“It’s that Lord Olivier, may he be cursed to damnation,” Menachem answered. “He’s on his way to lay siege to Boisvert. He’s learned that Count Henry is on his way home from the Holy Land and he wants to take the castle before the count can raise an army to stop him.”
“But you told me that Boisvert can’t be taken by siege.” Solomon couldn’t understand why his friend was so upset.
“It can’t,” Menachem said. “Everyone knows that. It’s the safest place to be. But Olivier will come through Blois to get there. You know what that means.”
Solomon did. The first thing any would-be conqueror did was to scour the land around to find provisions for his men and horses and then to destroy anything that might be of use to his enemy.
“I told you the omens were bad, didn’t I?” Menachem said. “I’m taking my family to Pucellina’s mother in Troyes until this is over. You can come with us if you like.”
“Thank you, no,” Solomon said. “I have to leave anyway.”
“If you’re going back to Paris, would you take Abraham his share of the profits from the wine sales?” Menachem asked.
“No, I’m not going back right away. It might be better to find someone else.”
Solomon filled his saddlebags, adding a round of Pucellina’s cheese and some of her dried fish. For all he knew, the people at Boisvert would have nothing but pork to eat.
Catherine woke Sunday with a fierce headache and the fervent wish that the day before had been a nightmare. She rolled over. Edgar was gone. Instead, Samonie was bending over her.
“Hurry, Mistress,” she said. “You need to get dressed for Mass.”
“Oh, Lord, Samonie,” Catherine moaned. “I can’t even lift my head. I must have drunk a vat last night.”
“Then it’s time for penance,” Samonie said, not without sympathy. “I’ll get a cool compress for you to hold to your face. You can pretend you’re weeping.”
“What’s the news?” Catherine asked as she gingerly climbed from the bed. “How is my mother?”
“Doing better than any, I’d say,” Samonie said. “She seems to think she had a vision of some martyr, Saint Maur, perhaps. She asked Lady Margaret if he had left any blood as a relic.”
“Poor Mother!” Catherine said. “Poor Margaret. And Raimbaut’s family, how are they?”
“That I don’t know.” Samonie helped Catherine with her shift. “From what the kitchen folk say, they’re more horrified by any death in the place than they are at losing their son.”
“Grief takes people in different ways,” Catherine said. “Will they be well enough to come to the Mass, do you think?”
“Lady Elissent won’t,” Samonie was certain. “She’s in her bed sobbing like a proper mother. They gave her a sleeping draught, but it’s done nothing. Seguin might pull himself together to come down. I don’t know if anyone’s bothered to inform the old man. And no one’s seen Aymon since last night. That’s suspicious. Think there might have been a bit of Cain and Abel there?”
Catherine had put on a dull-colored bliaut suitable for a sad occasion. She handed Samonie the comb to do her hair. Samonie hummed as she worked.
“You seem extremely cheerful considering there’s been a murder here,” Catherine commented. “Does he have a name?”
The humming stopped. “Mistress,” Samonie said. “I’m so sorry! How disrespectful to the poor dead man! I don’t know what I could have been thinking of!”
“Samonie,” Catherine said. “I’ve known you a long time. You have served us faithfully, giving up the chance for a better life. I don’t begrudge you a bit of pleasure, as long as it’s not with a murderer.”
Samonie crossed herself, dropping the comb. It stuck in Catherine’s hair.
“Never fear, this is no stranger, but a friend from long ago,” Samonie told her. “Long before I met you.”
She sighed.
“What is it?” Catherine asked.
Samonie resumed combing. “It’s silly, I suppose. It’s only that he’s getting old. That must mean that I am, too. Odd how I can ignore the years until I see someone I knew as a girl and realize how they’ve aged.”
“Nonsense!” Catherine said. “You’re not much older than I am and I refuse to think of myself as decrepit. We’re only affected by Raimbaut’s death and the ancient walls around us. Everything will be fine once we’re back in Paris.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” Samonie said wistfully. “It’s strange, though. I think I like him better now that time has marked him.”
