Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  “Their hands,” the cook finished. “You don’t need to be delicate. We all heard.”

  He rubbed his wrist as if to assure himself that his own hand was still connected. He wasn’t the only one.

  Algar finished his soup and got up. He’d just remembered something.

  “With the lords Alexander and Egbert dead, that means Duncan’s the oldest son.”

  He shivered. There was something about Waldeve’s third son that made him want cold iron and holy water near him at all times, just to be safe, either way.

  In the smoky kitchen more than one hand moved in the ancient sign to ward off evil.

  Urric snorted. “That doesn’t make him thane of Wedderlie,” he said. “Alexander’s got another son who could inherit, and there’s always Robert.”

  The cook wasn’t about to let this reassure anyone. “Alexander’s son is a child still, and as for Robert, well, it seems to me Waldeve picked the wrong boy to make into a priest.”

  Everyone nodded.

  The gloom in the kitchen was thicker than the smoke. A vision of life under Duncan of Wedderlie was terrifying to contemplate. When Duncan had gone off to Durham to cast his lot with the king’s chancellor, William Cumin, in his fight for the bishopric, the household had cheered his going and prayed that he would never return.

  Finally a spatter from the roast that was no longer being turned brought the cook back to the present.

  “No point in borrowing trouble,” he said. “There’s enough here now. Lord Waldeve’s got plenty of good years left. By the time he goes, young Ædmer will be old enough to take over. You! Gille-crist! Who told you to stop working? That meat’ll be raw on one side and burnt on the other.”

  The servant hurriedly grabbed the spit and began turning it, wincing as the heat of the metal came through the cloth wrapped around his hand. The others made a show of getting back to their duties as well. But the air of disquiet remained. The horror of the loss was bad enough, but the fear of what it might lead to was worse.

  Adalisa made her way slowly up to the women’s rooms. She had consulted with the priest, overseen the preparing of the bodies, ordered food for the funeral and sent messengers to various kin, including Waldeve’s cousin and lord, the earl of Dunbar. Now she had to go face the wives of her stepsons and their children, console them in their grief and calm their fear about the future.

  She wished there were one place in this whole bailiwick where she could hide.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, Adalisa drew back the curtain, steeling herself to endure Sibilla’s wailing.

  The widows sat in chairs by the window. Egbert’s wife, Anna, held their new son. Her other boy was only four. He sat by the side of her chair, sucking his thumb. Anna knew that she would be given little time to mourn. She was heiress to a castle and five villages. Suitors would be arriving before grass sprouted on her husband’s grave.

  Sibilla was staring at the dust that was dancing in the afternoon sunlight. She had only one child left now, and he had been sent for fostering at the earl’s court. Adalisa could only imagine the depth of her devastation.

  Sitting between the women, cross-legged on the floor, the sunlight catching the gold in her red hair, was Margaret. She greeted Adalisa with a tremulous smile.

  “Mama, I’m so glad you’re back,” she said. “No one will tell me anything.”

  The girl rose with a fluid grace and Adalisa realized as they hugged that her daughter was growing again. She could rest her chin on Margaret’s head now. Nearly eleven. It didn’t seem possible. She hugged the child more tightly.

  “There’s nothing to tell, sweeting,” Adalisa told her. “The preparations have been made for the burial tomorrow. We shall keep vigil and pray tonight.”

  She stopped as Sibilla gave a low moan and covered her face with her scarf.

  “I’m sorry, Sibilla,” she added. “Margaret, there’s something you can do for me. Run down and get some water. Then bring me my herb box. We all need something to ease the pain.”

  When the child had gone, Adalisa went over to the two women. She had no idea what to say to them. Sibilla looked up, her eyes red in her pale face.

  “What’s to become of me?” she asked. “Whatever shall I do now?”

  “I don’t know,” Adalisa answered. “This isn’t the time to think of it.”

  “And what else shall I dwell on? My poor child’s body, perhaps?” Sibilla was well over the edge of hysteria.

