Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

“That’s all right. I need to have her asleep first,” Adalisa said. “I only pray that I can get the dosage right.”

  Robert returned with the wine. Adalisa got up and took a small vial from her pack. She set the bowl on a table and poured it half-full with with wine. Then she added only a few drops of liquid from the vial. Solomon watched in fascination.

  “What is this dwale?” he asked.

  “It’s something the Saxons use,” she answered. “Not very often, though, as it can kill all too easily. There’s hemlock in it and poppy juice. It will cause the dog to fall into a sleep so deep that she won’t feel the saw.”

  “Amazing!” Solomon said. “And it’s drunk? I’ve seen people breathe in the scent of a potion from a sponge, but to drink it! How long does the sleep last?”

  Adalisa didn’t look up.

  “Sometimes forever,” she said. “I have to sit with her tonight to watch her breathing. If she gasps and chokes, then I’ll need to try to wake her.”

  She picked up the bowl.

  “Now, the difficult part,” she said. “I have to get enough of it into the dog.”

  In that, Robert was invaluable. He coaxed Lufen to swallow a few drops from his fingers.

  “Is that enough?” he asked.

  “We’ll have to wait and see,” Adalisa answered. “Better too little than too much. She should become more calm soon.”

  Adalisa eyed Robert’s hands, shaking with worry and apprehension.

  “Robert,” she said firmly, “I’m going to make up a draught for you, as well. There’s nothing more you can do but fret and make me vexatious. I want you to sleep tonight so that you can care for Lufen tomorrow.”

  “I must be with her!” Robert protested.

  “No, it would grieve you too much,” she said. “Solomon will help me. If the dwale works, Lufen won’t know whether you’re here or not.”

  “When she’s asleep.” Robert gave in. “Then I’ll sleep, as well.”

  It was twilight before Robert was convinced that Lufen was safely under the effect of the dwale. But Adalisa had secretly put valerian and a little poppy juice in his wine sometime before so that he went off to bed quietly and was soon heard snoring.

  “Now, set that lamp so that I can see clearly and hold the poor thing’s leg,” Adalisa ordered Solomon.

  She took a small saw from her bag, of the sort used for pruning new branches from fruit trees. As the light glinted on it, Solomon had a sensation that it was alive and hungry. He shook it off. This was not the time to give way to fancy. He knelt next to Adalisa. In the heat, she had taken off her long tunic and only wore her chainse, the neck strings loosely tied. Solomon jerked his glance from the way her breasts curved beneath the thin cloth and forced himself to concentrate on the dog.

  “Make sure the tourniquet is tight,” Adalisa said. “Now, hold her and pray.”

  It was over in a moment, the wound then cauterized and bandaged. Beyond a feeble whimper, Lufen hadn’t moved.

  Adalisa bent for a moment and let out a long sigh. Then she straightened and got up to wash the blood and hair from her hands.

  “You cut with great skill,” Solomon said. “You’ve had to do this before.”

  “Once,” Adalisa said. “On a man.”

  Solomon opened his mouth to ask if the man had survived but changed his mind.

  “Now what do we do?” he said.

  “I must wait and watch.” She came back and sat next to the dog, her back against the wall. “You can sleep, though. You must be exhausted.”

  It was good advice, but Solomon instead brought all the pillows and bedding he could find and made up two pallets on the floor.

  “You may as well sit on something comfortable,” he told her. “I’ll just doze a bit and you can nudge me if you need me.”

  She nodded and closed her eyes a moment, her head thrown back against the wooden wall. Solomon watched her. A strand of hair was sticking to her cheek. Some impulse made him lean over her and pull it back. Adalisa’s eyes flew open. Her whole body tensed.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.

  “No, it’s all right.” She relaxed. “I shouldn’t have been so near sleep. When you touched me I thought it was Waldeve.”

  That would explain the sudden alertness. Solomon felt such pity for her, living with a man whose touch she feared.

