The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (9 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

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Grudgingly, Hubert admitted that he couldn’t, since he had no idea why he had collapsed like that. It frightened him, too, all the more because he had been having odd feelings for some time: a tingling in his hands and feet, slight dizziness and the sensation that his heart was slowing down, even as he urged it on. He had told no one and, looking at the worried faces around him, vowed not to mention it ever.
“Very well,” he said. “You may baby me for tonight but I have work to do tomorrow. When Agnes has left with all her trappings and boxes, then I promise to take a long rest, perhaps go see Eliazar for the rest of the summer. Is that agreeable to you?”
Catherine scowled but nodded.
“You’d think we were trying to punish you,” she complained.
“I won’t be treated like a sick old man,” Hubert responded mildly. “When I am one, I’ll tell you. I promise.”
All the same, he allowed Ullo and Hugh to help him up to his bed and, after drinking a bowl of hot wine and herbs, fell back to sleep for the night.
Edgar could tell how shaken Catherine was by the incident.
“Don’t worry,
leoffest
,” he murmured as he held her that night. “He’s not that old. It may have just been the shock of seeing the anger of the crowd added to the memory of what happened to him as a child.”
“Perhaps.” Catherine’s voice was distant. “But his symptoms are so strange. It’s not like any sickness I know. It’s more as if he had been struck down.”
“Catherine,” Edgar reminded her. “The day was clear. Are you saying God sent a bolt of lightning to punish him for protecting the Jews?”
“No, God wouldn’t do that,” Catherine said. “At least, I don’t think so. I was thinking of a person. We never found out who denounced him to the bishop two years ago.”
Edgar didn’t like the direction this was taking.
“You think someone cursed him?” he asked. “That’s nonsense.”
“Why?” Catherine asked. She shivered in his arms. “There are those who use evil forces to do evil. You know that.”
“Well, I’ve heard that,” Edgar said cautiously. “But I’ve never seen it. I don’t think anyone does such things anymore. Not seriously. Remember our friend John’s story about the old priest who tried to do magic. None of the charms worked. This is the twelfth century, Catherine. We study the world with logic. The time of curses actually working is over.”
Catherine was doubtful. “What about miracles?”
“Well, you know that most scholars say that the time when God manifests himself in miracles is also over,” Edgar hedged. “But then, there’s James. I believe he lives only because of our pilgrimage. So I think that there are still minor miracles.”
“Then it’s possible that there are still minor curses, too,” Catherine stated and rolled over, pressing her back against Edgar’s stomach. “Good night,
carissime
.”
Edgar lay awake for a long time, wondering just who Catherine had in mind as the perpetrator and, if she were right, what they could do to defeat him.
 
Agnes finished going through the jewelry and laid the pieces she had rejected back in the casket, each wrapped in felt to keep it from chipping or tarnishing. She had left more than she had originally intended. Perhaps Catherine’s daughter would need them one day. With a cripple for a father, she couldn’t expect much.
Agnes had never trusted Edgar. If he hadn’t made Catherine fall in love with him she would have gone back to the convent. Then she could have spent her life in prayer as their mother had desired. Father and Mother should have forced Catherine to return, Agnes thought angrily. Everything started going wrong when she left the Paraclete. It had to be a punishment.
She sniffed and wiped the tears on her sleeve. But if the sin were Catherine’s, why was it that the doom fell on the other members of the family? Uncle Roger, dead. Mother, lost in her own delusions, so far gone that she needed constant watching. Thank God the nuns had been willing to take her in. Even Edgar’s mutilation was part of it, although Agnes felt he deserved that. Why did nothing horrible ever happen to Catherine?
Wearily, Agnes knelt before the cross on the wall over her bed, praying for comprehension.
“If I just understood, Lord,” she begged. “Then I could accept. It can’t be that she’s right. She abandoned You for a mere man, and a foreigner, at that. She consorts with Jews. You can’t condone such behavior!”
The room was silent. Agnes gazed at the cross, almost hoping to see the answer written on the wood.
“Lord?” she asked. “Please, tell me why. Or at least send a sign that I’m doing right in going so far away. Let me know that my new life will be a happy one. Sweet Jesus, Blessed Virgin, I’m so afraid.”
Silence.
So. Even God was angry with her. Agnes hurt too much for tears but there was a hot lump in her throat that made her lips tremble and her jaw tighten. She pulled off her
bliaut
and dropped it on the floor. Something clanked. She picked the overdress up again and unknotted the sleeve. As she fumbled with the material, she felt a sharp pain in her finger. She pulled it out, bleeding.
Sucking the cut clean, she felt more carefully with the other hand until she found the bit of metal Edana had uncovered amid the rushes.
“Poor Jehan,” she whispered. “I hope this didn’t come from the space over your heart. You must stay safe. I wish I could care for you as you want me to. After all, no one else loves me. Not even God.”
The castle of Lord Gerhardt, near Trier. Saturday, 12 kalends May (April 20), 1146; 5 Iyyar, 4906. Feast of Saint Marcellin, bishop of Embrun, protector of his people. The oil from the lamp by his grave cures any malady.
 
