Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (3 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

BOOK: Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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“You’ll leave at once,” Waldeve told him. “And return by the kalends of July.”
Robert managed to get out of the hall before he gave way to his anger. Adalisa followed him. She put her hand on his arm, stopping him from pounding his fist against the stone wall.
“Please, Robert,” she said. “Do as he asks. And come back quickly, as quickly as you can. Remember that until you and Edgar return, there will be no one to stand between your father and Duncan.
And no one to stand between Duncan and the rest of us. Tell Edgar he must come. We need you both; all of us need you to protect us from him.”
Robert shivered. She was right. Finding and punishing murderers was no more than usual summer activity here in Lothian. The real test would be to stand up to his brother Duncan. For that, Robert wanted all the support he could get.
“If I go, will you see to it that Lufen here is taken care of?” he asked Adalisa.
He bent over to rub the dog’s flank lovingly. His stepmother smiled.
“I’ll send her scraps from my own dinner, if you like,” she promised. “And she may sleep here in the hall. I know how much you care for her.”
“There’s no one in the world that matters more to me,” Robert answered. “She’s the only one, besides you, whom I can trust.”
“I know,” she said. “So come back to us soon.”
“By the kalends of July,” he promised. “And Edgar will be with me.”
Paris, the home of Hubert LeVendeur, merchant, and his family.
Wednesday, 7 kalends June (May 26), 1143. Feast of Saint Augustine,
archbishop of Canterbury and missionary to the English.
 
 
“Sire,” dist Evroïne, “n’alés pas co disans;
Il n’a en tot cest siecle arme nule vivant
Qui je creïsse mie a garder mon enfant.”
 
 
“Lord,” says Evroïne, “don’t even suggest it;
In all the world there is no one living
Whom I would trust for an instant to care for my child.”
 
—La Naissance du Chevalier au Cygne,
laisse 74, lines 2349—2351
 
 
E
dgar sat happily in the back garden of his father-in-law’s house, surrounded by wood shavings and walnut shells. He cracked open another nut, ate the meat and then rubbed the shell in a circular pattern against the wooden horse he was carving, smoothing and staining it at the same time. He worked slowly, meticulously. There was no hurry, and he wanted this to be perfect.
A shadow fell between him and the morning sun.
“Saint Joseph’s splintered palms, Edgar! Are you making a child’s toy or a reliquary?”
A shadow fell across Edgar’s spirit as well. His wife’s father stood over him, frowning in confusion. Edgar liked Hubert well enough. He adored Hubert’s daughter Catherine enough to give up his country, his language and his family for her. But he knew that Catherine’s father still found this new son an enigma. And when he couldn’t understand something, Hubert’s patience with it was small.
Edgar sighed. “I’m making a Trojan horse for James,” he explained. “I don’t want there to be any rough edges on it.”
“Your son is but four months old,” Hubert said. “It will be ages before he can play with it and then he’ll most likely smash it.”
Edgar nodded and went on with his work. Now Hubert sighed. He had come out here for a reason. What was it?
“Ah, yes.” He made the effort and spoke in a more conciliatory tone. “About the extention. I’ve spoken to Prior Hervé at Saint-Denis and he’s willing to let us have the stones you wanted for the foundation.”
This caught Edgar’s full attention. After weeks of argument, he had finally convinced Hubert to allow him to design and oversee the building of a room at the back of the house for himself and Catherine. It represented a great concession on Hubert’s part, admitting both that Edgar had the skill to manage the work and that,
despite his claim to be an English nobleman, he might have some use other than siring grandchildren. But much depended on the success of the project.
“And what does the prior want to charge you for the stones?” Edgar asked.
Hubert shrugged. “A cask of wine, not even the best. It’s nothing.”
“Except that the stones I want are leftover pieces,” Edgar said in disgust. “Too small or misshapen for the church. Hervé would have had to pay someone to haul them away.”
“I know that!” Hubert answered sharply, his trader’s pride stung. “But for the amount of business we do with the abbey, it doesn’t hurt to let them think they have the better of the deal.”
The two men stared at each other, both trying to think of something that wouldn’t drive a wedge into their cautious acceptance of one another. The sound of laughter saved them.
The walled garden they were in reached all the way down to a shallow stream that emptied into the Seine. On this warm morning the rest of the household had sensibly gone down to the water. Now portions of it were returning—damp, cool and content. In the lead was Edgar’s wife and Hubert’s daughter, Catherine, wearing only a shift that barely reached past her knees and carrying her son, James, who, at four months, was in danger of being thoroughly spoiled by adoring relatives.
Just behind her was the maid, Samonie, followed by her own three children. Hubert had not been pleased when Catherine had allowed the maid to bring her bastards, fathered by God-knew-whom, into the house. But he had to admit that they were well mannered and could be trusted with chores. The oldest girl, Willa, had taken over the care of baby James with tenderness and skill on the rare times when Catherine would release him.
She wasn’t about to at the moment. James, wrapped only in a linen cloth, was making it clear to his mother that he was ready to eat.
Catherine stuck a finger in his mouth and he began sucking eagerly.
“That won’t quiet him for long,” Edgar said.
“I know, I’ll take him in,” she answered. “Samonie will see to the feeding of the rest of you.”
James’s face was turning red with frustration. Edgar patted his head, quite sure that this was the most remarkable child ever born
into the world. His hair, what there was of it, was dark like Catherine’s, and small curls were evident, but his skin was lighter than hers. His eyes were already grey like Edgar’s, and curious. As for the rest, all the limbs were in their proper places, fingers and toes accounted for. That alone was worth the long journey they had made to the shrine of Saint James in Spain. They had asked the saint to grant them a living child and he had given them a miracle.
Just at that moment, Edgar was as content as he ever hoped to be in this life.
He should have savored the moment more. It was to be the last for many months.
 
