Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  Unfortunately, that gave Waldeve time to reach Hexham.

  Robert was on the road, heading for the priory when he and Duncan galloped in, followed by a dozen of their henchmen. “If you’ve come to defend yourself, it’s too late!” he shouted at them. “We know everything!”

  Waldeve brought his horse to a sudden halt. He looked down at his son as if at a snake on the path.

  “The only way I defend myself is with a sword, boy,” he said. “And I’ll be a long time in Hell before you know everything. Where’s that unbryce brother of mine?”

  He spotted Æthelræd coming out of the inn.

  “What’s this flitere gibbering about?” he shouted.

  Æthelræd came within speaking distance.

  “About you, Brother,” he said. “Alfred has surrendered to us and is going to tell all he knows about your plans to destroy the family. And don’t bother to try to silence him. He’s safe within the church.”

  “What plans? Have you all gone mad?” Waldeve dismounted. “You.” He pointed at one of his men. “Take care of my horse.”

  Duncan joined him. Robert looked from one to the other. Waldeve seemed genuinely surprised at the accusation. It must have been Duncan all along, he thought. The intricacy of the planning was certainly more his style.

  “What do you think our father’s done to destroy the family?” Duncan asked. “Besides not drowning you at birth. And what’s Alfred got to do with it?”

  “You know quite well,” Robert said. “It wasn’t enough for you to make yourself the oldest, you had to try to get rid of me, as well. I’ll never forgive you for what happened to Lufen.”

  Duncan put a hand to Robert’s forehead.

  “No fever, so you can’t be delirious,” he said. “Therefore, I can only assume you’ve lost all reason.”

  Æthelræd interrupted Robert’s response.

  “This afternoon, after Tierce,” he said. “Come to the church. Prior Richard has agreed to witness Alfred’s confession and refer the case to the proper authorities.”

  Some of the conversation finally made sense to Waldeve.

  “If Alfred knows anything about what happened to my horses and my sons,” he said, “then the only proper authority is me and he won’t be able to hide behind the skirts of the monks for ever.”

  His hand went to the hilt of his sword.

  Robert was unconvinced. “Who outside of the family would know that I was the only one who worked in my vegetable garden? What kind of marauder attacks a castle and leaves the village undamaged? Think about it, Father. You should have been more clever.”

  Waldeve turned from him with a look of disgust.

  “Addled, completely,” he muttered. “Edana must have betrayed me. This one can’t be mine. All right, Æthelræd, how long before we’re allowed to hear Alfred’s condemnation of me? It should take him aback to have me there to cut out his lying tongue.”

  “Don’t even consider it, Brother,” Æthelræd said. “You know the penalties for breaching sanctuary. Alfred has reached deop friðsocne. He’s under the protection of God and Saint Wilfrid.”

  “They’re playing dice on the tomb of Saint Cuthbert at this very minute.” Waldeve sneered. “That great saint couldn’t even protect his own monks. What have I to fear?”

  “My wrath, Brother. Only mine.” Æthelræd smiled.

  Edgar woke to find Catherine next to him, James sucking peacefully at her breast. For a moment, he thought himself home again. Then he heard the shouting of English voices and remembered.

  Catherine opened one eye. “Just a few more minutes,” she whispered. “He’s almost done.”

  “I’m in no rush,” Edgar said. “Whatever is decided today won’t matter to me. I want nothing from Wedderlie or my kinfolk.”

  “We don’t need to abandon them utterly,” Catherine said. “Your uncle is welcome to visit us whenever he likes. I think Father would like him. And I’m getting rather fond of Robert. Of course, Margaret will be ours now, won’t she?”

  “I hope so,” he said. “In her condition, I can’t see that Father will protest. He never could bear infirmities. But what do you think your father will say if we bring another child into his household?”

  “We’re taking her into our household, Edgar,” Catherine said firmly. “She’s kin. Father will make no objection.”

  “Kin doesn’t seem to count for much in my family,” Edgar said. “I wish I could work up a rage against Alfred, but I can’t help thinking he had a good reason for whatever he did.”

