The Witch in the Well: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  “I haven’t been to Boisvert since I was ten,” she said. “But you could have said something about this legend when you came back from there. Now, tell me why Grandfather should summon us there so abruptly and why we should obey?”

  Guillaume scratched at a flea in his beard that had survived the last dunking in the pond. He shifted on his cushion, shuffling his feet in the straw until Catherine wanted to upend him onto the floor. At last he made up his mind to speak.

  “You all know that our family goes back at least to the time of Charlemagne. Our ancestor Richard,” he began. They nodded.

  “Well, the line really begins with Richard’s grandmother, Andonenn, the lady of the spring.”

  “The what?” Catherine tensed. She sensed a myth coming.

  “Sneer if you like,” Guillaume said. “But that’s the tale. Richard’s grandfather, Jurvale, was a knight of the court of Charles the Hammer. He was strong and brave and of the line of Brutus. He had lost his property when the Saracens invaded France and didn’t regain them even when the infidel had been turned back at Poitiers. And yet, he wasn’t bitter.

  “Richard hoped that by serving his lord faithfully, he would be given land of his own to re-create his family fortune, but many years went by and none was offered to him.”

  Guillaume’s speech became more rhythmic, as if reciting a lesson.

  “It chanced that one day, while hunting in the forest with other friends of the court, Jurvale spotted a twelve-point buck. Everyone gave chase, but soon the others fell behind until only Jurvale was left following the deer deeper into the woods.”

  “Guillaume!” Catherine interrupted. “Everyone knows this story. The deer turns into a woman who offers to grant him a wish if he spares her life and. . .”

  “No, that’s not what comes next,” Guillaume snapped. “Anyway, just because something of the sort happened to others, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen to him, too.”

  “Catherine, let your brother tell the tale,” Edgar said.

  It took a moment for Guillaume to remember the thread. He wasn’t a man inclined to storytelling.

  “As a matter of fact, the deer got away.” He looked pointedly at Catherine. “But it was past sundown and Jurvale was in a country that was unknown to him. He tethered his horse to a great oak tree and made camp for the night, hoping that daylight would show him a way home.

  “When he woke the next morning, he found that someone had covered him with a soft blanket, as light as feathers. Although it was a kind gesture, Jurvale was afraid, even when he saw that his sword still hung in its belt from the branch above his head. Soon, he became aware of the sound of falling water. Drawing the sword, he advanced toward it.”

  “I thought this was the ancestress of the counts of Flanders,” Catherine interrupted again. “She was bathing naked in a pond, surrounded by swans.”

  “Swans?” Guillaume was baffled. “Why swans? They’re filthy birds with not a bit of tender meat to them.”

  “Catherine,” Edgar warned. “If you keep diverting him we’ll be here all night.”

  Catherine remembered where she really wanted to be at that moment, before all of the private spots in the field were taken.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Please finish.”

  “It seems you know it all already.” Guillaume crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling.

  Catherine sighed. “It was wrong of me to interrupt,” she told him. “Perhaps you’re right. The legends may be similar because they come from the same truth. I do want to learn what happened to Jurvale.”

  “Legend? I don’t know about its being a legend.” Guillaume wasn’t prepared to give in. “When I was a boy I saw a book where it was all written down. An old book.”

  He knew this would impress her. Catherine finally showed some interest.

  “Now,” Guillaume went on. “He did come upon a maiden at a spring but she was properly dressed and sitting next to it, not splashing about naked! The water gushed out of a crevice in a rocky hillside and formed a pool in a hollow among the trees.

  “The woman greeted him and told him her name was Andonenn and that she was the heiress of all the land fed by the spring. Our ancestor saw that she was beautiful and well bred and wished to make her his wife, but he knew that he was only a poor knight with nothing that he could give her for a dower. He admitted this to her, adding that he served a great lord who could find her a husband her family would approve of.”

  Guillaume stopped at this point, reached out and took his wife’s hand. He gave her a tender smile. Catherine looked away, blinking. Sometimes her brother surprised her.

