“I will gladly replace them or pay for them,” she said. “I wish to write to the king and protest the forged betrothal.” Then she drew a determined breath and added, “I will tell him not only that I can sign my own name and do not need to mark an X, but that I could never have agreed to such a proposal because I am already betrothed to Niall Arvagh of Murcot.”
“But—” Magdalene began to protest.
The door slammed open and William of Ypres stood in it, looking from one woman to the other. He then examined Loveday more closely, walking up to her and then around her, very much as if she were a mare, then teetering back and forth, heels to toes.
“All right,” he said, “so it isn’t your face that’s in question, it’s the lands. What are you worth, girl? Do you know?”
“To the penny, Lord William,” Loveday snapped back, her voice a feminine echo of his flat, practical tone, a flush of irritation brightening her eyes.
Magdalene bit her lip and went to close the door.
“Well?” William asked.
Lips thinned with anger, Loveday told him.
He shook his head. “Nice,” he said. “Just what Niall needs, but not worth Waleran’s interest. Not worth mine either, except…who is this St. Cyr?”
“I have no idea. I had never seen him nor heard of him before he appeared at my manor.”
William snorted. “You saw him then, girl. He was threatening to marry you. You refused. Why?”
“He stank!”
Magdalene stifled a giggle as William rolled his eyes heavenward. “She doesn’t understand what you want, William,” she said. “Loveday, what Lord William needs to know is why Waleran de Meulan should take enough interest in St. Cyr to drop a wealthy orphan in his hand. Was the man French? Was he a man of birth who had fallen into low estate? What did you observe that might help us understand why Lord Waleran chose him?”
“He wasn’t French,” Loveday replied immediately, interest replacing irritation in her face now that she understood where Lord William’s questions were leading. “I told my steward in French to get several menservants to drive the creature away, and he didn’t understand me. As to fallen into low estate? I cannot be so sure of that, but I think not.” She shook her head. “There was something about him that shouted lowborn.’ There are things one does not unlearn, no matter how drunk and dirty fate makes one. His English was coarse, he never learned that on any manor. The way he used his hands to gesture—”
William nodded abruptly, cutting off her description. “All right, then the man was nothing and no one and there is no open reason for Waleran to offer him a prize. I need to take Niall’s warning then, that the clerk and the whole accursed business might be designed to show me as eager to frustrate Waleran no matter how harmless his action. I cannot show myself in this.”
“But if Niall appealed to you as his master?” Magdalene asked. “Could you carry a protest from Loveday to the king?”
“What has she to protest? Niall said something about a betrothal agreement—”
“A forgery!” Loveday exclaimed. “I can read and write. I would not sign my name with an X. Beyond that, how could I agree to a new betrothal when I am already betrothed?”
“What?” William scowled. “To whom?”
“To Niall,” Loveday said.
It was the second time Magdalene had heard the claim and she believed it no more this time than the first. Still, she had taken a strong liking to Loveday of Otmoor. Few maidens, herself included, would have stood up to William of Ypres as Loveday had. So Magdalene tried to keep her face bland and blank as if this were old news of an established fact.
Meanwhile, William blinked at Loveday, then shook his head in a dazed way. “No. Niall would have told me. Woman, what are you about?”
Loveday met his eyes steadily. “It is a very long story, going back to before my father’s death. Since I know Niall was in a hurry, likely he thought the tale of our betrothal could wait. It has waited more than four years, a few days longer would not matter.”
“But when I first told him to court you—”
“Did he say he didn’t know me?”
“No. No, he didn’t. He said ‘Loveday,’ and then smiled—” William laughed. “I thought he was smiling at the name, but that clever devil was having a little joke at my expense.”
“Not a joke, my lord,” Loveday said, smiling now. “He was going to impress you with his charm and ability. He was going to ride back and say everything was settled and then you and his companions would admire his address with women—”
“Phah!”
William exclaimed. “So when did this betrothal take place?”
“I am not very sure exactly when, but it must have been nearly four years ago. Six years ago my brother and Niall’s sister were married. Less than nine months later, they were both killed in a stupid accident. At first we were all too shocked and grieved to do anything but mourn, but about a year later when my father had recovered, he decided that he was still in favor of uniting the families, so he spoke to Sir Brian about renewing the bond by joining Niall to me. It took some time for my father and Sir Brian to come to terms. Sir Brian had the better birth, but my father could afford a good dowry. I gave my approval, but to tell the truth I do not know whether Niall was even in the shire at that time.”
