She took a farthing from her purse and showed it in her open palm. “Do you remember anything about St. Cyr?”
“I remember that St. Cyr told me not to worry about his being married—as if losing him as a customer would worry me. He said he’d be a better client than ever because he’d have more money to spend. I was annoyed so I asked him what if I told his future wife, and he said it didn’t matter. He had a highborn friend who would arrange that the girl be betrothed and married to him, will she nill she.” Hertha was silent for a moment and then said, “If I’d thought she’d listen to me, I’d’ve warned her.”
“She knew. She was in hiding from him.” Magdalene put the farthing in Hertha’s hand. “The man who wanted to lie with you in St. Cyr’s name, can you guess whether he was glad or sorry about St. Cyr’s death?”
“Oh, I think he was sorry about that…which was another reason I thought him addle-witted. He cried when he talked about St. Cyr, only he called him Aimery. Said he knew him for years, that he taught Aimery to fight, but Aimery—he called him something else then, too—Carl, I think. Anyway, it was Aimery who got him a place in Lord Waleran’s troop, which was better pay and less real work than what he’d been doing before.”
“Cried, did he? But for grief or guilt, Hertha?”
The woman thought for a moment and then said, “It’s hard to believe, but real grief, I think. He said he asked for me because he was Aimery’s heir so it was right he should use me instead of his usual girl.” She shook her head. “Stupid.”
Magdalene laughed but gave Hertha another farthing. “I doubt it means anything, but I’m glad to know St. Cyr had an heir. It wouldn’t be the first time an heir collected a bit early…and even felt bad about collecting.”
Hertha took the second farthing. “Not this one, I think. I don’t know why but I…I almost liked him.”
“I have a feeling you’re right about him, but if you remember anything else either that St. Cyr said or this other man, come and tell me. I don’t promise to pay, but if what you say is worth thinking about, I will.”
When the woman was gone, Bell came around from the hidden side of the bed where he had been sitting quietly on Magdalene’s clothing chest. “Manville d’Arras?” he asked.
“It must be,” Magdalene agreed. “I wonder if we will find him in any of the alehouses? I would like very much to talk to him, but not quite enough to go to Waleran’s barracks and ask for him.”
Bell nodded agreement, glanced out the window again and took his cloak, which he had left hanging with Magdalene’s when he rushed out in a rage the previous afternoon. Magdalene followed his lead and they went out, deciding as they walked toward the Carfax to reverse Bell’s order of investigation and start with The Lively Hop. They were just about to go in the door, when Magdalene, glancing idly down the street, saw Sir Ferrau in the cookshop where Diccon usually bought food for the women of the Soft Nest.
“Lord have mercy,” she said to Bell. “There’s Sir Ferrau at the cookshop. Did I tell you about his asking me to get the purse Niall cut from St. Cyr’s belt?”
“Of course. Loveday maneuvered me into saying I would fetch it, but it went right out of my head when we all decided to ride to Noke to discover what had happened to Niall. And then in the excitement of learning that Niall was innocent, I forgot all about it while we were there.”
“Me too,” Magdalene admitted. “And I don’t suppose it matters any more, since St. Cyr is dead and can’t bring any complaint. Still, I did say I would try to get it for Sir Ferrau, so I suppose I should step over there and ask him if he still wants it.”
She had no chance to do that, nor any doubt about the answer to her question because as soon as they started in his direction, Sir Ferrau noticed them, stood up, and met them halfway.
“Have you brought the purse?” he asked eagerly.
“No,” Magdalene replied, feeling considerably surprised by his eagerness. “I am sorry, but after I heard St. Cyr was dead and could make no complaint to Lord Waleran or anyone else, I am afraid I put it out of my mind. I did go to Noke, but I forgot to ask for it.”
“Good Lord,” Ferrau said, looking quite put out. “I must have it!”
“But why do you want the purse of a common man-at-arms?” Bell asked.
Ferrau made an ugly grimace. “I have no idea,” he admitted. “Count Alain wants it and charged me with the duty of retrieving it. How am I to do that now? I cannot ride out to Noke and ask for it. For one thing, I do not know where the accursed place is, and for another I greatly fear that Sir Niall will deny ever taking the purse if I ask for it.”
