“I want the truth,” Magdalene said, “even if it tells me nothing.” She took another farthing from her purse.
Mayde nodded with enthusiasm. “What I saw was after a while, a well-dressed fellow—dark, sober clothes, like a merchant—went over there and tapped St. Cyr on the shoulder. St. Cyr got up and walked away with the merchant-looking man and he called to me and told me to bring ale for both of them. I didn’t hear what they said at first because I had to get the drinks, but when I came back, the merchant man was looking black as a summer storm, and St. Cyr was laughing and saying something about his being a fool if he thought women didn’t need to be well-schooled. I heard the merchant man say he had hoped for better. Then I was called away and the next I knew the merchant man had pushed his ale aside and jumped up with a raised fist. Thomas came running over because he looked as if he were going to hit St. Cyr, but then he just turned his back and went out. Looked to me as if he was going to cry.”
Magdalene handed over the second farthing.
The girl took it and then shrugged. “That’s all I know. St. Cyr sat there for a while, laughing to himself. He finished his ale and the merchant man’s too, but he didn’t call me to bring any more and after a while I stopped looking over at him. Later, though, I saw he was gone from that place and wondered if he’d left. He—” she made a moue of distaste “—sometimes wanted to go out in the back with me, and he liked to hit. So I was glad he was gone, and when I saw him with the other man, I let Mary bring him an ale.”
“Did you see the other man?”
Mayde shook her head reluctantly. “Not really. It was so dark there, I wouldn’t have noticed St. Cyr, except his face was so broken. Maybe Mary could tell you more.”
“Send her over if you will,” Magdalene said, and gave Mayde a third farthing. “This is for thinking and for telling the truth. If you remember anything more, or if something happens, among any of the men you saw with St. Cyr, you can find me at the Soft Nest. I am renting the back room there, I do not work in the house. My name is Magdalene.”
After Mayde’s bright interest, Mary was a sad disappointment. She was an older woman, much harder, her skimpy hair wound into a tight knot, her lips thin and downturned, and her eyes dull. When Magdalene made the same advances to her that she had to Mayde, the woman snatched at the farthing and shook her head.
“Didn’t know ‘em, either on ‘em,” she said. “Didn’ hear nothin’ neither. Who looks at ‘em anyway?”
A second farthing, this one displayed briefly and then held in Magdalene’s closed fist, elicited a little more information. When reminded, Mary recalled St. Cyr’s bruised face and the fact that the man with him had his hair cut shorter in the back than at the sides. The color? “Not blond,” Mary said at once and then shook her head and insisted it was too dark to see more; perhaps his hair had been brown. A knight’s cut, Magdalene thought with a stir of excitement.
Unfortunately that was the end of Mary’s information. First she could remember nothing about the man’s face, and then when Magdalene handed over the second farthing, she remembered quite well far too much. Magdalene discounted nearly everything she said, except that the man’s clothing had been very fine, rich even. That went with the haircut of a man who wore a knight’s helm and if the clothing were rich… Magdalene wondered if St. Cyr’s companion could have been more than one of the hired knights, like one of Waleran’s captains. Perhaps he was a landed knight, even a baron.
She also found herself believing it when Mary said neither man had raised his voice and they seemed to be dealing amicably together. One thing more might have been true: Mary claimed she heard St. Cyr laugh and thank the other man for his generosity. So was the richly dressed man the one who had given St. Cyr money? If Mary was right, he did not seem to mind. Then, Mary said, they were gone. She had served someone else and when she looked back both men had left. Possibly together. But Magdalene asked for no speculations on Mary’s part, offered no more money, and when Bell glanced her way, she waved Mary away and got up to join him.
They walked slowly to The Wheat Sheaf, exchanging information, not that Bell had much more to tell than he had told her that morning. Thomas, the server, had confirmed what he and Magdalene suspected, that St. Cyr, having lost his purse and whatever was in it, had no money and his troop companions, knowing him too well, had declined to pay for his ale.
