Bone of Contention (13 page)

Bell was getting up when Magdalene put the sheets of parchment back on the table. He said he would go out and get dinner for the three of them. Magdalene suggested that he take Diccon along and buy an extra dinner, pointing out that the boy was a fount of information and could probably tell him which alehouses were frequented by which lord’s meiny. When he had gone out, she turned to Loveday and smiled.

“If I did not know better, I would have believed you,” she said. “Now we only need to tell Niall that he has been betrothed for at least four years and arrange that he have time enough to ride over to Murcot and tell his father.”

They talked over the possibility of going to Noke themselves, possibly with Bell’s escort, but Loveday was afraid that they would run afoul of St. Cyr with a whole troop. And the moment Loveday said it, Magdalene had a vision of Bell trying to fight a whole troop and lost her enthusiasm for leaving the city.

By the time Bell returned, they had settled on seeing if St. Friedesweide had any parchment to sell or would tell them where to go to buy some—more than two sheets, because copies were needed. When Magdalene had kept a house in Oxford, the archdeacon who taught her to read and write had provided parchment, which cost him nothing.

Bell kept Diccon so busy talking that the boy had hardly time to eat his meal and no time at all to learn anything about Loveday except what Magdalene wanted him to know. He was told that her name was Maeve, that she was not a whore but, for private reasons of her own, had agreed to go with Magdalene to the Old Priory Guesthouse in Southwark. There she would be broached and relieved of her virginity by one particular man, who had paid well for the privilege.

Diccon accepted that without question or further interest. He was aware that to some men the broaching of a virgin was especially exciting and that they would pay well above the cost for an ordinary futtering; he was also aware that the same “virgin” might be broached several times and that the later “broachings” were often more ceremonious and costly than the first. In any case it had nothing to do with him and he concentrated on answering the questions of Mistress Magdalene’s man, who promised to be a most excellent source of meals and money in exchange for information.

When the boy had been drained dry and they had all finished eating, Magdalene and Loveday veiled themselves and they all went out. The monks of St. Friedesweide had no parchment to sell, but the sacristan sent them to the archivist, who was able to tell them about a leatherworker by St. Michael’s Church near the North Gate who often had small quantities of parchment for sale.

On coming out of St. Friedesweide, Magdalene and Loveday shed their veils. Nothing marked Magdalene as a whore, so Loveday did not need to hide her acquaintance with her and Loveday almost wished they would encounter St. Cyr. He would not dare try to seize her on a street in town, and if he did…there was something about Bell that implied Aimery would have even less luck with him than he had had with Niall.

For Magdalene the same reason applied for not needing to keep her presence from contaminating Loveday. For herself, in the company of another woman and a strong, armed man, it was unlikely that anyone would accost her. However, Bell only accompanied them along the Cornmarket to the first crossroad on the right, which some called Market Street, where he entered an alehouse called The Broached Barrel.

“I will be back when I am back,” he said to Magdalene.

“Any time will do,” she replied, “a whorehouse is always open. Just don’t get so drunk that you spew.”

He laughed and strode through the door. Magdalene and Loveday continued on to St. Michael’s Church by the North Gate. Nestled close to the church wall was the leatherworker’s shop recommended by the archivist. The master came forward bowing and smiling, prepared to offer worked leather for shoes or pouches, belts or gloves, but his eyes opened in surprise when Magdalene asked to see what parchment he had in stock.

To avoid a long argument about women having no need for parchment, Magdalene told him it was a gift for her brother. The doubt smoothed away from the merchant’s face and he brought out several boxes filled with sheets of differing quality. He was disturbed again when Loveday and Magdalene discussed the stock too knowledgeably, sometimes freely disagreeing when he suggested this or that. However, as soon as he saw the glint of their silver, he grew most accommodating and their needs were rolled and tied and dropped into Magdalene’s basket.

Idly, now, they strolled along in the market, looking at this and at that and talking comfortably. For all that Magdalene was almost ten years older than Loveday, the younger woman’s years of experience in managing her estate and ruling a substantial number of servants lent her a true maturity. They passed another alehouse, The Wheat Sheaf, and two shops down found themselves in front of Perry Redding’s mercery. Both stopped to look at the ribbons and embroidery yarn, Magdalene indifferently, just to see if anything new had been added, Loveday with a newly heightened attention.

