“Maybe we were wrong,” Edgar said at last. “There must be another explanation. Or the entrance is a lot farther than we thought.”
Martin wiped his face with his sleeve. “Where else can we look?” he asked.
Edgar shook his head. As he did, he caught a flash of color between the vines hanging from the chestnut, not a dozen paces from them.
“Martin, get down!” he hissed, throwing himself to the ground. Had they been overheard?
Martin obeyed without understanding. He lay on his stomach with his nettle-stung leg against something thorny. He clenched his teeth and tried not to move.
Edgar tried to count the number of men at the tree. He only saw two, but there had been that brief glimpse of red. Both the men he could see at the moment were in dark green under clinking chain mail.
“Are you sure he said it was here?” one man called to someone beyond Edgar’s sight.
“Fifteen paces from the chestnut,” a voice answered almost above Edgar’s head. “In the direction of the keep.”
Edgar dared take a breath. They had been looking in the wrong quarter. He waited until the sounds of the men grew dimmer, then risked nudging Martin with his foot.
“We have to follow them,” he mouthed.
Martin nodded. “But we have no weapons but these,” he whispered, clutching the scythe.
“Then we’ll have to be very careful not to be caught,” Edgar answered.
They crept after the three men, who were not making any attempt at stealth. Edgar wondered why. This was enemy territory. Had they been told that there was no danger of being spotted? Had Aymon betrayed his family and then been betrayed in turn or was there another spy within the castle?
The undergrowth was so dense that only the sound of the soldier’s voices kept them on the trail. They peered through it to see where the men had stopped at last. When he saw the spot, Edgar realized that he could easily have passed it without a glance. It was only a pile of weathered stone, half the height of a man. The entrance was a triangular hole made where two flat pieces had been propped. It was so narrow that Edgar doubted a fully armed man could squeeze through.
The soldiers had brought a pot of coals wrapped in canvas. One of the men took a staff wrapped at one end with rags soaked in pitch. He put it against the coals and blew on them until the pitch burst into flame. Then he lit another from it. Finally he and the man in red carefully pushed their way between the rocks, each holding a torch before them.
The last man was left sitting on the outcrop, loosely holding a crossbow.
“We have to get in there,” Edgar whispered in Martin’s ear. “Can you get behind the guard?”
“Yes, Master,” Martin answered.
Edgar put his hand over Martin’s mouth.
“Do it,” he breathed. “I’ll get his attention.”
Martin slid into the brush, trying to sound like a passing badger rather than a man. Edgar waited a moment and then stood and stepped in front of the guard.
The man sprang up, his crossbow ready to shoot. He relaxed slightly when he saw Edgar’s handless arm.
“Who’re you?” he demanded.
“Name’s Edgar, who are you?” Edgar responded. “You come from the castle yonder?”
“Maybe,” the man answered. “What business is it of yours?”
“I like to know who’s aiming at me.” Edgar smiled. “I’m not armed, you know, just with this.”
He held up the sickle. “Promised a lady I’d bring her fresh herbs for her bower. They like that, you know.”
The guard did not appear convinced. Edgar was glad to see Martin rise onto the stones at that point and fall heavily upon the man. The crossbow flew into the air.
“Catch it!” Edgar yelled as he threw himself on the man, sitting hard on his back.
Martin picked up the crossbow and held it on the guard.
“Press it to his neck,” Edgar ordered. “Let me get hold of it while you tie him up.”
Martin took Edgar’s place while Edgar took the crossbow. He pulled off the guard’s hose and tied his hands and feet together, so that the man was trussed like a piece of game.
“Now,” Edgar asked. “Whom do you serve?”
“No one,” the man barked.
Edgar tapped him with the crossbow.
“Not Olivier de Boue?” he asked.
“Never heard of him,” the man answered.
Edgar tried another angle.
“Who told you how to find this?”
“Godfrey,” the man answered. “The man in the red cloak.”
