Loveday nodded. “That might well have been Tirell. Master Reinhart told me that he had gone to seek out St. Cyr to see what kind of man he was and try to come to some arrangement with him to forego the betrothal, since I was clearly unwilling and would fight to be free.”
“I doubt he was successful,” Magdalene said. “Mayde told me that he looked as if he were about to strike St. Cyr but then left the alehouse. It is fortunate that he is most unlikely to have a mail shirt—”
“But Tirell does have mail,” Loveday said. “When he was a boy, he used to tell me all the time how he dreamed of being a knight and wanted to learn how to fight. Knighthood was only a dream, but Master Reinhart indulged him with some lessons in fighting and Tirell kept them up even after he became truly interested in the wool trade. And as he grew into a man, he showed so much skill and promise in arms that it occurred to Master Reinhart that his own son would make the most reliable leader possible for the guards he hires to protect his pack trains against thieves and outlaws. And then, of course, he bought him the best armor that could be obtained. Master Reinhart does not lack for money, and he loves his son, so mail it was.”
“How would he match up against a trained man-at-arms?” Magdalene asked.
“I have no idea,” Loveday said, laughing, but then sobered suddenly. “You think he would not trust himself in a fight against St. Cyr and that he crept up behind him and killed him?”
“I don’t know the man, and I heard him say to his father that he had taken care of the business they had spoken about and that it was finished. Over.”
Loveday shook her head. “No. No, I cannot believe Tirell would do such a thing. And why should he? He had no cause. Tirell certainly did not want to marry me, as I had no desire to marry him. Oh, we are fond, as brother and sister are fond. Perhaps if I had been married to St. Cyr and he had mistreated me, then Tirell might have killed him, but not to become my husband, not murder.”
Magdalene nodded, although she was not truly convinced. St. Cyr had been a disgusting creature and considering what most merchants thought about men-at-arms, Tirell might easily have felt the world would be a better place without him. And if Reinhart had convinced his son that Loveday’s estate was essential to them, Tirell could have nerved himself to kill. Sister-like or not, Loveday was pretty enough and well made, and Noke and Otmoor was a profitable estate. For the sake of his inheritance Tirell might have put aside his doubts and killed St. Cyr only later to regret the bond he must make.
The discussion had taken them near to Vespers and they all walked down to the village to hear the service and then back to eat a leisurely evening meal. Magdalene gave them the news of the bishop of Salisbury’s arrival and then answered the few questions they still had about the murder. But now that Niall was proven innocent, that subject was growing less and less important to them.
Soon Magdalene was listening indulgently to Loveday and Niall planning the future and discussing what should go into the formal betrothal agreement that must be written even though they intended to marry as soon as possible. Softly, Magdalene sighed, hoping that the plans Waleran was making would not cause war, and that plague or any other misfortune would not bring sorrow instead of the planned joys. And then the talk of betrothal brought her mind back to St. Cyr and she remembered Raoul saying that he had made no secret of his intention of marrying Loveday.
Suddenly Magdalene was aware of a possibility she had not considered before—that Waleran de Meulan had ordered St. Cyr’s death. The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Was it possible that Lord Waleran could have remained totally ignorant of what St. Cyr was saying? Would not gossip among his men have carried to him the news that such a creature as St. Cyr was claiming he would take an heiress to wife? If Arras was right, the priest had told Waleran about Loveday not in the Hall but in his private solar. So, if Waleran had not chosen St. Cyr for Loveday, might he not have suspected that St. Cyr had found some way to spy on him?
That would have been enough to sign St. Cyr’s death warrant. Waleran was not the man to bother seeking proof, from what Magdalene knew of him. He would simply order St. Cyr killed. Another thing to tell William, Magdalene thought. But a faltering in the talk drew her eyes to Niall and Loveday. Magdalene saw him stroking her arm and the way she was leaning toward him. Suppressing a grin, she yawned widely and shook her head.
