Perhaps these thoughts directed her to search for divine counsel. Without noticing how, Catherine found herself at the chapel.
She paused at the door to take a candle from the basket on the floor and light it from the oil lamp. It was then that she heard the keening, a high wail that pierced the thick wood.
Someone else had sought refuge here. Catherine hesitated. A chill ran through her. What if it was a very old ancestor, bemoaning their impending doom?
Perhaps she shouldn’t disturb them.
“Shame on you!” said a voice in her mind. “That poor soul needs comfort. Go in and pray with whoever it is.”
Although it wasn’t her original intention, praying didn’t seem a bad idea. Catherine pushed the door open.
There, kneeling on the floor was a thin old woman. Her blond hair was shot through with silver and her skin lined. Her face was distorted by tears and blood.
Catherine stared in horror. In the woman’s hand was a long knife with a bone handle. The blade was still dripping blood. Before her lay a body. Catherine knew him instantly. It was the man who had chastised her this afternoon, her cousin Raimbaut, Seguin’s firstborn.
She stepped toward the woman with some intention of getting the knife out of her hand. As she did, the woman looked up at her. Catherine gasped. It was impossible. How had she become so old? And how had she come to this?
“Oh, sweet baby Jesus, Mother,” Catherine wept. “What have you done?”
Eleven
Boisvert, sometime after midnight. Sunday, pridie nones September(September 4) 1149. Trinity Sunday. Feast of Saint
Moses, lawgiver and prophet, 1585 years before Jesus Christ. 22
Elul 4909. Not a feast of Moses in the Jewish calendar.
Onc n’est nus clers, tant soit enlatinés
Qui sache dire se puis fu retornés,
Ne se il est ou vu ou trespassés.
Dieu en ait l’ame! S’il est mort, c’est pités.
There are no clerks, who may have much Latin
Who know to say if he then went back,
Nor if he is seen or come across.
God has his soul! If he is dead, then it is a great shame.
—Chevalier Ogier
Why was no one watching her?” Odilon demanded. “We all know she’s mad.”
He had somehow become the person in authority. Seguin and Elissent were too stunned by the murder of their son to take command. Aymon had taken one look at his brother’s body and gagged. He had managed to get out of the chapel before throwing up into the rushes. No one had seen him since.
“There was no need to guard her every minute,” Guillaume answered. “She’s never been dangerous to anyone but herself.”
“That’s right,” Agnes said. “The nuns say she’s very gentle.”
“I agree,” Margaret added. “All the time I spent with her, she was completely docile. No one could have known she’d become violent.”
“Of course not.” Catherine couldn’t believe what they were saying. “Because she didn’t. How can you even think our mother would kill someone?”
Odilon rounded on her. “You found her, yourself, holding the knife. Raimbaut’s body was still warm. What else should we think?”
“Any number of things!” Catherine shot back.
The problem was that she couldn’t come up with any. All her mind could hold was the image of her mother kneeling in all that blood.
They had all convened in a solar room and sent the servants away. Gargenaud had been put to bed protesting that he wanted to know what was going on; he was the lord here, after all. His silent wife, Briaud, followed after him uttering soothing promises.
Odilon sat in the high-backed chair. His brother, Father Ysore, stood next to him, nervously fumbling at the silver cross hanging from his neck. Guillaume, Marie, Agnes, Hermann, Catherine, Edgar, and Margaret had fitted themselves in as best they could on stools or leaning against the wall.
Catherine couldn’t stop the tears. They just appeared in her eyes and slid down her face. Her nose was running, too. Of course she had no handkerchief and she didn’t dare use the sleeve of Agnes’s silk bliaut as one.
“Here, use mine.” Edgar waved his left sleeve in front of her face. She quickly wiped her face and nose.
“Now, let’s work this through.” Odilon drummed his fingers angrily on the arm of the chair.