  “I could feel more disposed to Alfred if I were sure he had nothing to do with Adalisa’s death,” Catherine said.

  “It still seems senseless to connive at the deaths of the family of one’s lord unless another lord were inciting them.” Edgar stroked James’s cheek, telling himself he would never give his son reason to hate him the way he did Waldeve. “What could they gain but their own destruction? And what good would come of my stepmother’s death?”

  “I don’t know,” Catherine answered.

  Edgar rolled closer to her. “Solomon seems more upset about her than you do.” He made the sentence a question.

  Catherine wanted to tell Edgar all she suspected, but she couldn’t. Adalisa had been his stepmother. How far would his tolerance stretch? And anyway, she had no proof. It was Solomon’s secret, not hers to share.

  “I think he is,” she told Edgar. “Adalisa helped him in his business dealings. They became friends. And I think he still feels guilty that he couldn’t save her.”

  “From what you say, there was nothing he could have done. I’ll tell him I don’t blame him,” Edgar promised. “I wish I could have seen this Lazarus you left at Lindisfarne. You aren’t thinking about adopting him, too, are you?”

  “The monks seem to think he would be happy with them and perhaps regain his speech,” Catherine said. “But I wish I knew who he really was and why your father chained him for so long.”

  “We can ask Father.” Edgar yawned. “Though I doubt he’ll answer. Tell me about this machine you saw on Holy Island.”

  “Oh, the windmill. That was what started me thinking about the villagers,” Catherine said.

  “Right.” Edgar was doubtful. “A house with sails stuck on a pole. I’d like to see such a machine outside of a scopes tale.”

  “I didn’t describe it well. I know you’d love it,” Catherine told him. “But the point is that the people of Wedderlie believe it can work. And they don’t want anyone else to know about it. Why? No, don’t interrupt. I’ll tell you. Because with a windmill they don’t need to take their grain to your father’s mill. They don’t have to pay the tithe. It’s one step toward being free of his yoke.”

  “But there are a hundred other duties,” Edgar argued. “Sac and soke, fees to marry, many more. At Wedderlie, the villagers are only one step above serfs. Some of them are serfs. They hardly own more than their own bodies.”

  “And the women not even that, if the faces of your father’s men are any indication,” Catherine said. “Would you tolerate that from your lord?”

  “Of course not!” Edgar said. “What do you think I am?”

  “I know what you are, carissime,” she said. “It’s what they are that I wonder about. You know how upset your friend John is about the situation here in England?”

  “Of course,” Edgar said. “But his family at Salisbury has been hurt by the wars.”

  “It’s not just personal,” Catherine said. “He feels that when the order at the top of society is unstable then the whole pattern is disrupted. There is no law in Britain now, not really. When that happens the common people may decide to be their own law.”

  “You’re talking anarchy!” Edgar was shocked.

  “I know,” she answered. “But that’s all I’ve seen since we’ve been here. It’s like the commune at Reims. The citizens never would have formed it if King Louis hadn’t wanted to collect the revenues from the empty bishopric. There was no bishop at the h
ead of the town, so the people were forced to rule themselves.”

  “My father was always there to rule!” Edgar said.

  “But how well?” Catherine asked. “If the ruler is corrupt and abusive, then he breaks faith with his people. It’s their obligation to overthrow a tyrant.”

  “John explained all of this to you?” Edgar said.

  “We had a lot of good conversations last winter, while you were carving wood,” she said. “He likes my soup.”

  “That’s all very nice, theoretically.” Edgar made a move to get out of bed. “But I doubt that Alfred has heard John’s ideas.”

  “No,” Catherine admitted, detaching her son and pulling a chainse over her head. “But he might have thought of them himself.”

  If Alfred and the other four men were daunted by the family ranged against them, they didn’t show it. He sat on Saint Wilfrid’s stone chair, the friðstol, next to the altar, and they sat on the floor on either side of him. His grandsons, Algar, the soldier, and Meldred, the monk, stood to one side.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Algar whispered to his cousin.

