Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (9 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

BOOK: Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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“Edgar!” Catherine screamed. “Solomon, move! What’s happening? What are they doing to him?”
Solomon stepped back, still shielding them from the excesses of the mob. Catherine strained to see around him and calm the baby at the same time. Everyone was yelling.
Still looking for a way around Solomon, Catherine bumped into Robert.
“What are you doing here?” she said, forgetting that he couldn’t understand her. “Why aren’t you rescuing him?”
If Robert didn’t know the words, the expression was all too clear. He laughed at her and tried to pat her arm.
Catherine was horrified. Edgar’s fears had been realized. It had been a trap all along. Oh dear Saint Genevieve, she prayed, if you can hear me so far away from Paris. Please protect us from these evil barbarians!
With her free hand, she struck out at Robert, who laughed all the harder. He grabbed her wrist and spun her around so that she could at last see what was happening.
Edgar had been lifted to the broad shoulders of one of the men. He loomed far above the crowd as he was rapidly carried up the hill to the keep.
“Catherine!” he called through cupped hands. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. They’re friends!”
Friends?
Catherine looked around again. Now that they had captured
Edgar, the people had moved back a bit. She felt dozens of curious stares beating upon her, almost as frightening as blows would have been. She froze.
“Remember, Catherine. Your ancestors fought with Charlemagne! Don’t betray them now with your cowardice!”
Catherine shook herself. Those damn voices. They had come with her even to this wilderness. And, as usual, they were right. She lifted her chin and tried not to think of the state of her hair and clothes after the ride from Berwick. She threw back her cloak so that the gold shone in the sunlight for all to see. James’s howling subsided to whimpers as she faced the villagers.
At the sight of the baby, one old woman grinned at the friend beside her, who cackled in delight and muttered something that would have completely destroyed Catherine’s poise, if she had comprehended it. Then the two astounded her even more by bowing and backing away.
The others did likewise, until the path was clear for them all. Solomon put his arm around her and stared suspiciously at the quiescent crowd as they made their way along the incline where Edgar had been taken. Willa came with them, holding the edge of Catherine’s sleeve for dear life. Behind them, they could hear a booming as Æthelræd explained something to the people that made the laughter break out again.
Solomon patted her shoulder.
“It’s all right now, Cousin,” he soothed. “I think they were just glad to see him.”
“I suppose so,” she answered shakily. “Do you think the greeting inside will be as … forceful?”
He sincerely doubted it, from what Edgar had told him, but he kept silent as they crossed the bridge over the deep ditch and climbed the motte to the wooden fencing that enclosed the bailey. Inside, at the very top of the hill stood the keep, solidly stone behind a wooden palisade.
The gate was open. Catherine, Willa and Solomon paused. There were people in the bailey watching them, as well, standing unmoving, staring in what seemed to all three to be deep antagonism.
Solomon swallowed and set his shoulders proudly.
“Remember who we are, Catherine,” he said.
Catherine gave him a puzzled glance. “We? But your ancestors didn’t fight the Saracens,” she said.
“No,” Solomon answered without a trace of humor. “They fought the Pharaohs.”
Catherine put that comment in the back of her mind for future debate. For now, she gave the baby to Willa, smoothed her robes and walked through the gate as if she had every right to receive the homage of all within.
 
