Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  Æthelræd sniffed suspiciously at the bowl.

  “Water?” he said. “What have you come to, Aelred? Your father would have given us wine and meat.”

  Aelred refused to take offense. “My father was from another time, my friend, when priests kept wives and gave their benefices to their sons. But even he converted in the end and died a monk of Durham.”

  Æthelræd subsided, glumly staring at the water as if expecting a sea monster to rise from it.

  Edgar would not be put off with reminiscences.

  “Duncan, Aelred,” he said. “Tell us what he’s been up to.”

  Aelred took a deep breath and let it out.

  “I got most of this from Archdeacon Rannulf,” he warned them. “William Cumin drove him from the cloister when Rannulf and the others refused to elect him bishop. It may not all be true.”

  “Aelred …”

  “Very well, Edgar. It is said that Duncan is the man that Cumin put in charge of subduing the town and collecting the rents and tithes from the dependent villages. He and his men have been given free rein to terrorize the people as they wish. The stories of torture, rape and sacrilege are too horrible to mention.”

  “Really?” Æthelræd asked, interested.

  “I don’t understand,” Edgar said. “There’s no question that Duncan is capable of such things, but what have his actions in the service of his lord to do with the death of my brothers?”

  “It is said,” Aelred continued, “that Duncan has been particularly harsh concerning the property of Roger de Conyers, the only local lord who actively opposes Cumin. Roger has power and friends north of the Tyne.”

  Æthelræd could stand it no longer.

  “Aelred, I don’t believe it,” he interrupted. “Roger de Conyers is a man of honor. If he struck back, it would be at Duncan, not his family. Have any of Conyers’s family been ambushed and murdered by Duncan?”

  “No,” Aelred conceded. “Only the buildings burnt, the livestock stolen and the tenants tortured and killed.”

  “That’s war,” Æthelræd said. “It happens everywhere. This murder is different.”

  Aelred stroked his chin, rubbing at the stubble. “The only real difference is that the one responsible hasn’t claimed credit for the death of your brothers. It’s not as if they were killed unarmed or unprepared. Someone should be bragging of this.”

  “What about one of Conyers’s men?” Edgar asked. “Could Duncan have singled someone out for particular ill-treatment?”

  “I don’t know,” Aelred answered. “You’ve been away, Edgar. You don’t know what it’s been like since King Henry died. With Stephen and the Empress battling for the crown, there’s no order anywhere. Minor barons build castles and ravage the countryside and no one stops them. The chancellor of Scotland usurps the see of Saint Cuthbert and holds the monks prisoner in their own cloister and only one lord of the county is brave enough to fight him. I only thank God my father died before this final insult.”

  His voice broke. Edgar stood and patted him clumsily on the back.

  “I’m sorry, Aelred,” he said. “I forgot how devoted your family is to Cuthbert.”

  “My ancestors cared for him for hundreds of years,” Aelred answered. “We were the priests of Cuthbert, not Durham, and I would have been, too, if my birth hadn’t denied me the right. I still serve him as much as my father and grandfather ever did.”

  “I’m sorry.” Edgar meant it. “I believed that you had changed your allegiance when you changed your name. Forgive me.”

  Aelred forced a smile. “I’m more English than you, Edgar. Don’t forget that Cîteaux was founded by an Englishman, for all it seems so French. Half the monks here are Saxon. We don’t forget our race; we have only found a greater brotherhood in God.”

  Edgar sat back down, abashed. “I shouldn’t have come to you with this, Aelred. I can see you’ve left all that behind.”

  The monk gave Edgar a long appraising stare. Then he smiled. It changed his whole face and Edgar realized that the alteration he had marked at their meeting was not so much of the body as of the spirit. At Durham and at the court, Aelred had performed his duties meticulously but without joy. Here, he was happy.

  Edgar and Æthelræd got up to leave, but Aelred stopped them.

