His broad, coarse-featured face was smoothed now of the worried frown he wore most of the time. Poor man. He had spent his life puzzled, trying to understand, trying to please. And she was planning to make his last moments as miserable as the rest of his life. Tears filled Magdalene’s eyes and she had to look away from his peaceful face.
Fighting her pity and guilt, she glanced around the room, back to where she had seen some shelves when she came in. She could not see the shelves now, only an irregularity in the darkness that shifted as she watched. She looked more intently, but all was still. Had a shadow moved beside the shelves or was it only the wavering light of the candle?
The room was really dark now and her vision impaired by the lighted area in which she sat. She turned her head away from the light and closed her eyes to allow them to adjust— When she opened them again, she stared purposefully at the place where she had sensed movement. No movement now, but was there a darker shadow there?
Suddenly Magdalene remembered Bell calling her a fool for drawing the murderer’s attention with her questions. She swallowed. This interview with Manville was worse. If someone was watching, he would have heard her questions but not Manville’s faint replies. Now she also remembered her promise not to go out alone. Rand was supposed to have followed her. Where was he?
Trying to control her breathing so she would not appear panic-stricken, she looked down and then, keeping her head bent toward Arras but letting her eyes glance around the room she said, “Manville, Manville, wake up.” And gasped, rising to her feet, as a shadow detached itself from the wall and came deliberately toward her.
She reached for the pitcher to use as a weapon, but before she could decide whether to throw it or strike with it, Brother Infirmarian came into the light. Relief turned her knees to water so that she sat down on the stool again. Doubtless the infirmarian had been waiting politely out of earshot until he saw that the wounded man could not respond. His actions confirmed her supposition. With his eyes carefully averted from her face, he went to the cot and bent over it.
“I do not think you will be able to rouse him again,” he said gently.
“I must have exhausted him,” Magdalene admitted guiltily.
“I am so sorry. I hoped he could tell me who had attacked him.”
The infirmarian straightened up but still did not look at her. “We asked him also, but he could not or would not tell us. I do not understand this. He did not seem like a person who could arouse a stronger feeling than irritation, yet apparently this stabbing was not the result of a brawl. He seems to have been attacked, and with intent to kill, while using the privy. He would have been dead at once—the knife was well placed—but he was wearing boiled leather armor so the blade did not go quite deep enough. Did he expect to be attacked? Do you know why he was attacked?”
Magdalene bent forward to squeeze Manville’s hand one more time, then placed his arm by his side and stood up. “There have been two other killings, Brother. I do not know whether you have heard about them. One was Manville’s friend Aimery St. Cyr, and the other was Sir Jules of Osney. I am much afraid that the killer believed Manville knew something about those deaths and tried to silence him.”
“That is dreadful. Was he able to tell you anything?”
“He was wandering. If some fact was mixed in with all the memories of which he spoke, I will need to winnow it out. If I come back tomorrow…”
The infirmarian bent over the cot again, touched the wounded man’s cheek, moved his fingers to the base of his throat and then under his ear. His lips thinned and he straightened up. “You can try, but I cannot hold out much hope that he will be able to speak to you—that he will even live out the night.”
Magdalene nodded and used the edge of her veil to wipe away a few tears. Seeing how flaccid Manville’s features were, she too had little hope that he would wake again, or be able to tell her more than he had. She sighed.
“I know he is not penniless,” she said. “He had some small income, but he never told me from where it came. It was willed to his friend St. Cyr, but St. Cyr was killed two or three days ago. There should be enough to bury him decently. I know he was a man-at-arms in a troop captained by Raoul de Samur, one of Waleran de Meulan’s men. He should have more information than I, since this was the first time I had seen Manville in many years.”
“Thank you. I will send a lay brother to ask about the burial. Would you like a lay brother to see you home? It is quite dark.”
Magdalene’s lips parted to accept the offer and then she closed them together tightly. That shadow she had seen was only the infirmarian, and she did not want anyone at St. Friedesweide to know that she was lodged at the Soft Nest, a whorehouse. Men sometimes made miraculous recoveries. If Manville became able to speak again, she did not want to be denied the opportunity to question him further.
“I thank you, but I have only a little way to go beyond the churchyard. I am sure I will be safe.”
She drew her veil over her head and across her face and the infirmarian uttered a little sigh. “Then you will want the north door of the church,” he said. “It is shortest to go across the cloister, and since you are veiled and we will not linger, I am sure that will be best.”
He set out briskly, assuring her as they went that he had earlier sent for a lay brother who would sit with the wounded man now that she was gone. Magdalene breathed a sigh of relief. That explained the shadow much better than that it belonged to the infirmarian. The door to which he had gone and doubtless come back from was not near enough to the wall where the shelves were for the movement to have been his. But if a lay brother had come in without her noticing and had waited by the shelves…
They entered the church by the door that connected to the monastery. It was almost black inside, and only the faint reflection of the altar lamp on the columns along the aisle saved Magdalene from crashing into one. Sensing her start, the infirmarian slowed his pace while they made their way across the nave, both crossing themselves and genuflecting as they passed the altar.
“Careful, there are more columns,” the infirmarian murmured as they reached the north aisle.