“This horrible murder proves that the curse is gaining power,” he announced. “No one has ever died within these walls. Not for hundreds of years. We can’t blame poor, deluded Madeleine for her crime. She is obviously under the influence of some evil force.”
Edgar had had enough.
“You can’t blame her, because she didn’t kill the man,” he said firmly.
“What are you talking about?” Odilon sneered. “She was found by your own wife.”
“Catherine saw her mother next to Raimbaut’s body,” Edgar said. “Holding a knife. That doesn’t mean Madeleine killed him.”
His calm common sense washed over Catherine like a salve. She gave one last sniff into Edgar’s sleeve and stood.
“He’s right,” she said. “Mother is half the size of Raimbaut. He was attacked from the front. The knife pierced his heart. How could she have had the strength to do that?”
“Satan can pour his power into the weakest of vessels,” Ysore objected. “And he can make them seem greater than they are. Raimbaut may have thought a wild beast or a monster was upon him.”
“Then why did he make no effort to fight back?” Catherine asked. “I saw him. His hands were uncut. His clothing unmarked except by his blood.”
“Perhaps it was a more enticing form then,” Odilon suggested. “That would speak to all your objections.”
Agnes had been sitting numbly, holding Hermann’s hand like a lifeline. Now she came to life.
“Wait,” she said. “Are you saying that Mother became a seductress and lured Raimbaut into the chapel to slaughter him? That’s preposterous. And do you then believe that she also opened that box of yours and stole whatever was inside it? How could she have even found it, or taken the key? Maybe you think that two demons infiltrated the castle? Perhaps an army of them, all shape-shifters.”
“Good for you, Agnes,” Catherine said. “Even under the influence of the Devil, I don’t see how Mother could have opened the boxes without being seen. And, if you say that it was sorcery, then there’s no reason that any of us couldn’t have been influenced as well. You could have done it yourself, Odilon, and not even know it.”
“Nonsense!” he roared. “It’s well known that Satan chooses the weakest among us, those who can’t resist his wiles. Of course it was Madeleine.”
There was something wrong with that logic. Catherine tried to reason out the flaw.
Edgar had been puzzling over something else. “Where did she get the knife? And where is it now?”
“I have it,” Guillaume said. “I wrapped it in my cloak and brought it with me. I didn’t want the children to find it.”
He looked around for a place to set it. Catherine stood and pushed the stool she had been sitting on to the center of the room. Guillaume laid the dark cloak on it and uncovered the knife.
It had a long blade, thin from many sharpenings. The bloodstains had mostly rubbed off onto the material and the metal shone as if newly polished. The handle was of horn, knobbly and scratched.
“Does anyone know who this belongs to?” Guillaume asked.
They all shook their heads.
“It looks like a skinning knife,” Odilon said. “But the blade is finer than any I’ve seen. No one here has one like it.”
“What are those odd marks?” Agnes asked. “They look almost like letters.”
“Let me see.” Catherine squatted next to the stool and peered at the knife handle.
“K. . .A. . .R,” she made out. “Then maybe mirg abun. It doesn’t make any sense to me.”
She turned it to the other side, but the blo
od was caked so thickly that she didn’t have the stomach to clean it enough to read.
“Some devil’s tongue, no doubt,” Ysore surmised. “Perhaps Hebrew.”
“No,” Margaret spoke up at once. “I’ve been studying Hebrew for some time and the letters aren’t right, nor are the words.”
Ysore shrugged. “Saracen then.”
“It’s odd,” Guillaume said, looking over Catherine’s shoulder. “The handle looks ancient and yet the blade must be newly made. It shows no rust at all. Who would put a fine knife like that onto a scarred old hilt?”
“Well, unless you’d rather believe that this was forged in hell and only appeared here tonight,” Edgar said. “I think our first duty is to find out who owns it and where they were when Raimbaut was killed.”
“That sounds very well,” Odilon said. “But who will admit to being the owner? And as for where, all of us at least were in the hall together. Everything you propose still leads back to poor Madeleine.”
