The Witch in the Well: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  “I’ll copy it,” she agreed. “But you had better take it. I don’t know anyone there. If I appear with some arcane words on a page, they might well think I want to use it for some dark potion.”

  Edgar laughed. “They might think the same of me. Do we have a plausible story as to where we found the writing?”

  “Not at the moment,” Catherine said. “Let me sleep on it. Don’t!” she added. “I know you were going to say something lewd.”

  “No, you just hoped so,” Edgar teased.

  Catherine had to admit he was right.

  By the next morning, she had decided that they should tell the clerics that the words were from an inscription they had found on a stone dug up on their land. It happened often enough that a plow turned up some old bits of wall with Roman writing. They didn’t need to say that they already knew it wasn’t written in Latin.

  Edgar set off to the cathedral in search of a scholar. Catherine stayed behind to sit with Samonie and tend to her sewing, like a proper wife.

  “It’s been so calm the past few days,” Samonie commented.

  “We must finally be doing whatever your sorceress wanted.”

  “Samonie,” Catherine corrected her. “She wasn’t my anything. I don’t know what she was. And I never understood what she wanted.”

  “Still, it’s nice to have a day or two without a disaster.” Samonie wanted the last word.

  “Yes,” Catherine gave in. “I’ve enjoyed the peace, too.”

  It lasted until the cathedral bells rang None.

  As the tolling faded, Catherine noticed a party approaching the inn. The elegance of the horses and the sedan chair made it clear that this was someone of distinction. She moved her stool back to give them more room to pass.

  However, at a wave from inside, the sedan chair was set down directly in front of her. As Catherine gaped, the curtains were pushed aside.

  “Sitting like a common alewife by the side of the road! You haven’t changed at all,” a woman’s voice announced. “I can’t believe we ever shared the same womb.”

  Catherine inhaled deeply. She wished Samonie hadn’t tempted the fates.

  “Agnes.” She forced a smile as she held out her arms to her sister. “What a surprise! How wonderful to see you again.”

  Six

  The town of Chartres, Sunday 5 kalends September (August 28) 1149. Feast of Saint Augustine of Hippo, bishop, theologian, and autobiographer, who really has a lot to answer for. 15 Elul 4909.

  . . . dont irai le messe oir

  Si com mes ancestre fist

  Et me grand guerre esbaudir

  Encontre mes anemis.

  . . . And then I will go hear the mass

  As my ancestors did

  And then I’ll take up the war again

  Against all my enemies.

  —Aucassin and Nicolette, XXIX, II. 11–14

  Apparently, the messenger from Grandfather had no trouble reaching Agnes in Trier,” Catherine told Edgar sourly. “I’m rather sorry he did. She is, if anything, more annoying than I remember.”

  They were sitting in the room they had taken for the family at the inn. Samonie and Martin had gone with the children to the market so, for the moment, Catherine and Edgar were alone.

  Edgar grinned. “Are you going to take this opportunity to practice patience and charity and forgive your sister for marrying well, never spilling on her clothes, and always pointing out deficiencies in your character?”

  “You forgot being blond and taking most of Mother’s jewelry with her when she married,” Catherine pouted. “That’s a lot to forgive in one swallow.”

  “Then start with the jewelry and work up to the rest.” Edgar reached inside her veil and pulled out a dark curl. “Personally, I prefer sable tresses. Scotland is awash in blondes.”

  Catherine tried not to smile. “You won’t let me sulk, will you?”

  “I haven’t time to indulge you.” He tucked the curl back in place. “Now, do you want to know what I found out at the cathedral?”

  “Of course.” Catherine was annoyed with herself for having forgotten. “What did the masters say?”

  “That it isn’t in a language any of them know,” Edgar said. “I even asked if it could be Breton, but one of the monks speaks it and he’s sure it isn’t that, either.”

