Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  Æthelræd gave a deep sigh. “You’re a lucky man, nephew. Eyes like hers and Latin phrases, too.”

  Hubert was thinking of Catherine’s Latin phrases at that moment, too. He was remembering how she could decimate pompous underlings, such as the one standing before him, with a few well-chosen insults.

  “I have a right to know who accuses me,” he told the man. “I’ll answer nothing until I can face those who would slander me so and receive restitution from them.”

  The cleric from Notre Dame was a totally nondescript man, the sort one might imagine seeing half a dozen times a day because he looked like everyone else. It wasn’t until he opened his mouth and spoke with his grating Occitan accent that he became an individual.

  “My dear sir.” The cleric waved his hands placatingly. “No accusations have been made, as yet. My Lord Bishop only asked me to investigate a rumor. Undoubtedly false, of course, but with your connections to the abbey of Saint-Denis, one that needs to be refuted completely. Nothing more.”

  “I do refute it,” Hubert said. “No one among my Hebrew colleagues has ever tried to convert me to their pernicious beliefs. Our dealings have solely concerned business of mutual benefit, to us and the abbey.”

  He glared at the bishop’s messenger, defying him to challenge him. The man only smiled.

  “Certainly,” he said. “But Bishop Stephen feels that there must have been some, quite innocent, action on your part that started this gossip. He requests that you search your memory for what it could be and report to him next week, so that he can assure the king and Abbot Suger of the solidity of your faith.”

  “He wants to see me?” Hubert repeated.

  “At your convenience.” The cleric smiled again.

  Hubert wished again that Catherine weren’t so far away. Her counsel would be useful in the coming week.

  Catherine wasn’t thinking of rhetorical arguments just then. Her thoughts concentrated on hot water and soap. They were greeted warmly by the monks at the hostel in Berwick. Catherine was relieved to find that a number of them were French or Norman so that she didn’t need someone to go through the tedious job of repeating everything. One of them offered to take the sack of used swaddling to a nearby laundress. Another offered her some strips of worn linen to make new. The sexes were separated at the hostel, so she and Willa settled gratefully into the bed provided in the women’s room, James snuggled warmly between them. Catherine closed her eyes. For the moment sleep was all that mattered. She felt the soft breath of her son upon her neck. Outside was an alien world. But here they were safe. The monsters could roar unhindered until the morning.

  Coming up only a moment later, Edgar found them all sound asleep. He dropped the bags quietly on the wooden floor and resisted the temptation to find his own bed. His muscles ached; his eyes were red from staring into the wind and sun. He wanted to sleep for a month. Instead he went back down to the dining hall, where Robert and Æthelræd sat and waited for him. A little apart from them Solomon had joined two of the French monks and was cautiously broaching the subject of the wool trade. Edgar sat next to his uncle.

  “How did you know to meet us here?” he asked without preliminaries. “We meant to land far south.”

  It was almost an accusation. Æthelræd smiled.

  “You know very well how,” he answered. “I’ve always been able to find you. It never bothered you until those clerics stuffed you full of theology.”

  Edgar was having none of that.

  “It always bothered me.” He frowned at the memory. “No matter where I hid, you always pulled me out and put me to work. I believed you could sniff me out like a wolf.”

  Æthelræd laughed. “Maybe I can. You stink now of fish and stale beer. Anyone could have found you.”

  “From Edinburgh?” Robert had never trusted this uncle.

  “Even from Orkney,” Æthelræd answered firmly. “Or maybe I heard of your coming from our cousins, the seals.”

  Edgar paled beneath his sunburn.

  “Don’t you start telling those stories around Catherine,” he warned. “I’ll not have her thinking we still believe those pagan tales.”

  Æthelræd laughed. “I never said we did, nephew. But there’s many who do. Your father seems to enjoy letting them think he’s not quite human.”

  Robert nodded. “He glories in anything that will increase his hold on the countryside. And I’m not always sure, myself, that there isn’t a touch of something in us. Grandmother used to say she knew when trouble threatened the family. I always thought you did, too, Uncle. Until our brothers went out to die alone and unprepared.”

  He gave Æthelræd an angry stare. Æthelræd set down his mug with a sigh.

  “You think I could have warned your brothers of their fate?” he asked. “They wouldn’t have listened. They never did.” He paused. “I was too far away, in any case. I only knew something was wrong and God knows that’s nothing new in your father’s household. So don’t reproach me, Robert. I’m not some damned prophet, you know.”

