Roberta Gellis

by A Personal Devil

  “I do not know whether Sir Bellamy brought his horse,” she said to the man-at-arms. “Would you take a look in the stable and bring the animal out if it is there? If not, just come in. The door is open.”

  She then hurried into the house and virtually pulled Bell out of her room, saying, “Hurry into the common room. I sent your man to the stable to look for the horse that isn’t there. They’ve caught Borc.”

  “Everything always happens at once,” he complained, but jumped to his feet when he heard the door slam shut and hurried out without stopping to collect any of Bertrild’s parchments.

  Magdalene stood for a moment looking at the documents on her table, but not seeing them. Bell’s haste confirmed her guess that he did not want to be found in her bedchamber. She suppressed a sigh, wondering whether she should give up any hope of teaching him acceptance. How could they even lie together if he was ashamed of it? But before the question really made sense to her, it was pushed aside by the memory of the slam of the door. The man-at-arms would not have slammed the door that way! She hurried out on Bell’s heels to confront any client who had intruded in so crude a manner.

  It was Diot who had rushed in, however, tousled and dirty looking. She said nothing, merely waved and hurried toward her own room to wash and change her clothes. The door of the room beyond opened a crack and Haesel peered out, Sabina’s keen ears having caught the noise. Doors seldom slammed in the Old Priory Guesthouse. When one did, it might mean danger of some sort. Magdalene smiled to relieve any anxiety and gestured for Haesel to come out; Sabina came, too, clutching her staff just in case the smile was false.

  Magdalene went to open the door again, just in time as the man-at-arms was coming along the path. When he entered, Bell was talking to Sabina, who was standing with Haesel near the hearth; they provided a very innocent-looking group. Bell raised a hand to his man and started to turn away, but he hesitated, and Magdalene, fearing he guessed that she wanted to glean information for William, promptly offered to put the materials from Bertrild’s box away and not look at them until he returned, if that was what Bell would prefer.

  He shook his head at her, his eyes thoughtful. Then, as if he had read her mind, instead of responding to her words, he said, “About the reason for her having the necklet, I had thought I would speak to the bishop first, but now I think that is something of which he would rather stay ignorant.” He turned toward the man-at-arms, saying, “Go ahead, I will be with you at once,” and then looked back at Magdalene. “As for our guess about why she was raising money here in London rather than in Hampshire, I will warn Winchester but perhaps it is important for Lord William to know also.”

  Magdalene nodded at him, smiling warmly. Perhaps she should not despair so easily about teaching him acceptance. Usually he tried to pretend that William didn’t exist. Was his remark only because he knew William would be involved in pushing back and defeating any invasion, or was it a sign that he recognized he must share her attention and loyalty with her patron. And, as for being ashamed of being caught in her bedchamber—she swallowed a giggle—she had noticed that Bell was a little shy of any mention of the union between man and woman. A church schooling, perhaps? Mayhap he would be just as eager to avoid being caught in his own wife’s bedchamber.

  “No, do not put the parchments away,” he continued, the faint frown of thought still wrinkling his forehead. “Find out whatever you can, especially about the five who could have taken Codi’s knife. With what Borc can tell us, we might have evidence enough for an arrest.”

  “God willing,” Magdalene said with virtuous solemnity, grateful that he had not read her last thoughts.

  * * * *

  24 MAY

  SOUTHWARK, TOM WATCHMAN’S LODGING

  Bell instinctively turned left toward the bridge to London when he came out of the gate of the Old Priory Guesthouse, but his man caught his arm and directed him to the right.

  “That whore,” he said, “she saved us a lot ‘v trouble. Tom said she went right up t’ that Borc and said she knew him. She begged part ‘v his meal from him, as if she was hungry, and then asked if he’d like a little private treatment—any special kind he liked. Whispered in his ear, Tom said, so he couldn’t hear what she said, but it must ‘v been good, ‘cause Borc stopped eatin’ for a minute. When he was finished, she whispered again, and he got up ‘n went with her. We was wondering how to grab him without starting a riot, but she must ‘v told him she had a place, ‘cause he went with her easy as easy.”

  “So where did she take him?”

