Bone of Contention

by Roberta Gellis

  “Then why are you so sure the figure lying across the table was St. Cyr?” Magdalene asked softly. “It could have been a drunk who later went away.”

  “It… Later, the next day, after I learned St. Cyr had been killed, it came to me that no one lies as that body lay.” He swallowed hard.

  “Lay how?” Bell’s voice was also soft, encouraging.

  “The-the arm hung straight down. The face was turned away from me, but it was flat on the table. Not like Mistress Magdalene; she used her arm to protect her skin from the rough wood.” He swallowed again. “It was foolish to be so shocked. I-I…”

  “You actually saw quite a lot, didn’t you, Sir Jules?” Bell remarked. Jules shook his head nervously, but his eyes would not meet Bell’s, and Bell continued, “Maybe you saw too much. If the killer recognized you, might he believe that you noticed even more than you were willing to tell us? I see you are not wearing mail today and Lord Ormerod is not with you. You would be safer if you just went home now and if you didn’t drink any more.”

  “Ormerod.” Jules sneered. “He just doesn’t want me to spend any more money or have any fun gambling, but it won’t matter once I marry Loveday.”

  “You are not likely to marry Loveday,” Magdalene said sharply. “And if you think you saw something and can fill your pinched purse by extortion, remember St. Cyr. Sir Bellamy and I think that was what killed him.”

  “That man Arvagh, who wants Loveday, killed him,” Jules said sullenly. “Ypres bribed or threatened the priest and the servants to say he was at Noke—”

  Quick as a snake, Magdalene’s free hand flashed out and struck his cheek. “That is a lie, you nasty little viper!” She folded her lips together for a moment, then said, “We have done our best for you. If you tell us—or Bell only, if you do not trust me—what you saw, you will be safe, for it would be too late for killing you to do any good. If you do not…on your own head be it. In any case, go away. I do not need to have my stomach soured by your presence while I eat my dinner.”

  “You whore! You cannot tell me—”

  Bell rose and lifted Jules up with one powerful hand around his neck. He shook the smaller man like a rat, and just before Jules’s eyes began to bulge out, set him down on his feet and gave him a powerful shove in the direction of the alehouse’s back door.

  “She can tell you or any other man anything she likes,” he said. “Get out!”

  Jules picked himself up, his wet tunic and braies now mottled with dirt, twigs, and dried leaves so there could be no doubt of the accident that had befallen him. He cast one furious and terrified glance over his shoulder at Bell and scuttled toward the door. Bell watched him, his fair skin reddened, his eyes intent. Magdalene had hastily propped the stew-filled bread against the tankards of ale and come around the table. Now she put a hand on Bell’s arm. When he looked down at her, she shook her head.

  “Sit down and eat, love.” Her lips twitched. “I have been too long one to mind the name.” Then she leaned against him for a moment. “Fifteen years ago…ah, then the word cut like a knife. But no one cared then.” She sniffed, hugged him tight, and then pulled away, smiling. “We do not need cold stew atop the foul smell that one left. Come, sit down and eat.”

  He raised a hand to touch her cheek, then bent his head over hers. “What I would not give to wipe away those years!”

  She raised her head and let their lips touch briefly. “Fifteen years ago I would have destroyed you…and had another burden on my soul.” She shuddered, then smiled and took his hand to turn him toward the bench. “Sit. Eat. What was cannot be changed—and I want to know whether you still think Jules could have killed St. Cyr.”

  He sat silent, not answering, jaw set, staring at the bread bowls as if he could not recognize them, but then he took one and bit into the side, sucking at the juice of the stew as it ran over. Magdalene did the same, eyes lowered, thinking that if she had married such a man as Bell her life would have been so different…or would it? She could not imagine Bell being as mean-spirited or cruel as Brogan, but as a young man, hot-tempered, with a more than beautiful wife… There would have been little peace in their household. Oh, no. Whore she might be, but she was better off, femme seul, needing to be obedient to none, owing no man an explanation for what she did.

  “No,” Bell said suddenly, startling her. “I cannot believe Jules murdered St. Cyr, can you?”