“But surely now that St. Cyr is dead—” Bell began, then hesitated and asked, “Are you sure Count Alain knows the man is dead?”
“Oh yes,” Ferrau said bitterly. “When he sent for me this morning and asked for the purse, I immediately told him that St. Cyr was dead and would make no trouble.” He shrugged. “If he heard me, he gave no sign of it, merely asked again when I would have the purse.” He grimaced again. “One does not ask questions of Count Alain.”
“It is possible,” Magdalene put in, “that it is the pound of silver in the purse that Count Alain wants.” But a small smile curved the corners of her lips upward and inner laughter lightened her misty blue eyes almost to silver.
Bell looked astounded. “Pound of silver? Where would St. Cyr have come by a pound in silver? I heard the captain of his troop say he knew him unable to pay for—for something he wanted badly.”
Magdalene now had control of her mouth, but her eyes were still bright with amusement. “It does not matter,” she said. “I believe the money now belongs to Manville d’Arras.”
“Manville d’Arras?” Ferrau repeated. “Who is that, and why should the contents of St. Cyr’s purse belong to him?”
“I am not certain, but a whore in the Soft Nest with whom this Manville lay told me that he told her that he was St. Cyr’s heir.” Magdalene laughed and shook her head. “He is not a very clever man, this Arras. He seemed to think that he had inherited St. Cyr’s whore with the rest of his goods. She was quite annoyed, not having been particularly fond of St. Cyr.”
“Who can believe the word of a whore!” Ferrau exclaimed, and then drew a sharp breath, recalling to whom he was talking, and made a gesture of apology.
“What you say may be true,” Magdalene replied calmly, nodding acceptance of the apology, “but usually even a whore needs a reason to tell a lie, and I cannot imagine why she should lie over something so silly.”
“In any case,” Bell said, his voice a good deal colder than Magdalene’s had been, “we will need to determine whether the whore spoke the truth and Arras is truly St. Cyr’s heir—I mean legally—before we hand over this purse. If Arras is St. Cyr’s legal heir, there can be no contest, the purse and its contents belong to him.”
“A common man-at-arms…” Ferrau’s mouth turned down. “His claim cannot come before that of Count Alain of Brittany, legal or not. If you will get the purse for me, Count Alain will make all smooth, I am sure…unless, does this Manville d’Arras know the contents of the purse?”
Magdalene shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t say anything about that to the whore…or, wait, perhaps he did hint that he would have more money in the future? No, that was what St. Cyr said to her, and he was referring to his marriage to Loveday, not to the contents of his purse.”
“Look,” Sir Ferrau said, appealing to Bell, “my master wants that purse. I have not the faintest notion why. But if I obtain it, I will have his favor, if I do not he might even turn me away. He is not the easiest master in the world, but there are many advantages to serving him. For old times’ sake…”
Bell got a funny look on his face, but then nodded. “I cannot promise that the silver will still be in the purse. Niall would not have touched it, but who knows what has happened since he took it or before he took it? But he is coming to Oxford early tomorrow and we can ask him to bring the purse. Once it is here, we
can determine the rightful owner. Likely Arras would be willing enough to let Count Alain have it if you, as the count’s representative and St. Cyr’s friend, asked him for it.”
“Good God, don’t call me St. Cyr’s friend. I am almost grateful to whoever did away with him! He was nothing but trouble.”
Bell grinned. “However did you come to know the man?”
Ferrau sighed. “I knew him in the village from which I came, oh, years ago. He used to deliver… I forget what to the manor house. He was some tradesman’s son. He remembered me, accosted me. I saw that he had been beaten and, fool that I was, I was sorry for him. I bought him a drink.” He shook his head. “If I had known the trouble that one drink would cause me, I would have stuck a knife in him then and there and saved his murderer the trouble.” He shrugged. “In any case, I will thank you for the purse if you can get it for me.” He sighed again, smiled weakly, and added, “I had better finish my dinner before the cook takes it away.”
