Solomon felt the wetness dripping down his side, but didn’t realize that it was his own blood. He understood vaguely that it was growing more difficult to walk, but it hadn’t hit him that it was because the water was rising around him. Adalisa’s arm swung with each step, sometimes hitting against his leg. He wanted to fold it back over her but was afraid to put her down to do it.
He suddenly remembered that today was the Sabbath. It troubled him that he was carrying something when the Law forbade it. How long had it been since he had truly observed the day of rest? There were so many rules, he couldn’t remember all of them. But he knew one shouldn’t carry anything. Of course, in that case, he shouldn’t have had his knife. By the laws of France he should never have a weapon at all. He wondered if killing people on the Sabbath with an illegal knife was twice as bad as doing it on another day. It was something he would have to ask Uncle Eliazar about when he got home.
A rogue wave washed over him, almost knocking him over. Solomon blinked out of his stupor and shifted Adalisa so that her head rested on his shoulder again. Where was he? Why was he walking into the sea? Who were those people rowing toward him? He wondered if it were possible that he was dead and this was the road to Sheol.
The boat came closer. The people were calling to him, but he couldn’t understand them. Finally, they drew near enough so that one man could jump out and take Adalisa from his arms. The man gave a start as he realized that she was dead, then laid her gently in the bottom of the boat. Then he pushed Solomon in as the other rower pulled. Somehow, they managed not to swamp it.
Solomon lay half-unconscious, balanced in the prow to be out of the rowers’ way. He would have to tell his uncle that he could now say with certainty that the afterlife was wet and freezing cold. A puffin flew by. And remember to tell him that it had birds. He was learning all sorts of new things. A pity he was dead.
Demons had lifted him and were carrying him off. Someone was shouting. A new torment.
“That’s a bad cut,” it said. “We’re going to have to stitch it.”
“Dead people don’t bleed,” Solomon muttered.
“Then you must not be dead,” the voice responded smugly.
Solomon thought about this. It was probably a trick. He should … he should …
Finally, consciousness deserted him.
Catherine had turned James over to the woman who had brought them to her home. She watched as her hostess unwrapped him, exclaimed over the sores and washed and oiled him with experienced hands. Margaret and Willa were seated by a fire, each wrapped in a dry blanket and holding a bowl of steaming liquid. Catherine took a few sips, enough to warm her and restore her awareness. Then she got up.
“I must see if my cousin is safe,” she explained.
The woman looked at Margaret, who translated. The woman smiled and waved her out, gesturing that she would take good care of the children.
Catherine went to the priory gate. It had been left open, and in the outer court monks and lay people were milling about. She stopped the first one who came close and asked, in her faulty English, what had happened to the people taken from the sea.
To her relief, she was answered in accented, but fluent French.
“They were taken to the guest house,” he told her. “You were traveling with them? Were they close to you?”
“My cousin,” she answered. “My husband’s stepmother. Were? What do you mean, ‘were’?”
The man took her by the elbow and guided her through the crowd to the guest house on the other side of the court.
“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I didn’t mean to be so blunt. The woman was dead when we came ashore. The man is very weak and feverish, but the infirmarian thinks he has a good chance.”
“Adalisa? Dead?” It was one shock too many. To the horror of her companion, Catherine fainted into his arms.
It was only through the force of his presence and the fact that his men had learned to fear him almost from the cradle that Waldeve kept them from returning to Wedderlie as soon as they heard the news about the attack. Even then, it was only because William Cumin spoke to them himself, promising to add his own troops to hunt down the marauders that they agreed to stay.
“All I ask of you is a few days,” he pleaded. “Our enemies are fortifying Bishopton as I speak to you. And how do you know that it isn’t the allies of Roger de Conyers who have done this? The man is capable of anything in his impious need to vanquish me. You may well be avenging your families at the same time as you protect the patrimony of Saint Cuthbert.”
Edgar was astonished that the men agreed to stay so readily.
