“Then Sir Jules wasn’t killed in the pen.”
“No. He was killed in the back of the stable. I found the place because the stableman mentioned that the horses would not go there. One cannot see much on packed earth on which horses have been urinating and defecating for years, but when I pushed aside the bedding straw, there was a dark stain in the earth. I think it smelled of blood, but between horse piss and manure I could not be sure. But I did try to lead a horse there—a sorry old nag, not in the least fractious, and it jibbed.”
“Then he was carried to the yard?”
“Likely wrapped in a blanket. And hiding him in the pen was easy. It would have looked like a man forking hay.”
“But even if no one else was there, the stableman—”
“He says he ran out because something startled the horses in the pen, had a sack thrown over his head, was gagged so he could not call out, and his hands bound—”
“That was not what he told Ormerod, or the sheriff’s man.”
Bell laughed. “Would you have told Ormerod or the sheriff’s man that you allowed yourself to be pushed into a corner and told to stand there—and obeyed? He said if he had known of the murder, he would have called for the Watch, but when he was released, he ran first to look at the horses, and all were there, safe. And then he looked at the tack, and that was untouched. In fact, he could see nothing disturbed at all. He says he began to think it was some jest that he did not understand. I think that was true enough, but there was something else he was not telling me.”
“Bribed to be silent about the murder?” Magdalene asked.
“Not that. I think he was all but foundered when the body was discovered. I suspect he was paid to run an errand and is afraid to admit it.”
“After he was released? Released,” Magdalene repeated, frowning. “You said he had been released. How could that be done without him seeing the man who tied him?”
“I did not take to the idea very easily either,” Bell admitted with a shrug. “But when he described what was done… What he said was that the rope, or whatever held the sack into his mouth was untied, then the rope was loosed from his hands, very swiftly, and then as the sack was pulled off his head, he was thrust violently forward so that he fell face down. By the time he scrambled to his feet, whoever had seized him was gone.”
“He did not look to see who had done it?”
“I think he was afraid at first.” Bell was slightly contemptuous, but not much; the stableman was a poor common creature. “Likely he gave himself the excuse that if he did his duty by looking after the horses and the tack he would not be blamed. And then when he saw nothing was missing or damaged, I think he was ashamed of not having resisted the ‘jest’ played on him. And then he was distracted. I think someone came into the stable and sent him on an errand.”
Magdalene’s eyes widened. “The killer?”
“Not impossible. The man is clever. Possibly he wanted time to look around and cover any traces he had left.”
“And once the body was well hidden, who could say when Sir Jules died? How soon would it have been found?”
“Who knows? Possibly not until someone smelled it in two or three days’ time.” Bell grimaced and then looked thoughtful and rather pleased. “But if that was the murderer’s purpose, then Ormerod is not the killer since he made all the fuss that caused the body to be discovered.”
Magdalene nodded slowly. “I suppose so, and yet there is no one else who profits so much from Sir Jules’s death. And he told me he had ridden into Oxford yesterday, even that he had stopped at the stable. He said he had seen that Jules’s horse was gone, concluded he had missed Jules somewhere on the road, and had ridden back to Osney. So if he was seen here…”
“What do we do, confront him?” Bell asked. “Perhaps if Lord William—”
Magdalene shook her head hard, then looked down at her fingers, knotting and unknotting in her lap. “William says all this has nothing to do with him.” She shivered, and added almost bitterly, “He does not care if the killer goes scot-free or goes on killing and killing…”
“Good Lord,” Bell said softly, dropping the blanket and getting up from the stool to embrace her. “You think that if the killer heard Jules say he had been in the back yard of The Broached Barrel, then he must know it was you to whom Jules was talking.” He hugged her tight. “Not to worry, dearling. I am here now, and if I have to leave, I will just warn Florete’s men not to let anyone in here.”
