The Witch in the Well: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (31 page)

“He said he’d been baptized, you know,” Madeleine continued conversationally. “And he’s never tried to convert the children. But he never takes Communion. Sometimes I think he hates me for keeping him from turning infidel again. I pray and pray that he will receive the grace of a true believer, but I must be doing something wrong.”

She looked down at the almost empty berry bowl.

“My faith must not be strong enough.”

“Of course it is!” Margaret knelt beside her. “You are the most pious woman I’ve even known. But should you be talking of this?”

Madeleine was puzzled. “I can’t tell the priest or my friends but, Andonenn, I thought you would understand.”

“Andonenn!”

Madeleine’s eyes focused on her. “Oh, how silly of me! You’re Margaret, the girl from the Paraclete. I hope someday my Catherine will become a nun. She’d be happy in a place like that.”

“Yes, I’m sure she would.” Margaret was trying not to upset Madeleine. “But what about Andonenn? Have you seen her?”

Madeleine nodded. She put down the berry bowl and looked around for her sewing. Margaret handed it to her.

“Andonenn?” she prompted.

“I used to spend hours with her, when I was a child,” Madeleine said as she stitched a border on a child’s tunic. “I was the baby, you see, and a girl. No one really had much time for me, so I would go down to the spring and talk with Andonenn. I think she enjoyed it as much as I did.”

Margaret had to swallow a few times to steady her voice before asking the next question.

“You know where Andonenn’s spring is? Do you think you could find it again?”

Madeleine put down her needle and thought a while. Then she resumed her sewing. Margaret thought she wasn’t going to answer. Finally, Madeleine turned and smiled at her.

“I’m sure I could,” she said. “If we ever go to visit Boisvert, I’ll take you to her. I know she’d enjoy meeting you.”

Margaret fell back on her heels in surprise. She had no idea what to do next. One thing she was sure of, Catherine must know about this at once.

She looked at Madeleine. There was no way she could leave her alone now. Not with Catherine’s mother babbling about her husband being a Jew. Margaret chewed her tongue in frustration. She went to the doorway and looked out. With all the activity in the castle this must be the only corridor completely unoccupied.

Margaret made a decision. Who knew when someone would come to relieve her?

“Lady Madeleine,” she said. “Do you feel like taking a walk?”

Edgar and Martin made their way back to the chestnut tree where they had found Aymon. This time they brought along sickles for cutting the brush and vines.

“It can’t be far from here,” Edgar said, whacking through the overgrown herbs.

“I don’t see any rocks that could be a cave,” Martin replied. “Do you think there’s a door in a tree? I’ve heard of those.”

“No idea,” Edgar grunted. “You’d think there’d be some sort of path, if Aymon came this way often.”

“These woods are so crisscrossed with tracks that we’ll never find the right one,” Martin complained. “Damn! I just backed into a patch of nettles!”

“We’ll have to get you leather
brais
,” Edgar commented. “You shouldn’t be out here bare-legged.”

“Nice to mention it now,” Martin muttered.

They continued swinging, clearing the undergrowth in patches, but finding nothing.

“Maybe we were wrong,” Edgar said at last. “There must be another explanation. Or the entrance is a lot farther than we thought.”

Martin wiped his face with his sleeve. “Where else can we look?” he asked.

Edgar shook his head. As he did, he caught a flash of color between the vines hanging from the chestnut, not a dozen paces from them.

“Martin, get down!” he hissed, throwing himself to the ground. Had they been overheard?

Martin obeyed without understanding. He lay on his stomach with his nettle-stung leg against something thorny. He clenched his teeth and tried not to move.

Edgar tried to count the number of men at the tree. He only saw two, but there had been that brief glimpse of red. Both the men he could see at the moment were in dark green under clinking chain mail.

“Are you sure he said it was here?” one man called to someone beyond Edgar’s sight.

“Fifteen paces from the chestnut,” a voice answered almost above Edgar’s head. “In the direction of the keep.”

