The Witch in the Well: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (30 page)

“Helping,” Margaret said. “Even James and Bertie. Agnes has them sorting and carrying for her. She seems to have a talent for making people want to be useful.”

“I know,” Catherine agreed. “It always made me furious.”

Marie had arranged a simple evening meal for the household. She wasn’t sure what they would do when everyone from the village was camped in the bailey and every corner of the hall.
Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof
, she reminded herself. At last everything seemed to be running smoothly. If she only could sit down for a moment.

“Marie!”

Of course not. She sighed. “Yes, husband? What do you need?”

“Some of that salve of yours.” He rolled down his hose to show her a scrape that went all across the side of his calf. Marie noted that the stocking would need mending, too. She didn’t bother asking what he had done.

“I’ll send Evaine to fetch it,” she told him. “I had thought we wouldn’t need the medicines so soon.”

“Ha!” Guillaume said. “When you have time, I spotted a boil on one of the villagers’ necks that needs lancing, an eye that’s gone red and runny, and some idiot trying to walk on an ankle as big around as a rutabaga. These people think that Andonenn will cure them, so they don’t treat anything.”

“I’ll have a look at them in the morning,” Marie promised. Her back and legs ached and she was so tired her eyes wouldn’t focus.

She didn’t even turn her head to see what the commotion at the gate was. Someone would tell her soon enough.

She sank into an armchair piled with soft cushions and let her head fall back.

A moment later she was brought up to complete wakefulness by Edgar’s voice.

“We found him in the forest,” he was saying. “We thought he was dead at first, but then he groaned. We got him home as quickly as we could, but I don’t know. He’s badly wounded.”

She opened her eyes to see a procession entering the hall. First came Edgar, explaining to Guillaume why they had been in the forest. He was followed by a stretcher borne by two men. At the side of it walked Seguin. He looked like a man on the edge of the abyss. Lastly, Edgar’s apprentice, Martin entered, carrying what looked like a hunting bow.

The men set the stretcher on the long table where she had planned to serve dinner. Seguin held out his hand to her.

“Please, Lady Marie, your husband says you have some skill,” he pleaded. “We know nothing of illness or wounds. I beg of you, by all the saints, don’t let Aymon die.”

Monday, nones September (September 5) 1146. Feast of Saint Gennebaud, first bishop of Laon, who committed the sin of having children with his own wife. He finally locked himself in a cell to avoid temptation and achieve sainthood. 23 Elul
4909.

Mais cho est bien voirs que l’on dist
.

Li buen, li biel el siecle muerent
,

Li lait li malvais i demeurent
.

But it is very true what people say.

The good, the beautiful soon leave the world,

The ugly and the evil live on.

—
Silence
, II. 2136–2138

E
lissent roused from her bed of grief to rush to the side of her surviving son.

“I knew he couldn’t have hurt his brother,” she sniffed. “Look what that murderer did to him. But he’ll get better. You can make him better, can’t you, Marie?”

Marie examined Aymon’s wounds. “Possibly,” she said. “He
must have lain outside for several hours. He’s very weak and some of these cuts are deep. He’ll need constant care.”

“He shall have it.” Seguin stood behind his wife, his hands on her shoulders.

“I don’t understand it,” Elissent said. “None of this should have happened. We were supposed to be safe here.”

Seguin patted her soothingly. “I know. Something is terribly wrong. We did everything we were told to. The curse ought to be broken. Instead. . .”

He closed his eyes. One son laid out for burying, the other perhaps dying. Outside, an army was gathering to lay siege to his home. He had sent riders out to his vassals to come to the aid of Boisvert, but no one had yet returned. Seguin felt that even God had cast them off.

But he couldn’t let anyone know his despair. There were nearly four hundred people looking to him for protection. The few trained soldiers he had, needed his leadership. If only he knew what to do.

He gazed on the face of his son. Aymon was flushed with fever. Marie had warned him that suppuration might set in. She had potions and powders. One of the servants had been sent out to get fresh dung from a white dog. He didn’t want to imagine what that was for. The requisition reminded him that Edgar had said something about Aymon’s dog being missing. How could anyone know in this chaos?

Seguin gazed down on his son. He knew that there was nothing more he could do here. Aymon’s life was in the hands of Marie. He prayed that she had more influence with God than he did.

Edgar and Martin were waiting when Seguin came down from the sickroom.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he told them. “Aymon would never have been found if you hadn’t gone looking. But how did you know where?”

“Didn’t Brehier tell you about the passage out?” Edgar asked.

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning,” Seguin said. “What passage?”

They explained. “But we haven’t found the entrance, yet,” Edgar ended. “We found Aymon first. It was more important to get him back here. With your permission, Martin and I will return to the forest and resume searching.”

“There was a rumor when I was a boy about an underground path into the forest,” Seguin said. “But I always thought it was just the wishful dreams of the fosterlings. Aymon discovered it, did he? And never told a soul.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “He was no captive. Why did he need a secret way out?”

“A woman, perhaps,” Edgar suggested. “Someone married or unsuitable.”

Seguin rubbed at the knot in his neck. “What does it matter now?”

“Why he kept it secret is of no importance, I agree,” Edgar said. “But I believe we need to find this passage before Olivier’s men do.”

“Yes, of course.” Seguin was alert again. “However, there’s much more to be done here, if we’re to survive until relief comes. The walls are strong; we have food. The water may hold out. But we have no serious defense weapons. We haven’t needed them in generations.”

“First let us find the passage so that it can be blocked,” Edgar said. “Then Martin and I will aid you in building a defense.”

Seguin looked at Edgar’s arm. “You? What can you do?”

Martin stepped between him and Edgar.

