Bone of Contention (34 page)

Magdalene sighed, but she had not expected much more. Still, she gave Chloris a farthing and told her to come to her if she remembered more. By then Geneva was finished with her man, but when Magdalene made her request, the first thing she did was ask Florete where Rand was, and why he was taking so long.

“I am starved,” she said, “and I paid for my food.” She glanced at Magdalene. “Your errand will have to wait.”

“There’s no hurry,” Magdalene responded, knowing that to show her impatience would increase Geneva’s price, but when the whore had taken the half-pence she offered and gone to the door to look out, Magdalene frowned at Florete. “It is taking Rand a long time to walk a few streets.”

“He is going a little farther than our usual place,” Florete admitted. “Across the alley from The Broached Barrel there is a cookshop
that does large quantities at reduced prices and throws in a couple of loaves of bread and a jack of ale, too. And the food is still good,” she said, defending herself.

“I am a little concerned because the men-at-arms will be eating now and likely Samur will be there, but if Geneva comes much later, he may well be gone about some other duty or his own business. Will she wait to speak to him?”

“In a house full of men?” Florete laughed. “Unless she cannot find even one who will make an idle hour profitable for her she will wait. If not, do not trouble your head. Geneva knows on which side of her bread the dripping has fallen. You pay, and she wishes to please you. She will find a way to bring your man here.”

“He is no man of mine,” Magdalene began, only to be cut short by the door bursting open to admit Rand and Diccon.

“Dead!” Diccon piped, his eyes open wide with excitement. “There’s another one dead!”

“What? Who is dead? Where?” Florete cried, leaping to her feet.

Rand deposited his burden on Florete’s table and smacked Diccon alongside the head as soon as his hands were free. “Nothing for us to fear, Mistress,” he said to Florete. “The dead man was found at the stable in that lane near The Broached Barrel. You know it. It’s on the same side of the street as the cookshop, except the cookshop is on Cornmarket Street itself and the stable is in the lane.”

“Who is dead? Do you know?” Magdalene asked faintly.

“Not one of yours,” Florete said, putting her hand over Magdalene’s, which was clenched hard. “Lord William’s horses would not be in that stable and your Bell—”

“No,” Magdalene said, drawing a deep shuddering breath. “It is not for them I fear.” She looked up at Rand. “Did you hear anything beyond that a man was dead in the stable?”

“Not in the stable,” Diccon said brightly, and skipped out of Rand’s reach. “He was out in the yard under a pile of straw. Some lord came asking for a friend, oh, just before it began to rain very hard again. He saw that the horses were acting funny, all huddled together on one side when there was a pile of hay on the other side, so he looked. It was his friend under the hay. Made a terrible fuss, he did. All kinds of threats against the stablemen.”

Magdalene closed her eyes. “My fault,” she whispered.

“Oh God,” Florete murmured. “Don’t tell me that men have been fighting over you again.”

“No. This time my face is not to blame but my stupid curiosity.”

She told Florete about her meeting with Sir Jules in the backyard of The Broached Barrel, and of her fear that the man who had murdered St. Cyr had been watching and listening and decided to do away with Sir Jules, who might have seen something incriminating.

“But maybe it isn’t him,” Florete said.

“It must be,” Magdalene sighed. “The man who made the fuss must be Lord Ormerod. You remember how he rushed out. He had been looking for Sir Jules all over—he asked you if Jules had come here and I asked again. Then I reminded him that he had seen Jules’s horse was gone from the stable but never looked for Sir Jules himself there, where he might have fallen down drunk. So he rushed out to look.”

“An accident?” Florete asked. “He curled up to sleep and pulled the hay over him…”

“Not after he bashed in his own head,” Rand said with a coarse laugh. “Wasn’t enough of his brains left to know he was cold and wanted the hay to cover him.”

“It still could have been an accident,” Florete insisted. “He was drunk. He could have fallen down in the yard and something startled the horses so that they kicked him in the head.”

Diccon opened his mouth, but Magdalene shook her head at him and directed him to take two of the dinners into her chamber. She picked up the third portion for which she had paid and said she would send Diccon out again with bowls for the stew—a spicy fish concoction today—which was in a large kettle. When the boy came back, she shut the door behind him and gestured for him to sit, take some bread, and a bowl of stew.

