Prior Richard watched them go by. “We can’t let a woman in there,” he said, grasping at the one thing he could understand of the events of the past moments.
Aelred turned his head as he passed, carrying Edgar’s legs. “We can’t keep her out,” he said. “It’s her right.”
The prior turned back, forced to comprehend the scene in the church. The transept was a pool of red, reflected in the sunshine. Alfred’s body lay in it, his head almost severed. His grandsons knelt next to him, weeping and praying.
In another pool lay Edgar’s severed hand, fingers still splayed, now palm up to Heaven as if begging mercy.
Waldeve stood motionless. The sun had moved, leaving him in shadow. Everyone else just stared at him, as if afraid to touch someone so unclean.
“Damn you, boy,” Waldeve said softly. “Never where you’re supposed to be.”
He dropped the sword.
The sound freed the others from their shock. Æthelræd bent and picked up the grisly weapon.
“Bind him,” he ordered. “Prior, is there a place we can hold the prisoner?”
“Prisoner?” Waldeve screamed. “I’m the master here! I was executing my own justice. It’s my right.”
Æthelræd stepped back from him.
“You have committed murder in front of the holy altar, on a man given holy sanctuary.” He spoke loudly so that all could hear. “Your life is forfeit.”
Waldeve spit at him. “Don’t spout holy law at me, you heoruwearg. You never had any more use for it that I have. Men, prepare to ride. We’re going to Wedderlie this very night and I’ll make good on my promise to Alfred. I only wish I’d let him live long enough to see it. Now!”
Nobody moved. Waldeve stared at his men and, too late, realized his mistake. Duncan had been watching from the sidelines with no show of emotion. Now he nodded to Urric, who stepped forward and took Waldeve’s arm. Æthelræd took the other and they tied his wrists with his own leather belt as the lord of Wedderlie shouted obscenities at the assembly.
“You’re all of my blood, every one of you bastards! You owe me your very lives! Betray me now and you shall be damned for eternity, and your sons and theirs!”
His sons, nephews and grandsons, bastards all, helped drag him away.
The monks helped Meldred and Algar carry Alfred’s body out.
Æthelræd and Robert were left alone. They both looked down.
“We can’t leave it there,” Robert said.
“I know. After all, it’s part of Edgar,” his uncle agreed.
Neither made a move to pick it up.
“He was a craftsman,” Robert said. “Always carving on something. What will he do now?”
Æthelræd shook his head. “Live, please God. Just let him live and after that, what fate wills.”
Catherine watched as the infirmarian heated the metal over glowing coals. The cloths wrapped around Edgar’s arm were bright red. His face was paler than she had ever seen it, even his lips bled almost white. He was mercifully unconscious.
She sat on the floor beside his cot. Every now and then she would reach up to take his hand, and then remember. Each time, it horrified her.
“Live,” she repeated over and over. “You must live, or I’ll die, too. Edgar, don’t leave me. You can’t leave me alone.”
She should have been praying, beseeching the saints, bargaining with God. But the only one she could see or think of was Edgar, and he was the only one she implored to answer.
Solomon knelt beside her. He held her tightly as they both watched Edgar’s ragged breathing.
“Catherine, you need to come out for a while,” he said. “James is crying for you. He’s hungry.”
“Bring him to me,” Catherine said, never taking her eyes from Edgar.
Solomon saw that the iron cautery was almost red hot. His voice took on a note of panic.
“No, dear. You need to go to him. This is no place for a baby.”
Catherine looked straight at him. What he saw in her face made his heart pound in terror.
“I’m not leaving, Solomon,” she said. “I know what they’re going to do and I won’t let him endure it alone.”
“Catherine …”
Solomon gave the infirmarian a gesture of helplessness.
The Norman monk set his mouth in a determined line. “I can’t have her in the way. What if she tries to stop me? What if she screams and faints?”
“I won’t get in the way,” Catherine said dully. “It’s the only way to save him.”
“And she won’t faint,” Solomon said. “She’s stronger than you think.”
The monk stood firm.
“She’s his wife,” Solomon added. “She has the right.” He kissed Catherine’s cheek. “Willa can give James some broth. I’ll bring him to you when it’s over.”
Catherine nodded, too busy gathering up all her fortitude to hear him clearly.
With much grumbling, the infirmarian directed his assistants to unbind the wound and hold the patient steady. He stoked the coals and pulled out the cautery iron.
“Woman, you so much as move and you’ll risk being scarred for life,” he warned.
“I understand,” she said.
They had to peel the last of the bandages off. Catherine saw the white bone amidst the sliced red bits of flesh, muscle and nerves. She watched as the glowing metal came closer and closer, finally pressing against the open wound with a horrid sizzling and a smell that she would never forget.
Edgar cried out and subsided.
Catherine started to reach for him.
“I said don’t move!” The infirmarian took the iron off. He was perspiring freely. “He’s not dead, if that’s what you fear. If anything, the pain should be less soon. I don’t know why but it seems to help.”
“Will he survive?” This came out as a croak from her dry throat.
“I don’t know,” the monk said more gently. “I’ve seen men live after worse injuries. There is hope.”
