Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  “Perhaps by then someone will know who he is.” Catherine was busy folding the few pieces of clothing they had been given, along with combs and swaddling. “Girls, come help me, please. It seems we’re about to become refugees again.”

  Sixteen

  Outside Durham. Friday, the ides of August (August 13), 1143. Feast of

  Saint Radegunde: captive, queen, runaway wife, deaconess, peacemaker.

  With hwostan: nim huniges tear 7 erces sœd 7 diles sœd. Cnucan tha sœd

  smale, mœng thice wih thone tear 7 pipera swithe. Nim ðhry sticcan fulle

  on nihstig.

  For a cough: Take drops of honey and marche seed and dill seed.

  Crush the seed small, mix thoroughly to thickness with the drops and

  pepper. Take three spoonsful after the night fast.

  —Old English Lacnunga

  “They say that William of Saint-Barbe has been coerced to come and try to take possession of his see.” Duncan laughed. “That should put Bishop Cumin in a rare temper.”

  Urric smiled as a good lieutenant should, but he didn’t see the humor. It seemed to him that God had sided against them. Urric remembered all too well the Battle of the Standard five years before, when the Scots had had more men and weapons but the Northumbrians had faced them with the relics of their saints and routed them completely. Some advisers had said that the defeat was caused when the Gallowegians were allowed to attack first although they were the most poorly armed. Others spoke of stupid deployment and fights among those who followed King David south, but Urric and most of the other regular soldiers knew that Saint Cuthbert and his fellow saints had personally petitioned the Lord to see that the Scots were defeated.

  This time Urric had thought Saint Cuthbert, at least, was on his side, despite the pronouncement of excommunication from the bishop of York. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  He wasn’t the only one. Most of the barons who had sworn allegiance to Cumin had deserted him. The land within a day’s ride had been scoured so thoroughly that the rewards due any keen-eyed, enterprising foot soldier were scarce. The grumbling in the ranks was increasing. Duncan and Waldeve were formidable enough to keep their own men in line, but it was clear that William Cumin would need to find a strong ally if he hoped to keep his seat in the bishop’s palace.

  Edgar, who had been thwarted in every attempt to leave Durham, hoped that all Cumin’s men would desert and that the end would come soon. When the final attack came, he had every intention of hiding among the monks. Much as he had disliked Brother Lawrence when he was a student, Edgar didn’t believe that the canon would betray him now.

  But, as with most things, Edgar’s hopes for a quick defeat were crushed. That afternoon a party rode up to the palace. They were greeted with trumpets, ceremony and by William Cumin, himself.

  “Who is that man?” Edgar asked Robert, who had been dragged from his vigil only by the onset of the elf-shot fever. He had recovered quickly once out of the marsh and was as fervent as Edgar in contemplation of escape. Robert squinted at the leader of the party.

  “I’d say it’s Alan, Earl of Richmond,” Robert decided. “It looks like his standard. If Cumin has convinced the earl to join him, then we’re in for a long war. He keeps a private army.”

  “Damn,” Edgar said. “My son will be grown before I see him again if we don’t do something.”

  “Suggestions are welcome,” Robert said.

  Edgar slammed his fist against the tree they were standing under.

  “If I had any suggestions, I wouldn’t be here,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Robert leaned back against the tree. At his feet, three-legged Lufen slept. Robert was careful not to disturb her.

  “Edgar, why did Father bring us here in the first place?” he asked.

  “To find the people who killed Alexander, Egbert and young Edgar and then cropped the horses,” Edgar answered. “Though I’ve noticed no sign of investigation on Father’s part since we’ve been here.”

  “Exactly.” Robert gave a sharp nod. “I have a theory about that.”

  Edgar waited.

  “I think Father knows who killed our brothers.” Robert watched for Edgar’s reaction.

  Edgar raised one eyebrow skeptically. “And what do you base that on?” he asked.

  “His behavior since we came here, and his character as we know it,” Robert answered. “Along with something you don’t know. Father and Alexander hated one another.”

  “Robert, none of us are known for our devotion to Father, or his to us.” Edgar wasn’t impressed.

  “This is more,” Robert said. “I heard them arguing, all of them, Duncan, too. They had stolen something from someone and Alexander was threatening to reveal the whole thing.”

  “What was it?” Edgar was becoming interested.

  “I don’t know. They stopped when they saw me. But Father and Alexander had both drawn their knives by the time I came in.”

  “So you believe our father had his two eldest sons and his firstborn legitimate grandson murdered because he feared some petty theft of his would be exposed?” Edgar still found the whole idea preposterous.

  “I think that was only the beginning,” Robert said. “He wants all of us dead, except, maybe, Duncan.”

  “So you believe he burned down the keep, as well?” Edgar scoffed. “Just to continue the illusion of a mythical enemy.”

  “No, I think he wanted to be sure that both you and he were widowed.” Robert’s voice was hard. “Adalisa had only a daughter and then no more. I think the old goat wants to start over, perhaps even legitimize a couple of his bastards.”

  “Robert, you’re insane.” Edgar laughed. “I almost wish it were true. It would mean this whole business is done with. Father can be brought to justice and I can find my wife and son and go home. Although I wouldn’t like to think I carry the blood of such an unnatural monster.”

