Bone of Contention (21 page)

“What in the world is this?” Magdalene asked. “Even you will not be able to make serious inroads on this supply. Whatever was Bell thinking?”

Even as she asked, she knew the answer and a mingled relief and pleasure made her laugh again. Bell was…what? Apologizing for his bad temper by providing food enough for William, and even perhaps some of his men? Hinting that he would be back to share the food with her and William? She hoped not the latter. Having them together always made her chest tight with anxiety. William was never jealous of her body, but he might not take so lightly any indication that more than her body was involved with Bell, and Bell was like a dog with his hackles up, just waiting for a sign to attack.

“Said most of it would be just as good cold,” Diccon said. “Hope you’ve got some bowls. I’ve got to bring these back soon.”

Magdalene was grateful to have her thoughts interrupted. She said vaguely, “Yes, of course.” And then realizing that she was not at home and had virtually nothing, added quickly, “Ah, no. Run out and ask Florete if she has anything I can use.”

While the boy was out, Magdalene got out the half loaf of bread that remained from the previous day and cut three substantial slices to make trenchers. On those she laid slices of roast pork and pieces of the roast chicken, which she tore apart. She covered the heaped trenchers with a piece of cloth just as Diccon came in with two bowls and a clean chamber pot. Magdalene laughed heartily when she saw that vessel, but she only stopped to smell it carefully and wipe it again with a clean cloth before she dumped into it a large amount of stew. Into one of the other bowls she put the boiled greens and into the last the sweet pudding. Finally she gestured to Diccon.

“Eat,” she said, “but quickly. Soon as you are done, you can take the cookshop’s vessels to the pump and wash them. Then bring them back.”

Diccon nodded and ran out but was back again before Magdalene could even seat herself. He brought his own bowl and a spoon. Magdalene nodded for him to help himself, which he did, and started eating. Magdalene sat down with him and ladled some of the stew into a smaller bowl. She divided up what was left of the bread and handed Diccon a piece just as the door flew open.

“What do you mean Niall did not kill St. Cyr? How do you know? Where is he?”

Diccon had jumped to his feet as soon as the door opened, clutched his bowl and bread to his chest, and began to sidle to the door. Magdalene nodded at him and then said calmly, “Would you like something to eat, William? I can make the story very short or tell you all the details, which will make it long enough for you to have a meal.”

“He is innocent?” William insisted. “There can be no doubt?”

“None at all. He was at Noke the night St. Cyr was killed and not only all the servants and your men-at-arms will swear to it but the local priest, a Father Herveus. The priest had come to comfort Loveday, but stayed to play chess with Niall, had the evening meal with him, and spent the whole night.”

William’s small blue eyes grew even smaller as he thought hard. Then he drew up the chair and sat himself at the table. Magdalene immediately reached over and pulled one of the trenchers out to set before him. He took a chicken leg and began to bite chunks off it. Magdalene got up and got her other bowl and spoon—brought for just this eventuality—which she filled with stew, laying a few of the greens on one side. She set the bowl near the trencher.

“So, from the beginning,” William said between bites.

Magdalene told him, virtually move by move and conversation by conversation, beginning with Giles de Milland’s arrival the previous day. He cocked his head when she described the conversation Reinhart Hardel had with his son, Tirell, but did not stop chewing a mouthful of stew. He stopped her twice to ask questions when she described Loveday’s intention of marrying Niall without leave from the king and simply paying the fine, but he looked more thoughtful than angry, blinking slowly. When she described in detail the servants’ and men-at-arms’ assurances of Niall’s continual presence in full sight of them all the afternoon, evening, and night of the twenty-first of June, he breathed a satisfied sigh, and finished the meat on the trencher.

“Niall and Loveday will have a written statement from the priest about his presence in Noke that night also, and sworn testimony from all the Noke servants signed and sealed by the priest. I thought it wiser not to take evidence from your men. It would not add much and might be thought to be tainted. Niall wanted to come back to Oxford to report to you yesterday, but we all agreed—”

“Who are all?”

