A Mortal Bane (31 page)

“Except for the murderer,” Magdalene said. “He would have known.”

“Even so, even if the murderer sent a messenger at once, or the messenger was sent from Montfichet, there still would not be time enough for the messenger to get to Nottingham and this man to have come here.”

“Yes there would,” Magdalene said, “if the messenger had stopping places where he could change horses. William has arrangements like that.”

“I suppose if he changed horses—two and a half or three days. Yes, that could be done. But why go to such effort? Could we have been mistaken? Could there have been something more important in the pouch than the confirmation of Stephen’s right and possibly the bull of legatine power?”

“I have no idea.” Magdalene shivered. “I do not even want to know.”

“And what are we to do with him? You cannot simply toss him out into the street. If he is Waleran’s man, he will come back with friends and burn you out…or worse. I could kill him, I suppose, but….”

“Oh, no, that is no problem at all. I am going to take him to William.”

There was some argument about that, but it did not last long since Bell’s objection was really only that he did not like the contact between Magdalene and Ypres. Magdalene’s arguments were a good deal more cogent. William was best suited for extracting whatever information the man carried and disposing of him, whether back to his master or into oblivion. Nor would the fact that Magdalene had brought him to William betray any information to others. It was well known that William was her protector and natural that he should settle with any troublemakers in her house.

Having accepted her arguments, albeit ungraciously, Bell said he would get a cart to carry the man. To transport a man tied to the saddle of a destrier would draw too much notice, he said over his shoulder as he mounted his own horse, which he had left saddled.

While he was gone, Magdalene managed to saddle the unconscious man’s destrier—with a peace offering of a rather dried and wrinkled apple. She and Ella were struggling to raise the rolled hauberk to the back of the saddle when Bell came back, divested of his armor and wearing a nondescript padded-leather jerkin over a heavy shirt.

He made nothing of lifting the armor, fastening the straps to hold the rolled mail while Magdalene ran back into the house to get the man’s sword and scabbard, which she had almost forgotten, and check for anything else left behind. There was only a cloak, fallen behind a stool onto the floor when the women got his clothing. She snatched her own cloak and veil as well and ran back.

When she returned, Bell had pulled the blanket off the man and hoisted the unresisting body to his shoulder. Magdalene hurried over and threw the cloak across the limp form, lifting the hood to conceal the blindfold and gag and picking up the blanket.

As she seized the horse’s reins with the clear intention of following, Bell protested, but she only said sharply that he should not be a fool. She was his pass to William’s presence, which was not easy of access to just anyone.

Angrily, Bell tumbled the body into the waiting cart and tossed the blanket, which Magdalene handed him, over the man, who uttered a loud groan. Magdalene sighed with relief; she had been afraid he had been stunned too thoroughly. Bell turned, took the horse’s rein from her, and tied it to the end of the cart.

Bell glared at her as he mounted to the bench but said nothing the curious mercer and grocer from across the street, who were both out serving customers, should not hear. Then, grudgingly, he gave Magdalene a hand up. When she was settled, he clicked to the sturdy mule and the cart moved forward. A thump came from the back of the cart. Magdalene jumped. Bell only looked over his shoulder to make sure that the back of the cart was well fastened.

When they got onto the bridge, however, he turned his head and shouted, “You lie quiet under that blanket or I will take a strap to both of you. Only reason I didn’t take the hide off you yet was that your mother wouldn’t let me.”

With the sun near setting, the bridge was quieter than usual and Bell’s voice carried. A few of the merchants and their customers looked around, saw the good cart and handsome mule, the decently dressed man and carefully veiled woman, and laughed, imagining the mischief a pair of naughty children could get into. Magdalene leaned closer to him and spoke in a low voice as if pleading the children’s cause, but actually she was telling him to turn right on Thames Street, that William was lodging within the walls of the Tower of London.

At the gate of the inner bailey of the Tower, Magdalene gave her name, said she had a delivery for William of Ypres, and asked for Somer de Loo. After a coin had exchanged hands, a messenger was sent and eventually Somer de Loo arrived. He looked at the heaving, mumbling blanket, at Bell, then at Magdalene, and insisted she take off her veil, his hand on his sword hilt. However, once he had made sure it was indeed she, he gestured for them to drive in.