It had taken Edgar some time to convince the men to put him down. He was elated to be greeted this warmly after abandoning his patrimony so long ago. But he didn’t want to be carried into his father’s presence like a roistering child, dumped sprawling into the straw.
“Alfred!” He kicked at the man beneath him. “Put me down! I’m not one of your sick sheep. This is no way to enter a house of mourning.”
Alfred stopped immediately and let Edgar slide off his shoulders.
“You’ll not find grief in there, my lord,” he said softly. “Your noble father won’t allow that sort of weakness.” Alfred half feared he had overstepped himself. But Edgar had known the peasant all his life. This wasn’t the first time he’d ridden on the man’s strong shoulders. Edgar only nodded.
“The warning is welcome,” he told Alfred, “but not needed. I know what I’m coming home to.”
“For your sake, young Edgar, I hope so.” Alfred bowed and backed away, leaving Edgar to meet his father alone.
It occurred to Edgar that this had been the man’s intention all along. Alfred had meant for Edgar to arrive at his father’s door, ahead of the others. The old shepherd had known that it was better to encounter Waldeve as one man to another, not encumbered by the need to curb one’s words for the sake of his family. He climbed the steps to where the door of the keep lay open in the summer air.
Inside all was in shadow. The windows were narrow and deep inside the thick walls. No summer could ever penetrate this chill. Edgar stood at the threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. He wasn’t startled, though, when she spoke. He had noticed her scent immediately.
“Welcome, stepson,” Adalisa said quietly. “You have been greatly missed.”
He saw her at once come out of the shadows, and embraced her tightly, marveling again at how small she was and how strong.
“If so, Stepmother,” he answered, “it was not by my father.”
Adalisa pulled away and looked up at him. She smiled. There was a set to his face that hadn’t been there a few years ago, an assurance. She had opposed his marriage, for many reasons, but she could tell now that he hadn’t been harmed by it. She wondered what sort of woman had drawn him away from his own people and kept him there.
He held her rough hands and smiled back.
“Catherine will be here shortly,” he said. “Will you greet her and show her where we are to stay?”
She nodded. “Your father is in the chapel,” she told him.
He took a deep breath. “Good. It’s less likely he’ll try to kill me there.”
He released her and strode purposefully down the narrow corridor, feeling like Daniel walking into the lion’s mouth.
The keep at Wedderlie, Berwickshire, Scotland. Tuesday, 17 kalends July
(June 15), 1143. Celebration of the deposition of the remains of Saint
Eadburge, Virgin and martyr.
 
 
Sited sorgcearig, sœlum bidœled,
on sefan sweorceð, sylfum thinceð
thœt sy endeleas earfoða dœl.
 
 
The sorrowful one sits robbed of joy,
his mind in darkness, it seems to him
that his hard lot will last forever.
 
Deor
, 11. 28-30
 
 
T
here was little light in the chapel. The room had been dug here was little light in the chapel. The room had been dug into the foundations of the keep, far into the earth. Or perhaps the hill had grown to surround it. Only one narrow window near the ceiling kept it from being as black as the dungeon hole, where prisoners or provisions were stored. There was a small oil lamp beside the altar but it had not been lit. Waldeve was seated in the only chair in the room, as was his right as lord. He was quite alone.
He didn’t look up when Edgar entered.
Edgar’s eyes had grown used to the grey-brown gloom. He made out the shape, saw the muted glint of a ring on the knife hand. This is just a man, he told himself. My father. There’s nothing at all to be frightened of.
“Father?” he said.
Still Waldeve didn’t move.
“You sent for me, Father,” Edgar said more loudly. “And I have come.”
He waited. Finally the old man’s head lifted and turned to him.
“I thought you’d lost all your honor,” he stated. “Living with those
wœpnedwifstres
in Paris.”
Edgar nearly smiled. “I haven’t forgotten who I am, Father. And the bodies of the French are not half one sex and half the other, I assure you.”
Waldeve stiffened. “Indeed? Well, you should know. Did you bring your whore with you?”
Edgar had expected this.
“My wife is with me,” he answered. “Catherine came at her own request, not yours. She wanted to see the land that bore me.”
“And discover how much of it you had surrendered for her?” Waldeve was irritated that he couldn’t get a rise from his son. “Perhaps she also wants to find a way to get it back?”
Now Edgar did laugh. “I gave up a few
davoch
from my mother’s land, hardly enough to feed a man in the best of years. And, even if she cared about such matters, Catherine has no need of our land. Her father could buy us all twice over.”
Edgar realized his blunder as soon as the words were out. Waldeve rose slowly, like the tide. He faced his son, their eyes on a level.
“Buy us, could he?” the old man said too softly. “And sell us the next morning at a profit, no doubt. Gold before honor. So this is what you’ve come to, is it, boy?”
“I’ve come to be with you in your sorrow and to grieve for my brothers,” Edgar said, forcing himself not to flinch. If he was going to be struck, he wouldn’t give the old bastard the satisfaction of seeing him cower before the blow.
Waldeve tightened his grip on the sword. Edgar hadn’t even realized he was wearing one. It didn’t matter. He had feared his father too long. The old man could wound more deeply with words than with steel, anyway. But Waldeve only waited, looking at Edgar with contempt.
“Why did you send for me then, Father?” Edgar asked again. “You know I’m not trained for battle. I can’t help you in your vengeance. Have I made this journey only so you can denounce and disown me once more? Did you send for me only to give yourself that pleasure amidst your pain?”
His father glared at him so long and fiercely that Edgar feared the answer might be yes. Finally Waldeve broke the stare and, the metal of the unsheathed sword clinking against the silver bands on the chair legs, sat once again with a long exhalation.
“You’ve changed, Edgar,” he said. “You’ve finally become a man, but I’m not certain what sort. I called you back to stand with me, as is your duty, but not to fight. Since the time Henry the Clerk took the throne of England, we’ve needed men who know their way about a charter as well as a battlefield.”
Edgar was confused by this sudden change.
“What have charters to do with my brothers’ murder?”
Waldeve’s left hand clenched and unclenched. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “But I don’t believe that their death was all the bastards wanted. My sons and my grandson weren’t killed for glory or sport. There’s revenge at work here. Something hidden for years, like a curse written in blood upon parchment rolled up and
left to fester at the bottom of a casket. Dark, deep hatred. I feel it.”
Edgar could see that. But whose? His father hated better than any man he’d ever known. Who could match him?
“Name your enemy, Father,” he replied. “And if he can be defeated by words alone, I will challenge him.”
Waldeve gave a grim smile. “Your priests say words are stronger than speartips. I know some that bite more deeply. But I cannot name the enemy. Do you think I’d be sitting here like an old woman, if I could?”
“Then what am I to do?” Edgar almost shouted his exasperation.
Waldeve leaned forward, grabbed the string of Edgar’s tunic and pulled him down with vicious force.
“Find the bastards,” he hissed. “Find the
orcðyrs ordbana
, you dolt! Search the documents; talk with those men in
wifscrud
you’re so fond of, those monks. Find the ones who did this and bring them to me. And when you do, you can slink back into your wealthy wife’s bed and earn your keep in
firenlust.
Show me the man who did this. Find out who among my enemies is wicked and desperate enough to take this revenge. That’s all.”
His hand lashed out, and gripped Edgar’s wrist. The fingers were cold and hard as shackles.
“Only find them. Nothing more, your hear? Give me their names, but you may not harm them. I intend to kill them myself.” Waldeve tightened his grip until Edgar’s hand went numb. “Is that understood?”
Edgar understood all too well.
 
