Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  He looked down into emptiness. The outside staircase had vanished. The fire hadn’t reached this far. There were splintered bits of board at the bottom. He didn’t take time to wonder what had happened.

  “Is there a ladder?” he asked Adalisa.

  “In the larder, but we can’t reach it from here,” she was pale with terror but remained in control of herself.

  “Can we get to the chapel?”

  She looked around. “Yes, but then we’ll be trapped down there. It’s below the earth.”

  “This isn’t a time for secrets, Adalisa!” he shouted. “There’s no other way out.”

  Her immediate terror won over her fear of Waldeve.

  “Follow me,” she told him.

  She nearly bumped into Catherine as she turned and led them to the passage down to the chapel.

  The air became cooler as they descended but Catherine knew it was just a matter of time before the fire caught on the ceiling and burning chunks rained down on them. She shifted James in her arms and kissed him, murmuring wordless comfort.

  They reached the little chamber. It was pitch dark, but Adalisa felt her way along the wall to the stand by the altar where the priest washed the instruments of the Mass. She pulled at the stand until it swung open.

  “You’ll have to crawl,” she called to the others.

  “Go on, Margaret, after your mother.” Solomon put her down. “Willa, after Margaret, Catherine …”

  “I can carry James.” She knew where they were going. It was only a brief shuffle through to the storeroom, where they could hear the frightened yips of the prisoner.

  Adalisa was already mounting the ladder to the kitchen.

  “Wait!” Catherine stopped her. “We can’t leave him to die.”

  It was too dark to see faces, but there was despair in Adalisa’s voice. “We have to. I don’t have the key. It’s still upstairs.”

  “Go on!” Solomon’s voice came from behind them. “There isn’t time!”

  Adalisa pushed open the entrance to the kitchen. “There’s smoke here, but I don’t see any flames. We just need to reach the door to the courtyard.”

  “But we can’t …” Catherine began.

  The smoke poured into the storeroom. Then Catherine knew she could. It would be on her conscience forever, but saving her son was all that mattered. She followed Adalisa and the girls up the ladder, across the kitchen and out the door into clean air.

  The four of them huddled together at the edge of the motte. The bridge across was gone.

  “Where are the guards?” Catherine said.

  “I don’t know,” Adalisa answered. “They can’t have run away, leaving us to die!”

  Catherine looked around. “And where’s Solomon?”

  “He was right behind you, wasn’t he? Oh, Saint Janvier! Solomon, what have you done? No!”

  Adalisa started toward the door they had come through, but Catherine held her back.

  “He’s gone for the keys, hasn’t he?” she asked, hoping Adalisa would say no.

  “They’re on my belt, hanging from the bedframe,” Adalisa said. “He knows where they are. But there isn’t time!”

  Now, above the roar of the fire, Catherine heard the clash of metal against metal. In the bailey below them, a struggle was going on.

  “We’re being attacked,” she shouted to Adalisa. “We have to get away before the guards are overpowered. Solomon!”

  She screamed his name in a voice already hoarse from the smoke. Finally, there was a movement within the darkness of the doorway and Solomon emerged carrying something wrapped in a blanket.

  “Thank God,” Catherine whispered.

  “He can’t walk,” Solomon told them as he reached them. He looked over the ditch to the bailey, where five or six guards were fighting off what seemed to be a horde, some with swords, but more carrying pikes and torches.

  “Who is it?” Adalisa wailed. “Who is doing this to us!”

  “The men are fighting well,” Solomon decided. “But they’re far outnumbered. I’ve got you get you all out of here and someplace safe.”

  Someplace safe, Catherine thought. This was supposed to be someplace safe.

  “Can we make it down the other side to the river?” she asked Adalisa.

  “Perhaps.” Adalisa thought. “I don’t know if the girls can.”

  “Yes, I can, Mama,” Margaret piped up. “I know the way. I’ve done it lots of times.”

  “Margaret!” Adalisa realized that this wasn’t the time to scold. “Show us.”

