“Mama?” He tried to hide in her skirts. Edgar ignored him.
“What repayment can we give for your inconvenience?” he asked the man. “My name is Edgar of Paris. My partner, Solomon, and my wife, Catherine. The miscreant is my son James. He is, of course, abjectly sorry.”
From the depths of Catherine’s bliaut came a pitiful “Very sorry, my lord.”
The man couldn’t keep from smiling.
“A fine greeting to give your cousin, young man!” He gave James a tap on the head with his fingers. “I am Aymon, great-grandson of Gargenaud, lord of Boisvert, as you are, James. I cannot tell you how overjoyed we are that you have come. Are there others?”
“My sister, Agnes, and her family are with us,” Catherine told him, too astonished at the coincidence to give more than a simple answer. “My brother and his wife and children should arrive soon.”
Aymon closed his eyes and let out a long ragged sigh.
“Agnes came even from Germany!” He shook his head in wonder. “And Guillaume as well. I didn’t believe it could happen. Oh, blessed Mother, we may yet be saved!”
He didn’t give them time to question him.
“I have to fetch my horse, if your dog hasn’t run him off,” he told them. “I’ll go through the woods and tell them of your arrival. If you follow the road, you’ll be at Boisvert before sundown. Hurry and welcome, welcome to you all!”
Seven
Somewhere in the forest in the county of Blois. Tuesday 3 kalends September (August 30) 1149. Feast of Saint Felix, martyr, whose breath could knock over stone idols.
Toutes les genz le conoissoient.
Tuit les conjoient et convoient
Aprés lui ot grant bruit de gent.
All the people knew him.
And all welcome him and
Follow after him noisily.
—Erec and Enide, II. 787–789
The forest thinned as they came closer to Boisvert and the road widened enough for two horses to ride abreast. The party could now make better time. Overhead, the sunlight filtered through verdant branches that protected them from the heat, but the shade made Catherine uneasy. Too many things seemed to be coming out of trees lately, green women, new relatives. She glanced often at the overhanging foliage, half-expecting to see a pale face staring down at her.
Within a league or two, the woods grew even more sparse. They passed by a hunter’s tower and soon came upon a swine-herd, his few pigs out on a search for early acorns. When asked how much farther it was to the castle, he smiled vacantly and pointed in the direction they were already going.
“Do you think he’s really stupid or just acting the way he thinks we expect him to?” Catherine asked Edgar.
“I think he didn’t want to be bothered,” Edgar said. “Or maybe he’s deaf. Or he might have thought we were the vanguard of an invading army and has sent us in the wrong direction.”
“You think it’s a silly thing for me to wonder about,” Catherine concluded.
Shortly thereafter the path rose gently in a long curve. When they reached the top, the woods ended, yielding to a stretch of fallow field, then long strips of grain, nearly ripe, interspersed with rows of grapes. These radiated out from a collection of houses built close to a high stone wall. Beyond the wall a village climbed the hill to a wooden palisade. And above that rose the castle of Boisvert.
Catherine had forgotten how massive it was. The fortress loomed above the village, blocking the afternoon sun. Its massive stones had been piled one upon another, not for beauty, but for protection.
Her ancestors had built the earliest keep in the days when the Northmen still ravaged the river valleys. Each generation had added to it until the castle spread across the top of the hill, three solid watchtowers joined by stone walls that enclosed an inner bailey. Below it was an outer bailey that was also ringed with stone. Outside that wall was a deep moat. The wooden wall that in Guillaume’s keep was the only defense, had been erected here merely to keep livestock, children, and drunks from falling into the water.
Edgar gave a long whistle of astonishment.
“One could wait out Armageddon in a place like that.”
Solomon rode up beside him. “Very impressive. I’ve no doubt that when I return from Blois, you’ll all have succumbed to the life of a noble and be dining on venison every night, quaffing huge vats of wine and wearing nothing but fur and silk.”