  “Tom Watchman’s lodging.” The man-at-arms laughed. “She’s one clever bitch, that one. Must ‘v asked Tom where he lived or got him to show it to her before they came. Never did a thing to start Borc worrying—no looking around like she wasn’t sure. And it’s just the kind of place a good whore might keep.”

  It was, indeed, just the kind of place that a whore who did a brisk business away from the stews might keep. Down a dark, slimy, but not unbreathably fetid alley, they came to a door still sound enough to retain a latch and open on its hinges but already showing signs of rot. The rail was gone from the stair, if there ever had been one, and the stairs groaned and creaked but did not tremble. The odor inside the building was only faintly redolent of urine; mostly it smelled of turnips and cabbage.

  Bell’s man led the way up that flight of stairs to a landing that gave evidence in the sounds coming from behind a thin door that at least one whore did find the place convenient. Another flight—more ladder than stair this time—rose to a second landing, lit dimly by openings under the eaves of the roof. Two doors at right angles opened off the small platform. The man-at-arms, leaning past Bell, opened the door to the right.

  The room was so small it was overcrowded by the three men, one sitting groggily on a stool, the other two standing over him, but it was not pleasant. On the top floor, it rose above the adjoining building, and the small window looked out over other grimy roofs to the sky. The bed was right under the window, which provided a pleasant breeze in the spring weather, and being no more than a pallet on a wooden frame with leather straps, it could be easily moved to a warmer corner in winter or if it rained. The room would have smelled better than the rest of the building too, if not for the stench that wafted from Borc.

  His face was so ingrained with dirt that the wrinkles which showed around his sparse but unkempt beard were like black lines on lighter gray earth. The beard hair was clotted with dried spittle and bits of God-alone-knew-what. His hair, a greasy mat, plastered to his head, had a few tangled cords hanging by his ears and down his back. His tunic was so clotted with old spilled food and less identifiable layers of filth that its original color was unrecognizable. Nonetheless, the tunic was no rag; it was of good, sound cloth as were the equally filthy chausses that showed beneath it.

  Bell eyed a splotch, which was a familiar dull-rust brown, on one side of the tunic near the only tear in the garment. That was old blood.

  He wondered whether Borc had killed the man who originally wore the tunic, but the slack face and limp posture raised doubts as to whether Borc was capable. It was something Bell needed to find out.

  Having examined the unappetizing specimen, Bell raised his eyes to the two men guarding him. “I wanted him able to speak,” he said. “Why did you hit him so hard?”

  “Didn’ ‘it ‘im a tall,” Tom said indignantly. “Didn’ need ‘t. Diot brought ‘im up smooth as silk. We ony came in later to keep ‘im from grabbin’ ‘er.”

  “True, Sir Bellamy,” the man-at-arms said. “He was like this when he came into the cookshop.” Then he grinned. “He can talk, though. Been complaining about the whore getting away and telling us we’ll be in deep trouble when his mistress hears that we’re holding him.”

  Bell nodded. “Borc,” he said fairly loudly, and stepped forward and slapped the man’s face—not hard, just enough to get his attention. “Your mistress is dead. There is no one to protect you, so you had better answer my
questions or I will have you hung for extorting money from respectable tradesmen.”

  “Dead?” Borc lifted his head, his bleary eyes clearing a little. “Don’ believe you. Cookshop fed me. She must’ve paid.”

  “Likely she paid on Saturday when she took her money from Master Mainard. Likely the cookshop owner doesn’t yet know. I am Sir Bellamy of Itchen, the bishop of Winchester’s knight, and I am looking into Mistress Bertrild’s murder—

  “Murder!” Borc exclaimed, and burst out laughing. “So the saddler finally had enough of her. I warned her when he took the whore into his house that her time was short.”

  “I am sorry to disappoint you,” Bell said, not sounding at all sorry, “but Master Mainard did not kill his wife. We have substantial witnesses to prove that he was at a christening party in the West Chepe.”

  Borc laughed again. “Witnesses,” he repeated scornfully. “All liars. They all hated her. They all liked him. They’d have said he was in France, even if they’d stood right by him while he bashed in her head.”

