The young brother shuddered again as he opened the door, and he stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter. Bell went in first, Letice, Diot, and finally Magdalene following him. A blob of incense slowly smouldered in a small dish near the covered head and fortunately that odor was still stronger than the odor of putrefaction. The woman had only been dead for a little over a day, and she had not been exposed to the summer temperature for long. The chapel itself was cool.
Light came in through four high windows just under where the roof met the walls. Letice and Diot hung back near the door. Bell gestured and Magdalene came forward followed by her women. He then went to the head of the table and pulled down the stained and tattered blanket with which the body was covered. The clothing she had worn was folded by her feet. Diot and Letice clung together, shivering. After a minute hesitation, Magdalene took a step forward and looked down.
“No,” Magdalene said. “I have never seen her before.” Regret and relief warred in her voice.
“Yes,” Diot said, almost simultaneously. “I know her.” She shook her head. “I cursed her when she put me out, but I never meant this to befall her.”
Letice nodded too and shrank closer to Diot, but she made no attempt to explain how she knew the dead woman. Diot meanwhile pointed to the bruises and shook her head.
“She did not permit that,” she said. “I never saw her bruised when I lived with her. Her name was Nelda, often called Roundheels.”
“But the bruising is some days earlier than her death,” Magdalene said. “See on her cheekbone and arm, the color must have been yellow before… But the fingermarks on her neck—” She turned to Bell. “Do you think the man broke her neck with his hands?”
“I don’t know,” Bell answered. “You can’t see it because of her hair, but there is a soft place on the side of her head.”
“She was hit with a club?”
“I don’t know,” Bell repeated. “I don’t think she could have done so much damage just by falling down. Also there are some fresh bruises.” He pointed to a livid mark on her shoulder and upper arm. “But most of them are on her back.”
“Someone whipped her? Hit her with a cane?” Diot asked. “I know I said she would not permit herself to be beaten, but she was a greedy piece and if enough money were offered…”
“I don’t think so,” Bell said, but doubtfully.
He reached over and turned the woman. Although his fingers dented the softening flesh somewhat, she turned all of a piece, like a log of wood. Diot cried out and Letice buried her face in her hands. Magdalene gasped, but a moment later had leaned forward to examine the marks that now showed on the woman’s back.
It was hard to see them clearly because of the discoloration, but after a moment she said, “Look, Bell, I do not think there is any of the old bruising on her back.”
“Yes. It was clearer when I first looked at her because she had been put in a sitting position and the upper part of her back was not all stained. The old marks were from a beating. Someone held her by the arm and hit her with a fist or an open hand. The bruises on her back are from something with a broad, blunt edge but a definite edge.”
“Stairs?” Magdalene asked. “Could she have fallen down the stairs?”
Bell laid the woman down again and drew the blanket over her. “Stairs?” he mused. “Yes. I think they would make such marks.”
“She lived up a flight of stairs,” Diot offered, pausing on her way to the door to speak over her shoulder.
Bell nodded acknowledgment, but said no more until they had closed the door behind them. The young brother was gone, already on his knees beside his fellow monk and neither turned to look at them. They crossed the church again, genuflecting in the main aisle, and went out onto the north porch.
“You know where she lived?” Bell asked Diot. “Of course you do. You said you lived with her for some time. And you say she generally lived alone?”
“I think her patron either paid the rent for her or owned the building, but as far as I know he did not live there, I never saw…well, any of the sort of thing a man leaves in a place he lives…changes of clothing, oddments one picks up and then does not want to carry, that sort of thing.”
Bell glanced up at the sun and then grimaced. “I wish we could go there, but I must arm now if I am to ride escort to the bishop to Lambeth. I told the men to be ready, but there are always one or two that need prodding.”
“I doubt it will make any difference whether we go now or tomorrow morning,” Magdalene said, patting Bell’s arm comfortingly. “Whoever killed her had time enough that night to take anything he wanted from her room, and all the next day also. And my women will soon be running short of time also, as both Letice and Diot have clients coming directly after dinner.”
He did not need that reminder, Bell thought and grunted, starting to turn away. Before any of the women could step off the porch, he swung back. “See if you can find out what Letice knows,” he said to Magdalene.
“Yes, of course,” she replied, patting his arm again.
It took all his will power not to jerk away from her, to step down off the porch and turn left along the path that would take him to the front gate of the priory. Not to look back. From the priory gate he had only to cross the road to be at the bishop of Winchester’s house. Slowly as he walked along, he rubbed the arm she had touched with his other hand.
Although he knew it was impossible because the sleeve of the gambeson was padded, he felt each of her fingers like a red-hot wire against his flesh. Mad. There was nothing in Magdalene’s comforting touch to arouse lust. Lust? Bell swallowed hard. The burning, the longing he felt, had nothing to do with lust. That, he could assuage anywhere.
He nodded to Brother Porter, who opened the gate for him, frowning, Bell guessed, because the brother knew Bell had not entered the priory that way. There was no other way into the priory than the whores’ house. As Bell passed through the gate he heard Brother Elwin sniff and imagined him thinking, “So early in the morning, too.”