Magdalene and Bell turned back toward the Lively Hop, but when they were out of earshot, just before they entered the alehouse, Bell asked, “What the devil were you grinning about when you said Count Alain might want the pound of silver? A pound of silver is no light thing, even to a man of the count’s wealth.”
“I wasn’t grinning,” Magdalene said, now smiling broadly. “And it’s quite true that a pound is a pound’s worth even to a man like Count Alain, but I do not think it is equal in weight to his dignity, and that is what the contents of the purse might cost him.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“The forged betrothal, Bell, the forged betrothal. Is it not possible that that pound in silver paid for Count Alain’s name on that document? Remember Gervase de Genlis?”
Bell, who had been about to step in the door of the alehouse, stopped and stared down at Magdalene. Gervase de Genlis had been the father of Mainard the Saddler’s first wife Bertrild. In the course of discovering who had murdered her, Bell and Magdalene had discovered that Gervase had, for a price, witnessed many false documents—and then blackmailed their owners.
“But Gervase was in every way the scum of the earth,” he said. “Count Alain—”
“Not scum. Say rather the cream above the milk. But do you think he cares any more for the rights of others than Gervase did? His wealth is great, but the expense at which he lives for pride’s sake might put a strain even on his income. Who knows whether he has added to that income now and again by witnessing a document or two that…ah…he had no way of knowing was not perfectly legitimate?”
Magdalene was grinning again, but Bell was not. He drew her to the side where a bench flanked the open door and signed her to sit, sitting beside her. “If it is so,” he said softly, “the document in that purse is more dangerous than the charge of a full battle of armed knights. Can you not imagine what a man of such pride will do to prevent such an exposure? When we go to Noke, we must examine the forged betrothal and if his name appears, we must deface the document so that Loveday’s name and her properties are no longer listed on it. Then it must be returned.”
Magdalene wrinkled her nose but then sighed and nodded. “Yes,” she agreed, “but not until William sees it.”
“Good God, no!” Bell exclaimed, voice still not above a murmur but eyes wide with horror. “The trail from Lord William to you is far too short.”
“Oh, William would not use the knowledge—without proof it would be far too dangerous and blacken his name as much as the count’s. It is only for his delectation and amusement. He is so irritated by the way Count Alain and Lord Hervey have their noses in the air. It would be a little warm hearth inside him whenever he must suffer their cold courtesy.”
“You will tell him no matter what I say, I suppose.” Bell’s voice grated. “Despite how well you know him. Despite knowing that if it suits his purposes, he will use the knowledge no matter what the danger to you.”
“Why should Count Alain even think of me? It was Niall who took the purse. It was Niall’s betrothed who was threatened by the false document. Niall is William’s man. Surely it will be assumed that Niall told William, even that he offered him the document, and William magnanimously returned it to Count Alain.” She fell silent, then hmmm’d and nodded. “Is that not a good thought?”
“Count Alain will think of you because Ferrau will tell him that you were supposed to get the purse for him and instead you passed it to Lord William,” Bell said, lips tight.
Magdalene laughed shortly. “Oh, but if William gives Count Alain the document, Ferrau will not come into it at all, and even if Count Alain asks why the document fell into William’s hands, do you think Ferrau will admit he asked a whore to get it for him? He will likely say that Niall had sent the purse to William before he was ordered to retrieve it. That will save him from blame as much as he can be saved.”
Bell sighed. “I am not overmuch concerned about saving Ferrau from blame. I would not wish to do him harm—he did me a good turn when he forced reality into my dreams—but he is skilled at looking out for himself, and lucky, too. Fortune smiled on him with an offer from Count Alain just before turmoil broke out in Lord Sutton’s household. Not that Ferrau was suspected of being in any way involved with the death of Sutton’s daughter, but Count Alain would not have touched a man who came from a household in which murder had been done.”
“That tale touches so many that are connected to this business about Loveday,” Magdalene said thoughtfully. “Lord Ormerod was to be betrothed to Lord Sutton’s daughter. Sir Jules was a long-time playmate. Sir Ferrau knew her as the daughter of his overlord. Did you know her too, Bell?”