Edgar laughed. “That’s what they did at home in Scotland and I couldn’t wait to leave. You’ll be back by Michaelmas?”
“Before, if possible. We need to leave here soon after that if we want to be at Saint-Denis for the Lendit fair,” Solomon answered. “And since what we sell there decides how well we survive the winter, I expect you to finish all this well before the end of September.”
“Easily,” Edgar promised him. “This summons was probably just an excuse for the old man to see how many of his descendants cared enough to come.”
“Yes, I suppose,” Solomon said with doubt. “That man in the tree didn’t really say he was Gargenaud’s great-grandson, did he?”
“It’s possible; Catherine thinks her grandfather must be over eighty,” Edgar replied.
Solomon shook himself. “This is all too strange for me, but be sure you make note of everything that happens. It will make a good story over the mulled ale this winter.”
He bade them farewell and set off, seemingly unworried about traveling alone.
Aymon must have announced their arrival to everyone for, as the family drew closer to the castle, dozens of people came rushing out to greet them. Even before they were near enough to make out what was being shouted, they could tell the crowd was cheering. Several women were waving bright ribbons, tied to broomsticks or hoes.
“Saint Martha’s miraculous stew!” Catherine exclaimed. “Why on earth are they so happy to see us? What do they think is going to happen?”
The gates opened wide for them and they entered the town. As they started up the hill to the keep, the portcullis in the inner wall above them slowly lifted and a band of men emerged on horseback, fully armed. They crossed the drawbridge and stopped, motionless but for the flags carried by the squires that flapped back and forth in the wind.
The townspeople had cheered themselves hoarse and were now watching them hungrily as they passed through the village. All at once someone cried out.
“Look! Children! They have brought children!”
There was a collective intake of breath and then the cheering began again.
Catherine tightened her grip on Peter, slung sideways in front of her on the mule.
“What is this about?” she hissed at Edgar.
“How should I know,” he answered. “It’s your family. No, James! You may not get down. You’re being punished, remember?”
As the villagers came closer, all reaching out to touch him, James decided that the back of his father’s horse was a good place to be.
Hermann rode up along side them, easing his way through the people. He smiled in puzzlement.
“They are very friendly,” he said. “I can’t understand the words they say completely. They are happy to see children?”
“Apparently,” Edgar said. “You understand as much as we do.”
“Wait until Guillaume arrives with all his sons,” Catherine added. “They’ll be delirious with joy.”
Hermann smiled again, not catching all of her comment. “Agnes fears they will tip the chair. She does not want the guards to hurt them, but too close the people come. Can you help?”
Edgar raised himself in the stirrups to shout at the crowd. As he did, Catherine saw the man at the head of the knights hold up his hand, palm out. The crowd quickly backed away in respectful silence.
“This is like a bishop’s adventus!” she commented to Edgar. “All we need is trumpets.”
“You had to say that.” Edgar pointed at the squires, who now lifted their flagstaffs to their lips. The long horns gave one long blas
t that echoed across the plain below and set dogs to howling.
The knight who had given the command now rode toward them. The sunlight gleamed on his bald head. He had a closely trimmed white beard below a hawklike nose. Catherine opened her eyes wide in astonishment.
“Grandfather?” she said. She realized that she didn’t remember what he looked like.
The man snorted. “Hardly, I’m Seguin, the son of Gargenaud’s first son, Drogon. You must be my sister, Madeleine’s, daughter. Is it Catherine or Agnes?”
“C. . .Catherine,” she stammered. This old man was her first cousin? How many children did Gargenaud have? And when did he start having them?
“Agnes is in the sedan chair,” she added.
“I bid you welcome in our grandfather’s name,” Seguin told them. “We are pleased that you understood the urgency of our need. We expect your brother in three days’ time. He is the last.”
“The last?” Catherine didn’t like the sound of that.
“But you are weary from your journey.” Seguin raised his arm and the other horsemen came forward to serve as escort as they entered the bailey.