Magdalene sensed him stepping to the side and peered right and left to pick a path. Something moved, and her heart seemed to leap into her throat. Then she saw it was the infirmarian, gesturing past the columns to a rectangle that was a paler gray against the black, and she breathed again.
“There is the door,” he said, “I will leave you here. It is lighter outside and I must get back to my patient.”
“Thank you,” Magdalene said, and he was gone, passing swiftly through the darkness with the ease and confidence of long familiarity.
She stood still, staring into the dark, and caught what she thought was a single glimpse of him as he crossed in front of the altar light. Then she heard the scritch of leather on stone. With an indrawn breath, she rushed toward the open door, only to strike one shoulder against a column. Pushing herself away from it, she ran headlong for the rectangle of gray light. Something caught her veil; she yanked it free, stumbled out the door and almost fell down the two broad steps of the porch, her body twisting as she bent and staggered, trying to regain her balance.
Something whistled past her head, and she thought she heard a man’s angry shout. Magdalene gasped, too frightened to scream, and leapt forward, tugging at her eating knife. Someone was behind her. She could almost feel the heat of his body, sense a motion that was a threat. She grabbed the sheath of her knife to free it more easily, but before it came loose, a hand seized her and pushed her hard. She fell, rolled, freed her knife, and drew breath to scream for help. But no one was near her now, and a man’s heavy steps pounded past her and up the church porch. Rand? Magdalene rolled over, and sensing no threat managed to sit up.
There was light enough to see, at least light enough at the end of the long twilight of summer for her to see a tombstone nearby. She knew she should run, try to reach the safety of Blue Boar Lane, but her legs
shook and she thought she would fall if she tried to walk so she sat down on the tombstone to catch her breath. What a fool she was! She should have gone out the east door into the South Way, where there would have been others in the street. She shivered. That was no protection. He could have come up behind her…
Stop it, she said to herself. Stop imagining horrors that did not happen. Nothing happened. You are safe. But was she? What if the killer cut down Rand? She clutched her eating knife and tried again to stand.
A dark figure appeared on the porch. Once more Magdalene drew breath to scream for help.
“Sorry, Mistress Magdalene,” Rand said as he started down the porch steps. “It’s black as pitch in that church and I ran into one of the columns.” He rubbed his head ruefully. “He got clean away, and I never caught a glimpse of him.”
“That’s too bad,” she said, laughing tremulously, “but you did save my life by shouting, so I cannot complain too much.”
“Shouldn’t have come to that.” Rand hawked and spat. “I should’ve been with you, but the monks wouldn’t let me in to the infirmary. I told them I wasn’t the one who stuck the knife in Arras, but all they said was that he was too far gone for company. I figured you’d be safe with the brothers, so I thought I’d wait in the church. Then it got too dark to see in there, so I went out to stand by the door, but…but I had to piss.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Magdalene said soothingly.
“Well, I would’ve got him if I’d been by the door. I saw you come running out and then a man, and he lifted up a weapon—couldn’t see whether it was a sword or a cudgel—and I yelled and started to run. I pushed you out of the way, but…but if I was gonna fight, I had to tie my braies or they would’ve been down around my ankles and I would’ve fallen on my face.”
Magdalene began to giggle and the trembling inside her stopped. “That was very sensible,” she said, finally able to get to her feet. “I mean, if you had fallen he would have had time to kill me.”
He laughed too. “Or I would’ve fallen on top of you and squashed you dead.”
They began to walk through the churchyard toward the narrow alley between the alehouse and the whorehouse that led to Blue Boar Lane and the entrance to the Soft Nest.
“We’ll keep good watch, Ogden and me,” he said, his voice hard now. “Sir Bellamy, he warned us, but maybe we didn’t take him serious enough because…well, it’s clear how he feels about you. But you can bet we’ll watch.” He sighed. “ ‘Cause if anything happened to you, after Sir Bellamy was through with us, Lord William’d skin us alive.”
Chapter 21
27 June,
The Soft Nest
Despite Rand’s and Ogden’s assurances, Magdalene had a rather sleepless night, waking at every sound and shivering in her bed, aching for Bell’s presence…or William’s. She had the comfort of neither and very early could sleep no more. Waking both Ogden and Rand—she had been very generous with her reward and neither of them protested—she went to St. Friedesweide, hoping to speak to Arras again but also to warn the monks of the attack on her and to urge them to protect the wounded man, but her effort was wasted. Arras had died during the night without ever regaining consciousness more than to mumble a general confession.
Magdalene went back to the Soft Nest in a somber mood. She had known Arras was dying, but had still hoped he would live long enough to answer some further questions. It had occurred to her during one of her wakeful periods in the night that she had never offered him the names of any of the suspects. Of course she was not sure that he knew any of the men, but she should have asked. Perhaps he would have been able to say that this one or that had never been to the lodging that persisted so strongly in his mind.
She and her escort went home the long way, making a detour to buy breakfast at the nearest cookshop. While she waited for the cook to wrap the fried fish and vegetables, she looked up the street. Could the lodging Arras kept on about be the room above Woller’s shop? That seemed highly unlikely.