 
Audivimus et gaudemus, ut in vobis ferveat zealus Dei: sed opor-
tet omnino temperamentum sceintæ non deesse. Non sunt perse-
quendi Judæi, non sunt trucidandi sed nec effugandi quidem.
 
 
We have heard and rejoiced that the zeal for God burns within you: but one ought in no way to wander from the moderate path of wisdom. The Jews are not to be persecuted, nor are they to be killed nor even driven out.
 
—Bernard of Clairvaux
Letter 363
To the people of Eastern
Francia, both clerical and lay
 
 
G
erhardt was kneeling next to a row of budding vines. The day was misty and his clothes and face already had a thin coating of mud. For the first time since he had agreed to go through with the marriage the Frenchwoman, Gerhardt was at peace.
“Look here, son.” He lifted the new leaves to show Peter the minute green globes just starting to grow beneath them. “This is our treasure as fine as gold. And it’s our duty to see that it continues to thrive. No overseer or steward will ever care for our vines as we can.”
Peter put a finger out and brushed it against the baby grapes. “I understand, Father,” he said. “You don’t need to worry. I love our land as much as you do. I won’t let anyone take it from us, nor will I trade it for wealth or power.”
Gerhardt leaned back on his heels and clapped his son on the back in hearty approval.
“Excellent
mîn Liebelin
!” he cried. “Then I have no fear for the future any more.”
Peter stood, brushing at the mud on his knees, but he only succeeded in smearing it more deeply into his woolen pants. He looked at his father with some concern.
“Why should you fear the future?” he asked. “It will be a long time before I become lord here, and now that you’re marrying, I may have many brothers to take over if I should fail.”
“You won’t fail,” Gerhardt said firmly. “And I wouldn’t count on brothers to take the burden from you. I’m not all that young anymore. Why, I have to rub a salve on my joints every night just to keep them from creaking. You’d better make up your mind that this will be in your keeping one day.”
Peter seemed confused. “If you say so, Father. I just wanted you
to know that what we have is more important to me than the idea that I should have it all. As long as someone of our blood is lord, I don’t care if it’s a younger brother.”
Gerhardt laughed at this, causing the boy to blush. “Peter, I haven’t even seen the lady yet, and you have us already parents many times over! One should prepare for the future but not to that extreme. Come now. Let’s check on the progress of last year’s harvest.”
As he watched Peter walking in front of him, so confident and trusting, Gerhardt cursed himself again for the weakness that had made him give in to the family. There had to be a way, somehow, for him to escape the consequences of his promise to marry.
The two of them headed for the barn housing the great oaken barrels of new wine. As they headed up the path they were stopped by a shout from Hermann.
“Gerhardt! Come quickly! Something terrible has happened!”
Gerhardt broke into a run, his mind full of unnamed fears. He reached the porter’s hut outside the castle, where Hermann was kneeling next to a body. Two of the field workers stood uneasily at one side.
“What is it?” Gerhardt panted. “Who’s been hurt?”
“More than hurt,” Hermann said. “Dead. These two men found him caught in the river among some roots along the bank. I think he was a messenger. He was carrying this wrapped in oilcloth and tied by a cord around his thigh.”
He rose from the body, holding a piece of folded vellum in his hand. There was a red ribbon and a grey wax seal attached to it.
Gerhardt looked from the man to the seal, not sure which to examine first.