  “What about Saracen or Hebrew, but in Roman letters?” Catherine wondered. She held up the length of cloth again. “I don’t know—it has a feel of being something almost familiar. In some parts I’d almost think it was French with terrible grammar, but it makes no sense. It must have something to do with the pictures. If the woman weren’t a mermaid, I’d think it was the family story that Guillaume told us. He did say she had both her feet, didn’t he?

  “If someone is trying to send us a message, they’re not doing very well,” she muttered.

  “You know, it might have been done by someone who couldn’t write,” Edgar said, as he puzzled over the letters. “Perhaps the seamstress copied a few letters here and there and embroidered them just for amusement.”

  That idea bothered Catherine. “Sometimes people use chains of arcane letters if they want to cast a spell. Solomon told me that women ask him for magic words in Hebrew. If that’s what this is, then it might well have been left as a curse upon us. We should get rid of it.”

  Edgar stopped her. “Catherine, don’t start speculating on disaster. Why should the language be demonic? This could just as well have been left as a blessing. Perhaps one of the saints flew by the tree and put it there for us to find.”

  “A saint would have known to write in a language we could read.” Catherine couldn’t stop herself from arguing, even when the statement was absurd.

  With a sigh she folded up the cloth and tucked it into a purse at her belt.

  “Very well, now about your sister.” Edgar guided her back to an immediate problem. “Have you told her yet that we are waiting for Solomon to meet us here before continuing to Boisvert?”

  Catherine grimaced. “I was hoping you would do it. Or,” she added wickedly, “we could wait for him to tell her, himself.”

  Agnes had learned of the family’s Jewish connections a few years before. The very idea horrified her. She loathed the sight of Solomon and the easy way Catherine and Edgar included him in their lives.

  “I couldn’t do that to him,” Edgar said.

  “He might enjoy seeing her face when he walks in.” Catherine felt a certain pleasure at the image.

  Agnes was staying at a nearby convent guesthouse and had let it be known that she expected Catherine and Edgar to join her for the evening meal. In her perverse mood, Catherine considered bringing all the children and the dog but decided that would be too much. So she allowed Samonie to dress her stylishly and prepared for an unpleasant meal.

  Agnes, of course, had brought servants, dishes, beds, tables, chairs, and pillows. Consequently, the room at the convent was as elegant as their home in Trier. Her husband, Hermann, rose to greet them as they entered.

  “Good sister! Dear brother!” He hugged them warmly. “It has been too long since my Agnes and I have seen you. Have you looked on our fine son yet?”

  “Catherine saw him this afternoon.” Agnes joined her husband. She gave her sister a quick peck on the cheek and nodded coolly to Edgar.

  As they were seated at the table, Edgar whispered in Catherine’s ear, “It seems we’re out of favor again.”

  “Saving her life wasn’t enough, I guess,” Catherine whispered back.

  Not enough to erase Catherine’s offenses of choosing Edgar over life in the convent, of accepting their infidel cousin, and, not least, for pushing their mother from being a woman who was merely deeply pious to one who was lost in religious mania.

  Perhaps Agnes had a point.

  They conversed politely through the meal, giving news of old friends and family.

  “Your sister, Edgar,” Agnes asked. “Margaret. Such a sweet child. Is she married, yet?”
/>
  Edgar froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “No,” he said evenly. “She is continuing her studies at the Paraclete, as Catherine did.”

  “Ah, well, I’m sure that her grandfather will provide the convent a rich dowry should she decide to take the veil.” Agnes smiled.

  Catherine marveled at her sister’s needle-sharp skill in knowing what would discomfit them most. Margaret was Edgar’s half sister, her mother an illegitimate child of the count of Champagne. Count Thibault had grown fond of his granddaughter and had offered more than once to provide for her. Edgar resented the count’s interest all the more because there was nothing he could do to discourage it.

  “Margaret has not yet decided if she has a vocation for the convent,” Catherine jumped in. “As you know, Heloise will not allow anyone younger than eighteen to take final vows. Margaret has two more years.”