  They looked like a scene from some damnation frieze, the five of them crisscrossing down the side of the motte, outlined and then hidden by the fires. The trail Margaret went down was suitable only for goats and sure-footed children. Catherine did a large part of it by sliding, grateful that the other noise masked James’s howls as he was swung abruptly in her arms. Solomon went down like a hunchbacked bear, the prisoner slung over his back.

  They reached the bottom at last. The battle sounds were more remote now. Whoever was attacking them hadn’t thought to set a guard at the rear of the steep motte. The river was across an open field. There was nothing for it but to pray and run.

  “Into the woods,” Solomon panted. “Don’t look back!”

  They splashed through the shallow water and into the shelter of the trees. Suddenly, Margaret halted.

  “We’re heading for the pagan stones,” she wailed. “The ghosts will devour us there.”

  They stared at her. She had been so calm up to now. She clung to Adalisa in terror, tears streaming.

  “We don’t have to go that way,” Adalisa told them. “We should be heading for the coast and then south. If Robert has escaped this, there’s one place he’ll go to look for us.”

  Margaret looked up. “Saint Cuddy’s?”

  “Yes, my love.” Adalisa wiped the child’s face. “We should try to reach Holy Island.”

  Catherine didn’t know what or where it was, but the name itself was a refuge. She wondered how long it would take for a party such as theirs, barefoot, with no provisions, slowed by children and a man who could neither walk nor speak, to come to this sanctuary. But it was a beacon to follow. She wrapped James more securely in his blankets and prepared to set out.

  The town of Durham is built on a rocky peninsula jutting into the river Wear. The cathedral and the castle were intended from the beginning to withstand attack. The custodians of the relics of Saint Cuthbert had been driven across the country by Danish invaders and wanted never to be forced to move again. The land for miles around had put itself under the protection of the saint and the bishop had become the lord of the county.

  It was late in the morning when Edgar and Æthelræd reached the southwest gate. Unlike Urric and Swein, who had arrived on horseback fully armed, they were dressed no better than the farmers around them and came on foot. By preference, Æthelræd still wore only his Scots skirt wrapped around his waist. He had been coerced into putting a short tunic on, as well, but he complained that it itched and told Edgar loudly that he’d be glad when this was all over and he could run naked again.

  They didn’t seem to be a threat to anyone and were admitted within the walls without incident.

  Edgar knew the way up to the castle well. He had climbed it often enough as a boy. But as they passed through the town, he was horrified at the changes made during the three years that William Cumin had been in control. Houses had been destroyed and left in ruins. The shops were mostly boarded up. Stones had been pried from the main road leaving holes that made riding impossible. What few people they saw in the streets were clearly in a rush to complete their errands and get back home. No children played in the common field at the base of the escarpment. The only people who seemed at home were the soldiers.

  One of them approached Edgar and his uncle.

  “You there!” he said, in a way that made both men stop and turn around slowly, not with fear, but annoyance.

  Æthelræd smile
d in amusement.

  “We are indeed here,” he told the soldier. “And who might you be?”

  The man paused, confused. He wasn’t used to being addressed in this way by peasants.

  “That’s no concern of yours,” he blustered finally. “What do you think you’re doing, wandering about the city?”

  “We’re not wandering,” Edgar explained. “We’re heading for the bishop’s castle.”

  The man gave a snort. “And what business would you be having with his lordship, the bishop?”

  Æthelræd was beginning to enjoy himself.

  “I don’t want to see the bishop,” he stated. “I’m looking for my brother. Have you seen him?”

  The soldier looked him up and down with contempt. “I’ve seen nothing that looks like you,” he said. “Not since we chased the Gallowegians back over the border at the Battle of the Standard.”

  Æthelræd nodded. “I was proud to stand with them,” he said mildly. “My brother was in the rear somewhere, with the king. We were in the front ranks.”

  Edgar tugged at him. “Uncle, this could take all day.”

