Bone of Contention (18 page)

“Never mind, love.”

Magdalene patted the thigh against which her hand had been resting, felt his shaft stir slightly as her fingers grazed it, and hastily removed her hand. She enjoyed coupling with Bell more than with any other man she could remember, but enough was enough. She needed to think. Only he had drained her as thoroughly as she had drained him and she tightened her jaws against a yawn as large as his.

Her thoughts began with the notion that tables and benches might mean possible interruption, but they also might indicate a place people could meet without mistake: “At the table behind The Broached Barrel” would be a clear direction. But she could not grasp why that thought was so unpleasant, and, wondering about it, slept.

As so often happens, Magdalene knew at once upon being wakened why thinking of a meeting behind The Broached Barrel was distasteful. Loveday’s voice not only brought her awake but made her think of Niall, and it leapt into her mind that if Niall had arranged to meet St. Cyr behind the alehouse, the murder was not a thoughtless act of fury but planned. Bell, too, had responded instantly to Loveday’s voice and had probably been completely awake before her. He was just releasing his sword when Magdalene’s sidelong glance caught him.

“Yes? What is it Loveday?” she asked.

“It is light. It is morning. When can we leave for Noke?”

Bell groaned and Magdalene giggled.

“I have set out bread and cheese and ale,” Loveday said. “Should I run to the baker for sweet buns or get a quarter pasty at the cookshop?” She sounded a little aggrieved because at home her own kitchen would provide such extras.

“No, no,” Magdalene assured her. “The bread and cheese will be enough.” She poked Bell, who had sunk back onto the pillows with closed eyes and a deep frown. “You might as well get up,” she said softly into his ear. “She will be at you every moment until you do. I told you she was a most redoubtable girl.”

“She is a pain in the arse,” he muttered. “If Niall is at Noke, he will not disappear like morning dew, and if he is gone the sooner or later that we arrive cannot matter.”

“Were you never young and eager?”

“Not when my head ached from ale.”

“Get up and I will give you something for it,” Magdalene promised as she slid out of the bed.

She found clean undergarments in the chest and made a mental note to have the ones she had worn washed. It was not common to change or wash underclothes so frequently, but it was a habit from when she charged several times the price of a common whore. The crisp feel of the clean clothes, added to the sweet scent of the rose leaves and lavender with which they were stored, did much to let her clients forget how often the body under the clothing had been used. The freshness induced in them the illusion of an innocent new partner and that they were getting their money’s worth.

Her riding dress was stained from the journey to Oxford, but it had been brushed free of dust, and more than that was not necessary. Behind her she could hear Bell’s litany of curses as he struggled from the bed and also began to dress. She donned her gown quickly then went to the shelf where she had stored a cloth-wrapped bundle of medicinals. She was no great physician, although she knew the herbs that would flush out a woman’s womb and a few other remedies. Among those the one most often used was the potion to soothe men who had drunk too much, and she had taken an adequate supply of the ingredients in case William should need them.

She mixed it for Bell and he drank it, waving irritably at Loveday to be quiet when she asked if she should get one of Florete’s men to saddle the horses for them. Wincing and peering at her from one half-open eye, Bell told her not to be a fool. Early morning was one of the quiet times for a whorehouse, the men would be asleep.

“Well, I can saddle my own mare and likely Magdalene’s gelding, too, but your destrier is beyond me—”

“Sit down and shut up!” Bell snarled, placing his elbows on the table and supporting his head in his hands.

“Why does he drink so much if he knows he will feel this way the next day?” Loveday whispered impatiently.

Magdalene, who had quietly been eating her bread and cheese and sipping her ale, put on a reproving face. “He was doing his civic duty,” she said as soberly as she could, although her voice quivered slightly. “You cannot get men to talk freely in an alehouse without buying them drink, and if you do not drink with them, they are likely to become suspicious and not talk anyway.”

Loveday did not look convinced. After sitting a while longer until Magdalene finished her bread and cheese, she slid out from behind the bench and stood up. “I will go saddle my mare and your gelding,” she said. “That will save some time.”