  She gathered her wits, briefly amused that she was still thinking of him while he had dismissed thoughts of her in favor of their problem. “That ninny?” she said. “No. Too bad. He was certainly in the right place at the right time.” Then she frowned. “Were we wise, Bell, to let him go like that? He saw something, and I fear he intends to use it.”

  “Not until he is sure Loveday is beyond his grasp. We have told him so, but that is a young man accustomed to having what he wants handed to him on a silver platter. I think he is unable to believe she will not fall into his hand when he stretches it for her. I hope he will not use what he knows until he is desperate.”

  “So I hope also. And I hope he will not blab too much when he has had a cup too much of wine.”

  Bell shrugged. “He did not talk last night, and he was too full to walk on his own. I think Ormerod tried and just got tired of trying to wet-nurse him. We had better finish our meal because we need to start for Noke soon. We need to get there in time for the priest to write his statement, if he has not already done so. And remember we have to go back to the Soft Nest to get the horses.”

  “Could Ormerod have killed St. Cyr?” Magdalene asked.

  “For what? To save Sir Jules? I cannot believe it. He does not like to lose money, but he is also an honorable man. If he is committed beyond retreat to Sir Jules’s sister, I think he will find some small property for the girl and his brother to live on. Perhaps he would try to wrest the farm that is the girl’s dower-right away from Sir Jules and save it from ruin, but I cannot believe he would kill so Sir Jules could ruin Loveday’s estate as well as his own.”

  “Ah, but perhaps he would not ruin it?” Magdalene pointed out as she drew her eating knife and speared a slice of mutton. She alternated bites of that, praising its succulence, with nibbling at the stew while she thought. Then she said, “Did you not tell me that Ormerod said Loveday would manage her lands, Osney, and Sir Jules himself, so that he would have no opportunity to do more damage? Might Ormerod not think he was not only saving himself and the girl—oh, yes, her name was Marguerite—but saving Sir Jules, too? And he is fond of Sir Jules.”

  Bell looked uneasy while he chewed alternately a bite of the stew-gravy soaked bread and a bite of pork. “But murder?” he protested. “Admittedly Ormerod might think in that fashion, but as an excuse for murder? Stabbing a man in the back? Ormerod might not be able to match me in a fight, but I believe he could have killed St. Cyr.”

  Magdalene looked dissatisfied too. “But would he want openly to kill St. Cyr? A knight against a common man-at-arms?” She shrugged and shook her head. “Let us finish eating and be off,” she said. “I want to ask Loveday if she had never met Niall or been pressed to marry, whether she would eventually have accepted Sir Jules.”

  23 June, Noke

  Bell and Magdalene arrived at Noke well before sunset, even though they had lingered in Oxford long enough to hear from William, via Leon Blound, that Salisbury had arrived soon after dinner and had been greeted civilly by the king. Magdalene had made a cynical mouth over the civility of Stephen’s greeting because William was so sure that the king had decided on confrontation. Blound had assured them that William believed nothing more would happen that day. Claiming exhaustion, Salisbury had begged permission to retire to his lodging, and leave had been given.

  Bell and Magdalene had left at once and kept their horses to a good pace because they wanted to arrive while there was still enough light for the priest to write his declaration that Niall had been at Noke on the night of St. Cyr’s death. It would not have mattered if they had
arrived after dark, however. There was no need for light. The priest’s declaration was all signed and sealed, as were the statements of all of Loveday’s servants.

  Magdalene laughed to herself when Niall praised Loveday’s harrying of priest and servants until the documents were complete. She should have known, she thought, that Loveday would not permit neglect of her own interests. In fact, Niall and Loveday were ready to ride back to Oxford before it grew too dark to present the proofs of Niall’s innocence to the sheriff. However, Magdalene told them that Lord William did not want Niall in Oxford until just before dinnertime the next day.

  “He wishes to present you and the evidence that you are innocent to the king himself right after dinner and before any political disaster can take place that will wash away the effect of disproving the accusation against you.”