  He hadn’t moved. She looked up at him. What she saw in his eyes made her open her mouth in wonder. It was too much for Solomon. Casting away all reason, he kissed her.

  He half expected her to push him away with outrage. Instead, after a moment of surprise, she responded passionately, putting her arms around him and drawing him against her.

  The thought of what would happen to them if they were caught flew across Solomon’s mind and vanished. He slipped the chainse from her shoulder and felt the relaxing of her muscles as his fingers caressed her skin.

  With a sad smile, she eased him up so she could undo first his belt and then the drawstring of his brais.

  In the room above, Robert slept on. Next to them, Lufen didn’t stir, not even when Solomon bumped against her box in his haste to remove his boots.

  Ten

  Paris, the home of Hubert LeVendeur. Sunday, 5 kalends July (June 28),

  1143. Feast of Saint Emission, bishop of Nantes, who died leading the

  soldiers of Christ against the Saracen invaders.

  Erat autem miles quidam Rogerius de Coincneris, vir bonus et fidelis; hic

  non acquievit communicare actibus Willelmi Cumin. Unde in possessione

  sua, scilicet in Biscoptum, firmavit sibi munitiunculam, quia locus

  congruebat.

  There was a certain knight, Roger Conyers, a good and loyal man; he

  had no wish to take part in the acts of William Cumin. So he

  strengthened the fortifications at his castle in Bishopton nearby.

  —Simeon II, Chapter IV

  of the poem of Durham

  Hubert knew it was too soon for any word from Catherine. They must have arrived in Scotland by now, he told himself. He wouldn’t think of pirates or storms at sea, brigands on the roads or wolves in the forest. Absolutely not. She was fine. They were all safe and far from the storm that was brewing here in Paris.

  The bishop hadn’t bothered to see him personally, when Hubert had arrived as requested. But one of the episcopal secretaries had questioned him for several hours as to his relationship with one Eliazar, Jew of Paris.

  “He’s my partner in business,” Hubert had told the man. “This is all well known. His family and mine traded together in Rouen, where I was born.”

  “So you’re Norman, then?” the secretary asked. “Your father was also a merchant? Did he have Jewish partners?”

  “Yes, he traded in the north, for fur and ivory,” Hubert explained. “Eliazar’s father traveled to Spain and Italy for cloth and spices. They combined forces to sell to the Normans, including those in England. Many of Eliazar’s family were among those Jews that Duke William settled in London when he conquered the English. When I was a young man, my father sent me south to Paris. It was arranged that Eliazar and I continue the family partnership.”

  Hubert waited for the man to make notes on his tablet. The story was essentially true, except for the fact that Gervase LeVendeur was Hubert’s adoptive father. Except for the fact that Gervase had tried to erase all memory of his Jewish past from his new son. Hubert’s father had been in Paris when his wife and daughters had been killed and Gervase sent him word that Hubert had died, too. Grief had shortened the poor man’s life and he was long dead by the time Eliazar found Hubert and reclaimed him to the family.

  There weren’t many people left who remembered what had happened or knew that Hubert wasn’t the son of Gervase. Hubert’s oldest child, Guillaume, had no idea. Guillaume had named his first son after the man he believed to be his grandfather. Edgar, Catherine and her sister, Agnes, were the only Christians who knew that Hubert and Elia
zar were brothers. So who could have denounced him? Hubert wanted to ask but knew it would only increase suspicion. For now, all the secretary told him was that the bishop was concerned that there had been Jews proselytizing the students and Hubert’s connection with the community was being investigated.

  “So, you see,” Hubert concluded, “my association with Eliazar is of long standing. Our business benefits from the separate contacts we have.”

  The secretary didn’t answer. He made a few more notes. Finally, he looked up.

  “If you had heard of any attempts to make Christians renounce the faith, you would have reported it, of course?”

  “Of course!” Hubert did his best to appear shocked. “But I can’t believe there is anything like that going on in Paris. The Jews here are too devoted to the king and grateful for the kindness of the bishop.”

  “So we have always believed,” the secretary said.

