Bone of Contention

Carl Butcherson quietly followed after the maidservant he had been futtering toward the small, grassy clearing where her mistress was waiting for her. The maid was a tasty piece, but he had an appetite for sweeter, softer flesh. If he could catch the maid’s mistress in the indiscretion the maid had confessed to him, the mistress might well spread her legs for him to keep her secret. If she coupled with one, why not with two?

He heard his doxy cry out in surprise or pain and wriggled quickly to where he could see. He expected to get a fillip of pleasure
from seeing the girl beaten because he had made her late, but what he did see made his breath catch in his throat. Him! He had seized the maid and was holding her with her back to him. And he saw what was at the maid’s feet.

Carl would have torn himself free of the bushes to run away, but he was paralyzed with fear and so he saw the man’s hand rise and plunge down, saw a long knife, dripping red, emerge from the maidservant’s throat, saw the blood fountain down her breast, saw the man push the girl so she fell forward…next to the other body, the body so battered about the head that he would not have known her, except for her fine gown. Carl choked back a cry of terror and began to squirm backward, out of the ring of brush. As he freed himself, the killer turned his head.

Carl leapt to his feet and ran, and ran, and ran until he could run no more. Then he found a place to hide and he lay still, first shivering with fear but when he realized no one was following or searching for him and his terror eased, thinking. He lay hidden all night, and did not return home. The next day he ran again, right out of Culham. He had a friend in Sutton who could teach him how to defend himself.

A shadow shifted in the niche in the attic that funneled sound from the comfortable solar below. The man crouching there had discovered by accident that a strange quirk of the construction or some crack that formed in the settling of the building produced the effect. Two feet away one could not hear a thing, but just here everything his master said in his private solar could be heard, clear as a church bell.

The shadow in the niche had almost forgotten that he had once been Carl Butcherson—until the voice of the man who had unintentionally given him his new life reminded him, reminded him of everything. He breathed in deeply but silently. How fortunate that the man should come to his attention here, not far from the manor where a local but powerful baron likely still mourned a murdered daughter and sought her killer.

No greater impulse moved Carl to betray the murderer now than he had felt when he saw the maid stabbed and her mistress lying dead. He only felt that he finally had a desire important enough to extort a favor from the killer. Also, he thought, smiling grimly, he was no longer a terrified, simple butcher’s son, he was a practiced man-at-arms, who had no need to fear the killer’s strength.

He crouched still as death, hardly breathing, while civilities were exchanged between his master and the murderer. Those civilities told him where the man now lodged and to whom he was sworn. He could find him when he needed him. Now he had a tool that would deliver to him the rich orphan his master and the king’s clerk had been talking about a few days ago.

Carl was growing uncomfortable and would have left then, but the men were too close to the opening that carried the sound. Perforce, he heard his master say, “We know that treason is intended, but it is too dangerous to wait until there is proof of that. We must find a cause to strip them of their power before they act.”

The murderer then made a suggestion and his master laughed. “It is certainly worth a try,” his master said. “If it happens early enough it will be an irritation, even if it does not succeed—and we will have time enough to try again.”

“Oh, it will succeed, my lord,” the killer said, “if you will suggest to the king’s steward that the lodging provided for his retainers be inadequate and uncomfortable…and very near some foreign lord who has more space than he needs.” There was a sly suggestiveness in the voice.

“I do not…” his master began uncertainly and then burst out laughing. Carl heard the scritch of a chair’s legs against the floor and then his master’s voice fading as he moved away. “But I do! I do know the perfect ‘victim’ to be abused.”

Carl Butcherson listened idly, learning the name of the lord whose men were to be used. However, as soon as he realized that the plans would not involve his master’s troops and so were irrelevant to him, he lost interest. It was more important to escape from his profitable oubliette before someone heard him. He had all the information he needed.

The thin, dark man in correct, if unusually sumptuous, priestly garments, nodded briskly at the whoremistress of the Old Priory Guesthouse when she opened the gate for him. Magdalene la Bâtarde, who had taken in his expression in one swift, practiced glance, opened her mouth to tell him he had mistaken his direction. Neither dissipation nor guilt marked his fine-featured face. In Magdalene’s extensive experience, a priest who entered her premises was bound to show one or the other. What stopped her tongue was his indifference to her appearance, which implied he had seen her before, and the confident way he led his horse past her. In addition she had a vague feeling that she knew him.

Then, as he walked the horse toward the stable, momentarily a silhouette against the low rays of the evening sun, she remembered. This was one of William of Ypres’s clerks and the reason for his guilt-free, easy manner was surely that he had not come to sample her wares but on business. Business. Magdalene frowned, but she did not follow the priest to the stable. If the business concerned her, she would soon know, if it did not, it would be wise not to display any curiosity about William’s affairs.

Magdalene left her visitor to care for his own horse—a custom of her house that ensured the privacy of her clients—and returned to the common chamber, leaving the front door invitingly open. She glanced around swiftly to be sure that no client had left any telltale item, but the large table on the right-hand side of the room was clean and empty as were the two short benches that flanked the head and foot and the two longer ones that provided seating on the sides.

The shelves that were built onto the walls to either side of the open door to the corridor that led through the house carried only their usual array of dishes, cups, and flagons. To the left, the four stools arranged comfortably around the hearth were also empty, the workbaskets beside them tidily closed. The only work visible was the piece on Magdalene’s own embroidery frame, her lips twitched. The altar cloth she was embroidering with a variety of religious symbols should be soothing to her guest.

