibly to make his future visits here seem ordinary.”

  “Who came?” He took another spoonful. “Magdalene, your mind is wandering.”

  “Sorry. That happens when I try to think of more than one thing at a time. Raoul de Samur was here not long before you came. He was with a woman—by accident I even know her name, it is Geneva. He came out of the cocking chamber just as I was sending Diccon off with my message to you. He said since he had seen me he would not need to look for you, but he had no real message to leave. He just warned you not to tweak Waleran’s nose. He said Waleran was too busy about something that involves the count of Brittany to be bothered about you just now—”

  “Yes, I know that! And Stephen is also extending himself to show favor to the count. What I don’t know is why, or what Waleran is busy with.”

  “Samur doesn’t know either. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to leave a direct message. He said he couldn’t get near Waleran, that you’d seen more of him this last week than he had.”

  “Likely that is true too. Meulan spends all his time in court whispering in this ear and that about Salisbury.” William’s lips thinned. “And if the bishop does not show up tomorrow, I will join the whispering. But none of this explains how Raoul came to tell you about St. Cyr’s friends.”

  “That was because I told him that the betrothal agreement was a forgery and that Niall had nothing to do with St. Cyr’s death and had many witnesses to being outside of Oxford that night. Samur then said he knew St. Cyr could not have afforded to pay for the forged document and wondered if one of his grand friends had laid down the silver. Naturally I asked who those friends were.”

  “Good girl.” William put down the bowl and pushed it away.

  “Do you want some wine? I have—”

  “Gahh. Not the stuff they serve here. Send the boy out to the wine merchant and get some decent wine. Meanwhile, ale will do.” Magdalene went to fetch her two cups and the flagon. “So, about those friends of St. Cyr’s?”

  Magdalene filled the cups. “Samur said he did not know who they were.” She giggled. “He was very annoyed. Said he hadn’t paid attention because he hadn’t known St. Cyr would be murdered, had he? He said he had seen only a back view both times: once in a dark corner of The Wheat Sheaf, and once when Count Alain was visiting Waleran, he noticed St. Cyr was talking to one of the count’s men.”

  “They are not known much for mixing with other men’s troops,” William said thoughtfully.

  “I think that was what drew Samur’s attention. In any case, I told him to keep a watch out. I made bold to say that you would be pleased with him if he recognized either man and discovered who he was.”

  William grinned at her over his ale cup. “Well, I see you have the investigation well in hand already.”

  “Investigation? No. I was not intending to seek out St. Cyr’s murderer.”

  “No? Giles told me that your Bell was out asking questions in the alehouses about what they had seen and heard.”

  “But that was when we thought Niall had done it and that you might be blamed.”

  William put down the ale cup, still grinning. “I doubt Sir Bellamy worries overmuch about my being blamed for this or that.”

  Magdalene laughed. “Well, no, but I do.”

  “And Sir Bellamy is still so besotted he does your bidding even against his own interest?”

  “It is not against his interest. What you and I have together has nothing to do with Bell.” Magdalene put her hand on William’s arm.

  He covered her hand with his own. “He is young, Chick. Be patient with him. He is useful, too…especially now, because I might well be blamed for this crime even if it is proven that Niall did not do it.”

  “Why should you be blamed?”

  “The armorer’s house where my men lodge backs on a lane that goes right to the Cornmarket and comes out near The Wheat Sheaf. Some of the men use that lane to get to the alehouse. I can prove Niall did not kill St. Cyr. What of the others?”

  “But no other had any cause,” Magdalene protested.

  “Except to fulfill my will.”

  Her eyes widened. “But why? Why should you care?”

  William grimaced and shrugged. “To have a man I could trust close to Oxford? Who knows what reasons may be found by anyone who simply wishes to blacken me? The reason will not be important. What will be important is that my men were close and—” his mouth twisted bitterly “—it will be said it was not the first time.”

  Magdalene made no reply, except to cover William’s hand with hers again. She knew that William felt he had been deprived of the rule of Ypres because he was blamed for the murder of Charles, count of Flanders, through the instrumentality of the provost of Bruges. Whether William was directly guilty, in that he had actively planned that murder with the provost, or whether he was indirectly guilty, merely by allowing those who could accomplish it to know he desired Charles’ death, was a moot point.

  He looked down at their hands, blinking, and then up. “I need the true criminal to be exposed so there is no doubt of his guilt, Magdalene. Will you do it?”

  “If I can, William.” Tears stood in her eyes. “I have not the resources here that I have in London, but I will do my very best.”

