The Witch in the Well: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  “You are a worthy heir,” Seguin beamed. “I’m proud of you, son.”

  Marie and Elissent exchanged a glance. If they could manage it, Aymon would find himself unable to stand for at least five more days.

  Once her body had wrung out her tears, Catherine found that all feeling seemed to have left her. She couldn’t make herself understand that her mother was dead. Instead of pain, she had nothing inside but a great hollowness where sorrow should be. How could she be so callous? What kind of unnatural child was she?

  Instead, Margaret was the one she grieved over. The poor girl kept herself away from the family as much as she could. She spent the night in the chapel, praying for forgiveness. She refused to eat. No number of assurances that no one blamed her could reduce her guilt.

  Catherine was horrified to realize that, in some part, she was angry with Madeleine for dragging Margaret into the tragedy of her death.

  She was more than angry with Berthe. All the woman’s mysterious allusions and promises of help were as much a fable as Andonenn. She was either mad or evil, or both. No wonder she hadn’t returned.

  Gargenaud had been told of his daughter’s drowning. He sent word that he would remain in his room that night. Seguin had delivered the news and remarked to his wife that the old man was prostrate, but not with grief.

  Catherine heard of this, of course. She, Agnes, and Guillaume were the only ones who mourned Madeleine. To everyone else her death was an inconvenience, a sign of coming disaster or a very thoughtless act of water pollution.

  “Edgar,” Catherine said, when he came up to the room to get his straw hat. “I am ashamed to be related to these people. I hereby vow that I shall never say a word against your family again.”

  “Why not?” Edgar asked. “My family is dreadful, with one or two exceptions, like Margaret. And these people do have their good points. I rather like your cousin Seguin. Odilon and his priest brother, I could survive without. Neither has done a thing to help us prepare to defend the keep. I hear that Odilon has been sharpening his sword and checking his mail for broken links, all the while bragging about what he intends to do. But he hasn’t offered to lead a sortie. And that Ysore hasn’t even said a Mass for the soul of your mother.”

  He found the hat and put it on. Catherine noticed that his nose and the back of his neck were already reddening. She gave him a towel to tuck under the crown and hang down. But nothing would really protect Edgar’s fair skin from the summer sun.

  “There’s smoke rising from the forest,” he said quietly as he left. “By tomorrow we’ll know just how strong the walls of Boisvert are.”

  Catherine was so drained that it was hours before she realized what he meant. She had forgotten all about the army coming to besiege them.

  On his way out, Edgar stopped by Aymon’s bed.

  “It’s good to see you in the land of the living,” he said.

  “Thanks to you and Brehier.” Aymon smiled. “I don’t know what I was thinking of, to wander off like that with a murderer on the loose.”

  “You were overwhelmed by grief and not in your right reason,” Edgar consoled him. “Aymon, we know about your secret tunnel. Brehier and I found the entrance in the forest not far from where we found you. But we weren’t able to trace it back to the keep. How does one reach it from the inside?”

  Aymon’s face was blank.

  “Secret tunnel?” he said. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Aymon.” Edgar tried to keep his patience. “It’s not ten paces from the tree where you tie your horse. This is not the time to guard a childish need for secrecy. The safety of all here depends on blocking any way in. If Olivier’s men find the entrance, they can creep in and kill us all in our beds.”

  “That would be horrible,” Aymon agreed. “But I can’t help. I know of no such tunnel. I know of no such passage from the keep. Are you sure you didn’t just find some old pagan cave? There are a few around here. I sheltered in one once when caught out by nightfall. I’ll never do that again. I heard moans and cries all night from the damned souls who worshipped there.”

  “No.” Edgar was losing patience. “It was a passage just like the ones under the castle. I’d go back and search it again if there weren’t an army in the way.”

  “I’ve no idea what it was.” Aymon yawned. “Sorry. Those women worried so much that I wouldn’t wake up and now they keep giving me sleeping draughts.”

  He closed his eyes.