“How can they not insist on leaving at once?” he asked Æthelræd. “For all they know, their wives have been raped and their children left to starve or be devoured by wolves.”
“It surprises me too,” Æthelræd answered. “Some of them grumbled a bit, but none demanded the right to go. It may be that no one dares defy both Waldeve and Cumin openly. They’ve seen the bodies hanging from the eaves of the houses. They’ve heard the screams from the suspected traitors when the ropes wound around their heads were tightened until their skulls cracked. I might think twice before risking such punishment. My death would only leave my family worse off.”
“I suppose.” Edgar wasn’t convinced. “But it seems odd to me. What use is it to fight, if there’s no home to return to? All the same, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t go. I’m not a soldier, remember?”
“You have to stay here because this is where they will send word to you.” Æthelræd sighed. How many times would he have to explain it?
“Oh, yes, if you’re right and they survived.” Edgar sighed in return. “Uncle, you have no idea how much I want to believe you and that’s exactly why I can’t.”
Æthelræd shrugged. He knew when he was beaten.
“Very well,” he said. “Have you told anyone that we were at Bishopton before we came here?”
“No one has asked me. Why?” Edgar answered.
“Someone is passing information. Cumin knows that the castle is being fortified,” Æthelræd told him. “That’s why he’s so intent on attacking at once, before it becomes impossible.”
Edgar looked at the cloudy sky.
“It won’t be a higher motte or a deeper ditch that could stop an attack, but a good summer rainstorm,” he said. “The land around Bishopton is hard now, but a downpour would turn it into mud the consistency of bean soup. Even horses would have trouble getting through. It would be amusing if the bishopric were decided in the end by an act of God.”
Æthelræd didn’t see the humor of it. In fact, the bitterness in Edgar’s voice chilled him. Up until now Æthelræd had hoped his nephew had escaped the family penchant for turning pain into anger and lashing out at the world. But once the first horror has passed, Edgar had become too calm. It was from such serenity that Waldeve’s worst violence exploded.
Fortunately, Robert interrupted them before Æthelræd’s reflections became too dismal. Edgar’s brother was anything but calm.
“You have to talk to the monks for me, Edgar,” he insisted. “Those officious cretins won’t allow me to bring Lufen to Saint Cuthbert’s shrine. They say it’s only for people.”
“It is in a church,” Æthelræd reminded him.
“Lots of the lords and bishops bring their hunting dogs to Mass with them,” Robert answered. “I’ve seen them.”
“Can’t you just pray to Saint Cuthbert for Lufen’s recovery?” Æthelræd suggested.
“I don’t just want her to recover,” Robert insisted. “I want the saint to give her back her leg. For something that big, I need to be praying right over his bones.”
Æthelræd turned to Edgar for help.
“Explain to this dolt how miracles work,” he said.
Edgar hadn’t appeared to be listening. He looked at both his relatives.
“Miracles?” His voice was flat. “They’re all a sham. Saint James gave me my son. Then just wh
en I thought my life was perfect, he took everything away. Don’t ask Saint Cuthbert. He’ll give Lufen back her leg only so that she can be destroyed more horribly later.”
He got up, turned and walked away from them.
Both men stared after Edgar in near horror.
“That’s blasphemy!” Robert breathed. “Isn’t it?”
“Even worse,” Æthelræd answered. “It’s despair. We’d better keep an eye on him. God, I wish Aelred were here. He could sort Edgar out for us.”
Robert winced. “You’ll not get him out of his cloister for anyone,” he said.
Æthelræd responded without thinking. “Oh, we have already. He’s at Bishopton, if he hasn’t gone on to Hexham. He was very concerned that our horses had been left in his father’s church, as well as worried by the troubles here at Durham.”
Robert went pale. “He’s where? So close?”
Æthelræd swore under his breath. How could he have forgotten? “Yes, he came with us to Bishopton. I believe he’s still there.”
