Edgar stood up and threw down his ale bowl in disgust.
Æthelræd looked at him in mild curiosity.
“You don’t like the ale?” he asked.
“The ale is fine, Uncle,” Edgar answered. “Just as I remembered it. But I didn’t come to Durham to sit in a tavern and guzzle ale. We’ve been here three days and have done little else.”
“I say, don’t complain when things are going smoothly,” Æthelræd cautioned him.
“They’re not going smoothly, Uncle. They’re not going at all,” Edgar sat again but continued fuming. “Every time I ask my father what I should be doing, he puts me off. I’ve tried to get permission from Cumin to visit the monks but I can’t even get an audience with him. What am I doing here?”
Æthelræd finished his ale and belched.
“I wondered when you’d get tired of waiting,” he said. “Why don’t we do a few things without permission?”
He reached inside the scrip hanging from his belt and took out a key. Edgar began to grin.
“Where did you get that?” he asked. “I thought Cumin had confiscated all the keys.”
“Apparently he missed one,” Æthelræd answered. “Every monk has a key to the north door. The archdeacon took his with him and happened to give it to me.”
“Why did you wait?” Edgar said in exasperation.
“I didn’t know how much trouble you were willing to get into,” his uncle said. “If we’re caught in the cloister by Cumin’s men, we may join the men who wouldn’t pay the tithes. The ones hanging outside their homes on Silver and Saddler Streets.”
Edgar had seen them, dangling not by their necks, but by their waists, with weights hung from hands and feet. It takes a long time to die that way.
“I know every place a boy can hide in the cloister and cathedral,” he said. “We won’t get caught.”
They decided to go the following morning, reasoning that two men wandering about the cathedral would be less remarkable by day. That night Edgar ate his fish stew with more appetite than he had since coming to Britain. At last he was doing something, not letting himself be blown about on his father’s whim.
The man he sat next to seemed vaguely familiar. Edgar had seen him among his father’s retainers.
“I don’t remember you from when I lived at Wedderlie,” he admitted. “What’s your name?”
“Algar,” the man answered. “I remember you, though. I’m Alfred’s grandson. When I was little, I used to run errands to the keep. Once, you gave me a honey cake.”
“You remember that?” Edgar was astounded.
“It was an act of fellowship, not charity.” Algar smiled. “You confessed that you’d stolen them from the kitchen.”
“I probably had.” Edgar thought back. “There were never any left after the men had eaten, although sometimes my stepmother managed to save me a few. Are we … uh … related?”
Algar grinned. “Your uncle asked me the same question. My mother says not and I believe her.”
“She should know.” Edgar offered his hand. “I’m glad to meet you again, Algar. It is nice to know there’s one man in my father’s company who isn’t my brother or nephew.”
Edgar studied the face before him. Algar must be five or six years younger than he. The incident he remembered must have occurred on Edgar’s last visit home before he left for France. Fifteen
years ago and yet that small act had remained in this man’s mind. This was someone he should pay attention to.
He woke the next morning with his head full of plans about how to reach Brother Lawrence with the message he had been charged to convey. He didn’t pay much attention to the commotion in the outer bailey. Then he heard someone call his name.
“Edgar, come quickly.” It was Æthelræd, looking unusually grim. “There’s news from Wedderlie!”
Edgar rushed out to find a crowd of men gathered around a rider who hadn’t had time even to dismount. He then recognized Oswin, who had been left in charge of the guards at Wedderlie. His heart began pounding.
“Where is Lord Waldeve?” Oswin shouted. “Lord Edgar, where is your father? He must know at once. Two nights ago we were attacked. We drove the invaders back but most of the men were killed and the keep has been burnt to the ground.”
Edgar felt all the blood drain from his head. He only stayed upright because of his uncle’s strong arm around him.
“My wife?” he yelled across the tumult. “Where is she?”
Oswin’s face was still blackened by smoke and there was a bandage around his head that was oozing blood.
“I don’t know, Lord,” he said miserably. “We fear they were all trapped inside.”
Edgar stared at him, uncomprehending. This wasn’t happening. The man was mistaken. Catherine must have escaped. He had left her there so that nothing could harm her and James. Oswin couldn’t have meant that they had been hurt.
“Why are you here?” he shouted. “Why aren’t you back home protecting my family?”
“My lord.” Oswin was weeping. “Forgive me, but there’s nothing left to protect.”
An abandoned cottage outside of Berwick. Thursday, the kalends July (July
1), 1143. The feast of Saint Serf, a Briton, about whom nothing is known.
Quae vero pestis efficacior ad nocendum quam familiaris inimicus?
And truly what plague is more powerful in hurtfulness than a
member of one’s household who has become an enemy?
—Boethius
Consolation of Philosophy,
Book III part V 11 41–42
“
S
olomon should have been back by now,” Catherine fretted.
“Do you think he’s been attacked by brigands?” Willa asked.
Catherine immediately regretted voicing her worry. Willa had been so brave through the past few days, even when her teeth were chattering from terror. It would be cruel to add to her burden.
“No, I don’t,” she told the girl. “I think he probably had trouble finding someone who could understand him well enough to explain what has happened.”