  “You’re not of their blood,” Meldred answered. “We weren’t sure where your loyalty lay.”

  “Idiots,” Algar muttered. “I’ll bear the retribution with the rest of you. You might have let me share the guilt.”

  Prior Richard entered and was seated on a folding stool. He signaled to Alfred that he could begin.

  “Be sure to tell me every word he says,” Catherine said to Edgar.

  Alfred took a deep breath.

  “First of all, I confess here that all blame for what has happened must be mine.”

  His friends started to protest, but he cut them off with a gesture.

  “The plan was mine,” Alfred continued. “If it failed, if deeds were done that I didn’t wish for, the men who did them were still following my orders. I will not have them punished.”

  “A man like you has no right to tell me who I’ll punish.” Waldeve sneered. “I’ll hang every damned neyf on my lands if I feel like it.”

  Prior Richard held up a hand to quiet him.

  “Perhaps you’ll feel differently when you hear the rest of his confession,” he said to Waldeve sternly. “I’ll only remind you one time that this is sacred space and I won’t tolerate violence in deeds or words within the church. Do you understand?”

  Waldeve nodded grudgingly.

  At that moment there was a clatter outside. Everyone turned toward the door as the porter ushered in two more people.

  Robert drew his breath in sharply. “Aelred!” he cried. “Thank God you’re here!”

  The other man was more hesitant to enter the church.

  “Solomon,” Catherine called. “Just this once. Please.”

  Reluctantly, he came over to where Edgar and Catherine stood. Aelred made his obeisance to Prior Richard, who greeted him warmly.

  “I’m glad to have you here to consult with on this, whatever the reason for your visit,” he told the monk. “Meldred, fetch another stool for Brother Aelred.”

  They settled in again. Aelred gave Robert an encouraging smile. The prior nodded to Alfred to begin again.

  The old man watched the expectant faces before him. Then he started speaking, clearly and slowly enough that Edgar could translate without missing anything.

  “Now that I’ve had time to think about it,” he said. “I know it started long ago, before any of you but Lord Waldeve and I were born. He seduced my sister, got her with child. My mother nearly killed her for it. She finally told my father that my sister wasn’t his, but the child of Waldeve’s father, that my sister’s child would be born of a double sin.”

  Waldeve chuckled. “Good breeding stock. Doubly blessed, I’d say.”

  No one else laughed. Prior Richard frowned at him and Waldeve subsided.

  Alfred continued. “My sister killed herself and the child. We buried her by the old standing stones and her ghost has been there ever since, along with the spirits of too many other victims of your anger or your lust.”

  He glared at Waldeve, who shrugged.

  “There are a thousand other tales of Lord Waldeve, his father and then his sons,” Alfred said. “They have abused the powers God gave them. They have raped and tortured for sport. They have abandoned us to starve in famine and drown in flood, never fulfilling their duty to protect those in their service.

  “My lord, your sons and grandson died while chasing human beings across the fields, whipping them until they ran and running them through when they fell, as if they were game. They had the mischance to chase their quarry to the woods where the fowlers were setting their nets. Hearing the pleas for help, they circled the hunters and cast their nets over them. Your sons were dragged from the horses. I believe it was blind fury at their actions or perhaps fear of their wrath, that made the peasants beat and hack them all to death.”

  Waldeve was shaking with a fury of his own.

  “I don’t believe it!” he shouted. “No baseborn filth could have murdered my sons. They were warriors!”

  Alfred ignored him. “When it was discovered who the men were, word was sent to me at Wedderlie. The peasants were terrified but I promised to protect them. I was the one who decided to cut off their right hands. My own pride wanted to tell the world that these men were no better than common thieves. We all worked to move the bodies. After that, it was as if the whole village had been awakened. People like us had rid themselves of the ones who were oppressing them. I thought we might be able to continue as they had begun.”

  “What about my horses?” Waldeve growled. “What harm had they done you?”