  Loveday nodded decisively. “Very clever, your Lord William. He does not look it, but he is remarkably subtle, and absolving Niall that way will be very good for us, too.” She squeezed Niall’s hand. “As soon as the king accepts your proof of innocence, you can tell him that you are nonetheless guilty of a fault of oversight. You can tell him about our betrothal and say, with truth, that you hardly knew me at the time and never heard I had been taken into the king’s ward. Moreover, you were rising in Lord William’s estimation and had no desire to tie yourself to a wife and a small estate. Thus, you put the matter out of your mind and did not tell Lord William either.”

  “But then the fault for not telling the king’s clerk about it will fall upon you! I cannot—”

  “Ah, but I understand that the king is soft to women. It is all in my letter, how I was mazed with grief over the death of my father and brothers and half mad trying to save the estate after the plague. The last thing in my mind was marriage. No, I will come away scot-free, meek and trembling and apologetic as I will seem.”

  “Loveday! You would deliberately deceive the king?”

  She smiled at him. “It is best, my dearling, and we will be hurting no one.”

  Niall sighed and Magdalene hid a grin. What Loveday said was true, but it skirted close to the bounds of what was honorable. Magdalene suspected that Niall would do a lot of sighing over the years, and then had to turn a laugh into a cough. No, he would not. As she grew older and came to better understand the nuances of his knightly honor, Loveday would become a past master at keeping from him everything that could cause such sighs. Niall would go through life comfortably assured of his stainless honor and grow richer and more powerful by Loveday’s quiet manipulations.

  Bell now said that he really must ride on to Wytham Abbey to report to the dean and Niall assured him that he would bring Loveday and Magdalene safely to Oxford between Tierce and Sext. Bell stood for a moment irresolute and then said, “Wait for me until Tierce.”

  Niall raised his brows. “You think me incapable of—”

  “No,” Bell said, but frowning. “Something is niggling at me. Something someone… Ah!” He hit himself gently on the side of the head. “The purse! Sir Ferrau told us that Alain of Brittany wants the purse you took from St. Cyr.”

  “Alain of Brittany?” Niall sounded stunned. “What does that haughty gentleman want with a common man-at-arms’s purse?”

  “Why do we not get it and see,” Magdalene said, and looked at Loveday.

  She shrugged and laughed. “I must admit, I forgot all about it once St. Cyr was dead and Niall proven innocent.” She pulled at the light chain with which her household keys were fastened around her waist and went out of the Hall and into a chamber beyond. When she returned a few moments later she was carrying a worn-looking purse closed with a leather tie and with another pair of leather ties showing clean cut ends. By common consent they went to the benches that flanked the empty hearth. Loveday pulled forward a stool, opened the purse, and laid its contents there.

  There were a few pennies and about ten farthings, two arrowheads, a strong black cord with a strong wooden peg attached to each end, a few supple leather lengths to be used as ties, and a folded parchment. Magdalene and Loveday, who could both read, reached for the document simultaneously. Loveday nodded and pulled back her hand. Magdalene picked up the parchment and unfolded it.

  She read aloud rapidly over the first part which, as Loveday had told them in the Soft Nest, released into the hands of her betrothed all control of her property to administer during his lifetime and leave as he wished at his death. The shock of seeing that had been too much for Loveday, apparently, because she had stopped reading at that point. Actually her welfare had not, as she had said, been totally neglected. Indeed, it could not have been without putting the whole document into question. A brief paragraph stated that it was Mistress Loveday’s intention, if she outlived her husband, to take the veil, and a parcel of land was named that would go with her to the cloister she chose.

  Loveday made a loud and very rude noise. “Love you, I do,” she said to Niall, “but if I outlive you, I tell you now that I have no intention of taking the veil.”

  Niall grinned. “Since you will doubtless have a dozen quarreling children by then, I would think it very unwise to renounce the world. They will need your steady hand on them to quell the riot my demise will set loose.”

  She laughed aloud. “A dozen! Well then, you need not worry about my remarriage. A dozen should serve to keep me busy.”

