The Witch in the Well: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (36 page)

“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 un
dertake 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 fresh 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.

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.
He sounded the oliphant in grief and pain
Charlemagne heard it and his Franks took heed.

—
La Chanson de Roland
, II. 1785–1788

B
efore he died, Thierry swore to them that he had not divulged the existence of the tunnel. He had told his captors that he had been hunting and knew nothing of Boisvert. Olivier had insisted that he and his companion were spies and punished them accordingly. The other man had died after his feet had been cut off. He had said nothing about another entrance, either.

Gargenaud ordered that Thierry be buried with honor in the family vault.

The next day Olivier attacked with a charge that cost him many men, thanks in no small measure to the trebuchet Edgar had designed and that the workmen had improved upon. Even the lower walls remained unbreached.

Olivier was undaunted. Even though they had no weapon that could reach the defenders, the assault continued every morning for ten days, as if Olivier felt he had no need to conserve his forces nor any interest in how little damage they were doing.

At this point everyone at Boisvert had been pressed into service, carrying stone, filling the baskets, making new arrows for the archers. There was not enough time for anyone to sleep or prepare food nor, with the state of the well uncertain, was there a chance to wash. The inhabitants became increasingly grimy, their faces lined with gritty sweat.

Now and then Olivier would let loose a shot from a mangonel and there would be a thump and shake as the boulder hit the walls.

“Why does he bother?” Marie cried in vexation as the stool she was sitting on rocked with the vibration.

“To rub out nerves raw,” Agnes answered. “In my case, it’s successful.”

Eventually, the daily assaults ended, and Olivier contented himself with an occasional charge against the gates when they least expected it. These were easily repulsed by the archers on the walls.

“I don’t understand it,” Seguin said. “He hasn’t tried a battering ram on the lower gate. Not even flaming arrows. Why not?”

“Do you think he knows that we can’t use the well?” Odilon asked, with an apologetic glance at Guillaume.

“How could he?” Seguin asked.

The unspoken answer lay between them. There was a traitor.

“Perhaps he wants to keep Boisvert in good repair for when it belongs to him,” Odilon suggested.

“There’s no way that will happen,” Seguin said. “Especially if he continues his siege in this halfhearted fashion.”

“We should be grateful,” Guillaume added. “It gives us more time to try to find the passage that leads out to the forest.”

“Does Aymon still insist he never knew about it?” Odilon asked.

“Yes,” Seguin said. “He says he found the stable and made use of it. That was all.”

“I wish we could get out to explore from that end.” Guillaume tugged his beard in frustration.

“Better stay far away lest Olivier find it,” Seguin reminded him.

“Well, Count Thibault will surely arrive soon with enough men to drive Olivier back to Anjou,” Guillaume concluded.

“Huh!” Odilon said. “If Thibault ever got the message. What will you wager that the count knows nothing of our trouble? Do you really think this Solomon cares what happens to us?”

“I don’t like Solomon,” Guillaume told them. “But it’s because he’s arrogant and an infidel. Other than that, he’s trustworthy. It may be that Thibault wasn’t in Paris or Troyes and Solomon had to track him down elsewhere. But he won’t abandon his mission.”

Odilon shook his head. “You’ve been contaminated by your sister. She and her husband are obviously far too friendly with the man. No one is coming to save us.”

“That’s not true!” Guillaume felt odd defending Solomon.

Seguin interrupted. “I don’t know which of you is right. It doesn’t matter. What we must do is find a way to defeat Olivier on our own.”

“And what has happened to Andonenn?” Odilon wanted to know. “We did everything we were supposed to. Instead of being our salvation, that magic gift from Charlemagne turned out to be
a knife that killed the best warrior we had. We have a foe without and a curse within. How are we supposed to fight both at once?”

“I own the knife makes no sense.” Seguin sighed. “But Andonenn has protected us this long. We must have faith in her yet a while.”

The men were sitting beside the empty hearth in the Great Hall. It was late in the evening and their faces were lit by only a small oil lamp hanging from an iron sconce. Varying emotions were reflected in them, but the predominant one was irritation. There was no need yet for fear or despair, but each man felt that the days of calm punctuated by sudden shrieks of men or the
whoosh
of objects hurled at the wall were only a stalling ploy. Guillaume finally said what they all were thinking.

“He’s waiting for something, or someone.”

“So are we,” Seguin said. “But even if he brings in a thousand more men, we can still keep them from breaking through. The slope is way too steep for battering rams or belfries.”

“There’s something we’re missing.” Odilon tapped his teeth with his meat knife.

From outside there was a crash as a boulder flattened an empty chicken coop.

Seguin paid it no mind. “Yes,” he agreed. “But what? What have we failed to see?”

“Mama.” Edana climbed on Catherine’s lap. “I want to go home.”

“So do I,
deorling
.” Catherine tried to smooth her daughter’s tangled hair. “But we still have work to do here.”