Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (15 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

BOOK: Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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The saddles and blankets weren’t the best, and hadn’t been intended for fighting. The pommel and cantel were low to allow the rider to mount and dismount more quickly. They wouldn’t have provided support in a fight. The bridles were unadorned, except for Alexander’s. Edgar picked it up. The silver disk was clearly engraved with the seal of the king. Edgar studied it closely, with professional interest. He had once posed as a journeyman silversmith and the training period he had spent learning the craft had been one of the happiest times of his life.
It was crudely done, but the silver was good quality. There was no message scratched on it. Nothing at all to indicate who had taken
the horses and then returned them. Edgar hung the bridle back on its hook and stared at it in disgust. The metal jingled as it swung.
Edgar’s eyes narrowed. There was only one silver disk. Shouldn’t there be two, one on each side? He hadn’t spent much time learning horsemanship but he thought he knew that much. He examined the bridle again. Yes, how could he have neglected to notice the rough edge where the metal had snapped?
So now he knew that there was a piece missing. What of it? He’d ask if it had been lost before Alexander was killed, which was possible, but even if it had been taken by those who killed him what use was that to know? He could hardly hunt through the possessions of every man in the North for a bit of silver. Most likely, it had already been melted down and used for something else.
“Edgar! Where are you?” Waldeve was shouting from the courtyard. “Never around when you’re wanted. Get out here, boy!”
With a long sigh, Edgar went out to face his father. Now what?
Waldeve was putting on his riding gloves.
“These imbeciles know nothing,” he grumbled. “I’m leaving a few of the men here to watch, in case anything more happens. You come with me.”
“Are we going back to Wedderlie, then?” Edgar asked, hope rising.
“Hardly,” Waldeve said. “I’ve been talking with your brother. We need more help. I’m going to Durham.”
Durham?
“But why, Father?” Edgar ran after him as he strode out to the camp. “Isn’t there trouble there? They won’t be able to spare any men.”
“Cumin owes me,” Waldeve told him. “He’ll help or see even more trouble.”
“Shouldn’t someone go back to Wedderlie to see if all is well there?” Edgar asked.
“I’m sending someone,” Waldeve said. “No, not you, so you can put away that thought. I’ve never seen anyone so unnaturally attached to his wife. If she’s that good, I’ll try her, myself.”
Edgar’s fists clenched. Waldeve laughed.
“A joke, boy, just a joke.”
Edgar didn’t believe him. Waldeve continued.
“In any case, Duncan and I will take the rest of the men to Durham while you and your uncle head for York.”
“York? Why?” Edgar was becoming dizzy from the abrupt changes in direction.
“All right, Rievaulx, then,” Waldeve said. “If these fools here at Hexham know nothing, then maybe Robert’s friend can help us. He grew up here. He knows our family. I thought you’d been itching to see him since you got back.”
It was true. Even if he had Frenchified his name to Aelred, Edgar still wanted to see his old friend. And Aelred might know something that could help them solve this.
But Rievaulx was far to the south, that much farther from Catherine and James. They had come to Scotland because they wouldn’t be parted from him. Now they were as remote as if they’d stayed with Hubert in Paris. Had he taken them from one peril only to put them in a greater one?
“Once again, I’ve made the wrong decision.” He sighed. “Forgive me,
carissima.”
Wedderlie. Wednesday, 9 kalends July (June 23), 1143. Saint John’s Eve,
and the feast of Saint Æthelthrytha, Saxon queen, who was married twice,
yet died a virgin.
 
 
Heo wearð geuntrumod swa swa heo œr witegode
Swa that an geswel weox on hire swuran
mycel under that cynn-bane and heo swiðe thancode gode …
“Forðan the ic on iugoðe frœtwode minne swuran
mid mœnis-fealdum swur-beagum and me is nu gethuht
thœt godes arfœstnyss thone gylt aclœnsige.”
 
 
She was stricken with illness, as she had foretold
So that a swelling grew great on her throat
under the chinbone and she thanked God exceedingly …
“For in my youth I adorned my neck
with manifold neck jewels and now it seems to me
that God’s mercy may cleanse my guilt.”
 
