Chains of Folly Page 8

  Winchester nodded. “As usual, Magdalene has been most efficient. I was sure she could discover who the woman was. What will you do now, Bell?”

  “That depends on you, my lord. If you need escort, that comes first. If you do not, I will go to Warenne’s lodging on the Tower grounds and discover what I can about Linley and most particularly where he was on Thursday afternoon and into Thursday night.”

  “I will remain quietly within today,” the bishop said, smiling. “So you can pursue your investigation into Sir Linley’s doings. Tomorrow I will meet the archbishop at St. Paul’s.”

  “We will take all twenty men,” Bell said grimly.

  Winchester smiled. “I will do as you advise. I pay you to be wary, but I do not believe there will be any other attack on me. And I am certain that the archbishop knew nothing about it. I sent Father Wilfrid to explain why I never arrived for dinner. You know Father Wilfrid is no fool. He said Archbishop Theobald did not know and was truly appalled. More, Theobald related the attack on me to the king’s treatment of Salisbury, saying that it had opened the door to all sorts of abomination against the Church. He is heartily in favor of the convocation.”

  “I never thought Theobald was involved,” Bell said. “That we were on our way to his house is meaningless. When and where you were going was no secret and had not been for several days. No one would have thought it wrong to speak of it. There can be no doubt that many keep a watch on what you say and do, so anyone could have known you were to visit the archbishop. Beyond that, Theobald is a virtual stranger in England himself and I do not believe he yet has anyone on his staff who knows London’s underbelly.”

  “Yes, I agree.” Winchester hesitated, then reached out and touched the silver crucifix. “And I will arrange to speak to Father Holdyn either before or after talking to the archbishop.”

  “Before if possible, my lord? If you do not like Father Holdyn’s answers about the crucifix you might want to speak to the archbishop about it?”

  The bishop’s brows rose over Bell’s tentative half questions. “Trying to teach your grandfather to suck eggs, Bell?”

  Bell flushed. “Forgive me, my lord. I am…eager to see you and Archbishop Theobald in harmony.”

  Winchester laughed, shook his head, and waved Bell away. “Take the money to Philippe and ask him to mark it to be held until we can determine if the woman had any heirs.”

  When Bell dropped the heavy package on Philippe’s table and repeated the bishop’s message, the young clerk looked from the account tucked into the fold of the bag to Bell.

  “All this from a whore’s house?” Philippe asked with considerable surprise. “What was she selling besides herself?”

  “Hmmm,” Bell said, looking down at the bag of coins. “That is a very good question and not one we thought to ask. I know she was a thief as well as a whore, but she could not have stolen large sums or a more determined effort to catch and punish her would have been made. Thank you, Philippe. I will certainly think about it.”

  It occurred to Bell, as he walked across to the priory, that the silver crucifix and the rings and seals that he had seen among the jewelry Magdalene had could be used to extort money. But that was self-defeating surely. Any man from whom she demanded money would cease to be a client…and would have a good reason to be rid of her.

  Brother Patric was still serving as the porter at the gate. He frowned when he saw Bell. “We do not like to be used as a short way to Hell,” he remarked.

  Bell laughed. “You need not fear for my soul on that account. I am not on my way to the Old Priory Guesthouse but to the chapel where the dead woman lies.”

  “Did you not look at her yesterday?” Patric asked.

  “It is not her body but her gown I wish to look at this time,” Bell replied.

  The porter, of course, had a right to enquire into the purpose of any who came to the priory, but Bell was well known to them as the bishop’s knight and he was growing annoyed. Brother Patric sniffed.

  “You are too late both for the body and the gown,” he said. “She was buried early this morning and Father Holdyn took the gown and belt and shoes—”

  “Buried?” Bell repeated. “But—but we found what money she had saved. The bishop intended to see her decently interred. Who arranged her burial?”