“There’s nothing on the outside to tell who the message is for,” Hermann told him. “And nothing on the body to identify him. I don’t recognize the seal. Should we open it? Perhaps that will explain who he was and where he was going.”
Gerhardt took a good look at the body. No one he knew, thank God. But he could tell at once that the man hadn’t drowned. There was a gaping slit in his neck.
“He hasn’t been in the water long,” one of the men observed. “The body isn’t bloated. He must have been killed near here and recently. Shall I get the baliff?”
Gerhardt nodded.
“Yes, and warn the other villagers not to go out alone or unarmed until we discover what happened.”
He turned to Hermann.
“Was there anything else on him, a ring or token to show where he came from?”
Hermann shook his head. “Whoever killed him must have stolen his purse and jewelry. I think we’ll have to open the letter.”
“Give it to me,” Gerhardt said. “I’ll see to it. Oskar, Gerd, fetch the priest and have some of the men take the body to the chapel. Whoever he was, he should have a Christian burial. Peter, come up to the keep with us. I want you where I know you’re safe.”
The rough vellum was still dry enough to crackle in his hand. The sound to Gerhardt was like that of flames in sunburned brushwood. He shuddered. He hoped the sender had been careful not to write anything equally incendiary. How could he manage to find a way to open the letter without others near? He had a cold fear that the man had been coming to see him.
‘Where do you suppose he was going?” Peter asked, looking curiously at the letter.
“Any number of places,” Gerhardt answered. “We’re on a well-traveled thoroughfare. But, I imagine this will tell us.”
They reached the courtyard within the stone walls.
“Hermann,” Gerhardt said. “Would you take Peter to his aunt Maria and tell her what has happened? See if she has any material for a shroud.”
Hermann looked as if he would protest. He was as curious as Gerhardt about the contents of the message. However, he was being careful with his elder brother these days. He nodded.
Gerhardt went into the keep and up to his sleeping chamber. Sitting on a folding stool by the window, he held the seal up to the light.
The journey had caused it to crack and chip but the mark was still clear enough. It was a cross with each arm of equal length placed inside a circle.
Gerhardt bit his lip. That was harmless enough to those unaware of the sign. He slid his knife under the wax and opened the letter.
When he saw what was inside, he started and drew his breath in sharply.
On the paper was a crude drawing of a man dressed for the chase. But he carried no weapon. His hands, enormous hands, were raised palm out as if to surrender or to pray. Gerhardt took his knife and scraped at the vellum until all trace of the picture had vanished. Then he crumpled it with shaking hands.
The messenger
had
been trying to reach him. But what had the message been?
Gerhardt drummed his fingers nervously on the windowsill. His confederates wouldn’t have been careless enough to write a message that anyone might understand. So the real message must have been lost with the poor murdered courier. Unless someone had made him talk before they slit his throat. The thought sent chills down his body and made him rub his own throat as if the knife were poised to slice.
Now he had much more to worry about than ridding himself of this unwanted bride. If his secret were discovered before he was ready there was a good chance that he might lose his whole family and everything they possessed.
Who could have needed to reach him so badly that they would risk that?
 
