“Your companion is growing stronger.” He greeted them. “He may be able to walk soon. He learns quickly and seems almost to understand my speech.”
“Thank you, Brother Hugh,” Catherine said. “He’s said nothing, himself, though?”
“Not a word,” the monk said. “But he does make noise when he’s startled so he’s not completely dumb. Perhaps he doesn’t want to speak, yet. He must have endured a long time in dark silence.”
“I’m afraid so,” Catherine said. “Where is he now?”
“I left him on the grass by the church,” Brother Hugh told her. “You can hear the brothers singing Tierce now. I should be with them, but I wanted to wait until you came back. He seems to like our attempts at music.”
“So do I,” Catherine said. She wished she could join them as well. The familiar psalms were comforting and reminded her of the days at the Paraclete. She had been eager to leave with Edgar and didn’t regret her choice. But sometimes she wished for the guidance of Mother Heloise and even of the termagant Sister Bertrada. The responsibility for the lives in her care was weighing on her almost as much as her worry for Edgar.
“I don’t wish to keep you from your devotions,” she said, “but do you know if anyone has arrived with a message for us?”
Brother Hugh shook his head. “But the tide is going out now. Perhaps word will come when the road is safe again.”
“Yes, of course.” Catherine could see that he was more concerned with missing singing the Office. He smiled an apology and hurried off.
Catherine left Willa to attend to James and went over to where Lazarus sat in the lee of the church, squinting at the light. She knelt down beside him.
“You need your hat.” She looked around for it, and Lazarus fussed at the cord as she put it on him.
“No, don’t take it off.” Catherine gently moved his hands away. “Your skin is too pale to stand the sun. You don’t want to get a fever from it, do you?”
She peered into his eyes for some sign that he understood. Was it her imagination or was there a flicker of comprehension there? It vanished so quickly that she wasn’t sure.
“Lazarus?” she said. “Do you know who you really are?”
There was no answer. He seemed to have become enraptured by the tiny white flowers in the grass. He lay full length to brush his cheek against them. Catherine picked one and gave it to him. He sat up, took it in his hand and folded his fingers over it. When he opened them, it was crushed and broken. He looked at it a moment, then closed his eyes and dropped it back onto the earth. Then he returned to his supine position and went back to caressing the growing plants.
Catherine gave up. Perhaps Brother Hugh could find a way into Lazarus’s lost soul. She hadn’t a clue how to reach him.
Willa brought the baby back to her.
“I only swaddled him from the waist down,” she said. “He seemed to want to move his hands about. And it’s warm enough if we stay out of the wind.”
Catherine took him gratefully. At least most of the time James was easy to decipher. Feed him, burp him, change him and cuddle him. The only mystery was how someone so perfect could have come from her. She looked down into Edgar’s grey eyes and felt tears start again.
That wouldn’t do; she sniffed them into submission. Edgar would find them and they would all go home together. Everything would be all right.
“And what of Margaret?” Her voices intruded. “And what will become of Lazarus?”
How did they always know when she was thinking selfishly? Catherine saw that Margaret was with Solomon again and Lazarus had gone to sleep, a daisy against his nose. For now, they were safe, because she and Solomon had brought them this far. No, she couldn’t abandon them now. Edgar wouldn’t want her to.
But she wished someone would send her a revelation, for she had no idea what to do next.
The ebbing of the tide brought no messenger. This was too much for Catherine. Everyone had told her that the journey to Durham was only two or three days, even on foot. The man had had time to reach Edgar and be back many times over. And there was nothing she could do but plead with the prior to send someone else.
Waiting only soured her disposition even more. She snapped at Willa and was rewarded by an increased feeling of guilt from the hurt in the girl’s eyes. James became fretful again and she was sure the frustration had soured her milk, as well.
“Why don’t you ask if you can use the priory library?” Solomon suggested when she had annoyed him thoroughly with her pacing. “Perhaps you can find a collection of sermons on bearing one’s trials with fortitude.”
Catherine didn’t think it likely that she would be permitted to rummage through the scrolls and codices but Solomon was insistent that she needed something to distract her. She asked Brother Hugh if the prior would see her.
In her borrowed clothing, she appeared more a kitchen maid than a scholar but the English prior had already noticed that she preferred speaking with him in Latin rather than endure his ungrammatical French.
“All the books are kept in a closet next to my chamber,” he explained. “And that would not be appropriate for you to visit. However” —he raised his hand to forestall her protest—“I can allow Brother Hugh to bring you something to read in the guest house.”
“That would be wonderful.” Catherine hadn’t realized how much she had missed the pleasure of the written word. “Do you have Bede’s history? I’ve only read his commentaries. I’d like to learn more about the past of this region. There’s so much I don’t know.”
The request pleased the Englishman a great deal, and to the relief of everyone, Catherine now spent her afternoons poring over the codex in search of anything that might make the actions of her husband’s family clearer to her.
Out of curiosity, Solomon used the empty time to watch the men in their struggles with the windmill. While he admitted that the idea was intriguing, the problems of construction seemed insurmountable. He supposed that a mill that could be set up anywhere the wind blew would be beneficial, if it could be made to work. But how could man expect to catch the wind and train it, as one did with weirs and dams on the rivers?