“Sit up and talk if you will, children,” she said, “but I am not so young and strong. We must be up and on the road early tomorrow, so I am off to bed.”
With the words she rose and made her way to the chamber at the back. Well away from the two lovers, she let herself chuckle softly. Since she was sharing Loveday’s bed, they would be saved from any physical excesses all the talk of their forthcoming marriage might have stimulated in them. Not that it was important, really, but it would be best if Loveday could swear that she was a maiden still.
More tired than she had realized, Magdalene fell asleep as soon as she had gotten herself into bed and slept so soundly that she was totally unaware when Loveday joined her. She rested well, however, so that when Loveday rose, she woke also. The chamber was still very dark and she called out to ask if anything were wrong.
“No.” She heard the smile in Loveday’s voice. “It is morning and time to rise, but the shutters are closed. We will have a wet ride, I fear.”
Magdalene groaned, but got out of bed and found the washbasin by the light of the night candle. When she had washed and dressed, she followed Loveday out into the Hall, where servants were already setting up a trestle table for a more substantial fast breaking than usual since they would be riding out. Niall was also awake, wearing shirt and hose with his gambeson laid ready near his mail shirt.
Halfway through the meal of porridge, cold pasty, bread, and cheese, they heard a hail at the gate. Niall went out and came back with a soaked and furious Bell, but his rage was somewhat abated when Magdalene hurried to him with a drying cloth and Loveday drew another stool to the table.
“I had forgotten,” Magdalene said with a sigh, “how unreliable the weather is in the spring. Yesterday and the day before were so fine.”
“And neither of you two madwomen will consider remaining here warm and dry? Niall and I must go. He to Lord William’s command and I because the dean desires that I present a petition from the priest of Lothbury, near the Jewery in London, for the closing on Sunday of the houses of Change near the church. It seems they close on Friday afternoon and remain closed on Saturday, but open again on Sunday so that churchgoers are distracted.”
“Would not addressing the mayor of London be more to the purpose?” Magdalene asked.
Bell grinned sourly. “It is a reason for me to be there that has nothing at all to do with the bishop of Winchester, and not too transparent an excuse because Stephen is always interested in anything to do with London. Londoners were the first to welcome and acknowledge him king and they have always supported him.”
Whereupon he addressed himself to his breakfast with strong devotion, mumbling as he ate that the meals provided by the brothers of Wytham Abbey to the residents of their guesthouse were somewhat less lavish than those to which he was accustomed. However, his efforts to make up for past deprivation had a second good result. By the time he was finished and Loveday packed for her stay in Oxford, the rain had eased off somewhat.
The heavy rain earlier may also have been an advantage, although they would never know. All they knew was that they rode safely; there was no ambush. Whether that was because there never had been any such plan, or because the attackers were driven off by the rain or felt their prey would wait for better weather, no one could guess. In any case, they arrived safely, wet but not soaked, at the Soft Nest near to Tierce. Bell rode on toward the castle and Niall took Loveday with him to the armorer’s house from whence he would send a message to William of Ypres asking for orders.
Magdalene found herself looking forward to a quiet day on her own. She felt as if she had b
een rushing around from place to place and problem to problem ever since she had arrived in Oxford. She was thinking about the half-finished ribbon of embroidery meant for Ella’s hair, planning the next row of flowers, as she stepped in the door and swung her wet cloak off her shoulders.
“Wait,” Florete called, jumping to her feet and holding up a hand to keep Magdalene from coming down the corridor.
Magdalene stopped and caught her breath. Florete hurried up to her and murmured in her ear. “There is a man waiting for you—and not for service. I have never seen him before, and I did not like the way he looked.”
“Did he give a name?”
“That, yes. Lord Ormerod, he said.”
Chapter 16
24 June,
Oxford
Magdalene breathed a sigh of relief. “I know him,” she said. “And I do not think he means me harm— But even as she said the words, she remembered that Lord Ormerod was deeply involved with Sir Jules and not too happy about it, because Sir Jules’s solution for paying his debts and giving his sister a dowry was marriage to Loveday. And St. Cyr had stood in the path of that marriage. Still, she had nothing to do with that.
