Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  Instantly they were surrounded. A dozen people spoke at once, all asking the same question. “When will he be here to free us?”

  Edgar regarded the men, some of whom he’d studied with, some whom he’d learned from. They were all much thinner and their robes showed holes and ragged edges that would never have been allowed previously. William Cumin had sworn he had done nothing to harm the monks, but he had made sure that they only received enough supplies to sustain life.

  “William Saint-Barbe is even now at the church of Saint Giles,” he told them. “He leads an army to take back Saint Cuthbert’s shrine. He sent me to tell you to barricade the church from possible depredations and to pray constantly for their success.”

  “Nothing more?” Brother Lawrence asked. “We’re prepared to do anything necessary, short of spilling Christian blood.”

  “He would never expect that of you,” Robert said sternly. “But he doesn’t want your martyrdom, either. Only take courage and be assured that your trial will soon be over.”

  The reaction to these words was close to miraculous. The air, itself, seemed less oppressive and the faces of the men brightened with hope.

  “Now I beg you to loan me the rope-chair that you used to send messages down the cliff side last year,” Edgar said. “Do you still have it?”

  “Yes, but we haven’t been allowed out since it was discovered,” Brother Lawrence explained. “We’ll make the attempt if you wish, though.”

  “If you could create a disturbance that would allow us to leave, that would be enough,” Edgar told them. “My brother and uncle will lower me down and, with God’s help, will pull me up again. Give me any missives for the bishop or Archdeacon Rannulf and Prior Roger, who are with him, and I’ll try to return before dawn with their replies.”

  Brother Lawrence placed his hand on Edgar’s head in benediction. “My son, I hereby forgive you for leaving us, for I was very disappointed in you when you did.”

  “Thank you, Brother,” Edgar said. Inside he thought, I forgive you for making me listen to your inept imitations of Vergil. You’re not the ass I took you for.

  The riot inside the priory was just as effective as the brawl outside had been. The guards never made the connection between the two. All too soon for Edgar, he, Robert and Æthelræd were standing at the northern rim of the escarpment, looking down at a narrow path the fishermen had used in the calm days of King Henry.

  He looked over the side. His head was spinning. Part of him wanted to get as far away from the cliff as possible; the other part felt a great compulsion to step off into the air.

  “You don’t have to do anything,” Robert told him. “We’ll throw the rope over this tree limb and let it out slowly. Just close your eyes until you feel the ground beneath your feet. Will you have any trouble swimming the river?”

  “I’m afraid of height, not fish,” Edgar answered. “And the current is slow this time of year. Get on with it.”

  He would have liked to have kept his eyes closed, but Edgar soon discovered that he had to balance with both hands and feet to keep from being constantly thrown against the rock wall. He tried to focus only on that. The few times he forgot and looked down caused him to grip the rope with both hands and pray to make his stomach stay in place until the ordeal was over. Then he would be suddenly dropped another few feet and jerked still, which terror distracted him from nausea.

  When his feet did touch solid ground it was a moment before his knees would support him. He knew he’d have to repeat the process to get back up. He told himself it would be easier the next time.

  It was nearly dark when he reached Saint-Giles, but no one seemed to be settling down for bed. The place was surrounded by soldiers. He only was able to get by them because Catherine had been watching and shamelessly pushed them aside and threw herself upon him.

  “Beloved!” she wept. “I believed you had abandoned me to my fate, after all your sweet words. How could I tell my father you had broken faith?”

  She dragged him into the church grounds. The guards didn’t even challenge him, believing that he was about to receive more punishment than they might inflict.

  “What was that about?” he asked, after he had kissed her soundly.

  “The emissaries sent by the bishop to Cumin have either been beaten or driven off,” she explained. “The soldiers have orders to treat anyone coming from Durham in like manner. Why are you all wet?”

  “I swam the river,” he said absently. “You mean Cumin won’t even treat with the bishop?”

  “Apparently not,” she answered. “They’re preparing for battle.”