Adalisa waited at the door, as she promised, for Catherine to arrive. She shielded her eyes, trying to make out the faces in the approaching group. She recognized Robert, in the lead, and fiery Æthelræd was unmistakable. Between them, huddled together as if under guard, were three other people. The child was too old to be Edgar’s, a servant perhaps. The woman was undoubtedly his wife, though, carrying a bundle of some sort. And the man … she squinted, what a strange-looking person! Lean and dark with his head a mass of unruly black curls that blended into his beard. What could he be, some enslaved Saracen prisoner? No, not the way the woman was holding his arm. Who, what, was he?
She waited. Dignity and training overcame curiosity. They would reach the door soon enough.
A small hand slipped into hers.
“Is that my sister-in-law, Catherine?” Margaret asked.
“I believe so.” Adalisa smiled on her daughter. “Let me look at you. Are you presentable? Oh, Margaret, you’re barefoot! You’re old enough to know better. Run get some shoes on quickly. What will she think?”
Margaret ran. Surreptitiously, Adalisa examined her own apparel. She knew Waldeve’s loudly voiced opinion that this Catherine was some scullery maid who had seduced Edgar and made him believe she was a well-bred convent-reared lady. But Adalisa wasn’t so sure. In any event, she didn’t want to appear like a peasant, with bare arms and feet and straw in her hair. She wished she’d bothered to do more than braid it today.
This is nonsense, she told herself. I’m the mistress of this castle. These people are my guests, not my judges.
As Catherine drew closer, Adalisa realized at once that her own dress was hopelessly out of fashion. Belts were being worn lower now, the sleeves longer. The cut of the neck, with the
chainse
showing a bit of embroidery above the collar of the long
bliaut,
these were the little touches that someone who lived in the Paris of Eleanor of Aquitaine would have learned. Her nervousness increased tenfold.
As the party reached the base of the steps, Adalisa stepped into the doorway so that the sun shone on her. Catherine looked up and met her eyes. She smiled wearily. Adalisa looked down and saw the burden she carried. Her concerns vanished.
“
Ma douce broiz
!” she exclaimed. “You poor thing, traveling so long and with a child so young! Come in, come in at once and rest!”
“Thank you,” Catherine answered. “We are very worn and dusty from the journey. You are Edgar’s stepmother?”
She made it a question because Edgar had never mentioned that Adalisa was so young, not nearly as old as her husband must be.
Adalisa nodded. “Yes, my dear. We can wait until supper for the formal introductions. But this is … ?”
She held out her hand to Solomon, who bowed and kissed her fingers. Adalisa shivered. His beard was soft, as silky as the fringe on the altar cloth.
Catherine introduced them. Adalisa nodded.
“I would have known you were related,” she said. “Cousins, you say?”
Solomon confirmed this. His eyes lowered from her face to her waist and he grinned. Adalisa felt at her sleeve. Was something showing? Then she felt the head poke under her arm.
“Mama,” Margaret said. “I put my shoes on. Now may I meet Catherine?”
Catherine stopped at the final step. She gaped at the lovely elfin face almost even with hers. Then she pulled herself together, promising to have a long talk with Edgar in which she would do most of the talking. Why in the world had he never told her he had a baby sister?
Then her mind made another revolution. Both mother and daughter had spoken in French, and not even Norman French but good, clear Francien. In all of his diatribes about his proud Saxon family, Edgar had never once mentioned that his stepmother was French.
That talk was going to be very interesting.
For the moment, though, Catherine was only glad to be greeted in her own tongue. So much so that she found herself in tears.
“Oh, my dear!” Adalisa exclaimed. “I’ve kept you standing here, tired and hungry, like a beggar at my door. Forgive me! Come in, all of you. Come in. Welcome!”
As she showed them their beds and ordered hot water and warm food, Adalisa was also busy revising her opinions about Catherine. But she had no intention of discussing them with her husband.
 
