Cursed in the Blood: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery by Sharan Newman

et flumen circumdedit me; omnes gurgites tui, et fluctus tui super me transierunt.”
    After a moment Edgar joined her. Solomon, after listening a moment, started the prayer haltingly in Hebrew.
    The wind blew the words from their mouths as it raged even louder.
     
    A storm of another sort was brewing in Scotland. It was easy for Lord Waldeve to order Algar to find his brother, Æthelræd. It was not even that hard for Algar to do so. The real problem was in convincing Æthelræd to come back with him.
    Æthelræd had been the only member of the family to stand by Edgar’s decision to marry Catherine instead of join the Church. It was popularly believed that he had done this only to thwart Waldeve. The reason most people gave for this was not on account of any animosity between the brothers but because Æthelræd had
been born face down and so spent his whole life being contrary. He had never given anyone cause to change that belief.
    After days of searching and several false trails, Algar had finally tracked Æthelræd down in Moray, at the home of a Culdee priest, one of the ancient Celtic order who stubbornly resisted the insistence of the Norman bishops that they give up their wives and houses and become Augustinian canons. Naturally, Æthelræd sided with the Culdees and did his best to see that they found other means of support when their lands and benefices were taken away. In return, they shared their dinner and gave him a bed whenever he happened to pass through.
    “God save all in this house,” Algar said politely as he entered. “I seek my lord Æthelræd, brother to Waldeve.”
    From the gloom a voice roared out.
    “Tell that son of a one-eyed ogre and a narwhal that I don’t want to be sought!”
    Algar turned in the general direction of the gale. He bowed.
    “It’s Algar, Lord,” he said. “Remember me? You used to give me honeycomb pieces for cleaning your boots. I’m not your enemy.”
    A hand reached out and pulled him down. Algar stared into a face that was mostly bright red hair, with fiery eyebrows bristling in curls around sea-grey eyes, a jutting nose and a flowing beard streaked like rime with pure white. The eyebrows almost met in Æthelræd’s effort to recollect the messenger.
    “You one of my sons?” he asked.
    Algar shook his head. “Not according to my mother,” he said.
    “Good. Too many bastards in the world already,” Æthelræd returned to his soup.
    Algar waited. Finally, with a sigh, Waldeve’s brother waved to him to sit.
    “Ita! Is there enough in the pot to feed this boy?” he shouted.
    In the shadows a woman moved. A moment later a bowl was thrust under Algar’s nose. He murmured thanks and got out his spoon.
    “Sir,” he began again, “I’ve been sent to tell you of a most grievous tragedy.”
    “My eldest nephews are murdered, I know.” Æthelræd waved that bit of news away as he crossed himself. “It’s sad about the boy, especially, but life is uncertain. I’m sure Ita and Kessog, here, will
pray for him. You can put me down for a candle at Saint Andrews, as well. Now eat.”
    Algar looked at his soup. It was cold and greasy with mutton fat. The day was warm and the ride had been long. He ate with relish. Æthelræd watched him impatiently. Finally he could stand the silence no longer.
    “Very well,” he demanded. “What does the old tyrant want from me?”
    Regretfully, Algar looked up from the soup.
    “Lord Waldeve wants revenge on the murderers,” he said. “He calls you to fulfill your duty to the family.”
    This did not come out as sternly as he had intended. Algar returned to the soup, hunching nervously over the bowl and bracing himself for the outburst.
    A deep sigh wafted from the opposite side of the table. It hit Algar with a force that told him Æthelræd had had ale with his soup. Æthelræd stood, blocking the light from the door. He reached for his short cloak and wrapped it around his waist. Algar blinked in shock. The old