Bone of Contention

by Roberta Gellis

  “Likely his overlord, Count Alain.”

  “Hmmm. I can see why Ferrau was not eager to present my problem to him. But fortunately Sir Bruno is very easy to know. I walked over and introduced myself and he was most welcoming. He said he would try to accommodate me, since I had come a long way, but warned me that this was a bad time, that the king’s mind was elsewhere. He offered to arrange for an audience when the king is in Westminster, which he expects will be in only a few months—”

  “Who’s this Ormerod?”

  The voice was still high with youth, the words definitely slurred with drink. Bell looked up at the young man weaving past the table beside them. When he reached them he steadied himself on Ormerod’s shoulder. Bell saw Ormerod stiffen, rather more than what was necessary to steady the slight younger man’s weight, an expression of exasperation crossed Ormerod’s face, but his voice was even when he spoke.

  “This is Sir Bellamy of Itchen, Jules. He is the bishop of Winchester’s knight and has been most helpful to me in that matter of the farm near Thorpe. And this is my host, Sir Jules of Osney, Bell.”

  “Are you buying drinks?” Jules asked.

  Bell raised his eyebrows. “I think you’ve had enough, Sir Jules—”

  “Ahhh! Another old woman! I’m shell—celebrating! We’re rid of St. Cyr and I’ll sh-settle with Loveday tomorrow or th’ next day. Then Osney’ll be free and clear and m’sister’ll be betrothed to Ormerod’s brother…” He waved wildly at a barmaid, nearly hitting her. “Bring’s some wine here.”

  Ormerod rose and pushed Sir Jules down on the bench opposite where Bell was sitting, for which Bell was grateful. He suspected that the young man would not be able to hold much more wine than he had already consumed and preferred not to be sitting next to him if he were going to spew. Nonetheless he had not missed the references to Loveday and St. Cyr.

  “I think the world as a whole is better off without St. Cyr,” Bell said mildly. “Did you know that it was here that he was killed?”

  “Wash it?”

  Sir Jules leered drunkenly, bracing himself upright, his arms folded on the table before him. Bell suddenly found himself wondering whether the expression of satisfaction he wore was only owing to the drink and St. Cyr’s death or whether it was an expression of satisfaction over duping everyone. Could St. Cyr have been killed elsewhere? By Sir Jules? Bell was tempted to go out back and look for signs of the murder, but he knew there could be none. The earth, table, and benches were too stained and weatherworn to show any mark of the blood that had been shed—and it was possible that very little blood had actually been spilled.

  It addition, Sir Jules hardly seemed the type to walk around wearing mail. Still, he must have armor because he had been belted a knight. And if he expected to face St. Cyr, who was larger and stronger, he might well have donned mail as an insurance—and might equally well have lost his nerve and crept up and stabbed St. Cyr from behind.

  “Yes, it was here,” Bell replied to Sir Jules’ question, watching him carefully. “Out in the back, probably not long after dark.” He smiled as if he were going to make a joke and asked, “And where were you on the night of the twenty-first?”

  “Here,” Jules said. He hiccupped. “Right here.” He giggled weakly. “I could have done it.” And then his head dropped to his folded arms on the table.

  Bell shook his head. “Will you have to carry him home?” he asked Ormerod.

  “It will not be the first time.” There was distaste in Ormerod’s voice. “He was a charming page when I was senior squire at Lord Haricot’s, although he was never much of a fighter.” He shrugged. “But many are not and he was then as he is now, slight boned. Some gain heft over the years. Jules did not, but I was knighted and left Lord Haricot’s service to oversee my father’s lands before he was advanced to squire, so I do not know how he came to be knighted.”

  “He sounds as if he was a much indulged son. Perhaps his father…”

  “Perhaps.”

  Ormerod’s tone of voice did not encourage further talk on that subject and Bell said, “I assume either he was not here at all or he could not have killed St. Cyr despite his joy in the man’s death?”

  “He was here, all right, since I found him here.” Ormerod’s lips twisted. “That was one of the nights I had to tie him to his horse to get him home.”