“Now, what did you see and hear? I want everything, from the beginning.”

The beginning was the crowd of people in the alley, which distracted Rand from his errand. Diccon, being small, had been able to worm his way through the lane right up to the stable where he had heard the gentleman who had been in the Soft Nest bellowing at one of the stablemen—the night man, who was still knuckling sleep from his eyes. Essentially Diccon had little more to tell than Rand had already told Florete—except one thing.

“It wasn’t the horses. The cudgel he was hit with was in the hay with him.”

“A real cudgel, not just a piece of wood?”

Diccon swallowed a mouthful. “Yeah, a real cudgel. A bullyboy’s cudgel. From The Broached Barrel, it was. I didn’t hear it myself, but the people was saying that the sheriff’s man was in the alehouse trying to find out who used the cudgel.”

“The sheriff’s man? The sheriff was taking an interest?”

The boy laughed. “With a lord shouting his head off at the stable and it being a knight who was killed, and with a common man’s cudgel? Sure the sheriff will take an interest.”

“But I don’t think a common man killed him,” Magdalene murmured, putting a hand to her head. “Oh, I wish I could reach Bell before they blame the people at The Broached Barrel.”

“Do you want me to look for him?” Diccon asked, but his voice was reluctant and his eyes were on his food.

“No. I doubt you could get to him. He was going to Court to bring a petition to the king.”

Diccon shrugged. “Might get in. Might not. Depends on the guards. If I say I’m running a message, sometimes they let me pass.”

“Well, finish your dinner first and then go seek out Bell. You can say that I sent you, but not that he must come here. Tell him about Sir Jules’s death, tell him what you saw and heard at the stable, and tell him it is most unlikely that the killer was the bullyboy from The Broached Barrel, although the sheriff’s man was questioning him. Lord Ormerod discovered that Sir Jules left the alehouse in perfect health with Tirell Hardel and was in Hardel’s lodging until at least Nones. Can you remember all that?”

“I can remember, but I might as well finish eating. They’ll be setting up for dinner, or eating it at the castle. The guards won’t let me in while there’s food on the tables. They figure I’ll be begging or trying to steal.”

Magdalene nodded acceptance of that, broke off a piece of bread, and dipped it in the stew. It was good stew, with chunks of tender fish in it. But it was cooling a little now, and she had lost her appetite. She ate slowly, her mind on Sir Jules’s death. He had left Tirell at Nones and Master Woller said that Tirell had gone back to his chamber. But how long had Woller watched? Could Tirell have slipped out?

He, at least, knew that Sir Jules was headed for the stable. Ormerod had said Woller heard Jules tell Tirell he was going home, and to do that he needed to get his horse.

The man who had been listening—if there was such a man—could not have known Sir Jules would go to the stable. Yes, he could have known if he had heard Bell warn Jules to go home. But then would he have gone ahead—the stable was just around the corner and across the lane from the alehouse—or would he have waited to follow Jules? If he had waited to follow, he would have heard Jules ask for his horse, then stop the boy, and drink and go with Tirell.

He must have been very desperate if he waited outside Woller’s shop until Jules came out. And he could not have known that Tirell would not accompany Jules. Why should he be in such a hurry to kill? Ah! Possibly the fact that Jules had gone with Tirell fixed in the killer’s mind that Jules
did
know who he was. If Jules had not known of whom to be afraid, would he have trusted an utter stranger after he had been warned of his danger?

Diccon finished his meal and Magdalene roused herself to give him three farthings: one for him and two for bribery if necessary. The boy ran off, returned to bring back the cleaned bowl from which he had eaten, and went off again. Magdalene finished
her stew but found she did not want anything more. She rose and rinsed her bowl, opened a shutter to throw out the wash water and then, because it was not raining hard, left the shutter open. Still thinking of Jules’s death, she covered the three slices of pork pasty and the remains of the bread—not nearly as generous a dinner as she usually took, but enough for tidbits if Bell came later.

That hope lightened her heart a little, but not for long. It occurred to her, as she again took up the ribbon she was embroidering for Ella, that she had too easily dismissed Tirell as the murderer. Just because Loveday said he would not kill… No, there was also Woller’s evidence that Tirell had not left after Jules did, and Woller seemed reasonably vigilant if he crept up to listen and make sure the young men were not quarreling.