“But that means,” Magdalene said, “that he had only the ale the merchant bought him—if he was a merchant. Bell, I wonder if that was Tirell Hardel. Remember, I told you what I overheard when Loveday and I were in the cookshop. But that was before St. Cyr was killed… No. It was just after we knew he was dead.” She hesitated, then added, “Good God, could it have been Tirell that killed him? He did say something about having taken care of the matter he and his father had discussed. That it was done. Over.”
“Done. Over. That could have referred to killing St. Cyr. To take him from behind would not take any armed skill, but this Tirell Hardel was not wearing mail and I doubt would have a way to borrow a mail shirt.”
“And he said he was sick at heart over what he had done.” Magdalene frowned. “Is there nothing else that could have made the marks you saw on St. Cyr?”
Bell shrugged. “I don’t—” he began, then stopped in his tracks and stared into space. “Net,” he said. “A small-mesh net. I remember when I sailed as a merchant’s mercenary I saw nets like that. But I would think the marks on St. Cyr would not be so sharp and clear if they were made by cord. And where or why would a wool merchant be carrying…”
“A cargo net?” Magdalene suggested. “A strange thing for a man to carry about, and he did not have it with him in the alehouse, but perhaps he went somewhere to get it. The merchant-looking man left The Lively Hop quite a time before St. Cyr left.”
“Not a cargo net,” Bell said slowly. “Those are thick rope with large holes, but a kind of mesh bag for smaller, more valuable items.”
“And a merchant might well use something like that to carry things on a journey,” Magdalene remarked, “but I cannot see how he could use it in killing a man.”
Bell slowly shook his head. “Nor me neither. But of course, I think of killing in terms of ordinary weapons, a knife, a sword, because I am trained in their use. If I were not a fighter…”
“Well, well, let us not hang the man on the grounds of a few words overheard. It might have been something else he meant. After all, is it likely that Reinhart Hardel would have been discussing murder with his son?”
Bell chuckled. “Is it? You must know Reinhart better than I. Since he seems to have known you, doubtless he is a client. I don’t think he has ever dealt with the bishop, so likely I’ve never met the man.”
Magdalene flicked her fingers at him in amused irritation, and since they were near The Wheat Sheaf’s door and the subject was hardly important, Bell abandoned it. They were not as lucky in The Wheat Sheaf as they had been in The Lively Hop; early diners were coming in with their bread, cheese, and slabs of meat or bowls of stew or soup from the cookshops to eat with their ale, and others were fetching ale from the landlord to take out to the cookshops with them. Still, a silver penny that Magdalene held between her fingers induced the landlord to invite her to stand beside him and to talk to her between customers.
He remembered St. Cyr and that night clearly because of the murder and because Bell had already questioned him, and he repeated the tale of St. Cyr buying a round of drinks for the entire house—and said that would have been unusual enough to stick in his mind even if St. Cyr had not been killed. And, yes, St. Cyr had said the largesse was to salute his new prosperity in finding a most generous friend and as the husband of an heiress, Loveday of Otmoor. At which point Jules of Osney being, as he often was, well-watered, stood up and said…
The landlord paused to pour a jack and a tankard full of ale, when he turned back to Magdalene he added that Sir Jules had dumped his ale on the floor and swore that he’d see St. Cyr dead be
fore he’d let him have Loveday.
“A real threat?” Magdalene asked. “After all, St. Cyr did die.”
“Eecb!” The landlord sounded disgusted. “Even with St. Cyr dead, I never gave Sir Jules a second thought. Pot-valiant, that one. He was always saying…” His voice drifted off, and then he added, “Now that’s queer.”
“What is?” Magdalene urged. “I don’t care if it doesn’t seem to have anything to do with St. Cyr.”
“Well, it doesn’t. It has to do with Sir Jules. His sister often sent a servant to watch him and help him home, but this last few days he’s been with a well-dressed man, a knight or maybe even a lord. He don’t mix much, sits quiet with his wine unless Sir Jules starts to make trouble, and then he takes him away. But that night, he didn’t.”
Lord Ormerod, Magdalene thought, but she didn’t say his name, only asked, “Didn’t take Sir Jules away? Didn’t come with him?”