  After a moment, Edgar gave up.

  It made no sense. Aymon must have known about the tunnel. If not, then who had told the thieves that it was the trail to a treasure? The prisoner was talking readily enough, but no amount of persuasion had convinced him to name the one who had sent them to Boisvert. Edgar was inclined to believe that he didn’t know.

  As if aware that cheerful sunlight was inappropriate, dark clouds began to blow from the west. Seguin’s only comment was to ask Edgar if rain would affect the tension of the ropes of his trebuchet.

  It seemed to everyone else that Heaven was commenting on the battle to come. If only they knew what side it disapproved of.

  Not even the children slept well that night. Peter fretted so that Catherine took him out onto the castle wall where a line of people stood silently as a cool breeze stung their eyes.

  The fields below were dotted with flickering campfires stretching almost to the forest. The wind brought snatches of sound: the shouts of men and the neighing of horses, hammer blows as tents were set up, clanking metal.

  Catherine found Edgar and Margaret.

  “How many are out there?” she asked them.

  “Hundreds, I’d say.” Edgar was trying to count the points of light. “I had no idea this minor lord could raise such a force. He must have hired mercenaries, as well as his own men.”

  Catherine moved closer to him, staring into the night.

  “There will be some sort of parley first, won’t there?” she asked.

  “Seguin has asked for volunteers to take a message to Olivier, asking his intentions, that sort of thing,” Edgar said. “I don’t think this will be solved with words.”

  “Our father and brothers would have gone out to fight before the army got this close,” Margaret said. “Why are we waiting?”

  “We don’t have the men our father did,” Edgar told her. “Our keep wasn’t as strong as this and, our father cared little about what happened to the people inside.”

  “Ah, yes,” Margaret remembered.

  By mutual consent they returned to their chamber. Catherine laid the sleeping Peter on the bed with his brother and sister.

  “Samonie?” Catherine saw that the woman was leaving the room, a pillow and blanket under her arm. “Aren’t you staying with us tonight?”

  Samonie shook her head. “I love you all dearly,” she said. “But eight people in a room this size can be too close. I think I’ve earned one night of uninterrupted sleep.”

  Catherine was not as obtuse as Samonie hoped. She merely smiled and wished her housekeeper a pleasant evening.

  It took Samonie some time to find Brehier without appearing to be looking for him. She finally found him sitting on a sawhorse next to the ovens.

  “Hello!” He stood to greet her. “I’ve been hunting everywhere for you.”

  “Really?” she asked. “Whatever for?”

  He bent down and whispered a suggestion in her ear. She laughed.

  “Aren’t you on duty tonight?”

  “No, Guillaume and I spent all day down below, trying to discover the other end of the tunnel we found. It must link into the maze somewhere. We went as far as we dared, farther than either of us had ever explored. Finally we had to turn back or risk losing the way back. It must be found. We can’t defend all the ways up.”

  “What about the man you captured?” Samonie asked. “Has he told you anything?

  “Not even his name.” Brehier made a face. “He keeps repeating that he’s nothing but a common thief, hired in
Chartres to help dig out a treasure.”

  “Could he be telling the truth?”

  “I have no idea,” Brehier told her. He took the blanket and pillow from her. “That’s for Seguin and Odilon and Guillaume to decide. I’m only a poor relation.”

  “You are!” Samonie was taken aback. “You never said so.”

  “Why else do you think I came back here?” he asked. “At Boisvert, none of Andonenn’s children would ever be turned away, no matter how distant the tie.”

  Samonie took a moment to digest this fact. Brehier tried to see her face in the torchlight.

  “Does this mean you won’t sleep with me tonight?”

  “What?” She recalled why she was there in the first place. “Of course I will.”

  She was just wondering what Catherine would think if she knew that her son, Martin, was of her kin. Then she thought of the curse. It couldn’t reach that far, could it?

  She had lost her daughter. She had no intention of letting her son die, too.

  If only she felt certain that she could trust his father.