“Welcome home to Boisvert!” Seguin roared loudly enough that those at the end of the procession heard him clearly. “Enter and welcome!”
As they passed through the gate, Catherine tried not to think of all the tales that began with the hero rashly entering a castle and finding himself in another world. And yet, coming through into the great outer bailey, she felt as if she had been transported into a bustling city totally apart from the village they had just passed through. There was activity all around her. Even in the heat, the ovens were blazing. A perspiring woman was removing fresh loaves and setting them on a long wooden table. In front of the stables, the farrier was examining the hooves of a brown palfrey. His assistant was having a hard time keeping the animal still.
And no wonder. Chickens fluttered everywhere, some chased by lean dogs, some by angry servants. Catherine could hear the calling of ducks and geese and the low snorts of pigs in their runs. Against the wall on one side ran a long row of wooden huts. Next to them stood barrels and baskets of food. The woodpile against a stone wall was higher than a man’s head, even Edgar’s.
“They seem to be well prepared for us,” she said.
“It seems so,” Edgar answered, looking around. “I don’t think the king has this many servants.”
“I wonder why the people of the village were so amazed that we brought the children,” Catherine went on. “I was sure you told me that the message said they had to be here, too. Perhaps we didn’t understand.”
“If so, it will just be another thing to add to the list,” Edgar grunted. “No, James, you can’t help catch the chickens. You are going to meet your great-grandfather, so stop wiggling.”
They halted by the stairs to the main keep. As soon as they dismounted, their horses were led away by stablehands. Other servants began unloading the boxes from the mules. Hermann helped Agnes, the nursemaid, and Edana out of the chair. Catherine expected her daughter to run to her at once, but the little girl stood quietly beside her aunt.
Catherine tried to ignore the pang.
Seguin dismounted, along with the other men. “Most of my knights are other cousins of yours to varying degrees.” He waved in their direction. “You’ll meet them properly this evening. My wife has prepared baths for all of you and assigned places to sleep and keep your goods. Follow me.”
The stairs up to the inner bailey were wooden, warped with age except in a few places where boards had been replaced. Catherine ascended slowly, carrying Peter. The door at the top was designed not to greet guests but to give an armed man no room to enter. It was open. As Catherine approached, a woman came out and stood on the landing. Her bliaut was of crimson silk, heavily embroidered at the hem and neck with beads of glass. She wore a bright green head scarf, held in place by a delicate gold-link chain. Her face was slightly plump and little wrinkled. Only the lines around her eyes betrayed her age.
“I am Elissent,” she said. “Seguin’s wife. I bid you welcome in the name of Lord Gargenaud.”
“Catherine, daughter of Madeleine.” Catherine bowed. “This is my son, Peter, and my husband, Edgar of Wedderlie, in Scotland, with our eldest child, James. Our daughter is with my sister and her family.”
She looked down. Agnes had stopped to give instructions to the porters about where the boxes should go. Edana clung to her hand and didn’t even look up at them.
Elissent ushered them in. “My maids will take you to your room,” she said. “Treat them as if they were your own.”
Catherine stumbled on uneven stones as she entered the passageway. Despite lit torches, the narrow hall was dim. Another ploy to repel invaders. No wonder the castle had never been taken. There was no need for a protecting spirit with so much stone. The passage continued for several steps and then turned sharply to the right.
“Os por le cuer be!” Catherine exclaimed.
The dark tunnel ended abruptly at an enormous hall. Its high ceiling allowed the placement of several long, thin clerestory windows in the eastern and western walls that let light in from sunrise to dusk. Between them hung thick tapestries woven with images of animals and birds. They covered nearly all the stone. On either side of the room were staircases leading to wooden walkways, ending in doors that led to other parts of the castle. There was even a space above for musicians to play.
