Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery by Sharan Newman Read Free Book Online Page B

Edgar wished they could sail on forever, past Britain and out into the open ocean. The Irish said that there was an island far to the west of their own in which there was no sorrow or suffering. At the moment Edgar felt it would be worth the danger to seek it. Anything would be better than having to face his father again.
    The smudge that was at the joining of sea and sky seemed to be growing. Edgar squinted, wondering if it was the first sign of land.
But there was nothing solid about it. The captain passed by and Edgar grabbed his arm, pointing to the spot.
    “Yes,” he said. “I’ve been watching it. You’d best stay under the canvas with your family tonight.”
    “If you need help …” Edgar started.
    “Don’t worry,” the captain told him. “If it means saving us all, I’ll order you to help.”
    “You’ll get no protest from us.”
    Edgar went back to tell Solomon and Robert of the approaching storm.
    “You’ve lived inland too long,” Robert said. “I smelled it growing hours ago. We’ll be all right, although your wife may not believe it. These men make the crossing five or six times a year. The boat is sturdy. The captain carries a cross with a fingernail of Saint Nicholas embedded in the wood.”
    Solomon snorted. Robert turned on him.
    “It’s true,” he insisted. “He told me that it glows like a diamond in the sun when there is danger. It’s warned him of pirates and frightened away whales with its brilliance.”
    “Then let’s hope it also has control over the winds,” Solomon said. “And I’ll add my own prayers that these men are as skilled as you say.”
    Solomon wasn’t the only one praying that night. Willa clutched her string of wooden beads and counted out Nostre Peres over and over. Catherine, too frightened to be sick, recited psalms in her head and tried not to let her mind stray to the book of Jonah. Robert and Edgar alternated between ancient songs of sea wanderings and exhortations in their own language to Saints Cuthbert and Kedigern. The poor cleric crouched next to the rail, soaked to the bone, refusing to move.
    The canvas flapped about in the wind, giving them little protection from the elements. The wood of the boat creaked as if it were about to fly apart. From outside the flimsy tent there were shouts and curses as the crew endeavored to save the mast.
    James lay in Catherine’s lap. She was nursing him discreetly through an opening in her tunic and he had fallen asleep in midswallow. His swaddling reeked, as there had been no chance to change it, but it wasn’t bothering him yet. Of all on board, he was the only one who was perfectly content.
    Catherine felt his gentle breathing against her skin and was comforted. She leaned against Edgar, who had his arm around them both.
    “Saint James won’t let him die,” she said.
    Edgar felt for the baby’s head and stroked it. How could anyone sleep so peacefully in all this cacophony?
    “I wish I was as sure of his protection of us,” he said. “I’m sorry, Catherine.”
    She shook her head, then gasped as a wave whapped against the boat and spun it.
    “No,” she said when she had regained her breath. “You mustn’t be sorry. We’re together. It’s dying apart that I fear most.”
    How odd. Even with the storm whirling around them, when Catherine said that, the terror left her. She didn’t like where she was. She prayed that she could step on steady land again, but she knew that she had spoken the truth. If death came it would take them all. She wouldn’t have the gnawing grief of those left behind, of the women she knew whose husbands had gone off to the Holy Land or just on a trip to Reims and vanished forever with no one knowing for certain if they had died or where their bones lay.
    From somewhere near the stern a man screamed as his hands were sliced by the line he was trying to control. Catherine decided Jonah wasn’t such a bad choice after all.
    “Et proiecisti me in profundum in corde maris