“Didn’t take him away. He came in with him…I think he did. But he didn’t try to stop Sir Jules pouring out his ale or yelling insults at St. Cyr. It was my server who urged Sir Jules out the door.”
“Could Sir Jules’s companion have been at the privy?”
The landlord shrugged. “Wouldn’t he have come in and asked for St. Jules if he’d been at the necessary?”
“Likely,” Magdalene agreed. “And that was the end of it, when your server got Sir Jules out of the house?”
“Yea, it was, for a miracle. When Sir Jules spilled the ale and said he’d not see Mistress Loveday married to a cur like St. Cyr, I thought St. Cyr would go for him. He was a nasty drunk and strong with it. My server was looking for his cudgel. But St. Cyr wasn’t drunk. Oh, he’d had a few ales from the smell of him, but he only laughed at Sir Jules and called him a little crowing cock. Anyway, after that St. Cyr went round the place having a few words with this one and that one and a couple of more drinks. But from what I heard he was only getting good wishes, and then he went out.”
“Was he befuddled enough to have invited a footpad to attack him?”
“Nay. He wasn’t unsteady on his feet or fumbling. I don’t think he was drunk, and he said he was going to meet a friend.”
“At The Broached Barrel?” Magdalene asked.
The landlord shrugged. “Didn’t say that.”
Chapter 14
23 June,
Cornmarket
Magdalene handed over the penny and thanked the landlord, who she was pretty sure had told the truth. On the way to The Broached Barrel, Bell agreed. He had spoken to the server—in between customers—and got about the same story except that the server had not noticed Lord Ormerod’s presence or absence, but it was more the landlord’s business to keep a general eye on the place.
The Broached Barrel was even busier than The Wheat Sheaf had been, and Bell and Magdalene decided there was little sense in trying to talk to anyone just then. St. Cyr had not been seen there the night he died, and without him as a point of reference it was difficult to ask questions about people for whom they had no names. Bell suggested that he get dinner for them from a cookshop. They could eat at the table and bench in the back—unless Magdalene objected to eating where a dead man had lain.
She laughed at that and said if she had feared to make use of what the dead had touched, she would not have a single bed in the Old Priory Guesthouse. And then she put her fingers to her lips and swore that if he let that slip to Ella she would murder him. He laughed heartily, but swore the rack would not make him divulge the secret to Ella; he no more than she wanted to hear the shrieks and wails such news would bring forth. Whereupon Magdalene laughed too and said she would get the ale and meet him in the back yard.
She pulled up her veil before she entered the alehouse but looked around over it as she made her way to the landlord sitting among his broached barrels. The house was smaller than The Lively Hop and had no female servers she could try to befriend. A shrill voice drew her eyes and she saw Sir Jules, but Lord Ormerod was not with him. So, she thought as she carried the ale out to the back, Lord Ormerod did not always accompany his young host, and his absence the night St. Cyr died might not be significant.
Magdalene was relieved to find the back premises empty of other company. Likely, she thought, others were not as indifferent to the fact that a dead man had rested on the rough-hewn table only a few days before. For a moment she was concerned that people might wonder why she did not fear the dead as others did, then realized that she had never been to The Broached Barrel before. Most likely if anyone noticed they would think she was a stranger and did not know St. Cyr had been killed there.
That concern shed, a bitter smile curved her lips. If the dead were able to haunt the living, Brogan would surely have driven her mad long before now. But after his death Brogan had never been more than an unpleasant memory. Her terrors were all natural, about being blamed for the killing, about how she would live if she escaped that. She never had had any fear of Brogan’s spirit—not even right after that knife had slipped into him.
She pushed the memory away and set the ale tankards down on the table. It was a pleasant place, shaded by a large tree that grew in an adjoining yard, the privy in the far corner distant enough that the smell did not offend in this spot. She was tired, she realized, despite sleeping far longer than usual—perhaps because she had wakened so late or perhaps because she had been anxious while she was questioning the two women in The Lively Hop and the landlord in The Wheat Sheaf.
