Read Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Online

Authors: Sharan Newman

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BOOK: Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

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Gratefully, the men left. Adalisa let her shoulders droop. She knelt by Waldeve’s chair and tried to put her arms around him. He pushed her away.

“Why are you weeping?” he demanded. “What has this to do with you?”

Adalisa stood.

“I was their stepmother. I arranged their weddings and took in their wives. I was the first after the midwife to hold baby Edgar. Nearly twenty years they’ve been part of my life. And you can’t imagine why I should weep.”

“They weren’t your blood,” he said, dismissing her and her grief with a gesture. “Now, go quiet those women. And, yes, send for the
priest. Tell him I want Masses said for them without ceasing for the next month.”

“And the burial?” she asked.

He swallowed. “At once.”

Adalisa nodded and left. The bodies had to be washed and wrapped. It was the job of the women of the family to do it. But after three days in the open, the task might be more than Alexander’s and Egbert’s wives could endure. Adalisa stopped and leaned against the cold stone wall. Of course she would do it; there was no way it could be avoided. She was the lady of the keep. Her job was to see that everything ran smoothly, that there was food on the table, beds enough for guests. She held the keys to the larder and the storerooms, to everything except the iron-bound box that lay beneath their bed. She was the mistress of Wedderlie and its slave.

So there was no time for weeping. And why should she grieve for her husband’s sons? After all, as he had sneered, they had been nothing to her.

Nothing at all, she told herself as her tears began again.

The kitchen was full of people and clatter when Urric and Algar entered. The pot boy saw them first and stopped scrubbing. The silence spread out from him until the room was still enough to hear the roast sizzling. The soldiers saw the curiosity in twenty pairs of eyes as they came down the steps.

“Ale,” Urric said. “And soup. We’re frozen clean through with the wind and rain.”

A space was cleared at the long table, between the chopped roots and the half-plucked birds. The men sat. No one said a word until each had drained a bowl of ale and made good headway into the trencher of soup.

“When do we ride?” The abrupt question was not unexpected. Everyone had been waiting for the order since word had come that the bodies had been found.

Urric shrugged. “The old man hasn’t said.”

“Who did it?” That was not as important.

Algar shook his head.

“No one saw.” He poured another bowl of ale. “It wasn’t for booty. It had to be retribution.”

Everyone was silent again, trying to think which of the great families Waldeve or his sons could have offended.

“We’re at war with no one now,” the cook said finally. “At least, not that I’ve heard.”

His tone indicated that he expected to be the first one told.

“There’s plenty who’d like to pay back old wounds.” The voice came from someone at the back. They all nodded. Memories of ancient insults were long as winter nights in the north. And tales told by the fire fanned resentment for years until only a spark was needed for it to explode into fury.

“Someone will know.” Urric sighed and tried to straighten a kink in his back. “And they’ll get drunk and tell someone else, or brag to some woman and she’ll pass it on. No …” He stopped, wincing as his spine fell into place. “That’s not right. Why should it be a secret? Whoever did this, they must want us to know. Why else kill them and take nothing but … ?”

“Their hands,” the cook finished. “You don’t need to be delicate. We all heard.”

He rubbed his wrist as if to assure himself that his own hand was still connected. He wasn’t the only one.

Algar finished his soup and got up. He’d just remembered something.

“With the lords Alexander and Egbert dead, that means Duncan’s the oldest son.”

He shivered. There was something about Waldeve’s third son that made him want cold iron and holy water near him at all times, just to be safe, either way.

In the smoky kitchen more than one hand moved in the ancient sign to ward off evil.

Urric snorted. “That doesn’t make him thane of Wedderlie,” he said. “Alexander’s got another son who could inherit, and there’s always Robert.”

The cook wasn’t about to let this reassure anyone. “Alexander’s son is a child still, and as for Robert, well, it seems to me Waldeve picked the wrong boy to make into a priest.”

Everyone nodded.

The gloom in the kitchen was thicker than the smoke. A vision of life under Duncan of Wedderlie was terrifying to contemplate. When Duncan had gone off to Durham to cast his lot with the king’s chancellor, William Cumin, in his fight for the bishopric, the household had cheered his going and prayed that he would never return.

Finally a spatter from the roast that was no longer being turned brought the cook back to the present.

“No point in borrowing trouble,” he said. “There’s enough here now. Lord Waldeve’s got plenty of good years left. By the time he goes, young Ædmer will be old enough to take over. You! Gille-crist! Who told you to stop working? That meat’ll be raw on one side and burnt on the other.”

The servant hurriedly grabbed the spit and began turning it, wincing as the heat of the metal came through the cloth wrapped around his hand. The others made a show of getting back to their duties as well. But the air of disquiet remained. The horror of the loss was bad enough, but the fear of what it might lead to was worse.

Adalisa made her way slowly up to the women’s rooms. She had consulted with the priest, overseen the preparing of the bodies, ordered food for the funeral and sent messengers to various kin, including Waldeve’s cousin and lord, the earl of Dunbar. Now she had to go face the wives of her stepsons and their children, console them in their grief and calm their fear about the future.

She wished there were one place in this whole bailiwick where she could hide.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Adalisa drew back the curtain, steeling herself to endure Sibilla’s wailing.

The widows sat in chairs by the window. Egbert’s wife, Anna, held their new son. Her other boy was only four. He sat by the side of her chair, sucking his thumb. Anna knew that she would be given little time to mourn. She was heiress to a castle and five villages. Suitors would be arriving before grass sprouted on her husband’s grave.

Sibilla was staring at the dust that was dancing in the afternoon sunlight. She had only one child left now, and he had been sent for fostering at the earl’s court. Adalisa could only imagine the depth of her devastation.

