Bone of Contention

by Roberta Gellis

  “He knew who the murderer was but would not tell you?”

  “He did not know the man’s name and—you know what he was—he could not describe the man to me.”

  Bell wiped his greasy fingers on his gambeson and ran them through his hair again. “I cannot see that this is of any help at all.”

  “Yes, because if Arras was right, it clears Tirell. We know where the Hardels are lodging, and that is certainly not across from St. Peter’s Church.”

  Bell frowned and then nodded. “And it clears Ormerod, too, because he is not lodging in Oxford at all.”

  “Unfortunately not,” Magdalene said. “Ormerod might easily visit another nobleman lodged in Oxford and might visit frequently enough, since he no longer needs to watch over Sir Jules, that Arras might have thought the place his own lodging. That could not be true of the Hardels. They might go once to talk business—if that nobleman grazed a large herd of sheep—but they would not go in and out as if they lodged in the place.”

  “I see that.” Bell put the last piece of fish in his mouth and chewed. “And it might be the place where Ferrau lodged.” He sighed. “I think I had better walk down to St. Peter’s and see what houses are across from the church and who is lodged in them.”

  “Not without me,” Magdalene said.

  “Oh, nearly being killed once was not sufficient for you? You feel the need to flaunt yourself under the murderer’s eyes again?”

  She laughed uncertainly. “Perhaps that is not such a foolish notion. If he attacked me again, we would have him.” Bell’s complexion flushed hotly, making his blue eyes sparkle dangerously. Magdalene laughed again, more easily. “No, honestly that was not in my mind at all. I would not go alone, but I will be safe with you. And I just feel that I am overlooking something. Arras was trying to tell me something, something about that lodging…”

  Bell got up and untied the bundle wrapped in oiled leather he had dropped on the table when he first came in. Inside was a yellow shirt, liberally embroidered around the cuffs and neck, and a deep green tunic. Magdalene rose to undo the ties of the gambeson. When he pulled it off, she could see that his chausses were a light red, cross-gartered with the dark green of the tunic.

  “I could not wear mail to Court,” he said, but the words were almost drowned in a sudden rush of wind and rain.

  Magdalene ran to close the shutters, and sighed. “If this continues long, we will have no time to go to St. Peter’s before you must get to Court.”

  Bell followed her and slightly reopened the shutter she had closed to peer out. “I do not think this heavy rain will last long,” he said. “If I can borrow a cloak from Rand or Ogden, we will be able to go. I must admit I have a very strong desire to know who has enough influence and can afford to pay for a lodging only half full.”

  Enough influence. Magdalene knew that was important, but so many had “influence.” God knew the king was not difficult to bend this way and that. In those terms the man who had the most influence was Waleran de Meulan, but the lodging in question could not be his because Arras lived there himself and certainly knew any among Waleran’s men who had “come up in the world.” And then she remembered William complaining about being told to dance attendance…

  The thought was deflected by Bell’s irritable voice asking if Arras had spoken of nothing but that accursed lodging.

  “Almost nothing, but he was wandering in the past, too, talking about a girl that was killed—”

  “Lord Sutton’s daughter?” Bell interrupted sharply, abruptly turning away from the window to face her.

  “Sutton? Sutton? Arras said… I think he said he was from Sutton, which was why he did not know the man who killed the girl. The girl was killed in Culham.”

  “That would be Lord Sutton!” Bell exclaimed. “His seat is now at Culham. It may once have been at Sutton and he still has a manor there—oh, that does not matter. If the girl was killed at Culham, it was Lord Sutton’s daughter and the last I heard he was still stubbornly hunting the killer—he was inordinately fond of the girl.”

  “St. Cyr saw the murder… Of course! That was why St. Cyr had to die. He must have threatened to tell Lord Sutton what he had seen.”

  “Four years later? Why didn’t he go to Lord Sutton at once?”

