The Witch in the Well: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (20 page)

Reluctantly, Catherine joined her sister-in-law as they retraced their way back through the maze. But every few minutes, she paused and looked around, listening. She could swear she heard voices coming from the way not taken. No, she told herself. It’s just my imagination.

They walked and walked.

“We should be getting close to the upper levels now,” Catherine said at last. “It couldn’t have taken us this long to go down.”

“No.” Margaret sounded worried. “I don’t understand it. I’m following the thread. Here’s where we tied the red one to the blue. But I don’t remember this place. And, I think, no, I’m sure. We’re going downward again. Catherine, how can this be?”

“We must have just forgotten,” Catherine said, but there was doubt in her voice.

They continued past a few more turns. At last they came to a circular chamber with three passages radiating from it. The yarn stretched across the room and vanished into the darkness of the one opposite them.

“There’s no light that way,” Margaret said. “Catherine, you know we’ve never been here before! What should we do?”

She was near to panic now. She clutched the ball of yarn like a lifeline.

Catherine put an arm around her, as much for her own comfort as Margaret’s.

“What choice do we have?” She tried to keep her voice steady. “Can you find the way back without a guide? Yes, it seems that someone has untied the yarn and sent us in a new direction. We don’t know if their purpose is to hurt us or help.”

“How could this help?” Margaret squeaked.

“I don’t know,” Catherine admitted. “But our only hope of getting back to the family tonight is to find someone to show us the way up and the best place to find someone is at the other end of this thread.”

They were in the center of the chamber now. Margaret stared in terror at the black opening before her.

“I can’t go in there,” she stated.

“Not in the dark,
ma douz
.” Catherine reached up and un-hooked a torch from its sconce. “See, we’ll not only have light, but a weapon of sorts.”

Margaret gave in. She trusted Catherine more than she feared the void. “But I know we’re doing this just as much because you have to know what’s going on as to get out of here.”

Catherine gave a shamefaced grin.

“Don’t you want to know, too?”

Hesitantly, Margaret admitted to a slight bit of curiosity.

“But I’m tying the string to the sconce. I’m not getting lost a second time,” she announced.

So, Catherine carried the torch and Margaret felt along the taut yarn. The two of them entered the tunnel.

It never occurred to Edgar that Catherine would go hunting for answers beneath the castle. Whatever the truth of the family legend, he was sure that everything that had happened was the result of living, breathing malice.

“Martin!” He stopped the young man on the way to the stables. “Is your mother tending to the children?”

“Yes, Master Edgar,” Martin answered. “She’s washing and dressing them for the arrival of Lord Guillaume’s family.”

“Really?” Edgar paused. “That seems a waste of time. They’re always torn and filthy within an hour of joining their cousins. Oh, well, I suppose it’s good to start out presentable.”

He recollected his reason for hunting Martin down.

“I need to know more about the people here,” he said. “There’s little chance that any of the servants will tell me a thing, but they might talk to you. I want to know why, if there is no famine here, it appears as if Gargenaud is storing up for seven lean years. Is there truly a chance of our being attacked by this Angevin Lord Olivier? Also, do the folk of the village and the castle servants believe these legends? And if so, in what form? I’ve certainly seen no sign among them that they are expecting doom to fall.”

“Perhaps they haven’t been told that the well is failing,” Martin suggested.

“Seguin has tried to keep it secret, I know,” Edgar said. “But surely they must be curious about all this preparation.”

They had reached the stables. It was occupied by several young men cleaning out stalls, a couple of men-at-arms mending harness, and one of the men who had been a guest at the banquet. Edgar had received the impression he was somehow part of the family, but they hadn’t been introduced.

“See what you can find out,” he said to Martin. “Without betraying anything that we have learned of this prophecy and curse.”

“Then what information will I have to trade?” Martin objected.

“Give them my family,” Edgar offered. “Say anything you like. You can even tell them how I lost my hand. I’m sure they’re all wondering.”

“Very well.” Martin winced at the bitterness in Edgar’s tone. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Start with the stablehands,” Edgar said. “I’m going to see what I can get from him.”

He nodded toward the man from the banquet, who was sitting by the doorway, holding a broken spur, apparently waiting for the blacksmith.