“I’m not frightened,” Magdalene assured him, hugging him back. “I’m…” She was going to say disappointed in William, but she would never say that to Bell, and it wasn’t true, she knew what William was. She shrugged. “I don’t know. William would act quickly enough if I told him I was in danger, but I’m not, not really. And I don’t know whom to tell him to act against. Jules didn’t tell me anything. If I were concerned it would be for Tirell Hardel, with whom Jules spent several candlemarks yesterday.”
“The merchant who has a mail shirt?”
“Yes. Instead of going home from The Broached Barrel, Jules went with Tirell to his lodging.” She then repeated the story Ormerod had told her.
“So this Tirell knew where Jules was going,” Bell said. “If he killed St. Cyr to keep Loveday safe and feared Jules had seen him, he could have followed Jules and killed him.”
“Master Woller told Ormerod that Tirell didn’t leave.”
“Then. I would have to look at the shop to see if he could have come down and crept out without Woller’s knowledge a little later. We don’t know whether Jules actually went directly to the stable.”
“And what happened to Jules’s horse? Ormerod said it came home by itself during the night, which means someone set it free on a road it knew.”
“Came home during the night? The stableman said a servant from Osney paid for stalling it and took it… Lord, that killer is a clever beast. He took the horse away so if he somehow missed Jules, Jules would berate the stableman and send him to look for the servant. Meanwhile, Jules would wait or, more likely, go to The Broached Barrel. Whoever killed Jules has the devil’s own luck because he didn’t even have to fetch Jules out of The Broached Barrel. He must have found him right in the stable.”
“Perhaps even asleep. Ormerod said Tirell told him Jules was, as usual, drunk when he left his lodging.”
Bell dropped a kiss on Magdalene’s head. “I don’t think I can do anything more this evening, so I think I’ll just step out and tell Diccon to bring us an evening meal.”
“Not like that, you won’t,” Magdalene said, laughing. “I know this is a whorehouse, but it is not the men who usually wander around naked.” She grinned at him. “You might shock the poor girls. I’ll go.”
She rose as she spoke, remembering as she picked up and handed back his blanket that she had told Florete that Lord Ormerod was known to her and meant her no harm. It would be better, she thought, if she made clear that that was no longer true and that Rand and Ogden should not allow anyone to walk into her room unannounced except William or Bell. And it was just as well that Bell not know she had been so careless. He was worried enough—and trying to hide it so he would not frighten her.
She grinned as she finished making the situation clear to Florete and turned toward her room. Bell was extraordinarily body-shy for a man, he must have been really distracted to say he would go and speak to anyone wearing nothing. His concern worried her a little. She did not actually feel at all afraid, certain that when the murderer heard her speaking to Jules he must have realized that she did not know anything dangerous. Could Bell know something he was not telling her? Or was he just being a man—certain that a woman was helpless and needed protection?
When she entered the room, Bell was looking out past a shutter he had partly opened. It was raining very hard again—enough excuse for him to turn and say, “I’m not leaving—unless you put me out by force.”
Magdalene smiled at him. “No reason for you to leave. I do
n’t think anyone else will come today. William has been and gone and Raoul de Samur, too. He now has the information Arras let slip, about the hidey hole in Lord Waleran’s lodging, but he thinks it might be too dangerous to use.”
“It might at that.” He came back and sat down again.
“Oh,” Magdalene said, “speaking of Arras, he was here yesterday, alive and well. He seems either not to have found St. Cyr’s friend, or the friend was not the murderer. Besides he seems to have put the question of St. Cyr’s death aside. When he was here, he only talked about the lodging for Salisbury’s men and another lodging nearby they could have had because it was half-empty. Hertha did not make it very clear and I could not see that it was important. At least that interest should not alarm the killer.”
“Now why does that tale make me feel uneasy? It is very odd that Salisbury’s men would not be accommodated in a lodging that was too large for those now in it.”