“What the devil are you doing here, Magdalene?” he asked when they were clear of the gate. “What delivery? And who the devil is this?”

“This gentleman is the Bishop of Winchester’s knight, Sir Bellamy of Itchen,” she said, “and he was kind enough to help me when the man in the cart hit Sabina and threatened to disfigure me.”

Somer frowned up at her as the cart trundled across the bailey, not toward the great bulk of the White Tower itself, but toward the king’s palace, around which were grouped several houses that were occupied by the great nobles when the king held court in London. They headed toward the last of those, one closest to the entrance to one of the wall towers, servants and retainers on various duties or on their own business making way as they passed.

“Why bring him to us?” Somer asked irritably. “Surely—”

“If you will forgive me, I had rather tell the tale once, and where there are fewer ears to hear it.”

“That way, is it?” Somer said, eyes narrowing. “William said if you came without his summons, it would be trouble.” He moved to the side of the cart to help Magdalene down and gestured toward the guard at the door. “It’s all right. The lord wants to see her,” he said and then told Magdalene, “The stair is just within, against the side of the building. Go up. He’s waiting for you.”

Magdalene shielded her face again, but she was uneasy about whether Somer and Bell would rub each other wrong and hesitated by the door. However, it was not Somer who raised Bell’s hackles, and Magdalene soon entered the building. The hall was rather overfull of armed men, but only one or two glanced at her and, seeing a woman, looked away. Nonetheless, she was glad to get up the stair. The door was open, but she called from the landing.

“Come in, chick,” William said.

He was wearing worn leathers under a sumptuous surcoat. Worried as she was, Magdalene could not help smiling. It was typical of William to dress for safety—the leather over a light gambeson would turn a knife and even protect against all but the most direct and violent sword blow—and at the same time dress for show, because the surcoat could be pulled together to impress an important visitor. He seemed to be lounging at ease in a large chair with arms as well as a back, positioned comfortably near a stone hearth in the middle of the room, but his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

Magdalene went forward quickly, unwinding her veil and draping it loosely over her shoulders. “I am sorry to bring trouble to you,” she said, coming close to the chair as he beckoned.

He gripped her around the waist and pulled her down so he could kiss her. “What else does anyone ever bring me?” he asked and laughed. “At least you are pretty to look at.”

But he let her go quickly and stood up when the sound of heavy footsteps and heavy breathing came up the stairwell. Bell and Somer struggled into the room and to within a couple of arm’s lengths of William before they deposited their burden on his bound feet. Somer continued to steady the man, who had been writhing as they carried him across the floor but seemed to realize that resistance was futile when they set him on his feet, and Bell pulled down the hood of the cloak and removed first the blindfold and then the gag.

“Raoul de Samur!” Somer exclaimed.

“You know him?” William asked.

“We are acquainted,” Somer replied. “He was friendly with Henry of Essex and Camville and a few others in the king’s Household, but I do not think he had any appointment.”

“The king’s Household?” Bell echoed. ‘Then why does he carry a cinquefoil badge on a red-and-white ribbon in his purse? The king’s badge is a lion with blue and gold.”

William of Ypres’s eyes went to Bell, and Magdalene said quickly, “Sir Bellamy of Itchen, the Bishop of Winchester’s knight. I sent for him when I realized this man, Sir Raoul, if Somer says so—intended to force his way into my house will I, nil I. Sir Bellamy lodges near the bishop’s house, just around the street from us, so Dulcie could reach him quickly. You were too far away.”

William had started to look offended when she said she had sent for Bell, but as she well knew, he did not really care deeply enough to reject a reasonable explanation. He nodded brusquely, but his attention was still on the man his occasional bedmate favored. Bell had now met Ypres’s eyes. Magdalene held her breath and, at the same time had to fight against an impulse to giggle. Their expressions reminded her vividly of two dogs, bristles up, circling. But it was not in the least funny, really.

Then Bell bowed his head abruptly in a stiff sign of respect. “My master has ordered me to do what I can to discover the murderer of Baldassare de Firenze, who was my friend and his, and to find the pouch he carried.”