Robert nodded slowly.
“I believe I shall ride with my father to Bishopton,” he said. “I haven’t been as dutiful as I should recently. I’ll do as you suggest and leave Lufen in the care of the bishop’s master of hounds. I can pray for her anywhere.”
When he had left, Æthelræd sat for a long time with his head in his hands. Why had he ever let himself be lured out of the North and back into this most unsettling family?
Waldeve was astonished to see all three of his remaining legitimate sons at the front of the ranks of his men. It was true that Edgar carried no sword, but he wore chain mail and a helmet. The helmet was too small and perched on his head like an inverted hornet’s nest. Waldeve started to laugh, then caught himself. It was the first sign of loyalty the boy had shown. No sense in discouraging him.
“Urric.” He called the soldier over. “My preostlic son seems to have decided to fight, after all. Keep an eye on him.”
“To guard him, you mean, Sir?” Urric said carefully.
“Yes, from his own clumsiness mostly,” Waldeve answered, equally carefully. “He’ll likely not try to wield a sword. But I don’t want him left behind after the attack because he’s lost his sense of direction and wandered too near the castle.”
“I understand,” Urric answered. “I’ll not let him out of my sight.”
Waldeve then turned his mind to the matter at hand. Cumin came out to give them his blessing. He was dressed in riding gear, but had decided that his presence wasn’t needed at the moment. Waldeve approached him and bowed over his hand. The ring of office wasn’t there but the fiction was maintained that Cumin wore it under his glove.
“How many men can we expect to meet us?” he asked.
“Earl Henry has promised fifty from his mercenaries,” Cumin told him. “With my loyal barons and your men that should be more than enough to take Bishopton and destroy Conyers once and for all. My nephew will be arriving from Northallerton to meet you outside the castle walls. He’ll also fend off any help Conyers might be expecting from the south.”
“That should be enough to make Conyers think twice about his resistance,” Waldeve said. “When we take the castle, do you want it destroyed or turned over to your nephew to hold?”
“Burn it and raze it,” Cumin answered.
Waldeve forbore asking if the bishop wanted the ground sown with salt, as well. The man was obsessed with the need to annihilate all those who would deny him legal right to the see. Waldeve found this a waste of energy. However, as long as he collected the tithes of the county and took the silver from the mines, Cumin served a purpose. Whether he won or lost, Waldeve could still take his share of the booty and return to Scotland. No retribution would reach him there.
Unless. Waldeve paused. Unless it already had. All the attacks on his family could stem from their support of William Cumin. In that case, he could kill with even less conscience that usual. It wouldn’t be combat or slaughter, but justice.
When Urric sidled up next to him and smiled, Edgar knew exactly why he was there. Urric had been Duncan’s shadow since they had arrived at Durham. Either his father or his brother had set their lackey to spy on him.
Edgar smiled back. “Good day for fighting, don’t you think?” he said. “Not too hot, cloudy enough to keep the sun out of one’s eyes. I’m looking forward to it.”
Urric looked him up and down.
“What are you planning on fighting with?” he asked, noting the lack of a sword.
“I was thinking of hurling anathema down on the enemy,” Edgar answered. “Far more potent than steel.”
Urric hurriedly crossed himself.
“Exactly.” Edgar approved the gesture. “And the power of God shall be my shield.”
Urric stepped back from him. Edgar was either mad or possessed by divine authority. Urric didn’t know which frightened him more. This task was going to be much harder than he had foreseen.
Æthelræd came over to check on them. He was wearing his short skirt still but had added a leather shirt on which small pieces of metal had been sewn. He jingled as he approached. From somewhere he had found an old, round Viking helmet. His wild red-and-grey hair sprayed out from beneath it like a flaming bush.
“Pity we don’t have any Gallowegians,” he said. “I’ll have to make the first charge all alone.”
