Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (13 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

BOOK: Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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He paused a moment, remembering the kindly old man who had seen his whole way of life reviled and taken from him and in the end had not let bitterness master him.
“But this crime has nothing to do with me,” he continued. “I’ve been away since I was fourteen. Nearly fifteen years, now. The few who remember me only knew the boy I was.”
Prior Richard considered this.
“Perhaps this deed has its beginnings in that time,” he said at last.
Edgar sat up straight. “But I did nothing!”
“I didn’t say that.” Richard held up his hands for silence. “But memories are long in the North and more than one man has been raised to avenge a wrong done to his father.”
Edgar had no refutation. He sipped his wine, idly reflecting from its quality that the prior must have connections in Burgundy.
That cup also crashed to the floor as Waldeve burst back into the room.
“What kind of monsters could have done this?” he shouted.
“You know who they are, don’t you? They paid you to keep silent. Tell me now, or I’ll choke it out of you!”
He grabbed the prior by the neck strings of his robe and began to pull them tight.
“Father!” Edgar moved to help, but he wasn’t needed. Prior Richard would not be moved.
“Take your hands off me, Lord Waldeve.” His voice was steady and menacing, his breathing labored as the strings tightened. “Or, for your ill treatment of this servant of God, Saint Andrew, Saint Cuthbert and Saint Wilfrid, I’ll curse you and your family to a fate that will make what has happened to you seem a blessing.”
He stood motionless, staring fearlessly into Waldeve’s fury. There was a long moment during which no one breathed. Then Edgar’s father released his grip. He looked away.
“Cursed,” he whispered. “I need no more disaster called down upon me. Not now. I am cursed enough.”
The prior adjusted his robe where Waldeve had crumpled it. Edgar could see him struggling to regain his composure. Finally, he spoke.
“Forgive me, Lord Waldeve,” he said. “My words grew from anger at your act. I was born, like you, to command, not serve. The hardest thing God has asked of me is humility.”
“Accepted,” Waldeve answered. “Now come with me and see what care you and the other servants of God have taken of my horses. Edgar, examine them. There must be something to tell us why they’re here.”
The horses were standing in the court in front of the church. Edgar felt a pang as he saw them, the finest horses his father owned, now reduced to almost comical figures. Somehow, the sight made him more angry than the death of his brothers. Men fought each other constantly here in the North. It was part of life and Alexander and Egbert and even young Edgar had been trained for it. But the horses had done nothing to be so abused. Their dignity had been taken from them. Someone wanted to humiliate the lord of Wedderlie as much as they wanted to destroy him.
For the first time since Robert told him the news in France, Edgar found himself truly compelled to discover the reason for all this. There had to be an answer.
What had his father done to create this kind of enemy? And, even more, how much farther would this enemy go?
It hit him with the force of a battering ram.
All the fighting men of Wedderlie were here. Apart from a few guards, there was no one left to defend the keep.
He had left his wife and son behind, thinking them safe.
Instead, he had left them unprotected from attack. Edgar felt a wave of panic. The danger at Wedderlie might be worse than that they had left Paris to escape.
The keep at Wedderlie. Friday, 14 kalends July (June 18), 1143. Summer
solstice and the feast of Saint Gemma, who preferred losing her life to losing
her chastity.
 
 
Ne thœt aglœca ylden thote,
ac he gefeng hraðe forman siðe
slœpendne rinc, slat unwearnum,
bat banlocan, blod edrum dranc
synsnœdum swealh; Sona hœfde
unlyfignendes eal gefeormod,
fet ond folma.
 
 
That demon thought not of delay
but first swiftly snatched
a warrior sleeping unaware,
bit off his limbs, drank his blood,
swallowed great chunks; Soon he had
consumed all the corpse,
feet and hands.
 
