Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (11 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

BOOK: Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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“That makes sense,” Catherine admitted.
“And, more important,” Edgar continued, “I want you to stay because my father won’t be here.”
“Oh … oh, yes!” Catherine understood. “I can be of help, then, can’t I? People will speak more freely if he’s not here. Little Margaret can translate for me.”
“Yes,
carissima,
you can.” Thank the saints he had married such a perceptive woman!
He kissed her in gratitude and she returned it, for love’s sake, but she wasn’t through with him.
“Now that that is settled,
carissime
,” she whispered seductively. “You can explain to me why you never told me that your proud
Saxon father took a French woman for his second wife and moreover, why you never mentioned that absolutely adorable little sister.”
“Ah.” Edgar bit his upper lip. “That’s a long story. Do you think it could wait until morning?”
He kissed her again and started working his way down the side of her neck, fumbling with the strings of her
chainse
. Catherine cursed him silently and then herself, for she knew she was going to let herself be persuaded.
Anyway, she considered, morning came very early this far north.
 
But even dawn wasn’t soon enough for Waldeve. It was still the grey of constant summer twilight when everyone was rousted out.
Algar woke Edgar with an apologetic shake of the bed curtains that set the rings rattling.
“My lord requests that you be ready to leave within the hour,” he told Edgar.
Edgar stared at him blearily. “What the hell hour is it?” he asked.
“I heard the bells at the monastery ring for Matins not long ago. I haven’t heard Lauds rung, yet.”
“Saint Servanus’s risen pig!” Edgar roared. “Even the birds are still asleep, man!”
As if to flout him, at that moment a cock crowed. Edgar swore again, but swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
“Catherine.” He pushed at the coverlet. “Catherine?”
She wasn’t there. He vaguely remembered her climbing over him some time ago, but this was a normal nightly activity. She had always returned before.
Algar coughed. “Um, Lord Edgar, I believe your wife is already down in the hall, preparing your things for the journey.”
Edgar frowned. That was so like what an obedient, dutiful wife would do that it made him nervous. In any case, it appeared that he was doomed to stay awake.
The half light of a midsummer morning tended to muffle vision rather than clarify it. There were shapes moving about in the hall and more in the courtyard, but they all appeared the same. Edgar found Solomon first by tripping over him.
“What are you doing still on the floor?” Edgar asked.
“I was sleeping,” Solomon answered. “I’m not going anywhere, so there seemed no reason to leave my bed, such as it is. Obviously I was mistaken.”
He let Edgar help him up. Together they went out into the misty air.
“I’m glad you’ll be here with Catherine,” Edgar said.
“I knew you’d appreciate me sooner or later,” Solomon answered.
Edgar gave him a worried glance.
“The two of you aren’t planning something, are you?” he asked.
Solomon laughed. “Don’t worry,
vieux compang
. I’m staying because your brother and I have some ideas about the wool trade we want to explore. It’s good that your stepmother can translate. Why didn’t you tell us she was French?”
Edgar shrugged, then his attention turned. “There you are!” he said in relief.
He hurried toward Catherine.
Catherine was shaking out his heavy cloak from his pack so that it could be refolded and repacked. It seemed a pointless task to Edgar but he had learned that women do such things. The scorn shown him when he asked had taught him to accept that it was part of the arcane feminine rituals that even Catherine excluded him from.
Catherine looked up at his shout and waved them closer.
“I’ve almost finished,” she told them. “The packhorse we bought in Berwick is loaded and your father says you’re to find your old saddle for the other one. Do you know where it is?”
