Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) (19 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

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Catherine bit her lip. She had learned the art of silent reading because she had opened a book so often when she had been told to do something else. It wouldn’t do to be caught reading when one was supposed to be sweeping.
“Put the words in front of me,” she demanded, “and I’ll say each one clearly for you.”
“I’m looking,” the bookseller replied. “Now, you stand back, young man. I don’t want you seeing this and giving her some sort of signal.”
Solomon laughed and covered his eyes. The man pulled a page from the bottom of the pile, looked at it, gave a grunt of satisfaction and handed it to Catherine.
“There,” he said. “See what you can make of that.”
Catherine took the page and held it to the light. The writing was crabbed, the writer using every bit of space, every possible abbreviation. She squinted.
“I thought so,” the bookseller said, reaching for the vellum.
“Just a minute,” Catherine moved closer to the light.
“ …
celesti celum omne penetranti, celestis munus voveo, quad in-tegritatem scientie in se complectitur
… .”
She looked at Solomon in excitement, not noticing the bookseller’s look of disbelief. “I don’t know this work,” she said. “It’s some sort of treatise on the motions of the stars.”
Solomon came to attention. “Who wrote it?” he asked.
“It doesn’t say.” She scanned the page. “Whoever wrote this, though, seems to have studied with someone who could read the language of the Saracens.
Dicitur Arabici magistri
. ‘It is told by the Arab masters.’”
“How much do you want for it?” Solomon asked the man.
But the bookseller was angry now. “I don’t know how you’re doing this, but I don’t like being the butt of anyone’s joke.”
He snatched the vellum back from Catherine and studied it himself. “You can’t have read this so easily!” he shouted. “I can barely make it out.”
“Perhaps you were not as fortunate as I in choosing your teachers,” Catherine shot back. “I have studied with Master Gilbert de la Porrée and Master Peter Abelard.”
The man’s eyebrows rose. “I never heard of Master Gilbert,” he answered. “And it’s easy for you to say you learned from Abelard, now that he’s dead.”
“What?” The room seemed to freeze around Catherine. “That’s not true. He has retired to Saint-Marcellus, in Burgundy.”
“He died three weeks ago,” the man told her. “Messenger just arrived at the abbey. One of the monks was in a day or two ago and told me. Now, now, sweeting! Don’t go on so. Did you really know him?”
He had reason to be alarmed. Catherine had fallen against the table and was bent over it, sobbing. Solomon rushed to her and made her lean against him. He glared at the bookseller.
“If this is some cruel deception,” he said, “I swear I’ll cut your tongue out. She was raised at the Paraclete, by Héloïse herself. She can read better than you. And now you’ve broken her heart. Well, stop gaping like a tide-bound fish and get her some wine or something!”
“There’s a tavern three doors down,” the bookseller said. “Wait here.” He hurried out.
Solomon helped Catherine to a bench, swept parchment from it and sat her down. Sitting beside her, he patted her shoulder. “Cry all you like, Catherine,” he said, “but that old fool may be wrong, you know. It’s only hearsay.”
“No,” Catherine gulped. “We knew it when we saw him last, Edgar and I. He didn’t expect to live much longer. It’s only … poor Mother Héloïse!”
She wept some more, wiping her eyes and nose on his sleeve, then realized what she’d done and apologized.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s been worse on it.”
The bookseller returned with a ewer of wine.
“We didn’t bring our cups,” Solomon said.
“Never mind,” the man said and brought out his own, wiping it with a blank sheet of parchment, then filling it and handing it to Catherine. “Drink the wine slowly,” he warned her. “There’s no water mixed with it. I’m sorry, young woman. I didn’t mean to grieve you so.”
She nodded her understanding and took his advice about the wine, which was rough and strong. After a few sips, she gave the cup back.
“We should be going,” she told Solomon. “I don’t want Edgar to learn this from a stranger.”
“Yes, very well,” Solomon said. “But first, please, will you look for any other pages in this same hand? I need to know what’s in them, where they came from.”
He turned to the bookseller. “Who did you buy this from?” he asked. “I’ll pay whatever you like for it, and for any others she finds.”
“That’s no way to trade,” the man said. “There may be a few more pieces in the pile. I got them from some northerner, English or German, I think. He was on his way back from Toledo. Said he needed enough money for a good Christian whore.”
“And how much was that?” Solomon asked, pulling out his purse.
“Depends on what you want her to do,” the man answered.
He gave Catherine another apologetic look, but she was busy among the pages and hadn’t heard him.
“How much?” Solomon repeated.
“Ten sous of Narbonne,” the bookseller told him finally. “Or four of Troyes. Have you changed your money yet?”
“Here.” Solomon counted out the coins. “Did you find any more, Catherine?”
“Yes, a few.” She held them up. “But there seem to be some missing. I’m not sure. I need time to look at them properly.”
Solomon took the pages from her. “Six of them,” he counted. “Is this all you bought?” he asked the bookseller.
“No, there were ten, I think, but Abbot Peter’s notary was in yesterday and took a number of pieces to be scraped and used again. The other four might have been among them. I didn’t look. It’s not quality material.”
“All right, we’ll buy what there is.” Solomon took back a coin. “Catherine, are you feeling well enough to walk back to the hostel?”
“Yes,” she said, “but take me to the church instead. I need to find Edgar. Now.”
The man rolled up the pages, tied them with a string, and with more apologies, showed them out. When they had gone, he refilled his cup from the ewer and drank the wine in one draught.
 
