The Wandering Arm: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 2

  They all knew the child couldn’t be buried in consecrated ground since it hadn’t lived to be baptized.

  Edgar lifted his head. “It was a girl?”

  “It would have been,” Marie said. She wiped her eyes and nose on her husband’s sleeve, turned and went back up the stairs.

  “Edgar …” Solomon began. He searched for some words of comfort, thought of none and then realized that Edgar wouldn’t have heard them anyway. Instead he sat on the floor next to his friend, hoping that his presence would be comfort enough.

  Hubert sighed and left the room, followed by Guillaume. Catherine was alive; that was all that mattered. She was the one child who loved him despite knowing his darkest secret. The one who had his mother’s face. Losing her would have been more than he could bear.

  But there was nothing more he could do. It was time to return to his own business.

  At the final turn in the stairway before the Great Hall, Guillaume caught Hubert’s arm.

  “Father,” he said, “how could you have let that man stay with us at such a time?”

  “But Edgar is her husband,” Hubert answered, bewildered.

  Guillaume glared at him. “Not Edgar, that associate of yours,” he said. “That Jew. Did it ever occur to you that he might have done something to make Catherine’s pregnancy go wrong?”

  “Guillaume!” Hubert was frightened by the vehemence of his son’s accusation. He wished he had the courage to tell him that Solomon wasn’t some chance trading partner but his own nephew, the son of his lost brother, Jacob, and blood cousin to Catherine and Guillaume himself. Catherine knew and accepted the fact. But his other daughter, Agnes, had found out by accident the summer before and hadn’t spoken to him since. This was not the time to enlighten Guillaume about family connections.

  “You’re speaking nonsense,” Hubert said at last. “Solomon is devoted to Catherine. He has been since they were children and played together at the fairs. I could always trust him to look out for her while I was doing business. And he and Edgar are good friends. Solomon would never hurt them.”

  “But it is known that those people are adept at potions and evil magic,” Guillaume responded.

  “I don’t know it,” Hubert answered him sharply. “And neither do you. If that were so, there’d be no children born dead among the Jews. You’ve only to see their cemetery at Saint-Denis to know that’s not true.”

  Guillaume shook himself as if to rid his head of a nightmare. Reluctantly, he nodded. “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But it seems strange that Solomon showed up the evening before Catherine’s pains started.”

  “He brought a message for me, from the silversmith Baruch at Saint-Denis,” Hubert explained. “The abbey has more work for us.”

  He knew that was a good way to end any conversation with Guillaume. His son was not proud that Hubert’s wealth came from trade. Never mind that it had bought Guillaume military training, a wife from the lower nobility and a position as castellan for Abbot Suger. It was embarrassing. Hubert sighed. That was the penalty for raising one’s son to better things.

  They entered the Great Hall. A little boy broke away from his nurse and ran to them. He was about three years old. He had the golden curls of his mother but dark eyes that made him irresistible to the ladies already, as well as a curve to his nostrils and a tint to his skin that might have betrayed his Jewish ancestry, if anyone had thought to look for it.

  “Papa!” he shouted as he threw himself into Guillaume’s arms. “Do I have a new cousin?”

  Guillaume held him close, remembering once again the joyous relief he had felt when they had told him that this child would live.

  “No, Gerard,” Hubert answered for him. “The baby didn’t survive, but Aunt Catherine will be all right.”

  Clumsily, the boy blessed himself. Guillaume nodded approval. The nurse was doing her job.

  “Is it in heaven, then?” Gerard asked.

  Guillaume opened his mouth to lie. But he couldn’t. “Only Our Lord knows that,” he equivocated.

  The child seemed satisfied. At this point in his life, God was just a force, like the king or abbot or his father, to be feared or ignored as need dictated.

  Hubert smiled on him. He doted on his grandson as well as Guillaume and Marie’s second child, a daughter, born the previous summer. It would have been nice for them to have a cousin.

  “I have to go meet with the silversmith,” Hubert repeated. “I’ll be back at first light to see Catherine. Ask Solomon to stay with Edgar for the night. He’ll need a friend.”