  He took his leave then. Hubert was left to fret. His first impulse had been to run to Eliazar with the news. But then he feared that someone might be following him to see if he did just that.

  What was wrong in Paris lately? There had always been animosity in some quarters against the Jewish community, but they had been living here almost a thousand years, always protected by the crown and the church. Now it seemed that this protection was slowly eroding.

  Hubert felt chilled despite the summer heat. He had no idea how to combat this denunciation by rumor.

  He was only grateful that Edgar, Catherine and the baby were well out of danger.

  Edgar was feeling that he had walked weaponless into the lions’ den as he, Aelred and Uncle Æthelræd waited nervously to meet with the one man who had resisted William Cumin, and by extension, Duncan and Waldeve, for the past three years. It had surprised Edgar when Aelred had suggested a council with Roger de Conyers before trying to penetrate the fortress of Durham.

  “Don’t you think he’s more likely to hold us for ransom than to help us?” he had asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Aelred had answered. “He’s a man who believes in justice. He’s been loyal to Durham and Saint Cuthbert even though all the other barons capitulated to Cumin.”

  “But that’s why he’s the most likely to have ordered the murder of my brothers,” Edgar reminded him. “Especially if Duncan has attacked his vassals and family.”

  “Nevertheless, I think we should first give him the opportunity to prove his innocence before we proceed further.” Aelred answered. “Your uncle thinks Conyers is a man we can trust, as well, don’t you, Æthelræd?”

  “From all I’ve heard of him, yes,” Æthelræd hedged. “But I’m not giving up my sword, yet.”

  Aelred’s determination to come to see Conyers had convinced Edgar when they were safely at Rievaulx but here, in the bailey of the castle at Bishopton, he wasn’t so sure. The men around them all wore chain mail, even in the summer heat. They appeared ready to attack at any moment. Neither Aelred nor Æthelræd seemed at all concerned, but Edgar felt very vulnerable. He was glad he had left Catherine and James back in Scotland, although he missed them terribly. He looked around at the amount of sharp steel surrounding him.

  “Aelred!” a voice called out. “I thought you were at Rievaulx. What are you doing here? Have you heard the news about the election?”

  The man who addressed them came over and greeted Aelred warmly. Then he noticed the monk’s companions.

  “Æthelræd! By Saint Gall and his builder bear! I thought you were living in a cave in Moray!”

  Æthelræd grinned at him. “I came out for the solstice, Rannulf, to see what kind of woman I could catch in the field on Saint John’s Eve. Instead, I spent it in the company of monks.”

  The man smiled back at him. “Just as well, Æthelræd. I’d have thought you’d have worn it out by now, anyway. And who’s this?” he added, staring at Edgar.

  Edgar put out his hand. “Archdeacon Rannulf, don’t you remember me?”

  “Enondu! Young Edgar!” he exclaimed. “Now you, I know, went off to Paris years ago to sit at the feet of that heretic, Abelard. I didn’t know you’d come back.”

  He stopped and studied all three of them.

  “To bring all of you here,” he continued, “something dreadful must have happened, something more personal than the desecration of my father’s see by that usurper, Cumin.”

  Aelred told him.

  Edgar felt suddenly shy, seeing Archdeacon Rannulf again after so long. He had always been in awe of this man. It was an open secret that he was the son of Bishop Rannulf Flambard, who had not let his election to the see of Durham interfere with his amorous activities. The bishop had left behind nearly as many acknowledged children as Waldeve. But his son had followed a career in his father’s church, undaunted by the obstruction of his illegitimacy. And this Rannulf had proved himself more worthy of the priesthood than the old bishop had been. As archdeacon of Durham, he had shown himself to be an honest administrator and a loyal supporter of whomever was bishop. He had an air of authority and a way of staring at the boys of the school as if he knew and condemned each of their sins.

  But Edgar’s timidity was completely overcome by the sincere outrage and sympathy Rannulf showed when the situation was explained to him.

