Chains of Folly (19 page)

That interview left Bell irritated and frustrated, but his afternoon went rapidly downhill from there. He had to ride all the way across London from St. Paul’s to the White Tower, which was enough to try a saint. Then it took him a quarter candle to get to the captain on duty, who was up in the solar, further trying his patience so that Bell was seething. And then the man was surprisingly uncooperative, although at first, when Bell described the person to whom he wished to speak, the captain nodded recognition indifferently and said likely the man was Gehard fitzRobert.

In the next moment, the captain frowned and asked Bell what he wanted with Gehard and who he was. And when Bell said he was the bishop of Winchester’s knight, which usually brought cooperation, the man’s face closed—until Bell said his questions related to the death of a woman. Oddly, a flicker of what Bell thought was relief crossed the captain’s face but then he shook his head and looked exasperated. It was quite apparent to Bell that news that Gehard had killed a woman would be no great surprise to the captain but he would not help bring the man to justice.

Then suddenly an expression of amusement drove out the worry. “Oh,” the captain said, “you want to ask Gehard about the whore found in Winchester’s bed? Don’t think Gehard could have had anything to do with that. He couldn’t afford to pay Winchester’s price for a whore.”

Bell’s temper erupted. His hand shot out and took the captain by the throat so hard that any sound was cut off and his eyes bulged. For one moment. Bell’s hand tightened; then sense conquered rage and he could have wept with fury over his lack of control. He could not kill a man for a stupid remark, yet one yell from the captain would bring too many men for him to fight. He slid his knife from its sheathe and let the point touch the man’s neck, then relaxed his grip.

The captain understood. “Good God,” he gasped, but softly, “are you mad? It was no more than a jest.”

“I do not take kindly to jests about my master. He is a good man and keeps his vows. He was midway between Winchester and London with about thirty attendants when that woman was placed in a chair in his bedchamber—and I am going to find out who did it and why. Gehard was known to use Nelda from time to time.” That was an assumption for which Bell had no proof, but he did not care. “Now, where is he?”

“I don’t know. Gehard isn’t on duty now.” The captain’s eyes slanted sideways to the knife that rested just on the big vein under his ear. A hard prick, and he was dead. “I’m not his nursemaid. I have no idea what the man does or where he goes on his own time.” The words were bold; the voice shook a little.

Bell swung the captain around and lowered the knife in one swift movement until it now pricked through the man’s light summer tunic into his back. “Walk,” Bell said softly, “down the stair and out the door to my horse. If one man of yours makes a move toward me, you will be dead.”

“You will be dead too,” the captain snarled.

Bell laughed bitterly. “If you think that satisfaction will make your corpse happy, you can call out to your men. But your master will curse your name for years. The bishop knows where I am and is likely to make trouble if I end up dead.” Another lie, but a safe one.

There was a tense moment of silence and the captain said, “I will give my parole to see you safe out of the Tower nor send anyone after you. I do not wish to walk past my men with your knife in my back.”

No man likes the men he commands to see him bested, Bell thought. “Accepted,” he said, and withdrew the knife, although he did not yet sheathe it. Then he sighed. “I am very sorry. I have a nasty temper and I am attached to the bishop of Winchester.”

The captain’s lips tightened momentarily but he shrugged. “So I see. It was a stupid jest, and I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I certainly didn’t mean to make you think Gehard had anything to do with that woman. He is a hard man but does his duty and I did not want to see him accused because of his manner and his attitude toward the whore.”

“He told me she deserved what she got and was a thieving bitch.”

Of course. Bell had no proof that the man who had said that to him was Gehard, but the captain’s answer confirmed it. “He always said she was a thief, but he continued to use her so it is possible she did not steal from him.”

Bell shook his head and gestured the captain to precede him down the stairs. “Until she did,” he said, and neither of them spoke again as they went outside.

Mounted and out of the Tower grounds. Bell hesitated and glanced up at the sun. What he wanted to do was go back to the Old Priory Guesthouse and tell Magdalene what a fool he had been for losing his temper. Even if she agreed with him, the confession would ease his heart, and the other women would all find reasons for him not to call himself a fool. But the light said it was near or after Nones and the second set of clients would just be arriving. He would not be welcome.