“Would that shade of blue or green suit Niall?” she asked. “That hair of his… I could never use red.”

“The green is closer to his eyes,” Magdalene said. “And you are right, of course, about avoiding red, but if you are going to make his tunics of blue or green, brown or amber ribbons for neck and sleeves and then embroidery in the blues and greens—”

“Loveday!” a young man shouted, rushing from the doorway of The Wheat Sheaf to seize Loveday’s arm.

“Let go of her, sir!” Magdalene snapped, her hand going to her knife hilt.

But even as her fingers closed around it she knew this was not Aimery St. Cyr nor any friend of his. Although he was a few finger widths taller than Loveday, this was a slender stripling with a wealth of tumbled curls—which could have been cleaner—large if somewhat bloodshot brown eyes, and a full, petulant mouth.

“Oh, Jules, do let go,” Loveday said in an exasperated voice. “You silly boy, you are bruising my arm.”

Magdalene relaxed her grip on her knife. It was quite apparent that Loveday knew the young man and had no fear of him.

“Where have you been?” he demanded, his voice high with excitement. “What happened to you? I heard the most horrible tale about some man claiming you were betrothed to him and trying to seize you. And your servants wouldn’t open the gate for me.”

“There would have been no point in letting you in,” Loveday said calmly, “since you were asking for me, no doubt, and I wasn’t there. The tale was true, but the betrothal agreement was a forgery. Nonetheless, when my brother-by-marriage—”

“What brother-by-marriage?” Jules shouted.

As Loveday began to remind the young man of her eldest brother’s marriage shortly before his death, Magdalene became aware of another man standing a few paces beyond Jules. He was staring at her and then glancing sidelong at Loveday. His mouth hung slightly open with surprise and indecision, and, with a sinking heart, Magdalene realized it was Lord Ormerod. She moved quickly to his side.

“She knows who and what I am,” Magdalene said. “The brother-by-marriage of whom she speaks is one of William of Ypres’ captains and it is he who placed her in my care to save her from being abducted and forced into marriage. He hopes to change his kinship to her from brother-by-marriage to husband so rumor of her whereabouts cannot hurt her.”

Ormerod frowned. “Husband? Another suitor? Jules says she is promised to him.”

Magdalene giggled. “By whom? From her manner to him, I would doubt that. Still, maybe you
should
tell him who I am and that Loveday is lodged in the Soft Nest with me. It would cool his ardour quickly enough.”

“I am not so sure of that,” Ormerod said, his lips twisting. “I suspect it is the lands Jules wants more than the lady. He was greatly overset at hearing of St. Cyr’s having a betrothal agreement and confided in me that he had been a little too free-spending because he had been sure of a marriage that would cover all his debts.”

“To you, too?” Magdalene asked.

Ormerod
made a dismissive gesture. “Very little. A few pounds from when he came to the Council at Westminster to be confirmed heir to his father’s estate. The old man died at the turn of the year. London is expensive. Jules ran short.”

Magdalene had a feeling that Jules’s debt to Lord Ormerod was a good deal higher than the few pounds Ormerod spoke of so lightly. She wondered whether, in fact, it was that debt that brought Ormerod to Oxford during the king’s Council and whether Ormerod’s purpose was to go before the king to lay a claim to this Jules’s lands to satisfy that debt.

“He has managed to ruin himself with surprising speed if the estate only came into his hands at the turn of the year,” Magdalene remarked.

“His father was the same kind.”

The sour voice in which Ormerod spoke made Magdalene wonder whether the debt was Jules’s or his father’s, but it was really none of her business. At that moment she was distracted by the young man crying out, “What? He dared insult you that way? Why did you not tell him that you were pledged to me, Jules of Osney—?

“Oh Jules,” Loveday sighed, “because it is not true. You have asked me to marry you, but you know that I have not accepted and I will not.”

“I should think I am a better choice than this Aimery St. Cyr.”

Loveday laughed. “A mowing ape would be better than him, but you must stop speaking of me as if I were promised to you, Jules. We were playmates as children but that time is long gone. Perhaps our fathers did think we might be suitable, but then my brother and his wife died and my father began to plan another arrangement—”

“I do not believe it! Why should he?”