And he could have been coming from Magdalene’s soft bed if only he had not… But for her to love… As he crossed the road, it was Bell who sniffed, thinking he could bed her anytime for five silver pennies. She would give him, as she had told him many times, what she gave all her clients—all of her attention, every joy her body could offer…for the hours the five silver pennies bought. But not what that hand laid gently on his arm offered—sharing, comradeship. That was why the fingers burned him so.
The gate in the wall that surrounded the bishop’s house was closed, signaling that the bishop was either not at home or not receiving petitioners. Bell simply opened it and walked through. One of the men-at-arms lounging on the other side nodded and Bell told him to see that Monseigneur and the bishop’s palfrey were saddled and walked on and into the house. In the past he had not lodged with the bishop, which meant sleeping on a cot or a pallet in the common room with the other men, his possessions bundled into a single chest.
He was well enough paid to afford a private lodging and after he came into the bishop’s service he had rented a room in a widow’s house only a street away…until he had moved to the Old Priory Guesthouse. He knew he should see if the widow had room for him again, but somehow he had not done it.
Lodging had not been necessary before the bishop decided to come to London. After Bell’s parting from Magdalene, Winchester had merely sent him alone to London to do whatever business was necessary so the house had been virtually empty. Now with twenty armsmen sharing the room, it was crowded. He would have to find another place…but not today.
Bell threw open his chest and removed his mail shirt. A shout brought a servant who held the armor for him while he removed his sword belt, wriggled arms, head, and shoulders into the armor, and stood up so the mail would slide down his body. He held the ventail for a moment, loathe to fasten it when the chance of any attack in the few miles between here and Lambeth was very small…or was it? Recalling the dead wom
an carrying a message from Robert of Gloucester, he pulled the ventail across his chin and fastened the ties.
Helmet and shield were with his destrier, Monseigneur. Buckling the swordbelt around his waist. Bell made for the back of the hall that had been partitioned off into a private area. Phillipe waved him past.
The bishop looked up from the sheets of parchment spread on the table before him when Bell opened the door; his eyes widened and he raised his brows. “Are you planning to fight a war? Between here and Lambeth?”
Bell shrugged. “Foolish, perhaps,” he said, “but it costs no more than the mild discomfort of wearing armor on a summer day and I keep thinking about that woman. Someone brought her here to do you hurt, my lord.”
Winchester sighed. “Of course, Bell. You are quite right.” He smiled wryly. “After all, I pay you to worry about such things so I do not need to.” He got to his feet. “And the woman? Have you any information about her?”
“Yes, my lord, I do. I know her name and tomorrow will know where she lived and likely who was her keeper.”
“Ah. The inestimable Magdalene.”
Bell laughed. “No, Magdalene did not know her but one of her women did. Unfortunately I had no time to pursue the matter further, but as Magdalene pointed out there is no particular hurry since the man who killed her had all that night and all the following day to remove anything incriminating from her lodging.”
The bishop had looked back down at the table while Bell was speaking. Now he gathered up some half dozen of the parchment sheets, and made his way to the door. He dropped all but one of the parchments on the table where Phillipe sat and bade him have three copies made of each. The last sheet he folded and pushed into his purse. By then, Bell had sent a servant scurrying to the stable to have the bishop’s palfrey and Monseigneur brought to the door.
The ten guardsmen Bell had chosen were already ahorse and waiting near the gate when Bell offered his hands to help the bishop mount. “You will make a religious of me yet, my lord,” he said when Winchester was firmly seated in the saddle. “I thank God most sincerely whenever you mount that you are not of the girth some of the lords of the Church have achieved.”
Winchester smiled but abstractedly and when Bell was mounted and they had moved out of the gate and were riding south along the road, side by side, he asked, “You learned nothing but the woman’s name?”
“I had no time to ask questions, but I think my informant, the woman called Diot, knew more about this Nelda, called Roundheels—”
“How appropriate.”
“Unfortunately yes, my lord.”
“Unfortunately?”
“Yes, because it implies that she was not faithful to the man who kept her.”
“But surely the keeper would not kill her over jealousy? A whore?”
Bell was suddenly grateful that so much of his face was concealed by the mail hood. He could feel the warmth that meant his color had risen. Yes, he thought, oh yes, my lord, a man can be jealous enough over a whore to kill. And then, over the sudden clutch in his heart, but not her; not Magdalene. If I had a hope in Hell of killing Ypres…I might… He checked the thought. That was truly treason. Whatever he felt about William of Ypres, he knew Lord William was faithful to the king, more faithful than those Stephen held in higher favor.
“Likely not,” Bell replied to the bishop’s question about whether Nelda’s keeper might have killed her out of jealousy. “Although it must be considered. But if she entertained other men, it unfortunately widens the field both of those who could have beaten her and those from whom she could have received…or stolen…the letter.”
“Ah, yes, I see—” Winchester began and then straightened higher in his saddle in an attempt to see ahead.
