“Guards? For a barge journey to Tours?” Solomon was suspicious. “I thought that route was well protected?”
“It is. It is!” Menachem answered. “I just don’t like the rumors going around about Olivier de Boue gathering an army to attack Boisvert. His path would take him along the Loire at just the stretch we’ll be traveling.”
“Even this Olivier wouldn’t be so stupid as to take wine meant for the monks,” Solomon said. “And I thought you told me this threat of war was not substantial enough to worry about.”
His friend seemed uncomfortable. “I don’t think it is,” he said. “But I’d rather have a few extra swords all the same. Now, we might have time for a game of darts before dinner. What do you say?”
Solomon agreed. Perhaps after a few bowls of wine Menachem would tell him just what had set him so on edge. Menachem recorked the cask and the two men headed up into the street.
Solomon looked around. The town was small, most of the buildings the homes of tradesmen or prosperous peasants. The houses of the Jewish families were interspersed among them. The inhabitants were all under the protection of Thibault, count of Champagne, and his son, Henry, count of Blois. Although Thibault was in Troyes and Henry on his way home from the Holy Land, their power was usually enough to discourage raids. That reputation and the fortress their ancestors had built on a spur of the river. Solomon had always liked Blois. There were enough Jews so that he could always count on a welcome from someone he enjoyed spending time with. The food was good and the wine superb. And it had been some time since anyone had tried to introduce him to a cousin of marriageable age.
He had intended to pass a tranquil few weeks here. Now his peace was broken by the worry that he had left Catherine and Edgar in a place of danger.
“So, what have you heard about this army of Olivier’s?” he asked Menachem.
“Only that he’s not only called in all the men who owe him service, but that he’s also hiring soldiers,” Menachem said. “A few locals have joined his army, but not many. We all grew up hearing tales about how the lords of Boisvert were wizards, descended from a powerful fairy.”
“A good reason not to attack them,” Solomon agreed.
“True, but Olivier is a vassal of Count Geoffrey of Anjou,” Menachem explained. “And everyone knows that his family goes back to the Devil, himself.”
“So I’ve heard.” Solomon thought a while. “Do you think that Olivier can take the castle at Boisvert?”
Menachem shrugged. “Not without the Devil’s aid, I’d say. The place looks as though it grew out of the rocks the day after the Flood. Even if only women and old men were left, it could still be defended.”
Solomon relaxed. This was likely another one of the interminable feints the nobles made in their attempts to increase their holdings. He’d seen it before. Someone would sally out, burn a few fields, steal some pigs, and perhaps sit for a day or so in front of someone else’s drawbridge. Eventually, the local abbot or bishop would be called in to negotiate peace. Annoying and disruptive, but that’s how Solomon felt about most of the knightly class he had met. Even Edgar had moments of haughtiness that, while useful in trade, still irritated.
He let the worry slip away.
As they passed the town square, Solomon noticed an old woman crawling through the grass.
“Who’s that?” he asked. “Does she need help?”
Menachem barely glanced at her. “Oh, that’s only Berthe. She’s probably looking for mushrooms or plants for her potions.”
Solomon looked closer. The woman didn’t seem as old as he had first thought.
“Is she a healer or a witch?”
Menachem laughed. “Who knows what she prays to, over her salves? But they work, I can vouch for it. When you’re doubled over with a back that feels like it’s being hit with hot irons, you don’t question a remedy that lets you stand again.”
“That’s so.” Solomon continued watching her until they entered the narrow street where Menachem and his family lived. There was something about the way she was moving across the green that seemed odd to him. It wasn’t as if she was searching for mushrooms under leaves, but more as if she was carrying something on her back. He fancied that he could almost see the depression along the sides of her robes where a rider’s legs would be.
Once he had lost sight of her, he shook himself. All these tales of otherworldly beings, prophecies, and curses were addling his brain. What he had seen was the result of two cups of wine on an empty stomach.
“Is that a roast chicken I smell?” he asked Menachem as they neared the house.
“It should be two,” Menachem said. “I left Hana plucking and singeing them this morning. And there’s a sauce of black currants in wine to go with them.”
The heavenly aroma drove out any curiosity Solomon might have had about the woman crawling across the green.
Berthe reached the public path. She stood easily, dusting bits of dry grass from the front of her bliaut.
“Well, that was strange,” she muttered to herself. “But the instructions were very clear. I only wish it didn’t take so long to find out if this works.”
She made her way to her own house, not far from the river. Now and then she bent to pick up a pebble from the road. Most of them she let fall again after a quick look, but a few seemed to suit her and these were tucked into a rabbit skin bag hanging from her neck.
Berthe envied Lord Olivier. It was so much easier to attack a fortress with horses, men, and swords. Her way was tedious and exacting and required far too many nights without sleep.
But, if it worked, it would bring down Gargenaud in a way that no army ever could.
Catherine stared up at her grandfather. It had been so long since she had seen him that she had forgotten his face until this moment. Her memories were mostly of his booming voice, hurling orders at everyone in the household.