Catherine felt numb as Solomon led her back up the twisting road to the church. She ought to rejoice that Master Abelard had at last found peace after so many years of physical and intellectual torment. She told herself that. But all the time, she was aware that there was a hole torn in her universe that couldn’t be repaired. It was as bad as if she had lost her father.
Solomon was struggling between the knowledge that he should respect her grief and the fierce desire to know what was written on the pages. What astronomical secrets had this student learned? How far had he gone to find a master? How could he have been so degenerate as to sell what he had learned for a night of lust?
That led his mind to other speculations, but he quickly returned
to wondering what might be written on the smudged pages. He could read in French and Hebrew but had no Latin, and all the abbreviations made it impossible to even sound words out. Catherine and Edgar were the only Latin scholars he knew well enough to ask for help. He knew it was selfish, but he hoped they could overcome their sorrow enough to be of use to him.
As Catherine had expected, Edgar was seated just where she had left him, staring up at the carvings on the tympanum. She began crying again as she knelt beside him, and it was several minutes before he understood what had upset her so. He crossed himself and bowed his head.
“We should go in and pray for his soul,” he told Catherine.
She took his hand and they went inside the church. Solomon watched, knowing that for the moment he had been forgotten. He didn’t mind. He had known Abelard, too. The master had been an extraordinary man in many ways, not the least of which was his understanding of and sympathy for the plight of the Jews.
“
Baruch atta Adonai,
” Solomon said quietly. “Even though the man was a misguided infidel, Lord, take care of him. There must be a place for such a one in Your garden.”
 
Hubert and Eliazar had their minds only on business. Moissac was a confluence of rivers and trade. Merchants on their way from Italy and the East passed through as well as Norse traders coming down with furs and amber to sell in Spain. Mozarabic and Jewish merchants waited here for those who preferred not to cross the mountains but wished to buy goods from Al-Andalus and Africa. The streets near the abbey were crowded with inns, boot-makers, money changers, wine-sellers, brothels, and suppliers of anything else a traveler might need.
“I don’t like to see you weighted down with all those packages,” Eliazar said to his brother.
“Tomorrow you can carry them,” Hubert said firmly. “Or we can hire someone. I won’t coerce you to carry anything on the Sabbath.”
“You couldn’t,” Eliazar said. “But that doesn’t mean I want you to, either.”
“This is an old argument,” Hubert sighed. “Be grateful that I’m young enough to carry the load for two.”
They trudged along until they reached the inn where Hubert had found them a whole room to themselves. Eliazar shook his head. “Such extravagance!” he told Hubert. “One room for the five of us!”
Hubert went up the narrow stairs and dumped the boxes on the bed. “I’m hoping that three of us will find a reason to come in late,” he said. “With all that camping and staying in hostels, it really will be a miracle if Catherine and Edgar are able to give me a grandchild.”
Eliazar laughed. “You underestimate your daughter and her husband. They manage these things better than you think.”
“Perhaps,” Hubert said. He sorted out the packages as to owner, then set the piles on the floor and sat heavily upon the bed, causing a cloud of dust to rise from the coverlet.
“What am I to do with this son-in-law?” he asked Eliazar. “He shows no talent for trade. He obviously has no future in the Church. He sold his land to give Catherine a dower. All that seems to intrigue him is the work of common laborers: masonry and machines and carving designs in bits of wood and ivory.”
“His talents have proved useful in the past,” Eliazar pointed out. “He was able to pose as a goldsmith and keep us from being accused of stealing Christian relics.”
“And how many times will that happen?” Hubert asked.
“Never again, I hope,” Eliazar answered. “But there must be other ways he can be of service.”
Hubert ran his hands through his graying black hair. “Don’t you think I’ve tried to find some?” he said. “I know how the boy feels. As much as they despised my profession, Madeleine’s family at least had to be polite to me because I brought them wealth. And I have been angry and rude to Edgar more than once. I forget that his family is, if anything, better than Madeleine’s. Do you know what I fear most?”
Eliazar shook his head. Hubert looked at him bleakly.
“I am terrified,” he said, “that Edgar will decide to take Catherine back to his people. Scotland! The end of the world. You’ve seen the students in Paris, dressed in belted skirts with no
brais
, just their ugly knees showing. I can’t let my daughter live among savages!”
Eliazar stood and patted Hubert on the back.
“There now,” he said. “Kings have done worse. But why should it come to that? If the boy wanted to study
Torah,
you would support him, wouldn’t you? Why not let him learn masonry and machines? Perhaps Count Thibault will hire him to design siege engines. Or some bishop will have him oversee the building of his cathedral. That’s a lifetime of employment.”
Hubert still looked glum. His stomach rumbled.
“That’s it,” Eliazar said. “Hunger has put your humors out of balance. Come along and eat with us. The brethren from Toulouse are traveling with their own cook. We’ll have real food tonight!”
 
Gaucher and Rufus had also found congenial lodging. They judged any inn on two things: the quality of the beer and the absence of fleas. In this case, they decided to put up with the fleas.
“I haven’t tasted anything this good since we left Mâcon,” Rufus said as he lowered the bowl and wiped his mouth. “Why do you think they can’t make decent beer here in the south?”
“Too many heretics,” Gaucher answered. “You need absolutely orthodox methods to make beer properly.”
Rufus accepted this as logical. “Have you seen Rigaud?” he asked. “I’m worried about him.”
“What for?” Gaucher asked. “What can happen to him? He says he doesn’t play with boys anymore. And if he’s caught at it, they’ll only make him pray harder.”
Rufus belched loudly in disgust. “I don’t give a damn what he does with boys,” he said. “He can poke it up a cow, if he wants to. I’m worried about him keeping his vow of silence to us. He seems to think we’re about to commit sacrilege.”
Gaucher leaned back on his stool and toppled over. He
righted himself and poured another bowl. “So he’ll pray for our souls,” he said. “I don’t mind.”

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