  Edgar shivered. He wasn’t so sure. Perhaps his Gallowegian grandmother had brought with her the blood of demons. But there were saints in the family as well, at least according to the stories—abbesses and hermits, devout lords who fed the poor and only slept with their own wives. Æthelræd didn’t belong with any of them. He was vulgar and gluttonous and not known for his abstinence in anything. But his eyes, so like Edgar’s, saw far into things that only God should know. Not for the last time, Edgar wished he’d never been talked into coming back.

  The next morning Catherine insisted on baths and hair washing for herself and Willa, at least. She also wanted to unpack all her clothes, shake them out and press them again.

  “Catherine, that will take all day,” Edgar complained.

  “Easily,” she answered. “But I’m not going to meet your father and stepmother looking like a castaway. So you can either wait or go on without me. You could use a wash and a shave, yourself.”

  Edgar took Solomon and retreated to an inn. He figured his ablutions wouldn’t take long. He could make them that evening, when Catherine was finished.

  “She looks fine to me,” he told Solomon. “I don’t see what all the fuss is.”

  Willa understood, though and listened intently as Catherine considered which of her bliauts would be most impressive and still survive the ride.

  “It will have to be the linen,” she decided finally. “I’ll simply have to sit very carefully and try not to get too wrinkled. What do you think, Willa?”

  “I like the roses on the hem,” Willa said. “And the sleeves are so elegant, all edged in gold and the latest cut. Will you wear the gold chain belt and bracelets, as well?”

  “I don’t know.” Catherine thought. “It might attract robbers. But I can’t let them think I have no jewelry. I know. I’ll put the bracelets and rings on just before we get there. My riding cloak should cover the rest.”

  She and Willa soaked in a large wooden tub and then poured water over their soapy hair until it was rinsed. They then spent the rest of the afternoon getting a comb to go through Catherine’s black curls and braiding them quickly while the hair was still heavy with water and not as apt to spring away from the hairdresser.

  “There,” Catherine said finally. “What do you think?”

  Willa looked at her in honest admiration.

  “I think they’ll say that you’re as fine a lady as ever came from Paris, as fine as the queen, herself.”

  “Oh, I hope so,” Catherine said. “Now if I can only keep my stomach steady, I may survive the meeting.”

  They said their prayers and went to sleep.

  The next morning they all set out for Wedderlie. Catherine rode pillion behind Edgar. Her heart was beating with anticipation. Beyond a whistle at her appearance, Edgar had made no comment on the homecoming. It was only by the pounding of his heart beneath her hand that she knew he was as nervous as she.

  The ride was far too short. It
seemed only a few minutes before they rounded a bend and Edgar pointed out his home to her.

  Catherine looked up at the stone keep on the hill. It thrust itself out above the trees and the village in a way that seemed as if it were just the tip of something greater attempting to break free of the earth. She shook herself. That was nonsense. She was allowing herself to be affected by Willa’s fears and her own sense of being in an unearthly place. It was just a keep, probably as drafty and uncomfortable as the one her brother lived in at Veilleteneuse in France. Catherine only hoped that there would be a place out of the chill of stones where James and Willa could rest warmly.

  At the edge of the town they dismounted and led the horses between the huts and outbuildings.

  As they went up the path through the village, Edgar looked around in surprise. Had he been away so long or had he simply forgotten? There seemed to be more open land now, more fields of rye and barley ripening in the sun. The houses of the tenants were all in good repair, the fences mended and roofs newly thatched. What could have caused such obvious prosperity? He turned around to ask Robert but was stopped by a shout from ahead. Someone had seen the group and recognized them.

  At first Catherine couldn’t understand what was happening. The people in the fields dropped their hoes and started running toward them. From the huts women appeared, some still holding spoons or spindles. They all stopped and stared. Catherine clutched James more closely. Did these people never see travelers? What might they do next? Even a spindle can be a weapon, and these tall, sturdy women looked more than capable of wielding one with deadly skill.

  Suddenly the villagers made a rush at them. Willa screamed and Catherine inhaled sharply, preparing to add her voice. There were shouts and wild, high cries. Why didn’t Edgar and Robert do something?

  Edgar stepped forward and held up his hands.

  “No!” Catherine shouted.

  A number of things happened at once. Æthelræd roared something at the crowd that seemed to agitate them even more. James, jostled beyond endurance, began wailing. Solomon leaped in front of Catherine and Willa to protect them, thus blocking their view. And Edgar was snatched by a dozen dirty hands and pulled away from them.

  “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.

  Five

  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

  There 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.