It was early evening. The air had cooled and fog was creeping up from the river. Hubert had gone out to visit his brother, Eliazar, and taken Catherine and the baby with him. Edgar was dozing in a chair by the window overlooking the narrow alleyway next to the house, his feet propped up on a cushioned stool. Through half-closed eyes, he watched the people passing, their voices rising in an unintelligible mix. Suddenly, he sat upright, fully alert. It couldn’t be. He kicked the stool aside to lean out the window for a better look.
The man was just rounding the corner. He entered the main road that ran next to the Grève. Edgar rubbed his eyes. He must be wrong. It was just another northerner. The man was tall and had hair a shade of blond much more vibrant than Edgar’s pale straw color. But he only resembled Robert, that was all. Edgar hadn’t seen the face. Probably just another English student in Paris, or a trader from Germany.
Then he heard the clanging of the iron ring at the door to the courtyard. With a sinking heart, Edgar went down the stairs slowly to meet the visitor. He didn’t need to hear the stumbling French or the puzzled response of the maid to know that it was his brother. And if Robert had left his precious estate and come all the way to France then something terrible had happened.
“Edgar! Hwœt sœgest thu, Broðer?”
Edgar blinked. It had been so long since he’d heard his own language that it took a moment to understand.
“Robert!” Edgar endured his brother’s embrace. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t believe it was you. What’s brought you here? What’s happened?”
He switched back to French to shout at the errand boy. “Ullo, fetch some food and wine for my guest!”
Then he turned back to Robert. “There’s no point in wasting time in greetings. Only catastrophe would being you here. Tell me. Now.”
Robert did.
Ullo arrived with a tray of bread, cheese, strawberries and a pitcher of wine. He saw Edgar’s face go stiff with horror and became frightened, himself, not knowing what this foreigner was saying. The sounds themselves were brutal to his ears.
“Shall I go find Master Hubert?” he asked.
“What?” Edgar tried to focus on the boy. “No, this has nothing to do with him. Put the tray down and go.”
Robert broke off a piece of cheese. Edgar poured a cup of the wine for him and then another for himself.
“It’s horrible,” he said. The cup rattled as he set it on the tray and he realized he was shaking. “Who would have killed them all? Especially little Edgar. I’d almost forgotten I had a namesake. He can’t have been old enough to wield a sword.”
“He was a tall lad, and strong for twelve,” Robert answered.
“At least he had a weapon to defend himself. And he used it. All the swords were stained.” He took a hunk of cheese. “Father sent me to bring you home. We need you.”
“No.” Edgar shook his head. “No.” He backed away a step. “No.”
“Edgar, I know what he said to you.” The cheese crumbled in Robert’s fist. “He was angry. He didn’t mean it.”
“It’s not that,” Edgar answered. “I forgave him long ago. After all, he doesn’t know Catherine.”
Robert wiped his hands of the cheese and any interest in Edgar’s wife.
“Then how can you refuse, Edgar?” he demanded. “This is family. It’s your duty to come back.”
“And do what?” Edgar splashed wine in an arc as he waved his arms in anger. “I have no talent for warfare; you all told me that often enough. And if I couldn’t fight for the good of the family, I had to pray. Well, I haven’t become a priest, Robert. My prayers are of no more value than yours.”
Robert’s tanned face grew red, then pale. He bit back his sharp answer.