  “Attack that citadel? It can’t be done,” he said.

  “I agree but no one asked me,” Catherine said. “All I know is that it’s madness here and there’s not one kind soul in the whole place who will loan us a bed for the night.”

  “Oh, carissima!” Edgar moaned.

  “Exactly my feelings,” Catherine lamented. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Never mind,” he tried to convince the both of them. “We’ll have the rest of our lives. Well, then, I might as well try to tell someone in authority that I’ve told the monks to prepare for rescue. I only hope I wasn’t bringing false encouragement.”

  He left Catherine in her small space on the women’s side of the hospital. She settled gloomily to wait. She told herself that her disappointment was nothing compared to the horrors being done to people all around, but it didn’t cause her mood to lift.

  Edgar came back a few minutes later with Solomon and Samson and wearing a most peculiar expression.

  “Catherine,” he said, “it appears that Master Herbert, the physician, has been convinced to let us have his chamber tonight.”

  “What?” Catherine held her breath. She couldn’t bear to learn he was joking. “How can that be?”

  Samson shrugged. “It’s amazing what one can do with coin in this degenerate age.”

  “But we have no … oh, Samson. Thank you. We’ll repay you, I swear, with interest,” she promised.

  “Solomon and I have arranged that,” Samson said. “We do not practice usury between cousins. I only ask that, should there come a time when my people need help, you remember your debt.”

  “We shall,” Edgar said. “Catherine, get your things and James.”

  “Why don’t you leave him in the care of a woman here?” Solomon smirked. “We wouldn’t want him to keep you awake all night.”

  “He won’t be the cause of our wakefulness,” Edgar said.

  “I’ll not let us be separated again,” Catherine added.

  Master Herbert’s chamber was sumptuous. But delightful as freshly lavendered sheets and thick goosedown mattresses were, Edgar and Catherine only cared that they were alone at last.

  “I haven’t been able to wash as often as usual,” Catherine warned him as she removed her clothes.

  “Me neither,” Edgar said, as he struggled with his wet leather boots. “The only bath I’ve had for the past two weeks was in the Wear this afternoon. I’ll endure the smell if you can.”

  “Libenter.” Catherine stood before him, wearing only the ribands in her braids. She held out her arms.

  Edgar glanced at the box in which James lay, sucking his thumb. “He’ll sleep soon.” Catherine smiled. “What are you waiting for? I can see you’re ready.”

  “Overly so,” he answered, moving into her arms.

  A moment later they fell onto the bed with a vigor that caused the mattress to rise at either end, releasing a cloud of lavender seeds and feathers.

  Catherine knew that this had to be a foretaste of heaven.

  Nineteen

  Durham. Tuesday, 9 kalends September (August 24), 1143. Feast of Saint

  Bartholomew, apostle, who was flayed alive, thus making him the patron

  saint of tanners.

  Sainte Nicholas, godes druth

  tymbre us faire scone hus.

  At thi burth, at this bare

  Sainte N
icholas, bring us wel thare.

  Saint Nicholas, God’s beloved one

  build us a fine house soon.

  With thy birth, by thy direction

  Saint Nicholas bring us rightly there.

  —Hymn of Godric of Finchale

  “Do you think Edgar got back safely? There’s been no word for days.” Catherine had found Solomon and Samson standing at the wall overlooking the river. Across from and above them the castle loomed. It seemed to Catherine that the masonry itself scowled down in defiance. She was beginning to think of it as some sort of sleeping leviathan, with human beings trapped alive in its bowels.

  Solomon grinned at her. “He wasn’t walking too steadily when we met him that morning, but we saw him make it across the river just as the fog began to lift. If his brother and uncle were there to haul him up, he shouldn’t have had any trouble getting back in. Of course, he’s probably still recovering from the night. Was it fair to work him that hard, Cousin?”

  Catherine had no quarrel with anyone on this radiant day. The sky was clear and Edgar would soon be back. She felt wonderful. “Yes, I did,” she told Solomon smugly. “He was a great deal behind in his payments.”

