Bone of Contention

by Roberta Gellis

  Yet they had not made love in the night and the pleasure in his being beside her was just as strong. She sighed softly, slowly slipped on one shoe and then the other. There was no possibility of discovering any answer to her doubts. A whore cannot make a happy marriage. The room grew dim.

  She rose from the chest laughing silently and took a heavy linen gown from a peg. Not sadness but a cloud covered the sun. The light from the window was now dull and gray and the room was damply cool. It would rain again, she thought, just as a soft rustle betrayed the movement of the bed curtains and Bell’s voice asked, “Are my clothes dry? I was soaked coming here from the Carfax. What a downpour!”

  “Dry enough to wear, but a bit rough and wrinkled. I see your head is all right this morning, so you did not drink too deep. Were you late last night? I was so tired from Loveday waking us at dawn and all that exercise and excitement about Niall that I went to sleep soon after dark.”

  He made no direct reply to that, but got out of bed and walked around it to use the chamber pot. Finished, he drew on chausses and braies but no shirt, saying he needed to wash.

  His shoes were not yet dry and he grunted and let them sit, padding over to the table while he drew a twig from his purse and began to chew the end of it to clean his teeth, Magdalene nodded at his remark about washing and went out to find Diccon to bring in some water.

  When he came with it, she bade him empty the chamber pot and the boy made a face, but took it and went out. She rather regretted having dressed so completely because she had not bathed or washed well for several days, but she had more important things to do than undress and set ideas into Bell’s too easily inflamed mind. She made do with pushing up her sleeves and loosening her undertunic so she could wash face, neck, and arms.

  Bell did a more thorough job, then pulled on his shirt and sat down at the table. As he reached for the leftover food, he said, “I learned some very interesting things yesterday.”

  Magdalene went to get two cups and what remained in the jack of ale. She filled the cups and sat down across the corner of the table from Bell.

  “That’s just as well. William has asked me to expose the killer if it is possible.”

  Bell frowned. “Why should he care? His man is well free and clear of any suspicion.”

  Magdalene’s lips twisted. “Niall is not William’s only man. The armorer’s house, where his captains are lodged, is only across a back alley from The Wheat Sheaf. Any one of William’s men could have lain in wait there unseen for St. Cyr to come out, gone with him to The Broached Barrel, and killed him. Worse yet, because he could not understand why Waleran should offer Loveday to such a man, William was asking questions in Court about St. Cyr.”

  Bell whistled softly between his teeth, took a swallow of the ale, and began to eat a chunk of the pasty. Magdalene pointed out that it was nearly time for dinner, but he shrugged and said he was hungry and that he would be able to eat dinner too. Then, dismissing the subject of food, he told her, “Then one of the things I learned is not so good. St. Cyr was killed by a man wearing mail, which might throw more suspicion on Lord William’s men.”

  “How in the world did you discover that?”

  So he told her about examining the corpse in the presence of the sheriff’s deputy and the lack of interest the man had shown for discovering St. Cyr’s killer.

  “Then we can’t look for much help from the sheriff,” Magdalene said. “On the other hand, he is not likely to interfere against us, either—unless you think he was willing to accept Niall as guilty because he is Waleran’s supporter?”

  “Not that. From what Sir Rolf said, the sheriff only desires all of us to be gone: king, Lord Waleran, Lord William, and the whole Court. If he is any man’s man, it is the bishop of Salisbury that holds his loyalty. Oh, Lord! I forgot, Salisbury will most likely be here today. The sheriff had gone out to meet him on his way from Malmsbury.”

  “There will be a lot of unhappy wager-makers,” Magdalene said, grinning, but then she sighed. “There will also be trouble, Bell. I feel it in my bones and being a whoremistress has honed those bones into a sharp appreciation of trouble.”

  Bell nodded. “I think so too.” He glanced out of the window into a gray dimness. “If the weather were bright and dry, it would matter less.” He shrugged. “Well, it may be that Salisbury has sense enough to have his men pitch tents outside the walls. If so, all may still go well.”