Martin had no trouble striking up a conversation with the stablemen. He started by taking care of the horses they had brought with them. While seeing to their needs, he asked about life at the castle. As Edgar guessed, they wanted him to give information about his life in return. When they learned that Martin had started life as a serving maid’s bastard and managed to become apprentice to a trader, they were at first skeptical.

“Truly!” Martin insisted. “How could I lie with him standing over there able to deny it? My mother is now housekeeper at my lord’s house in Paris. I grew up there. Last year I told him I wanted to learn the skill of trading. He and his partner took me on. We have only just returned from a profitable journey to Lombardy.”

The young men gazed at Martin in hopeful respect. Each had dreams of rising above his station. This was the first time they had met a man who had actually done it. Then one of the lads, a tall blond who had yet to fill out to his recent growth, shook his head and went back to shoveling the stable floor.

“Maybe that sort of thing happens in Paris.” He emptied the shovel with an energy that spattered the contents against the wall behind the wheelbarrow. “But this is Boisvert, where nothing ever changes.”

“Why not?” Martin asked. “Your lord is old. When he dies, won’t the new lord be looking for likely men to promote?”

The second young man laughed. “Do you know how many have grown old waiting for Gargenaud to die? Lord Seguin is his grandson and
he’s
past sixty. They say Seguin’s father gave up ever
inheriting and so went and got himself killed in the Holy Land, trying to win a fief for himself.”

Martin gave no sign that he’d heard this all before.

“How can a man of sixty still have a living grandfather?” he scoffed. “I’ve seen Lord Gargenaud. He’s old, I’ll grant you, but hale enough. He can’t be as ancient as you think.”

The blond looked around to see if anyone was listening. Then he leaned toward Martin.

“It’s sorcery,” he whispered. “Everyone knows it. One of the old man’s ancestors made a pact with the guardian of the spring. There’s some that say it was Gargenaud, himself and that he’s immortal.”

Martin sighed. He had hoped the servants would have a more matter-of-fact explanation for the strangeness of the place, but it seemed that the legend had saturated the minds of all who lived there. He hoped Edgar was finding out more.

Edgar was getting an earful, but not about Boisvert. He had approached the man in a casual manner, keeping his left hand hidden in the folds of his tunic to avoid the distraction of having to explain it.

“Good day!” he smiled. “That spur looks like it was smashed between two rocks. You must have taken quite a fall.”

The man stared at him in glum resentment.

“I never fall,” he said. “This is a cheap piece of shit some peddler stuck me with. Swore it was Cordoban steel. Hah! More likely Welsh tin. Crumpled the first time I dismounted.”

“Too bad,” Edgar said, wondering how any man could be so stupid as not to know the difference. “Think the blacksmith can fix it?”

“Not unless he can transmute the elements,” the man growled.

Edgar blinked. This wasn’t normal language to hear from a knight. It was time to find out more about him.

“I’m Edgar of Paris,” he said. “From Wedderlie in Scotland by birth. My wife’s mother is a daughter of Lord Gargenaud.”

“I know who you are,” the man interrupted. “And what. It was bad enough that Gargenaud sold his daughter to a merchant, but we needed hard coin then. But, you, born into the aristocracy, lowering yourself to take up the trade. You’re no better than the Jew that sold me this spur!”

His voice had been steadily rising. At the end, he was standing, shaking the crumpled spur up into Edgar’s face.

Edgar’s gray eyes grew frosty.

“I do not sell to men like you, but kings and great lords of the church,” he said. “And anyone who claimed this metal was steel must have assumed you’d know he was joking.”

He grabbed it from the man’s hand and tossed it over his shoulder.

“Saint Benoît’s wrathful rod!” the man exclaimed. “If you weren’t a cripple I’d flatten you!”

“Please don’t let that stop you.” Edgar’s smile could have sliced through granite. “I’m sure you’ve had a great deal of practice on poor widows and beggar children.”

“You arrogant. . .” The man drew back his arm to strike him. Edgar’s eyes didn’t flicker, so when a hand caught the arm and yanked back, almost sending his assailant to the floor, the man was taken completely by surprise.

“Odilon! What do you think you’re doing?” Seguin glared at him. “Lord Edgar is a guest here.”

