The Witch in the Well: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (19 page)

A movement caught his eye. “Catherine! What are you doing? Are you trying to kill yourself?”

She had knelt down and was leaning over the edge of the well, her head tilted as if listening.

“Catherine,” Edgar repeated. “This is not a good example for James and Edana.”

Slowly, she stood. She faced Seguin, her face puzzled.

“I thought I heard a voice,” she said, trying not to look at Edgar.

“I hear it, too,” Seguin said. “She’s calling us. Begging us to save her. How can you turn your back on her, cousin?”

“Catherine,” Edgar said quietly. “It’s only an echo of the voices from the keep. You know how water and pipes distort normal sounds. Don’t let Seguin confuse you.”

Catherine now looked at Edgar. “I don’t know,” she said miserably. “It may have been only a twisting of the sound of someone speaking in the keep, but it was so sad. It wrung my heart. Edgar, I must be sure. What if it’s all true? I don’t think that Seguin will
let anyone harm the children. Perhaps we could at least wait until Guillaume arrives?”

Seguin’s head fell to his chest. “Thank you, bless you, Catherine,” he breathed. “My lord?”

Edgar’s jaw tightened. “Catherine. Come with me.”

Sequin waited, glancing nervously from one to the other.

Edgar’s anger hit Catherine like a blow. She knew at once what she had done. But how could she repair it? She thought frantically. Of course! Once in a while those
jongleurs’
tales came in useful.

She came over to Edgar. He held out his hand to her, but to the astonishment of everyone, instead of taking it, she knelt before him, and placed her hand, palm up, below his as a vassal would to his lord.

“My husband,” she said, head bowed. “I beg that you allow us to remain until my brother joins us, and my cousin Seguin is permitted to reveal the mystery. I ask this humbly for myself and in the name of my mother’s family.”

Edgar gaped at her in horror. Who was this woman and what had she done with his wife? Then Catherine looked up. He exhaled in relief. She wasn’t insane or possessed. She was simply showing him a way to save face. If she felt that it was safe for them to stay, he would agree, at least for another day.

“Very well,” he said in that haughty voice Catherine normally hated. “We shall remain here. But if I am not satisfied with Seguin’s explanation, there will be no argument. We will leave at once.”

“As you wish.” Catherine smiled at him. He was startled and sickened to see fear, as well as apology, in her eyes.

What was this place doing to them?

Even as Seguin thanked him vociferously, Edgar had begun to regret his decision.

Boisvert; Saturday, 3 nones September (September 3) 1149. Feast of Saint Ayou, native of Blois, abbot of Saint-Benoît and master relic thief. 21 Elul 4909.

La vielle Matabrune ki en Jhesu ne croit

La dame se livre a duel et a destroit

L’un enfent aprés l’autre. . .
.

The old woman, Matabrune, who had no faith in Jesus

Aided the woman in her pain of delivery And then destroyed them, One child after the other. . ..

—
Beatrix
, II. 101–103

C
atherine was shaking by the time they returned to the keep. She and Edgar had always kept their differences private, where they could fight as equals. After this public display she had no idea of what he was thinking or how he’d react when they were alone together. For the moment, he seemed involved with the children. She let him take them back up to the nursery while she slipped away.

She needed some time alone, to contemplate the consequences
of their decision to stay. The noise around her rasped her soul. She remembered that somewhere in the keep, there was a chapel.

When she finally found it, she was surprised to find Agnes standing at the door.

“You can’t go in,” she said. “Mother’s in there. You shouldn’t try to see her.”

Catherine felt something inside her snap.

“I came to pray,” she said angrily. “But what right have you to keep me from our mother? You’ve just seen her, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Agnes said. “Elissent introduced me to her as a German countess.”

“How impressive,” Catherine said sourly. “And did that keep her from recognizing you?”

“Yes.” Agnes looked away, blinking rapidly.

Catherine’s anger ebbed.

“I’m sorry, Agnes, truly I am,” she whispered. “But then what difference would it make if I saw her, too? You were closer to her than I. I’ll be a stranger, as well. I just want to see her again. It’s been so long!”

Agnes turned back to her sister. Catherine saw the tears glistening in the lamp light.

“You’ve changed less than I have,” she answered. “And her feelings about you are stronger. You were the holy one, the gift to pay for her sins. We can’t risk it. The nuns were right not to try to bring her to her senses.”

She clasped her hands together in supplication.

“Please, Catherine,” she begged. “I’m not doing this out of malice, I swear! Ask Margaret. Mother is happy now. Would you risk forcing her back into miserable reality?”

Catherine’s lip trembled. She felt as if she were the child Madeleine believed her to be. All she wanted was to have her mother hold her and just for a moment, to be a child again. She gazed around Agnes to the chapel door. She couldn’t stop herself. She took a step forward.

“Mama?” she called softly. “I’m so sorry.”

Agnes threw out her arms to block the way, but Catherine didn’t try to pass. Instead she turned around and stumbled back to her room. When Margaret found her sometime later, she had cried herself empty.

“Shall I come back?” she asked.

Catherine sat up, sniffing.

“No, of course not.” She sighed. “When all this began, I thought that something here was calling to me. I wanted to see Boisvert again to be connected to the rest of the family. But it was a mistake. If our family isn’t cursed, then the castle must be. I hate every stone.”

“It’s a strange place,” Margaret agreed. “But not evil. I know what that feels like. There’s a sadness here instead. Perhaps in your grief for your mother, you can’t sense it. It’s not in the people although they are affected by it. The soul of Boisvert itself is weeping.”

“It’s just the darkness of the rooms and all the hallways without windows that give you that impression,” Catherine said as she wiped her face.