  “Tonight is the vigil of Saint John, who knew the truth before it was revealed to the world,” he reminded them. “Stay with us and join our prayers. Tomorrow, with the abbot’s permission, I will go with you to Durham.”

  “Aelred!” Edgar was astounded. “But why? You have no obligation to us.”

  Aelred’s smile trembled. “I think I do. When I entered Rievaulx, I left someone behind without preparing him properly for my loss. I’ve regretted that and think that perhaps I’m finally strong enough to face him.”

  Edgar understood. “Robert stayed behind at Wedderlie. He won’t be at Durham.”

  “Oddly, I have a feeling that he will,” Aelred answered. “But, in any event, I also owe Saint Cuthbert the same devotion my father and grandfather gave him. If the death of your brothers is a part of this desecration of Cuthbert’s church, then it is my duty to help you discover how and why.”

  Edgar closed his eyes as relief washed over him. He hadn’t realized the burden he was carrying until it was lightened by Aelred’s offer to share it for the sake of old friendship.

  “Thank you, Aelred,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Catherine was finding living at Wedderlie extremely frustrating. She was used to considering herself a well-educated woman and enjoyed showing off her knowledge. But half the people she met here weren’t impressed by Latin and considered her rather dull to speak no English. It was a new and unpleasant feeling, although the convent voices reminded her that humility was a lesson she needed badly.

  She was sure that there was something strange going on in the village. How could she find out what was happening if she had to pass every question through Margaret? And what could she ask? Why is everything so orderly here? Why do I never see anyone working alone? Even in the gardens behind their huts the women were always in pairs. The men went in a group to the fields. Were they afraid of something? If so, what? The younger men and boys had taken the sheep to the hills for the summer and the guards were mostly with Waldeve, but the few men left were enough to fight off thieves or wild animals.

  Or was there something worse lurking in the forest?

  Catherine wondered what the hour was. She had heard bells when James had wakened her, but in this light, they could even have been for Matins. There were sounds from below of people stirring, but Willa still slept in her corner. They had the women’s room to themselves now and it was restful but lonely. Catherine had too much time to ponder while she fed her son. Despite the disapproval of other women it gave Catherine great satisfaction to have him curled up against her and to know that she was still his source of sustenance.

  But now he was asleep again and she was alone with her thoughts. Her mind strayed to another niggling worry.

  What was the matter with Solomon?

  He had spent the past few days either roaming alone out in the countryside, something Catherine felt wasn’t safe despite Margaret’s explanation of the monster, or sitting at a table making lists in that odd half-French/half-Hebrew script of his. He rarely spoke to her, never teased her and only seemed to come alive while playing with the children. When she asked him what the problem was, he only shrugged and said that he didn’t like waiting for people to make up their minds.

  Catherine had to be satisfied with that and it was true that Robert seemed to be taking a long time in contacting his friends about the trade agreements. But she had known Solomon too long not to recognize when something was gnawing at him.

  Last year he had been much involved in Saracen magic and divination. Far too much, in Catherine’s opinion. He hadn’t mentioned it in a long time and Catherine hoped he’d gotten over his obsession to know the future and the pattern of existence. Perhaps th
is strange place had caused it to surface again.

  She shivered, but not from cold. The castle was stone only in its foundations and ground level. The upper parts were of wood and the summer sun warmed the rooms quickly. There was something wrong at Wedderlie. Even with Waldeve and his sons gone, the place had an air of watchfulness and anticipation. Not just the keep but the village, as well. What, or whom, was everyone expecting?

  James woke again, this time ready to play. Catherine considered waking Willa to take care of him, but the girl looked too peaceful to disturb. She had walked back and forth with him on many a fretful night while Catherine slept.

  She left the soiled swaddling in a bucket and wrapped him more loosely from the waist up, leaving his arms free to explore. The first thing he did was grab and yank at her hair.

  “Ow!” Catherine said. “No more of that, young man. Now, you’ve eaten well, but I’m starving. Let’s go see if there’s any cheese or bread in the kitchen.”