  It was past dark when Hubert arrived at the house of Baruch, which was in the town of Saint-Denis, which surrounded the great abbey. He was admitted at once.

  “Shalom,” Baruch greeted him. “You look terrible. Is anything wrong?”

  Hubert told him.

  “Thank the Almighty One your daughter survived,” Baruch consoled.

  “I do,” Hubert said. “Now, what is this Solomon was telling me about a parcel of pearls and gold chain?”

  “Prior Hervé summoned me to the abbey today,” Baruch explained. “It seems that Natan ben Judah has been to see him, offering this parcel at a suspiciously low price.”

  “What was his story?” Hubert asked.

  “Natan told the prior that he had taken the gems as pledge from a nobleman in England who has since lost his lands in the war there and can’t redeem them.”

  “What does Prior Hervé say to that?” Hubert grinned.

  “The prior is no fool,” Baruch said. “He says the pearls have the look of having been pried loose from something. There are scratches on them, bits of glue. And he suspects the chain may have been part of a censer.”

  Hubert nodded. “The anarchy in England has allowed many people to acquire church property, some from looting in the course of battle. But I can’t imagine Natan entering a church for any reason, even theft. His story could be true. How the nobleman came by the parcel is not his concern.”

  “I agree,” Baruch said. “But if Natan knew the property was stolen from a church, would he have refused to take it, as you and I would? This dealing in their holy objects is bad for all of us. Oh, forgive me, do you want some ale?”

  “Yes.” Hubert answered the second question first. He took a long draught and set the cup down with a clink. “I don’t trust Natan,” he said. “He’s been known to buy horses and sheep from men who clearly couldn’t have been the true owners. But up to now, he’s only been an animal trader. This is the first I’ve heard of his dealing in gems. I wouldn’t have thought he knew anything about them. What price did he ask of the prior?”

  “Two marks,” Baruch answered. “That’s what roused Hervé’s suspicions.”

  Hubert smiled. “It’s a good thing he went to Hervé and not to Abbot Suger. The prior may not be a scholar, but he’s a sharp trader. He knows the tricks. Suger would simply have thought it was another example of good fortune attending his building program.”

  “Good or bad, who knows?” Baruch said. “I don’t like it when the Edomites can point a finger at us, even at one like Natan.”

  “It’s true, he could cause trouble for us all,” Hubert said. “Perhaps if the matter is taken up with the entire community of Paris we can exert enough pressure to convince Natan to change his ways. I’ll ask my brother.”

  “Perhaps.” Baruch sounded doubtful. “He doesn’t seem to care much for the opinion of the community. But for now, what am I to tell Prior Hervé?”

  “Don’t worry, my friend,” Hubert sighed. “I’ll speak with him. He has so many other concerns that he should be happy to leave this one to us.”

  Baruch smiled sadly at his old friend. “You have enough worries of your own, Hubert. This life is too hard on you. Why don’t you simply give up the pretense and rejoin us? You can go to my cousin in Arles and start again.”

  Hubert shook his head as he rose. “It’s a kind offer,” he said. “But it’s too late. I’m not truly a J
ew anymore, even if I only move through the rituals of being a Christian. I have responsibilities and people I love. I can’t abandon them now. Catherine says that her Master Abelard teaches that it is our intentions that are judged, more than our acts. My only hope is that the Almighty One knows that I’m doing the best I can with what He has given me.”

  “How could He not?” Baruch asked. “Now, where are you going? Not to bed so soon? Don’t you want to sit up a while, have some cheese, play a friendly game of tric-trac?”

  “Thank you, no,” Hubert said, as he continued on his way to the stairs. “It’s been too long a day. I can’t bear hearing my child crying out like that and not be able to ease her pain.”

  “I know,” Baruch said. “There’s nothing worse. Here, take another cup with you. You may wake up in the night and need it. Sleep well. May your dreams be empty of omens.”

