Bone of Contention (44 page)

“Likely he was also the king’s tool in this matter of Salisbury.” Magdalene tugged at his hand again. “You do not want to be mixed into that, especially not you! Do you want to drag Winchester into your folly?”

“Oh,
my God!” he gasped, twisting around to pull his knife from Ferrau’s chest and wiping it on Ferrau’s tunic. He got to his feet and went around her to pick up his sword. “But Winchester had nothing to do with this, nothing! The last news the bishop had was that all seemed well. Why should he order me to kill a man he did not even know?”

“Never mind giving reasons to me.” Her voice was thin and breathless. “If we are gone from here, no one will know you had anything to do with this. Winchester need not be involved at all, even by distant implication. Ferrau will just have been one more man killed in this broil. Come, let us go into the church. With any luck we can claim to be innocent bystanders who were caught in the street, knocked to the ground and rolled in the mud by the fighting men.”

Fortunately no one was there to question them. They assumed the priests were outside, trying to quell the riot or to assist the wounded and dying. From their haven, they heard the fighting as a distant growling heightened now and again by a particularly high and anguished shriek. Bell pulled up his tunic and used his shirt to clean his knife and sword, then pulled the tunic down again to hide the soiling. Later, but no long time later, they heard hoofbeats.

“Someone has sent a troop to quiet them,” Bell said.

“Good,” Magdalene murmured, lifting her head from Bell’s shoulder. “When the fighting is nearly stopped, I think we can slip out and away without being noticed.”

For a time the noise grew louder and then it began to diminish. Magdalene and Bell went to the front door of the church and looked out cautiously. It was raining again, but not very hard. Magdalene started to turn toward the back door where her cloak lay in the mud of the churchyard, but stopped. There was nothing on it that would identity her and she did not think it could be saved. It was better to leave it there than to take a chance on being seen trying to retrieve it. She brushed ineffectually at the mud caked on her gown and tried to secure the sleeve Ferrau had torn.

Bell shook his head over her efforts to repair the damage and took off his cloak. It had some mud on it, but not very much because it had been pushed far back out of his way when he was fighting. He put it around Magdalene. She did not thank him, only looked up, her eyes glazed with shock and fatigue. Still, he thought, she was not about to fail. She gathered the cloak around her, hiding her mud-soaked gown and its torn sleeve, and pulled up the hood. Bell’s clothing, aside from the muddied chausses, was only spattered here and there.

Together but silent they walked from the church door through the porch and down to the street. There was a crowd at the intersection of Castle Street and the lane on which Alain’s lodging stood, but the people were all staring in at the lane, from which there was a greatly diminished sound—only a few raised voices protesting innocence, some moans from the wounded, and a few louder cries for help. Magdalene and Bell walked around the onlookers, pausing to peer into the street where the riot had been, as if naturally curious, but no one took notice of them, and they hurried on.

At the Carfax, still wordless, they parted, Bell moving quickly north through the market toward the stable where Monseigneur guarded his saddle bags. His need to appear in Court had only increased, and he needed clean clothing. He blessed the dean’s sudden uneasiness and his, which had made him decide to carry all his possessions with him on the off chance that he would need to ride to Winchester in a hurry. No longer an off chance, he would have to ride for Winchester this very night, but he needed to see just what the king’s response to the riot would be.

Magdalene turned south to go to the Soft Nest. If Florete was surprised to see her return wearing the cloak that had been lent to Bell, she kept it to herself. Magdalene found her pocket still tied safely around her waist, extracted her key, and let herself into her room.

She was not much aware of how the next few candlemarks passed. She must have washed and changed her clothing, and she remembered sitting at the table with her head hidden in her arms, shivering and weeping, for a long time. But whether that was before or after she washed and changed, she had no idea. She remembered, too, that Diccon had come in to ask whether she wanted dinner and that she had ordered a whole pasty, two roasted chickens, stew, greens, two loaves of bread, and a generous portion of sweet pudding. Diccon looked at her as if she were mad, but she could not explain what she was doing—and she did not eat any of the food when he returned with it, nor did she offer him any. She just put it away and went to lie down in her bed and weep some more.