  Magdalene had been reading quietly during this exchange and looked up after Loveday’s remark to say, “That is a relief. There is nothing here but the usual provisions for any estate. I half expected that there would be another named to share with St. Cyr. In that case, we might have had a fight over the authenticity of the document.”

  “Nonsense!” Loveday exclaimed. “It is a forgery. Why should I sign with an X when I can write my name? Why should I agree to such unreasonable conditions? In any case, why should we not destroy the parchment at once?”

  “All for the same reason,” Magdalene said, lips thinned with anger and contempt. “You would have been thought to agree out of fear and respect for those that signed this document as witnesses, and presumably urged it upon you.”

  “Who?” Bell asked eagerly.

  “Alain, count of Brittany and earl of Richmond, and Lord Hervey…with a string of French titles that have no meaning to me.”

  “Who are they?” Loveday asked indignantly. “Why should I fear them?”

  “They are noblemen who think very well of themselves,” Magdalene said. “Their manner is such as to induce fear in most folk like yeomen and merchants. And the reason why you should fear them, and why we simply cannot destroy this document, is because they are at present very much in favor with the king.”

  “Then destruction seems even more reasonable,” Loveday insisted. “To show that to the king with his favorites’ names on it might make him refuse to honor my betrothal to Niall.”

  “I did not say you should show it. Niall must take it to William of Ypres, as he would take any other spoil of war. William will decide what is best to do on much better grounds than I have or you or Niall.”

  “But St. Cyr was Waleran de Meulan’s man,” Bell protested. “Why is not Waleran’s name on that document if he wished to give Loveday to St. Cyr? Or the names of his men? Why not Raoul de Samur, who was captain of St. Cyr’s troop? He would be the person to witness his man’s betrothal.”

  The other three sat looking at Bell in silence. Finally Magdalene said, “There can be only two reasons that I can see. First, Lord Waleran does not want to be connected with this betrothal—and that would mean this whole thing was a deliberate plan to damage William of Ypres and involved the king himself through his clerk—”

  “My God!” Niall breathed. “I would not have believed—”

  Magdalene gestured at him to be quiet. “I do not believe it either,” she said briskly, “and for very good reasons. Raoul de Samur told us that Waleran is giving not the smallest thought to William—even allowing that William is quartered in the castle near the ki
ng while Waleran himself is staying in the town—because he is neck-deep in something involving Count Alain of Brittany. Moreover, William is sure he is safe from any attack by Waleran’s men because it may be necessary to take Salisbury’s castles by war, and Waleran would prefer that William do that dirty work and earn the enmity of the Church assign him to the task.”

  Niall breathed out a heavy sigh of relief and nodded. “True enough. It would be stupid to involve Lord William and perhaps have him dismissed when the king might need him.”

  “You said two reasons,” Bell remarked, smiling at Magdalene. “What is the second, since you deny the first?”

  “The simplest in the world—that Lord Waleran knows nothing at all about St. Cyr’s plan to marry Loveday.”

  Now all three sat silent, looking at her.

  Magdalene smiled sweetly at them. “I doubt the king’s clerk thought that the matter of a minor heiress available for marriage was a deep secret. In fact, we know he carried the tale to at least two men: Lord Waleran and Lord William, and garnered a prize from both. Perhaps he told even more. In any case it is likely that he simply told Lord Waleran about the matter in his Hall. A Great Hall is never really empty. There are servants, guards, idling men-at-arms…all sorts of people about. Why could not St. Cyr have overheard the clerk’s message himself or had it relayed to him? Being bolder and more inventive—and mayhap because he did have a friend in high places—”

  “Yes,” Bell interrupted. “Do I not remember Samur saying that he noticed St. Cyr off in a corner with one of Alain of Brittany’s men?”

  “You are right. I remember that, too,” Magdalene agreed. “Perhaps St. Cyr appealed to his friend to get the document, possibly offering payment or repayment from the coffers of Noke. That might be why Count Alain’s name and that of his guest Lord Hervey appear on the document.”

  Loveday nodded. “There was no pound of silver in the purse. If there ever was, it went elsewhere.”