  “And that night he was dressed as he is now?”

  Ormerod’s eyes narrowed. “Does it matter? I think he wore a mail shirt. His sister begged him to put it on when he said he would ride into Oxford after dinner. I urged it too, knowing he wished to warn St. Cyr away from Mistress Loveday.” He stared at Bell for a moment and then went on hastily. “I could not swear he did not kill St. Cyr before I found him, but I cannot believe it. To speak the truth, I do not believe he has the courage even to creep up behind a man and stab him.”

  “Are you sure you want him for a brother-by-marriage?” Bell asked with raised brows.

  Ormerod sighed. “No, but the girl is nothing like him, except in looks. She is sweet and modest, not stupid, and has a rich farm for dowery. My brother would be happy with her, I think.” He sighed again. “Jules wants the marriage, but he cannot afford to part with the farm just now. He is arse over ears in debt.”

  “And marrying Mistress Loveday will cure that problem?”

  “It would cure all of Jules’s problems. She would pay off the debts, manage the property for him, and keep him on so tight a rein that he would have no chance to drink or to gamble.” Ormerod laughed. “Of course, Jules doesn’t realize the last is as true as the first.”

  “I am almost sorry there is no hope of it,” Bell said. “Mistress Loveday has long been betrothed to Niall Arvagh, William of Ypres’s man. Neither was in a hurry to marry so they made no parade of the matter, but now that this trouble has begun, Mistress Loveday has written a declaration of the betrothal to the king and Niall is with her at Noke.”

  Ormerod stared at Bell, paling. “Betrothed?” he asked, and when Bell nodded soberly, he snarled, “I thought Niall Arvagh was only another suitor! Jules swore to me that once St. Cyr was gone Mistress Loveday was his for the taking. He said they were not wed only because he wished to keep his freedom.” He swung a leg over the bench on which he had been sitting and rose.

  Bell looked up at him and raised a questioning brow.

  “I am sorry for his sister,” Ormerod said, pulling Sir Jules roughly to his feet. His face was rigid with anger as he muttered, “And it may be that I have gone too far to go back.” He grimaced and shook the slight young man into a vague consciousness. “Mayhap I should leave him here. It would be a good thing for poor Marguerite if an accident took him before he got home.”

  Despite the words, Ormerod supported the staggering Sir Jules out of the door. Bell sat a little longer, turning his ale tankard between his hands. Then he got to his feet and started down the street toward The Wheat Sheaf.

  Chapter 12

  23 June,

  Soft Nest

  Magdalene heard William shout for his men as the door closed, and she slid out of the bed at once. She was annoyed with herself as she hastily pulled her clothing back on. William had been more relaxed than usual, less brutal, less in a hurry. She could have enjoyed him honestly instead of feigning a satisfaction she had not felt, if she had not been so sure Bell would walk in on them.

  The thought made her shudder and she turned to look at the bed. Before she considered what she was doing, she began to straighten the tumbled bedclothes, then stopped and drew back her hands. Perhaps she should leave the bed just as it was to make unmistakably clear that she and William had coupled. If Bell flew into a rage…but was that fair? She herself would not like to get into an unmade bed that had hosted other coupling bodies.

  It was doubly unfair after Bell had made a noble gesture in buying all that food. Magdalene compromised by straightening the bedclothes so they did not shout of what had passed there, but she was uneasy about what she had
done until her eyes noted William’s purse lying on the table. What a fool she was to be wasting time worrying about what Bell would think and feel when she had a murder to solve and virtually no hope of doing it.

  She bit her lip and took a deep breath. That was not true. Bell was out learning what he could, Bell…she jerked her mind away from him to William, who had reminded her that Florete had many of the opportunities to garner information in Oxford that Magdalene herself had in London. Not quite the same, Florete’s clients did not have the kind of trust in her that Magdalene’s did. They would not sit beside the fire with Florete and tell her all sorts of tales they should not, but men did talk to whores and what they said could be bought.