  Catherine was amazed when Edgar told her what he had said. Waldeve was being told of a plot to eradicate his entire family and he still dwelt on the insult done his horses?

  “Their tails and manes had become tangled in the nets,” Alfred said wearily. “It was the only way they could be released quickly. I sent them to Hexham so that they wouldn’t be traced back to us.”

  “Edgar,” Catherine said. “Ask him why they had to set fire to the keep. What harm could those of us left do them?”

  Edgar wanted to know this, himself.

  Alfred closed his eyes, and rubbed his forehead. “That’s where it all began to go wrong.” He sighed. “Too many of us were making decisions. We hoped that it would keep Waldeve from returning. It was never intended that the women should die, only to keep up the illusion that some strong adversary was trying to destroy you. But the fire spread more quickly than we expected. I lost more than anyone by it.”

  “Lazarus?” Edgar asked. “The boy in chains. Who is he?”

  “Ask him.” Alfred’s face hardened into a stone likeness of hatred for his lord.

  All eyes turned to Waldeve. “Lazarus? My prisoner? Who called him that? He’s scarcely able to rise from his ashes. So you think our bargain has ended because the boy died? I’ve only been saved the trouble of executing him at last.”

  He explained to the others. “I caught the boy in the forest, releasing the traps we had set for wolves and game. I could have killed him then. He ruined a month’s work. But he was Alfred’s youngest and so I brought him back.”

  “He was an innocent!” Alfred exploded. “One of God’s chosen. He couldn’t speak. He didn’t understand the rules of the forest; he only hated to see things in pain. And you made him the price for my betrayal of my own people.”

  Now his men reacted. Alfred faced them, his hands clasped in supplication.

  “I was to keep the rest of you in order, to report any signs of rebellion,” he confessed in shame. “He knew already how much his outrages were resented. I did it for my poor Kenelm. I did it because I was already old and had spent my life being afraid of these men. But no longer.”

  He turned back to Waldeve. By some trick of nature, the afternoon sun slit the long, thin windows sending down shafts of light that hit only Alfred and Waldeve, as if they had been lifted to another world
and were untouchable by mortals.

  Alfred drew himself up proudly.

  “I am a man,” he said. “Made in the image of God, just as you are. I’ll not die a traitor to my own, nor with the shame of my family unavenged.”

  “Oh, but you’ll die!” Waldeve shouted. “And then I will hang every member of your family, down to the babe born yesterday and leave them to rot in the trees, like worm-ridden fruit.”

  He drew his sword and raise it above his head.

  There was a moment of stunned immobility. Edgar recovered first.

  “Father, no!” he screamed. “Not in the church!”

  He threw himself forward, trying to stop Waldeve’s arm from finishing the arc. The heavy sword fell, passing through Edgar’s left wrist and slicing deep into Alfred’s neck.

  Edgar looked down at his empty arm. Blood gushed forth.

  “No!”

  The scream wasn’t his, but Catherine’s. She threw herself against the torrent, feeling the pulsing of Edgar’s life as it gushed against her stomach, soaking through her clothing and running down her legs.

  “No!” she screamed again. “Put it back! Somebody put it back!”

  Edgar clutched at her with his remaining hand. He was shrieking now in agony. She looked into his eyes, watching the light in them fade, willing him to stay alive.

  Someone tore off a sleeve and tied it around Edgar’s arm, reducing the flow. Someone else was shouting for fire. It was an instant before Catherine realized what it was for.

  “No, no, no,” she said. “Not that. They have to put it back on. He needs it. Don’t do this! Get it! Put his hand back!”

  Someone took her shoulders and moved her away, as others lowered Edgar to the floor and bound the stump of his arm.

  “Catherine.” Solomon’s voice was thick with tears. “Catherine, they can’t do that. It’s impossible. It has to be cauterized or he’ll die.”

  “No, no.” Catherine wept into his chest. She looked around. “Where are you taking him?”

  “To the infirmary, Catherine.” Solomon held her firmly.

  “Let me go!” she wrenched herself free. “I’m coming with him. He’s not going to die.”