Edgar took him by the shoulders. “Robert, did you see Catherine? What happened to the people at the keep?”
“I don’t know.” Robert shook Edgar off. He wiped his face with his sleeve. “I only had time to scoop up Lufen and run into the woods. I hid by the river until morning. I started toward Wedderlie, but I could tell from the smoke and the silence that nothing was left.”
“You didn’t even check to see if anyone was still alive?” Edgar was furious.
“I met Alfred on the road,” Robert told him. “He said there was no one left inside the bailey and the people from the village had taken refuge in the woods. He advised me to head here to find Father.”
Edgar looked at him in disgust. As Robert started to respond his eyes suddenly glazed and he swayed and would have fallen if Æthelræd hadn’t caught him.
“He’s exhausted,” Æthelræd said. “By the look of him, he’s walked all the way here. Don’t condemn him until you know the whole story.”
“He put that dog before his own kin.” Edgar had no pity for Robert’s travails.
“The dog loves him more,” Æthelræd said simply. “Here, help me get him up to the castle. You take Lufen.”
Between them they got Robert and his dog safely away from the scofflers in the street and up to their father’s tent outside the bishop’s castle.
They sat him down and Edgar got a dipper of water to splash in his face. Robert came to with an indignant sputter.
“You didn’t have to yell at me,” he protested. “If something could have been done to save them, Alfred and the other men would have done it. I’m sorry; I liked your wife. But he told me to save my own skin and it seemed a good idea.”
Edgar raised his fist, but Æthelræd stopped him.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Robert did the right thing. I tell you they were long gone by the morning.”
“Really.” Edgar was unconvinced. “And where did they go?”
Æthelræd squinted, as if he could see them in the distance, then shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s easier when there’s danger. Right now, they must be somewhere protected.”
He seemed so certain. Edgar wanted desperately to believe him. But that was why he couldn’t let himself do so. It was better just to accept the fact that his life was over along with Catherine’s and James’s.
Æthelræd turned his attention back to Robert.
“When did you last eat?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Robert didn’t seem interested. He fell to his knees beside the unconscious dog. “She didn’t have time to heal before we were attacked. I tried to be gentle, but the road was so hard. Is there nothing you can do for her?”
His misery was so consuming that even Edgar felt a twinge of sympathy. This increased when Robert looked up at them, struck by a sudden, hideous thought.
“Oh, God, I’m going to have to face Father now, aren’t I?”
Thirteen
The marsh flats on the coast of Northumbria. Saturday, 5 nones July (July
3), 1143. Feast of Saint Mustiola, Virgin, martyred by the Romans by
having a spindle hammered into her head.
Venienti igitur ad se episcopo, rex locum sedis episcopalis in insula
Lindisfarnensi ube ipse petebat, tribuit. Qui videlicet locus accedente ad
recedente reumate bis quotidie instar insulae maris circumluitur undis, bis
reundato littore contiguus terrae redditur … .
Therefore, when the bishop arrived, the king gave him the island of
Lindisfarne for his episcopal see, where he had requested it to be. At
this place the tide, ebbing and flowing twice a day, is like an island
surrounded by water, then twice restored to attachment with the
shore.
—The Venerable Bede,
Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum,
Liber III, Cap. III
James wouldn’t stop crying. He had kept them awake all night. Catherine was at her wit’s end. She had nursed him so often that her nipples were sore. Everyone but Lazarus had taken a turn walking with him, but nothing would stop the wailing. He even whimpered during his short naps.
“I know it’s because of the swaddling,” Catering moaned, “but I can’t change him here. There’s nothing left that’s clean and the wind would freeze him.”
“We’ll be at Lindisfarne soon,” Adalisa said. “The causeway to Holy Island is just over there.”
She pointed to an area at the bottom of the dune where they were standing. A road led into the sea, it seemed, covered in places with kelp and sand. Not far away there was a wooden lean-to, where a few other people had taken shelter.
“They’re waiting for the tide,” Adalisa explained. “It looks clear to me, but it must be coming in or they would have gone by now. That means we’ll have to wait here until the tide goes out again. But we should be able to cross before dark.”
Catherine was too exhausted to rejoice. She stumbled after the others as they went down to join those waiting for the water to recede enough for them to pass.
Solomon was worried about Catherine more than the baby. If she sickened, he wouldn’t survive long. She had never really recovered her strength after all the miscarriages that came before James was born. If anything happened to either of them, Edgar would kill him. Solomon silently cursed his friend for suddenly deciding to become a warrior. It must be something born with them, he decided. One would think that fifteen years a scholar would cure him of wanting to fight.
Solomon turned his attention back to the present. From the shore, he could make out the long shadow on the horizon that was the island. There was one high point at the northern end of it, but the rest didn’t seem that far above the water. Nevertheless, it had become a goal as desired as Jerusalem. For the first time in his life Solomon was eager to reach a place full of monks.