Magdalene closed her eyes and slumped forward, an arm protectively around the ale tankards. A few moments later, she became vaguely aware of two men’s voices, both slightly familiar, rising over the general noise from within the alehouse, one urging the other not to be such a fool and to go out and use the privy. She didn’t bother to open her eyes until she heard a kind of horrified, choked gobbling—the kind of sound one makes in an extremity of terror when the voice won’t work. She jerked up, wondering what could have caused such fear, only to meet Sir Jules’s eyes.
Thinking that he might suspect she was a masked robber, she lifted a hand to remove her veil, but he croaked, “No!” and bepissed himself in his fear just as Bell came out the alehouse door. He was carrying two heels of stale bread hollowed out and filled with stew and two thick trenchers, one covered with slices of pork and the other with lamb or mutton. He could do nothing but watch, mouth open, as Sir Jules crumpled to the ground in a faint.
“Well,” Magdalene remarked, “that’s the first time I’ve caused that reaction in a man.”
Bell stepped over Sir Jules’s body and put his burden down on the table, Magdalene holding the stew-filled bread upright. He turned to look at Sir Jules. “What did you say to him?” he asked Magdalene.
“Not a word. I was tired. I was just resting my head on my arms and waiting for you. I heard someone telling him not to be a fool and to go out to use the privy if he needed to piss, and then…”
Bell started to laugh and bent to lift up Sir Jules, who was starting to stir and moan softly. “With that veil over your head, he must have thought you were the ghost of St. Cyr’s corpse.” As he seized Sir Jules under the arms to haul him upright, he wrinkled his nose. “Well, he doesn’t need to use the privy anymore.”
“What a fool!” Magdalene said, but then her eyes opened wider. “But it was only your supposition that St. Cyr was sitting at the table when he was killed because of the marks on his neck and chin. Unless you told too many people, all that most know is that St. Cyr was found hidden behind that shed. So why should Sir Jules have been frightened by me resting on the table? Doesn’t that mean that he saw the body before it was hidden behind the shed?”
“I didn’t kill him! I didn’t!”
Sir Jules twisted in Bell’s grip in an attempt to break free, like a kitten trying to escape a lion. Bell merely tightened his hold, ignoring Sir Jules’s yelp of pain, and propelled him toward the table, where he ordered, “Step over the bench and sit.”
“You have no r
ight to hold me here!” Sir Jules whined.
“I have witnesses who will swear that you said you would see St. Cyr dead before you would permit him to marry Loveday,” Bell snapped. “And I told no one of my supposition that St. Cyr was sitting when he was killed other than Sir Rolf, the deputy sheriff, and Mistress Magdalene here.”
Sir Jules’s lips twisted into a sneer. “You told a whore? Well then, it’s no surprise if the whole city knows.”
“But the whole city does not know,” Magdalene said. “Shall I bring out a few men and ask them what they know about St. Cyr’s death? Or should Bell tell the landlord to send some out to us, if you think I will tell them what to answer?”
Bell cuffed Jules lightly. “Oh, do not waste our time. You did not cry out that you did not kill him and bepiss yourself and faint for no reason. You saw St. Cyr dead, lying across the table with a knife in his back—”
“No!” Jules whispered. “There was no knife in his back. Do you think I could have seen a dead man and walked back inside the alehouse and gone on drinking without saying a word?”
Bell and Magdalene exchanged glances. Magdalene shook her head, indicating that Jules probably would have screamed his head off if he’d known he’d seen a corpse. Bell nodded.
“I will accept that. What else did you see?”
“Nothing. Nothing.”
Bell stared at him hard.
“Maybe a shadow moving toward the privy…” Sir Jules’s voice trembled. “But there was no one there when I went in.” Then his voice rose, shrill with protest. “Why should I have looked with care or been suspicious? I did not know the man was dead!”
“But there was a moon that night,” Bell said. “You could have seen who killed him.”
“No one was there, I tell you, and I did not know he was dead! All I thought I saw was a drunk lying across the table. I saw nothing but that. Nothing.”
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