  “I just told you,” Brother Patric said irritably. “Father Holdyn arranged it and paid for it.” The brother looked a little uneasy. “She is…ah…not buried in consecrated ground, not precisely, but…”

  Bell was not at all interested in whether Nelda had been buried in consecrated ground or not. He doubted her soul could be saved no matter where she was buried. But he was so surprised by what the monk had told him, he doubted his ears.

  “Father Holdyn arranged her burial and ordered she be placed as near consecrated ground as was possible? And he took away her clothing?”

  “Yes. Is there something wrong with that? Why should St. Mary Overy be responsible for keeping the body? It was beginning to stink. And the bishop had not said—

  “No. Peace, Brother Patric. You have done no wrong and I am sure the bishop will be glad to know that she was buried without cost to the priory. I was simply surprised since Southwark is not within Father Holdyn’s responsibility as episcopal vicar of London.”

  Bell saw again the silver crucifix lying on the bishop’s table, thought of Father Holdyn’s righteousness. Holdyn could not have known that they had found the crucifix. Why in the world had he exposed his connection to Nelda by arranging for her burial?

  “He is a good and holy man,” Brother Patric said, “and very charitable.”

  The monk did not sound absolutely certain, Bell thought, rather amused, but his purpose was not to blacken Father Holdyn, who might have an innocent reason for what he had done. He merely shook his head and said, “Then my purpose here is gone. Thank you Brother Patric.” And he turned away and walked back toward the bishop’s house to get his palfrey from the stable.

  “Could he have truly loved her?” Bell asked Marbrer, the palfrey he rode when he did not expect to fight.

  The gelding turned his head to look inquiringly at his master, who took the opportunity to jab him strongly in the ribs so that his breath whooshed out. Bell quickly tightened the saddle girth. The large dark eyes took on a decidedly reproachful expression but Marbrer only turned his head away. Bell laughed. He had, he thought, as he led Marbrer out of the stable, been fortunate in both his mounts.

  Monseigneur was the perfect warhorse; he was awesome to look at and had a good disposition, for a stallion, so long as he was not involved in fighting. Marbrer the palfrey was as sweet and placid as blancmange but was intelligent (possibly more so than Monseigneur) and lively. And his gaits! Bell could doze in the saddle and never be jolted even when Marbrer moved from walk to trot. Bell knew he could never have afforded Marbrer—except for his size and appearance.

  The horse trader had told Bell, rather bitterly, that the horse was a delicate pale strawberry roan when he obtained him as a yearling and was then small and slender. A pink horse! The trader was delighted, imagining the price he could ask for a pink horse from a doting father or husband, and he trained the gelding most carefully to be gentle and have smooth gaits.

  Because he saw the animal every day and was so pleased with Marbrer’s (then named La Douce) sweet and affectionate nature, the trader hardly noticed that the gelding had put on two hands in height and considerable girth. Sweet tempered La Douce was, but he was now far too large to be a lady’s mount. Nor, the trader groaned, did he recognize the cause of the strange dark marks that appeared on the gelding’s coat. He had severely beaten several stable boys for not keeping the horse clean until he discovered that the markings could not be washed away.

  Bell laughed again as he mounted. There could be no doubt that the renamed Marbrer was of a most peculiar color, streaks and splotches of dark gray spread indiscriminately over the pale strawberry roan. Bell had been doubtful that he wanted
a pink horse splotched all over with dirt, even for a bargain price; however, once he had ridden the gelding and considered the condition of his purse, he had closed the deal. The one drawback was that once seen, Marbrer was not forgotten; occasionally Bell had to deal harshly with those who thought he was silly because Marbrer looked funny.

  Once he reached the bridge, Bell had no attention to give to idle thoughts. Even Marbrer might take exception to having trays of goods thrust into his face while the peddler shouted in his ear. But Marbrer was calm and clever. Instead of dancing and bucking, he took his own revenge, turning his head swiftly to snatch a bun from the tray being proffered. Bell laughed uproariously but found a farthing when the astonished peddler began to weep while Marbrer chewed and snuffled with satisfaction.