“Well, if you have the document—”
“Alas, there is no document. It was a word-of-honor agreement. The priest was supposed to write it all down, but within a week or two of the final agreement, possibly while a messenger was seeking Niall, the plague struck. My father and my two remaining brothers died.” Her voice wavered and tears filled her eyes. “The priest died too.”
“Then it is not so easy. I have only your word…”
“Sir Brian Arvagh will remember, as soon as Niall can get to Murcot and mention it to him.”
“I am sure he will,” William said with great solemnity, although the laugh lines around his eyes were crinkled.
“Then I will write to the king—in my own hand—to protest this false betrothal. I will explain the whole case. My steward and the other old servants will also bear witness. Can I send this letter to you, my lord? To what place? At what time? Will you bring it to the king?”
He stared at her hard, then nodded. “Write. I will send a messenger to pick up the document tomorrow morning.” Then he turned to Magdalene, who had been standing silent near the door. “Magdalene, come with me. I want a word or two with you.”
They went out together, and William pulled the first woman standing by a curtained alcove into the corridor. “Out,” he said. “Magdalene will pay you later.” Then he pushed Magdalene in and a moment later followed her, his hand on his knife hilt.
“What is it?” Magdalene asked anxiously. “Did I do so wrong in taking Loveday into my care?”
For once William’s voice was low enough that only someone with an ear pressed to the curtain could hear him. “I don’t know yet about that,” he said, “but you know something about that betrothal that I don’t. I saw it in your face when she first claimed to be troth bound to Niall.”
Magdalene smiled, but she couldn’t help being a little annoyed. Her bland expression had not fooled William. Again his bluff face had made her forget his keen mind…and he knew her at least as well as she knew him, possibly better. Doubtless he had watched her more carefully over the years, still unsure of how much he could trust a whore.
“Oh, that,” Magdalene said. “She’s no more betrothed to Niall than I am, but I didn’t say anything because it doesn’t matter a bit. She’s quite determined to have him, and I suspect there are few things that Loveday of Otmoor wants that she cannot get. The servants will all swear just as she says—they would swear that the sky was green and the moon blue if she asked.”
William nodded. “And Sir Brian will swear the same—unless he’s mad. From what Niall has told me, the Arvaghs are poor as mice. I doubt Sir Brian will cavil over the girl’s birth or whether or not she and Niall were betrothed four years ago when she brings rich lands with her.”
“And William, she’s a nice girl. Do you remember the man you choked last night?”
“Filthy sot.”
“That was the man Waleran sent to Loveday.”
William stared at her, blinking and blinking. “How do you know that?”
“Sir Ferrau—the man who rushed out and begged you not to kill the one you were throttling—when he first tried to make that drunk let go of me, called him Aimery. Niall said he beat this St. Cyr unconscious. And Loveday says St. Cyr’s given name was Aimery. How many Aimerys all bruised and broken are likely to be in Oxford at this moment?”
“I see. Well, first I’ll set Giles to discovering whether Waleran has any relationship to the girl or wants her lands. They are in a good place, I must say. I would like very much to have a loyal man of mine perched just a bit out of the way but near enough to Oxford to come down in force if needed. It was why I sent Niall out to speak to the girl so soon. Or could Waleran just have taken a hate to her? No, that’s impossible. Who was her father?”
“Joseph of Otmoor. He was a breeder and shearer of sheep. Otmoor has perfect grazing for sheep, according to Loveday. But he’s been dead for at least four years.”
William shook his head in puzzlement. “This whole business grows more ridiculous by the moment. I almost cannot believe it happened at all, but Niall is not given to imagining battles, nor were the knife slashes he bore figments of his mind. Still, before I act on Loveday’s letter, I must know whether Waleran is bent on some revenge against her. If not—” his mouth grew grim and hard “—that filth St. Cyr was deliberately chosen to force me to interfere.”
He shrugged and put out a hand to pull the curtain aside. Magdalene slid in front of him to come out into the hallway first. She looked both ways into an empty corridor. “Be careful, William,” she said over her shoulder, and pulled the curtain farther aside for him to pass.