  “If it’s true that these cowardly murders are connected to events here at Durham,” he stated, “then that’s one more tragedy to add to those laid at the door of William Cumin. I once thought he was merely ambitious and greedy. Now I believe he has become demonic.”

  Edgar swallowed a lump of fear in his throat. He had never had illusions about the sanctity of his relatives, but neither had he faced the possibility that they might actually be damned. All those who followed Cumin had been excommunicated with him of course, but that could be retracted. However, if the stories were true, and Edgar saw no sign that they weren’t, Duncan had built up a mountain of atrocities during his service at Durham. Edgar doubted that anything short of a martyr’s death could wipe away such black sins.

  “And so you’ve come here to find the killers of your brothers?” Rannulf asked him.

  “I came home because my father ordered me to aid him in his revenge, but I’m not sure I believe in it anymore.” Edgar sighed. “I’m beginning to fear that if I find the killers, my first thought will be to protect them from my father’s wrath.”

  “That’s a proper Christian thing to do,” Rannulf said. “They should be turned over to the king’s justice.”

  But Edgar wasn’t sure about that, either.

  Aelred sensed his distress and guided Rannulf away from the others, asking him about the recent election in York of William of Saint-Barbe to the see of Durham and how the unfortunate Saint-Barbe proposed to take possession of his new office when the city was in the possession of Cumin and his army.

  Edgar turned to Æthelræd.

  “What are we doing here?” he asked. “I feel that I’m flopping about like a fish on the riverbank. If my father is working with Duncan in support of Cumin, perhaps Alexander and Egbert were, as well. It may be that their deaths were in just retribution.”

  Æthelræd shook his head.

  “If that were true, someone would have claimed responsibility,” he said. “It always comes back to that. Blood feuds are celebrated. Men proclaim their victories and have scops make up songs to them. This was murder and we must find out why before anything else will make sense.”

  “Well, I hope we find the answer here,” Edgar said wearily. “I want to be home before autumn.”

  His uncle gave him a sharp look, realizing that Edgar didn’t mean Wedderlie, but Paris.

  Edgar didn’t notice. He was remembering the horse he had begun for James. If this wasn’t resolved soon, his son would be old enough for a real horse before it was finished. He wished he could do something at once that would bring all this to an end. His desire for revenge was definitely fading.

  When Solomon awoke, the air was still grey around him. He could barely mak
e out Adalisa’s silhouette as she knelt by Lufen’s box.

  “How is she?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

  “Still asleep, but breathing well,” she answered, with a catch in her own voice.

  “Adalisa …” he began.

  She came to him in a swift movement and kissed him deeply.

  “Don’t apologize,” she said. “And don’t fear that I’ll expect anything more of you. For twenty years I’ve wondered what it would be like to really make love, instead of simply perform my duty as a wife. Now I do, and I’m so grateful to you.”

  This wasn’t the first time a woman had told Solomon this. It was just the first time he believed that it was the truth. And the first time he cared.

  “I had no right,” he said.

  “None at all.” She almost laughed. “Neither had I. I’m probably mad to have given in to this, especially when I know you’re not what you pretend to be, but last night, it didn’t matter. And today … today it still doesn’t.”

  Solomon rose to one elbow.

  “What do you mean?”

  She sat up again.

  “You’re a Jew,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I suspected it before, but now, of course, I’m sure. At least that you were born one.”

  Solomon closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

  “I will die one, as well,” he said. “So, now that I’ve confirmed your worst fear, what are you going to do?”

  “Nothing.” Adalisa turned from him and felt the dog’s flank. “I think she’ll survive now. We should wake Robert and let him care for her.”

  “Nothing?” Solomon repeated.

  Adalisa turned to face him again. “I suppose I should feel defiled. I suppose I’ve just compounded the sin of adultery with something worse. But at the moment, I feel no guilt, no revulsion, only thankfulness. Does Edgar know about you?”

  Solomon nodded.

  “And he’s remained your friend?”

  “My best friend in the world, I think.”