Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (22 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

BOOK: Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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“Æthelræd!” A familiar voice rang out. “Cover your ugly ass!”
Æthelræd released the soldier and tucked the length of cloth back into his belt.
“I hope the man isn’t one of ours,” he said. “I’d have drowned a runt like this at birth.”
Leaving the sputtering man without a backward glance, Æthelræd went to greet Waldeve. Edgar followed, still carrying the sword.
“Have you found the bastards?” was Waldeve’s greeting.
“Hello, Father,” Edgar answered. “No, Aelred had heard nothing that would help us. Have you found any answers here?”
Waldeve stood uphill from Edgar, making him feel smaller and younger than he was. His father was flanked by men-at-arms, each staring blankly into God-knew-what private dream. The sun was almost
overhead and light penetrated every corner of the narrow street. But it seemed to Edgar that his father stood in shadow, his face a blur.
Waldeve’s answer was short. “Just more questions. Come on, both of you. Enough playing, Æthelræd.”
It seemed there would be no more explanation until they reached the castle. Edgar and Æthelræd followed Waldeve, who had turned and started back up without further conversation. Behind them they could hear the profanities of the embarrassed soldier.
“We’ve made an enemy,” Edgar told his uncle.
Æthelræd shrugged. “A man like that, I wouldn’t want to call me friend.”
When they reached the top of the escarpment, Edgar nearly cried out in dismay. The changes to the town below were nothing to that in the space between the bishop’s castle and the cathedral. What had been a greensward was now covered with tents. The entrance to the church had been blocked and was guarded by several men. Refuse pits had been dug on one side and the stench was overwhelming.
“Saint Ethelwold’s venomous wine!” Æthelræd exclaimed. “What have those men been eating?”
Waldeve spoke without turning around. “The bishop has ordered the burial of all those who have died since he was excommunicated. The canons have refused to do it, or to celebrate the Holy Office, as long as he is under interdict.”
Edgar tried to imagine Brother Lawrence defying armed men in this fashion. Others, yes. Many of the boys he had studied with who had stayed to join the canons were from families of warriors, as he was. They would find it in many ways easier to stand firm against the usurper than to submit to him.
“But, Father,” Edgar took long strides to catch up. “William of Saint-Barbe was consecrated at Winchester three days ago. There is no way Cumin can consider himself the rightful holder of the see.”
Waldeve stopped and spun around. “He’s living in the bishop’s castle, sitting on the bishop’s throne and marking his letters with the chapter seal. He’s collecting the tithes of Durham. And he’s sharing them with his followers. That makes him the bishop.”
They were standing on level ground, now, eye to eye, and Edgar realized with a start that he was now taller than his father.
“And are you one of this man’s followers?” he asked.
“Hardly.” Waldeve sneered. “I’m one of his leaders.”
The eyes Edgar stared into were grey, like his own, like James’s. But the man who looked out of them had no kinship to him.
“You have allied yourself with a man who has defied both the Pope and the holy saints?” Edgar said in disgust. “Perhaps my brothers were struck down in devine retribution.”
Waldeve gave an involuntary shudder.
“The Pope is in Rome and only knows what the minions of the archbishop and the legate tell him,” he answered. “And if Saint Cuthbert disapproved of William Cumin, then why hasn’t he smote him with lightning by now? Maybe the saint prefers the new order.”
“Heaven is more subtle than that,” Edgar told him.
“It was living men who killed my sons and grandson,” Waldeve answered firmly. “Men with evil and hate in their hearts. Don’t try to confuse me with your cleric’s logic.”
“Very well,” Edgar conceded because he was sure that, in this at least, his father was right. But there was retribution at work here nonetheless. Which of Waldeve’s sins were coming home to roost? He followed glumly as he and Æthelræd were led to the bishop’s castle.
“You’ll have to sleep in the hall with the knights,” Waldeve told them. “It’s either that or share a tent with the soldiers.”
“Where is Duncan?” Edgar wanted to know.
“He’s patrolling the walls,” Waldeve said. “He’ll be back this evening.”
“And now that I’m here,” Edgar asked. “What do you intend for me to do, spout some Latin?”
Waldeve’s look grew crafty.
“Maybe, or write some for me. I’ll tell you when the time comes.”
He left Edgar and Æthelræd to settle their packs among the others and to find a place to wash.
“It would be just our luck to roll out our beds next to the man you embarrassed on the way up here,” Edgar commented.
“Well, he’s seen what I have to offer.” Æthelræd chuckled. “Maybe he’ll decide to make friends.”
“I’m finding a place next to the wall,” Edgar decided. “What do you think my father is plotting?”
“No good, as usual,” Æthelræd said. “But for now I’m only concerned about one thing. Where’s the nearest alehouse?”
“There used to be one built on the other side of the cloister wall,” Edgar said.
“Take me there at once,” Æthelræd begged. “I’ve a thirst from the road that’s overpowering me. We can speculate on your father’s wickedness just as well there.”
Edgar showed him the way, but he wasn’t thinking of his father at all. The only thing on his mind was Catherine. How was she? Was James well? He sighed. And how long before they could all be together again?
 