  “Ah! Another piece has fallen into place. Arras said that St. Cyr was then a person called Carl, a butcher’s son. He was not then a man-at-arms. Arras said Carl was afraid of the murderer and after he had seen the man kill the girl and her maid—this Carl had apparently been futtering the maid when she should have been waiting for her mistress so she arrived too late to prevent the murder and was herself killed—he ran to Sutton and befriended Arras so Arras would teach him to fight.”

  “And then his path did not cross that of the killer again until St. Cyr saw the man here in Oxford,” Bell mused. “And now, thinking himself strong in arms, St. Cyr accosted the killer and tried extortion. And maybe he was right—St. Cyr, I mean. Maybe he was now strong enough to confront the murderer, and that was why the man donned his mail and stabbed St. Cyr in the back.”

  “That was how St. Cyr had acquired a pound of silver to buy that forged betrothal. God in heaven, the murder had nothing to do with Loveday at all.”

  “Only indirectly,” Bell said. “The extortion was so he could marry Loveday, but likely he would have tried that game even if Loveday had fallen willingly into his arms.”

  Magdalene shuddered. “So who is it?” she asked. “Who could have killed Lord Sutton’s daughter?”

  Slowly Bell shook his head. “We all knew her, even I did. Jules knew her best, perhaps, but unless he killed St. Cyr and Arras killed him…”

  “No. I do not think Arras intended to kill the murderer—at least not now. He was dead set—” she hesitated and swallowed at the ugly appropriateness of the words she had chosen by chance “—on doing something about that lodging that would…he said ‘spoil game.’ I suppose he meant he would spoil the killer’s game—maybe disgrace him. I think now that Arras wanted a harsher punishment for the killer than a swift death. Who else?”

  “Ferrau knew her too. He served in Lord Sutton’s Household. But he had left that service before Sutton’s daughter was killed.”

  “And Ormerod was about to be betrothed to her.” Magdalene made a face. “Oh, surely he would not kill her because he did not wish to marry her. That is ridiculous! All he had to do was refuse.”

  “Unless his father was strongly determined on the marriage. From what Ormerod has said to me about that stupid farm his father bought, I am sure he was in awe of his father and also loved him very much. It is not impossible that he thought the girl’s life—” Bell’s lips turned down with distaste “—she wasn’t a very nice girl—was less important than his father’s disappointment in him.”

  “I would not have believed it of him,” Magdalene said, shaking her head. “He was always kind to my women, even to Ella, and you know how she can try the patience of a sensible man.”

  Magdalene’s voice suddenly sounded very loud, and she looked toward the window, realizing the heavy rush of rain and occasional thunder had stopped. Bell realized it too, and opened the shutter wider so he could see better. Not only had the downpour diminished to a drizzle, but the clouds had rolled off to the south and at the northern edge of what he could see there was a ribbon of blue.

  “Let us chance it,” Magdalene said, taking her cloak from a peg on the wall.

  Bell looked at her, opened his mouth, closed it and shrugged. If he refused her, likely she would go later on her own. He closed the shutter, belted on the sword he had removed when Magdalene had helped him remove his mail, and stepped out of the door. While Magdalene locked it, he asked about a cloak and was delighted when Florete said she had one to lend him. It had been left by a drunken client who, so far, had not returned to claim it. She looked at Bell’s rather elegant attire and said, grinning, that it would suit him much better than Rand’s or Ogden’s, being less grease-s
tained and lousy.

  As they stepped out of the Soft Nest, Magdalene asked Bell about Monseigneur, and he laughed and said he had left the destrier at the stable. He did not want his precious horse to drown, but more than that, he said, laughing again, he did not want to squelch when he sat in his saddle again. Magdalene laughed too. The oiled leather of the saddle would shed water for a while, but if left out in the rain too long would get soaked and transfer the wet to the rider’s seat.

  When they reached the Carfax, Magdalene turned left on Castle Street. Bell started to speak, but then fell silent. Magdalene knew Oxford. His mouth tightened. It was not impossible that she had trod this road to the castle when she was summoned to futter some nobleman. Perhaps she had walked this road to Lord William’s bed. His teeth set hard together. She would do it again, too, if Lord William summoned her.