  “Wanton woman!” Solomon laughed. “How far we’ve come from the convent!”

  “Not so far,” Catherine said. “Mother Heloise told me that if I were to marry I should devote myself to the task with all the energy I would have given to my devotions.”

  “In that case, your God has been deprived of a dedicated disciple.” Samson laughed a little hesitantly. It was never wise to make light of the Christians’ God.

  “‘We all serve in our own way,’” Catherine quoted. “It will be only a few days now, won’t it, until we can go home? The bishop’s men are packing. Cumin’s surrendered, hasn’t he?”

  Both men straightened, their easy demeanor changed at once.

  “What do you mean?” Solomon asked. “There’s been nothing out of Durham at all, as far as we know.”

  “Not that we’d be the first ones told. I’ll find out.” Samson hurried toward the bishop’s temporary quarters.

  Catherine felt all her joy evaporate.

  “They’re not preparing to move up to the town, after all, are they?” she said.

  Solomon looked worried. “I doubt it. There was a rumor yesterday that a huge number of men, both mounted and on foot, were only a few miles away. No one knew who they were serving. Now it’s obvious.”

  “Cumin has bought himself a fresh army, that’s what you’re saying!” Catherine’s face drained of color. “Oh, Saints Genevieve and Denys, can’t you protect us any more? Solomon, I thought we were finally safe. Where can we go now?”

  Solomon had no platitudes to give her.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “To venture on to the roads would be suicide. Who knows what we might get caught up in? We seem to have gone from a small family war into an enormous regional one and there’s one even larger tearing the rest of the land apart. I’m sorry, Catherine, I’m not used to caring for other people. Getting out of trouble with my own skin intact is about all I’m good for.”

  Catherine rubbed his head affectionately, the curls twining around her fingers.

  “I’m glad of that,” she said. “You must continue to do so, for I’d miss you dreadfully. Now, we should have a plan. Since you and I know so little about this country, we need to ask someone to help us.”

  “Samson speaks the language,” Solomon said. “But he doesn’t know Durham well.”

  “Actually, I was thinking of Edgar’s friend, the monk,” Catherine said. “He grew up around here. If there’s a place where we can find sanctuary, he would know.”

  Solomon grimaced. “If we go to him, then you’ll have to do the talking. I’m quite used to dealing with Benedictines, but Cistercians make me nervous.”

  Catherine promised him that she had no fear of White Monks and went off alone in search of Brother Aelred.

  Edgar, contrary to Solomon’s assumption, had been given no chance to rest up after his sleepless night. Æthelræd and Robert had managed to pull him up the cliff, greeting him with yawns and pointed humor.

  “The things you do in the service of Saint Cuthbert,” Robert said. “Did you tell the bishop about Alan of Richmond’s army?”

  “Yes, Brother, I did that first,” Edgar said. He had been relieved to find that it really was better coming up because the fog made it impossible to see how far down the river was, but he was still shaking.

  “Does he have the men to fight Cumin off?” Æthelræd asked.

  “I don’t know,” Edgar said. His teeth were chattering. “They didn’t invite me to their council. Could we go inside somewhere? I’m soaking wet and freezing.”

  He did have a few hours’ sleep, once he had drunk hot wine and found dry clothes, but those were the last for the next two days. When he awoke, he found that someone had informed Cumin that the canons had been able to communicate with William Saint-Barbe and after that, the hounds of Hell were set loose on the church of Saint Cuthbert.

  “The monks have barred and barricaded all the doors to the church,” Robert told him even before he had rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “I’m surprised the bells didn’t wake you.”

  Edgar could hear them now, a constant tolling, not calling men to their prayers but summoning them to defend their patrimony.

  “Cumin wouldn’t invade the church,” Edgar said.

  “Right now, the soldiers are just standing by to see that no one gets in or out,” Robert answered. “But they are only awaiting the order to break down the doors. It’s a good thing you didn’t try to get back into the cloister.”