That one word dissolved the last of Catherine’s strength. She crumpled beside the cot in tears.
By the time Solomon arrived with James, they had wiped her face and given her strong wine with honey and vervain to calm her. The infirmarian looked at the baby in amazement.
“I didn’t understand,” he said. “Yes, they should all be together. I’ll have the brothers set up another cot and string curtains across the corner for her. But only until he can be moved.”
“How long will that be?” Solomon asked.
“A few days,” the infirmarian said. “Either to the inn or the graveyard. There’s no way now to say which.”
Solomon left in search of Aelred, the only person left who could help him amidst all these foreigners. Going to a white monk for help! He hoped his friends never learnt of it.
Aelred was in the prior’s receiving room. Æthelræd and Robert were with them.
“How is he?” they asked.
“The bleeding has been stopped,” Solomon answered. “Beyond that, only the Holy One knows. What will happen to Waldeve?”
“He thinks he can appeal to William Cumin and be released with no consequences,” Aelred said. “What he’s forgotten is that Hexham is a dependency of York and Archbishop Thurston isn’t about to be so lenient. Of course, he can appeal to King David, but I believe I can convince the king that his pardon wouldn’t be appropriate here.”
“But Alfred admitted that he had plotted against his lord, and he sent the men who killed Adalisa,” Solomon said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Prior Richard said harshly. “Sanctuary is inviolable. What Alfred and his people did was a mortal sin and an affront to authority. What Waldeve did was an insult to God, himself. He must pay.”
“With his life?” Solomon said hopefully.
“In a way,” Aelred explained. “The least he could be made to pay is Alfred’s weregild, his man-price, but as he was only a peasant, that’s not very high. However, Waldeve could be sentenced either to p
erpetual imprisonment or, which I prefer, to life as a grithman.”
“A what?”
Prior Richard smiled. It did not bode well for Waldeve’s future. “It means he becomes a serf of the church. He must stay here for the remainder of his days. If he leaves, his life is immediately forfeit.”
“That’s diabolical,” Solomon said in admiration.
“That is justice,” the prior corrected.
“But Duncan will still get Wedderlie,” Solomon remembered.
“Until his oldest nephew is of age to fight him for it,” the prior agreed. “That is also justice.”
Catherine hadn’t realized how much of Edgar’s blood had spilled onto her until she started to feed James and saw that she had to wash it off herself before he could nurse. Even then it was the next day before Willa, along with a woman from the town who spoke French, could convince her to come with them to be cleaned.
“I must stay,” she protested. “What if he wakes?”
“He won’t,” the infirmarian said. “Not with the inhalant I put under his nose. Go. You stink and are an offense to my sight. Don’t worry. I’ll readmit you.”
Catherine squinted in the bright sunlight. In the churchyard the monks were setting up a table hung with altar cloths.
“What’s that for?” she asked.
“They can’t say Mass in the church until it’s been cleaned and purified,” the woman told her. “Don’t think about that now.”
“Edgar’s hand!” Catherine stopped. “Where is it? What did they do with it?”
“I have no idea, dear.” The woman pushed her to get her moving toward the gate again. “It’s better not to know.”
“No, I must know,” Catherine insisted. “I have to ask Prior Richard.”
“Not now; it’s Sunday.” Another gentle shove. “A fine way to greet the Lord, with your clothes stuck to your body and your hair uncovered.”
“Please, Mistress,” Willa begged. “Come with us. If you could see yourself, you wouldn’t argue.”
It wasn’t until her head came out of a dunking in the warm water that Catherine thought to ask, “How is Margaret?”
Willa grinned. “Awake again,” she said happily. “Solomon came looking for us last night. The moment she heard his voice, she opened her eyes and stretched out her arms to him. I don’t suppose he’d wait a few years until she’s of age and convert for her sake?”
“It seems impossible, but greater miracles have happened,” Catherine said. Then she grew sober again. “If only we could be granted one now.”
It was late that night when Edgar finally regained consciousness. He was first aware of the sharp headache, a result of the opiate. Then he felt the deep throbbing pain in his arm and hand. He lifted his left arm and opened his eyes. He saw the bandages wrapped around the end of his arm and the void beyond.
“Oh, God no,” he said, dropping his arm. “I thought it was a nightmare. It is a nightmare. I’ve got to wake up.”
Catherine was next to him at once murmuring wordless syllables of comfort, wiping his face with a cool cloth. He tried to kiss her fingers as they passed over his mouth, then fell back into a stupor.
Slowly he came alert, but not alive. When he understood the permanence of his injury, he retreated into an apathy that not even James could rouse him from.
“Edgar, please, eat something,” Catherine begged. “You have to get strong again so that we can go home.”
“Home to what?” Edgar answered listlessly. “What good am I to anyone now?”
Catherine tried pleading. She tried cajoling. She tried anger and seduction. Nothing would bring him round.
“I don’t know what else to do,” she wept to the infirmarian. “If he won’t live for us, what more is there?”
The monk shook his head in worry. “I’ve seen cases like this before. Sometimes the patient develops his own desire to heal, others … well, it’s still early. He’s young and has a devoted family. That would be enough for most men.”