She had no idea why she was crying—certainly not for Ferrau—and she fell asleep wondering about it. However, when she woke, hearing Bell call her name, the confusion was gone. She knew very well why she had ordered all that food and why she had been crying.

“What are you doing alone in the dark?” Bell asked from the doorway.

She fumbled her way to the table and took a candle from the holder there, slipped by Bell, and lit the candle from the one in the corridor.

“I was tired…and frightened,” she said. “I fell asleep.” Bell followed her into the room carrying the large, heavy, leather-covered roll that she knew held his mail. He put it down on the table, watching her collect enough torchettes to fill every holder on the walls and go around lighting them. Then she lit both night candles, and came back to the table to light the branch of candles that sat on it. When she was done, the room was bright as day.

She caught at Bell’s hand before he could ask what she was doing, and said, “What happened? What did the king say to Salisbury about the riot?”

Even in the golden light of the candles and torchettes, he looked gray. “God, you were right about not mixing Winchester into this business. Stephen got what he wanted. I had hoped he knew nothing about it, that it was Meulan and Count Alain that mixed this mess of poison, but the king knew. I should have known how treacherous he could be, after he appointed Theobald archbishop instead of his own brother.”

Magdalene reached up and put her fingers gently over his mouth. “Do not say it, love. It could be taken as a reflection of Winchester’s thoughts. Everyone knows you are a favorite with him.”

“But no doubt you will tell Lord William!” She dropped her hand and moved back a step. “I tell William only what he needs to know for his own safety, and you and Winchester are presently no threat to him. Tell me what happened at Court. You need not fear I will recount that to William. I am sure he was there.”

He turned away a little and began to unwrap the leather-covered roll, baring his gambeson, which was wrapped around his mail shirt. “I reached the castle soon after the king rose from dinner. He had already sent for Salisbury, who came in soon after me. The king accused the bishop of failing to keep the king’s peace. Salisbury made light of the matter, saying it was a small fracas among a few hotheads. He said he was sorry about it, but that the men had been miserable from camping out in the constant rain, since no provision had been made to lodge them. They had become envious of Count Alain’s retainers, who were few and lodged in a hall much too large for them.” Bell paused, looked down at his armor, which he was absently stroking. “He made a mistake.”

“Who?”

“Salisbury. He spoke to Stephen as he must have spoken when the king was a boy fostering in King Henry’s Household, in a kind, understanding way, as if he did not need to make explanation and did so out of indulgence. I think he was frightened, sought to remind Stephen of their long association, and misjudged. Stephen then said, quite sharply, that if the bishop had not brought more men-at-arms than the king himself had, there would have been room enough.”

“I imagine Salisbury changed his tune?”

“Oh, yes, but then it was too late—if it had not been too late before he even came to this accursed Council. Then he said he would make restitution to those who were injured and apologized more contritely, but the king replied that he now realized it was not meet nor fitting for a man of God, a bishop who should be overseeing the souls of those in his cure, to be burdened with the secular care of so many armed men. It was clear that he could not control his secular followers and thus it was not safe for him to hold so many strong castles, and he demanded the keys of Salisbury’s strongholds, not only the royal castles that he held by the king’s will, but those he had built himself.”

“Will he give them up?” Magdalene breathed, seeing in her mind’s eye William assaulting those strong keeps.

“I do not know. He demurred, begging for time, but one thing I do know—the king’s peace is broken and Oxford will not be a safe place. Those in Salisbury’s debt may try to rescue him. There will be bitterer quarrels among the men-at-arms and more riots. The sheriff, the Watch, they are not fit to control what will happen. I must ride to Winchester, of course, but I want you to come with me. I am sure the bishop will give me permission to take you home to London or provide some other escort for you if I must ride back here.”