After that they were silent, each considering her own mortality and the random way death had intruded again into their lives.
The small parish church in the village was crammed. No one could remember a death at the castle; it was rare enough among the villagers and peasants. They all believed that Andonenn’s blessing fell on them, too. Seguin’s men-at-arms did their best to keep people back so that the family could enter, but the villagers knew their rights. This was their church, not the lord’s and they demanded to be allowed in.
Catherine and Edgar made their way through the crowd slowly, keeping Margaret between them. Ahead, Guillaume strode with the arrogance that knows people will make way. For once, Catherine was grateful.
Raimbaut’s relatives were clustered at the right side of the altar. The church was too small to have railings or a rood screen, so someone had brought a folding screen from the castle to shield them from inquisitive eyes.
Seguin was there, looking pale as a corpse himself. Odilon stood next to him. The rest of the family was represented by Madeleine’s children and their spouses. If anyone thought it was strange that the mother of the mourners was thought to be the killer, no one mentioned it. Catherine adjusted her veil to keep her face hidden. She saw Ysore, assisted by the parish priest, getting ready for the Mass. There was a row of knights and soldiers across the front and a number of castle servants along with more important villagers just behind them.
But where was Aymon?
Catherine searched the faces of those in the church, wondering if he had come in but been unable to join them. Under cover of the general chatter, she asked Margaret.
“He hasn’t been seen,” she told Catherine. “Seguin is half-furious that he’s run off and half-afraid that someone has attacked him, too.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Catherine said. She told Margaret about Samonie’s theory that Aymon had killed his brother. “Do you remember if he was at the table all through dinner and the entertainment?”
“No,” Margaret said. “People came and went all the time. It was a long evening.”
“I think he needs to be found before we start accusing him,” Edgar said. “He may have been attacked, as well.”
Catherine gave a start. “I never thought of that! How awful! He may be lying someplace hurt or. . .”
“Hush!” Margaret warned her as people turned to stare. “First, we should pray.”
Catherine subsided until the end of the Mass, but her mind was not on the soul of the departed.
Samonie and Martin were waiting for them outside the chapel.
“We couldn’t get in,” Martin told them. “But we gave the responses as best we could from here.”
“My mother always said that God hears us wherever we stand,” Catherine said. And sees us no matter in what dark place we sin, she added to herself. Madeleine’s faith had been all-encompassing.
“Gargenaud’s wife is with Raimbaut’s mother,” Samonie said. “One of the women told me that Elissent keeps calling for Aymon. Was he at Mass?”
They all shook their heads.
“If he’s gone into that tangle of corridors underneath the keep.” Guillaume had overheard them as he passed; “there’ll be no finding him this side of the Last Judgment.”
“How do you know about the tunnels?” Catherine asked.
“I was fostered here, remember?” he answered. “Raimbaut, Odilon, Brehier, and I played hide-and-find down the
re all winter. And had our hides tanned many a time for going too far and having to be fetched out.”
“What about Aymon?” Edgar asked.
“He was too little when I was here,” Guillaume said. “But no doubt he took his turn later.”
The rest of them began to organize a search of the underground tunnels. Samonie fell behind. No one would ask her opinion. She had heard nothing after Brehier’s name, in any case. Could Guillaume have meant her Brehier? Was that why he was at Boisvert now, because he’d been raised here?
Well, what of it? This was a logical place for a knight of Count Thibault to train. The lords of Boisvert were his vassals. Brehier had never told her where he came from. They hadn’t talked much at all in their early meetings. She had never thought to ask, since she hadn’t expected to ever see him again.
She’d been fooled once before, by a man who’d wormed his way into her bed in order to bring ruin to Catherine and Edgar. She would never forgive herself for that. Brehier might want nothing more than her company, but she would now be on guard for any sign of mischief on his part.