Back in her room, she ate with little appetite, finally drawing a cloth over the crisp tidbits and simply staring out of the unshuttered window. The light grew stronger and then nearly disappeared as the clouds cleared away from the sun and then obscured it again. Thinking of anything but the murder, she hoped the weather would improve. It would not lift her spirits to have another day of solid rain. There had been several little spitting showers while she was in St. Friedesweide and the cookshop, but it was getting so dark now it seemed as if a cloudburst was imminent.
Rand’s scratch on her door was a welcome distraction, and when she heard Bell’s voice, she ran to open the door for him with an enormous sense of relief. Bell would help her discover who the killer was and thus who had attacked her.
When he stepped into the room, however, and tossed a canvas-wrapped bundle on the table, she saw they would not get to that problem immediately. His face was red, and he burst out, “Did I not tell you not to go out alone? Did I not? God in heaven, what madness made you to rush out at night to comfort a dying idiot who did not even know you?”
Magdalene was immediately furious—and much more cheerful. “I am glad if I gave him comfort, poor creature,” she snapped, “but that was not my purpose. Does it not occur to you that the man who attacked him must be the same who killed St. Cyr and Sir Jules?”
“Did it not occur to me?” he roared. “Of course it did, you beautiful lackwit! Why did you think I told you to sit still and safe within?”
“Ridiculous!” Magdalene exclaimed. “Do you not see that it would be much better to discover who the killer was and be rid of him?”
“And did you?” he asked acidly.
Magdalene sighed. “No, Arras never saw the man who attacked him, but—”
“But! But me no buts. Did you not think that the monks would ask that question? You were nearly killed yourself. The killer is now hunting you, and I cannot stay to protect you. I must be in Court after dinner to hear whether the petition of the priest of Lothbury for closing the houses of exchange near his church will be granted.”
“Well, of course you must,” Magdalene said.
Bell grimaced. “It is more than just duty. I think the king favors keeping the exchanges in the Jewery open because he gets a tithe of their profits, but instead of simply giving that judgment, I fear he intends to present the case to Salisbury, hoping Salisbury will take the priest’s side.”
“That seems a very small point of conflict. Surely—
“Who knows what will be sufficient cause for the king to act against Salisbury? Who knows but that Stephen may even be right to do so?” He rubbed his forehead, pushing his fingers under his mail hood. “Yesterday afternoon all was sweetness and light, but underneath…”
Magdalene nodded. “Giles de Milland came with a message from William—he had expected to bring guests but because all went so smoothly he decided against it—Giles said he could smell a stink but did not know from where it came.”
Bell sighed. “I must be there. I might be able to withdraw the priest’s petition or add to it something Salisbury could not approve…” Then he scowled at her. “But I cannot dance attendance on you! And, curse me, I cannot even give my mind to a national disaster if I can think of nothing but whether you are safe.”
Magdalene came and took his hand. “Come, shed that wet armor. Have you broken your fast? I will lay odds you did not, for you must have ridden out of Wytham Abbey before Prime to arrive here so early.”
While she spoke she had unlaced his mail hood. Sighing, he bent double. When she had freed his head from the hood and coif, she seized the sleeves and tugged the shirt forward. After the tails cleared his buttocks, he bent even farther forward and with very little more pulling, the shirt slid off into Magdalene’s arms. She clutched it to her, staggering a little under the weight, but got it laid out across one end of the table.
“There was so little time. I had to try to discover what Arras knew before he died,” she said
apologetically as Bell straightened up and ran his hands through his disordered hair. “Sit, love—” she hooked a stool closer with her foot and uncovered the food “—and have something to eat. You will feel better.”
His face twisted with exasperation. “You think a full stomach will make my visions of you with a slit throat more palatable? I knew. I knew when I rode out to Wytham after Court that I should have stopped in here and either nailed you to the floor myself or told Florete to have you tied hand and foot so you could not get out of the house.” Then he laughed. “And the only reason I did not was that I was sure even those drastic devices would not control you.”
“Probably not,” Magdalene admitted, smiling but with a crease between her brows. “But when the murderer is caught and hanged you will not need to worry about me anymore. And Arras did tell me some things that I am sure will lead to who he is—if only we can make head or tail of them.”
Bell was alternating a fingerling of fish with a clump of fried vegetables and made an inquiring noise around the mouthful. Magdalene pushed her half-full cup of ale nearer.
“He was very weak but he kept talking about the lodging as if it was a matter of prime importance, and I could not imagine why any lodging should matter until I remembered what he told Hertha—that Salisbury’s men were lodged in the churchyard of St. Peter’s and that there was a lodging across the road that was far too large for the men occupying it.”
Bell took a swallow of ale and said, “I can see that if Salisbury’s men hear of so suitable a lodging—one as near to their master as the churchyard—they might try to move in, but what that has to do with the murder is beyond me.”
“Arras said the murderer stayed in that lodging and that was how he knew who the murderer was—”
“But you told me he said he did not see the man who attacked him.”
“He thought he knew who the murderer was before he was attacked. He said he planned to spoil the murderer’s game.”
Bone of Contention Page 32