Magdalene’s throat closed and for a moment all she could do was shake her head. This was why she had been crying. She had been too shocked by the attempt on her life, too exhausted, to formulate the thoughts clearly, but she had known it would come to this, that Bell would have to leave Oxford, that he would want to take her with him. There was even some truth in what he said: Oxford would be more dangerous now. But this crisis was why William had summoned her. It was now that William would have to talk to men who were Salisbury’s supporters, men who would not want their friends to know that they were dealing with the king’s man. Yet William must induce them to talk to him, to listen to him, if he were to keep the kingdom from breaking apart.

Finally she forced out words. “Do not be so silly, Bell. No one will blame a whore for a conflict between the king and his chief minister.”

“Not even one who entertains the king’s prime enforcer? Whose men do you think went to make sure that Salisbury came to the king?”

“Mine.” The well-known voice was loud and flat.

No one in the Soft Nest would dare speak a word to William of Ypres unless he asked a question. He had walked past Florete and her men and had opened the door silently. Now he stood in the doorway, examining the well-lit room.

“William!” Magdalene exclaimed. “I did not think you would have time to come here today.”

“I don’t. I happened to be riding to the South Gate, so I stopped to tell you that we will be six for the evening meal tonight…I hope.” He turned to look at Bell. “Bruno of Jernaeve told me you were right in the middle of that fracas outside St. Peter’s. What were you doing there? Is Winchester—”

“No! Good God, no! He knows nothing of this.”

“No?”

“William, we were there by accident.”

“You were there too?” Now Ypres’s voice made the flames on the candles shiver.

Magdalene did not shrink back or wince, she smiled at him. “Yes, I was. Bell escorted me to see who had the lodging opposite St. Peter’s churchyard. I was told that the murderer of St. Cyr lodged there.”

“I thought I told you I wasn’t interested in that anymore,” William said impatiently.

“So you did, but
I
was interested.”

William snorted with irritation but shrugged indulgently.

“Do you want
me
to ask him—with a hot iron on the side, so he’s quick to answer?”

“He’s dead. He was the man who ran out of Alain of Brittany’s lodging screaming for help from Salisbury’s men. He is Alain of Brittany’s man, and he instigated the riot.”

William’s face froze, but Magdalene thought she saw a flicker of pain in his eyes. After a moment, too softly, he said, “I see. Who killed him?”

“I did,” Bell said.

“Clever man!” William muttered approvingly, his small eyes closing and then opening wide with relief. “At least any questions must end in his grave. Who was he?”

Bell’s lips thinned at that cynical remark. Whether or not any questions could be answered, the trail of deceit led straight to the king. But all he said was, “His name was Sir Ferrau de Surtaine, and he was a murderer five times over.”

William thought a moment, then shook his head. “Never heard of him. It does not matter, since Count Alain is on his knees, apologizing profusely for what happened. He takes the full blame for his men having responded with force but insists they were assaulted first.”

Bell shrugged. “It is possible, I suppose, that Salisbury’s men struck first—given the right prodding. They were already wet and cold and furious.”

William did not seem to have heard him. He smiled and said, “Actually we are well met, Sir Bellamy. I know you are Winchester’s man and that he trusts you.”

“I hope he does. He has reason for it.”

William’s little blue eyes stared, blinked, stared. “I assume you will be riding to Winchester to report on what happened here?”

“You assume correctly.” Bell’s voice had gone hard, his lips stiff, his hand dropped to his sword hilt.

William raised a placating hand. “I am not trying to interfere with your duty,” he said, his expression intent. “I only wish you to tell your master that the king offered no challenge to the Church or to Salisbury’s wielding the full power of his Church office. All King Stephen demanded was his own
secular
property, the castles Salisbury held as royal grants, and the
secular
castles that Salisbury had erected without royal grant.”

“I will report faithfully what I saw with my eyes and heard with my ears,” Bell said.

“Do not be a fool!” For once William’s voice was low, but there was as much force in it as when he shouted. “There is nothing so terrible as a full civil war. A little rebellion here and there is one thing. Every man’s hand against every other is another. Tell the bishop of Winchester to keep the Church quiet and—”