“I should have gone with him.” Adalisa was fretting as well. “The monks at the hospice there know me.”
Catherine shook her head. “No, Solomon was right about that. If someone wants to destroy the whole family, it’s best that no one knows we survived the fire.”
Adalisa was trying to comb her hair with her fingers. She yanked at it in frustration.
“Why are they such cowards?” she cried. “How can we fight an enemy without a face?”
The image gave Catherine a frisson at the back of her neck. That was the worst of it. Since they didn’t know who was after them, they had no idea whom to trust. Even asking for help was dangerous, which was why Solomon had insisted in going into the town alone.
There was nothing for it but to wait. Catherine gazed at James lying naked on a blanket in the warm morning sunshine. He seemed content for now, but they had only been able to rinse out his swaddling in the river and hang it to dry on the bushes nearby. There were red chafe marks on his poor little bottom already. They had nothing to oil him with and no clean cloths to wrap him in. The ones they had used to make shoes with were filthy.
On the other hand, James was the only one of them who wasn’t hungry. They had found berries and edible plants enough, but they
hadn’t managed to catch any fish and had no way to cook one even if they had. Catherine had been imagining bread with mutton drippings for the last hour so strongly that she could almost smell the fat.
“If Solomon doesn’t find someone who will loan us a horse,” she asked Adalisa, “do you think we can manage to reach your Holy Island, with the children and with him?”
She nodded toward the corner where Lazarus was curled, fast asleep. Berries had apparently satisfied him. He had rolled them in his mouth and bit into them with a joy that was almost painful to watch. But he had still said nothing and his legs were clearly too weak to support even his fragile body.
Adalisa had been trying to think of a way that she and Catherine could carry him, but she knew that even if they made a stretcher to put him on, they could only go a mile or so before they would need to rest. At that rate, it might take a week to reach safety. With Margaret and James to care for, especially James, a week would be too long.
She stroked Margaret’s vibrant hair as the child slept, her head in her mother’s lap.
“If Solomon doesn’t return soon,” she decided, “we’ll have to take him into town ourselves. Our enemies will certainly find out then that we’re alive, but if we stay here much longer, we won’t survive and then they will have won.”
Sadly, Catherine agreed. She watched James kicking happily in the sun, tended by Willa. Her duty was to care for both of them. The weight of it was crushing. When she had left the convent, all she had considered was Edgar, the love and, to be honest, the lust she felt for him. Mother Heloise had left her own son to be raised by his father’s family when she had taken the veil. Catherine knew she couldn’t do that. She had no wish to go back. But why had no one told her of the terrible responsibilities of love?
Late in the afternoon they heard someone moving in the woods. In a moment, they had gathered together, Adalisa holding the long knife Solomon had left as meager protection. Her relief was overwhelming as he appeared, leading a mule loaded with provisions. She dropped the knife and rushed to embrace him.
“It’s all right,” Solomon said over and over as she wept. “I’m sorry I was so long.”
Catherine was surprised by how tenderly he comforted Adalisa and by how certain she seemed to be of receiving it. The way he
smoothed her hair and wiped her eyes. And the way he smiled into them! Catherine looked away, unsettled by the sight.
She turned her attention to the provisions he had brought.
“Does this mean we can’t go into Berwick?” she asked, gesturing at the laden mule.
“Word has already come that we were killed in the fire,” Solomon told them. “A few of the people from the village have taken refuge at the hostels for now, but they’re returning to Wedderlie soon. I don’t think any of them saw me. The trader I talked with told me that the taverns were full of the news. They’re calling it a judgment on Waldeve, saying how strange it was that the castle was destroyed and the village left unharmed.”
“I’m glad of that,” Adalisa said. “Even if it does seem to confirm that our enemies only care about killing us. But why? What have we done?”
“Did you learn anything about Robert?” Catherine asked.
Solomon nodded. “His farm was torched, as well, but he escaped. The rumor is that Waldeve and his men have gone to Durham. Robert is supposed to be going there himself, to bring the news. I hope the dog survived.”
“Robert must have saved her,” Adalisa said. “Or else he’d have died trying to.”
“But that means Edgar will think he’s lost us!” Catherine said. “We can’t let him, Solomon. It will kill him!”
“We have to, Catherine,” Solomon said. “There was no one there I could trust to send a message to him. Once we reach Holy Island, then I’ll go myself to Durham. But first we must find all of you a haven from this nightmare.”
Catherine knew he was right, even though the thought of what Edgar would be suffering was horrible. The only thing was to reach the island as soon as they could.
They ate the cheese and dried meat he had brought and Catherine rubbed grease from the cheese paper on James’s bottom and wrapped him in the dried swaddling. Solomon didn’t need to tell them to hurry. But he watched with impatience. He had another reason for wanting to be on their way as soon as possible. While in the tavern in Berwick, he had been surprised to see Leonel, the cleric who had come with them from France. The man had recognized him, he was sure. But, instead of greeting him, Leonel’s face had paled with alarm and he had quickly gotten up and left. Solomon
didn’t know what to make of his actions. Had the cleric believed he had seen a ghost? Or was there another reason? Why was the man still in Berwick when he had made such a point of wanting to go to York?
