Diccon came eagerly into Magdalene’s chamber where, as he no doubt expected, she gave him a handful of sweetmeats to nibble while she wrote. In the end, she indited two brief letters. One said simply “I miss you, love. Do come as soon as you can.” The other read “There is good proof that Niall did not kill St. Cyr. If you come, I can explain fully.”
“You are to hide this message out of sight,” she said to Diccon, handing him the second message. “This,” she waited while he tucked the small folded piece of parchment away and then handed him the first, “you can carry in your hand. If you are stopped and questioned, give over the first message—with a becoming appearance of reluctance—but do not mention the second unless you are threatened with harm. You need not try to be a hero. There is nothing written here that can cause me any trouble. It would merely give someone we fear to be an enemy warning that one of his plans has gone awry.”
“Same place?” Diccon asked. “The armorer’s house?”
“Yes and try to give the messages—you can hand over both—to the same man as last time, Sir Giles de Milland. If he is not there, ask for Sir Leon Blound.”
Diccon nodded and Magdalene walked to the door of the chamber with him to let him out. She stood there a moment, amused as she heard the boy declare loftily that he had other herring to salt when one of the whores told him to fetch her some ale. Magdalene shook her head though, hoping Diccon would not suffer for his sauciness when she was gone.
A brief notion of taking him back to the Old Priory Guesthouse flitted through her mind, but she dismissed it. Diccon knew every street, every hidden alley, and the lodging of nearly all the important people in Oxford. In Southwark and London, the boy would be lost, of no use to her and frightened and ashamed of himself. It would be cruel to uproot him, and she was afraid he was already too practiced a thief to trust.
She stepped back, about to close the door, when Bell walked in the front. He paused to nod at Florete’s bully boys. At that moment, the curtain sealing the whore Geneva’s room was pulled aside and a man Magdalene recognized stepped out. He was busy tying a last point and did not notice her or Bell. For a moment she could not think what to do and then it was too late, for he had lifted his head.
Raoul de Samur, one of Waleran de Meulan’s captains—the one she and Sabina had rendered unconscious and she and Bell had delivered to the untender mercies of William of Ypres—straightened up. He was turned away from her, but he and Bell saw each other simultaneously. Bell went for his knife. At the gesture, both of Florete’s enforcers reached for their cudgels and stood up. Raoul de Samur raised both empty hands, palm out toward Bell.
“Peace,” he said. “I’ve no quarrel with you, Bell of Itchen. You may have meant me harm, but you did me a good turn and I’m willing to call it all bygones.”
By that time, Magdalene remembered that William had told her Waleran’s men as well as his used the Soft Nest. She stepped farther back into the doorway and gestured to Bell to come in and, if he could, bring Samur with him. She could not tell whether he had seen her and understood, although he took his hand away from his knife. Florete’s men sat down again.
Still wary, Bell said, “I am glad of it. Actually I didn’t mean you any harm. All I wanted was to be sure that you would not trouble the Old Priory Guesthouse again.”
Samur laughed loudly. “Don’t trouble them now. They’re glad to see me. I pay my pennies like any other customer. Stop in whenever I’m in London. And I’m glad to have met you because I’ve got a word of advice for a common acquaintance. You can save me the trouble of trying to find him.”
“Glad to be of use,” Bell began, and then a party of three men came in the door, filling the passageway behind him. He looked toward the common room, then moved slowly toward Raoul, his hands away from his weapons. “For giving advice it would be well to have some privacy. My friend has rented the room at the back. We can talk there.”
Magdalene had backed out of the doorway, and Samur turned and walked ahead of Bell into her chamber. He nodded at her without any great warmth as she closed the door behind Bell. It was true that Samur had come to the Old Priory Guesthouse. Ella had taken him once and Letice another time, but his purpose was to leave messages for William. These Magdalene had written down, using a symbol that had meaning only to her and William to identify the messenger, and sent off with the first of William’s men to stop in so there was no direct line of contact between William and his spy.