  Magdalene took a half dozen silver pennies out of the purse William had left and dropped them into her pocket before she put the purse safely away. Then she covered the remaining food that needed to be protected, cleaned the bowls out of which she and William had eaten, and put their trenchers aside to carry to St. Friedesweide’s for the beggars. Nothing now gave any obvious hint of the service she had done William. She wondered again if she should make the bed, and then whether she wanted to spare Bell pain or feared too much to lose her lover.

  Such weakness was very wrong in her, putting another man’s life at risk. Turning away from the bed, she went briskly to the door and out. The corridor was empty fortunately, and she made her way to where Florete sat.

  “I need to talk,” she said.

  Florete frowned. “This is a busy time, and—”

  As if to give proof of her words, an altercation broke out behind one of the curtained doorways. Florete cocked her head, listening, heard a smack of flesh against flesh, and said, “Rand, go see what that is.”

  He took his cudgel and rose, but Magdalene smiled at Florete. “There’s no need for secrecy about this. We can talk right here, and there’s money in it for you and possibly for your women.”

  “I always listen when money is mentioned,” Florete said, smiling.

  The man who had gone to the curtain where the argument was taking place had pulled it aside and stuck his head in. Magdalene did not hear what he said, but he pulled out a moment later, came back and sat down.

  “Nothing,” he said to Florete. “Hertha said it was all right. He’s drunk and slapped a little too hard.”

  The other man laughed. “She’ll make him pay for that.”

  Florete looked from the men to Magdalene, but Magdalene shook her head. “As I said, this is no secret. Your men are welcome to listen, and if they have information I will pay them as well as the women.”

  Both men made interested noises, and Magdalene smiled at them.

  “I assume you all know about that clod St. Cyr being murdered and that Lord William of Ypres’s man, Niall Arvagh, was accused of the crime,” she continued. “Well, it turns out that Niall could not have done it. He has a dozen or more witnesses, including a priest, that he was more than a league distant that night. Unfortunately, for another reason entirely, Lord William was asking questions about St. Cyr and now there are whispers in the Court that he is somehow involved. Thus, Lord William wants the real killer discovered and exposed.”

  Florete began to shake her head as soon as Magdalene began her final sentence. “I myself will not bear false witness,” she said. “No matter who I accuse will have friends and such a reputation—”

  “No, no,” Magdalene interrupted. “Neither William nor I is interested in simply accusing someone to make an innocent man seem guilty. It would never serve any purpose and, if the truth were exposed, it would make William’s situation far worse. No. What I desire is that your men and your women keep their ears open for any mention of St. Cyr—not necessarily his murder, but anything about him—and bring me what they hear. I will pay for any news—” Magdalene’s mouth twisted wryly “—any that I think is true and not made up for the purpose of chousing me of farthings—and that is all the pay will be for rumor and gossip, farthings. However, if what I am told leads to taking the killer, then I will pay what that news was worth to Lord William. And for your trouble and spreading the word among your women…”

  Magdalene reached into her pocket and laid three of the silver pennies on the table before Florete and one each in front of each man. She warned them again about wanting to hear only information that seemed likely to be true. As she rose, Rand said, “When Florete went out to the privy there was one man who spoke of St. Cyr. It was while you were with Lord William.”

  She turned to him eagerly. “What did he say?”

  “That he wanted to lie with the whore that St. Cyr usually used.”

  “Usually used?” Magdalene echoed, glancing at Florete. “But I thought the night that he accosted me was his first time here.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” Florete asked. “He was not a regular client from Oxford, but he had been here before that night. He first came soon after Lord Waleran’s men arrived. He was here…” She looked up at the ceiling, pursing her lips, thinking. “Oh, three or four times.”

  Magdalene shook her head. “How odd. I was sure he was a stranger.” She shrugged. “Maybe because of the way he behaved.” She turned back to Rand. “Did the man say why he wanted the woman St. Cyr had used?”

  “Yes, but I’m not sure I believed it. He said he was St. Cyr’s friend, and using his whore was like a farewell to him.” He made a face.

