“Well, then,” Waldeve said. “If you’ve been waiting for us, you must be rested. Let’s waste no more time. We can be fording the Tyne by noon tomorrow.”
As they started off again, Edgar saw Duncan working his way back to where he and Æthelræd were riding.
“Stay near me, Uncle,” Edgar muttered, as his brother approached. “I want no trouble with him today.”
But Duncan was in a jovial mood. He reached out and gave Edgar a brotherly punch that nearly toppled him. Edgar winced, wondering if Duncan had read his thoughts, but said nothing.
“I can’t believe you’re back!” Duncan laughed. “We all thought you’d abandoned us for that French galdricge of yours. What happened? She discover just how much use clerks are in bed?”
Edgar bit his tongue. He took a deep breath. “My wife is quite well, thank you. I will give her your regards.”
“Maybe I’ll come over to France and give her more than that,” Duncan told him.
Edgar gave him a long, cool stare. If this were the best Duncan could do, perhaps his fear had been groundless. Still there was no need for him to know just how nearby Catherine was.
“Before you plan your visit, Duncan,” Edgar said, “I think we should finish the matter at hand. Who do you think killed our brothers?”
“How should I know?” Duncan shrugged. “I’ve been at Durham the past two years. Hardly home at all. Any feuds Alexander and Egbert began had nothing to do with me.”
“What about feuds that you began?” Edgar asked.
Duncan’s eyebrows raised.
“Me?” he said in surprise. “I have offended no man. I serve my Lord Bishop faithfully. All I do is at his command. Who would wish to revenge themselves upon me?”
Æthelræd leaned across so that Duncan could see him. “What about the villagers of Durham town?” he asked.
Duncan bridled. “We did nothing there but collect the tithes due the bishop.”
“You burned their homes,” Æthelræd reminded him.
“At Bishop William’s orders,” Duncan insisted. “And only those belonging to the traitor archdeacon, Rannulf. Anyway, this deed wasn’t the work of villeins. How could they kill men with swords? Nor were the murders directed against me. If anything, I profit from them. No, look to our father’s sins, if you want reasons.”
Much as he hated to admit it, Edgar suspected that Duncan was right. But it would have given him such pleasure to lay the blame at his older brother’s door. Then he could stop all this pretense and go home with no qualms at all.
Wistfully, he wondered what Catherine was doing.
With the departure of the men, the atmosphere at Wedderlie lightened considerably. Grief was still with them, but now it could be attended to in the proper fashion, with prayers and weeping. Catherine’s sisters-in-law could give full vent to their suffering without being shouted into silence by Waldeve.
Sibilla, who had also lost her firstborn, refused consolation. She had sent word to her father that she was returning home and made preparations to do so.
“Don’t you think you should stay here?” Adalisa asked her, as she furiously packed. “Eadmer is safe for now with Earl Cospatrick, and by Norman custom he has a right to inherit as well as Duncan. You should fight for him.”
Sibilla didn’t pause.
“I intend to,” she said. “And the best way to do that is to return to my own kin. If you want to help me, just keep that old goat of yours alive long enough for Eadmer to reach his majority. As for me, I’m glad to be rid of the lot of you.”
Adalisa nodded. She expected no loyalty from Sibilla. The sons of Waldeve had never been known for their kindness to their wives. She wondered how Edgar had escaped being like the others. He must have done so, somehow, for Catherine’s devotion to him was obvious. Such love could not live with fear.
Adalisa felt the tears rise again and bit her lip. What would it be like to be married to a man one didn’t fear?
As she went down the stairs to the hall, Adalisa heard laughter, children’s laughter, mixed with growling and the barking of excited dogs. She came in to find her shy mouse of a daughter riding around the room on the back of Catherine’s cousin, Solomon, who was on all fours. They were chasing Catherine, who had tied her skirts up between her legs so that she could better evade them. Willa was sitting on the windowsill, bouncing the baby in her lap and watching the fun. The dogs were running circles around them all.