Of course James wanted to go with the party when he saw them gather to search the tunnels. Edgar explained to him that, of his cousins, only Gervase, the oldest, was allowed to accompany the men. James was not appeased. He set his jaw in a remarkable imitation of his father’s stubborn face and retired to the nursery to pout.
“Keep an eye on him,” Edgar warned Catherine. “He’s as willful as you are.”
Catherine laughed. “Worse. He’s as determined as you. Be careful down there. I wish I were going, too. At least it’s cool.”
The day was the hottest of the summer, without a cloud to conceal the earth from the eye of the sun. Catherine and Margaret took the children up to the women’s solar, where they could remove the heavy bliauts and wear only their loose shifts.
After a while Agnes joined them, carrying her infant son and followed by the wet nurse, carrying a blanket and bag of provisions.
“Hermann has gone with the other men,” she announced. “Edgar remembers enough German to tell him what’s happening. I’ve been to see Mother. She’s sleeping for now.”
The two women laid out the blanket and unwrapped the baby from his swaddling, then proceeded to oil him all over before setting him down to air.
“Now, you children watch where you’re playing,” Agnes warned the cousins. “Stay away from this corner. Anyone bothers my precious Gottfried and you’ll be eating standing up for a week.”
None of the children seemed particularly terrified by this, particularly since Agnes followed the threat by giving each of them a honey stick from her bag.
For a few moments they all simply sat listening to the gurgle of the baby and the slurping as the children sucked on the sweets. The heat pulled out all energy, even that needed to think.
Some part of Catherine’s mind was still working, however, and was trying hard to get her attention.
What had happened the night before?
They had all been crowded into the hall, everyone hot, greasy, and too full of wine. The brass chest had been opened with Gargenaud’s key and the box inside found with the lock broken and nothing inside. Then someone had screamed and they had all rushed off. Was that the order?
“Agnes,” she asked, “what happened to the box?”
“What box?” Agnes yawned.
“Richard’s,” Catherine said. “The one that held the secret of our redemption. The one that we had to wait to open until the whole family was present. The one that someone else had smashed open anyway. Where did it go?”
“I don’t know,” Agnes said. “Marie?”
“It must have been cleared up with all the tables and such last night,” Marie answered.
Catherine sat up straight. “You mean this sacred family relic was just carted off to a storeroom by the servants?”
Marie shrugged. “Why not? The treasure was gone.”
“Don’t you want to know where?” Catherine was waking up. “Who took it? What was it? What will happen to us all if it’s not found?”
“What do you mean?” Agnes looked up from where she was playing with the baby.
“Well, the whole point of the thing was that Richard left it to be opened in our greatest need,” Catherine explained. “The well is drying up and death has entered the keep. Even I can see things are dire. So, is no one interested in finding this thing that is supposed to save us?”
Marie was quiet for a moment.
“I suppose the murder drove it from our thoughts,” she said. “Mine, at least. Perhaps Seguin thinks that when Aymon is found, he will have it.”
“If Aymon still lives,” Agnes added.
They all nodded solemnly.
“Well, I don’t see that there’s anything we can do,” Marie said.
Catherine was trying to form a plan when, suddenly, Margaret spoke up.
“I think we should have a look at that knife.”
They all stared at her. Then Catherine got up. She went to the wall where her bliaut hung from a hook and reluctantly pulled it over her head.
“Margaret is quite right,” she said. “Will you keep guard over my children while she and I go and do so?”
“Do you even know where it is?” Agnes asked.
“Guillaume has it,” Catherine said. “I want a good look at it. It’s time we stopped letting a legend control our lives.”
Twelve
That same afternoon; the road from Blois to Boisvert.
Beau sire Dieus, dist Charles, donne-moi du jour tant
Que me puisse vengier du domaige pesant!
Great lord God, said Charles, give me just one day
That I may avenge this heavy crime!