  He stood up, knocking over the chair, and dragged her up and into his arms. “There’s my Chick! Don’t say you don’t have the resources.” He pulled a heavy purse from his belt and dropped it on the table. “Florete will serve your purposes.” He pulled her closer, and kissed her. “Will you serve mine?”

  Chapter 11

  23 June,

  Oxford

  Angry as he was at Magdalene’s seemingly indifferent reminder of her relationship with William of Ypres, Bell remembered to stick his head into the common room of the Soft Nest and snarl at Diccon to come with him. The boy hesitat
ed as Bell turned away, and then ran after him. Bell hardly noticed him at first, but by the time he had reached the end of the street, his fury was dulling into angry resignation. He felt like a fool too, for having exposed his resentment against William of Ypres. Resentment was stupid. It was as if a woman he married to breed him sons should be angry and blame him over the love he bore Magdalene for years before he ever met that wife.

  In any case, he thought, Ypres plainly had not summoned Magdalene for the use of her body and she certainly did not lust after Ypres. Jealous as he was, Bell knew that as surely as he knew she did want him. He gnawed at his lower lip. Fool that he was, he would drive her into fighting that desire if he did not curb his jealousy.

  A scrape and stumble close behind him made him whirl with his hand on his knife and then curse softly as he saw the boy from the whorehouse pick himself up. He had forgotten about the child, who had tripped over his overlarge shoes—Bell wondered distractedly from which dead man they had been stolen—while trying to keep up with the pace he had set.

  “Sorry, Diccon,” he said. “Sometimes women can drive a man to—”

  “Drink, murder, blasphemy, war… Don’t have to tell me, Sir Bellamy. I got to live with twenty or thirty of ‘em. And what one wants, the other don’t. And what’s too early for one’s too late for another.” He snorted heavily. “Don’t tell me about women.”

  Bell grinned at the boy’s too-old cynicism, and because Diccon’s world-weary manner had lifted his spirits, he continued the game. “Well, I have just annoyed the one to whom I am bound. What would you say is the best remedy?”

  The answer, with twisted lips and lifted brows, came without the slightest hesitation. “Buy her a present.”

  “Ah, but this lady doesn’t want money from me and I am not rich enough to buy her such a jewel…” He grimaced. “No. That would make things worse.”

  Suddenly Diccon smiled. “She’s a one, that Mistress Magdalene. Never seen her kind before. Even Florete thinks she walks on water.”

  Bell laughed. “I wouldn’t say that. She has her faults. But I do need to make amends.”

  “For what?”

  Bell scowled. “Jealousy.”

  The boy was silent, then shook his head. “Most of ‘em don’t get mad for that. Think it’s a compliment, most do. If she don’t—” he hesitated, then shrugged “—show you didn’t mean it?”

  That was more a question than a statement, but Bell thought the boy had hit the right idea. He could go back and say he was sorry. No, he could not. He might meet Ypres and…and he did not know how he would react. Besides, he had said he was sorry too often already and apology grew stale if it brought no amendment.

  What a fool he was to beat a dead horse. Magdalene had been a whore for much longer than he had known her. Little as he liked it, she could never undo that past—and had told him again and again that she would not if she could, that he must take her as she was or leave her. Bell sighed. Since he could not leave her…he must show her the flash of jealousy was meaningless. Somehow he must show that he would endure Ypres, even welcome—

  “Did you want me for something?” Diccon asked sharply, interrupting Bell’s thoughts. “I’m getting tired and it’s nearly time for the evening meal.” Now there was a distinct whine in the child’s voice. “If I’m not there, no one will leave anything for me.”

  “Evening meal!” Bell repeated, and smote himself gently on the head. “I was supposed to buy an evening meal for Magdalene and send you back with it. Don’t worry, there will be plenty and Magdalene won’t stint you.”

  He had to turn back to reach the cookshop across from Master Redding’s mercery because he had passed it. That was all to the good. By the time he walked up to the counter, the three ideas had come together. The boy needed to eat. William of Ypres—if he came—would probably arrive in time for the evening meal. He had said to Diccon there would be plenty. Bell nodded to himself. If he sent food enough for three or four, Magdalene would very well understand that he was inviting Ypres to dine with them or, in other words, telling her he understood that Ypres must be made welcome.

  Bell grinned as he ordered a dozen slices of roast pork, a fat roast chicken, a meat pasty, a dozen ladlefuls of stew, boiled greens, and sweet pudding. The whole cost less than a night in Magdalene’s bed…not that he had ever paid her. A feeling of warmth suffused him as he felt in his purse for the coins to give the cookshop owner. He had just realized that he was the only man who did not pay her. Even William of Ypres paid, and a good round sum, too, for his comfort and his men’s, and the men never touched Magdalene.