  The little oil lamp by the bed sent flickers and shadows across Catherine’s face as though the spirits of light and dark were fighting over her still. She lay motionless, her skin so pale that Edgar had to put his mouth to hers and feel her breath before he was reassured that she was alive.

  Gingerly, he laid his hand on her stomach. It felt spongy, like a sack of new cheese. He swallowed and tried not to imagine further.

  “Edgar?”

  Her eyes were still closed and her voice so soft that he thought he must have imagined it. Then her lashes moved and there was the glint of tears in the lamplight.

  “I’m sorry, Edgar,” she said. “I failed. It never even cried.”

  None of the thousand things that raced through his mind seemed adequate to tell her what he was feeling. He bent over and, very carefully, kissed her.

  At first, she didn’t respond at all; then she put her arms around him. He knelt by the bed, afraid to jostle it and hurt her more. After a moment, she lowered her arms, too exhausted even for comfort.

  “Stillborn, they said,” she sighed. “Its soul is lost now. Poor baby, wandering alone … all alone.”

  “Catherine,” Edgar said quickly. “Don’t think about it now. You have to rest.”

  “I’m cold,” she answered. “Hold me.”

  He could tell that she was still hazy from the sleeping potion. She spoke as if from another world. If frightened him to think how close she had come to leaving this one. It wasn’t the first time she had been in danger of death, but it was the first time he had been the one responsible for putting her in danger. Her request was no problem. He wanted nothing more than to hold her, to reassure himself from one instant to the next that her heart was still beating. He took off his shoes and lifted the covers to slip in beside her.

  “Saint Margaret’s sacred milk! What do you think you’re doing here!”

  Edgar lost his balance and landed on the floor with a thump. The midwife was standing over him with a pitcher in one hand and a clay cup in the other.

  “You foul mesel!” she shrieked. “Thinking of your own lusts after what she’s been through. You don’t touch her until she’s been churched, young man. And if you have trouble with that, I’ll be happy to give you a kick that will put the idea out of your mind even longer.”

  “Edgar?” Catherine’s hand appeared over the edge of the bed, groping for him. “Are you all right?”

  Edgar scrambled to his feet. He patted Catherine’s hand on his way up. Then, straightening himself to his full six feet, he glared down at the midwife.

  “No one, not even you,” he said clearly, “has the right to tell me how to care for my wife. I will stay here as long as she needs me. You will not speak to me in that tone again.”

  The woman glared back at him, her jaw clenched. Then she turned and stomped from the room. She turned at the doorway.

  “I will return only when this foreigner, this English, is gone,” she announced. “Or, my lady Catherine, when you decide which of us you need more.”

  Edgar maintained his glare until the woman had flounced out. Then he looked ruefully at Catherine. “I’m sorry, leoffedest,” he said. “I don’t like being treated like some serf of the family. It’s been harder these past few months. I’m used to having a place in the world.”

  Catherine tried to smile. “I know. Are you sorry now you married me?”

  “Absolutely not,” he said, and he meant it.

  He bent over and kissed her again, to assure her. As he released her, her hand dropped to her stomach. She pushed at it and gave a cry.

  “Edgar, my stomach! It squishes like a bag of new cheese! That’s disgusting! Oh, sweet Saint Melania, what’s happened to me?”

  Samonie, the maid, came in just then to find Catherine in tears with Edgar hovering over her like an ill-fed egret repeating that everything would be fine, and that cheese had never even occurred to him. Samonie had no idea what was happening, but she took pity on him and guided him out of the room.

  “Catherine will be better soon,” she told him. “Give her time to rest and accept what has happened. Come back tomorrow. Bring her a rose.”

  “A rose?” Edgar stopped. “It’s midwinter.”

  “That’s right,” Samonie answered. “So you should be kept well occupied in finding one.”

  At the bottom of the staircase he found Catherine’s cousin, Solomon, in the process of pulling on his warm hose. His cloak and boots lay on the bench next to him.

  “What are you doing?” Edgar asked. “You can’t be leaving now; it’s pitch dark out.”