“Sir Bellamy, myself, and Loveday. We all felt that it would be better to publish the proof of Niall’s innocence before he arrived…or if you prefer, he could come to the town carrying the proof that he could not have attacked St. Cyr. I felt that it the sheriff first arrested Niall, there would be unpleasant words said about your influence, even if you went with proof to free him.”

After a moment, William nodded. “Likely you are right about that. Ordinarily I would not care or might even prefer that it be thought my influence was so strong as to free a murderer, but not here and now.”

He bent over his bowl of stew, reaching absently for the bread Magdalene put near his hand, but she did not think he was much aware of eating, guessing that soldiers’ habit drove him. Still, she quickly emptied her bowl and wiped it clean, finally adding a little water from the jug on the shelf and drying it. She cleaned the spoon too, then put a helping of the sweet pudding in the bowl and brought it to the table. William was using the last of the bread to scour his bowl.

“Will you have some sweet?” she asked.

He looked up and at the bowl she was proffering as if he had never seen such a thing before and said, “I was fool enough yesterday to ask two or three if they knew of St. Cyr. I am more cautious usually, but it was so strange that Waleran should have chosen such a man that I grew curious, I wonder if…no, that is too convoluted even for Waleran.”

Magdalene put the bowl of pudding down on the table.

“There is a chance that this has nothing to do with you, William.”

“No?” He reached for the bowl and put a spoonful of pudding into his mouth.

“It seems that Aimery St. Cyr knew a number of highborn men and that he may have coerced one of them to get the forged betrothal agreement he presented to Loveday. If that ‘friend’ grew impatient or frightened, could he not have killed St. Cyr?”

“Perhaps, but how did you learn this?”

“There was no message for you left with Florete from Raoul de Samur?”

“No, there was not.”

“Oh, then it was just for the woman he came, and possibly to make his future visits here seem ordinary.”

“Who came?” He took another spoonful. “Magdalene, your mind is wandering.”

“Sorry. That happens when I try to think of more than one thing at a time. Raoul de Samur was here not long before you came. He was with a woman—by accident I even know her name, it is Geneva. He came out of the cocking chamber just as I was sending Diccon off with my message to you. He said since he had seen me he would not need to look for you, but he had no real message to leave. He just warned you not to tweak Waleran’s nose. He said Waleran was too busy about something that involves the count of Brittany to be bothered about you just now—”

“Yes, I know that! And Stephen is also extending himself to show favor to the count. What I don’t know is why, or what Waleran is busy with.”

“Samur doesn’t know either. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to leave a direct message. He said he couldn’t get near Waleran, that you’d seen more of him this last week than he had.”

“Likely that is true too. Meulan spends all his time in court whispering in this ear and that about Salisbury.” William’s lips thinned. “And if the bishop does not show up tomorrow, I will join the whispering. But none of this explains how Raoul came to tell you about St. Cyr’s friends.”

“That was because I told him that the betrothal agreement was a forgery and that Niall had nothing to do with St. Cyr’s death and had many witnesses to being outside of Oxford that night. Samur then said he knew St. Cyr could not have afforded to pay for the forged document and wondered if one of his grand friends had laid down the silver. Naturally I asked who those friends were.”

“Good girl.” William put down the bowl and pushed it away.

“Do you want some wine? I have—”

“Gahh. Not the stuff they serve here. Send the boy out to the wine merchant and get some decent wine. Meanwhile, ale will do.” Magdalene went to fetch her two cups and the flagon. “So, about those friends of St. Cyr’s?”

Magdalene filled the cups. “Samur said he did not know who they were.” She giggled. “He was
very
annoyed. Said he hadn’t paid attention because he hadn’t known St. Cyr would be murdered, had he? He said he had seen only a back view both times: once in a dark corner of The Wheat Sheaf, and once when Count Alain was visiting Waleran, he noticed St. Cyr was talking to one of the count’s men.”

“They are not known much for mixing with other men’s troops,” William said thoughtfully.

“I think that was what drew Samur’s attention. In any case, I told him to keep a watch out. I made bold to say that you would be pleased with him if he recognized either man and discovered who he was.”