“What do you mean you did not like the way he looked?” she asked Florete.
“As if he had not slept. As if…as if he were desperate.” Magdalene stood staring at Florete, biting her lip as she tried to decide what to do. Could Lord Ormerod have killed St. Cyr? Was that why Sir Jules would not name the man he saw behind The Broached Barrel? But why should Ormerod come to her? Not about the murder. She knew no more ill of him than of any other man.
What did she know? He had been uneasy when he spoke to Bell about his involvement with Sir Jules. Bell thought he might have come to get money, a loan that had not been repaid, from Sir Jules. But according to Loveday, Jules never had a penny. Florete said Ormerod was desperate. Was he short of money? He knew the Old Priory Guesthouse made money and he might even have guessed that William had summoned and was paying her well…
Her eyes narrowed as she remembered William’s purse hidden in the chest. She could give Ormerod something, enough to carry him back to his own estates anyway. She nodded at Florete.
“Thank you for the warning, love.” She wrinkled her nose. “As I said, I know him and I do not think he means me harm. It will be better if I see him. But I will leave the door of my room a little open and appreciate it if you listen for loud voices or a call for help.”
Florete nodded and walked the few steps to where her table partially blocked the opening into the common room. She bypassed the table to enter the room, while Magdalene stopped at the table. She could see Florete standing before a man whose head was sunk into his hands, supported by his elbows on his knees. As the whoremistress spoke, he looked up, then started to his feet as he saw Magdalene.
“Where the devil have you been?” he asked, brushing by Florete and coming around the table to stand by Magdalene.
“How could that be of interest to you?” Magdalene asked.
He made a dismissive gesture and said, even more urgently, “Where is Jules?”
“Sir Jules?” she echoed. It was not money Ormerod wanted—at least not from her.
“Yes. Where is he?”
“How could I know?”
“I hoped he had told you where he was going when you talked to him out in the back of The Broached Barrel.”
“But that was yesterday, before Sext.”
“Before Sext? So early?”
Ormerod looked past her, but it was obvious that he did not see the curtains of the cocking chambers behind her. She had not been cold while riding, even though she was damp, but standing in the corridor with the door open behind her, she was getting chilled, and she shivered.
“I am wet and cold,” she said. “Come into my chamber so I can change my clothes.”
She waved him down the corridor, unlocked the door of the back chamber, and waved him through ahead of her, leaving the door open until she could get some light. He did not care. He walked as far as the table, and turned to face her.
“He’s disappeared! He never came home last night! I am at my wits’ end.”
Magdalene shook her head, then walked past him to light candles on the table and past again to partially shut the door. Then she went for dry clothing. As she gathered her things she said, “Why? I know Sir Jules is a fool, but he is a man grown. Why should you be responsible for him?”
Ormerod shrugged then disappeared from her view as she stepped behind the bed, where she was shielded from his sight by the bedcurtains. She could hear his voice clearly enough.
“Because I have committed my brother Edward to his sister,’ he said, “and we quarreled bitterly the night before last over the condition to which he has brought his estate. I…I said some things I did not mean—really I am very fond of Jules—and when he went out yesterday morning, he would not accept my company. And I…I do not deny that I was not sorry. In fact, I went to look over his lands, more particularly the farm that will go to Edward with Marguerite.”
“That seems reasonable enough to me. I cannot see why it should make you feel uneasy.”
“Not that.” A stool scritched against the rough floorboards as Ormerod seated himself. Magdalene dropped her wet clothes and pulled on a dry shift. “But I was sorry for what I said, and Marguerite had sent his servant to Oxford around Nones, only the servant could not find Jules, so when she begged me to find him and bring him home, I went.”
Magdalene’s lips thinned with irritation even while her brow creased with uneasiness. She pulled on her tunic and gown hastily, saying a sentence each time her head was free. “He should have arrived at home soon after dinner, before Nones anyway. Bell told him, rather forcefully, that he should go home and stay there just before we ate our meal.”