“Most reasonable,” William said. “I would be happy to help in any way I could, but I do not see what that has to do with Beaufort’s man. And which Beaufort?”

“Why do you not ask me?” Sir Raoul put in.

All attention switched to the prisoner. “Very well,” William said, “I will ask you. Who is your master and how did you come to know of the papal messenger’s death and the loss of his pouch?”

“Very simply by visiting a friend I happen to have in the Bishop of Winchester’s Household. I know him from times when the bishop and the king were on better terms, and—”

“Beg pardon, my lord,” Bell interrupted. “That may be true, but if this man is carrying Beaufort’s badge, he is no longer with the king’s Household.”

“Which is why I was carrying, not wearing, my badge,” Sir Raoul snapped. “My liking for my friend has nothing to do with our masters and I wished to save him from just such suspicion as I see in you.”

“That is possible,” William said mildly. “So who is this friend who is a churchman of such pure spirit that he takes no sides between his own master and an avowed enemy, who gossips about important Church business to a most unclerkly friend, and then recommends that friend to the most expensive whorehouse in England?”

They could all see the struggle in Sir Raoul’s face, but then, knowing he would tell one way or another and that his “friend” was already compromised because, no doubt, the bishop would winnow his Household to find who had a “friend” in the Beaufort Household, he shrugged and said, “Guiscard de Tournai.”

Bell made a wordless sound, expelled from him by a mixture of outrage—but, he realized even as he felt it, not surprise—and enlightenment. He had always been a little puzzled by the richness of Guiscard’s dress and the luxury of his lodgings, although butchers and physicians could become rich and might indulge a child; still, the answer had left him unsatisfied because Guiscard did not have that indifferent acceptance of wealth that a man born to it has. Now he understood. No doubt Waleran de Meulan paid well for information about the plans and activities of the Bishop of Winchester.

William flashed a glance at him, but plainly felt no impulse to discover what revelation Bell had had. He returned his attention to Raoul de Samur and asked, “And which Beaufort condones a friendship with his enemies?”

“The Bishop of Winchester is no enemy to Beaufort. Did he not arrange for Hugh le Poer to obtain Bedford—”

“This man did not come from Hugh le Poer, who is here in London, in the Tower of Montfichet,” Magdalene said. “He has ridden a long way. Look at his clothing, William. And his horse was exhausted when he came to my gate, covered with dust and mud.”

“Likely from Nottingham,” William agreed. “It would be an easy transfer from king’s hanger-on to Waleran’s Household.”

“I never denied that,” Sir Raoul said quickly, although his eyes, fixed on Magdalene for a moment, said “bitch and whore” before he added with some bravado, “No reason why I should deny that I am Lord Waleran’s man. No matter what you think, I had some personal business and got leave to come to London. You know it is a four-day ride from Nottingham. There is no way I could have known about the papal messenger when I started out. Curse me if I ever again do more than I am asked to do, but when I heard of the pouch, I just thought that if I could find it, my lord would be pleased.”

There was enough sincerity in the last sentence to carry conviction to his listeners. William shrugged.

“Well, it should be easy enough to discover when you started, and in the meantime, you will have to remain a few days as my guest.”

Sir Raoul paled visibly. William smiled.

“But, of course, if you make pleasant conversation—and do not in the future make trouble for Magdalene, her house, or any of her women—there is no reason for Lord Waleran to know what kept you. Searching for the messenger’s pouch according to suggestions made by your ‘friend’ and the women of the whorehouse could take some time. It might be dangerous—or it might be profitable.” He smiled again and turned his head to look at Somer de Loo. “You can cut his feet free and put him in my bedchamber. Find him something to eat and a pallet to sleep on—and put a chain around his neck. I will speak to him when I have time.”

When the door was closed behind Somer and his prisoner, Magdalene said, “Be careful, William. That man has no more sense of honor than a snake.”

He laughed heartily. “I am always careful, which is why I am still alive.” Then the laughter was gone. “I made one real mistake in my life—and I am still paying for it—but I have been very careful since then.” He suddenly shook himself, as a dog does to shed water, smiled, and looked at Bell. “So you are Winchester’s ferret.”