Not having wished to sit still right outside of the gate in the Tower wall, just in case the captain decided not to keep his parole. Bell had directed his horse toward the river. A burst of noise—laughter and good-natured cursing—drew his attention and he realized he was passing an ale-house. His breath drew in. What was wrong with him today? The captain had said he did not know where Gehard was, but where was he more likely to be than in an ale-house? And it was important to find Gehard and speak to him before the captain warned him.

Farther down the street was a stable. Bell decided to leave his horse there and walk. After he dismounted and stalled Monseigneur himself—the stallion having tried to bite the stableboy who came to hold him—he thought for a moment about taking off his armor. To wear only his worn gambeson would not be noteworthy in the ale-houses used by the men quartered at the Tower, but then he decided to be safe instead of cool in case he made any more mistakes.

Bell walked back up the street, looked into one place but it was obviously used mostly by simple men-at-arms. The next, for some reason was nearly empty. The third. Bell recognized before he looked in. It was the ale-house in which he had found Linley’s companions and where Gehard had spoken to him as he was leaving. And his luck, seemingly, had changed. As he entered, he saw Gehard alone at a small table with his back to the wall.

A kind of stiff silence fell as Bell entered, all eyes fixed on his mail-clad figure. To project peacefulness, he undid the ties of his ventail and threw back his hood. Talk started up again, although eyes followed to see where he was going. Soon as it was clear that he was going either to an empty table or heading for Gehard, conversations picked up again.

“Master Gehard,” Bell said when he reached the man’s table, “I am glad to find you.”

There was the faintest glazing in the eyes that lifted from the liquid in the tankard to Bell’s face. “Know you,” he said. “You’wre in askin’ ‘bout Linley…’bout Nelda.”

“Yes.” Bell tensed a trifle, hoped that Gehard couldn’t see it under his armor, but he kept his voice easy and calm. “You called her a thieving bitch and said she deserved her death. I just began to wonder whether you arranged it.”

“Me? Kill Nelda? Nun! Why shed I? Gave’er a beatin’. Careful though. Didn’ break ‘er nose er nothing maybe give ‘er a black eye. Told ‘er if she didn’ give back m’seal, I’d do ‘er worse. Knock out ‘er teef. Break ‘er nose. Cut off ‘er ears. But kill ‘er? Nan!”

“Oh,” Bell said, inadequately.

The utter casualness with which Gehard spoke, the ease of his voice, of his body, the faintly regretful expression, as if something not valuable but familiar had been lost, all implied he had spoken the truth. But Bell was uneasy. Just so would an expert liar look and Gehard was certainly strong enough to move Nelda, but why would he do it?

“ ‘Sides sh’paid when we went where those filthy pagans sold th’stuff.” He paused and his mouth loosened as he apparently contemplated a pleasure. “Gave me some once.” The mouth tightened again. “Would’n give me more.”

“So you knew her well,” Bell persisted, since Gehard seemed quite willing to talk. “You say you did not kill her. Do you have any idea who might want to kill her?”

The big man shrugged. “Nah! ‘Cept maybe ‘cause she’s a thief. But tha’s stupid. Kill ‘er, lose what she stole. Or maybe some’un wanted the stuff so bad… Nah. Tha’s dumb too. N’ver told no one where she got it.”

“Ah, but you knew that.”

Gehard snorted. “Whr’I’d get ‘t silver t’ pay fer it?” He stared up at Bell, muttering, “Silver. Thought I’d have enough after…” slowly starting to frown. Then suddenly the man’s face turned furious. “You’re the one!” he snarled. “Yer ‘t one Snot tole me save’t bishop.” He started to lurch up, but the table caught him across the thighs and he dropped back onto the bench. “Stupid bastid! Wouldn’ of hurt ‘im.”

“You arranged the attack on the bishop?”

The words came out hardly above a whisper and even as he spoke. Bell was appalled at his stupidity. He should have pretended not to understand or talked about Nelda again; then Gehard might have told him who had ordered the attack on Winchester and why. And then he remembered the captain’s expression of relief when he said he wanted to question Gehard about Nelda. Relief because he had been afraid Bell was going to ask about the attack on the bishop? He opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed.

But he had not found silence soon enough. The damage had been done. Apparently Gehard was not so drunk he was going to admit the attack. He peered up at Bell and laughed.

“Me? Do such a thing against a holy man? Don’t know the bishop. Never spoke to ‘im. Why should I want to attack him?”