“Vengeance is more than battle. There are other ways to destroy an enemy,” he said. “And we have enough priests at home. Too many, to my mind. This is about what you owe your family. Your brothers have been murdered, Edgar. It’s laid upon you to come home.”
“Robert, this is my home.” Edgar turned toward the door. He had heard the steps and the whispers.
“And this is my family,” he added as Catherine came in with the sleeping child in her arms.
She looked from Edgar to Robert, her blue eyes wide with surprise. Then she nodded to Robert.
“Ic gief the greting,”
she said.
“Ic eom Catherine, Eadgardes wif.”
She glanced at Edgar. “Is that right?”
He smiled. “Close enough. He understood you.”
Robert licked his lips.
“Jo Robert, le freres. Diex te saut.”
He muttered to Edgar, “You know I hate this tongue.”
Willa appeared at Catherine’s side and gently took the baby from her arms without waking him. Catherine turned back to Robert and smiled nervously.
“Edgar, I’m very happy to welcome your brother to our home,” she said. “But why is he here?”
“I’ll explain it all later,
carissima,
” he told her, “For now, would you arrange for a place for Robert to sleep?”
“Of course. He must be very tired,” she answered. “I’m sorry.”
“In the morning, Robert, we can discuss this,” Edgar said. “I’ll send whatever help I can, but I won’t return to Scotland with you.”
“You must,” Robert answered. “Father needs all of us now, even you. I need you. It hasn’t come to you yet, has it? With Alexander and Egbert gone, that means Duncan is the eldest.”
Edgar froze. Catherine’s stomach tightened as she saw the horror in his eyes. What were they talking about?
“Father would never let him inherit,” Edgar stated, but there was uncertainty in his voice.
“He’s already declared him heir. And when Father dies, who will stop him?” Robert asked. “We need someone who knows our laws and can argue at the court for the French custom of the eldest’s son’s son succeeding when he’s of age. That’s our only hope. I won’t have Duncan as my overlord.”
“Then find a new lord, or join the church,” Edgar answered. “If
Father has decided Duncan is to get Wedderlie then there’s nothing I can do.”
“Edgar … for Christ’s love! We’re desperate! We need you! What must I say to make you see that?”
Catherine was becoming increasingly frightened by the conversation. The interchange was too quick to follow but the sound of it was to her like one of those sad tales about lost sailors and exiles that Edgar chanted sometimes. She shivered. What must this place be like that their language was made up only of words of anger and grief?
 
Edgar would allow no further discussion that evening. Robert was introduced to Hubert at dinner.
“I grieve with your father at the loss of his posterity,” Hubert said formally, and waited for Edgar to translate.
Robert nodded his appreciation. Hubert glanced from him to Edgar. He could feel the tension between them. He guessed the reason. Everyone knew a man’s duty at such a time. But would Edgar be persuaded to perform it?
After a few attempts at translated conversation, they gave up and ate in silence. After the meal, Robert was given a bed and shown where the privy was. When his brother had been settled and they had checked that James was safe in his cradle, Edgar and Catherine undressed and climbed into bed. Edgar closed his eyes and curled into his normal sleeping position, but Catherine had restrained her anxiety all evening and wasn’t to be put off any longer.
“How dreadful for your brother to have to come all this way bearing such sorrow,” she opened, still sitting up. “The loss must be devastating to you.”

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