“Got only one thing to say about Lord Waleran,” Raoul said. “Lord William’s seen more of him than I have the last week. Only thing…he’s neck deep in something with the Count of Brittany. Got no idea what. And he’s jumpy, real worried about Salisbury. Something big’s building, so I want you to say to Lord William that this is no time to tweak Lord Waleran’s nose.”
“What do you mean, tweak his nose?” Bell asked.
“The girl wasn’t worth murdering Waleran’s man. Don’t think he’s heard about it yet, but when he hears that Lord William’s man did it—”
“But he didn’t,” Magdalene said. “Niall Arvagh, the man Arras accused, has about seven or eight witnesses, one of them a priest, who will swear that he was leagues away from Oxford when St. Cyr was killed. What was this all about, Raoul? Did Waleran send the lowest, filthiest creature he could find to marry Loveday just so William’s man would be outraged and drive him away?”
Samur’s low brow creased in a puzzled frown. “Don’t think so. He hasn’t said much about Lord William since we got to Oxford. Usually he curses him out whenever the king won’t jump high as he wants, but it’s like he’s got something going more important than Lord William this time.”
“Then how did you hear about Loveday and St. Cyr?”
“From that idiot Manville d’Arras, of course. He and St. Cyr were in my troop. Well, Arras still is. He has the loosest mouth I know. He babbles everything. I didn’t believe him this time so I asked St. Cyr. I couldn’t believe…” He shrugged. “I suppose Lord Waleran had his reasons.”
“Yes, but what were they?” Magdalene asked. “What reason could he have for giving a creature like St. Cyr so sweet a plum?”
“Don’t know, but St. Cyr had other highborn friends. Maybe they put in a word for him. And it was a done thing. When I first asked about the girl he told me how glad she would be to have such a fine man to manage her lands. But when she threw him out—he’d been boasting to others and everyone roasted him over that—he only laughed and said he would have a betrothal agreement before nightfall and marry her the next day. How he got her to put her mark on it when she’d just had him thrown out of the manor, I don’t know.”
“She didn’t,” Magdalene said. “The document was false, and useless, too, because Loveday was already betrothed to Niall Arvagh. Murcot is only a few leagues from Noke and the agreement had been made a long time ago.”
Raoul obviously wasn’t interested in Loveday’s betrothal but he whistled softly and said, “Got a false document, did he? And a highborn friend who would lay down the silver for it? St. Cyr couldn’t, I know that. Must’ve called in a big favor…or pushed real hard.” He hesitated, staring sightlessly ahead for a moment, and then added, “If Lord William’s man didn’t kill him, I wonder if his fine friend did? Doubt he’s the kind to like being pushed.”
“Who was this friend?” Magdalene asked eagerly.
Samur frowned again. “Don’t know, not for sure. Didn’t care. How’d I know he was going to be murdered?”
Bell laughed. “I can hardly think of anyone more likely to meet that fate. Think, man, you noticed he had a high-born friend. What drew your attention to it?”
“Seeing him in The Wheat Sheaf. Never would have noticed because him and his ‘friend’ were off in a corner on the same side of the wall as the door, but some young drunk—Osney, Jules of Osney, a young loudmouth I’ve seen around town—was being dragged out of the place by a friend and he was yelling and pointing, so I looked. And there was St. Cyr with t
his well-dressed person. Didn’t try to see who he was. Like I said, did I know St. Cyr was going to get murdered?” He narrowed his eyes. “Dark hair, knight’s cut, but longer than yours…that’s all I remember.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?” Magdalene asked.
Samur pursed his lips. “Doubt it, but the next day when the count of Brittany came to speak to Lord Waleran, St. Cyr had one of his men off in a corner.”
“One of Alain of Brittany’s men?” Bell repeated as if he could not believe what Samur had said. “Didn’t think one of them would spit on the likes of St. Cyr. Did you know him?”
“No, but I think I’d be able to pick him out. There was something odd about the way he held his shoulders and moved…but maybe that was only because he was annoyed with St. Cyr.”
Magdalene sighed. “Well, keep a good watch for both of them. Lord William would be grateful to anyone who helped identify the murderer and put to death all and any doubts about his own involvement in St. Cyr’s death.”