  His grin had probably broadened to an expression of total idiocy when he caught a look at the cook’s face. The anger in it made his hand drop to his knife hilt, and then the cook asked what he was going to carry the food in.

  “Stew kind of runs through the fingers,” he said caustically. “Why are you wasting my time?”

  “Good Lord,” Bell muttered and then laughed and explained that he had been so angry when he left to buy the food that he had forgotten containers.

  As soon as he offered to pay a farthing for the loan of what was necessary until the boy could bring everything to the Soft Nest, the cook was all smiles. Mention of the whorehouse seemed to seal the bargain.

  When he had paid and seen Diccon start off for the Soft Nest, Bell himself walked north along the road until he came to The Broached Barrel. The landlord remembered him as the bishop of Winchester’s knight who had been asking questions about the slain man the previous day. He looked apprehensive until Bell assured him he only wanted to know where the body had been taken and who, if anyone, was investigating the death.

  The landlord grimaced and said the Watch had taken the body but he didn’t know where—and didn’t care. Then he admitted that the sheriff’s deputy had come to inquire about the killing but had not stayed long.

  “Did he look out back?” Bell asked, blandly curious.

  “Don’t know. Think I want to be accused of spying on the sheriff’s man? Kept on about my own business, didn’t I?”

  The voice was sullen, the words possibly a warning, but Bell did not allow his expression to change, “Right, but in a way this is my business. Still, there’s no reason for you to be troubled about it. Where do I find the sheriff or his deputy?”

  For a moment Bell thought he would receive no answer, but, even as he turned away, the landlord said that the town Watch was managed from one of the buildings in St. Martin’s churchyard west of the Carfax, and the sheriff had an office there too. Bell sighed and retraced his steps through the Cornmarket and then west on the road that went to the castle.

  St. Martin’s was on the right not more than a hundred paces from the meeting of the roads. It was an imposing church, set well back from the road and divided from it by a large, bustling churchyard in which there were, as the landlord had implied, several buildings. The closest to the gate, built right against the wall, was long and low. It looked like a barracks.

  Bell’s guess was confirmed when several armed men passed him and went inside. He assumed it was a place where the sheriff’s men and the Watch were housed when on duty or mustered if they were needed on special call. He walked to the door, only to be stopped by a guard, but not before he noticed that the single room inside, which ran the full length and width of the building, held a large group of men clustered together. There was an aura of tense excitement about the men, who seemed to be listening to orders from a leader in the center of the group.

  Bell asked for the captain of the Watch and the guard shook his head. “Busy, sir,” he said. “Don’t think—”

  At that moment men began to come out of the building, forcing Bell and the guard apart. Bell scanned the group and stepped into the path of the last man to emerge.

  “Captain,” he said. “I have one very short question. Can you tell me where the Watch took the body of the man who was slain behind The Broached Barrel the day before yesterday?”

&n
bsp; The captain waved toward the church. “St. Martin’s. They’ve a chapel for the dead.”

  He took in Bell’s clothing, the war belt ornamented with gold wire, the long knight’s sword, the gem in the pommel of his shorter knife, and added politely that the sheriff was looking into the killing. Bell then asked where he could find the sheriff. The captain told him briskly that the sheriff’s house was about midway between the barracks and the church, but that the sheriff was not there.

  “He’s rid out toward Lechlade,” he said. “And taken most of his men with him.” He took another long look at Bell, grinned, and said in a low, confidential voice, “Had word yesterday that the bishop of Salisbury’s left Malmsbury. He should be here tomorrow.”

  Bell’s eyes widened and then he grinned back. “I am happy to say I had no wagers on the bishop’s decision, but thank you for giving me warning.” While he spoke, his fingers had found his purse and he put a silver penny into the Watch captain’s hand.

  The man nodded his thanks, but his mouth twisted. “My men’ve got to clear out the house right opposite the castle. Salisbury paid for the place, but when he didn’t show up the landlord got greedy and took other lodgers. Now they’ve got to go. The sheriff’s out doing the polite, and like always, we get the dirty work.”

  “Sorry for your trouble,” Bell said. “Believe me, I understand. My lord owns property in Southwark and I get to evict the ones who don’t keep up their rents.”

  The captain found a rueful smile for a fellow sufferer. “It’s really not a bad place, Oxford. Quiet enough, except for the students, and the trouble they make is mostly mischief, drunkenness. Not real fighters, they aren’t. A couple of taps with the cudgel quiets them down.”