“It wasn’t in the stables when I was last here,” Edgar answered. “It must have been put in the storeroom. I’ll get a lantern and go look.”
Adalisa had come up in time to overhear the last of this conversation.
“No, Edgar,” she said at once. “You’ll never find it amidst all the barrels of provisions. I’ll send Algar.”
“That’s all right,” Edgar told her. “Algar is busy with his own work. I’m sure I can find it.”
“No!” she said, so sharply that they jumped. “I don’t want you rummaging around upsetting things. Algar can be spared for a few minutes.”
She went off to see to it, leaving the other three staring at each other in confusion.
“I’m sure all the turmoil here has upset her,” Catherine hazarded. “All this coming and going as well as the strain of grief …”
Edgar looked after her. “I suppose so,” he said slowly. “Solomon, don’t leave Catherine and James alone for a moment. Promise me.”
“Of course not,” Solomon assured him. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to us here.”
“That’s right; we’ll be fine,” Catherine agreed. “It’s you who needs to be careful. It’s your family that someone has attacked.”
Edgar forbore mentioning that it was now her family, too. Perhaps it wasn’t, though. The events of the evening before had made him doubt that it was even his family anymore.
“Catherine,” he began.
She looked at him, then looked down quickly, but it was too late. He had seen the terror in her eyes.
“Come with me,” he said.
She shook her head without raising it. “No, it’s best, if I stay here,” she said softly. “Imagine taking your wife and child in a war party. James and I will be safer here.”
She started fussing with the mail shirt they had found for him, settling it so that the links didn’t stick into his tunic. Edgar took her hands.
“I’m not going to get myself killed,” he said.
“Of course not.” Her lip trembled.
“Oh,
carissima.”
He held her close, oblivious of the people bustling around them. “I am so sorry. I never should have brought you here.”
“Do you think I’d worry less in Paris?” Catherine reminded herself that this was women’s fate, to wait and worry. Her job was not to make his harder. But she hated it. She hated everything about it.
“I see no glory in battle,” she told him. “But if you must fight to save yourself, then do it. Anything you must do to return safely to us. Promise me.”
Edgar smiled down at her. “With pleasure, my love. I have strong beliefs about keeping my skin whole.”
“Saint Drostin’s dripping tears, Edgar! Kiss her good-bye and get your ass in the saddle or I’ll have you tied to it!”
Edgar clenched his teeth.
“I’m coming, Father,” he said.
He turned back to Catherine. She put her hand over his mouth.
“I don’t know what he said,” she told him. “But it’s clear he wants you to go. There’s no sense in making this worse.”
He kissed her good-bye and mounted his horse.
The sun was hanging just over the horizon as they left the castle. They threaded their way down and across the motte, between the tumble of huts and onto the road.
The morning grew warmer as they rode south, toward the Roman wall. Edgar was just considering taking off his leather mail shirt when they rounded a bend and were brought up short by a force of ten men strung across the road and into the woods, all in mail and helmets. Their swords were drawn. Edgar clutched at his knife.
Waldeve let out a roar.
“About time you got here! Saint Macarius’s maiden mare! What took you so long?”
“My Lord Bishop didn’t want to spare me,” the leader answered, pulling off his helmet. “It took some time to convince him that filial obligation came before my vows to him. Now, Father, I’m at your service.”
Edgar closed his eyes. Life had just become infinitely worse.
His brother Duncan had come home.
The road to Hexham. Wednesday, 16 kalends July (June 16), 1143.
Commemoration of Saint Julitte, martyred for being Christian, and her son,
Cyrus, age three, martyred for kicking the Roman governor in the stomach.
 