Magdalene dismissed his concern. “As I said to Hertha, I thank God and all His saints that that is no business of mine. The murder is enough. Now what…oh, Lord, I almost forgot.” And she related to Bell the fact that neither Count Alain nor Lord Hervey had signed the forged betrothal. “So why did Ferrau go to such lengths to get it back? Could he be the ‘friend’ St. Cyr was boasting about?”
Bell suddenly looked very tired. “I don’t know,” he sighed. “And right now I cannot think of any way to find out. Can we talk about something else, Magdalene? This is a weight on my soul, yet there is nothing more I can do today, and tomorrow I must attend Court again. Salisbury did not come today, he sent word he was not well and needed to rest. But he will be there tomorrow and I must report to the dean what his reception is and whether the king gives him a private interview. Fortunately my business was not finished yesterday, so I can return as a plaintiff for the diocese of London and Winchester will not be involved.”
“Ah, yes. Speaking of the Court reminds me: I hope you won’t starve before Diccon can go out and fetch food because William ate everything in sight. He was in tearing good spirits, said the king kept him so busy talking he had no time to eat. Did you see him and what happened?”
“I saw him,” Bell said; his harassed expression disappeared and was replaced with a smile that was very nearly smug, “but he didn’t choose to see me.”
“William would not acknowledge you?” Magdalene asked, her heart sinking.
Clearly that smile meant Bell thought William was jealous of him and was deliberately ignoring him. Bell was an overconfident fool if he thought he could win any contest with William of Ypres, who could command a whole army. No, Magdalene thought, Bell must be mistaken. William was never jealous…but he had been different since she came to Oxford. And he had made that remark about her being unwilling to lend him Bell’s shirt.
Bell was still smiling very slightly. “Well, we are not total strangers and I was right near him when he walked over to Lord Waleran. I did not speak to him, but as I said, he looked at me and didn’t choose to see me.”
See him. William’s vision was erratic, Magdalene had discovered—although William would never admit it. Perhaps he really had not seen Bell. Or, fixated as he was on his meeting with Waleran, perhaps William really had not noticed Bell. After all, to William, Bell was a bare acquaintance and not a very important one at that. But that was not a thing she could say to Bell. Magdalene began to feel better. Let Bell have his little triumph. William would never know and it would keep Bell’s temper sweet…at least for a while.
“Yes, perhaps,” she said in reply to Bell’s remark that William had chosen not to see him, “but what happened when William spoke to Waleran?”
Bell chuckled. “You never saw a man more surprised or, after he understood what William was saying about Loveday and St. Cyr, more indignant. The king was indignant too, and asked Waleran why he had tried to give a decent yeoman’s daughter to a common man-at-arms. And Waleran swore he had done no such thing, that he had barely given Loveday a thought beyond a vague idea that she would do for one of his captains…”
“What is it?” Magdalene asked as Bell’s voice faded and he looked past her into nothing.
“It was the way he looked at the king when he said he had been too busy to bother with Loveday. Something passed between them without words and then Waleran swallowed whatever indignation he had felt and accepted William’s apology in the most gracious manner. And both he and the king almost leapt with joy when Niall brought forward his proof that he could not have killed St. Cyr. It was clear that neither wished to involve Lord William in the murder and could not care less who had killed St. Cyr.”
Magdalene nodded. “William told me that too. He says it means they—the king and Waleran—expect that there will be fighting and he will have to do it.” Bell looked concerned—not about William, Magdalene was sure, but about the situation. She shrugged. “I do not like the idea of William going to war. I know, I know. He has told me often enough that he has been fighting since he was fifteen, but he is not fifteen any longer, and I worry—” She stopped abruptly and glanced sidelong at Bell, expecting him to show the thinned lips and flared nostrils of jealousy, but he looked calm, less anxious than he usually did when she spoke of William. Because she had called William old, Magdalene thought, not in so many words, perhaps, but she had implied it. Did he think that would make her care less for William? Did he never think of growing old himself?
However, she was in no mood for argument, so she only said, “There is nothing we can do about what the king and Waleran are planning. Let us lay this killer by the heels and leave the management of the realm to the mighty.”