Urric backed even farther. At least he had always known Æthelræd was crazy. But two of them together could cause some freakish aberration in nature. He decided he could probably keep an eye on Edgar from a distance.
Æthelræd noticed the soldier backing off. He gave a short laugh.
“If we terrify our own troops, just imagine what we’ll do to the enemy,” he said to Edgar.
Edgar leaned closer to him and lowered his voice.
“Just who is the enemy?” he asked. “I’m planning on getting lost in the woods on the way and getting a warning to Conyers.”
“You won’t be given the chance.” Æthelræd nodded and smiled at Urric.
“Then how can we keep Cumin’s men from taking the castle?” Edgar asked.
Æthelræd put his hand on Edgar’s forehead. If the boy wasn’t insane, he must be fevered.
“What made you think we could?” he asked. “It’s up to Roger Conyers to protect Bishopton.”
“But my father’s men alone have more horses and weapons than we saw at Bishopton,” Edgar said. “And if Earl Henry and William of Aumale send more, how will Conyers survive?”
Æthelræd considered.
“Perhaps we should leave that up to God,” he decided.
Edgar was not disposed to rely on faith. So far it hadn’t been of much use.
But at that moment it began to rain.
Fourteen
The Isle of Lindisfarne. Sunday, 15 kalends August (July 18), 1143. The
sun in Leo. Feast of Saint Thanay, stubbornly unwed mother of Saint
Kentigern.
Nec mora: jam tristes pœnas et pallida vexat
Gens tormenta, truces plena furore manus
Ecce! catenarum tristi plus pondere vinctos,
Qua nexu juvenes pœna timenda vocat. [sic]
Delay no longer: now grievous pain and pallor tax
The tormented people, a hand filled with mad slaughter.
Behold! The fearful penalty summons the conquered
with a sadder weight of chains than with such bonds it summons the
young.
—Lawrence of Durham,
Diologues,
Book II 11 307—310
“Solomon, I’m worried about Margaret.” Catherine nudged her cousin out of his doze. “I know that she needs to grieve for her mother but she isn’t eating and her sleep is full of monsters. Can you think of anything we can do to help her?”
Catherine was worried about Solomon, too. The knife cut had been a clean one and was healing well. That couldn’t be the problem. Something had happened to him that she didn’t understand
, something to do with Adalisa. It wasn’t just guilt at being unable to save her. He had sat vigil by her body as if he had been family and had stood outside the priory church door with his head bowed all the while the funeral Mass was being said. It seemed as if something inside him had broken; not a vital part, but a piece that helped him keep his distance from the alien world in which he must survive.
Margaret sensed that he shared her loss and it was to Solomon that she ran for comfort. The two of them took long walks, round and round the edge of the small island, looking at the birds and talking. Sometimes they would just sit by Adalisa’s grave in the village cemetery, Margaret leaning against Solomon and the two of them looking out to sea as if waiting for a traveler to come home to them.
Catherine was saddened by Adalisa’s death, but try as she might, she couldn’t grieve for her. It was inexcusable that she felt so little. What was the matter with her?
Finally it came to Catherine that part of her was glad that Edgar’s stepmother was free of her own sorrow. In this world the best hope she could have had was to become a widow, but then she and her dower would have been prey for someone just as cruel to her as Waldeve had been.
Solomon hadn’t answered. She nudged him with both hands this time.
“Solomon?” she said again. “What can we do for Margaret?”
At last he noticed that she was in the room.
“Give her time,” he answered. “She has no one now to care for her.”
“She has us,” Catherine answered without thinking. “We won’t desert her, will we?”
Solomon looked at her with a flash of his old self.
“Never,” he said. “She’s not going back to her father. I don’t care if I have to abduct her to do it.”
“I’m sure we can find a safer way!” Catherine was alarmed. He sounded as though he would really do it. The very idea was horrifying. A Jewish man stealing away a Christian girl, even with her permission! Solomon would be lucky if he were merely hanged.
Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 22