  “I believe my claim to hospitality here has worn thin,” Solomon told him. “Your brother-in-law has said clearly that tonight they plan to have pork sausage. He looked straight at me in a very pointed manner as he spoke. I got the feeling he would be happy to excuse me.”

  “Guillaume does have a certain lordly way about him,” Edgar admitted. “I don’t think he’s accepted me into the family yet. I wonder what he would do if he found out you were already a member.”

  “I don’t want to wonder.” Solomon shuddered.

  “Well, I find it an interesting intellectual problem,” Edgar continued, seating himself next to him on the bench. “You know, I feel more comfortable with you than with anyone I’ve met in France, except Catherine, of course. Certainly more than any other of her family. Why should that be? Let’s see, if I’m Guillaume’s brother-in-law and you’re his cousin—”

  “Not-in-law,” Solomon interrupted.

  “What does that make us?” Edgar finished.

  Solomon fluttered his lashes. “Too closely connected ever to marry?” He smiled sweetly.

  Edgar cuffed him hard enough to knock him off the bench. “You are no scholar,” he said.

  “And you are no knight,” Solomon replied. “I barely felt that. But,” he continued, “my unscholarly opinion is that we’re friends because we’re both foreigners here.”

  “You’re not a foreigner,” Edgar argued. “You were born in Paris!”

  “I was born a Jew,” Solomon said quietly. “I’m a foreigner everywhere. Is there any more wine in the pitcher, do you think? I wouldn’t mind a cup for the journey.”

  “Take what you like,” Edgar replied absently. He circled the room, scuffing at the rushes, peering into the corners.

  “What are you looking for?” Solomon asked as he poured.

  “A bit of wood.”

  “What for?”

  “I have to make a rose for Catherine.”

  Solomon left the keep soon after and set off into the black night. He cursed his own pride as he slid on the ice in the wagon ruts of the road. He could have supped on bread and wine and left for Saint-Denis in the morning. But he would rather freeze to death than stay in a place where he was considered less respectable than the dogs under the tables.

  He slipped again and landed on his knees, the frozen mud jarring his bones. From the church at Saint-Denis, three miles distant, he heard the bells calling the monks to prayer.

  Even out here, he thought. It’s all around me. I am trapped in a land that will never accept
me, amid people I can never trust.

  He shouldn’t have had that last cup of wine. Red wine always made him maudlin.

  He reached the river Croult and turned east for Saint-Denis, keeping an eye peeled for a likely spot to cross. The river split into two branches, north and south of the village, and then rejoined to make a dignified entrance to the Seine, barely a mile away. There was a glaze of ice on the river, but Solomon didn’t trust it and, while the water was no more than a foot or so deep, he had no desire to walk the last mile in boots that squelched and with feet cold as the welcome given him by his cousin, Guillaume.

  He was so busy watching his step in the road and looking for a ford that he nearly caught his neck on the thin rope stretched across the way, tied to trees on either side of the river. Someone must have left it earlier in the day, while there was still light to find solid footing. Holding on to it with one hand, Solomon tested the bank with his feet. Yes, there were stones across the stream in a line straight enough to cross on.

  He gave the rope a quick pull. Although it was no thicker than his finger, it didn’t give. It would be enough to keep his balance with as he eased from one slippery rock to the next. Cautiously, he started across.

  The man must have been watching all along. He waited until Solomon was in the middle, one foot braced on a rock point, the other reaching for the next.

  “Hé! Malfé!” he taunted. “A cold night for a journey. Afraid to baptize your toes in the river?”

  “Cold, indeed, friend,” Solomon answered, planting his left foot firmly on the next rock. “One doesn’t have to be the devil to mislike wading on a night cold as this.”

  He swung his right arm over so that he was holding on with both hands and both feet were on the rock. He looked over his right shoulder. The man hadn’t moved. He was too far back in the shadows for Solomon to make out his features. He could be just another traveler, caught by winter darkness, trying to get home, but Solomon was not about to assume anything so harmless.

  “What will you pay for dry feet?” the man asked as he gently shook the rope.