Bone of Contention (22 page)

The answer, with twisted lips and lifted brows, came without the slightest hesitation. “Buy her a present.”

“Ah, but this lady doesn’t want money from me and I am not rich enough to buy her such a jewel…” He grimaced. “No. That would make things worse.”

Suddenly Diccon smiled. “She’s a one, that Mistress Magdalene. Never seen her kind before. Even Florete thinks she walks on water.”

Bell laughed. “I wouldn’t say that. She has her faults. But I do need to make amends.”

“For what?”

Bell scowled. “Jealousy.”

The boy was silent, then shook his head. “Most of ‘em don’t get mad for that. Think it’s a compliment, most do. If she don’t—” he hesitated, then shrugged “—show you didn’t mean it?”

That was more a question than a statement, but Bell thought the boy had hit the right idea. He could go back and say he was sorry. No, he could not. He might meet Ypres and…and he did not know how he would react. Besides, he had said he was sorry too often already and apology grew stale if it brought no amendment.

What a fool he was to beat a dead horse. Magdalene had been a whore for much longer than he had known her. Little as he liked it, she could never undo that past—and had told him again and again that she would not if she could, that he must take her as she was or leave her. Bell sighed. Since he could not leave her…he must show her the flash of jealousy was meaningless. Somehow he must show that he would endure Ypres, even welcome—

“Did you want me for something?” Diccon asked sharply, interrupting Bell’s thoughts. “I’m getting tired and it’s nearly time for the evening meal.” Now there was a distinct whine in the child’s voice. “If I’m not there, no one will leave anything for me.”

“Evening meal!” Bell repeated, and smote himself gently on the head. “I was supposed to buy an evening meal for Magdalene and send you back with it. Don’t worry, there will be plenty and Magdalene won’t stint you.”

He had to turn back to reach the cookshop across from Master Redding’s mercery because he had passed it. That was all to the good. By the time he walked up to the counter, the three ideas had come together. The boy needed to eat. William of Ypres—if he came—would probably arrive in time for the evening meal. He had said to Diccon there would be plenty. Bell nodded to himself. If he sent food enough for three or four, Magdalene would very well understand that he was inviting Ypres to dine with them or, in other words, telling her he understood that Ypres must be made welcome.

Bell grinned as he ordered a dozen slices of roast pork, a fat roast chicken, a meat pasty, a dozen ladlefuls of stew, boiled greens, and sweet pudding. The whole cost less than a night in Magdalene’s bed…not that he had ever paid her. A feeling of warmth suffused him as he felt in his purse for the coins to give the cookshop owner. He had just realized that he was the
only
man who did not pay her. Even William of Ypres paid, and a good round sum, too, for his comfort and his men’s, and the men never touched Magdalene.

His grin had probably broadened to an expression of total idiocy when he caught a look at the cook’s face. The anger in it made his hand drop to his knife hilt, and then the cook asked what he was going to carry the food in.

“Stew kind of runs through the fingers,” he said caustically. “Why are you wasting my time?”

“Good Lord,” Bell muttered and then laughed and explained that he had been so angry when he left to buy the food that he had forgotten containers.

As soon as he offered to pay a farthing for the loan of what was necessary until the boy could bring everything to the Soft Nest, the cook was all smiles. Mention of the whorehouse seemed to seal the bargain.

When he had paid and seen Diccon start off for the Soft Nest, Bell himself walked north along the road until he came to The Broached Barrel. The landlord remembered him as the bishop of Winchester’s knight who had been asking questions about the slain man the previous day. He looked apprehensive until Bell assured him he only wanted to know where the body had been taken and who, if anyone, was investigating the death.

The landlord grimaced and said the Watch had taken the body but he didn’t know where—and didn’t care. Then he admitted that the sheriff’s deputy had come to inquire about the killing but had not stayed long.

“Did he look out back?” Bell asked, blandly curious.

“Don’t know. Think I want to be accused of spying on the sheriff’s man? Kept on about my own business, didn’t I?”

The voice was sullen, the words possibly a warning, but Bell did not allow his expression to change, “Right, but in a way this is my business. Still, there’s no reason for you to be troubled about it. Where do I find the sheriff or his deputy?”