He was old. At least that wasn’t in question. His eyes were filmy and his long hair and beard pure white. But his carriage was straight. He might have been helping the woman next to him, rather than using her arm for support. She appeared to be not more than twenty. For a moment Catherine wondered what it would be like to share her bed with someone four times her age.
His eyes must have been sharper than they appeared. Halfway down, he spotted Catherine gaping up at him. She blushed, fearing he could read her thoughts.
“Which one is this, Seguin?” he shouted at his grandson. “Or is she just some serving girl?”
Catherine stepped forward. “I’m Catherine, Madeleine’s daughter. I’m pleased to see you again, Grandfather.”
She bowed deeply, bending her knees until she nearly fell.
The couple reached the bottom. Gargenaud reached out and grasped Catherine’s chin, tilting her face up. His fingers were hard as oak and strong.
He examined her features closely and finally released her.
“Yes,” he said. “You’re one of hers. I saw her this morning. Told me you were all babies. Thinks she’s here for a wedding or some such. I never should have made her marry that man. Is he still alive?”
“I d. . . don’t know,” Catherine stuttered. “He left on pilgrimage some time ago.”
Gargenaud snorted. “There’s a coward for you. Hope he left his wealth behind.”
Shocked, Catherine only stared at him. Her grandfather snorted again and moved on.
The question about her father had been unexpected. Hubert was now in the Occitan somewhere. To Catherine’s pain and grief, he had recently left everyone he cared about to return to the faith of his ancestors. She didn’t want to imagine what Gargenaud would say if he knew his son-in-law was again a Jew.
Edgar came to the spot where Catherine still stood, transfixed. He was trying not to laugh, but deep chuckles kept escaping.
“Sweet Virgin! I wish Solomon were here,” he said. “He won’t believe anyone could talk to you like that and not be shriveled by your tongue before he went two paces. So that’
s your grandfather?”
Catherine nodded dumbly.
“I begin to understand how this legend remains green.” Edgar took her by the shoulder and guided her toward the table. “If the man can make my wife speechless, he must be more than mortal.”
The rest of the company was far from silent. There were fifteen or so men, all of fighting age. A lanky priest was speaking with one of them. Catherine noted that the man was wearing more rings and pins than Father Anselm would have thought proper. He must also be from one of the landed families, for he seemed completely at ease among the knights.
The only women were Seguin’s wife, Elissent, Agnes, her grandfather’s companion, and Catherine, herself. There were no children to be seen, not even pages. Where was the rest of the family?
Agnes was an island of calm as she presented herself to Gargenaud and then introduced Hermann. Both of them seemed to meet with his approval.
This was confirmed as Agnes was seated next to Seguin, Hermann next to Elissent, with Margaret next to him. Catherine and Edgar were at the far end of the high table, well below the salt.
“I see that someone told Seguin that Margaret is his liege lord’s granddaughter,” Edgar said. He smiled at his sister, who gave him a pathetic wave from her place at the center of the table.
“Poor thing!” Catherine said. “I don’t suppose we could rescue her?”
“Her only resort is to have a sudden faintness,” Edgar said sadly.
“In this weather, it may not take long.”
Servants came through first with bowls, ewers, and towels so that everyone could wash their hands before the first course was brought in. Then the food began to arrive.
“Saint Simon’s spicy maggots!” Edgar exclaimed. “This is more than we eat in a year!”
They began with fresh greens in a walnut sauce and progressed to eels in jelly covered with a salt-and-fennel crust. This was followed by capons roasted on long skewers and served stuffed with eggs and spices along with a pheasant stewed with onions and then replumed. By the time the joints of ham were served, Catherine was near to fainting herself.
“More wine, my lady?” The server was at her elbow, ready to pour.
“Thank you, no,” she gasped. “Edgar, I need to get out of here for a while. I think I’m going to throw up.”
“You won’t be the last tonight,” he said.
He slid off his end of the bench to let her out. Catherine staggered in the direction of the privy, she hoped.
She went through the nearest doorway and soon found herself in a maze of narrow passages, some leading to storerooms, some to other hallways that twisted on each other and doubled back. Sometimes she could hear the voices from the hall. Then she would turn again and find only silence.
Her need for the privy outweighed all else. She didn’t even wonder how she would find her way back. She would have been happy with an empty bucket or a discrete corner. Every way she turned was taking her farther into the depths of the castle. The wooden floor became flagstones and then uncut rock. Lanterns suspended from the walls gave way to torches.
“At last!” The sound of running water from behind a curtain told her she had reached her goal.
The cubicle was completely dark, so she left the curtain partially open. It didn’t matter. Since she had left the feast, she hadn’t seen a soul.
“I must be right over the moat,” she guessed. “How far did I come?”
Once her most pressing need had been taken care of, Catherine realized that she was totally lost. From her childhood visit, she remembered being sternly warned never to wander alone through the castle. Children had vanished and nothing was ever found of them but little gnawed bones.
Catherine’s nurse had known how to keep her in line.
There were no small skeletons in the dank corners, but the shadows seemed thicker now. Catherine tried to remember which way she had come. The best chance was to take any passage that angled upward. She kept hoping to run across one of the servants, sent down for more provisions. She wondered if Edgar was missing her, yet.