That left only Ormerod and the “friend in a high place” mentioned by Arras. Magdalene continued to create delicate flowers while she considered Manville d’Arras and his statements. Could he have desired Loveday for himself and, having St. Cyr’s will, stabbed his friend in the back? Magdalene shook her head. She simply could not believe it and, in addition, she doubted Arras had a mail shirt. So the friend…good Lord, could it be Ferrau?

Ferrau was a knight. Ferrau was in Alain of Brittany’s Household and could have been in Waleran de Meulan’s lodging when, St. Cyr had backed one of Alain’s men into a corner. To Arras, would a knight in service like Ferrau be a friend in a high place? And even if Ferrau was the friend, was St. Cyr’s approach in Waleran’s lodging and several other minor embarrassments enough to kill over?

Not Ferrau’s embarrassment, that was not enough, but Count Alain was
very
proud. What if he threatened to dismiss Ferrau from his service if he did not cut his connection with St. Cyr? Magdalene nodded slowly to herself. Ferrau would have rid himself of St. Cyr for that, she thought, but then realized that Count Alain could not have threatened dismissal because he had instructed Ferrau to retrieve St. Cyr’s purse, which carried the betrothal agreement. But that was after St. Cyr was dead and not contaminating the atmosphere any longer.

Well, it was something to ask Bell about. He knew Sir Ferrau and might either know how he would react or be able to find out if Count Alain had objected to the relationship. Of course, it would be easier for William…

A loud crash of thunder, then another, then the sound of rushing rain. Magdalene jumped up and ran to close the shutters on the window. She was just in time. Two of the three candles on the table were blown out. She relit the two from the one still flickering and then went to get torchettes from the shelf. Although with the sky black and the shutters closed so she couldn’t hear the bells of St. Friedesweide over the rain, she had no idea what time it was; still, it did seem unlikely that the day would become any brighter. The torchettes would not blow out so easily either.

The room was less dim, and Magdalene felt somewhat better and was about to settle herself to her embroidery again when the corridor outside her door rang with full-throated obscenities. She dropped her embroidery on the table and ran to open the door.

“William,” she exclaimed, “you are soaked! Come in and I will dry you off.”

“Damn me if I ever go out on such a day again only to give a friend some good news,” he bellowed, swinging off his cloak and spattering Florete and her two men with water.

His guardsmen, following him in, were a bit more careful and, as they turned into the common room, Magdalene saw Florete say a few words to her men and go off. Magdalene hoped the whoremistress was going to get some cloths with which to dry William’s men, but she did not linger to see. She ran ahead of William into her room to fetch her own drying cloths. He hesitated in the doorway for just a moment, then came in praising her for lighting the place decently.

He threw his cloak on the table, barely missing the ribbon on which Magdalene had been working, but she did not try to snatch it to safety. The drying cloth lay atop the chest and she dried William’s hair and face, then the hands he held out to her. He unbuckled his swordbelt. Dropping the cloth on to a stool, she began to unlace his tunic.

“Sit down, love,” she said. “You are too tall for me to pull it off.” He sat as she said and let her remove his tunic and spread it on the other end of the table. She
tsk’d
over the shirt, which was also damp. “I am sorry, love, I never thought to bring any of your shirts or hose. You will have to make do with a blanket—”

“What?” he growled, half laughing and half hurt. “Am I not enough to you for you to lend me one of your Bell’s shirts?”

Magdalene gave him a rough hug. “You are enough to me to lend you one of
God’s
shirts, if only I had one. Bell has some clothing at the Old Priory Guesthouse because, when Winchester is in London, he lodges with me to act as bullyboy—which
you
suggested, dear William—but he is not my responsibility. I do not think of him when I pack. I should have thought of you.”

It was true, Magdalene thought, as she dropped a kiss on William’s thinning hair and went to get a blanket in which to wrap him. Bell was her equal and she expected him to see to his own needs. William, so much more powerful, was somehow like a child and incapable of everyday foresight. Nonsense, it was not that William was childlike; he was so accustomed to being served that he no longer bothered to think of such needs as clean shirts. Still, it was rather like caring for a child.