  The road ended at the wall of the castle, although with the great gates open it led directly to the inner bailey. In the time of Robert D’Oigli, who had built the keep, there had been an outer bailey too, and St. Peter’s Church had been erected in that bailey. However, as the vill of Oxford had grown into a city and the wall around the city was erected, the wooden wall that protected the outer bailey had either been pulled down or allowed to fall. Moreover, various noblemen had received permission to build houses along the road and around the church.

  The houses nearest the Carfax and thus nearest the Cornmarket were obviously the dwellings and shops of very wealthy or well-established merchants. Those nearest the market; showed large windows on the street floor, closed now to keep out the rain, but capable of dropping open shutters, that fastened on the bottom, to form counters. Farther along were houses built back from the street and protected by courtyards with hitching posts for horses.

  Magdalene put back the hood of her cloak and pointed ahead. “Just beyond that lane is St. Peter’s. I wonder whether Arras meant the houses directly across from the church, or those on this side of the lane?”

  “Do you know who is in the houses?” Bell shook his head. “I feel like an idiot! I have ridden up and down this road four times a day for the last two? three? days, and I never looked.”

  Magdalene smiled at him. “You had other things on your mind. I can tell you some of those who used to own them five years ago, but doubtless they’ve gone out of town with their families during the Council, unless they had business with the king. Anyway, I don’t think any of those houses are big enough. There might be room for fifteen or twenty men on the shop floor, leaving the solar for the nobleman and his captains. According to Diccon, that’s what the armorer’s house—where William’s men are staying—is like. Only, of course, William is in the castle so there are only the captains in the solar and a few of his most trusted men-at-arms in the house. The rest are camped out of the city.”

  “Poor things. This is no weather to be camping out.” Bell’s voice was sincerely sympathetic as he recalled his own experiences.

  They walked past the houses, which were very quiet. No men lounged in the courtyards, nor were any horses tied to the posts out front. Magdalene glanced at them as she passed.

  “What I think,” she said, “is that most likely three or four gentlemen who have real and pressing business with the king are quartered in each house. Each man probably has four or five men-at-arms as escort—as Ormerod did on the road. Across the lane, though—that would have been the other side of the bailey wall, when there was a wall—the houses are all owned by the king. Some are quite large. I think Waleran has one of those.”

  “Oh, yes? Interesting. At least I am not such a fool as not to have noted where Salisbury is lodged. He is in that group of houses, too. You can see it from here: the very large stone built house at the very end, before the wall of the inner bailey begins. I heard that the earl who built it had quite an eye to the main chance. He left servants in the place and if any respectable person wanted to stay in Oxford, he could stay in the earl’s house…for a price. Which was why it was called an inn.”

  Magdalene laughed. “He did not come to my house when I was here.” Then she sobered and glanced up the street at Salisbury’s lodging. “Hmm. One would think the lodging was chosen to keep Salisbury as far as possible from his men. No, that is unfair. I would lay odds that there is a footpath from the churchyard to the back of that house. It is too bad that Salisbury has so much business as justiciar that that big house is full of clerks.”

  “It is not only the business of justiciar. He is a bishop, too, and has clerks receiving petitions and recording decisions about the diocese.” Bell touched his hair, upon which a heavy drop had landed, looked up, and added, “Damn and blast this weather. It is starting to rain harder again. Is there anywhere we can go for shelter?”

  Magdalene nodded and drew up her hood. She hurried forward into the lane that ran by the east side of the church. A good deal of noise was coming out of it, and Magdalene hesitated, then, as the rain grew heavier yet, drew Bell forward. There was one grand house, which might well be the lodging that Arras was talking about, and they might be allowed in, but if not, there was a handsome stable toward the back where they could wait.

  “You brought me here apurpose,” Bell said, lips tight. “You want the murderer to see you and attempt to silence you.”

  “No. If he sees me with you, he should know that it is useless to silence me. I would have told you already.”

  “Oh, good,” Bell remarked, looking as if he had tasted an unripe apple, “you want him to try to kill me as well as you.”