“I must have, but I have no memory of the girl… Well maybe a dim memory of a girl. I went to Culham a few times and Lord Sutton may have brought her with him to the abbey. But I was not of an age to be interested in girls—”
“Oh you liar!” Magdalene laughed. “At twelve? thirteen? I cannot believe you were still innocent.”
Bell laughed too. “Well, I was, cloistered as I was in the abbey. Maybe I had some dreams, but they would not have been of a girl near my own age. If I dreamt, it was of full-breasted, full-hipped women. Come to think of it one of the dairy maids who collected milk from the abbey’s herd…”
Magdalene poked him hard in the ribs and rose, still laughing. He got up too and followed her into the alehouse. There she patted him on the shoulder and walked away to a table in a corner while Bell walked up to the broached tun where the landlord sat. He paid for a mug of ale, shook his head at the landlord’s glance toward Magdalene, and took his drink to the other side of the alehouse where he too sat down with his back to the wall.
Meanwhile Magdalene had beckoned to a serving girl, who cast a quick glance at Bell and came to Magdalene with a definite flounce to her step.
“Too cheap to buy you a drink?” she said to Magdalene in English.
“No,” Magdalene replied in the same language. “I told him to go away. We are old friends.” She took a farthing from her purse and laid it on the bench beside her. “You can bring me a small ale, but I have come to ask questions about a man called Aimery St. Cyr—”
“He was the one who was murdered some days ago,” the girl said, beginning to back away. “That was at The Broached Barrel. We at The Lively Hop have nothing to do with that. We don’t know anything about the killing.”
Magdalene pushed the farthing a little closer to where the girl was standing. “No one thinks you have anything to do with St. Cyr’s death. Indeed, Bell—” she gestured with her head at Bell, who was talking to the only male server in the alehouse “—has already discovered that St. Cyr was killed by a man wearing mail.” She smiled at the girl. “I doubt if you could even carry a chain-mail shirt, much less wear it.’
The girl giggled faintly and came closer again. She looked down at the farthing. “No one in this place has a mail shirt or has ever worn one.”
“I believe that, my dear.” Magdalene looked around but sh
e and Bell and one old man, close to where the landlord sat, were the only ones in the alehouse. “I see that you are not busy now, so will you not sit down with me, perhaps share a cup of ale or of wine if you are permitted, and answer my questions? I promise they will not be about any who work in The Lively Hop.”
“Oh, well, in that case…” The girl went to get the drinks, said a few words to the landlord, and returned to seat herself beside Magdalene on the bench, but on the side where the farthing lay.
Magdalene began by asking the girl’s name, and when she was told it was Mayde, went on to describe St. Cyr with his greasy black hair, bruised eye, cut and swollen mouth, and slurred speech. The girl nodded and said she knew him, and that he had been a frequent visitor since early in June when Lord Waleran had arrived in Oxford.
“The landlord told Bell that St. Cyr was here on the night that he died,” Magdalene said, watching with satisfaction as Mayde relaxed even more, clearly as if the girl had said it, Magdalene understood Mayde thought that if the landlord had already spoken to Bell about St. Cyr, she would not be blamed for doing the same “I want to know to whom St. Cyr spoke and, if you know it, I would pay to know what they said to each other.”
Mayde frowned. “He was here quite a while. Thomas there—” she gestured with her head to the server to whom Bell was speaking “—was serving the two men he was sitting with. He knew them well. He often drank with them, but I’m not sure he had a drink in hand that night. I think those men were from his troop.”
That accorded well with the assumption that St. Cyr had little or no money until later, when he appeared in The Wheat Sheaf. Magdalene nodded. “They were. Bell has already spoken to one of them.” She smiled at the girl, and pushed the farthing a little closer to her, but kept a finger on it.
“I don’t know what they said to each other,” Mayde said, rather resentfully, thinking the farthing might be withheld and she would have done better to make something up. Then, however, she relaxed into a smile because Magdalene pushed the farthing right up to her and removed her finger from it.
Bone of Contention Page 21