  The byplay bought some space around the horse, at least from those who had seen what had happened, so that they reached the north bank a little more quickly. Then a right turn on Thames Street, the thieves and drunks no danger to a man on a horse. As he rode toward the Tower, Bell considered how to get information about Linley. He could go directly to Surrey’s lodging and ask…but he might find Linley himself there and he did not yet want to accuse the man.

  Thames Street ended on the road that circled the hill on which the Tower had been built. Bell looked left and then right. To the left was a low building with what looked like the fence of a paddock to one side and the back. Likely a stable. He could leave Marbrer there and walk down toward the river, where he suspected he would find alehouses.

  The ostler’s eyes widened a little when he saw the dirty pink horse, but Bell’s size and the heavy war belt with sword and poniard kept him respectfully silent.

  “I won’t be long,” Bell said. “Just loosen the girth. No need to feed or water…well, maybe water. It’s a warm day. And he’s safe with other horses.”

  The ostler nodded. Bell proffered a farthing and the man smiled. Bell understood. Since the ostler did not have to feed the horse or even put him in a clean stall, the farthing was his. And Marbrer would make no trouble; the bun he had on the bridge would satisfy him for a while. Bell wrinkled his nose as he realized he could have asked the ostler to clean Marbrer’s bit, which was no doubt fouled with pieces of bun, but likely the horse would chew and suck it nearly clean.

  Bell crossed Thames Street and began to walk south, looking idly at both sides of the road that circled the Tower, which cast a long shadow as the sun dropped lower in the west. As he half remembered, shops, cookshops, and alehouses lined the road. He passed an armorer and, unable to resist, stopped to look at the weapons displayed. The journeyman watching the counter stepped forward eagerly but Bell shook his head and touched his own weapons.

  “These are molded to my hand. I just like to look,” he said, and the journeyman nodded and smiled.

  Beyond the armorer was a cookshop. Bell sniffed and passed without pausing. He had dined at Magdalene’s table and the strong smell of pepper hinted to him that the spices were hiding something. Next was a mercer on whose counter were shirts and braies, even several tunics showing some signs of wear but not near rags. Another armorer. Bell stopped to look more closely at a fancifully chased, silver-hiked eating knife. It would look well hung from a long chain around her neck against the blue gowns Magdalene often wore.

  When his free hand started to move toward his purse to buy the trinket for her, Bell dropped the little knife as if it were hot. Startled, the merchant exclaimed in distress and asked whether Bell had detected something wrong. Bell apologized.

  “No. It is a fine knife. Just… I had forgot that the person I thought it would suit…is gone.”

  He backed away from the merchant’s expression of sympathy, so eager to get away from the mistaken sentiment that he crossed the street to the west side of the road. He found himself fronting another mercer’s shop, and turned somewhat blindly back in the direction of the stable.

  I will never be free of her, never! She is always there in the back of my mind, a warm comfort and a sharp stab of pain. How can I want her when I know she offers me only the leavings of her love for another man?

  Instinctively, he turned toward the smell of wine, into a wine shop a few steps farther along the road. Once inside, his attention was immediately called as he stumbled over someone’s feet and was told in no uncertain terms to watch where he was going.

  There was no drunkenness in the voice so Bell realized it was no simple man-at-arms that had been emboldened by drink to speak with so little respect. He muttered a “Sorry,” as he blinked and looked around. The place was more than half full, the men settled into three separate groups and those then broken further into men sitting singly or with a few friends. And all the men were dressed as well as he—if not necessarily as cleanly—and with similar weapons. These must be the captains and sub-captains, perhaps also the masters-at-arms, of those nobles quartered in the Tower.

  Accident—and running from the thought of Magdalene—had brought him to just the right place. Then he angrily dismissed Magdalene from his mind…again. Walking into the right place was not really much of an accident. The wine shop was near the gate into the Tower, specialized in wine rather than ale and beer, and was a logical place for those who wanted a convivial gathering not too close to their master’s eye and not too far to be summoned at need.