  “The woman laughed at this and told Jurvale that she was now the lady of the land and could choose her own husband. At this, Jurvale sat down next to her and they talked all that day, stopping only when Andonenn sent for food and wine to be brought to them. By evening they had agreed to wed.

  “The next morning, Andonenn and her servants and men-at-arms led Jurvale back to the court of Lord Charles. Everyone there was astonished by her beauty and the fineness of her clothing and jewelry. Even her horses were arrayed in the finest Spanish leather, studded with gold and precious stones. . .”

  “Guillaume.” This time Edgar stopped the tale. “This is not a night for the complete version. I will take it as understood that she was very rich. Now, what about the well and the curse?”

  “Very well.” Guillaume tried to think how to condense the story. “So, after being married by the bishop and many days of feasting and tournaments, Jurvale and his wife returned to her country. He then swore an oath to Lord Charles that he would always be his true vassal.”

  He broke off again. “I can’t tell this shortly!” he complained. “It’s a long history. The jongleur took six nights to finish it. Let’s see. . .Jurvale and Andonenn built a fortress on the hill and dug a well that tapped into the spring where they had first met. Then the rocks grew to cover the source and now, no one knows where it is, only that the water still flows and the well is always full. Our ancestor had sons who grew up and went out to make their fortunes and then they had sons, but Jurvale and Andonenn still remained young and strong. In the time of Charlemagne, Richard was the eldest descendant and should have inherited, but Jurvale seemed to be immortal. There was gossip that Andonenn was a sorceress who kept them young through black arts. But that wasn’t true!”

  He glared at them, embarrassed, then looked down. The next part he seemed to be telling to his beard. They all had to lean closer to make it out. “She was one of the river people, a sort of fairy, I suppose. But a good Christian, not like that bitch who whelped the counts of Anjou. She was the guardian of the spring and would live as long as the water flowed.”

  “This was our great-great-whatever-grandmother?” Catherine asked. “Solomon will love this!”

  “Catherine! How can you even think of telling that man?” Guillaume sprang up. “This is our family’s story. It’s not for outsiders. Especially the next part. Not even the jongleurs know this. Swear you will tell no one not of our blood, Catherine, or I’ll say no more.”

  Catherine nodded. “I swear,” she said earnestly.

  Once again she was glad that her brother had never learned just what their father’s blood was and that Solomon shared it, too.

  “But if Andonenn is immortal, where is she now?” Marie asked.

  “That’s what worries me.” Guillaume sat down again. “It is said that she finally retreated back into her country under the hillside and after she left, Jurvale at last grew old and died. His great-grandson became lord and swore allegiance to Charlemagne’s son, Louis. But things become muddled here. Grandfather told me that Andonenn still watches out for her children, at least those who remain at Boisvert. The lords have always had unusually long lives. There has never been a time when a child was the sole heir. And the keep has never fallen, not to the Northmen nor the Angevins nor the counts of Champagne, although we became their vassals.”

  Guillau
me leaned back, as if satisfied. He poured a mug of beer and emptied it.

  The others waited. Guillaume filled the mug again.

  “That’s wonderful, a fine legacy,” Edgar said at last. “But what about the curse?”

  Guillaume shrugged, uncomfortable again. “It’s something to do with a treasure,”

  “Isn’t it always?” Catherine commented. “No, wait. I said nothing. Make an end to the story before I go mad with curiosity and the heat.”

  “They say,” her brother started again with reluctance. “They say that our ancestor, Richard, brought something from Charlemagne’s court at Aix-la-Chapelle, soon after the emperor died. It was something of great value and power. Charlemagne’s heir, Louis, wanted to destroy it. Andonenn agreed with her grandson that it must be kept safe and so she took it with her when she retreated into the hill. There’s some that say it was the reason she left.