  “His soul, waiting for you in Heaven?”

  Sibilla’s response to that was less than devout. Anna looked up from the baby, shocked.

  “Of course young Edgar is in Heaven!” she said. “Or will be soon. What had he to repent of? And we’ll have the nuns pray for him night and day, just to be sure.”

  “Well, don’t think I’ll be joining them in the convent,” Sibilla answered. “I’ve no intention of spending the rest of my days surrounded by women. Oh, dear holy Mother, what’s to become of me?”

  Adalisa sighed with relief as Margaret returned, carrying a pail of water in one hand and balancing the herb box against the opposite hip.

  “Thank goodness,” she said. “Here, give me the box. Pour some of the water into the long-handled pot and the rest into the bowl next to the brazier. Heat them both. Now, what do I need?”

  She took out borage, vervain and wood betony, putting them into a linen square, which she then tied with string. When the pot boiled, she dipped the sachet in it until it soaked enough to sink. While she waited for the herbs to steep, she took out a small vial and dripped a bit of oil onto the steaming water in the bowl.

  “Tincture of roses,” she told the women. “Lean over it and breath. It will ease your minds.”

  While they were doing that, she brought a pitcher of strong Gascon wine. She mixed the herbal potion with it.

  “Drink this, all in a draught,” she ordered. “You need it. You must sleep tonight. Tomorrow will be long.”

  They obeyed. Adalisa gave some to Margaret as well, diluting the wine considerably for her.

  “Will you stay with your sisters-in-law?” she asked her daughter. “I must see to your father.”

  Margaret nodded. Adalisa kissed her.

  “I’ll send one of the other women up soon. They’re washing now.

  Washing off the smell of death. Adalisa didn’t add it, but something in Margaret’s eyes said that she knew.

  Waldeve had put on his riding boots. He paced back and forth across the hall, raising clouds of chaff. His men stood near the hearth, trying not to cough. They were desperate for action. All Waldeve had to do was give the order.

  “Urric!” Waldeve shouted.

  Urric sprang to attention. “Yes, my lord!”

  “Has Robert been sent for?”

  Urric sagged a bit. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Where is he, then?”

  Urric looked over at Algar, who answered all in a rush, as if hoping to distance himself from the words as quickly as possible.

  “Lord Robert said that he had something to finish, but he would be here by nightfall.”

  The men waited for the eruption, but Waldeve only tightened his lips and continued his pacing.

  “Bring him to me as soon as he arrives,” he told them. “Now, Algar, you’ll need to go find my brother.”

  Algar stared. “Your brother, Lord?”

  “Yes, you remember him.” Waldeve stopped long enough to give Algar the full force of his sneer. “Tall man, red hair, beak like a puffin. Totally mad.”

  “Yes, Lord.” Algar hesitated. “Where should I start looking?”

  Waldeve considered. “Edinburgh,” he said finally. “He’s often there. If not, you’ll have to search farther north.”

  “Yes, Lord,” Algar answered. “I’ll leave at first light.”

  Algar stepped back relieved. Urric closed his eyes. He knew what the next order would be.

  “Urric!”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  “Y
ou and Swein ride at once for Durham.” Waldeve ignored the wince both men gave. “Tell my son Duncan that he doesn’t need to fight for that Norman upstart anymore. He’s just become my heir.”

  Satisfied that things were finally being accomplished, Waldeve stopped his circumnambulation of the room, sat down and called for wine. He had just finished the first cup when his fourth son, Robert, came in, a sleek hunting dog at his heels.

  “Father!” he cried. “How did it happen? Who did it?”

  Waldeve gazed at his son with contempt.

  “If you’d been with them, you’d know,” he answered.

  Robert was brought up short. “If I’d been with them, I’d be dead, too. Did you send for me to tell me I should have been slaughtered?”

  Waldeve held out his cup to be refilled.