  “Perhaps.” Bell smiled unpleasantly. “But they are all honest tradesmen, known and respected in the city, which I doubt can be said for you. If they stand and say that Master Mainard could not have committed the crime, they will be believed. Will you? Why, if that tunic you are wearing could speak, I am quite sure that it would testify against you and say you were no stranger to murder.”

  “No!” Borc shrieked, half rising from the stool. “You can’t hang me to save him! I didn’t do it! I didn’t!”

  He was forced back down onto the stool, but he shook his head violently, struggling against the hands that held him. Now fear showed in the sudden tightening of the slack muscles of his face, and he began to weep, the tears making lighter tracks in the dirt. He was well aware of how often a common man, specially an outcast of society like him, was punished for a crime committed by a man or woman with higher status.

  “I didn’t kill her,” he wailed, beginning to shake. “I didn’t. Why would I? She paid for my food. She gave me money for carrying messages. Why would I kill her?”

  “If you didn’t wish to kill Mistress Bertrild, you are probably the only person who knew her in England who did not,” Bell said sourly. “Where were you on Saturday between Nones and Vespers? Who can stand witness that what you say is true?”

  The questions were a challenge meant to impress upon Borc how helpless he was. Bell expected no answer, but Borc suddenly went still.

  “Saturday…. Saturday….” The man’s eyes shifted from side to side and then widened. “Saturday!” he exclaimed and then laughed weakly. “Yes, I can tell you where I was on Saturday. That was the day the men were supposed to bring whatever Bertrild demanded from them to the cookshop. See, I carried a message from her on Thursday—”

  “To whom?” Bell interrupted.

  Borc shook his head, refusing to meet Bell’s gaze, and his lips curved in a sly, secretive half-smile. “Don’t matter to who I carried the messages. Ain’t them who’ll stand witness for me. See, I was in the cookshop. I was in the cookshop all day on Saturday from maybe a candlemark after Prime until just after Nones. And the cook’ll remember because he kept trying to get rid of me. So I do have a witness—a good, honest tradesman—who’ll stand witness that I was in the cookshop in the Chepe nearly all day Saturday.”

  Since Bell had never suspected Borc of killing Bertrild, he was not in the least disappointed over the man having a witness of his whereabouts. He was, however, seriously annoyed by Borc’s resistance to telling him the names of the men Bertrild was blackmailing. Those names, provided by even so unreliable a witness as Borc, would be the first actual piece of evidence that someone beside Mainard had a reason to kill Bertrild. The fact that she might have known of evildoing by a person, that she kept the evidence carefully, was no proof that she had ever used the information or that anyone mentioned on the parchments ever paid her or even knew she had the information. The documents were her father’s, not hers, nor was there any mark on them in a different hand.

  “The cook is not enough,” Bell said. “You need two witnesses.”

  “The pie seller was there near Sext, and he’ll remember because I nearly knocked over one of his trays when the cook grabbed me to throw me out. And—”

  “And nothing. I want the names of the men to whom you carried messages on Thursday. I want to know how many of them and which ones came to the cookshop on Saturday.”

  Bell’s frustration grew as he realized that if Bertrild had been killed by someone who could not or would not permit more extortion, that man would not have bothered to go to the cookshop to make a payment Saturday morning.

  “Don’t remember,” Borc muttered. “Mistress Bertrild told me where to go and I went. She didn’t tell me any names. Show me the men, and I’ll say if I remember their faces.”

  Borc smiled when he said that, and Bell barely refrained from gritting his teeth and exposing how important the information was. Bell knew Borc understood it was safe enough to offer to identify the men if Bell brought them before him. Obviously, if he didn’t know who the men were, he couldn’t bring them for Borc to examine.

  Instead of expressing his rage, however, Bell sighed ostentatiously and pointed out that if Borc thought he could continue the extortion, he was mistaken. No one would believe him against the word of rich merchants and, besides, the men were dangerous.

  “If you didn’t kill Bertrild, don’t you realize it must have been one of them? Yes, you’re a witness with important information. I’ll stick you in protective custody until the sheriff’s men can beat a sworn statement out of you.”