“Shouldn’t we be trying to find out what was in the box?” Catherine asked. “Or do you already know? Wasn’t it supposed to be something that will break this curse?”
“Yes,” Odilon said. “That’s the story Seguin told me. No one has ever opened it, to my knowledge, and there’s nothing in the legend that even hints at what the contents were.”
“Is there a reason why anyone would want to steal it?” Edgar asked. “Wasn’t there a treasure somewhere in the story?”
“Yes, but Andonenn guards that.” Odilon dismissed the idea. “Richard’s legacy was to save us, not find a horde of gold.”
Edgar scanned the faces of the others. All of them showed agreement with Odilon’s statements.
“Then what should we do?” he asked them all.
No one answered. They all looked at each other, waiting for someone to take the lead. Even Odilon had no more to say. Finally, Agnes got up, pushing at a crick in her back.
“I intend to go to the nursery and check on my son,” she announced. “If he is safe and well, then I’m going to see what comfort I can give my frightened and confused mother. After that, I shall be in the chapel, praying for the soul of my cousin Raimbaut.”
She beckoned for Hermann to come with her. He rose at once, his normally cheerful face grave as Agnes explained in German the gist of the outcome of the meeting.
“Perhaps I should go with her,” Margaret said. “I’m really the only one Madeleine is familiar with. If you will permit me?”
She addressed this to Odilon, but her eyes flickered to Edgar and he gave a slight nod.
When she had gone, Marie gave a sigh that became a yawn. “I’ll leave it to the rest of you to uncover the hows and whys. Someone must see that your cousin’s body is prepared for burial. Father Ysore, can you do a funeral Mass? I have the impression that you haven’t had many opportunities.”
“I have a missal,” Ysore said. “I need to have the priest from the village to assist me. We should be able to arrange to say Mass in the church there just after Tierce.”
“Why not our own chapel?” Odilon asked.
“Because we have to clean and purify it after the spilling of blood.” Ysore spoke to his brother as to an ignorant child. “Everyone knows that.”
“I don’t think it’s good to go outside the castle,” Odilon said. “The knowledge that there has been a death here will unnerve the villagers and a murder even more so.”
“You can’t avoid that, cousin,” Guillaume spoke up. He, too, was fighting sleep. A late night, a heavy meal, and undiluted wine could not be overcome even by the shock of violent death.
“True,” Catherine agreed. “They’ll all know what happened as soon as the first cock crows. And we should not let our fear keep us from honoring Raimbaut with public worship. If so, then Satan does indeed have a hold upon us.”
Grudgingly, Odilon agreed.
Catherine and Edgar also stopped by the nursery on the way to bed. Catherine’s candle revealed Edana and James tucked snugly between Samonie and the wall, with Peter’s small cot next to them. Samonie stirred and lifted her head.
“There was a lot of noise a while ago,” she whispered. “Everything all right?”
“Nothing to fret about tonight,” Catherine said.
Samonie nodded, checked Peter’s covers, and fell back to sleep.
Catherine put her arm around Edgar’s waist as they found the passage back to their own bed.
“Thank you for defending Mother,” she whispered. “You do think she’s innocent, don’t you?”
“I think it’s far too convenient to be able to blame her,” Edgar answered. “In my experience, the Devil doesn’t need to be so obvious as to work through a frail woman.”
“Ofcourse.” Catherine stopped. “That’s what was wrong with Odilon’s theory. Mother’s body is weak and yes, her mind isn’t very hardy either, but that isn’t what one needs to fight Satan. It’s faith. Mother is the most devout person I’ve ever known. Even when I was a child, we had family prayers twice a day. We never passed a church or a shrine without making an offering. I can think of no way she could be tempted or tricked into aiding Lucifer.”
Edgar started her walking again while he examined her conclusion.
“I think you’re right,” he said at last. “Also, making us think that the murderer is someone too weak to defend herself is just the sort of clever nastiness that evil delights in.”