—Roman de Galien
Would you mind moving your arms a bit higher?” Solomon asked Berthe.
She was riding pillion behind him, gripping him around the waist for dear life. Solomon found the way she kept twiddling her fingers very unnerving.
She chuckled. “You wouldn’t begrudge an old woman a bit of fun, would you?”
He reached down and moved her hands. “Yes, I would.”
“Just close your eyes and pretend I’m young and beautiful,” she suggested.
“I don’t have to,” he answered. “You’re in back of me. I thought you wanted to be at Boisvert as soon as possible.”
He felt her shrug. “I do. I was just passing the time. This is a tedious ride.”
“If you must pass the time,” Solomon said, “you can tell me what your interest is in the people at Boisvert. Do you have family in the village?”
“Don’t you really want to hear what I know about the family you have there?” Her hands tightened again, digging into his stomach.
“I told you, the only connection I have there is my partner and his family,” he said. “The only reason I agreed to go with you was to warn them of the army coming to attack.”
“That’s right,” Berthe said. “You’re a good friend to them. You and Edgar are renowned among the traders. A Christian and a Jew, English and French, fair as an angel and dark as Satan. Everyone knows you.”
“How flattering.” Solomon’s voice was sour.
“So it is,” she answered. “Some wonder about it, but I know this Edgar married your cousin, the daughter of Hubert of Rouen. I remember when Hubert first came to Boisvert. Old Gargenaud knew what he was, but he smelled the money and a way to get his youngest daughter away from the castle. He knew even then that the curse was getting stronger. I remember your father, too.”
Solomon stiffened. Berthe laughed.
“He came with Hubert once. Nice-looking man, but acted as if he was about to be crucified. Haven’t seen him for years. I heard he turned monk.”
Solomon didn’t answer.
“Ah, must be true then, or you’d be quick enough to deny it,” she concluded. “Is he still in the monastery?”
“My father is dead,” Solomon said in a tone that threaten
ed violence if she mentioned him again. “Now, you haven’t told me why you want to go to Boisvert.”
“I didn’t, did I?” she said. “Ah, well, I’ve a niece in service there. I’m a bit worried about her. She’s been poorly lately.”
“Of course.” Solomon didn’t believe her. “You have a reputation of your own. . .for cures.”
“And other things,” she cackled. “Can’t you make this horse move any faster?”
“Not if you want to keep your seat,” he answered.
She loosed one hand to give him a slap on the back.
“Don’t you worry about me,” she said. “Let’s just get there.”
He urged the horse to a quick trot. Against his back, he felt Berthe joggling up and down, but the old woman made no complaint.
Solomon hoped that he could be rid of her before anyone he knew saw him.
The small chapel was empty except for the stone altar and fresh straw on the floor with flowers strewn over it to eliminate the smell of death. The attempt hadn’t worked.
Catherine and Margaret knelt and crossed themselves, murmuring a quick Ave Maria. Then Catherine took the candle from next to the door and used it to light three more along the wall.
“Now,” she told Margaret. “Let’s have a look.”
Margaret unrolled Guillaume’s cloak to reveal the stained knife.
“Catherine,” she asked. “Why did we take it here to examine?”
“If we went out in the sunshine, everyone would want to see, too,” Catherine answered. “And also, if there is something evil in it, then we have more chance of fighting it in here.”
“That makes sense,” Margaret admitted. “But it didn’t protect Raimbaut, did it?”
“Trust you to find the flaw in my logic,” Catherine sighed. “Now, the letters engraved on the shaft made no sense, but I thought there were also some on the hilt. Can you make anything of it?”
Margaret wrapped her sleeve around the blade and held the handle up to the candlelight.
“I see a K. . .A. . . something worn. . .then OLUS,” She squinted, tilting the knife. “This has been well used. The next letter is an M, maybe. See what you can make out.”
The Witch in the Well: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 19