“My lord,” he said quickly. “You would be astonished.”

Catherine felt completely useless. When Marie had been called to care for Aymon, Agnes had taken over as chatelaine. She was superb at it. From a mass of frightened people and piles of be
longings, she was creating order. There were even moments of calm. Margaret had been pressed into service as nursemaid for Madeleine again. Edgar and Martin had gone off somewhere without even telling her. When Catherine had asked what she could do to help, Agnes had suggested condescendingly that she stay out of the way.

So that’s what Catherine was doing. She sat on a chest in the corner of the hall watching the activity. She wondered why there was so much preparation going on if the dispute with Olivier was going to be resolved quickly. After a few hours of observation, she concluded that people weren’t so much fearful as excited. It made a change from their daily life and brought neighbors together. Catherine was skeptical about how long that would last.

She also wondered which of the bustling individuals was really trying to destroy Boisvert. Had someone been hired to murder the heirs, thus reducing Gargenaud to despair? Was one of these seemingly honest villagers planning to open the gate to the enemy?

And where was Mandon while all this was going on? The mysterious woman had gone to immense lengths to get them all here and left them wandering without direction. Did she simply intend to hide under the castle and wait to see what would happen? If Olivier conquered them, would she become the guardian for him, instead? Or would she fade away as Judith’s curse ate down to her lair?

No answers came. Her speculations were as useless as she was, Catherine thought gloomily.

Slowly she became aware that, across the hall, there was one other person who wasn’t bustling. There was something familiar about her. Catherine concentrated, squinting at the figure to see her better.

“Saint Perpetua’s oily athlete!” She slid off the chest in surprise.

The old woman was huddling in a corner. She seemed feeble,
limbs shaking with age. But, when Catherine looked at her steadily, she saw someone not much older than she, hair grayed with ash, lines on her face accentuated with brief strokes of kohl.

She had seen this trick before.

Catherine went bounding across the hall, dodging boxes, bales, and babies as she ran. The woman saw her coming and tried to get away, but Catherine was too quick.

“Mandon!” she cried, grabbing the woman’s wrist. “Why are you just sitting here? What are you going to do about this?”

The woman shrank back in fear. Catherine peered more closely at the face and blinked. It wasn’t Mandon.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Berthe, good lady,” the woman croaked. “My name is Berthe. What is it you wish me to do?”

Catherine didn’t let go. “Tell me the truth.”

“My lady,” Berthe pleaded. “I don’t know what you mean? The truth about what?”

The image of the bewildered old woman was so good that Catherine doubted for a moment. If she hadn’t seen Mandon transform, she would have believed herself mistaken. She brushed her fingers over Berthe’s cheek.

“It doesn’t even come off,” she marveled. “But I can tell. You’re too much like her. You must know Mandon, too. I saw it in your eyes when I spoke her name.”

Berthe tried to break loose. Her strength convinced Catherine that she was right. She needed both hands to keep hold of the woman. In the struggle, Berthe’s scarf slipped off, exposing dark roots.

“There,” Catherine said. “What kind of woman dyes her brown hair gray?”

“Hush!” Berthe told her. “People are watching.”

She stopped fighting Catherine.

“If I tell you what you want to know, will you pretend we never met?”

“I can’t promise that!” Catherine declared. “Not without knowing what you intend.”

“Then take me to Gargenaud and have him judge me.” Berthe rubbed at her wrists.

“Judge you for what?” Catherine asked tightening her grip. “Pretending to be lamb dressed as mutton? I don’t think that’s a crime. What crime do you think you should pay for?”

“I’m only here like everyone else, for protection,” Berthe insisted. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Maybe not,” Catherine said. “But you know things I need to understand. Tell me about Mandon and what your connection is with her.”

“You wouldn’t believe me.” Berthe laughed.

“I’ll believe the truth,” Catherine said quietly. “It would be nice to hear it for a change.”

Berthe studied her for a long minute.

“The truth is,” she said in a low voice, “that I’m here to help my sister. Do you believe me?”

Catherine released her grip on Berthe’s wrists. Her fingers slid down the woman’s arm until she was clasping both her hands.

“Yes,” she said. “Oddly enough, I do. Come with me.”

In a remote chamber of the castle, just above the chapel, Margaret was forlornly trying to get Madeleine to eat something.

“I assure you, my lady,” she said. “This isn’t a fast day. The cook has sent up lovely fresh berries and cream and a loaf still warm from the oven. That must tempt you.”

“Oh, it does, Sister Margaret,” Madeleine said. “But I will resist the temptation. I have vowed to fast in penance for my sins.”

“What sins, my lady?” Margaret asked. “Did the priest set you this penance?”

Madeleine shook her head. “Of course not. I promised my husband that I’d tell no one, especially not a priest. Do you know my husband? He’s a merchant, very rich. He’s gone now, to Spain,
I think, or perhaps Poland. I haven’t seen him for a long time. The children miss him.”

“Then you must keep up your strength for their sake,” Margaret said patiently.

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Madeleine looked so contrite that Margaret felt dreadful for deceiving her.

While Madeleine was occupying herself with the berries, Margaret wandered over to the long, thin window. Through the thick glass she could see movement. Shouts of command echoed across the bailey, cries of sudden anger, even laughter.

Life was going on down there and she was trapped in a quiet cell tending to a madwoman. And, when all this was over, she would return to the convent. A wonderful convent, to be sure, but still not exactly at the center of things. Of course, she could marry. Her grandfather was eager to arrange a good match.

She only wished there was another choice.

“It’s a terrible thing to marry a Jew.”

Margaret spun around. Had Madeleine been reading her thoughts?

“What did you say?”