As they drew closer, they saw that the other travelers were two men. Their horses were tethered behind the lean-to provided for those waiting. They had built a fire from driftwood and were sitting before it, cloaked against the wind. The smell of the smoke reached out to the group as they came across the sand. With it was mixed another scent that made them all move more quickly. It was that of fish cooking.
“Do you think they’ll share?” Catherine asked Solomon.
“I’m not going to give them a choice,” he answered. He shaded his eyes to see the people better. The two men seated before the fire were motionless except for the wind ruffling their cloaks. Their faces were hidden by their hoods.
Something about the figures made him uneasy. They were probably pilgrims or even monks returning home, he told himself. But he unfastened the clasp holding his knife in place all the same. A poor defense if the men had swords, yet better than being unprepared.
The only person who noticed his movement was Willa. She was trudging behind Catherine, carrying the few things she had snatched as they ran from the fire. She had been trying hard to be strong. Catherine needed her. Her mother had impressed upon her many times how kind Catherine had been to them all. Not many people would take in a woman with three bastard children and give them all a home. She wanted to do all she could to repay the debt. But the past few days were telling on her. She was cold and aching and terrified. Knowing that Solomon felt there was danger ahead of them was too much. She began to cry, silently and steadily.
“Saint Genevieve,” she prayed, “just bring us back to Paris safely and I will honor you all the rest of my life.”
They were close enough now for the men to spot them. One pointed in their direction, but neither bothered to move. They both held sticks laden with spitted fish over the fire. The sight and smell was enough to overcome any hesitation Catherine may have felt about strangers.
Margaret had fallen behind the rest. She caught up to Willa and took her hand.
“I think I know them,” she said.
“Those men?” Willa asked, fear growing. �
�How could you?”
“No, not the men,” Margaret answered. “Not with the hoods over their faces. The horses. They look like two that father has.”
All horses looked alike to Willa. Different shades of the same animal as far as she could see. They were mostly large things in the road that she had to try to stay clear of as the nobility cantered by. So she didn’t place much credence in Margaret’s statement.
“Maybe these men got their horses in the same place,” she said. “Oh, hot food! Herring, it looks like. I’m so hungry!”
She pulled Margaret along to catch up to the rest.
Solomon motioned them back and went up to the men. Catherine gave him a look of alarm.
“God be with you, Goodmen,” he said. “I don’t suppose either of you speak French?”
One growled something back. Solomon looked over his shoulder to Adalisa, who came to stand next to him.
“They think you’re Norman,” she said.
“Hal beo thu!” she began. “We are pilgrims, like yourselves, bound for Holy Island. We have only cheese to share with you, but we will do so gladly, for a bit of your fish for the children.”
The men looked at each other. They nodded. Then one of them stood up.
“You’ve been long enough about it,” he said.
Adalisa’s eyes widened as she saw the face inside the hood. “What are you doing here? Why … oh, Sweet Jesus!”
She turned around quickly, grabbing the reins of the mule from Solomon. With a swift movement she set Margaret on its back, behind the startled Lazarus. She gave the reins to Catherine with one word.
“Run!”
Solomon had the knife out. He was relieved to see that the men didn’t have swords, only knives, smaller than his own and clubbed sticks. But there were still two of them. He backed away, moving the blade in slow curves in front of the men.
“Who sent you?” he demanded.
“Ask her,” the first man said with a humorless laugh. “She knows, don’t you, my lady?”
“You’re insane,” she answered. “You have no cause for this.”
“We have a hundred,” the second answered. “I’d tell you their names, but I don’t want you to live that long.”
He lunged toward her. Solomon stepped in his path and slashed at his knife hand. The man was too quick. He dodged sideways and the blade cut through his sleeve, grazing the skin. He was thrown off balance, and fell to the sand. Solomon advanced on him.
Adalisa cried out as the first man came toward her. She looked around frantically for something to fend him off with. As he rushed forward, she stooped and snatched up a length of seaweed, snapping it like a soggy whip at his face.
The edge of it caught him in the eye and he stopped, howling in pain. But not for long. He came at her again, rubbing his eye with his left hand, his knife still steady in the right.
Solomon’s opponent rolled into the fall and was up again at once, jabbing at Solomon as he regained his footing. Solomon heard Adalisa call. Desperation made him reckless. Ignoring the threat of the other’s knife, he thrust his directly at the man’s left side, turning it sideways in the hope of slipping between the ribs. He felt a burning along his own side at the same time as the man’s face changed to astonishment, then emptiness.
Solomon’s knife slid out as the body fell.
“Adalisa.” He turned around, looking for her.
She was running along the shore, not following the causeway, but leading her attacker away from the others. From far out he could hear Margaret’s shrill “Mama! Mama!” growing fainter as the mule carried her toward the island.
Solomon ran after Adalisa. She was ahead of the man but her skirts were tripping her up. As Solomon raced toward them, she slipped and went down. The man was on her at once. The knife glittered in the sun as he raised it.
“NO!” The sound was wrenched from Solomon’s dry throat.
He leapt at the man as the knife came up again, shimmering with red.