In her confusion and terror, Catherine had planned no more than the next step, wanting only to put as much distance as she could between herself and the men with swords and torches. But once she’d had time to collect her thoughts, she realized that they couldn’t go far without help and rest.
They had found a hut in the woods, made and abandoned by some charcoal burner. It was far enough away that they couldn’t hear the shouting anymore, but Catherine feared it was still close enough for anyone who had seen their escape to find them. Still, they were all exhausted. Catherine’s feet were bruised and cut and she feared Willa’s were the same.
Solomon set down his burden. The prisoner sat in the folds of the blanket, shivering and staring around him with wide, wild eyes.
“Who is he?” he asked Adalisa.
“I don’t know his name,” she answered. Her face was hidden from him as she knelt by Margaret and examined the cuts on the child’s feet.
“How long has he been down in that hole?” Solomon tried to keep his anger at bay, but he had carried this creature for over a mile. The man had made small sounds of terror the whole time. He was lighter than Margaret and his bones had poked in Solomon’s back like sharp sticks.
Adalisa leaned back on her heels and closed her eyes. “Almost ten years,” she admitted. “It was just after Margaret was born. Waldeve brought him home, tied over a sumpter horse. He put the shackles on himself, and forbade anyone to come near him. I was still confined to my room, but I could hear the screaming, the pleading. It seemed to go on for days.”
“And you never asked who he was or why he was being treated so?” Solomon’s voice showed his disbelief.
“I tried to find out from Urric,” Adalisa said. “But he was under orders to say nothing. Once, a few months later, I went down to the storeroom and tried to speak with the boy; he must have been about twelve, then. But he only whimpered at me. I was discovered there and Waldeve beat me hard enough that I didn’t try again.”
She glared at Solomon and Catherine both. “You’ve lived here only a few weeks, but that should be enough time to tell you what it’s like. I feared for my life. I feared even more for Margaret’s.”
She put her arms around her daughter.
“Solomon,” Catherine said, “it doesn’t matter now. He’s here with us and we’ll have to care for him as best we can. But we have to care for ourselves, as well.”
“Yes, I know,” Solomon said. “If anyone survived from the village, where would they go?”
Adalisa considered. “If they were afraid to return to their homes, Berwick is the nearest safe place for them, but it would only be temporary. I had thought to go there only long enough to get horses and provisions and to send a message to Waldeve. It’s clear that someone wants to destroy us completely. So the only true refuge is with the monks at Holy Island.”
“How far is it?”
“Less than a day from Berwick, if we can ride,” Adalisa paused. “Longer if we have to walk.”
Catherine looked at the prisoner, then at Willa. Willa tried to smile, but her chin was trembling. This was more adventure than she had expected. And James, where would they find swaddling for him? What if she were too worn to supply him with enough milk? Catherine was close to tears, herself.
“Where is your faith, child?”
Those nagging voices were, for once, almost kind.
“Where is your courage?”
That was more normal.
“Are you any different from any poor refugee of war? Women have endured such things from the beginning of time. You’re young and strong. You can survive, and care for your child, too.”
Catherine could almost feel the voices shouting inside her head, drowning out fear and doubt and the knowledge that many women and children did not survive. She would concentrate on those that had. It would have been helpful, she reflected, if the voices had come up with some solid suggestions as well as encouragement.
“If we follow the stream here,” Adalisa told them, “it joins the Tweed a few miles on. Following that, we should reach Berwick by
tomorrow afternoon. It twists around a bit, but the forest isn’t too thick in this area. I think it would be better not to try to go by the road.”
They all agreed.
“Do you think we dare ask for help if we come across anyone?” Catherine asked.
Adalisa looked at Solomon. He shook his head.
“I don’t know. If we knew who we were running from …” he raised his eyebrows at Adalisa.
“I swear, by the veil of the Virgin, I don’t know,” Adalisa answered wearily.
“We’ll have to decide when the time comes,” Solomon said. “Now, we need to make something to protect your feet.”
He had slept with his clothes and boots on and so was better prepared than the others. He started to take off the boots.
“Don’t be silly,” Catherine said. “Your feet are much bigger than ours. We’d fall more often than walk in those.”
She took one of the covers that Willa had grabbed and began tearing strips of it. Adalisa got up and began examining the nearby trees.
“Solomon, I need your knife,” she called a moment later. “Birch bark should come off easily enough. The sheep have no trouble destroying it.”
In a moment she had pulled off a long strip of the bark, which she sliced into lengths. Then she took the cloth Catherine had torn and wrapped it around a piece of the bark.
“Margaret, give me your foot,” she said.
The girl sat on the ground as her mother wrapped the rest of the strip of cloth around her foot, making a crude shoe with a bark sole.
“I don’t know how long it will last, but it’s better than nothing,” Adalisa said.
She and Catherine finished covering their feet and Willa’s. Then they looked at the prisoner. He hadn’t moved from the place where Solomon had set him. Nor had he made a sound.
“I can carry him,” Solomon assured them. “There’s hardly any flesh on him at all.”
They tested their new shoes. They were a little lumpy, but not uncomfortable.
“We should try to go as far as we can, today,” Solomon said.
“It’s high summer. We should have no trouble finding berries in the wood and fish in the river. We’ll be fine.”
“I never doubted it,” Catherine said. “But could I take a moment to change the baby before we set out?”
Solomon sniffed the air. “I think we’d all appreciate that.”
While she did, using the last of the cover she had demolished, Catherine wondered again about the man from the storeroom.
“He should have a name,” she said. “Even if he doesn’t respond to us. We can’t keep saying ‘him’ or ‘the captive’.”
“His name is Lazarus,” Willa said at once.
They all turned to her.
“It is? How do you know?” Adalisa asked.
“Look at him,” she said simply. “What else could it be?”
She was right. The white skin stretched over bones and the astonished stare resembled nothing more than a resurrected corpse, confused and terrified at being dragged back into the world.
“Well then, Lazarus.” Solomon bent down and picked him up. “We’d best be on our way.”
 

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