  “Of course.” Hermann smiled at them. “My nephew, Peter, still speaks of her. He sends greetings. You know, he is now a man and I do not guard him anymore.”

  Agnes put her hand on his. “You aren’t his guardian, of course, but he still relies on you for counsel.”

  Hermann nodded affably. Edgar found himself liking the man, despite his choice in a wife.

  “Your French has improved amazingly since we last saw you,” he commented. “I’m very impressed. It took me years to learn the language.”

  Hermann smiled proudly. “My Agnes, she teaches me,” he said. “But it is not easy. Such slippery sounds, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, yes,” Edgar agreed. “Very different from our tongues.”

  Hermann’s good nature eased the tension of the dinner, as did the clear wine he had brought from Trier. By time the sweet-meats were brought in, Catherine was feeling inclined to try to be more charitable toward Agnes.

  When the last server had left, Agnes sighed with relief.

  “Now,” she said firmly. “What are you two planning to do to save us all from destruction?”

  Catherine was stunned.

  “Do you mean you knew about these stories, too?” Her lower lip trembled. “I don’t understand. If this is part of our legacy, then why was I the only one not told?”

  “Perhaps your head was so full of philosophy that you just didn’t listen,” Agnes countered. “Mother told me many tales of her childhood that you had no time for.”

  Catherine swallowed her tears. She resented Agnes’s words deeply, even more because she feared her sister was in the right. Had she paid any attention to their mother’s stories? She should have been more sympathetic, less concerned with herself. Catherine sighed. Sometimes sins of omission were harder to atone for than wrongs she had done.

  The others were staring at her, Edgar and Hermann with worry. Agnes’s expression was unreadable. Catherine tried to bring her attention back to the present dilemma.

  “But you don’t believe this myth, too, do you?” she asked. Agnes was always the sensible one. “Our lives aren’t tied to a spring under Boisvert. That’s nonsense!”

  “Is it?” Agnes looked her up and down. “Then why are you here?”

  “Because someone has taken great pains to send for us,” Edgar answered for her. “And a man was murdered to keep us from learning of your grandfather’s summons.”

  Agnes waved that away. “You are always being threatened. And for good reason. You never could leave well enough alone. If a man was murdered, I’m sure it was because of something unrelated to this. There is only one reason for either of us to have come on this journey.”

  She turned to her sister, her expression honest and pleading.

  “You felt at once that you had to come, didn’t you, Catherine?” Agnes leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Catherine’s face.

  “Don’t give me any complicated excuses. You know it, even if you won’t admit it. You are going to Boisvert for the same reason I am. The curse is threatening Andonenn and she needs us. The mother of us all is calling us home.”

  Catherine couldn’t avoid her eyes. Nor could she lie to them.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “I don’t know who or what is doing it, but I cannot deny the feeling that I’m being pulled to Boisvert whether I will it or not.”

  Catherine only managed to keep her temper in check until they had returned to their room.

  “Wonderful!” She ripped her sleeves off with furious jerks. “Everyone in the family learned this damn story before they were weaned. Why did no one tell me? Am I not part of the family? Was I really that oblivious?”

  Edgar picked up the shredded sleeves and put them in Samonie’s sewing basket. From her cot in the corner, Samonie roused herself enough to caution them not to wake the children. Then she put the pillow over her head and went back to sleep.

  Edgar and Catherine crawled into bed still in their shifts. The rings clattered as Edgar drew the curtains.

  Catherine was still fuming. “If I’d known all along, I’d have understood the signs. I’d have known to ask the old woman more before she died.”

  “Sshhh.” Edgar rolled over and drew her arm across his stomach. “We can’t change that now. You musn’t fret.”

  She drew breath to protest, but he turned swiftly and kissed her until he felt the anger drain away.

  “No more tonight.”

  His body relaxed against hers and he was soon asleep.

  But Catherine passed the darkness reliving the evening, thinking too late of what she should have said to Agnes and wondering how much her sister really believed of the family legend. It was nearly dawn before she slept.

