Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (6 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

BOOK: Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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The canvas flapped about in the wind, giving them little protection from the elements. The wood of the boat creaked as if it were about to fly apart. From outside the flimsy tent there were shouts and curses as the crew endeavored to save the mast.
James lay in Catherine’s lap. She was nursing him discreetly through an opening in her tunic and he had fallen asleep in midswallow. His swaddling reeked, as there had been no chance to change it, but it wasn’t bothering him yet. Of all on board, he was the only one who was perfectly content.
Catherine felt his gentle breathing against her skin and was comforted. She leaned against Edgar, who had his arm around them both.
“Saint James won’t let him die,” she said.
Edgar felt for the baby’s head and stroked it. How could anyone sleep so peacefully in all this cacophony?
“I wish I was as sure of his protection of us,” he said. “I’m sorry, Catherine.”
She shook her head, then gasped as a wave whapped against the boat and spun it.
“No,” she said when she had regained her breath. “You mustn’t be sorry. We’re together. It’s dying apart that I fear most.”
How odd. Even with the storm whirling around them, when Catherine said that, the terror left her. She didn’t like where she was. She prayed that she could step on steady land again, but she knew that she had spoken the truth. If death came it would take them all. She wouldn’t have the gnawing grief of those left behind, of the women she knew whose husbands had gone off to the Holy Land or just on a trip to Reims and vanished forever with no one knowing for certain if they had died or where their bones lay.
From somewhere near the stern a man screamed as his hands were sliced by the line he was trying to control. Catherine decided Jonah wasn’t such a bad choice after all.
“Et proiecisti me in profundum in corde maris et flumen circumdedit me; omnes gurgites tui, et fluctus tui super me transierunt.”
After a moment Edgar joined her. Solomon, after listening a moment, started the prayer haltingly in Hebrew.
The wind blew the words from their mouths as it raged even louder.
 
A storm of another sort was brewing in Scotland. It was easy for Lord Waldeve to order Algar to find his brother, Æthelræd. It was not even that hard for Algar to do so. The real problem was in convincing Æthelræd to come back with him.
Æthelræd had been the only member of the family to stand by Edgar’s decision to marry Catherine instead of join the Church. It was popularly believed that he had done this only to thwart Waldeve. The reason most people gave for this was not on account of any animosity between the brothers but because Æthelræd had
been born face down and so spent his whole life being contrary. He had never given anyone cause to change that belief.
After days of searching and several false trails, Algar had finally tracked Æthelræd down in Moray, at the home of a Culdee priest, one of the ancient Celtic order who stubbornly resisted the insistence of the Norman bishops that they give up their wives and houses and become Augustinian canons. Naturally, Æthelræd sided with the Culdees and did his best to see that they found other means of support when their lands and benefices were taken away. In return, they shared their dinner and gave him a bed whenever he happened to pass through.
“God save all in this house,” Algar said politely as he entered. “I seek my lord Æthelræd, brother to Waldeve.”
From the gloom a voice roared out.
“Tell that son of a one-eyed ogre and a narwhal that I don’t want to be sought!”
Algar turned in the general direction of the gale. He bowed.
“It’s Algar, Lord,” he said. “Remember me? You used to give me honeycomb pieces for cleaning your boots. I’m not your enemy.”
A hand reached out and pulled him down. Algar stared into a face that was mostly bright red hair, with fiery eyebrows bristling in curls around sea-grey eyes, a jutting nose and a flowing beard streaked like rime with pure white. The eyebrows almost met in Æthelræd’s effort to recollect the messenger.
“You one of my sons?” he asked.
Algar shook his head. “Not according to my mother,” he said.
“Good. Too many bastards in the world already,” Æthelræd returned to his soup.
Algar waited. Finally, with a sigh, Waldeve’s brother waved to him to sit.
“Ita! Is there enough in the pot to feed this boy?” he shouted.
In the shadows a woman moved. A moment later a bowl was thrust under Algar’s nose. He murmured thanks and got out his spoon.
“Sir,” he began again, “I’ve been sent to tell you of a most grievous tragedy.”
“My eldest nephews are murdered, I know.” Æthelræd waved that bit of news away as he crossed himself. “It’s sad about the boy, especially, but life is uncertain. I’m sure Ita and Kessog, here, will
pray for him. You can put me down for a candle at Saint Andrews, as well. Now eat.”
Algar looked at his soup. It was cold and greasy with mutton fat. The day was warm and the ride had been long. He ate with relish. Æthelræd watched him impatiently. Finally he could stand the silence no longer.
“Very well,” he demanded. “What does the old tyrant want from me?”
Regretfully, Algar looked up from the soup.
“Lord Waldeve wants revenge on the murderers,” he said. “He calls you to fulfill your duty to the family.”
This did not come out as sternly as he had intended. Algar returned to the soup, hunching nervously over the bowl and bracing himself for the outburst.
A deep sigh wafted from the opposite side of the table. It hit Algar with a force that told him Æthelræd had had ale with his soup. Æthelræd stood, blocking the light from the door. He reached for his short cloak and wrapped it around his waist. Algar blinked in shock. The old heretic had been sitting there naked, just like the barbarians of Galloway, who only put on clothes out of doors to protect themselves from the elements. And with a woman present! Algar was astonished that Ita and Kessog allowed such behavior in their house.
“I need to walk this out,” Æthelræd said. “Finish your food and follow me up to the church.”
Tying the makeshift skirt with a strand of woven leather, he stomped out.
Algar scraped the last of the grease from the bowl and gave it back to Ita with thanks.
“Do you know Æthelræd well?” he asked her.
The woman smiled. “Not as well as you’re thinking, son, but we’ve been friends many years. He’s not mad, you know, however it looks, only bitterly unhappy.”
“About the murders?” Algar asked.
She shook her head. “A much deeper pain than that. We’ve tried to get him to pray it away, to let God ease his suffering, but we’ve had no success.”
“Do you think he’ll come back with me?” Algar asked. “I don’t like to think what Waldeve will do if I return without him.”
Ita pursed her lips in thought.
“Tell him that,” she said at last. “He’ll come to protect you. At least that will be a good enough reason for him to save face. I think he’s secretly glad he was sent for. Go on now. He’s had time enough to think.”
It wasn’t hard to find Æthelræd. Algar spotted him almost at once, sitting among the grave markers at the church at the top of the hill. It was obvious that he had worn little more than the skirt for weeks. His skin was bronzed by the sun; his hair flamed against the green of the vines running up the stone wall behind him. Climbing the hill to meet him, Algar felt as if he were one of the knights in the Arthur stories, about to face a giant. He rather liked the conceit.
Æthelræd stood as Algar neared the top of the hill. By some chance, his head appeared directly in the center of one of the stone Celtic crosses. The sunlight coming through the spaces sent a nimbus around him that obscured his face. Algar saw only the light and the form of the man with the dark cross jutting out behind. His breath caught and he hurriedly blessed himself.
Æthelræd stepped from the sun. He was frowning.
“What made you do that, boy?” he growled. “You think I’m some kind of demon?”
“No, Lord,” Algar stopped, embarrassed. He had no explanation.
Æthelræd looked down at the young man. If Algar had been awed by the image of Æthelræd and the cross, Æthelræd was also moved by the face before him. Caught in the glow of the evening sun, Algar seemed so vulnerable. He looked up at the man he had come so far to find, blinking and guileless and far too trusting for a native Anglo-Scot. The sight made up Æthelræd’s mind.
“Don’t fret yourself anymore, son,” he said. “I’ll return with you. What I do after that is between my brother and me. But no blame will come to you from it. You’ve fulfilled your charge.”
Algar sighed in relief and the two men started down the hill. It still seemed to Algar that he was walking with a legend, one of the Viking kings sired by the gods. He kept a respectful silence. It came as a surprise when Æthelræd gave a great yawn and spoke.
“So, which one of my dear brother’s enemies are we supposed to kill?” he asked.
“No one knows,” Algar admitted. “There was nothing to tell who had done it and we’ve heard of no man boasting of their deaths.”
Æthelræd’s eyebrows writhed with concentration.
“I can’t believe that,” he said finally. “In all of Scotland, Cumbria and Northumbria, I can’t think of a man who wouldn’t want the world to know if he’d managed to defeat my brother.”
He continued walking. The sun still lay on the horizon in the long summer twilight, but the path was bordered by thick stands of fir and the way was dark. Algar shivered. The farther north one came, the stranger the landscape. Still, he considered, it was better than the task his friend Urric had been given.
Anything was better than having to face Duncan of Wedderlie.
 