  “Louis’s wife, the evil Judith, learned that the treasure had been taken far from her reach. Andonenn’s power was stronger than hers and Judith could not penetrate into the realm guarded by the spring. In her fury, she cursed all the descendants of Jur-vale and Andonenn. She prophesied that the moment the spring ceased to flow and Andonenn’s magic failed, all of them, all of us, would be struck down dead, wherever in the world we might try to hide.

  “And now the time has come,” he finished.

  As one, Edgar, Catherine, and Marie reached for the beer pitcher.

  “You can’t believe this,” Catherine said, after a moment of shocked reflection.

  But her voice shook as she thought of the tangle of cousins sleeping now in the room below them. Even if this fantastic story were true, she told herself, a three-hundred year-old curse couldn’t hurt them now. Of course not. It was all nonsense. But who was the woman in the woods? Could Andonenn have sent a messenger of her own to warn her children? And what had happened to the man her grandfather had sent? Why wasn’t he here to tell the tale?

  Guillaume leaned back in his chair, wiped his brow and looked around for his cup. Marie handed it to him.

  “When I lived at Boisvert,” he said, “I never thought to doubt the story. No one ever died within the castle. Not while I was there. No fatal accidents or illness. Grandfather said that the water made us invincible. It made me feel special, stronger. All of us boys, it made us train harder, maybe take more chances. We thought we couldn’t die.”

  “But many of your family have died,” Edgar objected. “Your uncle and your young brother to start with. And our little Heloisa.”

  “Andonenn’s power only reaches as far as the spring flows,” Guillaume reminded him. “Once we go beyond the water, she can’t protect us.”

  “If that were true, then why would any of you leave?” Edgar asked.

  Guillaume shrugged. “A man can’t hide behind his mother’s skirts all his life.”

  Edgar opened his mouth to reply. Then he nodded slowly.

  “So are we going to go?” Marie asked. She knew who would have to make all the arrangements if they did.

  Guillaume threw up his hands, forgetting the full cup.

  “I want to speak to this messenger,” he said. “Why hasn’t he arrived? I don’t see how all the surviving descendants of Andonenn can be found. There must be hundreds by now. And what good would it do us to go back if the well is empty? If the curse is true it seems a lot of bother to go all the way to Blois when we could die just as easily here.”

  Catherine started to laugh and then realized that he wasn’t joking.

  “Edgar, did the man tell you why Grandfather sent for us all?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “I had the feeling that he would rather have spoken to you,” he said. “Now that I think of it, he might well have been one of your cousins. He gave the impression that only family should hear what he had to say. It worries me that he didn’t reach you. He said the matter was grave.”

  “If the message is really from Boisvert then there is no question of ignoring it. We must save our mother.” Guillaume sighed. “And not let the treasure be destroyed.”

  After that there was nothing more to say.

  Edgar and Catherine didn’t go to the field that night. Without discussion, they retired to a bed in an alcove off the staircase within hearing range of the children’s room. Perhaps this story was no more than moonbeams but they both felt it was better to keep close to their own treasures.

  “You don’t seem too upset by the idea that I’m descended from a water fairy,” Catherine commented as Edgar helped her out of her tight sleeves along with the rest of her clothing.

  “The way you get sick at the sight of a boat, I find the idea difficult to believe,” he answered. “And it does seem that all the best families have similar stories. My uncle Aethelraed always insisted that our great-grandmother was a selchie.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A bit like a mermaid, only with seals.” Edgar lost his concentration as he carefully unrolled her stockings.

  “You mean a woman with flippers?”

  “No,” he laughed. “Seal in the water, human on land.”

  “Well, that makes more sense than a water sprite hiding in a rocky hill with some mysterious treasure. At least you’d get out more.” She closed her eyes. “Mmm. . . what are you doing?”

  “You know quite well,” he said.

  There was no more speculation that night.

  Edgar and Catherine slept through the bells for Mass the next morning but they couldn’t ignore the children bouncing on them shortly after.

  “Mama!” Edana pulled at the coverlet. “Papa! Why are you sleeping in your bodies?”

  “Uh, it was very hot last night.” Edgar was too pale to hide the blush as his daughter stared at him.