It was the first sunny day of spring in Paris. Along with every other woman on the street, Catherine had thrown open the windows and hung all the bedding out to air. Letting in the light seemed to banish the shadows of winter. As Catherine surveyed the rooms in the sunshine, she realized that it also showed all the grime. There were streaks of soot on the walls and ceilings from oil lamps and candles. The floor, where the rushes had been swept up, showed stains she preferred not to think about but which probably came from both Edana and the puppy.
Why had she thought that leaving the convent would free her from manual labor?
Samonie, who had once been her personal maid and was now the housekeeper, and her three children, Willa, Hugh and Martin, had grown to be of great use in the household. Still, there was too
much for them to do alone and, for many reasons, Hubert prefered not to have too many outsiders introduced to the vagaries of his family.
So Catherine was faced with more than directing the spring cleaning.
“I hope that Agnes has people to do this for her,” Catherine grunted as she dragged another mattress to the window. “She’s grown too fine, I’m sure, to be seen with feathers in her hair.”
“From what I know of her,” Samonie commented as she dumped soapy water on the wood floor. “She could do this without causing feathers to fly.”
Gloomily, Catherine agreed. “Agnes was always better than I at housework.”
Samonie stopped her floor scrubbing to wipe the sweat from her forehead. She called out to her younger son as he raced passed the doorway.
“Martin! Come help Lady Catherine heft the bedding!” To Catherine she added, “You’re worried about Agnes, aren’t you?”
“She might have told us when she left,” Catherine said as Martin tried to grab enough of the mattress to lift. “Instead of letting us learn it from neighbors. And, of course, I don’t expect her to send word when she arrives safely. Not the way she feels about us.”
“Lord Walter will let you know,” Samonie assured her.
“Dear Walter!” Catherine smiled as she resumed her struggle with the bedding. “I wish Agnes had met someone like him long ago. But it’s too late now, with him going off to the the Holy Land and her entering this marriage.”
She mused on this as she whacked the dust from the wall hangings and took down all the bed curtains to go to the laundress. Why couldn’t fate have arranged things better? Catherine knew that human lives were ordained to follow a certain path but if free will were to mean anything, there must be a way to direct the path to another end.
If only she were wise enough to know the right time and the right thing to do!
“Catherine! It’s finished! Come and see!”
Edgar’s voice was rich with delight. Catherine dropped the tapestry beater and ran to look. He hadn’t let anyone inspect the pyx
for the Paraclete while he was working on it and she had been afraid it was because he didn’t want them to see his failure. It had taken him months of preparation before he even started on it. It had been necessary to devise a whole range of gripping tools to take the place of his missing hand. The echoes of his swearing during that process still rang through the house and the children had acquired a full vocabulary of English obscenity in the process.
The box he showed them was good sized, large enough to hold enough hosts for both the nuns and the townspeople who came to Mass. Edgar had shaped it like a covered trencher, only in silver over cedar. The hinges of the lid were gold and the lid itself had scenes from the events of Holy Week etched into the metal with gold wire halos around the heads of Christ and the Virgin.
“Oh, Edgar!” Catherine breathed. “It’s beautiful! The best thing you’ve ever done.”
“Saint Cecelia’s botched beheading!” Hubert exclaimed as he entered. “It’s a wonder, son. A master silversmith couldn’t have done better.”
Edgar looked from one to the other. He was suspicious of so much praise. Especially when he could see every flaw.
“Don’t you think the joinings are a bit rough?’ he asked.
“No, I don’t,” Hubert said, “or else I’d say so. You’ve been with me enough times to the fairs to know that I can tell the difference between good craft and bad. And I don’t buy apprentice-quality goods. The sisters of the Paraclete will be honored by such a gift.”
Catherine only nodded. There was nothing she could add. Approval from her father meant more to Edgar than anything she might say about his work. He had long felt that Hubert was merely tolerating him for Catherine’s sake. At the beginning, it had been true, but Catherine felt that in the past years the two men had come to respect and even like each other. At least, she hoped so.
“I want Mother Heloise to see it right away,” she said. “When can we leave?”
Hubert gave it some thought. “I have some things to finish here, but we could go by the end of next week,” he told them. “I have to stop to do business in Provins, but you could go on. You could stay at the convent through Ascension Thursday and then meet me at Eliazar’s home in Troyes.”

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