There was a lot of unusual noise—oxen lowing and men shouting. Bell touched Monseigneur with his heel and the stallion plunged forward past the six men at arms who had been riding ahead. At first all he could see was confusion. A large wagon that had been loaded with barrels was athwart the road, one wheel broken so that it had tipped to the side and spilled barrels all over. Another cart, possibly the cause of the broken wheel, shafts splintered and draft animal gone, was half under the larger wagon. Around both vehicles were perhaps a dozen men shouting and wielding cudgels and fists.
Bell shouted for his men-at-arms, drew his own sword, and began to lay about him with the flat of the blade, shouting for order. For a moment he was not surprised when both parties turned on him in concert. He had memories of brawls in which both he and his opponent together furiously attacked the peacekeeper who was trying to separate them. In the next moment he realized that none of the fighters was an innocent civilian caught up in the altercation.
“To Winchester,” he bellowed. “To Winchester. It is a trap!”
The order was barely in time. As his men turned their horses back toward the bishop, men began to run from the alleyways between the shops and houses. Suddenly, Bell was tipped forward in the saddle so violently the pommel caught him a nasty blow in the belly. Monseigneur, feeling movement behind him, had lashed out with his heels. Bell heard a scream and, as the horse kicked again, another.
Now he turned his sword in his hand and the next stroke he made drew a scream instead of a shout, A burst of red blossomed between the head and the shoulder of one of the men advancing on him as his blade struck. He twisted his body, striking again to the right as his left hand fumbled reins around the pommel and bent inward, trying to pull the shield strap from his shoulder so he could slide his arm through the hold.
Fortunately the man still screaming and writhing on the ground provided enough grim warning to the others to give Bell a moment’s respite. He had just seized his shield and thrust violently out and away with it, catching two men advancing on his left, when some of the new opponents reached him. They were carrying swords, not cudgels, but, one seeing Bell’s shield extended to the left, thrust unwisely at what he thought was Bell’s exposed belly. Bell’s sword took him on the extended arm. The clang of metal as the sword fell and the shriek of the wounded man again provided a respite; others drew away and Bell used knee and heel to turn Monseigneur.
The men Bell had thrust away with his shield were coming forward again, but Bell could do nothing. His shield was tipped forward to hold off one attacker’s sword while he dealt with the other. However the smell of blood and the movement of weapons—although Monseigneur would have reacted the same way to waving empty hands—threw the battle-trained stallion into a frenzy. While Bell attended violently to the man attacking on his right, Monseigneur bit one of Bell’s attackers in the face, tearing off his nose, and shouldered the other so hard he fell. That was the end of them both.
Monseigneur lifted just enough to permit him to kick the wounded man, who was trying to turn to run, in the side, and when he came down made sure his hooves landed square on the man he had earlier felled. Whether or not his keener than human hearing heard the ribs snap would have meant nothing anyway. Under his hooves in a battle with no orders by knees or reins meant that Monseigneur then pounded both fallen men into red jelly.
Both men had had swords and could have hurt, if not killed, the horse, but the armed men had experience of war destriers and their fear had made them hesitate…which brought the fear to fruition.
The lightly armed men who had set the trap now fled away from the varied and instant death Bell presented. Of the four better-armed fighters who had attacked him, three were dead and one dying. Bell took the opportunity to turn Monseigneur. He could see that there was no need for his help; his well-trained armsmen had beaten back those who had tried to attack the bishop. But Bell was furious. He fell upon those who were trying to flee and three more lay dead before he realized that the few left were crying for quarter and Winchester was shouting at him to stay his hand.
Bell swallowed hard, wiped his sword on his surcoat, sheathed it, and curbed his restive stallion before Monseigneur could attack anyone else. “Softly, softly,” he murmure
d, stroking the beast’s neck. “It’s all over now, all done.” To the men he said, in a steady, even voice, “Is anyone too hurt to ride?”
A chorus of “No, sir” followed. Bell nodded and continued, “Bind the living. Four of you drive them back to the bishop’s house. They are not to escape. I have a few questions I wish to ask them.”
His men moved quickly to obey, exchanging glances. There was something in the voice that was terrifying, not anything they were accustomed to in their firm but generally good-natured commander. Monseigneur snorted and nodded, pulling at the bit. Bell tightened his rein and patted the stallion soothingly. Monseigneur pranced, shook his head, chewed the bit.
“My lord,” Bell said. “Do you wish to go forward to the archbishop’s house or back to your own? It would be best if I remove Monseigneur from all this blood.”
“Back home,” Winchester said. “I am sure Theobald had no part in this attack but I am not in a mood now to discuss the formalities of a convocation.”
“Yes, my lord.” Bell turned his head to the men. “Levin and Kemp. Collect the dead and guard them. I wish to know what they carried. I will send a cart. The rest of you. Two ahead of the bishop and two behind.”
“How did you know this would happen, Bell?” the bishop said as they passed the men-at-arms roughly binding the prisoners and looping them together neck to neck. “You are armed for war. You took ten men. All to ride just a few streets in broad daylight in a populous area. I thought you had taken leave of your senses.”
As they drew away from the shambles left by the attack, Monseigneur grew calmer and Bell could give more of his attention to the bishop. He said, “I didn’t know. Just…something stinks. That dead woman in your chamber… Someone wanted to shame you publicly, and when it did not happen…to remove you.”
Chains of Folly Page 5