For a moment Bell thought he would receive no answer, but, even as he turned away, the landlord said that the town Watch was managed from one of the buildings in St. Martin’s churchyard west of the Carfax, and the sheriff had an office there too. Bell sighed and retraced his steps through the Cornmarket and then west on the road that went to the castle.

St. Martin’s was on the right not more than a hundred paces from the meeting of the roads. It was an imposing church, set well back from the road and divided from it by a large, bustling churchyard in which there were, as the landlord had implied, several buildings. The closest to the gate, built right against the wall, was long and low. It looked like a barracks.

Bell’s guess was confirmed when several armed men passed him and went inside. He assumed it was a place where the sheriff’s men and the Watch were housed when on duty or mustered if they were needed on special call. He walked to the door, only to be stopped by a guard, but not before he noticed that the single room inside, which ran the full length and width of the building, held a large group of men clustered together. There was an aura of tense excitement about the men, who seemed to be listening to orders from a leader in the center of the group.

Bell asked for the captain of the Watch and the guard shook his head. “Busy, sir,” he said. “Don’t think—”

At that moment men began to come out of the building, forcing Bell and the guard apart. Bell scanned the group and stepped into the path of the last man to emerge.

“Captain,” he said. “I have one very short question. Can you tell me where the Watch took the body of the man who was slain behind The Broached Barrel the day before yesterday?”

The captain waved toward the church. “St. Martin’s. They’ve a chapel for the dead.”

He took in Bell’s clothing, the war belt ornamented with gold wire, the long knight’s sword, the gem in the pommel of his shorter knife, and added politely that the sheriff was looking into the killing. Bell then asked where he could find the sheriff. The captain told him briskly that the sheriff’s house was about midway between the barracks and the church, but that the sheriff was not there.

“He’s rid out toward Lechlade,” he said. “And taken most of his men with him.” He took another long look at Bell, grinned, and said in a low, confidential voice, “Had word yesterday that the bishop of Salisbury’s left Malmsbury. He should be here tomorrow.”

Bell’s eyes widened and then he grinned back. “I am happy to say I had no wagers on the bishop’s decision, but thank you for giving me warning.” While he spoke, his fingers had found his purse and he put a silver penny into the Watch captain’s hand.

The man nodded his thanks, but his mouth twisted. “My men’ve got to clear out the house right opposite the castle. Salisbury paid for the place, but when he didn’t show up the landlord got greedy and took other lodgers. Now they’ve got to go. The sheriff’s out doing the polite, and like always, we get the dirty work.”

“Sorry for your trouble,” Bell said. “Believe me, I understand. My lord owns property in Southwark and I get to evict the ones who don’t keep up their rents.”

The captain found a rueful smile for a fellow sufferer. “It’s really not a bad place, Oxford. Quiet enough, except for the students, and the trouble they make is mostly mischief, drunkenness. Not real fighters, they aren’t. A couple of taps with the cudgel quiets them down.”

Bell laughed. “Not too quiet these last few weeks with the king here.”

He got a shrug and a laugh in answer to that. “Not our kettle of fish. The sheriff told us not to try to manage the men-at-arms. He knows my men ain’t fit for that. Let their own captains do it, the sheriff said, and there hasn’t been much trouble…” His expression changed. “Only that one killed the other day.”

“Did your people find him?”

“Not mine, thank God,” the captain said. “That would have been Wessel’s men. He’s on street duty now. If you want him, he should be back here to report to the sheriff—” he pointed, and now that the men were out of the way Bell could see a small but well-built house backed against the wall of the church “—at Vespers.”

“Will the deputy be there now?” Bell asked.

“Should be.” The captain shrugged. “But he’s a gentleman and don’t need to show his face according to the hour.”

Bell made no reply to that, merely lifting a hand in farewell. He walked away uncertain of whether he wanted to see the body first or talk to the sheriff’s deputy A faint taint of foulness in the air, perhaps from some merchant’s midden, reminded him of what the body would be like after two days at the end of June. He turned toward the sheriff’s office.

The door was open, and he could see several men, one sat behind a good, solid table, the others on benches along the wall, talking idly or working over leather or weapons. Bell walked up to the table.