  She carried him down the rickety stairs. In one corner of the hall, Solomon slept deeply on his back, his mouth hanging open. Catherine hurried by him and on down to the stone portion of the keep, where the kitchens were.

  The fire had been stoked and a kettle put on. Catherine sniffed it. Oat porridge boiled in whey. She wasn’t that hungry. There was no one tending it. Where had the cook and his helpers gone?

  From the narrow window, she couldn’t see any signs of activity. Had they all gone fishing? Were they at an early Mass? It was doubtful. Few peasants had the time or inclination for church services, except perhaps at Easter.

  “Well, James, it appears we’re on our own,” she said. “There must be a cut round of cheese somewhere.”

  The rafters were strung with herbs and fletches of meat and other mysterious bundles. Catherine didn’t feel she could break into what might be a winter store. Where would they keep the fresh cheese?

  “There’s a storage room dug into the hill next to the chapel,” she said. “Shall we hunt for the door?”

  James looked bored and tried to catch at the dusty sunshine as it hit Catherine’s chest.

  The door wasn’t too difficult to find. It was low and set into the corner across from the window. The hinges were well oiled. The cook’s helpers probably used it a dozen times a day. There was a ladder inside. Catherine knelt and peered in.

  “No light at all,” she muttered. “Now, how can I get down there with a lamp and you, as well?”

  James belched.

  “Not helpful, mon mignot fils,” she said. “But I can’t leave you in the kitchen. There’s nothing to put you in here.”

  She fashioned a sling for him from her scarf and then found an oil lamp and lit it from the fire. Her stomach grumbled as she backed down the ladder. The things one did in the extremes of hunger!

  It wasn’t that difficult. She soon felt the earth beneath her feet. She held the lamp up and turned around.

  There was a whimper and a frantic scuffling from an arched alcove. Cautiously, Catherine shone the light in that direction.

  A white form crouched against the stone wall. Huge dark eyes stared at her. A skeletal hand covered them at once as the thing cringed at the light.

  Catherine screamed.

  Nine

  The cellar at Wedderlie; an instant later.

  Fere vero antiqui tales aegros in tenebris habebant, eo quod iis contrarium

  esset exterreri, et ad quietum animi tenebras ipsas conferre aliquid

  iudicabant. At Asclepiades, tamquam tenebris ipsis terrentibus, in lumine

  habendos eos dixit. Neutrem autem perpetummn est … .

  The ancients usually kept such ones [violent madmen] in darkness,

  for they judged that it was contrary to their well-being to be terrified

  and the darkness itself is calming to the spirit. But Asclepiades said

  that they should be in the light for the darkness itself is frightening.

  Neither of these is always true … .

  —Celsus, De Medicina,

  Book III, part 18

  The apparition screamed even louder than Catherine, a horribly high-pitched keening.

  James began to cry.

  Catherine stopped her noise, but the other two went on. The figure before her shrank away from the light, long white hands over its eyes. It stopped only when it was trapped in the corner and remained there, huddling against the wall.

  Since it didn’t seem to be preparing an attack, Catherine took a hesitant step forward, still holding the lamp, all the while patting James with her other hand and muttering wordless soothing sounds.

  After a moment, the thing slowly took its hands from over its eyes and stared at her in terror, blinking in the light.

  “What are you?” Catherine breathed.

  It made no answer.

  She swallowed. “By the Father, Son and Holy Spirit tell me,” she said. “Are you flesh or demon?”

  The apparition stared at her, then at its hands and finally for answer made a clumsy attempt to bless itself. Catherine felt better. It was at least a Christian demon. She came closer. As she did the thing cringed away from her even more and tried to scramble back into the corner of the celler.

  Clearly, it was much more afraid of her than she of it. In wonder and pity Catherine stooped to examine what must be Margaret’s ghost.