  “William thinks Waleran and the king are looking for some cause of dissatisfaction.”

  “Likely he is right.” Having finished the pasty, Bell fished a slice of roast pork out of the bottom of a bowl, where it had been kept soft in its own dripping. Folding it over and leaning well forward, so the meat would not drip on his shirt, he took a bite, saying indistinctly through the food, “I cannot see what I can do about it. And I must say that now I am glad Winchester did not come. He would have had to try to stop the king, which would just set him and Waleran more bitterly against each other. Maybe if he is not involved at this time he can mend matters later.”

  Magdalene had torn a chunk of bread from the half loaf left and was scooping cold stew out of the chamber pot and eating it. Bell stared at the pot for a moment and then began to laugh.

  “Well,” she said, trying to sound indignant, “Florete has no kitchen as we do at the Old Priory Guesthouse. I had to take what basins and bowls were available, and nothing was large enough for the amount of stew you sent, except this.”

  “I hope it was well cleaned,” Bell said, still laughing, but he broke off some of the bread and also helped himself to the stew. Abruptly, as some thought came to him, he stopped laughing and began to frown, but after a few moments he shook his head and said, “No one I can reach knows what is being planned. Sometime today I must ride out to Wytham Abbey and warn the dean, but there is no urgency in it. He knows without my telling. And mayhap I can do something about St. Cyr’s death. I traced his movements that last night and discovered a number of men with whom he spent time.”

  He explained about meeting Lord Ormerod and Sir Jules in The Broached Barrel and repeated what Ormerod had said. “So Jules was wearing mail because his sister insisted.” He stopped speaking and cocked his head. “I wonder if Ormerod was mail-clad too—he didn’t say.” He shook his head and continued with what he had been saying. “As for Jules, I am not sure he is strong enough to have made the marks on St. Cyr’s neck and chin, but some who look slight have a wiry strength. Later, I learned he had already quarreled with St. Cyr.”

  “In The Broached Barrel? But I thought—”

  “No. That was in The Wheat Sheaf, but I am giving you his movements backward. Let me tell you of the day in order. St. Cyr seems to have been on duty in the morning; he was one of the men guarding Lord Waleran’s lodging. And by the by, Lord Waleran is not lodged in the castle like Lord William.”

  “Now that is strange,” Magdalene muttered. “Why is he willing to allow William to be closer to the king than he?”

  “Because he and the king are agreed on something he must do in greater private than he can find in the castle,” Bell said with a grimace. “I would give a great deal to be a fly on the wall in that house.” He sighed. “However, to get back to St. Cyr. He ate with the other men, and Jean Kaleau, with whom I spoke at The Lively Hop, said he was in remarkably good spirits for a man who had been soundly beaten the previous day and lost a chance at a rich marriage.”

  “Ah, but did he believe he had lost it? Had he been assured that a lost forged betrothal agreement could be forged again? I am sure he told whoever made the arrangement that he had lost the document. But it is not really so easy to forge such a parchment. And likely that person feared he would be forever at St. Cyr’s beck and call. Would he not agree to do as St. Cyr wanted and later kill him?”

  “So I think also, but Jean Kaleau certainly has neither the wealth nor the influence to provide such a document. I think we can exonerate all Waleran’s men-at-arms on the same grounds.”<
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  “The captains too?”

  Bell sighed. “I think so,” he said slowly. “You must remember that his own captain, Raoul de Samur, did not speak well of him. But he spoke with contempt, not fear or hatred, and the others I spoke to in the alehouses did not seem to know St. Cyr at all.”

  Magdalene nodded acceptance, and Bell continued, “After the meal he seems to have disappeared for some hours, but he must have been somewhere around the lodging because he was later seen leaving it with Manville d’Arras, the man who accused Niall. They went to a cookshop between The Lively Hop and The Wheat Sheaf and they ate there. I spoke to the cook, who said that they seemed to be on good terms.”

  “Probably they were. Did not Giles, or maybe one of William’s other men, say that this Manville was distraught when he brought his accusation?” She shook her head. “A looby and a cur…appropriate friends.”