“So we’ll do what we can to catch the real villain, won’t we?” Catherine leaned against him, her startling blue eyes pleading.
“Not if it puts the rest of us in danger,” he answered, looking away to avoid temptation. “That means you and Margaret as well as the children.”
Catherine bit her lip. “I don’t think we are in physical danger, despite all warnings,” she said. “Not if Raimbaut was killed by a living person rather than a dead woman’s anathema. Raimbaut was the heir after Seguin. We are strangers here, and no threat. We have no claim on Boisvert.”
“But it doesn’t appear that Gargenaud is about to die anytime soon,” Edgar pointed out. “I’d have made sure of his death before risking such a blatant murder. And after him, Seguin still lives and may last as long as his grandfather has. You don’t think Aymon or Odilon killed Raimbaut to place themselves closer to inheriting?”
“I suppose not,” Catherine said. “You’re right. It would make more sense to get rid of Seguin or Grandfather himself. So why is Raimbaut dead?”
“That is what I intend to find out.” Edgar kissed her on the nose. “But not until I’ve slept. Agreed?”
“Willingly,” Catherine said. “Just help me out of these outlandish clothes and into my bed.”
“Willingly.”
The town of Blois had the usual array of churches and monasteries. Solomon was used to the sound of bells at all hours and had no trouble sleeping through it. So he was more than annoyed to be awakened early Sunday morning by something ringing directly under his window.
He wrapped the sheet around his waist and stumbled over to stick his head out.
“Stop that racket!” he shouted.
The ringing ceased at once. He started to go back to bed when his name was called.
“Solomon of Paris! You up there!” It was a woman’s voice, cracked with age.
Solomon went back and squinted at the bell ringer.
It was Berthe. She grinned up at him with blackened teeth.
“I need your help!” she called. “Pull on your brais and let me in. This isn’t news for the gossips to hear.”
Blearily, Solomon came downstairs, wondering where Menachem and his wife had got to. He opened the door and Berthe rushed in, carrying a large cowbell. She glanced at him in disappointment.
“I didn’t say, put on your tunic, too,” she lamented. “I like to see a nice solid, hairy chest on a man.”
“Sorry,” Solomon told her. “What is it you want from me?”
“What? Am I not a guest? Have you no drink to o
ffer?” She sat on a bench next to the cold hearth and waited.
Grumbling under his breath, Solomon went to the cask and drew cups of beer for both of them. He handed Berthe hers and watched while she drained it and held the cup out for more.
“Not until I know why you’re here,” he said. “How do you even know my name?”
“Mandon from the castle told me,” Berthe said. “She was here last night. Things are going bad up there. You need to get back to succor your kin.”
“I have no kin at a castle.” Solomon’s eyes narrowed.
“Of course you do.” Berthe waved the cup under his nose. “But that’s nothing to me. It’s them at Boisvert I care for. We’ve got to leave at once. You have a horse?”
“Yes, but. . .”
“Good. My bag is ready.” She set the bowl down on the bench with a reproachful sigh. “You get the beast and meet me just outside the gate on the road to Chartres.”
“Look, I’m not going to Boisvert.” Solomon tried to keep her from leaving. “I have business here and I’m not welcome there.”
Berthe pushed him and his protests aside.
“They don’t want me there, either,” she said. “And I’ve got herbs to tend to and chickens to feed. But that’s no matter. This is duty. Now, go get your things. I’ll be waiting.”
With that she was gone.
Solomon stared at the empty cup and his own, half full. He drank the beer and started back upstairs. The woman must be cracked. And yet, she knew his name and that he had family at Boisvert. Who had told her? Had Catherine or Edgar sent a message through one of the servants there? It didn’t seem likely. Blast it! He had been having such a nice dream.
He had finished dressing when Menachem and his wife returned.
“Where did you go so early?” Solomon asked them. “What’s wrong?”
The Witch in the Well: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 18