—
Beowulf
, 11.739—744
 
 
T
he clouds lay over the land, diffusing the sunlight so that the he clouds lay over the land, diffusing the sunlight so that the colors of the world were muted into shades Catherine had never known existed. The fog lifted slowly, the light breaking through here and there in sudden stabs of gold. She had no idea of the hour. From far away there were bells but they might have been for anything from Matins, in the middle of the night, to Prime, just after dawn. The sun hadn’t done more than dip below the edge of the sky for the past two days. It one sense, it was beautiful. In another, the strange light only intensified the feeling that this was a place not wholly of the earth.
“It seems that the fog would lift and reveal fairies, dancing by the river.” Solomon appeared next to her at the window; he wore only his tunic and his black curls were tousled from sleep. Catherine leaned against him, so sure and familiar.
“I’d like to see that,” she said softly.
“So would I.” He grinned. “The stories all agree that they dance naked.”
The world became real again.
“What are you doing up so early?” Catherine asked him. “James woke me a while ago, wanting his breakfast, but he barely managed to finish before he was back asleep. I’ve heard no one else stirring.”
“The light pulled me from sleep, I think. Or perhaps it was the dream.” His voice became serious again. “I thought I heard someone weeping, calling for help with no hope of anyone hearing. I could almost taste their tears.”
Catherine turned his chin down so that she could see his face. Solomon met her eyes. She saw no laughter in his look. He wasn’t teasing her with a dramatic tale. But it wasn’t like him to be bothered by dreams.
“Do you think it’s a warning?” She tried to keep her voice calm.
He shrugged. “Do I look like Joseph? I can’t interpret dreams. I only know that I didn’t want to stay in bed any longer with the memory of it.”
“Perhaps it’s only the quiet,” Catherine said. “Now that Sibilla and Anna and their women have left, as well as most of the men, the hallways echo with emptiness. The only guards left are the few from the village. A dropped boot sounds like the tread of a hundred soldiers.”
She sighed. “I wish Edgar would come back. I wish we could go home.”
Solomon put his arm around her. “He’ll return soon. In the meantime, I need to continue my negotiations with Robert and his friends. The Flemish are already establishing themselves in settlements here. They’ll control the wool trade completely if I can’t convince the natives that we can offer them more in return.”
“I can’t imagine you as a merchant.” Catherine shook her head. “When you go off on your journeys, I always believe you’re battling pirates and dragons all day and spending your nights in disreputable inns.”
“All inns are disreputable,” Solomon assured her. “But I do my best to avoid dragons and pirates. I have enough trouble with ordinary bandits and pretty girls with ugly fathers and brothers. Trade is what I do, Catherine. It’s not noble, but it is useful. And I need to be good at it. We’re being driven out of every other occupation. The extra tithes on Jews and the laws controlling us grow stronger every year.”
“I know,” she said, but Catherine didn’t want to hear it. To her the answer was simple; Solomon should become a Christian. But the only times she had ever seen him truly angry were when she had tried to convince him to convert.
It was safer to change the subject.
“What do you think of my stepmother-in-law?” she asked.
“I think she’s the saddest woman I have ever met,” he answered. “Perhaps it was she who cried in my dream.”
Catherine nodded. “I can’t imagine anyone being happy married to Waldeve. I wonder what Edgar’s mother was like. Edgar doesn’t remember her at all.”
“The people of the village could probably tell us,” Solomon said. “I wish we spoke the language. It’s not that far from German, but just enough that I can’t follow what they say. I know they’re gossiping
about us. I can hear them whispering behind me every time I pass.”
“I don’t mind that,” Catherine said. “It’s the feeling that everyone but us knows what’s going on. I just can’t believe that Waldeve could have made such a vicious enemy and not know who it is.”
“I can’t either,” Solomon said. “Do you feel that you’ve been thrust blindfolded into the center of a storm?”
Catherine sighed. “Ever since I left Paris.”
“Don’t you think we should start finding out what direction the storm is blowing from?”
“Yes,” Catherine said. “And, most important, if it is anything that can hurt Edgar.”
“For once, we agree.” Solomon laughed. “Now, how do we do it without understanding the language?”
Catherine considered. “Margaret.”
“That child? What can she do?”
“Speak both French and English,” Catherine said. “And also, the people of the village know her and treat her kindly. I’ve watched. I think they pity her.”
Solomon considered this. “Pity? Why? Her lot is no worse than others of her class and a damn long way better than that of a peasant.”
“I don’t know the answer to that, either,” she answered. “But I see it in their eyes. Yes, I’ll take Margaret into the village with me today. Is Robert coming here?”
“Yes, Adalisa will translate for me.” He yawned. “You know, I think I could manage another stretch of sleep, after all.”
“Go on, then.” Catherine gave him a push. “I think I’ll watch the fog a little longer.”
She stood watching the swirls for some time, feeling that she was half in a dream already. Then she blinked, blinked again and leaned dangerously far out of the window, trying to make out the thing she had seen.
“What is that?” She breathed. It was huge, whatever it was. She could make out no shape, only a dark mass, undulating across the road. It seemed to be made of the skins of a dozen animals. Antlers poked out the front and it had what looked like a unicorn horn. As she watched it paused and gave out a roar that should have brought people tumbling from their homes.