Long tables had already been set up and covered with light green linen cloths. A high armchair stood at the center behind the main table, its back to a cavernous fireplace built into the far wall. Empty in the summer heat, the hearth seemed to Catherine to be a dark open mouth inhaling the very air from the room. She tried to shake the thought from her mind, but she couldn’t free herself from the sense that this ancient building was somehow alive and unwelcoming.
She stood uncertainly in the doorway until Edgar poked her in the back, moving her into the room. At once, a woman hurried up to them, her arms laden with soft cloths for washing.
“Welcome, my lord, my lady,” she said. “My mistress was sure you would wish to wash off the dust of the road. Please follow me.”
She led them toward a low door on the other side of the hall. As they followed her they heard the crackle of someone trying to run through the rushes on the floor.
“Edgar! Catherine!”
They spun around, not believing that it was a voice they knew.
A young girl ran toward them, her face alight with joy and her thick red braid swinging loosely.
“Margaret! How did you get here?” Catherine cried in delight. She held up the baby. “Peter, look! It’s your aunt Margaret. It’s a miracle!”
Edgar dropped James’s hand and caught his little sister in a bear hug. She clung to him, shaking.
She seemed frail in his arms, this child of his father’s second wife, the only mother Edgar had ever known. When Adalisa had died, Catherine and Edgar had taken Margaret into their home. But for two years past, she had been studying at the convent of the Paraclete, as Catherine had done.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Margaret gulped, trying not to cry. “I was afraid you might not come.”
“We had to,” Edgar said. “But why are you here? You have no tie to these people. Why aren’t you still at the Paraclete?”
She let him go and wiped her face with her sleeve before kissing Catherine and the baby.
“The abbess of Tart wrote to Mother Heloise and asked if I could be spared,” Margaret explained. “She didn’t want to send any of the professed nuns and she knew Catherine was my brother’s wife. I think my grandfather may have been consulted, as well. So, I was put in charge of seeing that she arrived here safely.”
It was a moment before Catherine understood the task Edgar’s sister had been set. Her stomach contracted with dread and guilt.
“Oh, Margaret!” she cried. “You brought my mother here? How could they put the burden on you? I’m so sorry! W
hy couldn’t they have let her stay where she was happy?”
Margaret smiled. “I was glad to come. I missed you all so much.” Her eyes looked back to the entrance and the smile dimmed when she saw no one there.
“And really,” she continued. “Apart from the fact that she never remembers who I am, I find your mother charming.”
Catherine’s stomach sank. She had known it was a possibility, but had tried to ignore it. She felt again the sharp fear that she deserved Agnes’s reproaches. Madeleine had always been devout. Catherine’s decision to enter the convent of the Paraclete had given her mother great joy. How could Catherine have known that her mother believed her to be Madeleine’s expiation for the sin of marrying a converted Jew? When Catherine decided against the religious life, her mother felt betrayed. Eventually, this had led to her retreating into a pious madness.
Therefore, the news that her mother was only a few doorways from her sent Catherine into a rare panic. At the moment, saving a legendary ancestress from a curse was so much more tolerable than coming face-to-face with the poor deluded woman who had borne her.
Her mind was still in turmoil as she busied herself organizing their assigned quarters.
“I’m so relieved that you finally got here.” Margaret sat in the deep sill of the window in the room they had been given. “We’ve been here almost a week and I was becoming worried that I’d have to stay among strangers. Not that everyone hasn’t been very nice to me,” she added quickly.
“I’m just so sorry that you were made to be the guardian for my mother,” Catherine said. “Where is she now?”
“Probably in the chapel with the priest. I think he’s some sort of cousin of yours.” Margaret fiddled with her long auburn braid. She had plaited it loosely over her cheek to hide the thin white scar that was all the visible evidence of an attack she had barely survived a few years before. The mark was not disfiguring, but she felt the curiosity and pity every time she had to meet someone new.
“The chapel. Of course. Where else would she be?” Catherine said as she laid out the clothes they would wear at the banquet that evening. “Even before her mind became fragile, she spent most of her days in prayer.”
The Witch in the Well: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 11