  “Listen to the boy, ‘Uncle’,” the soldier sneered. “And be on your way. No, not that way,” he added as they set back up the hill. “The way you came.”

  He drew his sword. Æthelræd looked at it as if he’d never seen one before. Then he shook his head sadly and, in one movement, unwrapped his skirt and spun it around the soldier’s arms, pinning them to his sides and causing him to drop the sword. Edgar picked it up.

  “Uncle,” he said. “You’re naked from the waist down.”

  “Try to keep the women off me until I’ve dealt with this.” Æthelræd grinned. “Now, my boy. I’m not going to kill you just because you’re insolent and don’t know how to speak nicely to your betters. I’m going to kill you because you mocked the Gallowegians.”

  The man glared at him and began to shout for help.

  “Uncle,” Edgar said wearily, “there are easier ways of finding my father.”

  “This one is the most fun.” Æthelræd twisted the cloth more tightly.

  There was the sound of boots on the cobblestones as the soldier’s cries were answered.

  “Æthelræd!” A familiar voice rang out. “Cover your ugly ass!”

  Æthelræd released the soldier and tucked the length of cloth back into his belt.

  “I hope the man isn’t one of ours,” he said. “I’d have drowned a runt like this at birth.”

  Leaving the sputtering man without a backward glance, Æthelræd went to greet Waldeve. Edgar followed, still carrying the sword.

  “Have you found the bastards?” was Waldeve’s greeting.

  “Hello, Father,” Edgar answered. “No, Aelred had heard nothing that would help us. Have you found any answers here?”

  Waldeve stood uphill from Edgar, making him feel smaller and younger than he was. His father was flanked by men-at-arms, each staring blankly into God-knew-what private dream. The sun was almost overhead and light penetrated every corner of the narrow street. But it seemed to Edgar that his father stood in shadow, his face a blur.

  Waldeve’s answer was short. “Just more questions. Come on, both of you. Enough playing, Æthelræd.”

  It seemed there would be no more explanation until they reached the castle. Edgar and Æthelræd followed Waldeve, who had turned and started back up without further conversation. Behind them they could hear the profanities of the embarrassed soldier.

  “We’ve made an enemy,” Edgar told his uncle.

  Æthelræd shrugged. “A man like that, I wouldn’t want to call me friend.”

  When they reached the top of the escarpment, Edgar nearly cried out in dismay. The changes to the town below were nothing to that in the space between the bishop’s castle and the cathedral. What had been a greensward was now covered with tents. The entrance to the church had been blocked and was guarded by several men. Refuse pits had been dug on one side and the stench was overwhelming.

  “Saint Ethelwold’s venomous wine!” Æthelræd exclaimed. “What have those men been eating?”

  Waldeve spoke without turning around. “The bishop has ordered the burial of all those who have died since he was excommunicated. The canons have refused to do it, or to celebrate the Holy Office, as long as he is under interdict.”

  Edgar tried to imagine Brother Lawrence defying armed men in this fashion. Others, yes. Many of the boys he had studied with who had stayed to join the canons were from families of warriors, as he was. They would find it in many ways easier to stand firm against the usurper than to submit to him.

  “But, Father,” Edgar took long strides to catch up. “William of Saint-Barbe was consecrated at Winchester three days ago. There is no way Cumin can consider himself the rightful holder of the see.”

  Waldeve stopped and spun around. “He’s living in the bishop’s castle, sitting on the bishop’s throne and marking his letters with the chapter seal. He’s collecting the tithes of Durham. And he’s sharing them with his followers. That makes him the bishop.”

  They were standing on level ground, now, eye to eye, and Edgar realized with a start that he was now taller than his father.

  “And are you one of this man’s followers?” he asked.

  “Hardly.” Waldeve sneered. “I’m one of his leaders.”

  The eyes Edgar stared into were grey, like his own, like James’s. But the man who looked out of them had no kinship to him.

  “You have allied yourself with a man who has defied both the Pope and the holy saints?” Edgar said in disgust. “Perhaps my brothers were struck down in devine retribution.”