“Remember your veil,” Magdalene urged softly. “There are men leaving at this time of day. You remember you need to go out the front door and then around through the alley at the side of the house to the back.”

Loveday nodded and went out. Bell groaned softly again and sat up. “If Niall did kill St. Cyr, we should let him marry that girl. It will be punishment enough.”

Although she smiled broadly, Magdalene made no reply. She knew how long it took for the hot spices she had mixed with the ale to calm a roiling belly and the leachings of willow bark to ease a pounding head. Well within that time, and before Loveday had saddled both horses and come in to voice her impatience again, Bell reached for the jack of ale, refilled his cup, emptied it, opened and closed his eyes several times, then sighed and stood up.

“I will survive if we go now,” he admitted.

* * * *

Nonetheless the first part of the ride to Noke was accomplished in near silence until, a league and a half out of Oxford, the sun disappeared, clouds gathered, and rain began to spatter down. Fortunately Loveday was acquainted with every foot of the way, and she led them to shelter in a pleasant barn. By the time the downpour was over, Loveday was more impatient than ever, and she rode somewhat ahead, as if she could draw the others into a faster pace by keeping a distance between them.

When they first set out Bell had uttered an occasional grunt when Monseigneur’s gait jarred him. While they waited for the rain to end, the exercise having sweated the drink out of him, he told Magdalene that those who had wagered that Salisbury would not come to the Council at all were gloating over the winnings they would soon collect. It was not good news, but Magdalene only shook her head. At the moment she was more concerned with a personal advantage that might arise from the problem.

They had turned from the main road north onto the side lane that led to Noke before she broke a long silence to ask, “What shall we advise Niall to do if we find him at Noke?”

“Find a good excuse for what he did,” Bell responded dryly, “although I cannot really think of any good reason to stab a man in the back.”

“I was afraid you would say that,” Magdalene said. “So, if there is no good excuse and if Niall did go off to London or Rochester, do you think in all the fuss over Salisbury failing to come to the king’s summons the murder of a nobody could slip by unnoticed?”

Bell turned his head to look at her. “You are very eager to get Niall away from Oxford and very hot against an immediate marriage to Loveday. Is it possible you have a personal reason to prevent the marriage?”

Magdalene, who had been watching Loveday, now looked at Bell. He met her eyes at first, then looked away. She said, “It is none of your business if I do.” Her voice was thin with fury. “I am a whore. It is my calling. It is none of your business who shares my bed when you are not in it. But if one hint of that jealous lie comes to Loveday’s ears, you can seek another lodging in Oxford…and in Southwark too.”

Bell opened his mouth and then closed it, swallowing joy and an intense relief. If Magdalene did not want Loveday to hear his suspicion that Niall was futtering her, then she did want Loveday and Niall to marry and did not care in any special way for Niall. Nonetheless the thought of that young, strong body entwined with Magdalene’s, as his had been only a few hours past, lit a fire in his belly.

“I do not like your being a whore,” he said sullenly.

“Well, it is ten or twelve years too late to consider
that.”
Magdalene laughed, good humor restored. “I was a whore long before we met and nothing will change it.”

“If you swore—”

“It would make no difference.”

“I would believe you.”

She stared at him, then smiled. “Until I bought a new gown or wore a pair of earrings that you did not recognize. Then you would want to know for whom I was dressing or who gave me the earrings. You might not even tax me with infidelity, but you would eat yourself up…as you are doing now.” She sighed and shook her head, but Bell could sense the anger under her resignation. “I am no different. I will never be different. No matter what man I entertain before or after, what I give to you is all yours, no part of it tainted with what I give to others…if I give to others. When I am with you, I think only of you. What tortures you choose to inflict on yourself are your doing, not mine.”

It was all true, Bell thought, furious with her and himself. But it had been so sweet, the way she welcomed him, the joy they had found together, the pillow talk… He wanted that for himself alone. When they lay together in the Old Priory Guesthouse, he knew that Magdalene—except perhaps in the few moments when she came to climax—listened with one ear for any sound of disturbance in her domain. It was her business, not another man, with whom he shared her. Here she was not responsible for anyone and she had given herself to him completely.