“And whom does he serve?” Edgar asked, pushing the point of the bolt deeper into the man’s neck.
“No one!” the man shouted. “We are all lordless men. That’s why we’re trying to find the treasure!”
Edgar looked at Martin.
“What treasure?”
“Everyone knows about the treasure under Boisvert.” The man was as contemptuous as anyone can be while bound hand and foot and bent back like a bow.
“I don’t,” Edgar said.
“Look.” The man tried to sound ingratiating. He wasn’t good at it. “There are only the three of us and a lot of gold and jewels and suchlike. We could use another pair of. . .”
He looked up at Edgar’s arm, the crossbow balanced in the crook of his elbow. “Strong arms are always welcome,” he finished. “There’ll be enough treasure for all.”
Edgar put down the crossbow. The man gave a long exhalation.
“Martin, I think we should hang him from a tree so that he stays fresh while we’re gone,” Edgar decided. “Run back to the horses for some rope.”
“Yes, Master. Where are we going?” Martin asked.
“Down that rabbit hole,” Edgar said, pointing. “Are those coals still hot?”
Martin uncovered the pot. “Glowing, Master.”
“Good, while you’re getting the rope, see if you can find anything for us to use for light.”
Catherine wasn’t sure where she could take Berthe to ensure that the woman wouldn’t run away. She finally settled on the nursery, now occupied only by the German nurse with Agnes’s baby, Gottfried. She smiled at the woman, and in her halting German, told her she might have a break.
Catherine bent over the baby’s cradle. Gottfried was sound asleep, his mass of golden curls making him look positively angelic.
Berthe leaned over the baby, too.
“A blessing on you, child of Andonenn,” she said.
Catherine quickly drew her away, to a bench against the wall.
“Now tell me,” she demanded. “How can you help us?”
Berthe smoothed her skirts as she sat and adjusted her scarf. Age was slipping from her like melting ice.
“I’m a healer.” She smiled at Catherine.
“Then shouldn’t you be down helping Marie tend to Aymon?” Catherine said.
“She’ll do well enough,” Berthe said. “There is worse sickness in this place. The soul of Boisvert is ill unto death.”
She was so determined to sound portentous that Catherine felt herself becoming more annoyed.
“We have priests for that,” she said stiffly.
“Oh?” Berthe raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean the one in the village who can’t read his own name and learned the Mass by rote or the one in the castle who spends all his time hunting with his friends?”
Catherine squirmed on the bench. “You have a point,” she admitted. “And what is the nature of this spiritual sickness?”
“You know already,” Berthe said. “You’ve seen it. Those who stay here do nothing but rot. That’s why no woman can conceive. That’s why death has entered the gates. That’s why, unless we can treat this illness, unless we can remedy it, Boisvert will fall.”
Catherine waited for the trumpet blast. There was something about Berthe that made her feel she was listening to jongleurs.
“Why does this matter to you?” Catherine demanded. “Who are you? Who is Mandon?
”
Berthe gave her a sly glance.
“We are two sides of the coin.” She grinned. “I’m the one that always loses the toss.”
“That tells me nothing,” Catherine said.
“The task before us is more important than old history,” Berthe insisted.
“It’s not old to me.” Catherine sighed, but it was clear she would get no further answer. “Very well, then. How do you intend to cut this ‘rot’ out?”
“That depends on how deep it runs.” Berthe stood and rummaged in the large cloth bag she had slung over her shoulder. She took out a knife in a wooden sheath. With a dramatic flourish, she drew it out. Catherine gasped.
It was the mate of the one that had killed Raimbaut.
“Where did you get that?” she cried. “Stay away from the baby!”
“Shame on you, Catherine,” Berthe said. “As if I’d so much as snip one of his curls! This was given me by my mother, who had it from hers, who had it from hers, and so on back to the time that Boisvert was really made of wood.”