The crash threw both men down onto Adalisa. Solomon rolled, dragging the attacker off her. Without a second thought, he grabbed the man’s hair, pulled his head back and cut his throat.
Blood spurted over his arm and soaked into the wet sand. Solomon repressed the need to vomit. There wasn’t time.
“Adalisa,” he whispered.
She was still alive. One hand reached out to him.
“Margaret,” she gasped. “Tell Catherine. Take her home with you. Waldeve mustn’t …”
Solomon took off his tunic to staunch the flow of blood. He didn’t notice that it was already drenched with his own.
“I’ll get you to the monks,” he told her. “They’ll take care of you.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “I’m so cold.”
The blood was pouring out of her.
“You’re not going to die!” he ordered.
Her hand dropped over his as he tried to force her life back into her body.
“Solomon.” Her voice was almost too faint to make out. He bent close to her face.
“Kiss me good-bye.”
Without moving his hands from over the wound, Solomon pressed his lips against hers.
He felt the last spark of warmth inside her dissipate as her body went limp. Ever after Solomon believed that she had breathed her soul through him, leaving a part of it within his own. He never spoke of it to anyone, but the conviction stayed with him for the rest of his life.
He picked her up and started to follow the others across the causeway. The bodies lay behind him on the beach. As the wind shifted for a moment, he caught the smell of burning fish.
Catherine didn’t need Adalisa’s warning. She took the reins in her free hand and raced for safety, forcing the mule to trot after her. From behind, in between Margaret’s plaintive cries for her mother, she could hear Willa panting for breath.
“Willa, can you make it?” she called.
“Y-yes,” the answer came between gasps.
They were over halfway along the raised path before Catherine let them slow to a walk. She turned and saw the figures of the man grappling with Solomon and then Adalisa running. She bit her lip to keep from adding her tears to the others. There was nothing she could do. Her first duty was to the children.
“Holy Virgin Mother,” she whispered. “Protect them from evil.”
Then she looked down. A wave had splashed over her foot. The men had been waiting for them, not the tide. But now it was coming in.
They had no choice now but to try to reach the island as rapidly as possible.
“Willa, can you take James for a moment?” She tried to sound calm. Then she took Margaret off the mule.
“If you sit in front of Lazarus,” she explained to the child, “and Willa behind him, she can hold him steady and you can grip the halter. The mule is strong enough to carry all three of you. Willa, get on. You’re too tired to keep your footing on this slippery path. There, give James back to me.”
They set off again. Catherine could see now that each wave came up a little higher. There was a dip in the road just ahead that was already under the sea. The icy water hit her ankles and splashed up her legs as she went through it.
It was like a nightmare, where one tries to move but can’t and everything is distorted, including time. Catherine felt that they were the only beings left on earth and that soon the flood would engulf them. God was punishing the world again and they weren’t going to be allowed into the ark.
Willa sat on the mule, her arms around both Lazarus and Margaret. Her head was pressed against the man’s filthy tunic and she could hear his heart beating above the sound of the ocean. Like Catherine, she was too numb even to pray.
Margaret held on to the mule’s scraggly mane, repeating “Mama, Mama” over and over. She didn’t think she was going to a place of safety. The only refuge she had ever known was lying behind them on the beach.
As they neared the island, Catherine dared turn around to look again. She saw Solomon far behi
nd them wading through the waves, Adalisa in his arms.
Someone from the priory had seen them and there were people just ahead, waiting to welcome them. Seeing their struggle, two of the monks waded out to help them.
“My cousin,” Catherine said. “He’s behind us, carrying a woman. I think she’s been hurt. Please help them.”
“We’ll take the boat out, if they aren’t here before the water reaches knee level,” the monk told her. “We can’t before then. We run aground.”
He said something in English to the people on the shore. One boy ran off. By the time they were on solid land, a party of women were hurrying toward them, armed with woolen cloaks and a jug of spiced ale. One saw James in Catherine’s arms and cried out something. Then she turned and ran back toward the village.
“What did she say?” Catherine asked Margaret.
“Ic hæbbe cildclathas,” Margaret said through her tears.
“No, dear, I mean in French.” Catherine could see Margaret was spent. She prayed that Adalisa’s injury wasn’t bad. The poor child couldn’t take much more.
“Oh.” Margaret yawned and rubbed her eyes. “She said, ‘I have some swaddling.’”
It was too much. Catherine sank to the ground, sobbing.
“You’re going to be fine now,” she told James. “Just fine, my sweeting. The lady has nice, dry cildclathas for you.”
Someone took her by the shoulders and helped her up.
“Thanc the,” she said. “I don’t have much more English.”
The woman next to her just smiled and patted her cheek. Catherine decided that she had no more energy for distrust. She allowed herself, with the children and Lazarus, to be led over the barren field to the tiny cluster of houses nestled in the shelter of the priory. As they left, she looked around for the man who had spoken to her in her own language.
“My cousin?” she called to him.
“The boat is going for them. We’ll not let him drown.”
Catherine believed him. She was on Holy Island at last. Who here would lie to her?
Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 21