 
Est in Northanhymbrorum provincia, haud procul a Tine flumine, ad
austrum site, villa quœdam, nunc quidem modica, et raro cultore habitata,
sed, ut antiquitatis vestigia tenantur, quondam ampla et magnifica.
Hœc … Hestild vocatur.
 
 
There is, in the province of Northumbria, not at all far from the River
Tyne, on the east side, a certain village, now rather ordinary, and
sparsely inhabited, but it holds the traces of antiquity, at one time
important and magnificent. This is called Hexham.
 
—Richard of Hexham,
History of the Church of Hexham,
Capitual I
 
 
D
uncan grinned at the stupefied expressions of his family. The grin grew wider as he recognized Edgar.
“Baby brother!” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe they would bother to drag you back home. Father must truly be desperate. What do you intend to do, preach our enemies to death? Or has Father decided that our brothers were murdered by demons and sent for you to exorcise them?”
Edgar was too stunned to respond. He had tried very hard to forget the effect his brother Duncan had on him. But again he found himself feeling like a calf about to be slaughtered, listening to the scrape of the sharpening knife. He knew he should have fled, but now it was too late.
“Greetings, Brother,” he managed. “Are you coming with us to Hexham?”
If he wasn’t, Edgar intended to turned around now and hurry back to Wedderlie. He wouldn’t for all the world risk letting Catherine fend for herself in the same household with Duncan.
To his relief, Duncan nodded. “We were on our way here when word came to us that the horses had been found. So we decided to wait for you so that the family could arrive in force in case the canons should decide to fight.”
“Don’t mock, Nephew,” Æthelræd shouted. “This could be a trap. Do you want us to be caught unprepared?”
Duncan looked from Edgar to Æthelræd. His eyebrows raised at the sight of his uncle. He scanned the group of warriors, noting the familiar faces among Waldeve’s men-at-arms. Bastards, all of them, some his own. All tied to them by blood oaths as well as blood. He smiled his approval. “For once, Uncle, you make sense. Very good. The murderers will know we stand together. All but Robert, I see. Father, how did you dare to leave that plotting weasel behind?”
Waldeve snorted. “That
bœdling!
He can do no harm. I left him tilling his fields like a peasant. Adalisa knows better than to give him any control over my keep, and he hasn’t the
hangelles
to take it.”
Duncan smiled again, but said nothing. He knew that Wedderlie was as good as his now. To Edgar, that smile was a smirk of triumph and he longed to knock his elder brother sprawling in the dirt.
Their father was well aware of this. He looked from one son to the other with satisfaction, noting Edgar’s barely suppressed anger. About time he showed some, to Waldeve’s mind. This last son of his might turn out to be worth something, after all.
“Well, then,” Waldeve said. “If you’ve been waiting for us, you must be rested. Let’s waste no more time. We can be fording the Tyne by noon tomorrow.”
As they started off again, Edgar saw Duncan working his way back to where he and Æthelræd were riding.
“Stay near me, Uncle,” Edgar muttered, as his brother approached. “I want no trouble with him today.”
But Duncan was in a jovial mood. He reached out and gave Edgar a brotherly punch that nearly toppled him. Edgar winced, wondering if Duncan had read his thoughts, but said nothing.
“I can’t believe you’re back!” Duncan laughed. “We all thought you’d abandoned us for that French
galdricge
of yours. What happened? She discover just how much use clerks are in bed?”
Edgar bit his tongue. He took a deep breath. “My wife is quite well, thank you. I will give her your regards.”
“Maybe I’ll come over to France and give her more than that,” Duncan told him.
Edgar gave him a long, cool stare. If this were the best Duncan could do, perhaps his fear had been groundless. Still there was no need for him to know just how nearby Catherine was.
“Before you plan your visit, Duncan,” Edgar said, “I think we should finish the matter at hand. Who do you think killed our brothers?”
“How should I know?” Duncan shrugged. “I’ve been at Durham the past two years. Hardly home at all. Any feuds Alexander and Egbert began had nothing to do with me.”
“What about feuds that you began?” Edgar asked.
Duncan’s eyebrows raised.
“Me?” he said in surprise. “I have offended no man. I serve my
Lord Bishop faithfully. All I do is at his command. Who would wish to revenge themselves upon me?”
Æthelræd leaned across so that Duncan could see him. “What about the villagers of Durham town?” he asked.
Duncan bridled. “We did nothing there but collect the tithes due the bishop.”
“You burned their homes,” Æthelræd reminded him.
“At Bishop William’s orders,” Duncan insisted. “And only those belonging to the traitor archdeacon, Rannulf. Anyway, this deed wasn’t the work of villeins. How could they kill men with swords? Nor were the murders directed against me. If anything, I profit from them. No, look to our father’s sins, if you want reasons.”
Much as he hated to admit it, Edgar suspected that Duncan was right. But it would have given him such pleasure to lay the blame at his older brother’s door. Then he could stop all this pretense and go home with no qualms at all.
Wistfully, he wondered what Catherine was doing.
 