  The next morning brought a thick mist that seeped under doors and flowed around the buildings and mounds of belongings and into the covers of those sleeping out of doors.

  Edgar observed it from the window, trying to catch sight of anything moving up the hill toward them.

  “It will burn off soon,” he predicted sourly.

  Catherine sighed. She was growing to hate the sun. How could she ever have complained about the dank Paris winters?

  They waited all morning for some sign from the enemy camp.

  “He should have sent out a challenge by now,” Seguin worried. “He can’t expect us to simply surrender.”

  “We should show him we won’t,” Odilon stated. “I have a dozen men ready to make a sortie.”

  “Why?” Edgar asked. “We’re safe in here.”

  Odilon got up and moved away from him. “So that he knows we’re not cowards,” he sneered.

  “Of course,” Edgar answered. “And be sure that we’re fools.”

  “Enough!” Seguin shouted. “The enemy is not in this room.”

  “Are we so sure of that?” Odilon asked under his breath.

  Edgar heard him and presumed that Seguin had, too. But the lord made no comment.

  “Edgar,” he asked. “Those ballista of yours, will they be ready?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Edgar answered. “Your workmen are most skillful. It would be good to have a pile of stones to throw and smaller ones to fill the baskets.”

  “I’ll set people to gathering them.” Seguin nodded approval.

  Odilon was growing restless.

  “I still think some of us should ride out,” Odilon grumbled. “Let them know there are men here who will fight.”

  Seguin was silent for a while.

  “Odilon, Guillaume.”

  The two men straightened at the steel in his voice.

  “You want to do a deed of courage? Very well, Odilon, you may make a sortie.”

  Odilon gave a broad smile. “Thank you, my lord! I’ll have my men prepare.”

  “And mine,” Guillaume said. “I’ve only Hamelin and Osbert, but they’re both strong and brave, worth ten any day.”

  “Good,” Seguin said. “You’re to go out with a maximum of fanfare, horns, drums, and swords. Make sure all eyes are on you.”

  “What are you planning, cousin?” Guillaume asked.

  “That entrance in the forest is still our Achilles’ heel,” Seguin told them. “I propose sending two men to find and enter it while Olivier’s men are occupied.”

  “You want me to be a damned hunter’s blind!” Odilon was outraged.

  “Exactly,” Seguin said. “I don’t want to be another verse in the family epic. My only goal is to protect my people until either help arrives or winter sends Olivier home. Shout threats and flourish your weapons, but I hope that will be all. I have already asked Thierry and Lucius from the village if they will undertake to find the tunnel. They know the forest paths better than any.”

  “What are we to do?” Odilon complained. “Turn tail if they want to fight?”

  “We retreat.” Guillaume was firm. “You may stay and die in glory, but I have a wife, five children, and two hundred villagers depending on me to stay alive.”

  Before Odilon could protest further, Seguin gave a roar of approval.

  “Very good, cousin!” he said. “We don’t have enough good warriors to throw any away. Now, everyone. There’s no time to lose.”

  Edgar had to admit as he watched them go, gonfanons fluttering in the breeze and armor shining, that they did look impressive. Seguin rode in front, with Odilon on his right and Guillaume on his left. The metal on their harnesses gleamed and their shields caught the sun, sending blinding rays onto the tents of the enemy. Edgar told himself they were fools, but he knew that part of his anger was that there was no chance of him joining them.

  They rode straight across the fields and up to Olivier’s camp. No one noticed the two men in peasant garb slithering among the ruins of the houses outside the wall. They blended in with the dry fields and vanished in the direction of the forest.

  A few moments later, there was a bustle from among the tents and a similar party emerged. The two groups of horsemen met in the middle of the field and stopped.

  By the gestures it was obvious that Seguin and Olivier were discussing the situation. Seguin pointed out the thickness of the walls of Boisvert and Olivier countered with the size of his army. As this continued the movements grew more threatening, although no one yet had drawn a weapon.