Ælfric,
Homilies
,
“Life of St. Æthelthrytha,” 11 49—58
 
 
“
A
re you sure, Margaret?” Catherine asked again. “None of the people in the village has ever seen this creature?”
“Quite sure, Catherine,” Margaret answered. “They laughed at me when I asked.”
“I don’t understand,” Catherine said. “No one? Did you describe it?”
“Yes, Sister.” Margaret spoke slowly, wondering if her brother’s wife were a simpleton. “They say that you must have seen the men going down to the river to fish. The salmon rise to the surface at dawn and the fishing is good then.”
“Fishing?” Catherine was less sure than she had been two days ago. It had been foggy. Sheil nets and bob nets, with their rings and hooks, carried on the backs of men along with their small river boats, might have seemed like one great beast if the men had been very close together and wrapped in rough wool cloaks against the morning chill. Perhaps.
“But why was the grass all trampled?” she wondered aloud. “Why did they cross the road instead of walk down it?”
“Oh, I know that,” Margaret told her. “They keep the nets and fishing boats in the hollow there. There’s a path on the other side down to the river. Didn’t you see it?”
“I saw nothing like a path that morning, nor when I looked again in the afternoon,” Catherine said.
Margaret rolled her eyes. “Well, I could find it easily. Why didn’t you ask me to go with you?”
“I didn’t want the monster to get you.” Catherine smiled. “Next time I see it, I’ll remember and call you first. I feel somewhat foolish now. The explanation seems so obvious.”
Margaret sighed. “I knew there were no monsters around here. Only ghosts.”
“Ghosts?”
“Yes, one in the keep and more by the pagan stones. But they don’t hurt anyone.” Margaret took Catherine’s hand and led her back toward the keep. “They just moan and cry.”
“Oh.” Catherine said hesitantly. “That’s good.”
Margaret stopped. “You won’t tell Mother I know about them, will you?” Her small, pale face was worried. “She thinks I’d be frightened, but I’m not. I have a feather from one of Saint Cuddy’s birds and it protects me.”
Catherine was relieved to know that the child did not spend her nights cowering in her bed. She wasn’t sure she could have been that brave at ten. Of course, this was the only world Margaret knew. Perhaps ghosts were so natural that they didn’t concern her. They may have seemed more friendly than her own father.
And as for the thing she had seen, somehow the explanation seemed just a bit facile. She may not know much about the customs of Scotland, but she had grown up by the Seine and she had never heard of fishing equipment being left tangled in a pile by the road. Nor did she think that men going fishing in the early morning started out with a roar.
On the other hand, it was much more plausible than great hairy beasts prowling the countryside unnoticed.
 
Back at the keep, Robert and Solomon were continuing their bargaining. The two man sat at opposite ends of a table, with Adalisa in the middle. It had been a long session but Solomon felt that they had made progress.
“It would be much more convenient for you if you dealt with us,” he said. “Lady Adalisa, tell him that we could bring spices directly into Berwick from France. But we’d need some sort of reduction of the import toll.” Solomon waited for the translation.
Robert answered, “I might be able to convince some of the abbeys, like Melrose, that it would be to their advantage to get the king or Earl Cospatrick to grant you an exemption. Could you get incense, as well? The churches must have it and the cost is high.”
“We bring it in through Spain,” Solomon told him. “Carried across Africa from the East, always by traders I know. I go to Saragossa, myself, to get it. Our prices are far below what the Flemings will charge.”
Adalisa gave him a strange look, then told Robert what he had said.
Robert nodded. Then he stood and gave Solomon his hand.
“I’ll contact some friends,” he said. “I think we might be able to arrange something. Melrose and Jedburgh, perhaps even the canons at Saint-Andrews would be interested. I’ll send out messengers at once.”
“Thanc the,”
Solomon said. “Let me know as soon as they return.”
“I shall,” Robert answered. “Come, Lufen!”
The dog had sat silently under the table for the whole of the session. Now she rose gracefully and followed Robert out like a devoted shadow.
When he had left, Solomon sat back down with a sigh. Adalisa poured him some ale and then a bowl for herself. He drank his in a gulp.
“Trading is dry work.” He grinned. “And one daren’t quench the thirst until the deal is made.”
“You’re skilled at this, I can tell.” Adalisa rubbed the back of her neck. “You didn’t let yourself become distracted by Robert’s maunderings about his friends or how Waldeve is cruel to him.”
“I’ve learned to let them go on if they need to confide,” Solomon told her. “But I don’t invite confidences.”
“Or give them.” Adalisa tried to reach the crick in her back.
Solomon watched her a moment.
“With your permission?” he asked. He got up and stood behind her, rubbing the tight muscles between her shoulder blades. “I have no grievances or secrets to share,” he told her. “Ask Catherine.”
“If that is true, you’re a very fortunate man,” Adalisa answered. “Oh, yes, that feels wonderful! However, I doubt that you’re entirely without sorrow or secrets.”
“Nothing of consequence, I assure you,” he answered.
He moved his hands up to her shoulders, thumbs massaging the back of her neck. Adalisa tensed, then closed her eyes and let her head slip forward. It had been so long since anyone but Margaret had touched her without causing pain. The room was so still that she could hear the curlews outside crying as they flew over on their way back to the sea.
Solomon noticed the way her hair had escaped from her braids in small tendrils that were soft between his fingers. There was a wisp
of the scent of eglantine as he disturbed the curls. With a start, Solomon brought himself back to reality. What had he been thinking? She was Edgar’s stepmother and a lady, not some cozy innkeeper to play with for a night or two.
“Ow!”
“I’m sorry, Lady.” In his panic, he had squeezed too tightly. He let go at once. “Is that better?”
“Yes,” Adalisa answered. “The stiffness is entirely gone. I’m grateful for your ministrations.”
“Since the discomfort was caused by the time I made you sit here, it was my duty to try to relieve it,” he answered. “I appreciate your help. It’s rare to find a translator one can trust to get the sense of the conversation on both sides. You are most kind to give so much of your time to helping me.”
She looked up at him and smiled. Edgar’s stepmother, Solomon repeated to himself.
“I find the discussion interesting,” she assured him. “But now I must return to my household duties. I think I hear little James crying. Perhaps I should see if Willa needs any help.”
“He’s probably hungry again,” Solomon said. “He seems to need an amazing amount of sustenance, considering his size. I’ll go see if Catherine is on her way back, yet.”
He made his way shakily to the doorway. Clearly he had been celibate too long, if he could react that strongly to the scent of a woman so far outside his rank and so completely forbidden by all custom and law. He wondered if it might not be prudent to return to Berwick for a few days. There was a tavern there where he could get whatever he liked at a price he could far better afford.
Adalisa climbed the stairs to the women’s quarters. She could tell that none of Willa’s ploys were reducing the level of James’s crying. Hopefully, Catherine would return soon. That was one of the problems in not having a wet nurse handy.
She twisted her neck as she went, luxuriating in the lack of tension. Solomon was such a nice boy, and very astute in his business. Kind, as well. He wasn’t just a relation of Catherine but a good friend to Edgar. It had relieved her mind about having Waldeve’s youngest so far away to know that he had people who cared about him.
So it was a pity that she was beginning to suspect that Catherine’s cousin was not all he pretended to be.
She wondered if Edgar knew about it or if he was being cozened by his wife’s family. If that was the case, then poor Edgar might be as much in danger in Paris as at Wedderlie.
She could feel the muscles in her neck tightening all over again.
 