Sitting between the women, cross-legged on the floor, the sunlight catching the gold in her red hair, was Margaret. She greeted Adalisa with a tremulous smile.

“Mama, I’m so glad you’re back,” she said. “No one will tell me anything.”

The girl rose with a fluid grace and Adalisa realized as they hugged that her daughter was growing again. She could rest her chin
on Margaret’s head now. Nearly eleven. It didn’t seem possible. She hugged the child more tightly.

“There’s nothing to tell, sweeting,” Adalisa told her. “The preparations have been made for the burial tomorrow. We shall keep vigil and pray tonight.”

She stopped as Sibilla gave a low moan and covered her face with her scarf.

“I’m sorry, Sibilla,” she added. “Margaret, there’s something you can do for me. Run down and get some water. Then bring me my herb box. We all need something to ease the pain.”

When the child had gone, Adalisa went over to the two women. She had no idea what to say to them. Sibilla looked up, her eyes red in her pale face.

“What’s to become of me?” she asked. “Whatever shall I do now?”

“I don’t know,” Adalisa answered. “This isn’t the time to think of it.”

“And what else shall I dwell on? My poor child’s body, perhaps?” Sibilla was well over the edge of hysteria.

“His soul, waiting for you in Heaven?”

Sibilla’s response to that was less than devout. Anna looked up from the baby, shocked.

“Of course young Edgar is in Heaven!” she said. “Or will be soon. What had he to repent of? And we’ll have the nuns pray for him night and day, just to be sure.”

“Well, don’t think I’ll be joining them in the convent,” Sibilla answered. “I’ve no intention of spending the rest of my days surrounded by women. Oh, dear holy Mother, what’s to become of me?”

Adalisa sighed with relief as Margaret returned, carrying a pail of water in one hand and balancing the herb box against the opposite hip.

“Thank goodness,” she said. “Here, give me the box. Pour some of the water into the long-handled pot and the rest into the bowl next to the brazier. Heat them both. Now, what do I need?”

She took out borage, vervain and wood betony, putting them into a linen square, which she then tied with string. When the pot boiled, she dipped the sachet in it until it soaked enough to sink. While she waited for the herbs to steep, she took out a small vial and dripped a bit of oil onto the steaming water in the bowl.

“Tincture of roses,” she told the women. “Lean over it and breath. It will ease your minds.”

While they were doing that, she brought a pitcher of strong Gascon wine. She mixed the herbal potion with it.

“Drink this, all in a draught,” she ordered. “You need it. You must sleep tonight. Tomorrow will be long.”

They obeyed. Adalisa gave some to Margaret as well, diluting the wine considerably for her.

“Will you stay with your sisters-in-law?” she asked her daughter. “I must see to your father.”

Margaret nodded. Adalisa kissed her.

“I’ll send one of the other women up soon. They’re washing now.

Washing off the smell of death. Adalisa didn’t add it, but something in Margaret’s eyes said that she knew.

Waldeve had put on his riding boots. He paced back and forth across the hall, raising clouds of chaff. His men stood near the hearth, trying not to cough. They were desperate for action. All Waldeve had to do was give the order.

“Urric!” Waldeve shouted.

Urric sprang to attention. “Yes, my lord!”

“Has Robert been sent for?”

Urric sagged a bit. “Yes, my lord.”

“Where is he, then?”

Urric looked over at Algar, who answered all in a rush, as if hoping to distance himself from the words as quickly as possible.

“Lord Robert said that he had something to finish, but he would be here by nightfall.”

The men waited for the eruption, but Waldeve only tightened his lips and continued his pacing.

“Bring him to me as soon as he arrives,” he told them. “Now, Algar, you’ll need to go find my brother.”

Algar stared. “Your brother, Lord?”

“Yes, you remember him.” Waldeve stopped long enough to give Algar the full force of his sneer. “Tall man, red hair, beak like a puffin. Totally mad.”

“Yes, Lord.” Algar hesitated. “Where should I start looking?”

Waldeve considered. “Edinburgh,” he said finally. “He’s often there. If not, you’ll have to search farther north.”

“Yes, Lord,” Algar answered. “I’ll leave at first light.”

Algar stepped back relieved. Urric closed his eyes. He knew what the next order would be.

“Urric!”

“Yes, Lord.”

“You and Swein ride at once for Durham.” Waldeve ignored the wince both men gave. “Tell my son Duncan that he doesn’t need to fight for that Norman upstart anymore. He’s just become my heir.”

Satisfied that things were finally being accomplished, Waldeve stopped his circumnambulation of the room, sat down and called for wine. He had just finished the first cup when his fourth son, Robert, came in, a sleek hunting dog at his heels.

“Father!” he cried. “How did it happen? Who did it?”

Waldeve gazed at his son with contempt.

“If you’d been with them, you’d know,” he answered.

Robert was brought up short. “If I’d been with them, I’d be dead, too. Did you send for me to tell me I should have been slaughtered?”

Waldeve held out his cup to be refilled.

“No, I sent for you to tell you that you’re going to France.” He waited for the shocked response, then smiled. “Edgar may have abandoned his family for his French whore, but his blood is still ours and it’s his duty to come home and fight with us to avenge his brothers.”

“He won’t come, Father,” Robert answered.

“You make him come,” Waldeve said quietly. “Or don’t bother returning.”

Robert opened his mouth to protest, noticed Adalisa in the doorway gesturing for him to agree. He turned away angrily, but then gave in.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll leave as soon as I can arrange for someone to oversee the spring shearing.”

BOOK: Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

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