He relaxed on the bench so his back rested against the wall behind him, pretending to be at ease, but Bell noticed that the hand that held his tankard was pale with the tightness of his grip. Bell also noted that Gehard was no longer slurring his words. Alarm at his slip had sobered him.

Bell also laughed, as falsely as Gehard had. “I doubt
you
wanted to attack the bishop of Winchester,” he said, keeping his voice very low. “You were only following your orders and are thus not to blame for what happened.”

“Don’t know what happened. Wasn’t there. Had nothin’ t’do with it!”

“That’s certainly true,” Bell agreed with another false smile. “I would not have missed a man like you. You were not there. And you said that no harm was to come to Winchester. Was it all a jest gone wrong? Should I warn Winchester that he has offended? But I must know who. Thus, if you tell me—”

The mug of beer went up, splashing liquid into Bell’s face and the table slammed into his belly. He staggered back, his hand going to his sword hilt, but Gehard was out from behind the rocking table and already half-way to the door. Bell started after him, sword drawn, but half a dozen men were already on their feet blocking his way.

“There are more of you,” Bell snarled, “but I am in armor. I can kill half a dozen before you can bear me down.”

One of the men lifted empty hands. “No one wishes you any harm,” he said. “We know Gehard’s temper. But he was drunk and he is one of us. Let him go.”

Bell sighed, realizing that it was possible the men had not heard what he and Gehard had been talking about. Perhaps they had just seen Gehard throw his beer into Bell’s face and hit him with the table. If so, they would let him go, but he had better not take that chance.

“Then go and sit down again, all of you,” Bell said. “The first man who rises is the first man who dies.”

“What is wrong?” Magdalene asked as soon as she made out the rigidity of Bell’s body and the grim set of his mouth.

She swung the gate wide, then closed it behind him and after another moment pulled in the bell cord so no one could ring the bell. He did not answer, only strode forward to enter the house. Magdalene hurried after him and found him standing in the middle of the room, as if he did not recognize the place despite the light of candles and torchettes.

“Have you eaten?” she asked.

He swallowed. “No.”

“Whom did you kill?”

He blinked and his lips twisted into a wry smile. “No one, but it is only by the grace of God that I am not dead myself, and all owing to my own bad temper and stupidity.” He took a deep breath. “I do not like to feel stupid.”

Magdalene uttered a half-strangled giggle. That was a miracle of understatement if she ever heard one. “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll bring you the remains of the evening meal.”

He was in his accustomed place on the end of the long bench nearest the short bench on which she sat when she returned and set down a platter of thin-sliced cold mutton, a wedge of pork pasty, cheese, and half a loaf of dark bread.

As she went to fill a tankard of ale for him, she said, “You can thank Ella for the pasty. She insisted you would come today and made sure that no matter how late it was you would not go hungry.”

“They are all working?” he asked, pulling his eating knife and stabbing a slice of meat.

Magdalene nodded without answering. She was struggling not to grin. Obviously Bell had hoped for the uncritical soothing admiration her women offered him. Ella would always say whatever happened was not his fault; Letice would make gestures that urged acceptance of bad luck and adverse circumstances, which she would imply were a result of fate and could never be utterly avoided; Diot would find a way to fix the blame on whoever opposed him.

Usually Magdalene played the impartial judge, speaking the truth as she saw it. But that had been when she and Bell were in a fixed and stable relationship. She was not sure telling him he was an idiot—if he had been one—was what he needed or what would best further her purpose right now. Still she felt a small glow of satisfaction. At least he had come to the Old Priory Guesthouse instead of working off his spleen on his men or getting drunk.

She stood beside him, watching him take a swallow of the ale and then break off a piece of the pasty. “I have some interesting news,” she said tentatively. “Do you want to hear it or do you want to tell me what happened to disturb you so much?”

Mentioning the news brought Raoul de Samur to mind, and Magdalene nearly reached out to stroke Bell’s hair, which was clean and shining. Raoul had not been particularly foul, but clearly he had not bothered to bathe after his ride from Devizes or Salisbury to London and he was ripe. His clothes had been stained and worn for too long, his hair was greasy and tangled, and the nails of the hand with which he held his cup had been black. The contrast with Bell, who had taken the time to change from his armor, made Bell seem even more desirable. True, Bell smelled of horse and sweat, but today’s horse and sweat, not a week’s or several month’s accumulation.