“His own involvement?” Samur’s eyes were suddenly intent.
Magdalene went cold. What a stupid thing to say! Raoul de Samur could not be trusted at all. She forced a tiny smile to curve her lips and shook her head. “You should know Lord William better than to think he would have anything to do with that kind of murder. It is only that he is a good master. Because of what Sir Niall told him, Lord William wanted to know more about St. Cyr, and he asked about him in Court, that was all.”
Samur again whistled softly between his teeth. “That might be enough.” But then he nodded. “You may be sure I will keep a good watch.” He twisted a heavy gold ring on his left hand, and Magdalene was reminded that most mercenaries saved what they could in jewelry, which they could carry with them wherever they went and sell if they needed money. His next words confirmed the thought. “Lord William’s rewards are very useful,” Samur remarked.
“He can be generous when he is pleased,” Magdalene agreed, and went to open the door.
When he was gone she said to Bell, “My tongue does not usually slip that way.”
Bell grinned. “If I had ever doubted Lord William’s innocence in this matter, I would no longer. Had he the smallest involvement, that word would never have passed your lips. Don’t let it worry you, Magdalene. If Samur tries to ride that horse, he won’t get far.”
“He could start an unpleasant rumor.”
“More than are already circulating after Niall was accused? Besides, I am quite sure Samur avoids even the slightest hint that he knows anything about Lord William. He may not be the keenest-witted of men—although I think him much cleverer than he seems, clever enough for Lord Waleran to send him on a special mission to your house and clever enough for Lord William to want him as an informer—but clever or not, he cannot be such a fool as to let his name be linked with that of William of Ypres.”
Magdalene sighed. “I think you are only trying to comfort me, but thank you. And maybe the sinking I feel in my middle is because my belly thinks my mouth has forgotten it. It’s a long time since dinner.”
“Let’s go out and get an evening meal. That place Loveday took us to yesterday was very good.”
“So it was, but I cannot go with you.” She sighed. “I have a feeling that William will either come himself or send one of his men for the details of Niall’s proof of innocence. I had better be here to satisfy those questions. You can get food for both of us and bring it back, or if you want to sample more of the talk in the alehouses, you can take Diccon along and let him bring the food back.”
Bell froze. “You expect Lord William?”
Magdalene shrugged. “It will depend on what appointments he has and whether St. Cyr’s murder is important enough for him to cancel them.” She hesitated, then added, “William will not mind meeting you here. If you mind meeting him, that is your problem, not mine.”
“It is, indeed,” Bell snapped. “I’ll send Diccon back with a meal for you.”
After he was gone—Magdalene was glad he had not slammed the door on his way out—she sat down at the table and sank her head into her hands. She knew she should break off her relationship with Bell. It was gaining too tight a grip on her, and he did not seem to be gaining acceptance for what she was, not even of her relationship with William. That was dangerous. Magdalene wiped her cheeks on the heels of her hands, shuddered, hugged her arms around herself. Bell’s jealousy was dangerous to both men! Despite what she had said to Samur, William could easily arrange Bell’s death. On the other hand, William would not expect harm from Bell, and…
Nonsense! Bell was not the kind to creep up behind a man and stab him. If he were jealous enough, he would simply leave her. It was not as if she had pledged herself to him as did a wife. Then it was as much a matter of pride as of desire to have a woman faithful. And Bell was not a wild boy like that idiot Samur was talking about, who had made a scene with Loveday in the street…Jules of Osney. Bell would just go away and find another woman he could mold to his desire.
The thought was painful but oddly less so than she expected. It seemed as if some other idea obscured the full weight of the misery that planning to do without Bell usually inflicted on her. Because she had been thinking at the same time of someone who could not simply find another woman…oh, yes, how silly. Jules of Osney needed Loveday’s estate more than he needed Loveday. Now who had told her that? Loveday?
Someone kicked the door and Magdalene called out, asking who was there. Diccon’s voice replied. She went to open the door, laughing as the boy staggered in loaded with cookshop containers. He set those on the table, breathing out heavily in relief at having delivered all of it intact.