  “Oh. I remember him,” the other man said. “It might even be true. He’s a looby. He talks funny, like his tongue is too big for his mouth.”

  “Shut up, Ogden,” Rand said. “It’s my story.”

  Magdalene laughed. “No, Ogden, don’t shut up. Tell what you remember and I’ll pay you both.” She laughed again. “It’s Lord William’s money and he can afford a couple of farthings.”

  “Got nothing more to say,” Ogden admitted. “Rand asked the whores who were free which of them had served St. Cyr and I went to look in on the big room to be sure all was quiet.”

  “Do either of you remember which of the women it was?”

  “Hertha,” Rand said immediately. “When you started to ask about St. Cyr, I remembered.”

  Magdalene found two farthings for each man and passed them over. Probably it was too much, atop the penny she had already given them, but she wanted them alert to any new incident and trying to remember anything else from the past.

  “Will it be all right for me to talk to Hertha when her man leaves?” Magdalene asked Florete.

  “I’ll see to it,” Florete assured her, but this one is in for the night. You might as well go to bed yourself.”

  The words seemed to unlock Magdalene’s tight-wound body, and fatigue flooded over her. It had been a long, long day, full of tension and anxiety. She put a hand on the table to steady herself, nodded at Florete, and then, suddenly, yawned.

  “I’ll do that,” Magdalene agreed. “And don’t wake Hertha especially early to talk to me.”

  “Should I turn your young man away?” Florete asked, then grinned and added, “Or offer him other entertainment to leave you in peace?”

  For one moment Magdalene was so racked with jealousy that her voice failed. Then she managed to force a laugh. “No, send him in. We are old friends and my bed is as much to give him a lodging as to give him pleasure. He won’t wake me if he finds me sound asleep.”

  Glad of the excuse Florete had inadvertently provided, Magdalene hurried to her chamber, closed the door carefully, and then rushed to the bed. As soon as she reached it and stretched a hand to straighten the bedclothes, she began to laugh and called herself ten times a fool. Loveday had wakened them at first light, they had ridden the distance to Noke, had an exciting discussion and a full meal, ridden back. She then had worried about reaching William, talked to Raoul de Samur, explained everything to William and coupled with him. Mary have mercy on her for an idiot. Why was she worrying about the state of the bed, when the most natural thing in the world would be for her to be in it and fast asleep when Bel
l arrived?

  She continued yawning as she lit the night candle and then set a torchette near the door so that Bell would not run into the table, but she left the remainder of the food where it was. Bell would know William had come and had eaten, he could make what he wanted of that. As she had told him many times, what she did when he was not with her was none of his business.

  24 June,

  The Soft Nest

  Magdalene never learned whether Bell had even noticed the proof that William had been with her or how he had reacted to it, if he had noticed. In fact, she never knew when he arrived. Possibly she had been half aware of his joining her sometime during the night, but he had not tried to wake her to make love and she slept on, obscurely comforted by his warmth and solidity beside her, until she woke naturally and found him.

  She lay for a very little while, enjoying his presence, thinking idly that what she felt was common to a wife in a happy marriage. But the word sent a faint chill through her, and she slid carefully out of the bed to be shocked by the angle of the sunshine through the window, which told her she had slept far into the morning. Then she shrugged, dropped the curtain behind her, sought the chamber pot, and used it.

  Her unruly thoughts were not diverted by how long she had slept. What came to her mind as she pushed the chamber pot back under the bed was that there were far too few happy marriages. Her shift and undertunic lay on the chest near the wall, and she pulled them on, then turned to sit on the chest to put on her stockings.

  Unwelcome memories came. Certainly there had been no contentment in waking beside Brogan. For herself as a wife she remembered only her distaste, her care in moving away from him and escaping from the bed before he could notice her and use her to assuage his morning lust.

  Was her satisfaction based on Bell himself or only because he was so responsive and considerate a lover? And would he remain responsive and considerate if she should become his wife? Magdalene snorted softly. Not likely. As long as she did not belong to him, he would try to keep her satisfied so she would not look abroad for other men. Once she was bound, why should he trouble himself?