The builders didn’t share his concern. When the greased cloth of the sails tore, they patiently mended it. They hauled the heavy box and clumsy arms across the island every morning, and each time they had made small adjustments and improvements, stronger supports, a better fitting for the long pole that turned the mill on its post until the great sails began to spin, a slight angling of the sails themselves so that they turned even more rapidly.
“They really believe that this will be as useful as a water mill?” he asked Margaret one day as the sail had knocked one of the builders flat as they were positioning the box.
“They say so,” Margaret answered. “The people of Wedderlie seemed to think it would be even better.”
“But they have all the water power they need.” Solomon puzzled. “Why bother with something so clumsy and uncertain?”
Then his merchant’s mind woke to the situation and he realized both why the villagers might bother and why it had to be such a deep secret.
Mills were always the property of the lord. Not only did the peasants pay a tithe of every bag of flour ground, they were also at the mercy of a ruler who could close the mill or forbid them to use it.
A windmill that could be put up by anyone, anywhere, was as dangerous to the order of society as armed revolt.
Fifteen
Near Bishopton. Sunday, the kalends August (August 1), 1143. Feast of
Saint Ethelwold, builder, bishop, translator and fairly good cook.
Innocentius e.s.s.D. dilecto in Christo filio David illustri regii Scottorum
s.e.a.b. Nobilitatem tuam ignorare non credimus quod Dunelmensis ecclesia
pro invasions W. Cumin plurimum est gravata et tam in temporalibus quam
in spiritualibus imminuta, unde tam ipse quam complices sui
exommunicationis sunt vincula in
nodati … .
Innocent, bishop, servant of the servants of God, to his beloved son
in Christ, David, illustrious king of the Scots, salutations and
benedictions. We don’t believe your nobility to be unaware that the
church of Durham is oppressed by the many invasions of W. Cumin
and as diminished in the world as well as in the spirit that he and his
cohorts are overwhelmed by the chains of excommunication.
—letter of Pope Innocent I to
King David, c. spring 1143
“We’re never going to take that damned fortress,” Duncan complained to his father.”There are as many defenders outside as in. My own brothers would be conspiring with the traitors if our men weren’t watching them so closely.”
“Your brothers don’t worry me. Edgar is so sunk in grief he longs for death and Robert is only here so that I won’t take away the little land he has.” Waldeve chewed one end of his drooping mustache, a sure sign of perturbation. “Conyers has done a good piece of work,” he admitted. “A dozen men could hold Bishopton keep against an army. When we rebuild Wedderlie, I’ll see that the ditch around the motte is deeper, maybe even divert the river to fill it.”
“Better to plant brambles at the bottom,” Duncan suggested. “We can shoot invaders from above while they’re stuck in the thicket.”
He let Waldeve think on this for a moment, then added casually, “Do you think you can rebuild the keep before winter? It’s getting late in the year to start something like that.”
His father understood what he was getting at. “I’ll rebuild whenever I’ve a mind to and damn the weather. Don’t think you’ll be rid of your obligation to me for some time yet. I haven’t forgotten what’s been done to us. I’m not returning until I find the people responsible for all these atrocities against me and punish them with my own hands,” he said firmly. “Somewhere, someone is mocking me for my inability to protect what’s mine. No man may do that and live. The only way you can get me to leave Durham is by finding the bastards and setting me on them.”
Duncan was afraid of that. Having Waldeve around lessened his authority with his own men. How could he issue orders with any confidence if his father was at his shoulder, telling him loudly to do something else? Just because the stolen horses had been left at Hexham didn’t mean that the criminals were in the lands of Saint Cuthbert. He suspected that the old man was here mainly because there was fighting and he could hit someone who would hit back. Not having an identifiable opponent was driving him mad.
In spite of his annoyance, Duncan smiled.
“Have you considered that your enemy may not be human?” he asked. “Why else would no one at Wedderlie recognize those who burned the keep? It would also explain why nothing was taken from the bodies of my brothers and nephew, and even why the horses were returned shorn.”
Waldeve looked at him in disgust. “What do you think it is then? Elves and demons? Orcneas? Pagan nonsense!”
Duncan stood his ground. “Everyone knows that there are demons, Father. And half the men here are sick from elf-shot after camping in this misbegotten marsh. You can’t deny the evidence of your own eyes. I think it’s the only logical answer.”
Waldeve’s eyes narrowed in thought. “No, I don’t believe it. I’ve done nothing to anger the old gods. I left the pagan stones standing even when Bishop Rannulf told me to tear them down.” He paused. “I’ve had too many good nights out there at midsummer not to appreciate their use. Come to think of it, so did he, the hypocrite.”
“And what if someone has bound the old spirits to themselves in order to gain your destruction?” Duncan would not be put off. “Then you might never see the man responsible, only the results of his minions’ work.”
Waldeve appeared to waver. Then he shook his head.
“There’s human evil behind this,” he insisted. “And I’ll find the human hand responsible.”