  He paused, wondering what part of his father was now running through the veins of his own son. Even though Robert’s theory was nonsense, there was enough truth in his assessment of Waldeve to worry Edgar.

  Robert stooped to pick up the dog, then turned back to face his brother.

  “Someone wants all of us dead,” he said quietly. “Enough to kill even those we love. But Father hasn’t been attacked. Nor has he made any attempt to continue his search for the murderers. Think about it. What other answer is there?”

  He walked away, leaving Edgar more determined than ever to leave the place, whatever the risks.

  The weather had stayed clear for the time it took for the refugees to reach the monastery at Jarrow, although the wind was fierce. The monks were prepared for them and had found pallets for everyone. Catherine and the girls found a corner to themselves in the guest lodge while Solomon was given a place in a hastily emptied storeroom where the men would sleep. They were fed on bread and a thin vegetable broth, all the monks could offer. For many it was the best meal they had eaten in weeks.

  Afterwards, Catherine went back to care for James and help the girls settle in. Solomon followed the other men, who had settled themselves on benches outside the monastery. They overlooked an inlet that seemed perfect for a raiding party to land. Solomon mentioned this to one of the men who spoke French.

  “It is perfect,” the man told him. “The Northmen thought so. Used it for years. See the fire damage to the stones, here.” He pointed to dark streaks on the side of the church. There were bits of pebbles that had been turned almost to glass by the heat of the flames. “The monks fled or were killed during the invasions. They’ve not been back long.”

  A leather bottle of ale was being passed. Solomon started to drink, then stopped. He wasn’t sure why. He’d spent most of his adult life eating unclean food and drinking anything inebriating. But, as he passed it on, he caught one of the men at the other end of the bench looking at him.

  The man was fair and well built, not as light as a Saxon but still obviously of northern stock. He
was muscular, as if he’d spent years swinging heavy objects around. Solomon hoped he was a smith rather than a warrior. Either way, he seemed a good man to avoid.

  So he was more than a little alarmed when he got up to relieve himself and found the man following him.

  Solomon wandered down to the beach, thinking to add his bit to the salt sea. The man came and stood next to him, untying his brais and lifting his tunic. Solomon began to panic. He hadn’t had to deal with anything like this for years, not since one of his first trips to Spain. He tried to move away from the golden arc the man was sending into the water. He meant to avert his eyes, as well, but happened to glance down. His heart stopped.

  The man was circumcised.

  The man finished his business and tied up his brais again. Then he grinned at Solomon. “Chaver!” he greeted him in Hebrew. “It seemed the best way to convince you quickly that I was a brother.”

  Solomon looked at the man. He could be a Flemish trader or an English farmer, but no one would have imagined him a Jew.

  “Are you a convert?” he asked.

  The man laughed. “My name is Samson,” he said. “And I was born in London of good, Jewish parents. My grandparents came from Rouen. They were good Jews, as well. Before that, I refuse to guess. The Northmen were active in our part of the world, too.”

  Solomon hadn’t realized how lonely he was for one of his own. He nearly hugged Samson, then remembered his original reason for coming out to the shore. Samson waited for him to finish, then suggested that they find someplace to sit and share a flask he had brought from home.

  “Those others are going to think we’re up to improper acts,” Solomon pointed out.

  “As long as they don’t think I’m proselytizing, I don’t care.” Samson laughed. “Do you?”

  “No,” Solomon decided. “But I’m sleeping with my back to the wall tonight.”

  “Always a safe plan,” Samson agreed.

  When they had settled and drunk the beer Samson’s wife had brewed, Solomon started questioning him.

  “I didn’t know we were trading this far north,” he started.

  “We don’t much,” Samson told him. “Although there’s talk of starting a community at York. The war between Stephen and Matilda has unsettled everyone. Add to it the struggle up here with the Scots king and the anarchy in general and trade becomes unappealing. Why are you here?”

  “I have a Christian friend who was coming home and my uncles thought it would be worth it to see if we could get some of the wool trade before the Flemings grab it all.”

  “You were welcomed into a Christian home?” Samson seemed amazed.

  Solomon fidgeted with embarrassment. “My friend’s family thinks I’m one of them.”

  “I’ll not pass judgment on you for that, as long as you didn’t participate in their idolatry,” Samson said. “But I assumed the woman who came with you was your wife. It seemed strange to bring her along.”

  Solomon shook his head. “It would take too long to explain. She’s not my wife, but my cousin, and a Christian. Her father is one of us but was forced to endure baptism by the soldiers of Christ when he was a child. I beg you not to betray us. It might mean her life as well as mine.”

  Samson gave Solomon his hand. “It’s hard enough for us to live among the Edomites without having dissension among ourselves.”

  “Todah robah.” Solomon thanked him. “Have you been away from London long? I was hoping for some word of our people in Paris. Things weren’t well when I left.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Samson said. “I’ve always thought of Paris as a haven, not like Narbonne or Toledo, but better than England.”

  “Then you know nothing?” Solomon pressed him.