He glanced sidelong at her face and it was only an exquisite mask, drained of the laughter and friendliness, the intelligent animation she usually offered him. He stared out between Monseigneur’s ears, wondering how he could still have been such a fool, wondering how he could redeem the easy bond that had existed between them.

Bell did not give a single thought to breaking the bond completely, to leaving Magdalene and finding another woman. He knew what that was like during the time he lived at Winchester with the bishop or was sent to other places on the bishop’s business. With or without another woman, all he did was think about Magdalene, wonder what she was doing, make comparisons—always unflattering—to whatever woman was with him, and suffer agonies of jealousy. He was at peace only when he was with her, even their quarreling gave him joy.

Suddenly, what he was
not
seeing between Monseigneur’s ears pierced his self-absorption. “Loveday!” he roared, kicking his stallion hard in the ribs. The horse leapt forward and thundered down the lane, around a curve to the right and a sharper one toward the left…and Loveday was there, surrounded by four rough-looking men bearing axes. Bell drew his sword and shouted for Loveday to ride away.

“No!” she shrieked. “These are my people.”

Bell made no attempt to sheathe his sword or rein in his horse. What Loveday said could be the truth or the result of her fear. However, although the men had closed in on her and the axes were lifted in readiness, none struck at him and when he pulled Monseigneur to a stop and turned back, Loveday spoke sharply to them in English and they quickly melted into the woods bordering the road.

When they were gone, Bell sheathed his sword, which was not much good against bowmen anyway—not that he had seen any bows—and the quick response to Loveday’s order virtually proved they were her people.

“You should not have ridden so far ahead,” he snarled at her and then, remembering Magdalene, kicked Monseigneur into action again and rode back.

He was not really worried though. Atop her gelding, Magdalene would have had plenty of time to scream for help if she had been attacked, and the animal had a fair turn of speed. She could have ridden away from any threat. And, indeed, he found her safe, waiting just past the sharp left turn in the road where she could not be seen or be used as another target. They rode back to Loveday together, but instead of looking chastened, the girl looked smug.

“It is just as well that I did ride ahead,” she said as soon as they were in easy earshot. “Those were my woodsmen. When they saw Bell, they were afraid that I had been taken by the man who threatened me and they determined to try to bring him down and capture him.”

“Oh, indeed. How?”

“I’m afraid they intended to kill Monseigneur.” She was smiling slightly.

Bell’s expression froze and then he smiled. “I hope you cleared their minds of that notion. Between us my father, mother, and I paid near seven pounds of silver for Monseigneur. I would need to take all four of them and their whole families to sell as slaves before the price was made up. And I am rather fond of Monseigneur.”

“Seven pounds!” Loveday was horrified. “He is only a horse. I have bought a stallion, fatted for servicing mares too, for less than one pound.”

“But not trained for war, not unafraid of horns calling and the crack of siege machines and the smell of blood. Not for a horse ready on command to charge directly at a line of men or other horses. No, he is worth what we paid.”

Loveday sighed. “I will issue a special warning about Monseigneur.” Then she looked alarmed. “Will Niall need to buy such a horse if he leaves Lord William’s service?”

“How should I know?” Bell laughed. “Ask him.”

“I will indeed,” Loveday said, turning her mare’s head down the path, and starting forward again.

“She is already calculating how to make up the sum,” Magdalene said softly.

Holding his breath at Magdalene’s amused and intimate tone and seizing the hope that she had forgiven him, he murmured, “Maybe the punishment of marrying her is too great, even for stabbing a man in the back.”

Magdalene looked startled, then pursed her lips in pretended disapproval, and they both laughed. However, they had barely exchanged a few more bantering remarks at Loveday’s expense when they were at the gates of Noke. Those were closed, and when Bell looked up at the wall he could see what looked like a field serf with a pitchfork in his hand on a watchtower. There was no sign of armed guardsmen.