Bone of Contention (38 page)

Tensed to resist, Magdalene saw he was leading her toward The Lively Hop and relaxed. She slipped a hand into her pocket and fingered out two farthings. Those would go to Mayde, who would come if she signaled or cried out. Tirell looked north again and quickened his pace to hurry her off the street.

For two heartbeats Magdalene had to fight the temptation to tell him his father was a long-time client. Her lips twisted a little with disgust at the way Reinhart Hardel pretended a virtue he did not have. To the public at large, that was reasonable, but to his son it could only be because he wished to control the boy’s—no, the man’s—behavior. But her commitment to her business was more important than Reinhart’s relationship with his son, so she assumed an expression of surprise.

“I know your father because Mistress Loveday named us to each other a few days past.” She swallowed a giggle; a hint, a very small hint that could be understood if Tirell were clever enough, would not hurt. “Master Hardel seemed to think I had a nefarious purpose in offering Loveday shelter, but truly it was at the behest of one of my patrons’ captains. The man is betrothed to Loveday and knows I would never force any woman into my trade.”

“Oh,” he said, reddening and seeming at a loss, and then added stiffly, “It seems very strange that Loveday would seek shelter with you.”

As they entered the alehouse, Magdalene raised a hand and beckoned to Mayde. She looked significantly at the girl and nodded slightly. Mayde hurried over. “I will take a cup of ale,” Magdalene said and slipped the farthings into the girl’s hand.

Then to Tirell she said, “Mistress Loveday intended to stay with a friend.”

“Edmee,” Tirell said, “but she is in London.”

Magdalene was surprised, remembering what Loveday had told her about Reinhart’s rage when Redding married Edmee instead of his daughter.

“Yes,” she said. “Loveday could not go back to Noke for fear of St. Cyr and could not stay here alone for fear of Sir Jules…” She sat down on the bench, looked up at Tirell, and added, “But she does not need to fear him any longer, does she?”

Even in the dim light at the back of the alehouse, Magdalene could see that Tirell had paled. She was safe enough, she decided, to take a wild chance. “Why did you pretend to remain in your lodging but then follow Sir Jules to the stable?” she asked, her voice soft.

“I did not!” he exclaimed. “I did not follow Jules. I never saw him again after he left my lodging.” But then he sat down suddenly as if his knees had given way and dropped his head into his hands. “But I am to blame for his death.” His voice was muffled and thick. “I cannot put it out of my mind. I knew he was drunk. I should have gone with him. Instead I left him to stagger about in the street, an open invitation to anyone to beat and rob.”

“From what I have heard,” Magdalene said, “Sir Jules has been staggering about in the street for years. And what was done to him was no chance, too-strong blow from a thief. It was deliberate murder.”

He shuddered and whispered, “But Jules was not there and his horse was gone. I spoke to the stableman and sent him…that does not matter, it has nothing to do with Jules.”

Mayde appeared with two cups of ale, which she set down. Tirell paid and she backed away, looking at Magdalene, who gave an infinitesimal shake of the head.

Jules was already dead,
Magdalene thought. Or
had Tirell seen him asleep somewhere and determined to kill him?
Magdalene asked, “But if Jules was going to the stable and you were too, why in heaven
didn’t
you accompany him?”
Because you didn’t want to be seen with him?

“I
didn’t want—” He set down the cup he had lifted without drinking and made as if to rise. “It is none of your business. I told you it had nothing to do with Jules.”

Magdalene caught his arm. “But it is very much my business,” Magdalene said, her voice hard. “I was among the last to speak to Jules—and I am a whore. Whores are always guilty. I need to know who killed Jules. I swear that if what you tell me has nothing to do with Jules it will be kept secret. If you will not answer me, I will pass this to someone who has the right to question you.”

“Do not tell my father!” Tirell swallowed. “I will tell him myself when the contract is signed. Otherwise he will make trouble, and it is not his right. I am of age. I have a right to marry whom I will.”

“Marry? You cannot marry Loveday. She is already betrothed.”

