The Witch in the Well: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (7 page)

Guillaume’s second son managed to stand on wobbly legs.

“I’d have got you if I hadn’t dropped my shield!” He glared up at James.

“Next time, don’t be so clumsy,” Guillaume told him. “Now go have your mother bandage those cuts.”

He handed James over to Edgar.

“You’ve got a fine warrior here,” he said. “Another couple of years, send him to me for training.”

Edgar took his son without comment. A part of him was proud of James’s fierce attack. A much greater part was terrified that the child was already becoming as brutal as his own father and brothers in Scotland.

James knew he was in trouble.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” he said, still confused. “I didn’t mean to hurt Bertie. I forgot.”

“Forgot what?” Edgar asked.

“That he wasn’t really a monster.”

Edgar tightened his grip. He was more confused than James.

He didn’t know what to tell his son. However, Catherine was almost upon them and it was clear that she had plenty to say.

After the failure to discover a simple explanation for the appearance of the old woman, Solomon had offered to go back to Paris to make arrangements for the journey to Blois. He returned to Vielleteneuse just at twilight. The village was quiet and the castle windows showed only a few candles. He had brought sausage and bread with him as well as a skin of wine made by his old friend, Abraham. Rather than enjoy them under the scornful gaze of Christians, he decided to wander down to the river for a peaceful solitary meal.

The sound of the running water and the flow of wine made him sleepy and it was full dark when he awoke.

That was when he heard the chanting.

Normally, Solomon found the melody of women’s voices very appealing. However, there was something in the rhythmic sound, coming ever closer, that told him this was no place for a man. Slowly, he rose to a crouch and made his way up the riverbank and back toward the town.

He hadn’t gone ten paces when two shapes appeared from the field and blocked his path.

“Heu, peterin!”
one of them said.

It was a woman’s voice, harsh with anger.

“You know the price,
om sordois
.” The other stepped close to him.

Solomon felt the prick of a knifepoint.

“Price for what?” he cried. “I fell asleep by the river. Now I’m going back to the keep. That’s all.”

“And tell them all what you saw?” the woman with the knife snorted. “Not likely.”

“I saw nothing!” Solomon insisted. “And could you move that knife a little higher? To my heart, perhaps, or my throat.”

There was a low chuckle from the other woman.

“There’s always a few who think they can have a peek and get away with it,” she said. “You’re lucky the Holy Virgin doesn’t strike you blind.”

“Maybe she didn’t because she knows I didn’t see anything.” Solomon tried to back away, but felt others coming up behind him. “I tell you, I woke up, heard voices, and decided to leave before I interrupted anything. That’s all.”

There was laughter at this. Other women had gathered to enjoy his plight.

“Cut ’em off quick, Rose,” one woman called. “We have no time to play.”

Solomon had been in danger of death many times before, but nothing had made him as terrified as he was at this moment.

Suddenly a lantern was held up to his face.

“Here, now,” the first woman said. “You’re that one with Lady Catherine, aren’t you? What would she say about this?”

“That I’d made a perfect fool of myself,” Solomon sighed. “But she’d also tell you that I’m not a man who needs to creep about in fields to get an eyeful.”

“I’d let you in the barn when my man was out,” called a voice from the rear.

The knife didn’t budge, but the atmosphere seemed to lighten.

Very carefully, Solomon reached down and turned the blade away.

“You’re doing an invocation to the river, aren’t you?” he asked. “No one thought to tell me or I wouldn’t have been a league from this place. My aunt knows about it. She said it worked when she was a girl in Troyes. A child pulls an herb up by the roots and then the other maidens sprinkle her with water. That’s all I know of it.”

“That’s right, young man.” The woman with the knife wasn’t convinced of his innocence. “The job is done by the virgins of the village and we mean to see that they remain so.”

“And fine guardians you are.” He backed a step, still trying to find a way out of the circle. “I wouldn’t want to disturb the rite for anything, truly. The drought has been bad for all of us. Look,” he said. “I swear on the soul of my mother that I came to this place all unknowing. My partner, Lord Edgar, and his wife, Lady Catherine, will be my gauge in this.”

“By the way,” he added. “Who is protecting your daughters while you’re busy with me?”

There was a moment of silent consternation then the group dissolved into individual worried mothers and aunts.

“Let him go, Rose,” one said. “We don’t want trouble with the castle.”

Reluctantly, Rose moved away a pace. Solomon dared take a deep breath.

It was too soon. Before he could react she slashed at his groin with the knife. He felt the point of it slide along his thigh before she turned and ran.

He waited until he reached the slopes of the bailey before he checked the wound.

His linen tunic had been cut through, but his riding pants had been too tough for the metal. Apart from the thin scratch on his leg, he was unharmed.

“Thank you, Lord.” He knelt in the dust. “Blessed be Your holy Name, I am eternally grateful that You made me a common trader, who always covers his privates with leather
brais
.”

He got up carefully, checking to be sure no one had seen his lapse into faith. Then he woke up the guard at the keep and went in to bed.

He fervently hoped that the morning would bring rain.

Vielleteneuse, Thursday, 3 ides August, August 11, 1149.

Les aventures trespassees

Qui diversement ai contees
,

Nes ai pas dites sans garants
.

Les estores on trai avant

Ki encore sont a Carlion

Ens el moustier Saint Aaron. . .
.

The tales of long ago that I have often told,

I don’t tell them to you without proofs.

I came across them at Carlion

In the monastery of Saint Aaron. . ..

—
Lai de l’Aubépine
, II. 2–7

T
he next morning, to Solomon’s amazement, the sky was full of clouds. The hot air had a breeze in it that smelled like rain. He actually recited the morning prayers out of grateful relief. Now no one would be tracking him down for desecrating the rite. He was just congratulating himself on another narrow escape
when Edgar yanked him from the breakfast table and hustled him out into the bailey.