The summer heat hadn’t penetrated this deep into the hill. The floor was damp and mossy and the wooden walls warped with age.
“How can there not be enough water when it’s so wet down here?” she spoke her thoughts aloud.
“It will soon be as sere as autumn leaves,” a hollow voice answered her from very close by. “You must not fail.”
Catherine shrieked in terror and spun around.
There was nothing there but the shadow of a figure going down a passage to her left.
“Wait!” Catherine called after it. “I’m lost. Help me!”
It occurred to her that whoever it was didn’t want to help her, but Catherine followed anyway. It seemed the only chance she had of reaching the hall. She hurried after the speaker.
There was no one in the passage when she reached it, but the torches were flickering as if someone had passed. Catherine made herself move more quickly. Her heart was pounding and she cursed the long skirts and sleeves that dragged on the floor and slowed her progress.
At the next junction, she spotted fresh muddy footprints on the stone. Ahead, she thought she heard someone moving.
“Please! Wait for me!” she called shakily. “I won’t hurt you.”
That was a stupid thing to say, she told herself.
Or was it? There had been fear in the voice, not menace.
The person was leading her upward. The floor became plank again and above her, Catherine could hear thumps that signaled entertainment had begun.
Where was everyone?
The next turn brought her to a spiral staircase. She lifted her skirts and climbed. A moment later she found herself at a doorway to the hall, on the opposite side from the one she had taken before. She could have sobbed with relief.
She paused a moment to adjust her clothing. As she did, there was a rustle from the next level of the steps. Catherine looked up and had a brief impression of a figure in the lantern light. A woman, very pale, in a shimmering robe that was years out of date. A woman Catherine had seen before, at Vielleteneuse and in the forest. She looked back at Catherine.
“Don’t forget her,” she begged. “Your mother needs you.”
Catherine leapt up the stairs. On the third one, her thin shoes skidded and she tumbled back onto the landing. Her head hit the edge of a chest, stunning her a moment.
“My lady!”
Catherine blinked. The priest was bending over her. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I don’t think so.” She felt her clothing for tears. “Did you see her?”
She knew before he answered that he hadn’t.
Why was she the only one the woman from the woods ever spoke to?
Catherine sighed. “Would you mind escorting me back to my seat?” she asked. “I seem to have missed the jugglers.”
Samonie waited until the children were tucked in and Agnes’s nurse there to watch them. Then she set out to find someone who could tell her what was going on. There must be a servant here who knew the truth of the matter.
She started on the level where the guests were housed. It was a sensitive task to casually wander through the rooms without appearing to be a thief. She had just decided that there was no one working there, when a man came out of one of the cubicles.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” he asked.
Samonie turned to run, but the man caught her, spinning her around to face him. He squinted at her face in the dim light.
“Who are you?” he asked. He brought her face closer. “Wait, I know you, don’t I?”
Samonie gasped. He had known her well enough once. Sixteen years before she had shared his bed for a season at the court of Count Thibault. She hadn’t given him her heart, but he had been pleasant enough and treated her with kindness.
“I’m a servant to Lady Catherine, Lord Gargenaud’s granddaughter from Paris,” she told him.
He shook his head, trying to pla
ce her. She saw how the gold hair was thinning and strung with silver.
“You’re Samonie,” he said at last and smiled. “Now I remember. I came back to the Christmas court at Troyes just to see you but they said you’d gone.”
“Yes, my lord Brehier.” She bent her head humbly. No point in telling him she had gone back to her mother’s to have the baby.
“You look well,” he said. “You live in Paris now? Is your mistress good to you?”
Samonie was taken aback. He seemed genuinely concerned for her.
“I’m quite happy there,” she answered. “And you?” she dared to asked.
He shrugged. “Well enough. I’ve been here several years now. Gargenaud is a hard man, but generous. He is a distant relation of my mother.”
Not enough, Samonie thought. It was clear that Brehier had come down in the world. From a knight of Count Thibault to a hired man-at-arms for one of his vassals was a long fall.
“That’s good,” she said. “Now I must find my mistress.”
As she hurried back to the nursery, Samonie cursed herself. She should never have admitted who she was. It made no difference to him. She was only a casual affair from his youth. He was little more than that to her. And yet. . . no, she stopped that line of thought. Her duty now was to the present, to those she had sworn to care for.
There was no point at all in telling her son, Martin, that she had just seen his father.
Catherine waited until they were back in their quarters to tell Edgar of her adventure that evening.
“If you say I must have imagined all this,” she said wearily, “I swear I’ll send you up to sleep with the children.”
“I’m sure you got lost,” Edgar yawned. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if some woman saw you wandering about and decided to have some fun taunting you. Everyone in this place is strange. Did you notice that no one bothered to introduce us to your grandfather’s wife? I don’t even know her name. Do I think your woman was a ghost or a river nymph? Perhaps. But I’m greasy and tired and I’ve had way too much to drink. Also, that music set my teeth on edge, with the horns and bells and badly tuned vielete. Can we sleep on it? Tomorrow I’ll corner your cousin Seguin and make him tell me what’s going on here.”
The Witch in the Well: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 13