Edgar dared take a breath. They had been looking in the wrong quarter. He waited until the sounds of the men grew dimmer, then risked nudging Martin with his foot.

“We have to follow them,” he mouthed.

Martin nodded. “But we have no weapons but these,” he whispered, clutching the scythe.

“Then we’ll have to be very careful not to be caught,” Edgar answered.

They crept after the three men, who were not making any attempt at stealth. Edgar wondered why. This was enemy territory. Had they been told that there was no danger of being spotted? Had Aymon betrayed his family and then been betrayed in turn or was there another spy within the castle?

The undergrowth was so dense that only the sound of the soldier’s voices kept them on the trail. They peered through it to see where the men had stopped at last. When he saw the spot, Edgar realized that he could easily have passed it without a glance. It was only a pile of weathered stone, half the height of a man. The entrance was a triangular hole made where two flat pieces had been propped. It was so narrow that Edgar doubted a fully armed man could squeeze through.

The soldiers had brought a pot of coals wrapped in canvas. One of the men took a staff wrapped at one end with rags soaked in pitch. He put it against the coals and blew on them until the pitch burst into flame. Then he lit another from it. Finally he and the man in red carefully pushed their way between the rocks, each holding a torch before them.

The last man was left sitting on the outcrop, loosely holding a crossbow.

“We have to get in there,” Edgar whispered in Martin’s ear. “Can you get behind the guard?”

“Yes, Master,” Martin answered.

Edgar put his hand over Martin’s mouth.

“Do it,” he breathed. “I’ll get his attention.”

Martin slid into the brush, trying to sound like a passing badger rather than a man. Edgar waited a moment and then stood and stepped in front of the guard.

The man sprang up, his crossbow ready to shoot. He relaxed slightly when he saw Edgar’s handless arm.

“Who’re you?” he demanded.

“Name’s Edgar, who are you?” Edgar responded. “You come from the castle yonder?”

“Maybe,” the man answered. “What business is it of yours?”

“I like to know who’s aiming at me.” Edgar smiled. “I’m not armed, you know, just with this.”

He held up the sickle. “Promised a lady I’d bring her fresh herbs for her bower. They like that, you know.”

The guard did not appear convinced. Edgar was glad to see Martin rise onto the stones at that point and fall heavily upon the man. The crossbow flew into the air.

“Catch it!” Edgar yelled as he threw himself on the man, sitting hard on his back.

Martin picked up the crossbow and held it on the guard.

“Press it to his neck,” Edgar ordered. “Let me get hold of it while you tie him up.”

Martin took Edgar’s place while Edgar took the crossbow. He pulled off the guard’s hose and tied his hands and feet together, so that the man was trussed like a piece of game.

“Now,” Edgar asked. “Whom do you serve?”

“No one,” the man barked.

Edgar tapped him with the crossbow.

“Not Olivier de Boue?” he asked.

“Never heard of him,” the man answered.

Edgar tried another angle.

“Who told you how to find this?”

“Godfrey,” the man answered. “The man in the red cloak.”

“And whom does he serve?” Edgar asked, pushing the point of the bolt deeper into the man’s neck.

“No one!” the man shouted. “We are all lordless men. That’s why we’re trying to find the treasure!”

Edgar looked at Martin.

“What treasure?”

“Everyone knows about the treasure under Boisvert.” The man was as contemptuous as anyone can be while bound hand and foot and bent back like a bow.

“I don’t,” Edgar said.

“Look.” The man tried to sound ingratiating. He wasn’t good at it. “There are only the three of us and a lot of gold and jewels and suchlike. We could use another pair of. . .”

He looked up at Edgar’s arm, the crossbow balanced in the crook of his elbow. “Strong arms are always welcome,” he finished. “There’ll be enough treasure for all.”

Edgar put down the crossbow. The man gave a long exhalation.

“Martin, I think we should hang him from a tree so that he stays fresh while we’re gone,” Edgar decided. “Run back to the horses for some rope.”