As she came in, Solomon caught up with his prey and they all went down, rolling on the floor.
“Margaret!”
Her daughter looked up. She saw the astonishment on Adalisa’s face and took it for disapproval. She hurriedly got to her feet, brushing the straw and dried flowers from her clothes.
“Mama, I’m sorry,” she spoke quickly. “Solomon was my bear and Catherine was the hunter and we were chasing her out of the forest.”
Solomon also rose, helping Catherine up with him.
“I apologize, my lady,” he said. “We were playing as we do at home. It was unforgivable to forget that this is a house of mourning.”
“Yes,” Catherine added. “It’s my fault. We should have taken the children out instead of disturbing my sisters-in-law.”
Adalisa shook her head.
“I don’t believe they heard you. I’m not angry, only surprised. Such behavior isn’t common here.”
Unfortunately, she added to herself.
Catherine took her hand. “I can take all the children out to the meadow, if no one will object. Come with us. It’s such a beautiful day.”
“Is it?” When had Adalisa last noticed the weather? She couldn’t remember. “No, I have things to see to, but please enjoy yourselves. You’re guests here. There’s nothing you need to help with.”
As soon as they were safely away from the keep, Solomon looked at Catherine and raised his eyebrows.
“This is what our Edgar grew up in?” he asked. “Even the cloister must have been appealing by contrast.”
“I don’t think he spent much time here, even before he came to France,” Catherine answered. “He was sent first to the court of the Scottish king and then to the cathedral school at Durham. But perhaps it’s only like this here because of the tragedy.”
“Cousin,” Solomon chided. “Two days at Wedderlie and I know that the real tragedy of this place is its lord. You know it, too.”
“Yes,” Catherine answered slowly. They were near the meadow now, the children running ahead. Willa had already spread out a blanket for James and was unwrapping him. “But look about you. For all his cruelty, Waldeve can’t be that hard a master. The village here is clean and the people seem strong and content, what I’ve seen of them.”
It occurred to her that she’d seen very few people near the keep, after the excitement of their arrival. Of course, this time of year, they were probably all working in the fields or with the flocks in the hills.
“The peasants seem better off than the masters,” Solomon admitted. “I’ve been in many strange lands, Catherine, but this unsettles me more than any other. It doesn’t look that different from home, but it feels alien, almost ensorcelled. Does that make any sense to you?”
“Yes,” Catherine said. “There’s some wrong here. Something in the roots of the place. I think Edgar feels very much the same.”
“I, for one, don’t care about finding out what it is or even who was responsible for the killings,” Solomon concluded. “I just want to finish my business and return to France as soon as possible.”
Catherine, feeling cold even in the bright sunshine, fervently agreed.
Edgar’s journey to Hexham was uneventful. Although banditry was rife in the area and they often heard scurryings in the woods that were too clumsy to be deer, the party wasn’t attacked. A force this strong and purposeful was in little danger from the outlaws of the forest. Only an army could have gone against them.
Speaking only English again seemed strange to Edgar at first, but as they
went deeper into the country, the years in France began to fall away from him. He felt himself once more the little boy in awe of the warriors who controlled his universe, wishing with all his heart to be like them and bitterly resentful of his preordained fate. It was as if his wish had finally been granted. Here he was, riding with the feolagscipe of his family, to avenge their own. He felt powerful, dangerous, invincible.
He felt like a fool. A complete impostor. Still, for a moment, there had been a touch of glory.
As Waldeve had predicted, they reached Hexham late the next morning. They had taken advantage of the summer twilight to ride far into the night. The town was perched on several levels of rock and earth on the south bank of the Tyne. As they approached the ford, they could see the burnt remains of the carnage wrought by King David’s soldiers five years before, as they retreated back across the wall after their defeat at the Battle of the Standard. But on the other side of the river, within the ring of sanctuary crosses, the village had been spared.