“Oh, Lord! Don’t tell me he was fighting or insulting drunk so early.”
“No. He had had a few, I could smell him. But he was not drunk—well, maybe a little because he was frightened when he saw me dozing on the table while Bell fetched dinner for us from a cookshop. My veil was over my head and I fear he thought me another dead body.”
“But St. Cyr was found behind the shed,” Ormerod said, drawing in a sharp breath as Magdalene came back around the bed where she could see him. “Why should he think you were another dead body?”
That sounded to Magdalene as if Ormerod had not overheard the conversation at the back of the Broached Barrel. She raised her brows and admitted, “I asked him what he had seen in the yard to give him such a shock, but he insisted he had seen nothing, that it was dark and he had been drunk. Bell pointed out to him that even if he had seen nothing suspicious, simply having been out there that night was dangerous and that he should go home and stay there.”
“But he didn’t.” Ormerod’s shoulders slumped. “He got fresh clothing from the landlord.” He grimaced. “Jules often had little accidents from drinking too much and the people at the alehouses regularly lent him clothing. When he was clean, he asked the landlord to send a boy to fetch his horse from the stable and to bring him another cup of wine. Before the boy could leave, a man the landlord said looked like a merchant offered to pay for the wine. Jules seemed surprised, but the man said something about Loveday and Jules immediately told the boy not to bother with the horse. He went with the merchant to a bench at the side of the room. A little later, they left together.”
“Did you find the merchant?” Magdalene asked eagerly.
“Yes. Before I even tried to find him, I walked to the other alehouses, thinking that Jules might have been rolled into a corner and left for the night. A girl at The Lively Hop knew Jules—they all know him—and told me she saw him walking down past The Wheat Sheaf with a companion. She was so surprised that Jules didn’t go into The Wheat Sheaf that she noticed the door they did enter.”
“Who was this merchant? What did he say?”
“He was home, nursing a sore head.” Ormerod snorted. “Not an unusual thing
when one has been in Jules’s company, but he didn’t know what happened to Jules either. They had had one or two more cups of wine at The Broached Barrel and then, wanting to make some plans—although to tell the truth I think they were both too besotted to plan anything—Hardel—”
“Tirell or Reinhart?”
Ormerod stared at her suspiciously. “Tirell. Why, do you know him?”
Magdalene swallowed the impulse to say that Tirell had a mail shirt, reminding herself that Ormerod had a mail shirt too and did not know that the man who had killed St. Cyr had been wearing mail when he committed the crime.
“No, but Loveday does,” she said. “They are father and son and the father desires that the son marry Loveday.”
Ormerod shrugged. “Well, they were not quarreling over her, according to Master Woller, the mercer in whose house Hardel is lodging. I spoke to him after I spoke to Hardel and realized he could remember little of what happened. He said he had invited Jules to his lodging because he had heard a rumor that Jules would marry Loveday, and he wanted the truth of it.”
“And was what he told you the truth?”
Ormerod grimaced. “As much of it as he knew himself. He was in no case to think out elaborate lies. He was drink-sick. All he said was that he and Jules sat drinking and talking for some time. Then they heard the bells for Nones and Jules said he must go. Hardel thinks he begged Jules to stay and eat something and sleep off the worst of the wine, but he cannot be sure.”
“So Jules left Hardel’s lodging staggering drunk?”
“Yes. Actually Woller told me more than that. He had been lending half an ear, fearing there would be trouble, because he realized they were drinking their dinner. He even crept up and opened the door a little, but from what he heard Woller thought they were companionable, commiserating with each other about some woman, which fits. Eventually he heard Hardel saying that Jules was drunk and offering to send for some food and let him sleep off the wine, but Jules would not accept. He left—the landlord saw him go—and Hardel stood on the landing watching and then went into the solar again.
Bone of Contention Page 25