  “Have you washed your faces?” Catherine knew better than to bother with explanations that would only lead to more questions.

  She threw a loose chainse over her head as Edgar pulled the sheet farther up.

  “Come with me,” she told Edana and James. “I imagine your brother wants his breakfast.”

  Edgar dressed quickly after they had left and went down to the village to find Solomon.

  “What’s the gossip on this vanishing dead woman?” he asked when he found Solomon at the tavern poking gingerly at something that might be fish pie.

  “Good morning to you,” Solomon answered. “I’ll tell you, if you tell me what Lord Lance-up-his-ass is so upset about.”

  In a low voice, Edgar did. By the end of the story, Solomon realized that he had eaten the entire pie without tasting it, for which he was profoundly grateful.

  “And you say Guillaume seems to believe this?” he asked. “It sounds like a thousand other tales told from the corner by the fire on a winter night.”

  “I know,” Edgar said. “And yet, there is something at the root of it, I think. It can’t be by chance that this strange old woman should show up now. What do the villagers say about her?”

  “The usual,” Solomon shrugged. “That it’s a sign, probably of something bad. But no one knows why. Oddly enough, your brother-in-law is fairly popular among his people. Even with the bad crops these past few years, they trust him. He doesn’t overtax them and he keeps his men mostly in check. No one has accused him of bringing evil upon them. If anything, they’re sure this woman was some demon jealous of their loyalty to him.”

  “So no one has suggested that her body was stolen by someone at the castle?” Edgar asked. “They leap right to the idea that she wasn’t human?”

  “Well, the story of her emerging from a tree trunk to throw herself under Guillaume’s horse seems to have inclined them in that direction,” Solomon explained.

  “Makes sense,” Edgar admitted. “Perhaps you and I should ride out that way and see if we can find any trace of sorcery.”

  Solomon got up. “Or a big hollow tree right next to the path?”

  “Exactly.” Edgar smiled grimly. “I don’t want to figh
t Catherine over taking all of us to Boisvert. I can see that she’s half-afraid this tale might be true. I’ve got to prove to her that she has no reason to fear for our children.”

  “And if we can’t?” Solomon asked.

  Edgar sighed. “Then I suppose I’ll finally get to meet the immortal lord of Boisvert.”

  Only a few days ride from Villeteneuse and even closer to the castle of Boisvert, in the comital town of Blois, someone else was listening to the legend of the undying spring.

  “Does it work miracles?” she asked.

  “It’s supposed to keep people young forever,” the man answered. “Or at least alive. The current lord, Gargenaud, is reputed to be over a hundred now.”

  The woman tapped her gnarled hands impatiently on the table.

  “That’s not immortal,” she snapped. “Especially if he’s deaf and blind, with his fingers curled in on themselves, his back twisted like a willow leaf, and only three teeth left.”

  The man stared at the wall above the woman’s head.

  “I hear he recently married again,” he said.

  The woman snorted. “A Shulamite to warm his bed? That means nothing. Go find the truth of this.”

  “And if the well does bring youth?” the servant asked.

  “Fill me a flask of it,” she laughed. “Whether they let you or no.”

  He knelt in obedience.

  “What if the other rumors are also true, that the water is receding?”

  The woman gave a long, tired sigh.

  “Then,” she told him, “Lord Gargenaud is going to need my help. At last.”

  The woman sat hunched over the table for a few moments after the man had gone. Then, slowly, she raised her head, letting her shoulders drop and the bent back straighten. She rubbed her clawlike fingers, pulling at the swollen knuckles until the hands, too, were straight.

  When she stood, she no longer looked elderly, but like a woman still in her prime. As she muttered to herself, however, her voice creaked like that of one who had spent a long life shouting into the wind.

  “So, all this time, all this time,” she said in wonder. “Who’d have thought you’d pick a place so close by for your hidey-hole? Well, to give you your due, it worked. But no longer, my sister. It’s time to root you out and take you into the sunshine for your sins to be shown to all.”