“Is there writing on it?” Catherine’s interest overcame her fear.
“Once was.” Berthe held the knife out. “Can’t hardly see it anymore. . .”
She held out the knife to Catherine, who took it and held the handle up to the light. She could make out a K but the letters at the end, what she could see of them, were different. It wasn’t a language she knew but there was something familiar about it.
“What did it say?” she asked
“Don’t know. A warning, a blessing, maybe the name of the first owner,” Berthe answered. “I heard you were the smart one.”
“Not always.” Catherine sighed. “So what do you intend to do with that? And what about Mandon?”
“In time,” Berthe said. “You’ve met her, have you? A meddlesome woman.”
Catherine agreed. “You must be related. Sisters?”
Berthe smiled. “Of sorts. Don’t fret about it. First, we have to find the rot and, if it hasn’t run too deep, cut it out.”
“Is that what happened to Raimbaut?” Catherine’s brittle trust in this woman evaporated. “Was he rotten?”
“Perhaps,” Berthe said. “But it wasn’t my knife that cut him.”
She headed for the doorway.
“Where are you going?” Catherine cried. “We can’t leave the baby.”
“Bring him then.” Berthe didn’t pause.
“Agnes will kill me,” Catherine said as she scooped Gottfried into her arms. “She’s so fussy about how he’s cared for.”
The thought gave her some pleasure.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Catherine asked as she trotted after Berthe.
“Oh, yes, I was a child here,” she answered.
Catherine had already suspected that.
They went into a section of the keep that Catherine hadn’t seen before. Berthe crossed the gallery and into a wing on the other side of a great hall. The floor dipped a bit where the new room had been joined on. Berthe hurried on.
They finally reached a large wooden door. Every inch of it was carved with a frieze of twining plants. In the center was a tree whose branches wove into the vines along the edges. Beneath the tree the carving became that of a knight and a woman. They sat demurely on either side of the trunk, perhaps discussing the weather. Catherine smiled in delight.
“Look, Gottfried!” she exclaimed. “It’s Jurvale and Andonenn.”
Berthe strode up to the door and knocked loudly.
There was no sound from within.
“The room may be empty,” Catherine said.
“He’s in there.” Berthe knocked harder.
As they waited, Catherine studied the carving of her ancestors. It was very well done. She must remember to show it to Edgar. Each finger was delicately shaped, even to the nails, and the feet. . .. Catherine looked again. Peeking out from beneath Andonenn’s skirt was something that looked very much like a fishtail.
“Berthe, do you see this?” she asked.
Before Berthe could answer, the door opened. Catherine had wondered where her grandfather and his wife vanished after the evening meal and where they spent their days. Now she knew. She was rather sorry she had learned the answer.
Briaud stood before them wrapped in a long length of silk.
“I thought you’d find a way in,” she said, staring at Berthe with loathing.
“Um, perhaps this isn’t a good time for a visit.” Catherine was staring at the curves barely hidden by the cloth.
“Don’t worry, we’re done for now,” Briaud told her, hitching the silk up on her shoulder. “He won’t want it again for hours.”
“Grandfather?” Catherine said.
“Bring them in and shut the door,” Gargenaud shouted. “There’s a draft in here.”
Berthe charged in past Briaud. Catherine followed more hesitantly, praying that her grandfather was wearing more than his wife. She held baby Gottfried up to her face. He was still sleeping. How could he do that? Her children had wakened if someone sneezed. If only he would start crying so she could have an excuse to leave.
Gargenaud was lying in an enormous bed. He had pulled up the sheet, at least, but the sight of his bare chest, white hair gleaming with sweat, caused Catherine’s stomach to contract and her head to fill with unwanted images.
Berthe was not intimidated. She marched to the bed. Putting her hands on her hips, she addressed the lord of Boisvert.
“I’ve come to save you, you old fool,” she said. “How long did you think you could hide the truth behind silly stories and ceremonies? There’s a real army not a day away. Do you intend to frighten them into surrender with legends?”
