The Witch in the Well: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  Margaret was happy that the ordeal was over. She never wanted to go below ground again, not even into a root cellar. It would be good to return to the Paraclete, where life had order and sense and legends were safely in the distant past. These people were not hers. She didn’t belong in their world.

  There was an empty alcove on the far side of the hall, half hidden by curtains. Margaret made her way there, planning to hide until the celebration ebbed.

  Someone else had already had the same idea.

  “Solomon!” Margaret stepped toward him

  He stood. “How are you?” he asked. “I’m sorry it took so long for me to return. Your grandfather is not an easy man to track down.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I. . .that is, we were worried about you.”

  Solomon wished he knew how he felt about her. He knew he loved her; he had since she was a child. But he was terribly afraid that it was more than an avuncular fondness. When he was traveling, her face and voice, the auburn braids, seemed to be in his thoughts all the time. When he was with another woman, he felt her sadness. And now, the sight of her, so much in pain, broke his heart.

  “Margaret,” he said. “You know there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

  “Except convert.” She smiled to take away the sting of the words.

  “I can’t any more than you could.” He turned toward the window, unable to look into her eyes. “But even if I did, it would still be impossible. You know that. Your grandfather has other plans for you. And your brother would never let me cross his threshold again. You know it as well as I do.”

  “Yes.” There was an ocean of grief in that word.

  “You only feel like this because I bring you presents,” Solomon tried to tease her. “Wait until young lords come courting you. You’ll see what a poor catch I’d be.”

  Margaret came and stood beside him. They both stared out the window into the village and the fields beyond.

  “Solomon,” she said at last. “Do you love me or do you just feel pity for my hopelessness?”

  Now was the time to do the noble thing. He should cut himself off from her forever. She deserved a rich, happy life, free of regret.

  He opened his mouth to lie. She turned her face up to his, her large light brown eyes shining with tears. The words escaped him before he could react.

  “Oh, my life and my soul,” he said. “I shall love you until I die.”

  He held her close until her tears were spent. They both knew he must never see her again.

  Edgar had the unpleasant task of telling Seguin that Aymon’s body had been washed out of the tunnel with those of Olivier’s soldiers.

  “He was no traitor,” Seguin stated firmly. “He planned it all so that Andonenn could be freed and Boisvert protected again. It was Mandon who killed Raimbaut. She was wickedly insane. I should have had her locked up years ago.”

  Edgar didn’t argue. For all he knew, the man was right.

  It wasn’t until things had settled down and the villagers returned to what was left of their homes that Gargenaud made his appearance.

  “We shall have to get that poet to add more laisses to the story,” he announced. “Raimbaut and Aymon died heroically to save us. They have guaranteed that Boisvert shall stand forever. Andonenn’s treasure is still protected.”

  “Aren’t we at least entitled to see it?” Odilon asked. “If I’m to be the next lord of Boisvert, I should know what I’m guarding.”

  Before Catherine had recovered from the joy of Edgar’s return, the box had been taken away by one of Gargenaud’s men. She hadn’t seen it since.

  Now it was brought out, a plain wooden casket with a latch but no lock. Gargenaud had it placed on a table. He signaled Seguin to open it.

  Catherine was in the front of those pushing forward to get the first glimpse.

  Seguin slowly opened the lid. His expression changed to consternation.

  “What is this?” he asked. “It’s just an old book!”

  “I told you there was a book!” Guillaume said from the back of the room.

  Seguin held it up. It was a thick codex, the vellum pages rippling with age. The covers were leather-covered wood boards, studded with precious stones.

  “Is it a book of magic?” Odilon asked.

  “Perhaps some lost letters of the apostles,” Ysore suggested.

  Seguin opened it. He studied the first page, written in clear Carolingian uncial. He went to the next page, and the next.

  “It must be written in some secret language,” he said at last. “I can’t make out a word of it.”

  Catherine was finally able to get a look.

  “This is the same language as on the tapestry,” she said. “Hermann, didn’t you say it seemed a bit like German?”

  “Yes, but not,” he said. “A few words the same, but there is no sense to the phrases.”

  “I remember reading somewhere that Charlemagne had a book made of all the pagan legends of the Frankish people.” Catherine tried to read the lines again.

  “Yes,” Edgar added. “But his son, Louis, and Louis’s wife, Judith, had the book destroyed so that it wouldn’t influence good Christians.”

  “You think this is it?” Seguin asked. “This is what Jurvale stole? We’ve spent three hundred years guarding this? My sons died for nothing but an old pagan book?”

  “It would seem so,” Catherine said. “And, oddly, Judith has won, after all. I doubt there’s a person alive who can read it.”

  Catherine and Marie were gathering up their possessions and packing them any which way, so happy to be going home that they didn’t care what got wrinkled or broken.

  “If we hurry, Solomon and Edgar may still reach Saint-Denis in time for the Lendit fair,” Catherine said.

  “Guillaume has rented a house in Paris from Abbot Suger for us to stay in until the keep is rebuilt,” Marie almost sang. “A winter in the city! We can see each other all the time!”

  “And Brehier says he doesn’t mind living with us at all.” Catherine couldn’t believe her luck. “Edgar wants to build a room for him and Samonie at the back of the house. I was so afraid I’d lose her.”

  “Even though it was awful,” Marie considered. “Things have ended just like in the stories, after all.”

  Not quite. Catherine knew there had been no magic, no miracles. Just two women determined to control events to get their way. The legends were no more than smoke to conceal the reality.

  They had brought all the bundles down to the hall for servants to take down and load onto the donkeys. Catherine was saying good-bye to Odilon and Seguin when Agnes came down.

  “Catherine, where are the earrings I loaned you?” she said. “The ones of Mother’s. I need to put them in my jewelry casket before I lock it.”

  “You said I could keep them,” Catherine answered. “I already put them in the boxes.”

  “I didn’t,” Agnes answered. “I distinctly said you could borrow them while we were here because you hadn’t brought anything decent.”

  “No, you didn’t.” Catherine’s voice rose. “I have lots of nice jewelry. I wanted them because you made off with all Mother’s things and I have nothing to remember her by.”

  “I deserved every piece,” Agnes shouted back. “You ran off to the convent and then to get married. I was the one who stayed home and took care of her. You were always so selfish!”

  “Selfish! What do you call a person who won’t let her sister have a small pair of earrings?”

  “Catherine, stop bullying your sister. Agnes, let Catherine have the earrings. You have plenty.”

  “Oh, Mama!” they answered together.

  Realization hit. They both froze and turned slowly.

  Madeleine was standing before them, very much alive. More alive, Catherine saw with a shock, than she had been in years.

  “You two are much too old to squabble like children,” their mother told them firmly. “I understand from Andonenn that while I was ill, yo
u both went and got married. She says you both have children of your own. And high time, too. Please, take me to meet my grandchildren.”

  “I take back every doubt I had,” Catherine said through tears. “There was magic after all.”

  And now, the chanson is complete.