Chains of Folly (7 page)

“Ah, yes, I see—” Winchester began and then straightened higher in his saddle in an attempt to see ahead.

There was a lot of unusual noise—oxen lowing and men shouting. Bell touched Monseigneur with his heel and the stallion plunged forward past the six men at arms who had been riding ahead. At first all he could see was confusion. A large wagon that had been loaded with barrels was athwart the road, one wheel broken so that it had tipped to the side and spilled barrels all over. Another cart, possibly the cause of the broken wheel, shafts splintered and draft animal gone, was half under the larger wagon. Around both vehicles were perhaps a dozen men shouting and wielding cudgels and fists.

Bell shouted for his men-at-arms, drew his own sword, and began to lay about him with the flat of the blade, shouting for order. For a moment he was not surprised when both parties turned on him in concert. He had memories of brawls in which both he and his opponent together furiously attacked the peacekeeper who was trying to separate them. In the next moment he realized that none of the fighters was an innocent civilian caught up in the altercation.

“To Winchester,” he bellowed. “To Winchester. It is a trap!”

The order was barely in time. As his men turned their horses back toward the bishop, men began to run from the alleyways between the shops and houses. Suddenly, Bell was tipped forward in the saddle so violently the pommel caught him a nasty blow in the belly. Monseigneur, feeling movement behind him, had lashed out with his heels. Bell heard a scream and, as the horse kicked again, another.

Now he turned his sword in his hand and the next stroke he made drew a scream instead of a shout, A burst of red blossomed between the head and the shoulder of one of the men advancing on him as his blade struck. He twisted his body, striking again to the right as his left hand fumbled reins around the pommel and bent inward, trying to pull the shield strap from his shoulder so he could slide his arm through the hold.

Fortunately the man still screaming and writhing on the ground provided enough grim warning to the others to give Bell a moment’s respite. He had just seized his shield and thrust violently out and away with it, catching two men advancing on his left, when some of the new opponents reached him. They were carrying swords, not cudgels, but, one seeing Bell’s shield extended to the left, thrust unwisely at what he thought was Bell’s exposed belly. Bell’s sword took him on the extended arm. The clang of metal as the sword fell and the shriek of the wounded man again provided a respite; others drew away and Bell used knee and heel to turn Monseigneur.

The men Bell had thrust away with his shield were coming forward again, but Bell could do nothing. His shield was tipped forward to hold off one attacker’s sword while he dealt with the other. However the smell of blood and the movement of weapons—although Monseigneur would have reacted the same way to waving empty hands—threw the battle-trained stallion into a frenzy. While Bell attended violently to the man attacking on his right, Monseigneur bit one of Bell’s attackers in the face, tearing off his nose, and shouldered the other so hard he fell. That was the end of them both.

Monseigneur lifted just enough to permit him to kick the wounded man, who was trying to turn to run, in the side, and when he came down made sure his hooves landed square on the man he had earlier felled. Whether or not his keener than human hearing heard the ribs snap would have meant nothing anyway. Under his hooves in a battle with no orders by knees or reins meant that Monseigneur then pounded both fallen men into red jelly.

Both men had had swords and could have hurt, if not killed, the horse, but the armed men had experience of war destriers and their fear had made them hesitate…which brought the fear to fruition.

The lightly armed men who had set the trap now fled away from the varied and instant death Bell presented. Of the four better-armed fighters who had attacked him, three were dead and one dying. Bell took the opportunity to turn Monseigneur. He could see that there was no need for his help; his well-trained armsmen had beaten back those who had tried to attack the bishop. But Bell was furious. He fell upon those who were trying to flee and three more lay dead before he realized that the few left were crying for quarter and Winchester was shouting at him to stay his hand.

Bell swallowed hard, wiped his sword on his surcoat, sheathed it, and curbed his restive stallion before Monseigneur could attack anyone else. “Softly, softly,” he murmured, stroking the beast’s neck. “It’s all over now, all done.” To the men he said, in a steady, even voice, “Is anyone too hurt to ride?”

A chorus of “No, sir” followed. Bell nodded and continued, “Bind the living. Four of you drive them back to the bishop’s house. They are not to escape. I have a few questions I wish to ask them.”