  What she saw was enough to break her heart. It was human, or had been once. It was probably male, although there was no beard. His hair was long and tangled, as pale a blond as Edgar’s. His skin was also pale, as white as maggots in meat. Catherine had thought she was starving, but this man truly was. Here, with provisions all around, he looked as though he hadn’t eaten in months. He seemed more a skeleton covered in flesh than a person.

  James was calm, now that the tumult had stopped, and was watching the flicker of the lamp with rapt attention. Catherine moved closer to the man and put her hand out to touch him.

  “I won’t harm you,” she said as he began to shriek again.

  She moved away. He subsided to a whimper.

  “Who are you?” she asked gently. “Why are you here? What did you do to be treated like this?”

  The only answer was a vacant stare.

  Catherine put the lamp on a barrel and knelt beside him. James twisted in the sling to see and reached out for the man’s matted hair.

  “No, James.” Catherine took hold of his hand. She wasn’t sure if she were more afraid of James frightening this sad creature or of it somehow hurting him.

  At the sight of the baby, the man’s face lost some of its emptiness. He seemed puzzled. Very slowly, a long bony finger reached out to touch the child’s dark curls. Catherine tensed, ready to pull away at the first sign of evil intent. But the touch was soft and swift. The man closed his eyes and Catherine saw tears glittering on his cadaverous cheeks.

  What should she do?

  She came even closer. There was a shackle about the man’s ankle, and from it a short chain ran to a ring in the wall. She didn’t think she could break it. If only she knew who he was. A felon? A hostage? A captured enemy? Or some poor madman locked away for his own protection?

  Whom could she ask? Most of the people at Wedderlie must be aware of the prisoner. The cook and his helpers went down for foodstuffs several times a day. She sniffed. There was only a slight smell of urine through the odor of straw, salted meat and brine. Someone must be taking care of some of his needs, even if they weren’t feeding him. She wondered how long he had been kept here, chained in the darkness.

  And then another thought struck her like a blow.

  Did Edgar know about this?

  She didn’t believe it. She wouldn’t. He’d been away from home most of his life. A thousand things could have happened here that he would be ignorant of. Edgar would never countenance anyone being treated so cruelly.

  Catherine looked at the man. He was simply staring at the light. He no longer seemed afraid. She wasn’t sure if he were even aware of h
er. He had made no other move since he reached out to James. He had made no sound other than the horrible keening that had greeted her. She wondered if his tongue had been cut out.

  She had no idea what to do. Her heart told her to release this poor suffering creature but sense reminded her that he had been put here for a reason. Dared she ask Adalisa?

  James wiggled against her, trying to grab at the light. Catherine realized that she had to come to a decision quickly.

  “You’ll have to stay here a little longer,” she told the man, not sure whether he understood. “I’ll come back for you soon. I promise.”

  She climbed back up the ladder and into the kitchen. This time she found it occupied.

  “Lady Catherine!” The cook dropped his carving knife in astonishment. “What are you doing in the storeroom? Here, let me help you.”

  He took the lamp and gave her a hand as she climbed out.

  “I came down early,” Catherine said. “There was no one here. I was looking for something to eat, but all the cheese was sealed.”

  She wondered if that sounded as odd to him as it did to her.

  “Of course the food in the storeroom was sealed,” he answered. “There’s a box here for cheese and bread.”

  He pointed to a hinged wooden box nailed on the wall to keep it safe from rodents.

  “Of course,” Catherine answered. “How silly—” She stopped. “You’re French, too?”

  He shook his head.

  “Flemish,” he said. “But I apprenticed at the court of the count of Poitou. I came to Scotland with Lady Adalisa.”

  Which meant that his allegiance might be to her, rather than Waldeve. Catherine studied him. He didn’t appear concerned that she had been in the storeroom beyond being shocked that a lady and a guest would be somewhere so inappropriate. He must know there was a prisoner down there. Did he think she knew it, too? Or was he hoping that she hadn’t got far enough among the boxes to find him?