Having asked if he addressed the sheriff’s deputy and received a brusque nod in return, Bell continued, “My name is Sir Bellamy of Itchen, and I am looking into the murder of the man called Aimery St. Cyr. His body was found behind The Broached Barrel yesterday morning.”

Bell had not claimed authority as the bishop of Winchester’s officer. He thought it unwise to associate himself with any bishop at the moment and be did not want to involve his master, or imply that Winchester had any interest at all in the proceedings in Oxford.

“Looking into it? Why?”

The man behind the table looked at him almost blankly for a moment. He was portly and heavy-featured, dressed in a sober brown tunic. His shirt, decently white but not as bright as Bell’s—for which Bell paid extra to his laundress—was open at the throat. His voice was flat, neither aggressive nor inviting, but his eyes, glinting past half-closed lids, were surprisingly bright.

“Mostly because I am a friend of Niall Arvagh’s.”

That got a reaction. The deputy sat up straight and began to push back his stool. “Where the hell is he?”

“At Noke, where he has been with twenty witnesses, including the priest who will swear he was in their sight since Sext on Wednesday except for the time it took to piss and shit. He is not the man you want for the crime.”

The sheriff’s deputy relaxed back into his seat and sighed. “I should have known it would not be so easy, especially when that looby was so sure.” Then his eyes opened all the way and he stared hard at Bell. “You did say you were looking into the killing, not that you came to provide vindication for Arvagh. If your friend is free and clear as you say, why do you care who killed St. Cyr?”

“Because the accusation was made and Niall Arvagh will never be clear until the true killer is found.”

“Why should he care? He will leave here with William of Ypres—”

“No,” Bell interrupted, then temporized. “He may well go with Ypres, but he will be marrying Loveday of Otmoor soon and thus be often in Oxford.” Having said that truth, Bell cleared his throat. He felt his color rise, but went on doggedly. “He has been betrothed to Loveday for a long time, but she was very young and in the king’s ward while he was rising among Ypres’ men. It seemed reasonable to wait.”

The deputy was sitting more upright again. His face, enlivened with interest, did not seem so heavy-featured. “If she was already betrothed, how come St. Cyr thought he could marry her?”

Bell shrugged and cleared his throat again, he hated to lie. “Niall has no idea about that. It is true that no big ceremony was made of their betrothal. His sister had aforetime been married to Loveday’s brother, but they both died. The fathers still wished to bind the families, but this rebonding brought back too many sad memories for a large or joyous celebration.”

After a moment to think that over, the deputy shook his head. “Well, if Arvagh did not do it, I cannot see how you will find the true killer. St. Cyr could have been killed by anyone.”

“That is why I want to see St. Cyr’s body. It may well tell me some interesting things.”

The deputy drew back a little, his eyes averted. “You are going to…to ask the corpse to speak? To name his murderer?”

Bell laughed. “No, of course not. I am not a witch, an idiot, or a fanatic. But if I look at the wound, I will know what kind of knife was used, mayhap how hard the blow was.” He shrugged. “Who knows what I may learn? Was he robbed? Was any blow struck other than the stab wound?”

“Do you know how that body will smell?”

Bell sighed. “I have been a soldier for fifteen years and have been on more than one battlefield. I do, indeed, know and do not look forward to it. All I can say is that I am glad I have not eaten.” He sighed again. “Where is it? The quicker there the quicker done.”

“You really mean to do it? To find the killer?”

Bell lifted his brows. “I suppose once Niall was proven innocent, the sheriff would have preferred to forget about the murder. St. Cyr was only a common man-at-arms. And Niall, although a knight, was scarcely important enough for the sheriff to worry about his reputation.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But he won’t be let forget it, it seems. Here you are nosing around, and that lunatic Manville d’Arras was in again this morning asking whether we had yet taken Arvagh.” He gestured with his head toward the men on the benches. “Peter and William told me that Arras had been in the alehouses, crying that the sheriff wouldn’t seek his friend’s killer.” The deputy stood up. “My name is Sir Rolf de Dowch. I will take you to the body. I am interested in what you think it can tell you.”