The ruins in Hexham were old. Roman buildings destroyed by the Saxons; Saxon buildings destroyed by the Danes. Danish, now English, homes destroyed in William the Bastard’s harrying of the North seventy years before. Now new homes of timber lay within ancient boundary markers. Trees grew from the cracks in the stones of the courtyard at the old monastery. Pigs snuffled around the remnants of vines planted by homesick legionaries.
Normally a troop of twenty armed men would send the inhabitants of a village running to the keep for protection, but the people of Hexham only glanced at them and went on about their work.
Duncan shook his head in wonder.
“They still think they’re immune to invasion,” he said. “Unbelievable.”
“Who would attack them now?” Urric asked. “Everyone knows that Saint Wilfrid and Saint Cuthbert protect the whole town. What else could have saved them from King Malcolm and then King David but a miracle?”
Duncan spat his derision.
“Sudden fog and flood in this land are no more miraculous than the sun coming up,” he said. “If Malcolm’s army had been kept away by a rain of frogs, I might give some credence to it.”
Urric was silenced, but unconvinced. Hexham had twice been spared destruction by the Scots because of its devotion to Wilfrid and Cuthbert and that’s all there was to it. Anyone could see where the line of devastation ended. All the same, the soldier was impressed by Duncan’s skepticism. This was a man who would let nothing keep him from what he wanted, not even the power of the saints. Urric had no intention of damning himself along with his lord, but there might be a way of grabbing some of the spoils for himself before it was time to repent.
Edgar was looking around, as if searching for someone.
“I keep expecting to see Æthelræd here,” he told his uncle. “This is his home. You remember your namesake, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, boy,” Æthelræd answered. “Only he calls himself Aelred, now that he’s become a Cistercian.”
“Aelred?” Edgar’s lips tightened. “Another concession to a people who won’t bother to learn to pronounce the eth.”
Æthelræd laughed. “What of it? It may be that he just likes the name better. He’s become a new man with his conversion to the monastic life. Why shouldn’t he have a new name, as well, easier for the French monks to pronounce? You’ve been gone too long, Edgar.”
“Yes.” Edgar sighed. “It seems I have. Still, I miss him, whatever he calls himself. He might be able to help us. Æthelr … Aelred always knew all the gossip. Perhaps Robert should go see him. They were always such devoted friends. I can’t believe he’s changed that much.”
Æthelræd considered this. “I agree someone should speak to him,” he said. “But not Robert. They had some sort of falling out when Aelred decided to become a monk. Robert won’t speak of it, but since then, he’s not been back to court. He stays on his lands and devotes himself to his crops and his dogs. If we have no luck here in discovering the answer to this, I’ll ask your father to send us down to Rievaulx to talk to Aelred.”
“Edgar!” The voice so close startled them both.
Edgar’s head came up. “Yes, Father.”
“We’re almost at the priory,” Waldeve called back to him. “Get up here. I want someone to talk to these canons in their own language. Earn your keep, boy! Spout some Latin! Let them know we’re not illiterate neyfs that they can fool with fancy speech.”
“Certainly, Father,” Edgar answered. Beneath his breath he muttered, “‘Spout some Latin!’ Do you want words at random or maybe a whole sentence? You wouldn’t know the difference, you old irrumator.”
Grumbling all the while, Edgar obeyed his father. He dismounted and pounded the iron knocker on the priory gate.
The door was opened and Edgar scowled at the friendly smile of a canon of about his own age whose expression changed swiftly to alarm. Hurriedly, Edgar regained his composure.
“My apologies,” he said. “I am Edgar, the son of Lord Waldeve. We understand that some horses belonging to our family were left here.”
“Ah, yes,” the man answered. “I’m the porter here. My name is Meldred.”
Meldred. A good English name. Edgar continued in that tongue.
“In that case, Meldred, my father would like to speak with you.”
Meldred opened the door all the way.
“Of course, with Prior Richard’s permission,” he answered. “But you and your party will need to rest and wash first, I’m sure. We don’t have space to house you all here, but perhaps somewhere in the town?”