  “Robert!” Edgar rubbed his forehead. “Remind me how all this happened to us. I was happily sitting by the window in Paris. Then you showed up and brought me and my family back to Scotland to avenge a murder. The usual kind of murder, nothing difficult. Just a little dispute between families. We’ve all been killing each other for generations. Right?”

  “I suppose,” Robert answered, not sure where this was leading.

  Edgar reached up and pulled his brother’s face down to his.

  “So,” he asked, “just when did I get pulled into Armageddon?”

  Robert shook himself loose and handed him his boots. “You’ll feel better when you’ve had some ale,” he said.

  Edgar didn’t. The day only got worse and the day after that was even more unpleasant. Cumin had spent the past three years in a battle of wills with the canons. He had bullied, cajoled, threatened and bribed them, but he knew that if he was ever to have real control of the see, he would need their support. Now he seemed to have given up on them entirely.

  Edgar thought of the friends he had inside. None of them had a weapon. They had survived all that time on faith and bloodymindedness alone.

  The next day Duncan and Waldeve and their men went on a raiding expedition. Edgar and Robert were not invited.

  “They’re safe at Saint-Giles,” Edgar said, trying to convince himself. “The bishop and his men are there.”

  “Who’s safe? Catherine?” Robert was sitting in the tavern with Lufen on his lap. They were sharing both meat and drink. Of the two, Lufen seemed the more alert. “Don’t worry, even if the hospital is taken, Father will recognize her.”

  They both thought about this. Edgar stood up.

  “I’m getting out of here,” he said.

  He rushed from the tavern and into a mass of soldiers, all rushing up the street and across the green toward the guards at the cathedral.

  “What’s going on?” he shouted to the man nearest him as he was carried forward on the wave.

  “We’re finally going to throw the monks out!” the soldier yelled back.

  “What?” Edgar was horrified. “But the church doors are barred.”

  “Who needs doors?” The soldier laughed.

  Edgar soon saw that he was right. Somehow he had thought that proper respect for the saints would have sto
pped the attackers, froze them in their tracks before they could do any damage. But the saints didn’t seem to be at home.

  The bell still tolled, as it had for the past few days, but as they drew closer, Edgar could also hear the chanting of the monks, interspersed with cries of fear and pain.

  “They’re unarmed and men of God!” he cried. “You can’t mean to kill them!”

  “Orders.” The man shrugged cheerfully as they were swept apart.

  “No,” Edgar whispered.

  “No.” Louder. “Saint Cuthbert, Saint Bede, where the hell are you?”

  “No!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

  Ever after Edgar was sure that the power of the saints had entered into him for mysterious reasons not his to dispute. How else could one explain his subsequent actions?

  He grabbed a pike from someone and followed the horde as they entered the church. Not through the doors, which remained solid, but through the beautiful windows. Edgar’s craftsman’s heart twinged at the sound as the glass shattered and the soldiers climbed in. He followed them.

  He couldn’t believe the scene. Saint Cuthbert’s sacred shrine was surrounded by monks, prostrate, imploring his help as soldiers ran toward them. Other monks tried to stand in the way of the invaders and were roughly pushed aside. One of the men drew his sword and caught a defiant monk under the chin.

  Edgar ran him through with the pike.

  The soldier fell, howling in pain and rage. Edgar let go the weapon and stared in astonishment at his own hands.

  “Gratias tibi ago, Egardus,” the monk said as he scurried off to join his brethren at the shrine.

  The soldier was still squealing, which led Edgar to realize two things. One, that he had managed to drive a pike through a man and yet not hit anything vital. Two, that this was the same man that he and Uncle Æthelræd had encountered their first day at Durham. He left him to his friends and hoped fervently that they wouldn’t meet again.

  The place was in chaos. The soldiers were taking delight in shattering everything they could, even breaking pieces off the carvings and chipping at the columns. The monks were dragged away from the shrine by their hands and feet, still praying. Edgar stood frozen with horror at such sacrilege.