  “A looby?” Bell frowned. “Yes, come to think of it, Sir Rolf called Niall’s accuser a lunatic. Possibly St. Cyr could only take so much of his company. The cook said they went out together but I know they must have soon parted because St. Cyr appeared in The Lively Hop alone and it is only a few steps away. There he went to drink with two men, also from one of Lord Waleran’s troops—Jean Kaleau, from whom I learned what St. Cyr was doing earlier in the day, and another, Peter Arnason, with whom I have not yet spoken.”

  “Since they are unlikely to have killed him—I imagine neither has a mail shirt or the influence St. Cyr wanted—you can leave Arnason to himself for a while.”

  “Well, the next man is not likely to have a mail shirt either, but he did approach St. Cyr and offer to pay for his ale. They spoke together for some time, St. Cyr laughing and sneering and the other growing more and more withdrawn or angry until, at last, he pushed his cup of ale away and left the alehouse scowling.”

  “Why do you say he is unlikely to have a mail shirt?”

  “Oh, sorry. Because the landlord of The Lively Hop was sure he was a merchant, both by his dress and by some words he heard spoken between him and a mercer from farther along the market. However, it was a busy time and the landlord was not paying much attention. Maybe we can learn more from the girl who served them.”

  “I’ll do that,” Magdalene offered.

  Bell looked at her and smiled slowly, and she shook her head at him and laughed.

  “No love, I’m not trying to keep you away from other women. I just think I’m better at extracting information from them than a man would be.” But even as she said it, she wondered how true it was. An alehouse server often served more than ale and would certainly try to win a few more farthings from a handsome young man who questioned her.

  Bell sighed as if his heart was broken, made his eyes large and sorrowful, and said, “And I thought you were trying to protect me from evil influences.”

  “You are too far gone for that!” Magdalene snapped, and then giggled. “Did St. Cyr leave then?”

  “No, there was one more man he spoke with—off in a corner. The landlord said the other man was richly dressed and wore no house badge. An independent lord, like Ormerod perhaps? We will need to get more information from the server about that. All the landlord could tell me was that they seemed in close agreement, and that St. Cyr left with him.”

  “That sounds almost as if we have found a good suspect. Did the landlord know whether the man wore mail? And they left together. He could have killed St. Cyr then or walked him to The Broached Barrel—”

  “No. He certainly didn’t kill St. Cyr because St. Cyr appeared in The Wheat Sheaf not long after, safe and sound. But if that man is one of the two Samur mentioned, and he is lodged with Alain of Brittany, he could have gone to his lodging, put on mail, and caught St. Cyr before he came out of The Wheat Sheaf because St. Cyr was there for some time.”

  “Ah, yes. You said he met Sir Jules there and they quarreled?”

  “I am not sure quarrel is the right world. It seems as if St. Cyr came into some money between the time he left the well-dressed man from The Lively Hop and the time he entered The Wheat Sheaf. It’s impossible to be certain, of course, but I got the feeling that more time passed between St, Cyr leaving the Lively Hop and his entering the Wheat Sheaf than he would have taken to walk from one to the other. I think he and his well-dressed companion stood and talked for a while, and the companion gave St. Cyr money.”

  Magdalene cocked her head looking puzzled, but then nodded with satisfaction. “Yes, because St. Cyr was looking for others to buy his ale at The Lively Hop but offered a round to the house soon after he came into The Wheat Sheaf.”

  “Right. And that is when he and Sir Jules had a difference of opinion. It seems that Sir Jules took the cup, but when St. Cyr said he wished to drink to his coming marriage to Mistress Loveday of Otmoor, Sir Jules poured the ale on the floor, said he’d see St. Cyr dead first, and rushed out of the place.”

  “Hmmm. I am surprised that St. Cyr did not react to that. I wonder—”

  She stopped and turned her head to the door as someone scratched at it. A moment later Giles de Milland’s voice called, “Magdalene, may I come in?”

  “Yes, come,” she responded.

