The Witch in the Well: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (34 page)

Seguin didn’t answer but began turning the windlass to bring up the water bucket. He seemed to be having trouble getting it to move.

“Catherine,” he spoke quietly. “Perhaps you should go find your brother and sister.”

“I have to stay here,” Catherine said. She didn’t think her legs could move.

Margaret felt as if she were being slowly strangled. This was all her fault.

“I’ll get them,” she managed to say.

Catherine didn’t notice her leaving. Her eyes were on the rope slowly winding. All she could hear was the creak of the windlass as it fought against the weight of whatever was coming up. She tried to think logically. A body was too big to fall into a bucket. The wall around the well was too high to fall over accidentally. Her mother wasn’t so careless of her own safety.

Or was she?

Catherine realized with a stab of guilt that she didn’t really know. For the past ten years, Madeleine had been safely tucked away in the convent of Tart. Apart from occasional messages saying that she was well, they had heard little. Catherine’s father had given the nuns enough to support her for another twenty years, if necessary. Catherine always included Madeleine in her prayers. The nuns had told her that seeing her eldest daughter
would only confuse the poor woman. That had been an excuse not to visit. And Catherine had gone on with her life, married, had children, lost one to illness, had another stillborn. She had traveled to England, Spain, and Germany.

Madeleine didn’t even know that Catherine had children.

And all the while the creaking continued as the bucket made its way up from the depths.

Seguin grunted and pulled harder on the crank. At last something showed at the rim of the well.

Something dark was caught on the chain holding the bucket. It hung down over the side, tipping it. Seguin reached out and swung it closer until he could grab the sodden material. He pulled at it until the last bit appeared, dripping profusely.

It was a woman’s veil.

Catherine felt her knees give way as she fell, sobbing, onto the stone floor.

And then Margaret was there, her arms around Catherine, weeping, too. From somewhere, Guillaume’s voice was raised in disbelief and horror. Agnes’s shrill demands for an explanation pierced the air through all the other cries. Catherine buried her face in Margaret’s
bliaut
and willed them all to go away.

A moment later she felt herself transferred into Edgar’s arms. He spoke to her softly with a calm detachment that soothed her enough to catch her breath.

“It looks bad, I know,” he said. “But your mother may not be down there. She could have leaned over the wall and the veil come loose and fallen. We’ll go on searching.”

Catherine clung to this hope. Seguin had unhooked the bucket and was attaching the lantern used to check the level of the water. They all waited breathlessly as he lowered it.

“My God!” He exclaimed.

Catherine’s stomach lurched again.

“I had no idea the water was down this far!” Seguin finished. “But I see nothing floating in it. There’s no body.”

Guillaume came to look.

“Nothing,” he said. “Of course her clothes could be weighing her down.”

“Guillaume!” Agnes protested.

“I don’t want to have false hope,” he stated. “After all, if she didn’t drown, then where has she gone?”

Seguin stared into the well. “I have to agree. All signs say that Madeleine is down there. Her body may be caught on something or it may have sunk. If so, it should reappear in a few days. Until we know for certain, we need to find another source for drinking water.”

Catherine was appalled by his callousness, but the others accepted it as necessary.

“There’s not much in the cisterns.” Agnes spoke as if from a distance, but her voice was steady. “I checked this morning.”

“There’s beer enough for a week or two,” Guillaume said. “We’ll know before then. Poor Mother! But perhaps it’s better than living in twilight. She’s at peace now.”

Margaret was still in tears. “I should have watched her with more care!” she sniffed. “This is all my fault.”

Catherine came out of her own shock enough to defend Margaret, but she needn’t have worried. No one could feel resentment in the face of such contrition.

“You couldn’t have foreseen this,” Guillaume said. “I forgive you any small lapse in attention. Any one of us might have been with her.”

Agnes didn’t speak at first. Then she bowed her head.

“It’s true,” she said. “She’s always been so docile. I wouldn’t have expected her to do something like this.”

She stared at the well. “I still can’t believe it.”

Edgar repeated that there would still be a thorough search. “I’ll question everyone,” he promised. “If she still lives, she’ll be found.”

His words gave them some comfort but they had no real hope.

Death had come to Boisvert again.

Marie hadn’t left Aymon’s side since Edgar and Martin brought him in, although she had done everything possible in the first hour. His wounds baffled her. They didn’t look as though they’d been made by a blade, at least not the one that had dispatched Raimbaut.

She also couldn’t understand why he hadn’t wakened. The cuts were deep but not in the most vulnerable areas. She had been able to staunch the blood and it had stopped flowing not long after. His color was pale, but not deathly, and his pulse was strong. His breathing was deep and even. The fever had ebbed. In her experience, people with this type of injury regained consciousness quickly.

Perhaps there was some enchantment involved. Marie did not have any training in how to counter that, except through prayer and holy relics. They didn’t have any relics to speak of, and Elissent had been praying hard for her son all day. She was now sleeping fitfully, sitting on the floor by the cot, holding Aymon’s hand.

Marie rubbed her eyes and yawned. She’d been up since first light, had chewed on a dry piece of bread softened with bacon grease a few hours before, and eaten nothing since. A while ago there had been some commotion in the hall, but no one had come to tell her about it. She wondered if they were already under attack.

There was silence all around, the velvet silence of a summer afternoon when everyone with any sense is sleeping until the evening brings a cool breeze. From the rafters she could hear the cooing of the doves that had escaped from their cote yesterday.

Marie’s head drooped.

“Mother?”

Her eyes flew open. “Yes, Gervase. What is it?”

Her eldest son seemed frightened. Marie came fully awake.