  Finally they seemed to come to some agreement. Both parties wheeled about and galloped back to their own sides.

  Seguin dismounted and took off his gloves.

  “That idiot hasn’t a drop of Andonenn’s blood in him,” he said. “It will please me greatly to send him whimpering back to Anjou.”

  Guillaume went to where Marie, Catherine, and Edgar were waiting.

  “It was all I could do to keep Odilon from offering a personal challenge,” he grunted. “He seems to think this is no more than a tourney. Have Thierry and Lucius returned?”

  “No,” Edgar said. “But we don’t know how long and twisted the passage is. Or how far they had to circle to get to the opening.”

  “Mmm.” Guillaume looked worried. “I hope this parade gave them enough time. Wearing mail in this weather is as close to hell as I ever hope to be.”

  They waited all afternoon, each moment expecting the men to appear through one of the entrances to the Great Hall.

  The sun was low in the sky, and Catherine and Edgar were standing on the wall looking out toward the invaders.

  “I wish we knew what they planned,” Catherine sighed.

  “Olivier doesn’t have enough men to throw them against the walls,” Edger considered. “With all the traps we set in the village it would be almost impossible to get siege engines very close. He must know he can’t starve us out.”

  “What if he is waiting for the gate to be opened by someone already inside?” As soon as she said it, Catherine was sorry that she had given her fears form.

  Edgar started to answer when the clammy evening was shattered by a horrific scream from Olivier’s camp. It was so loud and high that dogs began to bark and the doves were startled from their nests.

  A horseman rode out from the camp, carrying something slung on the horse in front. While he was still out of arrow range, he reined in and unceremoniously dumped his burden onto the dusty road.

  “What. . . what. . .is. . . it?” Catherine’s mind refused to admit to what her eyes saw.

  “It’s Thierry.” Edgar’s voice was flat. “They’ve cut off his hands and feet.”

  “No, it can’t be. Please, dear God, it can’t be.” But she knew it was.

  Catherine could now make out the figure, crawling up the road on knees and elbows. The cuts had been cauterized but he was still trailing blood from fre
sh raw wounds.

  “Papa, what’s going on?” James tugged at Edgar’s tunic.

  “James, go in at once!” Catherine said sharply.

  “No!” Edgar rarely spoke in that tone, but when he did, Catherine obeyed.

  Edgar picked his son up and held him so that he could see the man moving with agonizing slowness toward the castle.

  “Do you see what they’ve done to him?” he asked James.

  The little boy nodded, horrified.

  “Edgar, he’s only six!” Catherine pleaded.

  “Yes.” Edgar didn’t look at her. “Old enough to remember.”

  “Papa,” James whispered. “Why. . . why did they hurt him?”

  “This is what Christians do when they go to war,” Edgar answered, his words clear and cutting. “You must swear two things to me, son, if you decide to be a warrior. Never treat anyone with such evil.”

  “No, Papa, never.” James’s cheeks were red and his eyes round with fear.

  “And,” Edgar went on, “become strong enough that no one will be able to ever do such a thing to you.”

  James’s glance went to the leather-covered stump where his father’s left hand should be.

  “I swear,” he said. “On my soul, Father.”

  Catherine reached out for the boy.

  “Let me take him in now,” she said. “Edgar?”

  Something in him seemed to burn out. He handed her their son.

  James clung to her tightly with arms and legs. Catherine looked into Edgar’s eyes, afraid of what might look back. Their sea-gray shade had darkened to cold iron. She blinked and saw the sea wash back, salt tears glittering on his pale lashes.

  Seventeen

  Three weeks later. 4 kalends October (September 27) 1149,

  Michaelmas Eve. 16 Tishri 4910, the second day of Succos.

  Li quens Rollant ad la buche sanglente

  De sun cheval rumput en est li temples.

  L’olifant sunet a dulor e a peine

  Karles l’oit e ses Franseis l’entendent.

  Count Roland’s mouth was bloody

  From his cracked skull and brain.