Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  “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 gap
ed 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.

  At the far end of the table, next to Catherine, Solomon watched Adalisa. It seemed to him that Edgar’s stepmother was a delicate French rose, planted in a desert and somehow expected to bloom. He wondered if, after so many years, she still felt like a foreigner in this land.

  They had reached the fruit and nut stage when Robert arrived, with his dog. He was wearing old leather breeches and a tunic without sleeves that was stained with sweat. Waldeve glanced at him and his jaw set. He put down the sticky sweetmeat he had been gnawing.

  “You look like a neyf,” he said. “No. Worse. Like a slave, without pride or sense.”

  Robert shrugged.

  “I’ve been away from my holdings for weeks,” he stated. “They needed tending to. I need to work to survive on the pittance of land I have. I’m too busy for family dinners. The only reason I’ve come at all is that I have news for you.”

  He raised his voice, although the hall was quiet enough for him to be heard in a whisper.

  “There was a messenger waiting for me,” he told them. “He had information he was afraid to deliver here.”

  For a moment Waldeve’s shoulders sagged, as if an iron yoke had been dropped on them. He regained himself quickly though.

  “And what did your cowardly messenger fear to tell me?” he asked.

  Robert looked around the room, savoring the attention.

  “The horses have been found,” he said. “At Hexham. Alexander’s still wore the bridle the king gave him at Carlisle.”

  The silence became uproar. Men shouted and pounded their knives and cups on the table. Alexander’s wife shrieked and began to wail. Æthelræd didn’t bother to try to push through the confusion to get to Robert. He simply stepped up onto the table, making it creak alarmingly, sending dishes flying and spattering sauce across the room. He jumped off the other side and faced his nephew.

  “Where are they?” he asked. “Who has them? Who did it?”

  “At the priory,” Robert answered. “In the care of the priest. I don’t know. They were left in the church, tied to the rood screen, in the middle of the night.”

  That brought the room to silence again. Edgar shivered and crossed himself. So did many others. Solomon and Catherine looked at each other. Would no one tell them what was happening?

  Waldeve leaned forward over the table. A pitcher of ale tipped over, causing a foamy waterfall to spill to the floor. His mouth opened and closed twice. Finally, he found the word he wanted.

  “Why?” he asked. “Who is playing with me like this?”

  For once Robert almost pitied his father. He seemed to have aged in the past few moments, crumpled. Adalisa put a hand on her husband’s arm. He turned and stared at her as if at a stranger. Then he looked at Edgar.

  “Is it God?” he asked. “Is this a divine punishment for my sins?”

  The question startled Edgar. When had his father ever worried about his sins? And what answer could he give? How would he know God’s mind? He was thankful that Catherine couldn’t understand. She’d try to explain her theories on divine retribution. But Waldeve didn’t want theology, he wanted reassurance.

  “More likely someone in league with the devil,” Edgar decided. “After all, if the Lord wished to punish you, he wouldn’t need swords.”

  Waldeve nodded, comforted. It pleased him to think that he was so powerful his enemies needed to league themselves with Satan in order to combat him.

  “But why Hexham?” Edgar wondered. “Robert, was there anything, a message, a sign, anything at all attached to the horses? Did they seem to have been abused, ridden hard?”

  Robert threw up his hands. “I’ve told you all that was told to me,” he said. “And now I must get back to my work.”

  He turned to go.

  “Stop at once!” Waldeve roared. “We’re leaving at first light and you’re going with us.”

  Robert sighed and shook his head, but kept walking. The door was open to let in the summer sun. This close to the solstice, it shone almost horizontally into the room. He paused at the threshold, black against the glare, then shook his head again and left.

  For a moment, everyone simply stared at the space where he had been, then all heads turned to Waldeve.

  Deliberately, Waldeve pushed back his stool. He walked the length of the table, ignoring his stunned household. He crossed the room to the doorway and pulled down a crossbow from the wall. As they watched in horror, he s
lid the bolt into the weapon and raised it, aiming out into the courtyard.

  Æthelræd leaped forward, knocking his brother over as the arrow was loosed, shooting up into the sky.

  “Have you gone mad?” he asked Waldeve. “You have no sons to spare.”

  Waldeve lowered the crossbow and spat on Æthelræd’s bare feet.

  “I have a dozen sons better than that one,” he answered calmly. “No man turns his back on me.”

  Æthelræd looked at him with scorn.

  “You mean, no man dares to,” he said. “Robert has done your bidding long enough and he’s no traitor. Any man brave enough to tell you ‘no’ to your face will never betray you.”

  Waldeve looked around his brother to the people gathered at the table. His eyes scorched them. Finally, his gaze stopped at Edgar.

  “Will you go to Hexham?” he asked.

  “I will,” Edgar answered. “Not for you, but for my own satisfaction. You haven’t answered my question, why there? I want to find out.”

  “Husband,” Adalisa interjected. “Your son has only just arrived. He needs to rest before setting out again.”

  “He’ll have the night,” Waldeve said. “Take the women and retire to your rooms, Wife. We don’t need you here.”

  She clenched her teeth and opened her eyes wide to keep back the tears. She wouldn’t disgrace herself before all these people. Adalisa raised her chin, then bowed her head slightly.

  “As you wish,” she said.

  Catherine was startled at being rushed so abruptly from the hall. But she was also relieved. Now she could find out what all that had been about. She also hoped that James was awake and hungry. She was more than ready for him to eat. As they left, she snatched a hunk of dripping bread from the table and hid it in her sleeve. No one would have thought to give Willa any food.

  Adalisa moved with dignity, ignoring the whispers of the other women as they moved up the stairs together. Inside, her heart was thumping so hard that her ears ached with the sound of it. She was frightened and she was hurt, but most of all, she was angry.