Nothing.
Catherine tried to call out, but could only gasp like a fish on the
riverbank. As she watched in horror, the thing lurched on and vanished into the forest.
She closed her eyes. “Saint Maurice and all your soldiers, protect me from that thing,” she whispered.
The ribands of fog curled around the place where the monster had disappeared.
Just a few years ago Catherine would have run out to investigate. She would have unbolted the door, gone down the stairs shoeless, across the bridge of the motte, slid under the portcullis and been out in the road hunting for the trail of the beast before it had time to vanish completely.
Now, she told herself, she was learning caution and good sense.
In her mind there was a phantom sniff of disbelief from the voices of the convent.
Very well, she was learning to be more circumspect before raising the household with tales of monsters in the morning mist.
She tried to remember exactly what she had seen. The image was hard to recapture, distorted by the variations on sunlight and fog. There seemed to be a head, the end with all the antlers. Did it have feet? She couldn’t recall. It had moved in a slithery fashion, like a giant serpent, only with fur.
Oh, dear, she could just imagine what Solomon would say to that.
Was it real or had she imagined it? Was it a dream conjured out of Edgar’s Saxon tales? The great monster living in the lake, for instance. Saint Columba was supposed to have exorcised it centuries ago, but Edgar said it still lurked in the dark water. Could this be a land-bound cousin to that demon?
“Logic, Catherine,” she told herself. “Think rationally. Organize the information. Form a clear and reasoned hypothesis.”
She could almost hear Mother Heloise standing next to her, leading her through her lessons.
“I must get down there and examine the ground,” she decided. “If it left tracks, it was real. If it was a demon, then I can only hope God will protect me.”
Her clothes were all in the women’s rooms. Catherine looked around as she hurried down to the door. There was a cord hanging on a hook that she could use to belt her shift, and a clean tablecloth that she could use to cover her head, as was proper to a married woman.
There was no hope of finding shoes.
At the last moment, she also snatched up something to defend herself with.
No one noticed her as she took the bar off the door and went down the steps. The only sign of the guards at the gate was their snores. Catherine was both relieved and chagrined to see that the portcullis hadn’t been completely lowered the night before. There was enough space to go under if she crouched.
Catherine did spare a glance of disgust at the sleeping guards. These people were in charge of protecting her child? Better to arm Willa.
The pebbles in the pathway bruised her feet. Catherine went as quickly as possible down through the collection of huts and then stepped onto the soft verge, damp with dew.
Now, where had the thing come out of the wood? She walked more slowly now. Nothing that big could pass without leaving a trace.
There. Clear as if an army had come through. Catherine pushed back the torn branches of a fir tree, hoping to see the trail leading back to the monster’s lair. There was nothing but a deep depression in the ground, wildflowers squashed flat. Their scent rose to greet her.
Catherine puzzled over this. Had the thing been lying in wait and then, lacking prey, got up again? She moved to the other side of the road, noting how the dirt had been disturbed and the ruts of the cartwheels dented.
So, it had crossed here, just as she had seen. And vanished among the trees.
Catherine hesitated. What if it were still there? What if it attacked her?
I shouldn’t be doing this, she thought. If I’m killed, what will happen to my child?
Still, she peered into the forest, looking for a glimpse of the monster as it retreated, she hoped.
The branches shook. Catherine leapt back to the other side of the road. She raised her weapon as the leaves parted.
Two women came out of the woods. They were carrying baskets of strawberries. When they saw Catherine, they screamed and then threw themselves face down on the grass.
Catherine started toward them, to help them up. She stopped as
both women began chanting at her, loudly, holding the berries out before them.
“Ic on sunu thinne sodne gelyfe
hœlenda cyning, hider asende …”
What were they doing? Catherine froze. Was it some sort of curse they were setting on her? Would it help to run? She was willing to try.
The women went on, neither one looking up.
“ … thone Gabriel, godes œrendraca,
sanctan Marian sylfre gebodode … .”
Wait. Those words sounded familiar.
“Sanctan Marian?”
Oh, no.
Now Catherine did run. Those women had taken her for an apparition of the Holy Virgin Mary. Horrible! She was much more afraid of committing sacrilege than being cursed. She prayed she would be out of sight before the women dared to lift their eyes. How could they have made such a foolish assumption?
“How do you think, Catherine? Look at yourself! You should be ashamed.”
The voices of the convent pierced through the thumping of her heart. She slid under the portcullis again, took the steps three at a time and, landing inside the doorway, barred it shut and leaned on it, gasping for breath.
Then she looked at herself: bare feet, white shift, a blue tablecloth over her head and, worse and worse, in her hands a sword left behind by Anna’s son. It was a very simple toy, just two strips of wood lashed together. It looked very much like a cross.
She dropped it guiltily. It clattered on the stone threshold.

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