“Not Loveday!” Tirell smiled. Now that his secret was exposed, he relaxed. “That is my father’s fixation. I never wished to marry Loveday, although I would have done so to save her from St. Cyr. I…it is Edmee Redding’s sister, Mary. She is not as rich as Loveday, but she has a good dowry. My father would have been delighted with my choice if Redding had not married Edmee instead of my sister. Then he took a spite to the family.” He sighed. “I told you it was nothing to do with Jules.”

“Something must have had to do with Jules,” Magdalene said. “You invited him to your lodging. For what?”

Tirell sighed again, but he looked even less worried. “I had told Mary’s father I would not be making contract when I thought I would have to marry Loveday. I wanted to be sure Jules still planned to marry Loveday before I went back to Mary’s father. The stableman carried the message that I would come to him after dinner today. That was what I asked Jules in the alehouse, and he began a tale of woe that I could not stem so I invited him to my lodging. There he told me of Loveday’s prior betrothal. I could hardly believe it, much as we had seen of each other over those four years, that she had not told me.”

“Could she have been hiding it from your father for fear he would be less willing to help her?” Or perhaps a fear that she would be abducted and married by force? Magdalene wondered.

“Certainly not!” Tirell exclaimed, but he looked uncomfortable. Then he stood up and said, “There is no need for you to return to Master Woller’s. My father is not there. I do not know when he will return.”

That,
Magdalene thought, barely restraining a laugh, is
a damned lie. It is your father for whom you were watching when you looked north, so you expect him soon.
And then she had to swallow and swallow again and finally begin to cough. It seemed that Master Reinhart Hardel had not really managed to keep his image perfect in his son’s sight. Still Tirell was making a noble effort to protect the older man. She kept her lips from curving and opened her eyes to their widest.

“Your father? What in the world would I want with your father? I only spoke a few words to him about Loveday.” She shook her head. “You mistake me, Master Hardel. I was not looking for your father in Master Woller’s shop. I was interested in that length of cloth and I recognized you.”

“I am glad to hear it, but I cannot see why you spoke to me. I, no more than my father—”

“I do not solicit custom, Master Hardel,” Magdalene snapped. “My motive was not so innocent. Lord Ormerod had told a friend, who told me, that you had been with Jules not long before he died. Since I had spoken to him only perhaps a tenth candlemark before you did and he had told me he was going home, I wondered why he went instead with you. Even more important to me, you are a witness that Jules left me alive and well.”

Tirell glared down at her. “And Master Woller will testify that he left me alive and well also—and the stableman will warrant that Jules and I did not meet in the stable.”

Unless you first knocked him down and then sent him away,
Magdalene thought, as Tirell walked out. Mayde was at her side as soon as Tirell cleared the door. “He was the one,” she said. “Sir Jules went out with him that day, before he was killed.”

“Thank you, Mayde,” Magdalene said, giving her another farthing. “And thank you for watching out for me.”

“Did he do it?” the server asked eagerly.

Magdalene smiled. “I have no idea. He could have done it, yes, but there is something in his manner, little as I like it, that makes me believe him innocent.”

But is his father equally innocent?
Magdalene wondered, lifting her cup to screen her expression. Could Tirell’s distaste have had less to do with Mary than with arranging a meeting between Reinhart and St. Cyr? He said he had spoken to St. Cyr and that he must not have Loveday. Was he urging his father to buy St. Cyr off so he could marry Mary? Had Reinhart thought of a less expensive way to accomplish his purpose? But it was Tirell who had the mail shirt. So what? Mail was not fitted to the figure like a tight-laced gown. It was not impossible that Reinhart had once guarded his own caravans and knew well how to don and carry mail.

It was a good reason for the attack from behind. Reinhart was older and if he had ever borne arms, long out of practice with them. He could never have fought St. Cyr on even terms.

She took a last drink from her cup. No. It was simply too far out of reason that Reinhart would
kill,
either to save Loveday from St. Cyr or to get her for his son.

She handed Mayde the now empty cup, rose to her feet, thanked the girl again, and urged her to come to the Soft Nest and let her know if she heard or saw anything that might connect with either St. Cyr’s death or that of Sir Jules.

Diccon found her soon after she left the alehouse, complaining that he had been up and down the street looking for her and didn’t she feel that it was about to begin raining again? Magdalene glanced up at the clouds, lower and grayer than they had been earlier, and sighed. Well, better confined than soaked. So she bought dinner for herself and Diccon and returned.