  Waldeve gave an involuntary shudder.

  “The Pope is in Rome and only knows what the minions of the archbishop and the legate tell him,” he answered. “And if Saint Cuthbert disapproved of William Cumin, then why hasn’t he smote him with lightning by now? Maybe the saint prefers the new order.”

  “Heaven is more subtle than that,” Edgar told him.

  “It was living men who killed my sons and grandson,” Waldeve answered firmly. “Men with evil and hate in their hearts. Don’t try to confuse me with your cleric’s logic.”

  “Very well,” Edgar conceded because he was sure that, in this at least, his father was right. But there was retribution at work here nonetheless. Which of Waldeve’s sins were coming home to roost? He followed glumly as he and Æthelræd were led to the bishop’s castle.

  “You’ll have to sleep in the hall with the knights,” Waldeve told them. “It’s either that or share a tent with the soldiers.”

  “Where is Duncan?” Edgar wanted to know.

  “He’s patrolling the walls,” Waldeve said. “He’ll be back this evening.”

  “And now that I’m here,” Edgar asked. “What do you intend for me to do, spout some Latin?”

  Waldeve’s look grew crafty.

  “Maybe, or write some for me. I’ll tell you when the time comes.”

  He left Edgar and Æthelræd to settle their packs among the others and to find a place to wash.

  “It would be just our luck to roll out our beds next to the man you embarrassed on the way up here,” Edgar commented.

  “Well, he’s seen what I have to offer.” Æthelræd chuckled. “Maybe he’ll decide to make friends.”

  “I’m finding a place next to the wall,” Edgar decided. “What do you think my father is plotting?”

  “No good, as usual,” Æthelræd said. “But for now I’m only concerned about one thing. Where’s the nearest alehouse?”

  “There used to be one built on the other side of the cloister wall,” Edgar said.

  “Take me there at once,” Æthelræd begged. “I’ve a thirst from the road that’s overpowering me. We can speculate on your father’s wickedness just as well there.”

  Edgar showed him the way, but he wasn’t thinking of his father at all. The only thing on his mind was Catherine. How was she? Was James well? He sighed. And how l
ong before they could all be together again?

  In her confusion and terror, Catherine had planned no more than the next step, wanting only to put as much distance as she could between herself and the men with swords and torches. But once she’d had time to collect her thoughts, she realized that they couldn’t go far without help and rest.

  They had found a hut in the woods, made and abandoned by some charcoal burner. It was far enough away that they couldn’t hear the shouting anymore, but Catherine feared it was still close enough for anyone who had seen their escape to find them. Still, they were all exhausted. Catherine’s feet were bruised and cut and she feared Willa’s were the same.

  Solomon set down his burden. The prisoner sat in the folds of the blanket, shivering and staring around him with wide, wild eyes.

  “Who is he?” he asked Adalisa.

  “I don’t know his name,” she answered. Her face was hidden from him as she knelt by Margaret and examined the cuts on the child’s feet.

  “How long has he been down in that hole?” Solomon tried to keep his anger at bay, but he had carried this creature for over a mile. The man had made small sounds of terror the whole time. He was lighter than Margaret and his bones had poked in Solomon’s back like sharp sticks.

  Adalisa leaned back on her heels and closed her eyes. “Almost ten years,” she admitted. “It was just after Margaret was born. Waldeve brought him home, tied over a sumpter horse. He put the shackles on himself, and forbade anyone to come near him. I was still confined to my room, but I could hear the screaming, the pleading. It seemed to go on for days.”

  “And you never asked who he was or why he was being treated so?” Solomon’s voice showed his disbelief.

  “I tried to find out from Urric,” Adalisa said. “But he was under orders to say nothing. Once, a few months later, I went down to the storeroom and tried to speak with the boy; he must have been about twelve, then. But he only whimpered at me. I was discovered there and Waldeve beat me hard enough that I didn’t try again.”