“If you are afraid, Magdalene, go back to London.”
She looked at him as if he had sprouted a second head. “Go back to London, when God alone knows what political lunacies will erupt any day and to whom William will need to speak in private? I was called here to provide that privacy. I cannot go back to London.”
Bell’s mouth opened to make some protest, but a scratch on the door heralded Diccon, who said that the rain had abated and looked like it would stop, at least for a while, and he was ready to go out and fetch an evening meal. Magdalene ordered generously, since Bell would surely break his fast with her and William might be back during the day, and she included two farthings for the cost of borrowing until the next day any dishes or pots.
Bell’s expression grew slightly darker as he realized how much of the food was of the kind that could be stored and eaten cold, and remembered what she had last said. However, he said nothing about that in Diccon’s hearing, and even when the boy was gone only remarked on the terrible weather and hoped Diccon and their evening meal would not be drowned before he could return. Then Magdalene wondered whether Niall and Loveday had arrived safe at Noke, and Bell, laughing, said doubtless she had spoken firmly to the Lord and his angels and arranged to suspend any downpour until they were under shelter.
The rain came down again, and Magdalene sighed at her lack of influence with the holy powers, and then Diccon was there, looking just like a drowned rat because he had used the blanket Florete had given him to cover himself to protect the food, instead. Such nobility deserved a reward, although Magdalene was well aware that he had done it apurpose to win her sympathy—and his presence would keep all serious topics in abeyance—so Magdalene invited him to share the meal with them. She even went out and asked Florete for some dry clothing for the boy, and made him so happy that he chattered like a magpie.
Neither she nor Bell listened closely. Both had had a busy day and were glad to eat the good, warm meal and let the boy talk. It was not until much later, when the torchettes had been extinguished and they were lying close and warm in Magdalene’s bed that she said, “Did I hear Diccon aright? Have they still found no better place for Salisbury’s men than St. Peter’s churchyard? When they arrived, it did not matter because the weather was mostly fine and warm—”
“It rained several times,” Bell mumbled, then yawne
d. “And Salisbury is in a house a few doors down from the church. I suppose it was the best place to put them so they could come to him quickly at need.” He yawned again and snuggled Magdalene closer to him; the day-long rain had made the room chilly and damp. “But I pity those men. I remember too well the misery of needing to camp in the open when there were days of rain, even if the tents did not fail, which they sometimes do.”
“I hope it will be better tomorrow,” Magdalene breathed.
Bell uttered a sleepy laugh. “For my own sake as well as theirs. I must be out and about tomorrow.”
Chapter 19
25 June,
Oxford
Bell was as good as his word and was gone by the time Magdalene woke. She had only a faint memory of his leaving and was mildly surprised at the soundness of her sleep. Then she rose, smiling, to clean her teeth and wash. She was not responsible for anything here; noises or movements in the night were Florete’s problem, not hers.
Magdalene broke her own fast with good appetite, noting that Bell had helped himself liberally, and when she was finished went to check on how much wine and ale remained. The sweetcakes were gone as was all the candied fruit. She took off her bedrobe, gowned herself, and made sure her purse was well filled, frowning as she considered what beside food and drink she would need to buy. There was enough, she thought, to ask Diccon to accompany her and, after a glance at the still-gray sky, she drew a heavy veil over her head.
Then she went out to shop and arrange for a well-stocked larder. She was in no hurry, and when her basket and Diccon’s arms were full she sent him back to the Soft Nest while she idled about, talking to merchants and craftsmen. She had just sent Diccon off for the second time when she noticed a mercery beyond the baker and on the opposite side of the street from Redding’s shop. That mercer had not been there when she lived in Oxford. Magdalene went across to the place briskly to look at the goods displayed on the outside counter and saw a young man seated disconsolately on a stool just inside the door. He looked familiar. In a moment she recognized Master Reinhart’s son, Tirell Hardel.
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