“They’ve found the body of the messenger from Boisvert,” he told Solomon. “Some peasants were out fishing at dawn and pulled him up in their nets.”

“Are you sure it was him? Has he been dead long?” Solomon asked. What if the women had snared another unfortunate man out to catch a glimpse of naked girls?

“At least since yesterday,” Edgar said. “He hadn’t been in the water so long that I didn’t know his face. Even more, the pouch containing the letter with Lord Gargenaud’s seal was still hanging at his belt.”

“Accident?”

“He had an arrow through his chest,” Edgar said. “Worse, there was no sign of theft. It wasn’t a chance attack. Someone didn’t want him to reach the rest of Gargenaud’s relatives. They must have been laying in wait for him.”

Solomon didn’t need time to think.

“I say we pack up and return to Paris at once,” he said. “Let Catherine’s grandfather rot. It’s not worth risking your lives.”

“I know,” Edgar snapped. “That’s what I think we should do, too.”

He was silent for a moment, staring at the floor as if there were a message in the broken rushes and bits of trash.

“But. . .?” Solomon prompted.

Edgar shook his head as if to clear it. His fine blond hair flopped across unshaven cheeks.

“I
think
that we should go back home at once,” he spoke from behind clenched teeth. “But I
feel
that we must go to Boisvert. I can’t tell you why; I don’t know myself. Perhaps there is a curse that must be lifted, as Giullaume believes. What if by hiding we condemn all the others?” He grimaced. “All right, tell me I’m howling mad.”

“Oh, you are,” Solomon said. “But it’s beginning to appear
that this is not just some moldy legend. Spirits don’t shoot arrows. There’s a living person who doesn’t want the message to reach the family. Maybe there’s something more tangible at stake here than a curse.”

“Somewhere in the story,” Edgar told him, “Guillaume did mention that this magical ancestress of theirs also guarded an ancient Carolingian treasure.”

“I thought so,” Solomon said. “There’s always something like that in these tales. What if the old man wants it discovered, perhaps divided among his descendants? And what if only those present have a chance at it?”

“That’s nothing to me,” Edgar protested. “We don’t need a treasure. We’re doing well enough on our own.”

“For now,” Solomon agreed. “But the wheel of life goes down often enough. And what if this is something that was once owned by Charlemagne himself? Would you want to deprive your children of a share in that?”

Edgar gave him a look of disgust.

“What side are you arguing on?” he asked.

“Neither. I want you to make the decision clearly,” Solomon answered. “I’m only throwing the
merel
on the table so you can make up your mind which ones to play.”

Edgar threw up his hands.

“I’ve already told Catherine that we’re going. If this poor man’s murder doesn’t alter her mind, we’ll leave from Paris within the week.”

“Murder hasn’t stopped her yet,” Solomon said. “Now, it so happens that I have friends in the town of Blois that I’ve been meaning to visit. Perhaps I should see you safely to Boisvert on my way.”

Edgar grinned. “You don’t fool me. You want to us find out just what form this treasure of Charlemagne takes.”

“You never know,” Solomon smiled. “They say he was very tolerant toward the Jews, even sent one to Baghdad on a mission.
Maybe it’s a holy treasure, like articles taken from the Temple in Jerusalem or even the tablets Moses brought down from the mountain. Imagine, the Commandments, themselves, etched by the hand of the Creator! That might be something the pious King Louis would want destroyed. Something that proved your faith isn’t necessary.”

Edgar glanced over Solomon’s shoulder. There had been a movement farther down the hall, as if someone had stopped in the shadows and then moved on.

“Right!” he said loudly. “What nonsense! Hiding in a cave in Blois? Now who’s howling? Come along, old friend. We’ll go down to the storeroom and see if we can find the jewels that Dido gave Aeneas before he sailed away. I’ve heard that there are boxes of them hidden all over France.”

Solomon understood at once. He should have known better than to say such things anywhere but in their own home. He wondered who had been listening and how much they had heard.

At that moment, Catherine was reconsidering any journey that would mean continued association with her older brother. The two of them had been arguing since the morning meal and every word made it clear to her that they would never agree.

“How can you not be upset about this?” she asked again. “It was your son that mine was pounding on. Bertie could have been badly hurt.”

“Nonsense.” Guillaume waved his hands, wishing he could brush her off like the flies circling his head. “Bertie is a head taller than James. If he can’t hold his own against a smaller boy, then he deserves a good pounding. Anyway, they’re friends. James wouldn’t have harmed him seriously.”

“But, Guillaume, don’t you see,” Catherine watched him swat at the flies and longed to suggest that he go wash the honey from his beard if he wanted to get rid of them. “James insists that
he didn’t mean to do it. He was so involved in the game that he really thought Bertie was a monster. Doesn’t that worry you?”

“Hmph! Think that myself often enough about Bertie. Ow!” He had slapped at a fly just as it landed on his cheek. “There’s nothing wrong with getting carried away in a battle, Sister. What do you think we’re training them for? Are you planning to shove James into the Church? I can tell you now, he’d make a lousy monk and our family doesn’t have the clout to get him a bishopric. Now,” he pushed her toward the door, “why don’t you get on with your packing and leave James to me and his father. Hmm?”

Catherine was still fuming when Edgar found her. At first she listened to the news about the messenger with little attention. It was only when she realized that he had been murdered that she calmed down.

“The poor man!” She crossed herself. “Do you think the old woman had anything to do with his death?”

The question surprised Edgar. “Not unless she was handy with a crossbow and could shoot it from her grave, wherever that is.”