Bone of Contention (41 page)

“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.”

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.”

“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.”