  He gestured to his man-at-arms, who jerked Borc to his feet. Tom Watchman stepped back, and the man-at-arms who had come to fetch Bell and had followed him up the stairs stepped around him and grasped Borc’s other arm.

  “Wait,” the man whined. “Wait. Don’t be so stinkin’ mean. Let me go around one more time. They can all afford a few pennies more. Then I’ll tell you, I swear I will.”

  “Hmmm,” Bell said, as if he was considering what Borc said. “Show me some good faith. Tell me something else. You came to London with Bertrild’s father, Gervase de Genlis, didn’t you? So you knew most of Gervase’s friends and tenants?”

  “Well, most of the tenants. Can’t say I knew his friends. I may have seen them, but—” he snickered “—Lord Gervase wouldn’t want them to know how close we were.”

  “Did you know a man called Saeger?”

  Bell was looking Borc straight in the face when he said the name, but then let his glance wander so Borc should not attach too much importance to the question. Before he looked away, he saw a frown of thought and honest puzzlement; there was no sly shifting of the eyes or twisting of the lips. Bell judged that Borc was willing to please by answering questions about life in Hampshire in the hope that his cooperation would mitigate his treatment at the hands of whoever would imprison him.

  “Saeger,” he repeated. “You know, it does sound like I heard that name somewhere, but it just don’t come to mind. But I’ll tell you this. If I get knocked around, it’s sure to get rattled right out of my skull.”

  “That depends on how hard they hit you,” Bell said. “If it’s hard enough, I think the name might get hammered right in so you don’t forget again. How about Perekin FitzRevery?”

  “Him I do know,” Borc answered, promptly and easily, his gaze suddenly steady.

  Bell almost laughed at Borc’s expression. That in itself was a banner waving in warning. In addition, Bell detected a flicker of the eyelids, a tightening of the corners of the mouth that betrayed the intention of keeping some secret.

  Still Bell asked with interest, “What do you know about FitzRevery?”

  “Had a farm on the west side of the Itchen. Ah…let me think…. Hamble, that’s what it’s called. Nice farm. In the family for years.” Suddenly Borc’s mouth twitched, as if he realized Bell was not convinced of his truthfulness. He looked down, and
tears began to leak from his eyes again. “Good years when we were out there,” he muttered. “Good years. But I was hot to come to London when Lord Gervase decided to leave Moorgreen. I thought I would find wonders in London. Wonders. Look at me now.”

  “No, thank you!” Bell said. “It is no pleasure.” And then to the men-at-arms. “Put a rope around his neck before you take him down the stairs. If he wants to jump and hang himself, that can be as he wills, but don’t let him get away. I will meet you at the justiciar’s house on Gracechurch Street just south of the Cornhill road. Take him inside the gate, but not into the house. I do not believe that Master Octadenarius wants his house fumigated.”

  Bell thought of going back to the bishop’s house to get his palfrey, but decided the time he would save on the less-crowded streets would be offset by the time lost getting across the bridge and through the Chepe on horseback. He went down the stairs, ignoring Borc’s cries that he was now prepared to tell him anything if he would let him go afterward. Bell was sure Borc had managed to think up a half dozen names, possibly even names Bertrild had mentioned, but not those from whom he had collected money. He would talk just as freely or more freely after a few days in prison.

  As ever, when he reached the bridge, Bell’s gaze passed down the street to where he could just make out the wall of the Old Priory Guesthouse. His lips twitched as he recalled Magdalene’s hurry to get him out of her bedchamber. He had been grateful at the time for her thoughtful protection of his reputation. Second thought had exposed her clever device and associated that rush with the documents he had left strewn on her table.

  His lips twisted again but with understanding, not amusement.

  Her eagerness to keep the documents was not for her own sake or even Sabina’s. Magdalene was a good friend. No “out of sight, out of mind” for her. Despite the fact that William of Ypres would never have known of Gervase de Genlis’s records, she would glean whatever might be useful to Ypres from them—just as she had made sure Ypres would know when and where the papal messenger’s pouch would be discovered. She was fiercely loyal, yet she was not Lord William’s woman. She could and sometimes did take other men into her bed.