Margaret shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Catherine never contradicted Margaret the way she did Agnes. If Edgar’s sister said that a castle could be sad, then it was.

“Perhaps it’s because it’s been so long since there was a birth here,” she suggested. “Do you believe it’s true that our ancestress can no longer protect us from Judith’s curse?”

“It seems as good an explanation as any,” Margaret answered. “I only know that I wish I could help make everyone happy again.”

Catherine smiled and hugged her.

“Then you don’t think we were mad to come?”

Margaret laughed. “I didn’t say that. But if you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have lasted long here by myself.”

Catherine hugged her again. “Oh, Margaret, even though
awful things happened to us in England, it was worth it all to get you. I wish we could keep you with us forever.”

“So do I.” Margaret’s laughter stopped. “Now, is there anything we can do besides wait for your brother to arrive so that Seguin may preside over the grand opening of this mysterious box?”

“Well, perhaps we could get a ball of yarn and see how much of this labyrinth we can explore,” Catherine said.

“And if we find a door to another world?” Margaret was only half joking.

“Then we knit our way back home,” Catherine grinned.

“My brother won’t like us wandering off.” Margaret hesitated.

“Margaret, we’re not leaving the castle,” Catherine reminded her. “And if we get lost, all we need to do is wind up the skein again to find our way back.”

“Well.” Margaret didn’t need much encouragement. “It sounds harmless enough. And I’m very curious about what lies beneath the keep.”

“Good!” Catherine said. “I’ll go check on the children. You find a big ball of yarn and I’ll meet you in the Great Hall.”

They met a few moments later. Margaret was carrying a bag containing three balls of yarn, each as large as a baby’s head.

“Enodu!”
Catherine exclaimed. “We could find our way from here to Paris with that.”

“The ladies all wanted to give me something,” Margaret said. “They didn’t even ask what it was for.”

“That’s what happens when you come from a powerful family,” Catherine teased her. “If I had asked, they’d have given me the tailings from an old pair of stockings. Now, we need to tie one end firmly to something.”

“What about the post at the foot of the stairs?” Margaret suggested.

“No, then it will go straight across the floor where someone
will trip over it.” Catherine looked around. “Here, the linen chest! It has big brass handles. That will work. Right against the wall and too heavy to budge.”

The two women stared at the doorway Catherine had gone through the night before. Several people passed them, including Seguin, but no one commented.

“Perhaps all visitors explore in this way,” Margaret said after another servant had gone by with no more than a glance at them.

“The way these passages twist, it may be that even the natives carry lengths of string,” Catherine answered. “That could be why you had no trouble getting the yarn.”

They deliberately chose any way that sloped downward. It wasn’t long before they left the main keep far above. The walls became rougher and the floors more worn. The lower chambers and storerooms had been dug out of the hillside, cavelike. The ceilings were long boards propped up by wooden pillars. In some places, white roots reached out between the slats.

“We’re so far below ground!” Margaret looked nervous. “How did they manage to create this honeycomb of rooms without bringing the castle down on their heads?”

Catherine had been trying not to consider how much stone and earth hung above them.

“Perhaps these tunnels started out as mines,” she suggested.

“Silver or copper. The keep might have been built over them.”

“Who would do that?” Margaret was skeptical. “It’s like building your house upon the sand. Actually, with all these holes in the earth I can’t see why the castle hasn’t collapsed.”

“Margaret!” Catherine cried. “Please let’s concentrate on the path. Everything has stayed here for centuries. I imagine it will last a few days more.”

They continued in silence. Both of them were thinking of the curse and wondering if it had become strong enough to cause Boisvert to suddenly crumble around them.

“Catherine?” Margaret asked after a bit. “This section looks very old. How often do you think anyone comes down here?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t seen anyone for quite a while.” Catherine paused, realizing what Margaret was saying. “There are torches every few paces, aren’t there? They would have to be replaced almost every day. So this area must be used often. What for?”

Margaret looked around. They were in a long tunnel at the moment. The walls were thick blocks and there was no sign of a doorway or a branching passage.

“Perhaps Lord Gargenaud keeps wine down here?”

“We passed any number of storerooms full of wine casks three or four levels up,” Catherine told her. “But, even if he did, why would anyone do anything so wasteful as to keep light going all the time?”

Before them, the passage bent to the right. A light glowed from around the turn.

“Aha! The answer may be just a few steps away.” Catherine hurried forward.

“Catherine, stop!” Margaret called. “I’ve reached the end of the yarn.”

Catherine went to the turn in the passage and looked back at Margaret.

“It slopes down and twists again,” she said. “But there are no forks. We can’t get lost.”

Margaret stayed where she was. “No, Catherine, we can’t take the risk of coming back and finding our Ariadne’s thread gone.”

“Who would take it?” Catherine pleaded.

“Who keeps the torches lit?” Margaret answered. “Catherine, you’re responsible to your husband and children. You can’t wander off into an adventure anymore.”

“But,” Catherine stood at the turn, “don’t you want to see where this goes?”

“Not as much as I want to get back to the same world we came from.” Margaret began to wind the yarn again. “Don’t go any farther, Catherine. Which is more important, a mythical mother of your clan or the family waiting for us? Think of your children!”

Catherine wavered in the direction of the passage, one foot raised. At the end of this could be the answer to all her questions. She looked up at Margaret, already moving slowly back the way they had come. She seemed so fragile! Her thick red plaits had to weigh more than the rest of her. Yet she had survived seeing her mother slaughtered, being taken from her home to a strange land, and then a terrible attack by a mob. It wasn’t cowardice that kept Margaret from continuing, but duty.

“Perhaps another day,” Margaret promised. “When we have more yarn.”