Solomon tried to think of an innocent reason for Leonel being there, but could come up with none. Only one possibility rang in his mind. That the man hadn’t traveled with them by chance, but had been sent to follow them. And the only reason he could think of for that was that someone wanted information on him and, perhaps, on his relationship with Catherine.
What if Leonel were to go back to Paris and tell the Bishop that he had been posing as a Christian and that Catherine and Edgar were in collusion with him?
He knew that his first job was to see that they all arrived safely at Holy Island. But Solomon couldn’t help but wonder if there would be any haven for him or his family, should word of this reach Paris.
Edgar felt numb. He sat staring into emptiness, not letting himself comprehend what he had just been told. This hadn’t happened. Catherine was fine. She had survived so many dangers before, even giving birth to James. God wouldn’t give them to him and then take them away. There was no sense in such cruelty.
All around men were shouting, crying, raging at the air, demanding that Oswin tell them if their families had escaped.
“Only the keep was burned,” he told them. “But the people are scattered. I don’t know who survived.”
Waldeve watched it all, uncharacteristically silent. But Edgar paid no attention. He was lost in his own world, trying somehow to make this news mean something else than what had been said.
“Edgar.” Someone was shaking him. “Edgar, come back. They’re not dead, I tell you. They’re not dead.”
Edgar blinked and looked into the shaggy face of his uncle.
“Listen to me,” Æthelræd said carefully. “You know I’ve always known where to find you? I came to meet you at Berwick, even though you hadn’t planned to land there. I felt it when your brothers died. I knew when my father had died, although I was in Denmark then. No one in this damned family dies without a piece going out of me. Your son survived; I’m sure of it. Margaret, too. And if they did, then it stands to reason that their mothers are also alive.”
“Catherine?” Edgar still didn’t understand.
“They didn’t die in the fire,” Æthelræd said again. “Nor did Robert. I would stake my soul on it. Edgar!”
Æthelræd shook him again. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” Edgar said from far away. “You say they’re alive. Of course they are. They have to be, or I’ve died, too.”
Æthelræd sighed and rubbed his forehead. The boy was too far gone into shock to talk with now. The best thing was to get a sleeping draught into him and hope he’d be more aware when he woke.
They were inside a silent bubble in the middle of chaos. Æthelræd helped Edgar to stand and walked him over to the gate of the bishop’s palace. With his free arm, he pushed aside anyone who got in the way.
“I need your infirmarian,” he told the guard at the gate.
“We don’t have one,” the guard said. “There’s a monk in the cathedral who tends to our wounds. That’s all. But you can’t go there without permission from the bishop.”
“Fine,” Æthelræd answered.
He shouldered Edgar once more and went back to the crowd, pushing his way through. From there he eased out the other side and toward the path leading to the cloister.
As they were about to vanish among the trees, Waldeve spotted them.
“You two!” he shouted. “Get over here. There’s work to be done!”
Æthelræd ignored him and steered Edgar to the north door of the cloister. Taking the key from his scrip, he opened it and dragged Edgar in.
Waldeve watched them go with impotent fury. He couldn’t reach them through the mass of men around him, begging him to take them back to find their families. He had nothing but contempt for his followers. Men who vented their feeling like this were of no use to him. Grief must become anger and anger hate or a man would lose the desire to fight. He had to regain control of them at once.
“You, stop that howling!” he screamed, hitting at the nearest man with the flat of his sword. “Crying won’t avenge them. And going home will only take us into a trap.”
The man only winced and continued sobbing.
Waldeve’s anger grew. “Saint Finian’s flying farts!” he bellowed. “Aren’t there any men left here?”
“Waldeve, leave them be.”
Waldeve looked up. Standing in front of him was William Cumin, erstwhile bishop of Durham. “They are torn with fear for those they love. You have lost much more than they. Why aren’t you grieving with them?”
“My Lord Bishop,” Waldeve said perfunctorially. “I learned years ago that my tears bring no one back. They only sap my strength, leaving me too weak to fight. My men are no good to me in this state.”
“If you let them voice their sorrow, they’ll be all the stronger when you lead them into battle,” Cumin said. “I’ll say a Mass for the souls of your wife and child tomorrow morning. Have the men attend. It will do them good.”
Waldeve forebode mentioning that half the men would refuse to participate in a Mass said by an excommunicant. He was doubtful himself about the efficacy of any devotions Cumin might give for someone’s soul. Mightn’t they rebound and actually cause the soul to endure more hellfire?
He could see there was no way to get anything done until the first waves of emotion had abated. Waldeve returned to his tent and ordered a flask of wine from one of the bishop’s servants. While he waited for it, he wondered if any of the horses had been saved. It was good that the best were with him. They would be harder to replace than his wife.
Edgar woke up slowly, unsure of where he was or why he felt as if the world had just ended. There was a familiar face hovering over him, one that he thought he had left behind years ago.
“Brother Lawrence?” he whispered. “What’s happened? Why are you here?”