  Catherine had honestly forgotten about telling Agnes that Solomon was meeting them. So her conscience was clear when she and her sister returned from Mass at the convent the next morning and found him sitting with Edgar outside the inn.

  Agnes stopped dead.

  “This is too much,” she hissed at Catherine. “What is that person doing here? You can’t mean to bring him with us!”

  Catherine smiled at her as she waved at Solomon.

  “What took you so long, snail foot?” she called. “Did you have a nice visit in Blois?”

  As they drew nearer, she could tell that Edgar had remembered to warn Solomon. He showed no surprise as he stood and bowed deeply to Agnes.

  “My lady,” he said. “You are looking well. Much better than the last time we met. Germany must suit you.”

  He looked at her and smiled.

  Catherine knew for a fact that to most women, a smile from Solomon could win him anything from a free pitcher of beer to a week in a widow’s bed. Agnes regarded him coldly.

  “I prefer it to living at the house in Paris,” she said. “Especially since my sister is not discerning in her choice of guests.”

  Solomon turned to Catherine. “So you told her about the rats.” He smiled again at Agnes. “And have the good people of your village tried to murder any more Jews lately?”

  “Solomon.” Edgar felt it was time to intervene. “Agnes might be interested in hearing what you found out, if the two of you can be convinced to arrange a truce.”

  Agnes clenched her fists but nodded. Edgar looked at Solomon, who shrugged.

  “Catherine?” Edgar motioned for her to sit. “Solomon thinks we should leave for Boisvert at once, rather than wait on your brother. There is some trouble between your grandfather and one of his neighbors.”

  Agnes joined them. “It isn’t Foulques of Valleton, is it?” she asked. “He’s had his eye on our land for years.”

  “No,” Solomon said. “In Blois the word is that some castellan of Anjou is claiming that Boisvert is his through his mother’s line. The bishop has offered to mediate, but the man won’t consider it. He says Gargenaud must turn over the castle to him or face annihilation.”

  “No one in our family ever married into Anjou,” Agnes said with certainty. “He’s lying. What is this avoutre’s name?”

  “Olivier of Château Boue,” Solomon told them. “Mean anything to you?”

  “Not
hing,” Agnes said. “He probably named himself. ‘Olivier’! I suppose he has a brother named Roland. What nonsense.”

  “Hold up a moment,” Catherine said. “Just how far back on his mother’s side does this man base his claim?”

  Solomon sighed. “You have it. Remember now, I’m only repeating what I was told. Lord Olivier says that he, too, comes from the line of your knightly forebear, Jurvale. Only his ancestor is from the man’s first marriage, to a noblewoman, and not contaminated by Andonenn’s unearthly blood. Therefore, he claims that his distant grandfather should be the true heir.”

  Catherine rubbed her forehead. The ache didn’t go away.

  “Is everyone here mad?” she asked quietly. “The bishop thought this claim valid enough to feel the need to negotiate?”

  “It doesn’t have to be true, Catherine,” Agnes said. “Or even plausible. This Olivier only needs a battle cry.”

  “Do your sources say that Olivier is preparing an attack now?” Edgar asked.

  “Not precisely.” Solomon squirmed on the bench. “They say only that the land is unsettled. Everyone I spoke with had the feeling that something was amiss. The peasants are talking of bringing in the harvest still green, rather than lose it all. People swear they’ve seen strange fish in the rivers, with shimmering scales and golden eyes.”

  “How many people?” Catherine asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Agnes said. “It’s clear things are awry in the countryside all around Boisvert. We are the only ones who can put it right.”

  “You keep saying that, Agnes,” Catherine said in exasperation. “But just how are we to do it?”

  She didn’t expect her sister to have an answer, but Agnes folded her hands and looked at them calmly.

  “We must find out who is blocking the spring and stop them,” she told them. “But first we must find the source and it will only reveal itself when all of the lady’s children have returned to Boisvert.”