Loveday’s voice sharpened. “Perhaps because he heard certain things about debts that he didn’t like. Perhaps because I protested that you and I were too much like brother and sister. I was not willing then and am not willing now.”

“Nonsense! Of course you are willing.” He watched her shake her head and saw her expression of pity, and went on, “Oh, I see, you are saying that because you fear for me. You need not, and you should send to me at once if that creature troubles you again. I will protect you.”

“Do not be a fool!” Loveday exclaimed even more sharply. “St. Cyr is a practiced man-at-arms. He would kill you. I have enough protectors. Stay away from St. Cyr, Jules.”

The young man’s face flushed dark red. “Do you think me such a popinjay? Well, you need not. I have friends—” his eyes flicked sideways toward Ormerod “—who are eager to see us married and will support me in keeping St. Cyr from having you.”

“Jules!” Loveday protested, but it was too late. The young man had rushed away from her back toward The Wheat Sheaf. She looked at Magdalene. “I hope he does not drink too much. He is of those who grow pot-valiant.”

Magdalene looked up at Ormerod, who sighed. “I will make sure he does nothing dangerous.” Then he grinned. “If anything happened to him and his estate went to the crown, I would never get my money back.”

The encounter with Jules of Osney having spoiled their taste for strolling slowly around the Cornmarket, Magdalene and Loveday returned to the Soft Nest. While Magdalene drew patterns for embroidery on the ribbons she had purchased the previous day, Loveday made two copies of her appeal to the king. One, she hoped, Lord William would present to the king, one she would keep, and the third would go to Niall at Noke so he would know what Loveday claimed.

They had spent the rest of the afternoon in what remained of the back yard, peacefully embroidering the patterns Magdalene had drawn. When the light began to fail, they carried in the stools on which they had been sitting and admired what they had wrought.

Diccon brought them an evening meal and told them that while running an errand, he had seen Bell in The Wheat Sheaf deep in conversation with men whose clothing was better than that of common men-at-arms.

“Drunk?” Magdalene asked.

The boy shrugged. “His face was red, but his eyes…no, not drunk. Not yet, anyway. He’s
coming back here later, though. Does he hit when he’s drunk?”

“Not me, anyway,” Magdalene answered smiling. “I’m not sure I would trust him if a man crossed him. Get him into the back room as soon as possible.”

“Sir Bellamy is going to sleep here?” Loveday asked.

“He has no other lodging. You need not be concerned. Drunk or sober, he will not trouble you.”

That was true. Likely he did not even remember Loveday was in the other bed—to which she had repaired soon after dark, yawning most sincerely because she was accustomed to country hours. Magdalene, embroidering quietly by candlelight, which she often did far into the night in the Old Priory Guesthouse, was on hand to greet him. If not drunk, he was not wholly sober and needed help undoing his buckles and ties, but he did not giggle and jest over his clumsiness while she helped him as he usually did. His mouth was grim and he went to the bed almost without a word.

Magdalene expected that he would be asleep by the time she had put away her work and undressed herself, but he took her in his arms as soon as she slipped under the covers and held her tight against him.

“What you heard is not good news,” she said softly.

He was silent for a time and then said, “You have often told me that most whores hate sex. Just so do most soldiers hate war.”

He kissed her before she could ask a further question and began to stroke her body and caress her breasts. Magdalene gave herself to him with practiced warmth, but for once her mind was busy with other than the gratification of her senses. Bell, too, either because he remembered Loveday’s presence or because his own mood was too dark, neither thrust nor cried out with his usual abandon. Still passion grew, and when the waves of satisfaction had lifted and cast them down, each was more at peace.

Resting quietly in the aftermath, Bell yawned and murmured, “I must go report to the dean early tomorrow. I may even have to ride down to Winchester to speak to the bishop.” Then he laughed softly. “ ‘Tell Magdalene and feel better’,” he said, recalling a maxim of Ella’s, and detailed what he had gleaned from conversation with captains sworn to Warenne, Chester, Alain of Brittany, and several others, ending, “I do not know if there will be time, but Salisbury should be warned not to bring too many men into the city.”