  He came in and shut the door, but did not advance toward the table. “Only a message,” he said. “Lord William would like you to ride out to Noke and tell Niall to return to Oxford by midmorning tomorrow, bringing the documents that clear him of murder.”

  “Is Lord William suddenly so short of men that he cannot find a messenger to send?” Bell asked sharply. “It is dangerous for a woman alone to ride abroad with so many men-at-arms wandering loose.”

  Giles grinned. “Lord William said that he was sure Magdalene could find a Churchly escort. He does not want to send any of his own people because he desires no connection with Noke or Loveday of Otmoor until the matter of the accusation against Niall is settled.”

  “Do not be so silly, Bell,” Magdalene said. “William does not take me for a fool and he knows I would find some escort through Florete if it was impossible for you to accompany me. He would make good the price of the escort, too. Is there anything else, Giles?”

  “Lord William says it seems certain that Salisbury will arrive sometime today and present himself to the king either at or after dinner. Lord William wants to see how that goes but thinks the first meeting will go well. He wants to clear Niall of suspicion in St. Cyr’s death before dinner tomorrow.” He shrugged and grimaced. “Before anything happens that will draw attention away from Lord William’s proof of innocence and the false accusation of his man.”

  Bell raised his brows. “A very good sense of timing. I hope everything moves according to Lord William’s plan.”

  “Good planning makes for less hoping,” Giles said and lifted a hand in farewell.

  Chapter 13

  23 June,

  Cornmarket

  Sir Giles went out and Bell and Magdalene looked at each other in silence for a moment. Then Magdalene said, “If you want to be here in Oxford so you can report to the dean about the first meeting between Salisbury and the king, I can hire—”

  “No, there are half a dozen young priests and several friars, all of whom have no connection to Winchester who will gladly carry the news. In fact, the dean insisted that I be at Wytham Abbey when Salisbury arrives so it cannot be said that I went to greet him or to bring him any message. I’ll ride out to Noke with you.”

  “Yes, but not immediately,” Magdalene said. “Niall doesn’t need to be in Oxford until tomorrow morning so we can have dinner first and talk to the serving people in the alehouses. No, let’s talk to them right away, before dinner. The morning should be a quieter time for them, and we’ve just broken our fast so we can eat later.”

  Bell finished his ale and agreed, but before they could decide whether to take cloaks in case it began to rain, there was a second scratch on the door.

  “Who?” Magdalene called.

  “Hertha. Florete said you wanted to talk to me.”


  “Hertha…” Magdalene muttered, trying to remember, and then, gesturing at Bell to make himself less in evidence, “Oh, yes. Come in Hertha.” And when the door opened, Magdalene asked, “You are the woman who lay with the man asking for Aimery St. Cyr’s woman?”

  “I was not that, thank God, but he did lie with me twice, complaining bitterly about the price and demanding I suck his filthy rod and stick my fingers in…” Her lips turned down. “He stank, too. I told Florete that I would not take him again. Oh, was that why he made trouble for you? I am sorry, but—”

  “No, no. It is nothing to do with that. You know St. Cyr was murdered?” Hertha nodded and Magdalene continued, “Someone I know might be blamed for the murder so I am trying to find out who was truly guilty. I just wanted to know why St. Cyr’s friend wished to be with St. Cyr’s woman.”

  Hertha frowned. “I didn’t know you would be interested, so to tell the truth I didn’t listen. It’s boring enough to have to lie there with some fool pounding away on you, listening to what they say is too much. And that one! He was the stupidest man I’ve ever had. I mean, they’re all stupid, but this one could hardly talk.”

  Hertha was not a whore who would ever make more than a penny, Magdalene thought, and as soon as she lost her looks she would be in the farthing room. She was pretty now and clean enough, but plainly she never tried to make a man feel welcome and important. That was what brought a client back, what drew from him an extra coin. Magdalene suddenly had to bite her lip to cover a bitter smile. There was something to be said for the painful way she had learned to please Brogan, that training plus her beauty had made her a very successful whore.