With the departure of the men, the atmosphere at Wedderlie lightened considerably. Grief was still with them, but now it could be attended to in the proper fashion, with prayers and weeping. Catherine’s sisters-in-law could give full vent to their suffering without being shouted into silence by Waldeve.
Sibilla, who had also lost her firstborn, refused consolation. She had sent word to her father that she was returning home and made preparations to do so.
“Don’t you think you should stay here?” Adalisa asked her, as she furiously packed. “Eadmer is safe for now with Earl Cospatrick, and by Norman custom he has a right to inherit as well as Duncan. You should fight for him.”
Sibilla didn’t pause.
“I intend to,” she said. “And the best way to do that is to return to my own kin. If you want to help me, just keep that old goat of yours alive long enough for Eadmer to reach his majority. As for me, I’m glad to be rid of the lot of you.”
Adalisa nodded. She expected no loyalty from Sibilla. The sons of Waldeve had never been known for their kindness to their wives. She wondered how Edgar had escaped being like the others. He must have done so, somehow, for Catherine’s devotion to him was obvious. Such love could not live with fear.
Adalisa felt the tears rise again and bit her lip. What would it be like to be married to a man one didn’t fear?
As she went down the stairs to the hall, Adalisa heard laughter, children’s laughter, mixed with growling and the barking of excited dogs. She came in to find her shy mouse of a daughter riding around the room on the back of Catherine’s cousin, Solomon, who was on all fours. They were chasing Catherine, who had tied her skirts up between her legs so that she could better evade them. Willa was sitting on the windowsill, bouncing the baby in her lap and watching the fun. The dogs were running circles around them all.
As she came in, Solomon caught up with his prey and they all went down, rolling on the floor.
“Margaret!”
Her daughter looked up. She saw the astonishment on Adalisa’s face and took it for disapproval. She hurriedly got to her feet, brushing the straw and dried flowers from her clothes.
“Mama, I’m sorry,” she spoke quickly. “Solomon was my bear and Catherine was the hunter and we were chasing her out of the forest.”
Solomon also rose, helping Catherine up with him.
“I apologize, my lady,” he said. “We were playing as we do at home. It was unforgivable to forget that this is a house of mourning.”
“Yes,” Catherine added. “It’s my fault. We should have taken the children out instead of disturbing my sisters-in-law.”
Adalisa shook her head.
“I don’t believe they heard you. I’m not angry, only surprised. Such behavior isn’t common here.”
Unfortunately,
she added to herself.
Catherine took her hand. “I can take all the children out to the meadow, if no one will object. Come with us. It’s such a beautiful day.”
“Is it?” When had Adalisa last noticed the weather? She couldn’t remember. “No, I have things to see to, but please enjoy yourselves. You’re guests here. There’s nothing you need to help with.”
As soon as they were safely away from the keep, Solomon looked at Catherine and raised his eyebrows.
“This is what our Edgar grew up in?” he asked. “Even the cloister must have been appealing by contrast.”
“I don’t think he spent much time here, even before he came to France,” Catherine answered. “He was sent first to the court of the
Scottish king and then to the cathedral school at Durham. But perhaps it’s only like this here because of the tragedy.”
“Cousin,” Solomon chided. “Two days at Wedderlie and I know that the real tragedy of this place is its lord. You know it, too.”
“Yes,” Catherine answered slowly. They were near the meadow now, the children running ahead. Willa had already spread out a blanket for James and was unwrapping him. “But look about you. For all his cruelty, Waldeve can’t be that hard a master. The village here is clean and the people seem strong and content, what I’ve seen of them.”
It occurred to her that she’d seen very few people near the keep, after the excitement of their arrival. Of course, this time of year, they were probably all working in the fields or with the flocks in the hills.
“The peasants seem better off than the masters,” Solomon admitted. “I’ve been in many strange lands, Catherine, but this unsettles me more than any other. It doesn’t look that different from home, but it feels alien, almost ensorcelled. Does that make any sense to you?”
“Yes,” Catherine said. “There’s some wrong here. Something in the roots of the place. I think Edgar feels very much the same.”
“I, for one, don’t care about finding out what it is or even who was responsible for the killings,” Solomon concluded. “I just want to finish my business and return to France as soon as possible.”
Catherine, feeling cold even in the bright sunshine, fervently agreed.
 
Edgar’s journey to Hexham was uneventful. Although banditry was rife in the area and they often heard scurryings in the woods that were too clumsy to be deer, the party wasn’t attacked. A force this strong and purposeful was in little danger from the outlaws of the forest. Only an army could have gone against them.
Speaking only English again seemed strange to Edgar at first, but as they went deeper into the country, the years in France began to fall away from him. He felt himself once more the little boy in awe of the warriors who controlled his universe, wishing with all his heart to be like them and bitterly resentful of his preordained fate. It was as if his wish had finally been granted. Here he was, riding with the
feolagscipe
of his family, to avenge their own. He felt powerful, dangerous, invincible.
He felt like a fool. A complete impostor. Still, for a moment, there had been a touch of glory.
As Waldeve had predicted, they reached Hexham late the next morning. They had taken advantage of the summer twilight to ride far into the night. The town was perched on several levels of rock and earth on the south bank of the Tyne. As they approached the ford, they could see the burnt remains of the carnage wrought by King David’s soldiers five years before, as they retreated back across the wall after their defeat at the Battle of the Standard. But on the other side of the river, within the ring of sanctuary crosses, the village had been spared.
The ruins in Hexham were old. Roman buildings destroyed by the Saxons; Saxon buildings destroyed by the Danes. Danish, now English, homes destroyed in William the Bastard’s harrying of the North seventy years before. Now new homes of timber lay within ancient boundary markers. Trees grew from the cracks in the stones of the courtyard at the old monastery. Pigs snuffled around the remnants of vines planted by homesick legionaries.
Normally a troop of twenty armed men would send the inhabitants of a village running to the keep for protection, but the people of Hexham only glanced at them and went on about their work.

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