William grinned at her over his ale cup. “Well, I see you have the investigation well in hand already.”

“Investigation? No. I was not intending to seek out St. Cyr’s murderer.”

“No? Giles told me that your Bell was out asking questions in the alehouses about what they had seen and heard.”

“But that was when we thought Niall had done it and that you might be blamed.”

William put down the ale cup, still grinning. “I doubt Sir Bellamy worries overmuch about my being blamed for this or that.”

Magdalene laughed. “Well, no, but I do.”

“And Sir Bellamy is still so besotted he does your bidding even against his own interest?”

“It is not against his interest. What you and I have together has nothing to do with Bell.” Magdalene put her hand on William’s arm.

He covered her hand with his own. “He is young, Chick. Be patient with him. He is useful, too…especially now, because I might well be blamed for this crime even if it is proven that Niall did not do it.”

“Why should you be blamed?”

“The armorer’s house where my men lodge backs on a lane that goes right to the Cornmarket and comes out near The Wheat Sheaf. Some of the men use that lane to get to the alehouse. I can prove Niall did not kill St. Cyr. What of the others?”

“But no other had any cause,” Magdalene protested.

“Except to fulfill my will.”

Her eyes widened. “But why? Why should you care?”

William grimaced and shrugged. “To have a man I could trust close to Oxford? Who knows what reasons may be found by anyone who simply wishes to blacken me? The reason will not be important. What will be important is that my men were close and—” his mouth twisted bitterly “—it will be said it was not the first time.”

Magdalene made no reply, except to cover William’s hand with hers again. She knew that William felt he had been deprived of the rule of Ypres because he was blamed for the murder of Charles, count of Flanders, through the instrumentality of the provost of Bruges. Whether William was directly guilty, in that he had actively planned that murder with the provost, or whether he was indirectly guilty, merely by allowing those who could accomplish it to know he desired Charles’ death, was a moot point.

He looked down at their hands, blinking, and then up. “I need the true criminal to be exposed so there is no doubt of his guilt, Magdalene. Will you do it?”

“If I can, William.” Tears stood in her eyes. “I have not the resources here that I have in London, but I will do my very best.”

He stood up, knocking over the chair, and dragged her up and into his arms. “There’s my Chick! Don’t say you don’t have the resources.” He pulled a heavy purse from his belt and dropped it on the table. “Florete will serve your purposes.” He pulled her closer, and kissed her. “Will you serve mine?”

Angry as he was at Magdalene’s seemingly indifferent reminder of her relationship with William of Ypres, Bell remembered to stick his head into the common room of the Soft Nest and snarl at Diccon to come with him. The boy hesitated as Bell turned away, and then ran after him. Bell hardly noticed him at first, but by the time he had reached the end of the street, his fury was dulling into angry resignation. He felt like a fool too, for having exposed his resentment against William of Ypres. Resentment was stupid. It was as if a woman he married to breed him sons should be angry and blame him over the love he bore Magdalene for years before he ever met that wife.

In any case, he thought, Ypres plainly had not summoned Magdalene for the use of her body and she certainly did not lust after Ypres. Jealous as he was, Bell knew that as surely as he knew she
did
want him. He gnawed at his lower lip. Fool that he was, he would drive her into fighting that desire if he did not curb his jealousy.

A scrape and stumble close behind him made him whirl with his hand on his knife and then curse softly as he saw the boy from the whorehouse pick himself up. He had forgotten about the child, who had tripped over his overlarge shoes—Bell wondered distractedly from which dead man they had been stolen—while trying to keep up with the pace he had set.

“Sorry, Diccon,” he said. “Sometimes women can drive a man to—”

“Drink, murder, blasphemy, war… Don’t have to tell me, Sir Bellamy. I got to live with twenty or thirty of ‘em. And what one wants, the other don’t. And what’s too early for one’s too late for another.” He snorted heavily. “Don’t tell me about women.”

Bell grinned at the boy’s too-old cynicism, and because Diccon’s world-weary manner had lifted his spirits, he continued the game. “Well, I have just annoyed the one to whom I am bound. What would you say is the best remedy?”