“I believe that my father would prefer information at once,” Edgar answered. “Is the prior available?”
The porter thought. “Yes, I think so,” he said. “He may be working on his history but I know he’d understand the need for the interruption.”
He looked over Edgar’s shoulder at the troop of men, so obviously related and all so large and well armed.
“Perhaps just you and your father could come in?” he asked timidly. “So many would disturb the peace of the cloister, especially with the horses. You can see how little space we have. We had to take our own horses out of the stable to care for yours.
“Of course,” the canon added as they waited for Waldeve to dismount and join them, “we thought at first that the horses were a gift.”
His voice rose in hope, but Edgar knew better than to assume his father would donate three good war horses for the use of clerics. The priory would be lucky if he gave them even a part of their worth as alms.
Waldeve did not appear in a benevolent mood as he strode through the gate. The porter had some trouble staying ahead of him as they headed for the prior’s residence.
“We’ve fed and groomed them, my lords,” he told them. “It’s been years since I’ve seen such fine horses. Raised in Durham, were they?”
Waldeve shut him up with a look.
“How did you know they were mine?” he snapped.
“The bridle, Lord,” Meldred stammered. “By the crest on the silver. I come from Wedderlie. I can see you don’t remember me. I’m one of Alfred’s grandsons. I knew that it belonged to one of your sons.”
He nodded at Edgar. Waldeve growled.
“Not this one,” he barked. “Alexander. Murdered, with his brother and son. Now, tell me, how did my horses get here? Who did this?”
Meldred was beginning to feel as if between the jaws of a mastiff. He cringed inside his robe and backed into the priory.
“Perhaps Prior Richard would be the one to speak to,” he quavered.
But Waldeve wasn’t ready to let him go.
“Was it you who found them?”
The canon shook his head as if shivering.
“No, Lord,” he insisted. “It was the sacristan, come to light the candles for Matins.”
“Bring him to me at once.”
“Lord, this is his hour of meditation …” Meldred began.
Waldeve roared. “Bring him to m
e now or you can meditate on the toe of my boot up your ass!”
Meldred backed away quickly. As he scurried through the doorway to the churchyard Edgar murmured to him.
“Remember, the meek shall inherit the earth.”
Meldred paused and shook his head.
“Only six feet of it, I fear,” he answered.
Waldeve snorted as he left.
“I’ve no use for clean-shaven men,” he muttered. “Including, you, Edgar. You’re not a monk. You should grow your mustache like a proper Saxon. Now where in hell is that prior? You’d think he’d have come out to see what the noise was, if nothing more. Useless, the lot of them.”
“Perhaps not so much as you think.”
Waldeve froze, then turned around slowly. Prior Richard was standing directly behind him.
The prior was almost as tall as Waldeve and his glare nearly as angry.
“I understand you come to apply for my position.” Prior Richard spoke between clenched teeth.
“What are you babbling about?” Waldeve shouted back at a distance of three inches from the prior’s nose.
“Your orders to my porter could be heard from here to Edinburgh.” Richard’s voice rose to match Waldeve’s. “Who are you to tell my people what to do? You have no right even to enter without my permission!”
Waldeve stopped. He didn’t like being attacked unawares. He was the one with the grievance. He tried to take back the offensive.
“I’m after the men who ambushed my sons, you arrogant ass!” he said.
Now Prior Richard was confused. “Meldred told me that a force of Scots had arrived to retrieve the horses that were left with us.”
“And so we have,” Waldeve motioned Edgar to him.
Edgar came forward cautiously. He didn’t know this man. The prior in his day had been old Canon Asketill, a seasoned administrator who never needed to raise his voice.
“Prior Richard.” He deliberately spoke softly so that the man would have to concentrate on his words. “My father, Lord Waldeve, is devastated by the loss of my brothers. He believes you know something of the men who killed them. Forgive his outbursts.”
Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 10