“Right,” Odilon sneered, rubbing his arm. “He only came because he thinks there’s a treasure to be found. What’s honor to his kind? Well, you might as well go back where you came from, my lord peddler, because of all the stories about this place, that is the only one that’s a total lie.”

Edgar still hadn’t moved. His total lack of reaction was making Odilon nervous. Seguin started once again to apologize. At last Edgar took his eyes off Odilon’s face.

“My lord Seguin,” he said calmly. “There is no need for you to make excuses for this man. I am presuming that he is another family member. He reminds me very much of Catherine’s uncle Roger. He was subject to uncontrollable outbursts also.”

Seguin winced. He remembered Roger all too well.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Odilon is the great-great-grandson of Gargenaud’s only brother. We are related in the third degree.”

“I see,” Edgar said. “Are there any others of his kin that I should be prepared for?”

“His brother, Ysore, is also here,” Seguin told him. “The priest. You may have noticed him last night. You are safe from attack from him,” he added dryly.

Edgar nodded, ignoring the slur. “So, this truly is a dwindling family?” he asked. “It’s strange to me that anyone leaves Boisvert if, in doing so, they lose the protection of your magical forebear. I expected to find the castle crowded with Catherine’s cousins.”

“Those who stay are protected from early death,” Seguin said. “At least they were. But only the lord lives beyond the natural span. There were never many children in each generation. Some entered the church. Others fought for the counts of Blois and died in battle. And now we have been cursed with barren wives. Only Madeleine’s children have escaped this.”

“Seguin.” Only those who knew Edgar best would have seen how angry he was. “I have promised to stay here until Guillaume and his family arrive. I admit that I am curious enough to wait a day more for you to unveil all the secrets of this place, but the more I learn of you, the more I believe that you should all be left to molder in your myths.”

He started to move away from them.

Seguin moved in front of him to keep Edgar from leaving.

Odilon crowded to the side, keeping him from turning around.

“You think this has nothing you to with you?” the young man shouted, rising onto his toes to look Edgar in the eyes.

At the other end of the room, the stablemen stopped even pretending to work. Martin wondered if he should grab a pitchfork and defend his master.

Seguin spoke more calmly but with the same passion. “Your children are of our blood, Edgar, no matter how diluted. If Boisvert falls, they will die, too. Only Andonenn’s power has kept us strong all these centuries. Now it’s fading and Empress Judith’s curse will doom everyone. Only together can we defeat her. You must believe me.”

He motioned to Odilon to move away from Edgar. The man didn’t budge.

“Odilon!”

“Yes, cousin,” the knight answered grudgingly.

“Apologize to Lord Edgar for your rash words,” Seguin ordered. “You didn’t mean to insult him so, did you?”

Odilon’s jaw tightened. “No,” he forced out. “I spoke without thought. I beg you to forgive me.”

Edgar looked at him for a long moment. Then he laughed.

“How could I deny such a heartfelt and eloquent petition?” he said. “I wish no bad feelings between my wife’s family and me.”

“Thank you.” Seguin relaxed, not noticing that Edgar had not accepted the apology. “My son, Aymon, says that he has spotted Lord Guillaume’s party approaching. They should be here within the hour. Perhaps you’d like to tell your wife. I’m sure she’ll want to be there to greet him.”

Edgar took this as a dismissal. He bowed to both men and signaled Martin to accompany him.

“Did you find anything out?” he asked when they were clear of the stables.

“Only that this legend seems to have taken hold of everyone here,” Martin answered. “The stablehands are worried that the line is failing and the castle will fall to the Angevins under Lord Olivier.”

“Do they know about the well?” Edgar asked.

“They didn’t mention it. They seemed more concerned that there were so few left of the family. They don’t like being ruled by such an old man, even if he has otherworldly protection.” Martin paused. “They know something’s wrong. Everyone here feels it. It’s like the hours before a storm.”

They both looked up at an unrelentingly clear sky.

“Not yet, anyway,” Edgar muttered. “Martin, go tell your mother that I want us to be ready to leave if I don’t like what I learn at this revelation we’re to receive tonight. I’m going to see if Catherine’s found out anything useful. Do you know where she is?”