“What in the world is this?” Magdalene asked. “Even you will not be able to make serious inroads on this supply. Whatever was Bell thinking?”
Even as she asked, she knew the answer and a mingled relief and pleasure made her laugh again. Bell was…what? Apologizing for his bad temper by providing food enough for William, and even perhaps some of his men? Hinting that he would be back to share the food with her and William? She hoped not the latter. Having them together always made her chest tight with anxiety. William was never jealous of her body, but he might not take so lightly any indication that more than her body was involved with Bell, and Bell was like a dog with his hackles up, just waiting for a sign to attack.
“Said most of it would be just as good cold,” Diccon said. “Hope you’ve got some bowls. I’ve got to bring these back soon.”
Magdalene was grateful to have her thoughts interrupted. She said vaguely, “Yes, of course.” And then realizing that she was not at home and had virtually nothing, added quickly, “Ah, no. Run out and ask Florete if she has anything I can use.”
While the boy was out, Magdalene got out the half loaf of bread that remained from the previous day and cut three substantial slices to make trenchers. On those she laid slices of roast pork and pieces of the roast chicken, which she tore apart. She covered the heaped trenchers with a piece of cloth just as Diccon came in with two bowls and a clean chamber pot. Magdalene laughed heartily when she saw that vessel, but she only stopped to smell it carefully and wipe it again with a clean cloth before she dumped into it a large amount of stew. Into one of the other bowls she put the boiled greens and into the last the sweet pudding. Finally she gestured to Diccon.
“Eat,” she said, “but quickly. Soon as you are done, you can take the cookshop’s vessels to the pump and wash them. Then bring them back.”
Diccon nodded and ran out but was back again before Magdalene could even seat herself. He brought his own bowl and a spoon. Magdalene nodded for him to help himself, which he did, and started eating. Magdalene sat down with him and ladled some of the stew into a smaller bowl. She divided up what was left of the bread and handed Diccon a piece just as the door flew open.
“What do you mean Niall did not kill St. Cyr? How do you know? Where is he?”
Diccon had jumped to his feet
as soon as the door opened, clutched his bowl and bread to his chest, and began to sidle to the door. Magdalene nodded at him and then said calmly, “Would you like something to eat, William? I can make the story very short or tell you all the details, which will make it long enough for you to have a meal.”
“He is innocent?” William insisted. “There can be no doubt?”
“None at all. He was at Noke the night St. Cyr was killed and not only all the servants and your men-at-arms will swear to it but the local priest, a Father Herveus. The priest had come to comfort Loveday, but stayed to play chess with Niall, had the evening meal with him, and spent the whole night.”
William’s small blue eyes grew even smaller as he thought hard. Then he drew up the chair and sat himself at the table. Magdalene immediately reached over and pulled one of the trenchers out to set before him. He took a chicken leg and began to bite chunks off it. Magdalene got up and got her other bowl and spoon—brought for just this eventuality—which she filled with stew, laying a few of the greens on one side. She set the bowl near the trencher.
“So, from the beginning,” William said between bites.
Magdalene told him, virtually move by move and conversation by conversation, beginning with Giles de Milland’s arrival the previous day. He cocked his head when she described the conversation Reinhart Hardel had with his son, Tirell, but did not stop chewing a mouthful of stew. He stopped her twice to ask questions when she described Loveday’s intention of marrying Niall without leave from the king and simply paying the fine, but he looked more thoughtful than angry, blinking slowly. When she described in detail the servants’ and men-at-arms’ assurances of Niall’s continual presence in full sight of them all the afternoon, evening, and night of the twenty-first of June, he breathed a satisfied sigh, and finished the meat on the trencher.
“Niall and Loveday will have a written statement from the priest about his presence in Noke that night also, and sworn testimony from all the Noke servants signed and sealed by the priest. I thought it wiser not to take evidence from your men. It would not add much and might be thought to be tainted. Niall wanted to come back to Oxford to report to you yesterday, but we all agreed—”
Bone of Contention Page 16