  Samson scrunched his forehead in thought. “There was something a few weeks ago. A distant relative of ours was called before the bishop for being too familiar with his Christian partner or something. But I believe he was able to prove his innocence. At least there was no word of expulsion or hangings.”

  Solomon hadn’t realized that he’d been holding his breath until he heard the gasp as he exhaled in relief. “That was my uncle, I think. I believe he sent me away to keep me from danger, the old fool.”

  “Then we’re mishpocha as well as brothers.” Samson handed the beer to Solomon. “If there’s anything I can do to help you, let me know.”

  “Not unless you can arrange a safe way for my cousin to reach her husband in Durham.” Solomon took the beer gratefully. Samson’s wife was an excellent brewer.

  “Durham?” Samson puffed his cheeks in consternation. “No one sane goes near the place these days. Even the new bishop is reluctant to visit. Still, I’ll see what I can do. I speak the English of the South but most of these fellows can make out what I’m saying and I don’t always bother to mention my faith. Like you, I can be cautious, if needful. But for some reason, most of these people think we have horns, like a ram. It makes it easy to pass as one of them, if necessary.”

  “Horns? That’s a new one,” Solomon made a note to ask Catherine or Margaret about it, when there was time. “Where did they get that from?”

  “I have no idea,” Samson answered. “All I know is that when my family came here, the Saxons insisted that they couldn’t be Jews because their books said all Jews were horned.”

  “I don’t suppose it was a reference to sexual ability,” Solomon said wistfully.

  “Sorry.” Samson grinned again.

  They walked back to the monastery, ignoring the sidewise glances of the other men.

  Despite the hardness of the pallet and the snores from all around him, Solomon slept better that night than he had since they came to Britain. He hadn’t admitted to himself how alien he felt among these people. Samson was a revelation. He was decidedly English and yet undoubtedly Jewish, as well. He felt as comfortable in Britain as Solomon did in France. That wasn’t saying much. No place was completely safe. But it eased Solomon’s mind to be with someone who knew the language and the customs here. He began to feel better about their chances of survival.

  Catherine didn’t share his optimism. She was worn from worry and travel and the need to produce enough food for her continually ravenous son. She realized that Willa had been taking on too much, as well. The girl seemed to have grown taller in the past few weeks and, while thinner, her body had curves in it that alarmed Catherine. Willa was almost a grown woman. Men would certainly regard her as one and, as a servant, easy prey.

  Catherine let her head fall back against the wall. She closed her eyes. Every time she had ever resented her parents forbidding her to go someplace, all their lectures about not wandering off alone, came back to her now. She vowed to apologize to her father the moment they reached home.

  But just now Willa was in no danger from lascivious men. She and Margaret were asleep in the corner, curled together, spoon fashion for warmth, as Catherine and her sister, Agnes, had once slept. Willa’s braid had fallen across Margaret like a rope binding them together. Every now and then she half woke, coughing, and then settled back again.

  Catherine was exhausted but not able to sleep, yet. She watched the other women in the room as they soothed children and set out blankets to mark the boundaries of their space. Catherine realized that she had done the same.

  How odd, she thought. Even without walls, we need to create a sense of a home.

  Catherine knew that if they stayed more than a day or two, each small space would develop its own personality, revealing the nature of the woman who controlled it. She wished she could speak with them. She felt how foreign she looked to them and knew they were curious about the girls with her, so clearly not her own and the baby that so obviously was. The curiosity could easily turn to fear and animosity if it came about that one of them had brought the fever with them. The spotted sickness could kill a child or leave him blind or deaf or with a hundred other infirmities. Catherine had no illusions about what she would do to someone who brought such a danger near h
er James, and none about what these women would do to her if they believed her family had contaminated theirs.

  Willa was still coughing when morning came. Catherine kissed her forehead and was relieved to find it cool. The two spots on her face were only those that come with the change from girl to woman.

  “I feel fine,” Willa insisted. “Mother told me I’d had the spotted sickness when my brother did. They say if you survive, you can’t get it again. My throat just feels sore from the coughing.”

  Catherine decided to find a leech at the monastery anyway.

  “Sister Melisande used to make a tonic for the cough,” she told Willa. “Perhaps someone here has a similar draught.”

  There was no one at the monastery but they were directed to a woman nearby who was reputed to have skill in such things. Mindful of her fears the night before, Catherine collected Margaret and told Solomon where they were going before they went to see her.

  They found the woman in her garden, hoeing. She was not much older than Catherine and had a baby a little younger than James in a basket on the ground next to her. Margaret explained the problem. The woman laid the hoe aside, dusted her hands on her apron and beckoned Willa to come closer and open her mouth in the direction of the sun.

  Willa coughed again as the air hit her throat. The woman listened and peered inside her mouth for a moment. Then she said something to Margaret, picked up the baby and went into the house.

  “She says it looks like a dry cough, from dust or demons in the wind. She’s going to get something for it.”

  The woman returned with a small covered clay pot. She gave it to Catherine, all the while explaining to Margaret.

  Finally, Margaret turned to Catherine. “She says to give her a spoonful of this morning and evening. Afterwards draw a cross on her forehead and say, what was it?”