“You always say that to me.” He laughed. “It makes me feel pleasantly like a young fool,” he said, and bent to give her a firm kiss on the lips.
“Will you come back tonight?”
A shadow darkened the front doorway as she asked. William turned away from her, his hand on his sword hilt, unable to see who it was against the light. But his laugh had alerted his guard, and they came out of the common room. William turned back to Magdalene.
“No. I will linger in the Court tonight, dropping St. Cyr’s name here and there. I hope this is all some kind of mistake…”
He turned away on the uncertain word and strode toward the door. Whoever had come in had wisely stepped into the common room to be out of the way. Magdalene stood looking after William, her brows creased in a worried frown. The whole business was unbelievable. Great lords like Waleran de Meulan and William of Ypres did not contest over a girl with a few farms and a few flocks of sheep.
“I see you have enough company without me,” a tight voice snarled almost in her ear.
Magdalene jumped. “Oh, Bell, I’m so glad to see you,” she said, paying no attention to his voice or the lips thinned over the other bed in the room. “She is an innocent maiden, and you are a vigorous and noisy—if most enjoyable—lover.”
“She will learn something then. If you won’t give me a bed tonight, I won’t have one.”
“Oh, I’ll share my bed. I just wanted to warn you that there will be a listener. You are often so coy about…ah…country matters.”
He made a face. “Just how innocent is the maiden?”
“I believe she is still a virgin, but
she
says she’s not innocent at all, after attending to the breeding needs of her manor for four years. But come and meet her yourself.”
Bell rose without reluctance and they started for the door to Magdalene’s chamber but were caught as they came out of the whore’s room by a hard-eyed if pretty woman.
“You owe me,” she said to Magdalene. “The man said you’d pay me for the use of my room.”
“Yes, of course,” Magdalene said, and then to Bell, “Give her a penny, please. I don’t have my purse with me.”
Without question Bell felt in his purse and drew out a silver penny, which he handed over. The woman smiled up at him. “I’m Geneva,” she said. “If your lady here is too busy with Lord William, I’ll be glad to make a place for you.”
“That won’t be necessary, I’m sure,” Bell said coldly.
“One can never tell,” the whore insisted, smiling more broadly. “Remember, I’m Geneva.”
Magdalene was annoyed, not so much because Geneva had reminded Bell that Lord William had precedence—that was all to the good, Bell needed reminding—but because the interest in the whore’s eyes was not wholly financial. A man attractive to a whore was
very
attractive. She found Bell so, but hadn’t thought about other women. Cold washed over her. Could
she
be jealous? She was saved from having to answer that question by finding Loveday reading over two closely written pages and biting her lip uncertainly.
“I hope there are no lies in the writing that will be too easy to point out,” Magdalene said with raised brows.
Loveday’s glance flicked from her to Bell, and she looked angry. “Not another suitor!” she exclaimed.
Magdalene laughed. “No, no. You are growing spoiled. This one is mine… I think. His name is Sir Bellamy of Itchen.”
“And I am not in the market for a wife,” Bell said, and then asked, “Were you really reading that?”
“Yes, and I wrote it, too,” Loveday snapped. “It is my complaint to the king about being threatened with a forged betrothal agreement when I was already betrothed. And an apology for not making clear to the clerk who made me the king’s ward that I was betrothed. No one asked me, and I was so distraught over my father’s and brothers’ deaths that I did not think of it. Then Niall was away with Lord William and I was so busy learning to manage the estate that I forgot.”
“Will it hold together?” Magdalene asked.
Loveday handed her the two sheets of parchment. “Read it over and see for yourself. I will have to buy more parchment for you. I used all you had.”
Bell sat down on the stool across from Loveday and asked her a question about where her lands lay with respect to Oxford, and Magdalene also sat down and began to read. The document was very well put together and quite moving, when Loveday expressed her pain and grief over the death of her menfolk and her bewildered confusion as she tried to keep her lands from falling into disorder. She thanked the king most humbly for acting on the petition of her father’s friend Reinhardt Hardel, the London wool merchant, to acknowledge her as her father’s only heir and take her into ward to protect her. She explained her shock and terror when Aimery St. Cyr told her he had permission to marry her and she realized her terrible oversight in not telling the king’s clerk of her prior betrothal to Sir Niall Arvagh of Murcot.