Robert scanned the clear horizon. “I think you have your wish,” he said to Edgar. “We’re much farther north than Wearmouth.” He shook his head. “I only hope we haven’t been blown around Scotland altogether.”
Edgar glanced over at Catherine, then remembered that she couldn’t understand the conversation. But the Flemish captain could.
“Bilge,” he said as he paused from scooping seawater out of the hold. “The sun’s too low to have gone that far north. My guess is that we’re somewhere south of the Firth, but beyond New Castle. And thanks be to God and Saint Nicholas, we managed to save the mast and most of the sail.”
“How far out are we?” Edgar asked.
“We should see land by noontime,” the man answered. “But not soon enough for your wife, I’d say.”
Edgar smiled sad agreement. He felt terribly guilty, as if he’d raised the storm himself to torment her. He should have hunted for a better way to protect her, rather than to take her into a danger that might be as great as the one she had left. He should have left her at the Paraclete.
But in his heart, he knew he hadn’t thought of those things because he hadn’t wanted to. He didn’t want to leave them, not ever again. He cursed his selfishness.
Edgar returned to the canvas shelter, now steaming in the growing warmth of the sun. Catherine and Willa were oiling James before putting him in fresh swaddling. The baby flailed his arms and legs about, glad to be free of the restricting cloth. And at that moment a miracle occurred. Catherine looked up at Edgar and laughed.
All the demons that had been pulling on him fled at the sound. He knelt by the baby and tried to catch his slippery hand.
“Look at your son!” Catherine said exultantly. “He grows fatter and stronger every day. All the tumult of the storm couldn’t frighten him.”
“And you?” Edgar pushed back her matted hair to peer into her eyes.
Catherine shrugged. “It was a blessing, really. Terror drove away all the nausea. It hasn’t come back … yet.”
“The captain says we’re off Scotland now,” Edgar reassured her.
“He’ll put in to the first village he spots and let us off.”
Catherine couldn’t suppress her sigh of relief. “And then what will we do?” she asked.
“See if we can buy a couple of horses and set off for Wedderlie,” Edgar answered.
Catherine looked down at her stained clothing and felt her greasy hair.
“Are there bathhouses in Scotland?” she asked.
Edgar grinned. “No, but there are baths. We won’t greet my family looking like beggars, I promise you.”
He got up swiftly then, but Catherine had seen his expression. What were these people like? He had never spoken much about them, only a comment here and there. He seemed to have a great deal of affection for his stepmother, and the stories about Waldeve had always made him seem bombastic but in a comical sort of way. He had never even told her the names of his brothers that she recalled. She wished she knew enough English to talk with Robert.
“Mistress?”
Catherine woke from her speculations. Willa needed help wrapping the baby. He wiggled so. She held him still as the soft linen was wound around him. Soon he would be strong enough to leave his arms free.

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