Supper did not begin well.
“Where the hell is Robert?” Waldeve began, even before the blessing had been said.
Æthelræd was the only one who dared answer him.
“Robert said he’d been away from his land too long; he needed to see that all was well.” Æthelræd grinned at his brother. “Admirable, wouldn’t you say, to take such care of what you’ve entrusted to him?”
Waldeve signaled for the nearest retainer.
“He’s gone to see his damned dog!” he shouted. “Cares more about a good hunter than his own family. Bring him back at once! I never gave him leave to go.”
“Now, now, Brother,” Æthelræd soothed. “It can wait until we’ve eaten. There’s plenty of daylight left. Let me fill my belly and
I’ll go for him, myself. Lufen is a fine animal. I don’t blame Robert for wanting to be sure she was well.”
But Waldeve would not be placated. The hungry servant was sent out on the run, leaving his tray of dried olives and apricots on the window ledge, where it remained until found the next morning.
“Now all stand for the blessing,” Waldeve continued, as if nothing had happened.
“In nomine
Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.”
All crossed themselves. “Lord God, bless this food and poison the meat of any man who goes against me. Twist the entrails of the unholy murderers of my sons until they scream horribly and beg for death. And then deliver them to me so that I may do the same. This we beg in thy name. Amen.”
He sat and reached for the salt cellar. The servants brought in the trenchers of bread and trays of roast geese. Everyone reached gratefully for the food.
Except Catherine. She stared down the table at her father-in-law, who was stuffing his mouth as if stoking a fire. He hadn’t even looked at her when he came in, hadn’t greeted her at all. At the moment, she was too relieved to be insulted. And what had been the text of the Saxon prayer that everyone reacted to it as if the meal had been profaned instead of blessed? She wished she could have stayed up in her alcove with Willa and the baby.
At the other end of the table, Edgar was wishing, once again, that he had never brought her to Scotland.
Adalisa knew that it was her place to make cheerful conversation to aid in the calm enjoyment of the food. She surveyed the grim or nervous faces around her and decided, perhaps tomorrow. So the meal took place with only the sound of chewing, gurgling and occasional fights among the dogs for the bits dropped to the floor. Adalisa tried to eat, but nothing could get past the tightness in her throat. She concentrated on keeping back tears. Years of practice helped her.

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