He glared at Duncan defiantly, letting him know that not even his own family was above suspicion. Duncan knew that quite well. Distrust was the first thing he had learned from his father’s example. Keeping his rage in check was the second. The former had kept him alive and the latter had made him strong. More so than Waldeve would ever be. Duncan prayed every night that the next death in the family would be Waldeve’s. He considered it his primary filial duty.
If the old man would just die, then there would be nothing to stop him.
Edgar had gone back to Durham, leaving Robert to continue his fruitless vigil of the gate at Bishopton.
Each day the impact of his loss had grown stronger. He had tried to believe Æthelræd’s insistence that James and Margaret, at least, had survived, but as the days passed and no word came of them, he had given up even that slim hope.
After the first shock had worn off, leaving raw pain, he had thought of going back to Paris. Some part of him believed that he would find Catherine there, waiting for him to start work on their rooms in Hubert’s house. Then it came to him that this was impossible. He was forced to imagine facing his father-in-law with the news that all those who had been entrusted to his care were gone. And it wouldn’t be just Hubert. He would have to tell Samonie that Willa had died with Catherine and James. And the thought of confessing to Eliazar and Johanna that the nephew they had raised from a baby had been killed for a family that wasn’t even his in a feud he had no part of, that was too much. Solomon shouldn’t have died because Edgar hadn’t been there to protect his own. No, there was no longer a home for him in Paris. So where?
Edgar stood in the great cathedral, the solid stone pillars holding the ceiling so high above him that the tops were lost in the shadows. He leaned against one. The summer heat hadn’t penetrated the building, and the granite was cold enough to feel through his tunic. He wished it would freeze him entirely until there was no feeling left.
Now that Cumin was keeping the monks under strict guard, the place was empty between the Offices. Edgar was alone in the immense church surrounded by all the saints of Durham: Cuthbert who held all the land between the rivers Tyne and Tees in his protection. In the tomb with him was the head of the martyr king, Saint Oswald. There was the body of Ethilwald of Farne and another head, that of King Ceolwulf, to whom Bede dedicated his monumental Ecclesiastical History, and then there was the Venerable Bede, himself, brought to rest here at Durham with the other saints of the region by Aelred’s priestly grandfather, Alfred Westow.
Edgar had been taught all their life stories when he was a student here. Their courage and holiness were meant to be examples to the boys. But, try as he might, Edgar couldn’t remember one among them who had been asked to bear such a loss as his. What sort of comfort could they give?
And yet the stillness of the place and the sense of being removed from the outside world did ease Edgar’s grief a little. The proximity of the saints was oddly soothing and helped him to the resolution that had been growing in him since the horrible news had come.
As soon as the siege was lifted he would go to Aelred and ask him to speak to the abbot about letting him become a novice at Rievaulx. Perhaps it was cowardly to flee the world, but all he wanted now was to prepare himself to join those he loved.
At least, among the Cistercians his gift for carving wood and working in metal would be welcomed instead of scorned.
Edgar looked up at the diffuse light from the clerestory windows. He remembered the day he had given Catherine her ivory cross and admitted he had made it himself. Her reaction had been pride in his skill, the first time anyone had told him such a thing. She wore it constantly. He wondered where it was now.
“Everything I do and make from now on will be for you,” he vowed. “For the good of your soul and the remission of your sins.”
Although, at this point he had forgotten that she might have had any. The very human Catherine was in danger of becoming a saint in his memory.
At the same time that Edgar sat alone, wallowing in murky despair, an ex
hausted, wounded lay brother of Lindisfarne was climbing the hill to the bishop’s palace. He had been set upon by brigands and robbed of all he possessed, including his clothes. They had clouted him on the head and left him for the wolves but he had been rescued by a man gathering wood. The man had balanced poor Brother Clarence on top of his handcart and taken him to his hut, where the lay brother had slowly regained first his health and then his memory.
The importance of the message entrusted to him had been impressed on Brother Clarence, and so instead of returning to Holy Island, he had borrowed tunic and trews from the peasant as soon as he was fit to travel and set off to complete his mission.
The only official at the palace was Archdeacon Ralph, one of the few clerics who supported William Cumin. Clarence was unable to convince the guards to let him see anyone in authority. His clothes and bandaged head made them think he was some beggar or simpleton. They gave him bread and drove him away.
Still slightly addled from his injury, Brother Clarence didn’t know what to do next. He drifted toward the cathedral because it was familiar. He heard the first notes of Vespers beginning and followed them. Many times he had been allowed to leave his work and stand in the priory church to add his silent prayers to the melodic ones of the monks. Surely someone there would tell him what his next course of action should be.
The monks were all on the other side of the altar, where the laity wasn’t permitted to go. Brother Clarence composed himself to wait until the Office was over. There was only one other worshipper in the church, a poor exhausted pilgrim, by the looks of him. He had fallen asleep at the base of one of the columns, his head on his knees. Clarence thought he looked terribly uncomfortable.
“Goodman?” He touched the man’s shoulder. “May I help you?”
The man’s head flew up and Clarence realized that he hadn’t been asleep, but crying. He had interrupted someone’s private act of atonement.
Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 24