The Soft Nest was very busy. Every curtain in the corridor was closed and men’s voices filled the common room behind Florete’s table, not quite drowning out the grunts and moans from the fully occupied pallets in the dormitory. Magdalene hurried into her room, but before she could close the door, Florete called aloud for Diccon. Magdalene had to turn back to take the stew-filled bread from him, juggling them into a stable position against the two slabs of bread that were holding slices of meat between them. Just as she paused to assure him she would save his meal for him (unless William showed up, which she did not expect), she saw a familiar figure come out of Hertha’s room and head for the door.

Diccon reached around her to open her door and Magdalene went inside, shutting it with her heel. She was grinning when she set down the half loaves and propped them against the candleholder so they would not spill the stew. It seemed that, looby or not, Manville d’Arras had told the truth about remembering things. He had been pink with hard scrubbing in a bathhouse, so he had washed, as he promised he would. And he had been smiling broadly and idiotically, so he was no longer worried and angry about St. Cyr’s death.

Magdalene rid herself of her veil and sat down to eat, wondering idly if Arras was really as stupid as he acted or only had a speech impediment. If he were clever enough to pretend to be stupid, he might have killed St. Cyr for private reasons. And if he had gotten blood splattered on him from killing Sir Jules, he would have a better reason to wash than simply remembering he had promised Hertha that he would.

Then Magdalene shook her head. Clever enough to act stupid? He would have needed to be brilliant—and Samur, his captain, had called him an idiot. Surely he would not have been pretending stupidity for years.

Still the doubt made Magdalene wonder what he had said, if anything, to Hertha. However, from the look of the common room and the fact that men had been entering even as Magdalene shut her door, she was sure it would be some time before the whore would be able to come to speak with her. And if Arras was clever, he would have said nothing pertinent. But that, too, might be revealing. If he pretended to have forgotten— Magdalene giggled, no, he would not have admitted to forgetting, but would just say he had found another way to satisfy his sense of obligation to his friend.

A candlemark later it was pouring again. Diccon had come and had his meal before it started and gone out again. The Soft Nest was still crowded, but mostly with men waiting for the rain to abate before leaving. They were growing short of temper, so Ogden and Rand were wandering around, cudgels in hand. One of them shepherded Hertha into to Magdalene’s room.

“I knew you would want me to come, but I’ve little to say. He was still on about that lodging. Apparently he actually tried to tell Salisbury’s men about it—or tried to tell them it wasn’t a good place to go, even if there was room for them, I don’t know. I couldn’t make him out. Merciful Mother, trying to understand him is nearly impossible when he talks as if he has a mouthful of pebbles and he is bending over to undo his shoes at the same time.”

Magdalene laughed. “But I bet he didn’t stink. I saw him going out and he was shiny with scrubbing.”

Hertha laughed too and her expression grew softer. “Yes, he does remember. And he pays without argument, too. I should blame you, not him, for my troubles. If you didn’t ask me to listen to him, I wouldn’t have to strain my ears trying to understand one word in ten and wouldn’t care about those.”

“Did he mention St. Cyr at all?”

“Only once, and it was nothing to do with his death or the will. He said that he was getting almost as clever as St. Cyr, although it had taken him two days to figure ‘it’ out. And I haven’t a guess whether what had taken him two days to figure out had to do with the lodging of Salisbury’s men or had to do with him wanting me to handle him. I think St. Cyr must once have told him that he should ask whether such handling costs extra.”

“Did you charge him extra?” Magdalene asked, chuckling.

“You know, I didn’t.” Hertha shrugged. “You would think I was past any sympathy for a man, but he is so…innocent. And he was so clean and pleased with himself for remembering. Oh well, even a whore can be a fool now and again.”

“I am glad,” Magdalene said. “It is good to be a fool sometimes and give another pleasure. I will make it up to you so you do not regret it.” And she took two farthings from her purse and handed them to Hertha.

The whore looked at them, then slipped one through the slit in her skirt into her pocket and tucked the other into a fold of her girdle. “I will not refuse it,” she said, “for some day that farthing may be all that stands between me and starving. But I will keep it separate to remember—and pray I can afford to do so forever.”