  Now Bell looked around more alertly. The room was dim, as all such were, lit only by several small windows on each long wall; however, there was light enough for him to see Mandeville’s badge and Surrey’s—those groups hardly separated—and then farthest from him so that he could not make out the badge clearly, a third group. The center of the room had two long scarred tables; the rest of the space was filled with smaller tables, a few round and several square, all hard used. Bell passed down the room, nodding as he skirted a square table where three of Surrey’s men sat.

  He picked up a cup of wine from the hard-faced woman who sat at the back of the room, presiding over a tray of cups and mugs and blocking the way to a number of broached barrels. Actually Bell would have preferred ale, but the men wearing Surrey’s badge were drinking wine and he did not want to seem countrified or crude. Cup in hand, he stopped where Surrey’s men sat.

  “By your leave, a word or two?”

  “Yes?” A dark-skinned, dark-eyed man with just a touch of silver in his black hair raised his head.

  “Would any of you gentlemen know Sir Linley of Godalming by chance? I know he serves the earl of Surrey and your badges say you do also.”

  “What do you want Linley for?” the man to the right of the dark man asked. He was younger, brown-haired and blue eyed, scowling now, but otherwise pleasant looking.

  “His whore was killed on Thursday and, for my sins, I am bidden ask him if he knew any reason for anyone to kill her.”

  A chorus of voices. “Nelda? Nelda is dead? Where? When? How?” Shock was written on every face. Bell would swear that none of the men had known of the whore’s death before he announced it. So Linley either did not know before this morning or had kept the secret very well. Bell confirmed the death without details and asked again for Linley.

  “You mean Linley is suspect?” The third man at the table frowned, knitting pale blond brows.

  Bell shrugged. “She was his woman. He knew her best. And nine times out of ten it is the closest to the dead who make them that way.”

  The dark man shook his head, “Not Linley. He had no reason to harm Nelda.” He then waved toward an empty chair and added, “Sit, if you will. I am Sir Filbert. I’ve known Linley for years and he is not violent toward women.”

  The blond snickered. “He’s not violent toward anyone.”

  Sir Filbert scowled at the blond. “Besides, Linley and Nelda got along very well.”

  “He certainly wasn’t jealous of her,” the blond said, his lips pursed as if he tasted something unpleasant. “He owed me a small sum and offered her favors as payment. I told him I would rather wait for the money.”

  “
Well, what you both say is interesting,” Bell said, “because someone beat Nelda severely several days before she died. Oh, my name is Bellamy of Itchen.”

  “Not Linley,” Filbert repeated. “In all the years she has lived in his house, he never laid a hand on her. I used her once or twice when Linley was away. He had suggested that I visit her to see if all was well. I think he genuinely liked her…but there was no heat between them. Anyway, I do not understand why you have been ordered to examine the death of a whore—they die all the time in the stews.”

  Bell raised his hands and shoulders in a gesture of helplessness—implying that he was a man following orders he did not understand.

  Filbert also shrugged. “If your master really desires an answer, I would look for whoever it was who beat her.”

  Bell nodded. “Well, that is one of the reasons I would like to speak to Sir Linley. It may be that he can tell me who would be likely to mistreat Nelda.”

  The brown-haired, fresh-faced man laughed. “You can find him readily enough by stopping at the mercery of Rhyton of Guildford. His place is in the East Chepe—”

  “Bereton, why can you not keep your mouth closed?” Sir Filbert snapped. “Linley will not be best pleased to have a sheriffs officer inquiring about his dead whore at Master Rhyton’s house when Rhyton has just agreed to permit Linley to be betrothed to his daughter.”

  “And heiress,” the blond said, and lifted his pale brows at the man called Bereton. “Looking to slip into Linley’s place? Rhyton won’t have you. Linley will be lord of Godalming when his father dies and Rhyton wants a baron, not a penniless knight.”

  “Hmmm.” Bell did not correct Filbert’s mistake in thinking him the sheriff’s officer. He preferred to keep the bishop out of any discussion of Nelda’s death. “About to be betrothed, is he? Perhaps being rid of Nelda was one of the conditions?”