His men moved quickly to obey, exchanging glances. There was something in the voice that was terrifying, not anything they were accustomed to in their firm but generally good-natured commander. Monseigneur snorted and nodded, pulling at the bit. Bell tightened his rein and patted the stallion soothingly. Monseigneur pranced, shook his head, chewed the bit.

“My lord,” Bell said. “Do you wish to go forward to the archbishop’s house or back to your own? It would be best if I remove Monseigneur from all this blood.”

“Back home,” Winchester said. “I am sure Theobald had no part in this attack but I am not in a mood now to discuss the formalities of a convocation.”

“Yes, my lord.” Bell turned his head to the men. “Levin and Kemp. Collect the dead and guard them. I wish to know what they carried. I will send a cart. The rest of you. Two ahead of the bishop and two behind.”

“How did you know this would happen, Bell?” the bishop said as they passed the men-at-arms roughly binding the prisoners and looping them together neck to neck. “You are armed for war. You took ten men. All to ride just a few streets in broad daylight in a populous area. I thought you had taken leave of your senses.”

As they drew away from the shambles left by the attack, Monseigneur grew calmer and Bell could give more of his attention to the bishop. He said, “I didn’t
know.
Just…something stinks. That dead woman in your chamber… Someone wanted to shame you publicly, and when it did not happen…to remove you.”

When Magdalene let Bell in through the gate of the Old Priory Guesthouse the next morning, she drew a sharp breath and said, “What happened? You are hurt.”

Bell was stiff and sore but not wounded, so he shook his head. “Only bruised. We were attacked on our way to the archbishop’s house.”

“The bishop?”

Magdalene’s eyes were wide with concern. Henry of Winchester was as rapacious a landlord as any other who owned a whorehouse, but he had not raised her rent until she could no longer pay just because he knew her business was good. Moreover, Winchester valued her as a tenant and knew her as an individual. She could fare far worse under another.

“Unharmed, but as you can imagine, greatly distressed.”

“Yes, I…oh, why are we standing here? Come in.”

She closed the gate behind him and watched as he made his way into the house. He was not favoring any limb nor was his walk crooked; just, he lacked his usual grace of movement. Diot looked up from the cheese and bread with which she was breaking her fast. She too, looked concerned.

“You’ve been fighting,” she said.

“The bishop was attacked on his way to the archbishop’s house,” Magdalene explained, and then to Bell, “Do you want more than bread and cheese? Sit, and I’ll get you some ale.”

Instead of simply stepping over the bench. Bell pulled it out, walked around, and eased himself down, resting his sword beside him. “Bread and cheese is enough,” he said, and as he took a cup from Magdalene’s hand, “Thank you.”

“Attacked the bishop?” Diot muttered. “Who would attack a bishop on the streets of Southwark? It isn’t as if he were traveling with valuables—or was he? Bringing tithes to the archbishop?”

“No.” Bell drank, set the cup down, and looked rather blankly at a piece of cheese he had speared on his eating knife. “He was going to dine with Theobald to discuss the convocation he called to examine the king’s conduct with regard to the treatment of Salisbury and Lincoln.”

“Calling a convocation will not endear him to Stephen,” Magdalene said and then suddenly covered her lips with her hand as she realized what the king’s displeasure could have implied about the attack. “Oh, no. I know they have quarreled but Stephen would not! Winchester is his
brother.”

“No,” Bell agreed. “Stephen would not agree to harm coming to Winchester, but unfortunately those we captured and questioned…straitly…all said that the bishop was not to be hurt. So Stephen could have been involved or could have known nothing about it. Sometimes his ‘advisors’ do not bother to mention to him what they plan, particularly if they believe they will not be found out.”

Diot looked brightly from Bell to Magdalene, but it was Magdalene who said, “That is a mark of Waleran’s finger in the pie. There was no hint at all of who planned this?”

Bell shrugged. “Perhaps. They were supposed to take the bishop prisoner and carry him off to some den opposite Paul’s Wharf, light two lanterns and set them side by side, then leave.” He grimaced. “I lit the lanterns—as if anyone could see them during the day—and spent all of yesterday afternoon and most of the night down there watching, but no one came.”