“He’s a craftsman,” Catherine said. “He’s happiest when making things, carving bits or shaping jewelry. See the cross he made for me?”
She pulled it out of her tunic. The ivory tusk had been turned into a piece of white lace, with swans and spirals. It was a work of art and love.
“He’ll never be able to do that again,” she said.
The infirmarian wasn’t impressed.
“A man of his birth shouldn’t have been doing anything like that in the first place,” he stated.
One afternoon Robert came to the infirmary and offered to sit with Edgar while Catherine went out for some fresh air with Solomon and Margaret.
“You’re looking paler than he does,” he told her.
Catherine didn’t want to go, but Edgar waved her away with a gesture that hurt her deeply and so she went.
Edgar turned his face away as Robert sat down.
“If you’re going to give me a lecture on self-pity and the sin of despair, you can leave right now,” he warned. “I’ve heard them all.”
“Actually,” Robert said. “I was going to tell you how Lufen is doing.”
“Lufen?” Edgar was vaguely insulted. “Very well, how is your dog, Robert?”
“She’s recovered as far as she’s going to,” he said. “She trips now and then and can’t go up stairs the way she used to. She’ll never hunt again, of course.”
“Sounds fairly useless,” Edgar said.
Robert pursed his lips, considering. “To most people, yes. Duncan would have let her die when she was hurt. But I couldn’t. Do you know why?”
“Because you have a soft head and a soft heart,” Edgar answered, sensing a moral coming.
“That too,” Robert admitted. “But I had a much more selfish reason. She loves me. I think she’s the only one who does. For that love I will carry her up and down stairs and pick her up when she trips. As long as she lives, I don’t care if I ever hunt again. I didn’t want her to survive for her sake, but for mine.”
“I understand your point, Robert.” Edgar sighed. “But Lufen is just a dog. I’m a man.”
“That is my point, Edgar,” Robert said. “Lufen is nothing but a dumb creature and yet I would die without her love. You’re human. Think how much more you have to offer.”
Edgar was silent for a long time. He thought of Catherine and how little he felt he could give her now, of how he hated the idea of being dependent on her father. Then he turned it about and looked at the situation from her side. How could she face going back to Paris alone, with a small child to care for? No, he knew her better than that. It wasn’t a time for false modesty. He knew perfectly well what he meant to her, what would happen to her spirit if he died.
“Oh, Robert!” he said. “You are a complete ass.”
“So I’ve been told.” Robert smiled.
Edgar felt a weight rise from his heart, he smiled back at his brother, then fell onto his pillow.
“All right, go on and gloat,” he said. “Then go tell my wife that I’ve decided she’s worth living for.”
“I suspected it all the time.” And Robert ran to get her.
Epilogue
Paris, the home of Hubert LeVendeur, merchant. Friday, 9 kalends July
(June 23), 1144. Saint John’s Eve.
Ford ic gefare, frind ic gemete …
Bidde ic nu sigeres god godes miltse
si∂fœt godne, smylte and lihte
Windas on warothum … .
I fare forth, friends I shall meet …
Now I pray to the god of triumph to God’s mercy
that the journey be good, a mild and light
wind from the shore … .
—A journey spell,
MS 41 Corpus Christi College,
Exeter Book
Edgar didn’t heal all at once. There was no miraculous cure. His recovery was slow and there were many days of despair. They left Hexham for Berwick in the middle of October. Robert made a deal with Duncan to
recover his house in the town that had been illegally ceded to William Cumin. They settled into it with Margaret and Willa to wait out the winter. James took his first steps in Scotland and his first word was “Cuddy,” the nickname for the birds that gathered in their garden each morning.
Solomon left soon after they settled to head south to London. Margaret was devastated.
“You’ll come back, won’t you?” she asked.
“I promise I’ll be here in the spring and we’ll all sail home together,” he said.
He and Edgar had a long discussion the night before he left.
“My friend Samson has sent a message,” Solomon explained. “The man who came over from France with us, the clerk that I thought was following me, seems to have become interested in Samson. The man has been seen in London. They say he’s asking questions about Samson’s connection with the French. There’s something wrong in this and I don’t think it bodes well for the Jews.”
“Has there been any word from Hubert?” Edgar asked.
“Not directly, or I would have told you,” Solomon said. “But I heard that Uncle Eliazar has petitioned the community at Troyes to be allowed to settle there. I fear his connection with Uncle Hubert has become too suspect.”
“And what about you, then?” Edgar worried. “Will you relocate, as well?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t risk the lives of my people for my own friendships. Perhaps it won’t come to that.”
“Margaret would never forgive you,” Edgar reminded him.
“Take good care of her,” Solomon said. “Let her be a child.”
“That won’t be hard with Catherine around,” Edgar said. “She forgets too often that she isn’t one herself.”
“One of the reasons I love her.”
After he left Edgar absently raised his left arm to scratch his ear. It was still a shock when the leather-covered stump touched his flesh. He could almost feel the missing fingers still wiggling. Prior Richard told him that they had buried the hand so that on Judgment Day it would be ready to rejoin his resurrected body. This didn’t give him a great deal of comfort.
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