She was considering whether to seat herself before her embroidery frame, which would draw attention to the altar cloth, or at the table when a footstep behind her relieved her of needing to make the decision.

“Mistress Magdalene,” the priest said, as she turned to face him, “we have met before, but it was briefly and you might not remember.”

“I never remember the name or face of any man who has been in my house,” Magdalene said, her expression blank. “Neither do my women. It is a rule of my business.”

The priest laughed. “We will need to abrogate that rule for a few weeks, at least with regard to me—but since I am not a client perhaps the rule would not be broken anyway. My name is Father Etienne de Dreux and I come as a messenger from Lord William of Ypres.”

Magdalene nodded and gestured toward the table. She and the priest seated themselves at right angles. “Lord William is a most charitable man,” she said. “He has tried from time to time to alter my condition for the better.”

Father Etienne’s dark eyes widened a bit. “I do not believe I have ever heard quite as ambiguous a remark. I know that every word is true, but I doubt anyone less familiar with your situation would learn any truth from them. Still, I am glad to hear you acknowledge the debt. Lord William needs your service. He wishes you to come to Oxford as soon as possible.”

Needs your service.
The words cast Magdalene back in time. Now her name was Magdalene la Bâtarde and she was a whoremistress. But once she had been Arabel de St. Foix, a lady…not a great lady but the mistress of her own manor house and outlying farms. Her husband, long dead of a sharp (as in a well-honed knife) disagreement between them, had been while he was alive a sworn liegeman to a vassal of old King Henry. That king had brooked no disobedience from his men, and when he demanded their service, swift retribution fell on those who failed to answer his summons promptly.

Although King Henry was dead and buried, and it was much easier to flout King Stephen’s will, Magdalene had been well schooled in the response of a vassal to his overlord. It was her duty to obey William. Of course, Magdalene thought, William of Ypres would likely have had a fit laughing if he guessed how Magdalene regarded their relationship…but he might not, William had a surprisingly penetrating mind. And even if he had laughed to think of the whoremistress, who occasionally served him sexually, as vassal to his overlord, he would be quick enough to take advantage of her fancy.

Magdalene’s eyes were fixed on the well-dressed cleric who sat across the table from her, but she was seeing William of Ypres instead of his minion. William looked, and frequently acted, like a coarse brute. His face was blunt and broad with small blue eyes that blinked frequently. It had none of the distinction of Father Etienne’s fine, thin features, nor did William have the priest’s neat black moustache, which grew into a well-trimmed beard that surrounded his mouth and covered his chin, leaving his cheeks bare.

That elegant beard would look ludicrous on William. He was clean-shaven—more or less, since he did not shave often enough so that his checks and chin were usually covered with an untidy stubble. Actually the unshaven stubble suited him as did the tousled disorder of his mud-brown hair. It was liberally streaked with gray now… Magdalene blinked and drew a little broken breath as her heart contracted. He was aging, her William.

“I do acknowledge my debt to Lord William,” she said hastily, “and if he needs me in Oxford, I will come.”

“That is excellent,” Father Etienne said with considerable relief.

The relief was a clear warning to Magdalene. It told her there was nothing casual about William’s message, she guessed Father Etienne had been told to get her to Oxford in any way that was necessary. Magdalene knew that William’s coarse brute manner was a deliberate screen behind which he concealed himself—not that he was not coarse and brutal, but he was much more. He was brave and steadfast, too, and, more significant, his wit was far sharper than the sword he wielded as leader of the king’s mercenaries—and he kept that sword honed to a fine edge because he used it often. If William said he needed her, she must come; on the other hand William would use anyone without regard to any convenience but his own, even those of whom he was fond. So, if there was no dire, immediate emergency a delay would be useful.

“But what does ‘as soon as possible’ mean?” Magdalene asked the priest. “Must I start for Oxford this afternoon? I have a business—”

“Yes, yes. Lord William is aware and wishes no harm to come to your business. He said—” the priest looked a little surprised but repeated carefully “—that your business had served his purposes from time to time. He is also aware that your women are not fit to operate on their own. He said something about the blind, the mute, and the simple.” Father Etienne cocked his head inquiringly.

Touched because William had thought of her need, Magdalene smiled. “He meant that to ease my clients I have chosen women who, they believe, could not identify them. Letice is mute. Ella has no ability to remember. And Sabina is blind. However, Sabina is now married and no longer works for me.”

Father Etienne’s eyes had widened again at the list of the whores’ infirmities, but he did not seem to notice Magdalene’s remark that her clients
believed
the whores could not identify them. He merely nodded, displaying a mild satisfaction as he said, “Ah, now I understand my role better. Lord William desires me to oversee your household to make sure the clients pay what they should and do not mistreat your women in your absence.”

For a moment Magdalene felt as if her heart had stopped and she had to struggle to keep her face bland and expressionless. Considered her need? If William had sent a priest to greet her clients, he had, for some reason she could not even guess at, determined to destroy her. Or had he merely lost patience with her insistence on protecting her clients’ privacy? Did he intend Father Etienne to record the names and businesses of those who used her house? Magdalene swallowed the bile of fear that had risen in her throat.