Diot shook her head. “I must suppose that bringing the bishop opposite Paul’s Wharf and lighting signal lanterns means that a boat would come to move him across the river. And Paul’s Wharf is not far from Baynard’s Castle. And Baynard’s Castle is held by Waleran’s youngest brother, Hugh Beaufort.” Once more she shook her head. “Could the Beauforts be so stupid and obvious?”

“I don’t know,” Bell said, voice rising and face twisted with frustration. “They might have thought it was better to be quick. If Winchester had ridden with only myself unarmed, and he had been seized quickly, me dead or too hurt to follow, he might have been hidden away and none even sure he had been taken. But what you say is also true. If anything went wrong, which it did, the hiding place would cry aloud that Waleran and his family were involved.”

“Yes,” Diot said. “Why not find a hole to hide the bishop in on this side of the river? There are enough holes in Southwark and Lambeth.”

Bell opened his mouth, but before he could speak Magdalene said thoughtfully, “Could this be the work of someone who wanted to blacken the Beauforts
and
frighten the bishop? Someone like Geoffrey de Mandeville, who would wish to support the king’s seizure of Salisbury’s castles but would also like to slip into Waleran’s place close to the king?”

“I don’t know,” Bell’s voice, although still kept low, carried the feeling of a howl. “I don’t know whether whoever planned the attack had someone down there watching and saw me and my men and thus did not send the boat. I don’t know whether it was because we were later getting there than the attackers would have been. And the whole thing may have been only a ploy, an attempt to frighten Winchester. In that case no one would ever have come and the bishop would have been allowed to escape. It is possible someone those men knew nothing about—” Bell’s mouth grew very hard “—and believe me they told
everything
they knew, would have come later, not necessarily from Paul’s Wharf, and killed him.”

Magdalene raised her brows. “They told everything…but not who sent them?”

“We had some bad luck there. I assure you that every man I questioned would have been only too glad to tell me. But the leader of the group, who had likely made the bargain, was killed.” Bell finished the ale in his cup and slammed it down on the table. “It seems that I killed him myself.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Diot said, patting his shoulder and refilling the cup with ale.

For a moment Bell was very still, then he said, “No. I couldn’t have known.” He sighed. “But I learned the men were not from Southwark, which is why they knew no holes here for hiding. They were from east of London. Two saw their leader with a very big man, well wrapped in a cloak. One saw him twice, once about a week ago and again yesterday morning.”

Magdalene’s brow furrowed and she bit her lip. “To give orders for the attack?” She shrugged. “I don’t suppose the bishop’s plan for dining with the archbishop was a secret.” But before Bell could reply, she said, “I cannot see how these things can be connected.”

“What things?” Bell mumbled around another mouthful of bread and cheese.

“Leaving Nelda’s body in the bishop’s bedchamber and setting a troop to capture him. It seems to me that although both were intended to damage Winchester, they are the product of entirely different ways of thinking.”

“Hmmm. I had not connected them at all.” Bell broke off a small piece of bread and chewed it slowly. “But they are both attempts on Winchester and likely both because of this convocation he has called. Still you are right. They…ah…
feel
different.”

“But Nelda is dead,” Diot said sadly.

“Yes, so perhaps the two attacks are not so different after all.” Magdalene looked around the table. “If you are finished, perhaps we had better go and see whether we can discover anything from where and how Nelda lived.”

* * * *

Both Bell and Magdalene were slightly surprised when they realized how close Nelda’s rooms were to the Old Priory Guesthouse. However, neither was particularly surprised when the hard-faced woman guarding the heaps of ragged remnants of garments that were piled outside of the old clothes shop turned her back on them. They were too well-dressed to try to steal her wares and it was to her advantage not to know anything about what went on above her shop.

The flight of stairs was sound enough. Bell paused to examine the stair treads carefully. A few had broken off, leaving sharp edges. Bell thought it likely that falling down the stairs had bruised Nelda’s back. The older bruises—he squinted in thought as he climbed the rest of the stairs—one broad one on her upper arm where whoever had beaten her held her tight and the others on her face and upper body were not directly connected with her death.