  Magdalene giggled and yanked on the bell cord that hung by the door. It was opened promptly, not by a servant but by a grizzled veteran of unmistakable authority. He looked at them with an expression of shocked surprise.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Only passersby caught in the rain,” Magdalene said sweetly. “We ask no more than a few moments shelter, until the rain will allow us to go our way.”

  The man’s mouth opened, closed. He looked down at Magdalene, who obligingly put her hood back so he could see her face. His mouth opened again, closed again. He looked up at Bell, whose face was blank, then over his shoulder at the two trestle tables at the far side of the room. About twenty men sat at the tables. There was room for at least six more tables. Beyond the tables was a door leading to a room or a shed at the back of the house. The door was open, and through it Magdalene could hear the clank of pots and ladles. Then the man looked out, as if to judge the amount of rainfall.

  “Yes, of course, come in,” he said, shutting the door behind them. “I am sorry I cannot ask you to sit down with us and join us. Our master is…very rigid in his ways and does not like us to invite strangers to our table. However, I cannot well put you out into the rain. If you would be satisfied to wait out this rain in the kitchen, the servants would dry you off and even offer you something to eat.”

  Bell’s mouth opened, but before he could speak, Magdalene said, “Thank you. I am more concerned with my comfort than my dignity. I will be willing to wait in the kitchen for the weather to improve.”

  Whereupon the older man turned and walked toward the other end of the room, pausing and gesturing as he came abreast of the tables. Magdalene thought she heard a gasp, but she did not bother to look for who had uttered the sound; it was a frequent enough occurrence when men had not seen her before. The man at the end of the table rose to lead them into the kitchen. There, he told the servants to dry their clothing and to give them dinner if they wanted to eat.

  “And,” he said, “you are making too much noise. I will close the door. Leave it closed until you are ready to serve.” He turned to Magdalene and Bell. “If you wish to leave before the meal is served, I hope you would not mind going out this way.” He waved at a back door. “There is a good path around the house.”

  Magdalene had a grip on Bell’s hand. He looked down at her, then nodded brusquely at their guide. Meanwhile, Magdalene swung her cloak off her shoulders and handed it to a manservant who was
gawking at her. A moment later, Bell did the same.

  The kitchen was far larger than needed to serve food to the number of men in the common room. Magdalene looked at the servants, then said to Bell, “Take two stools and let us get out of the way of these busy folk.”

  Bell nodded, picked up two stools, and crossed to the unoccupied end of the kitchen. As he put down the stools, his back to the servants, he said softly, “I recognized the badges. We are in the lodging of Alain of Brittany.”

  “Then Ferrau is the murderer?” Magdalene whispered as she sat down on the stool Bell had placed for her. “But you said he was no longer in Sir Sutton’s household when the daughter died.”

  Bell put his own stool very close beside hers and leaned forward to murmur into her ear. “That was what he told me, and I had no reason before to doubt his word. But if Arras was right and the man who lodged here was the one St. Cyr recognized, it must be Ferrau. We know Ormerod is not acquainted with Count Alain. Remember, he wanted Ferrau to present him or to raise the question of the disputed farm. And even if he had been presented, he is not of sufficient importance to be invited as a frequent visitor. Nor, as you pointed out, are the Hardels likely to have come here often.”

  Magdalene noticed somewhat uneasily the small smile that tugged at Bell’s lips. He could hold a grudge, could Bell, and hold it hard. No matter what he had said on the road, he had not forgotten or forgiven the beating Ferrau had given him. She knew Bell was fair enough not to try to load a crime on an innocent man, but if Ferrau was guilty, Bell was going to enjoy it.

  “And Sir Jules is dead and could not have killed Arras,” she said.

  Bell nodded. “So it must be Ferrau,” he said, satisfaction clear in his voice though he kept it very low. “Even if he told the truth about leaving Lord Sutton’s service before the girl was killed,” Bell continued, “there was nothing to stop Ferrau from coming back to Culham or from staying in the village. It is not quite a town, but there are two merchants with decent houses. I will ride over to Culham…oh, God,” he glanced at the door to the common room. “I don’t know when I’ll be free to go.”