  “No, I sent for you to tell you that you’re going to France.” He waited for the shocked response, then smiled. “Edgar may have abandoned his family for his French whore, but his blood is still ours and it’s his duty to come home and fight with us to avenge his brothers.”

  “He won’t come, Father,” Robert answered.

  “You make him come,” Waldeve said quietly. “Or don’t bother returning.”

  Robert opened his mouth to protest, noticed Adalisa in the doorway gesturing for him to agree. He turned away angrily, but then gave in.

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ll leave as soon as I can arrange for someone to oversee the spring shearing.”

  “You’ll leave at once,” Waldeve told him. “And return by the kalends of July.”

  Robert managed to get out of the hall before he gave way to his anger. Adalisa followed him. She put her hand on his arm, stopping him from pounding his fist against the stone wall.

  “Please, Robert,” she said. “Do as he asks. And come back quickly, as quickly as you can. Remember that until you and Edgar return, there will be no one to stand between your father and Duncan. And no one to stand between Duncan and the rest of us. Tell Edgar he must come. We need you both; all of us need you to protect us from him.”

  Robert shivered. She was right. Finding and punishing murderers was no more than usual summer activity here in Lothian. The real test would be to stand up to his brother Duncan. For that, Robert wanted all the support he could get.

  “If I go, will you see to it that Lufen here is taken care of?” he asked Adalisa.

  He bent over to rub the dog’s flank lovingly. His stepmother smiled.

  “I’ll send her scraps from my own dinner, if you like,” she promised. “And she may sleep here in the hall. I know how much you care for her.”

  “There’s no one in the world that matters more to me,” Robert answered. “She’s the only one, besides you, whom I can trust.”

  “I know,” she said. “So come back to us soon.”

  “By the kalends of July,” he promised. “And Edgar will be with me.”

  Two

  Paris, the home of Hubert LeVendeur, merchant, and his family.

  Wednesday, 7 kalends June (May 26), 1143. Feast of Saint Augustine,

  archbishop of Canterbury and missionary to the English.

  “Sire,” dist Evroïne, “n’alés pas co disans;

  Il n’a en tot cest siecle arme nule vivant

  Qui je creïsse mie a garder mon enfant.”

  “Lord,” says Evroïne, “don’t even suggest it;

  In all the world there is no one living

  Whom I would trust for an instant to care for my child.”

  —La Naissance du Chevalier au Cygne,

  laisse 74, lines 2349—2351

  Edgar sat happily in the back garden of his father-in-law’s house, surrounded by wood shavings and walnut shells. He cracked open another nut, ate the meat and then rubbed the shell in a circular pattern against the wooden horse he was carving, smoothing and staining it at the same time. He worked slowly, meticulously. There was no hurry, and he wanted this to be perfect.

  A shadow fell between him and the morning sun.

  “Saint Joseph’s splintered palms, Edgar! Are you making a child’s toy or a reliquary?”

  A shadow fell across Edgar’s spirit as well. His wife’s father stood over him, frowning in confusion. Edgar liked Hubert well enough. He adored Hubert’s daughter Catherine enough to give up his country, his language and his family for her. But he knew that Catherine’s father still found this new son an enigma. And when he couldn’t understand something, Hubert’s patience with it was small.

  Edgar sighed. “I’m making a Trojan horse for James,” he explained. “I don’t want there to be any rough edges on it.”

  “Your son is but four months old,” Hubert said. “It will be ages before he can play with it and then he’ll most likely smash it.”

  Edgar nodded and went on with his work. Now Hubert sighed. He had come out here for a reason. What was it?

  “Ah, yes.” He made the effort and spoke in a more conciliatory tone. “About the extention. I’ve spoken to Prior Hervé at Saint-Denis and he’s willing to let us have the stones you wanted for the foundation.”

  This caught Edgar’s full attention. After weeks of argument, he had finally convinced Hubert to allow him to design and oversee the building of a room at the back of the house for himself and Catherine. It represented a great concession on Hubert’s part, admitting both that Edgar had the skill to manage the work and that, despite his claim to be an English nobleman, he might have some use other than siring grandchildren. But much depended on the success of the project.