“What has happened?” she demanded.

“I don’t know.” Gervase took her arm, trying to get her to stand. “Father told me to come get you. But it must be something terrible. Mama, he was crying!”

The castle keep, that evening.

Occidit hic pietas, regnet et impietas

Vita perit; mors seva fuit, bachatur et ensis

Nullus ibi parcit, Mars ubi sceptera regit
.

Here piety is killed and impiety reigns

Life is lost; cruel death is rampant and the sword has free rein

No one is spared, where Mars holds the scepter.

—Bishop Guy of Amiens

Carmen de Hastingae Proelio
, II. 497–501

Why is Mama crying?” James tried to climb onto the bed where Catherine was curled. “Did a bad man hurt her? I’ll kill him for you.”

“James!” Edgar dragged his son away. “There’ll be no talk of killing. Mama is sad. Put that sword down before you hurt your little brother.”

Peter was standing next to the bed, unable to climb it. Catherine’s convulsive sobbing was frightening him, too. Not
having a wooden sword to express his feelings with, he resorted to a high shriek.

The noise roused Catherine. One look at the panic in her baby’s face was more potent than a slap. She swallowed her tears and lifted him up next to her.

“There, there.” She rocked him in her arms. “It’s all right. Mama is here.” Her voice faltered. She hugged him closer. “Mama won’t go away.”

He tugged at the front of her
bliaut
and she rearranged herself so that he could reach her breast. He sucked eagerly. In a few moments, both of them were asleep.

Edgar took James outside.

“Don’t worry, son,” he promised. “Mama will be fine. You can come with me. I have to help the men make throwing machines.”

That interested James. He went willingly, but his curious mind was still trying to figure out who had made his mother so unhappy.

Edgar found the village craftsmen assembled, as Seguin had commanded, but none of them looked very happy about taking orders from a one-handed Englishman. Edgar decided the only thing was to dive in. He only hoped the men would have the decency not to mock him in front of James.

“Now,” he told them. “What I’d like you to make is rather like a mangonel or petrary, only the arm is positioned farther out on the base and there’s a sling at the end instead of a basket.”

He drew his design in the dirt with a stick. The carpenters, wheelwright, and blacksmith crowded around.

“What’re all the ropes for?” the blacksmith asked.

“We need a man at the end of each one to counterbalance the weight at the throwing end,” Edgar explained. “You fit the sling along this channel.”

He dragged the stick along a line at the bottom of the diagram. “Then fill it with stones or bits of metal and secure it.
When that’s done, the men grab hold of the ropes and pull down hard, all together. At the other end, someone releases the sling and it throws the stones well over the wall and into the army camped below.”

The men studied the diagram with interest. Finally, one of the carpenters spoke up.

“We can turn out two or three of these in a matter of days,” he said. “The problem is finding enough men strong enough to put some force into the pulling.”

Edgar scratched his head. “What about putting baskets at the end of a couple of the ropes? They could be loaded with more rocks and balanced up high, maybe on ladders or a platform. When we’re ready to fire, we can pull out the support. The baskets would drop with much the same force as if a large man yanked the rope.”

He sketched a crude pair of laundry baskets tied to the end of the ropes.

“They might tip before we were ready,” the carpenter ventured. “We ought to secure the tops with lids tied on some way.”

“That would be safer,” Edgar admitted. “Are we agreed to try? If the baskets don’t work, it wouldn’t take much to free them.”

The men seemed gratified that their suggestions were attended to and approved the plan heartily. They divided the labor and dispersed at once to begin work.

Edgar took James and went to tell Seguin of his progress.

“Good work!” Seguin said. “You may think it odd we have no such things prepared, but I never thought we’d need them. It’s been centuries since there has been a serious threat to Boisvert.”

Edgar was mindful of the little boy listening to every word.

“The walls here are strong,” he said. “We can certainly wait until winter drives Olivier home to his own castle.”

Seguin had not been around children for a long time. He didn’t mince his words.

“We’d be fine if my aunt Madeleine hadn’t been so inconsiderate as to drown herself in the well, which was already running
low,” he answered sourly. “Without fresh water, we won’t last a week.”

“Papa?” James voice was less certain than usual. “Is Mama crying because the army will kill us?”

“Absolutely not.” Edgar squatted next to him. “We are all safe here and we’ll be going home soon.”

He glared up at Seguin, who had the grace to be embarassed.

“That’s right,” he told James. “We have the high ground here and brave people to defend the keep. Olivier de Boue is no more to us than a fly to a bull. Their mangonels and
ballista
will never crack our walls or reach up to the keep. I promise you, young man.”

“Is that an oath?” James suspected he was being teased.

Seguin nodded. There was no laughter in his eyes.

James was satisfied.

Edgar was more uneasy.

“We should have a trebuchet ready in a couple of days,” he said. “I had an idea for something that would make it possible for even women to load and release it, but I’d like to do a trial first. Is there time?”

For reply, Seguin pointed out across the field to the woods from which smoke was rising.

“They’ll be here before nightfall,” he said. “By dawn they’ll have set up camp just out of range of our arrows. Then we’ll know the size of the force marshaled against us.”

Edgar was astonished that his first reaction to the news was relief. He had doubted Catherine’s theory about the pleasure of having a solid foe to battle. Now he was forced to agree. It helped him to concentrate on an enemy at the gate rather than a phantom within the walls.

“Lord Seguin! My lord!”

They both looked in the direction of the shrill voice. Seguin smiled at the sight of Evaine racing up the stairs to them, her braids flopping against her shoulders.

“What is it, child?” he asked gently as she stopped to catch her breath.