“Are you sure this is the right path?” Edgar asked his uncle as another branch was slapped back into his face.
Æthelræd laughed. “It’s a back way into the valley. The main road is full of carts, loaded with stone. These monks are always building.”
“Uncle, I think this is nothing but a deer trail and that we’re completely lost.”
For answer, Æthelræd pushed aside another branch and held it up until Edgar reached him.
“There.” He pointed. “Rievaulx Abbey.”
Edgar looked. He gave a sharp intake of breath. For a moment he felt a longing for the life he might have had in a place like this. Below them lay a valley hidden at the bottom of a circle of wooded hills. Rills spilled down into it, and the monks, like all good Cistercians, had already diverted the resulting stream to provide water for the monastery. The abbey buildings were encircled by a rivulet that passed under and around as needed. There were a number of makeshift huts, a low stone fence with a gate and a gatehouse and, of course, a church half constructed. Men were coming and going in good order, oblivious to those watching from above. It was a portrait of monastic peace.
“It’s perfect,” Edgar said. “I can see why Æethel … Aelred was captured in one visit. I would be tempted, as well.”
“You dragged your wife from the convent.” Æthelræd grinned. “Would you be so cruel as to leave her to enter one, yourself?”
“Hardly,” Edgar answered. “If we hadn’t married, we would surely have burned. But sometimes it seems so restful to be a monk and have each day ordered, circumscribed by the hours and the will of the abbot. Especially now, when nothing out here in the world makes sense.”
Æthelræd laughed, a great exuberant sound that echoed across the valley. Edgar stared at him, affronted at being mocked.
“Nephew.” Æthelræd chuckled still. “If all your yearning for the monastery was to have someone else think for you and tell you when to shit, I’m glad enough that you avoided it. And as for the world
making sense, what makes you think it’s supposed to? I never heard such a pile of seagull droppings.”
He plunged down the trail to Rievaulx, leaving Edgar standing at the top of the hill, half-angry and half-embarrassed. Only Master Abelard had been able to make him feel such a puerile fool. He sighed and accepted the rebuke, then looked down at the way his uncle had gone.
“He’s mad,” Edgar said. “Why should I doubt it? This isn’t even a deer trail. Saint Martin’s cackling goose! Uncle! Come back! You’ll be killed.”
The only response was another laugh from halfway down the hill.
Edgar sighed and shifted his pack to a more comfortable angle. He tried to see the route Æthelræd had taken, then gave up and plunged after him into the brush.
They both burst out at the bottom at top speed, laughing and shouting so that they startled a young novice into dropping his water buckets.
“Libera nos a malo!”
he cried as they advanced on him, slipping in the mud of the spilled water.
“Don’t curse, man!” Æthelræd shouted. “We’ve just come to visit one of your brothers.”
“Veritem dicit!”
Edgar added as he slid past the openmouthed monk. “We want to see Aelred!”
The monk was reassured enough to bend over to get the buckets, then wring out the hem of his robe.

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