  “And what does the prior want to charge you for the stones?” Edgar asked.

  Hubert shrugged. “A cask of wine, not even the best. It’s nothing.”

  “Except that the stones I want are leftover pieces,” Edgar said in disgust. “Too small or misshapen for the church. Hervé would have had to pay someone to haul them away.”

  “I know that!” Hubert answered sharply, his trader’s pride stung. “But for the amount of business we do with the abbey, it doesn’t hurt to let them think they have the better of the deal.”

  The two men stared at each other, both trying to think of something that wouldn’t drive a wedge into their cautious acceptance of one another. The sound of laughter saved them.

  The walled garden they were in reached all the way down to a shallow stream that emptied into the Seine. On this warm morning the rest of the household had sensibly gone down to the water. Now portions of it were returning—damp, cool and content. In the lead was Edgar’s wife and Hubert’s daughter, Catherine, wearing only a shift that barely reached past her knees and carrying her son, James, who, at four months, was in danger of being thoroughly spoiled by adoring relatives.

  Just behind her was the maid, Samonie, followed by her own three children. Hubert had not been pleased when Catherine had allowed the maid to bring her bastards, fathered by God-knew-whom, into the house. But he had to admit that they were well mannered and could be trusted with chores. The oldest girl, Willa, had taken over the care of baby James with tenderness and skill on the rare times when Catherine would release him.

  She wasn’t about to at the moment. James, wrapped only in a linen cloth, was making it clear to his mother that he was ready to eat.

  Catherine stuck a finger in his mouth and he began sucking eagerly.

  “That won’t quiet him for long,” Edgar said.

  “I know, I’ll take him in,” she answered. “Samonie will see to the feeding of the rest of you.”

  James’s face was turning red with frustration. Edgar patted his head, quite sure that this was the most remarkable child ever born into the world. His hair, what there was of it, was dark like Catherine’s, and small curls were evident, but his skin was lighter than hers. His eyes were already grey like Edgar’s, and curious. As for the rest, all the limbs were in their proper places, fingers and toes accounted for. That alone was worth the long journey they had made to the shrine of Saint James in Spain. They had asked the saint to grant them a
living child and he had given them a miracle.

  Just at that moment, Edgar was as content as he ever hoped to be in this life.

  He should have savored the moment more. It was to be the last for many months.

  It was early evening. The air had cooled and fog was creeping up from the river. Hubert had gone out to visit his brother, Eliazar, and taken Catherine and the baby with him. Edgar was dozing in a chair by the window overlooking the narrow alleyway next to the house, his feet propped up on a cushioned stool. Through half-closed eyes, he watched the people passing, their voices rising in an unintelligible mix. Suddenly, he sat upright, fully alert. It couldn’t be. He kicked the stool aside to lean out the window for a better look.

  The man was just rounding the corner. He entered the main road that ran next to the Grève. Edgar rubbed his eyes. He must be wrong. It was just another northerner. The man was tall and had hair a shade of blond much more vibrant than Edgar’s pale straw color. But he only resembled Robert, that was all. Edgar hadn’t seen the face. Probably just another English student in Paris, or a trader from Germany.

  Then he heard the clanging of the iron ring at the door to the courtyard. With a sinking heart, Edgar went down the stairs slowly to meet the visitor. He didn’t need to hear the stumbling French or the puzzled response of the maid to know that it was his brother. And if Robert had left his precious estate and come all the way to France then something terrible had happened.

  “Edgar! Hwœt sœgest thu, Broðer?”

  Edgar blinked. It had been so long since he’d heard his own language that it took a moment to understand.

  “Robert!” Edgar endured his brother’s embrace. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t believe it was you. What’s brought you here? What’s happened?” He switched back to French to shout at the errand boy. “Ullo, fetch some food and wine for my guest!”