Gargenaud drew himself up in anger. The sheet slipped alarmingly.
“How can you, of all people, doubt the legend?” he roared. “Look what happened when you tried to escape it.”
“At least I didn’t die of boredom as this one will.” She jerked a thumb at Briaud, who had moved nearer to Catherine, her eyes fixed on the baby.
“We don’t need your help,” Gargenaud told her. “No army can breach these walls.”
“And who will lift the stone that’s blocking Andonenn’s spring?” Berthe asked. “You don’t even know where it is. How long can you last without water?”
“There’s enough to last until we find the key,” Gargenaud said. “Briaud, stop drooling over that child and come here. I’ve a kink in my back.”
“Leave her be,” Berthe said. “She knows she’ll get none of her own until you’re dead. Not unless you leave here. But you may have no choice, old man. You’ve abused Andonenn’s gift and forces are coming together to take it back from you.”
“You’re as addled as poor Madeleine,” Gargenaud jeered. But his voice held a flicker of doubt.
Berthe sat down on the bed. “You know better than that, Father. I’m more sane than you. But you’re not so far gone that you don’t know how much you need me now.”
The old man glared at her.
“I need no help from you,” he said. “You are an unnatural child and have no place here. Andonenn’s true children will save her without you.”
He finally noticed Catherine and the baby.
“Which one are you?” he asked querulously. “Get about your business. Do I have to get up and show you the door? Briaud! My back!”
Catherine and Berthe made a hasty retreat.
“If it weren’t for my promise to Mandon,” Berthe muttered, “I’d let that old man burn.”
At the moment, Catherine would have been happy to do the same.
Fifteen
Somewhere underground. That afternoon.
. . .quod cum retulero, non vacillabit fides historiae etsi mentes
auditorum sint incredulae.
. . .as I tell the story, I shall not deviate from my faith
in the truth of it, even if my listeners are unbelieving.
—William of Malmesbury,
The Hist
ory of the English Kings, Part 204
This torch isn’t going to last very long.” Martin looked worriedly at the wad of feebly burning cloth he had wrapped around a chestnut branch.
“Then let’s hope we find these men soon,” Edgar said. “At least we know we haven’t missed them. There haven’t been any forks in the tunnel yet.”
“What do we do when we find them?” asked Martin, acutely aware that they were poorly armed.
Edgar had been wondering the same thing. He knew the men had left their swords and bows with the guard. What else might they have?
“I’ll think of something,” he said.
He sounded so confident that Martin ceased worrying.
Edgar cursed his own rashness. Even before he had lost his hand, being around fighting men had made him resentful. He was the youngest, destined for the church and of no value in a society of warriors. Whatever lip service they might give to religion, they all really believed that God was on the side of the strong. They sneered at the monks and made jokes about beardless men in skirts. It always made Edgar want to attack them like a rabid dog. The men at Boisvert had the same effect on him.
Yet, in this case, what else could he have done? There wasn’t time to go to the castle for reinforcements. He couldn’t chance the men getting back to Olivier with news of a back entrance to the unassailable castle. The only thing was to attempt to capture them.
He only wished that he wasn’t risking Martin’s life along with his own.
There was a sound up ahead and the glow of light reflected around a bend. Edgar put a finger to his lips and then gestured for Martin to put his torch down. They would need all three hands to deal with the thieves.
Slowly they crept toward the light. It flickered but didn’t move forward. Edgar felt a shiver run up his spine. Were they creeping into a trap?
Edgar waved Martin to stay behind and eased cautiously into the light.
He almost trod on the remains of the torch, guttering out on the damp ground. Just beyond it lay the body of the man in green, his arm outstretched as if he’d thrown the torch as he fell. In his back was a short metal arrow, not fletched. Its copper color was bright against the dull shade of the man’s tunic.
The Witch in the Well: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 24