“Yes, Master. Where are we going?” Martin asked.

“Down that rabbit hole,” Edgar said, pointing. “Are those coals still hot?”

Martin uncovered the pot. “Glowing, Master.”

“Good, while you’re getting the rope, see if you can find anything for us to use for light.”

Catherine wasn’t sure where she could take Berthe to ensure that the woman wouldn’t run away. She finally settled on the nursery,
now occupied only by the German nurse with Agnes’s baby, Gottfried. She smiled at the woman, and in her halting German, told her she might have a break.

Catherine bent over the baby’s cradle. Gottfried was sound asleep, his mass of golden curls making him look positively angelic.

Berthe leaned over the baby, too.

“A blessing on you, child of Andonenn,” she said.

Catherine quickly drew her away, to a bench against the wall.

“Now tell me,” she demanded. “How can you help us?”

Berthe smoothed her skirts as she sat and adjusted her scarf. Age was slipping from her like melting ice.

“I’m a healer.” She smiled at Catherine.

“Then shouldn’t you be down helping Marie tend to Aymon?” Catherine said.

“She’ll do well enough,” Berthe said. “There is worse sickness in this place. The soul of Boisvert is ill unto death.”

She was so determined to sound portentous that Catherine felt herself becoming more annoyed.

“We have priests for that,” she said stiffly.

“Oh?” Berthe raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean the one in the village who can’t read his own name and learned the Mass by rote or the one in the castle who spends all his time hunting with his friends?”

Catherine squirmed on the bench. “You have a point,” she admitted. “And what is the nature of this spiritual sickness?”

“You know already,” Berthe said. “You’ve seen it. Those who stay here do nothing but rot. That’s why no woman can conceive. That’s why death has entered the gates. That’s why, unless we can treat this illness, unless we can remedy it, Boisvert will fall.”

Catherine waited for the trumpet blast. There was something about Berthe that made her feel she was listening to
jongleurs
.

“Why does this matter to you?” Catherine demanded. “Who are you? Who is Mandon?”

Berthe gave her a sly glance.

“We are two sides of the coin.” She grinned. “I’m the one that always loses the toss.”

“That tells me nothing,” Catherine said.

“The task before us is more important than old history,” Berthe insisted.

“It’s not old to me.” Catherine sighed, but it was clear she would get no further answer. “Very well, then. How do you intend to cut this ‘rot’ out?”

“That depends on how deep it runs.” Berthe stood and rummaged in the large cloth bag she had slung over her shoulder. She took out a knife in a wooden sheath. With a dramatic flourish, she drew it out. Catherine gasped.

It was the mate of the one that had killed Raimbaut.

“Where did you get that?” she cried. “Stay away from the baby!”

“Shame on you, Catherine,” Berthe said. “As if I’d so much as snip one of his curls! This was given me by my mother, who had it from hers, who had it from hers, and so on back to the time that Boisvert was really made of wood.”

“Is there writing on it?” Catherine’s interest overcame her fear.

“Once was.” Berthe held the knife out. “Can’t hardly see it anymore. . .”

She held out the knife to Catherine, who took it and held the handle up to the light. She could make out a
K
but the letters at the end, what she could see of them, were different. It wasn’t a language she knew but there was something familiar about it.

“What did it say?” she asked

“Don’t know. A warning, a blessing, maybe the name of the first owner,” Berthe answered. “I heard you were the smart one.”

“Not always.” Catherine sighed. “So what do you intend to do with that? And what about Mandon?”

“In time,” Berthe said. “You’ve met her, have you? A meddlesome woman.”

Catherine agreed. “You must be related. Sisters?”

Berthe smiled. “Of sorts. Don’t fret about it. First, we have to find the rot and, if it hasn’t run too deep, cut it out.”

“Is that what happened to Raimbaut?” Catherine’s brittle trust in this woman evaporated. “Was he rotten?”

“Perhaps,” Berthe said. “But it wasn’t my knife that cut him.”

She headed for the doorway.