Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) (26 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

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Catherine knew mendacious reassurance when she heard it, but resolved to try to believe it all the same. She slipped back to Edgar and took his hand.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Wet to the skin, chilled to the bone, and the sound of the squelch in my boots is enough to induce hysteria,” she answered. “How are you?”
“About the same,” he said. “What shall we think of to make the journey less unpleasant?”
Catherine started to smile, then remembered Mondete. In part, she wished the woman had never said a word to her. It made her ashamed to be loved and cared for and to take such joy in the body of a man when other men had done unspeakable things to Mondete.
“Now what?” Edgar asked with a trace of impatience. His feet were cold and wet, too.
Catherine squeezed his hand, although her fingers were so numb she could hardly feel it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s something I have to think through. Perhaps when we’re dry again, and warm and alone, I’ll tell you about it.”
“If all those things ever happen,” Edgar sighed, “I’d rather we didn’t settle in to a long discussion.”
 
The light stayed the same forever, Catherine thought. No morning or noon, only fog. They had been walking steadily uphill since the beginning of the world and they would go on climbing for all eternity. Even though she hadn’t seen it on a church sculpture, she was sure that endless walking in inclement weather must be one of the torments of Hell.
Suddenly she heard cries from far ahead. “What is it?” She clutched at Solomon. “Are they being attacked?”
This was where the heroic rear guard of Charlemagne’s army had been destroyed. Catherine could see all the brave knights in her mind. Was it happening all over again?
Solomon grinned. “No, silly. Put away your old stories and listen!”
The sound was distorted by the wind, but she soon realized that she wasn’t hearing a clash of metal or the screams of wounded men and horses. It seemed strangely like … cheering. She looked at her cousin for confirmation.
“Roncevalles,” he said. “Not far ahead at all. The hostel is just beyond it, on the lee side of the mountain.”
Catherine and Edgar felt like cheering, too. After all her talk about seeing the site of the famous battle, her only vision as she urged herself that last mile was that of a roaring fire and her stockinged feet steaming before it.
The first thing she noticed as they reached the summit was the wind. The rain was being blown sideways, and the openings in cloaks were caught and pushed at until the people looked like giant wounded birds flapping wildly across the plateau.
It was not the scene Catherine had imagined.
The pass of Roncevalles in the Pyrenees, Friday, May, 29, 1142; The Feast of Saint Restitute, who was starved, chained, chased by Satan with a flaming sword, bitten by scorpions and finally beheaded. But, thanks to her guardian angel, she died a virgin.
 
Halt sunt li puiet li val tenebrus,
Les roches bises, les destreiz merveillus.
Le jur passerent Franceis a grant dulur.
 
High are the mountains and gloomy the valleys,
The rocks gray and brown, the narrow gorge awesome.
The French spend the day in great misery.
La Chanson de Roland
Laisse 66
. 11 814—816
 
 
C
aught and spun around by the wind, Catherine lost what little sense of direction she had. The ends of her scarf flapped across her face, stinging her eyes. The blowing rain made it impossible to see more than a step or two ahead. She had let go of Edgar’s hand to grab her flapping cloak as they came out onto the plateau and now she couldn’t find him.
“Edgar!” she cried, but the words blew back at her. “Edgar!”
She stumbled toward what she thought was the path, but found no one. All at once she tripped over a root and was thrown down a short incline and into a tangle of prickly plants. The stems were sharp and slippery and she couldn’t right herself.
“Edgar!” she called again.
She tried to pull out of the gorse, but only slipped farther down. The angle became steeper, and she wondered how close she was to the edge of the plateau. She tried to dig her toes into the dirt but only kicked pebbles loose. Gritting her teeth against the pain of the thorns, she grabbed and pulled on one of the plants, which came up by the roots, spraying her face with mud. She could feel herself starting to slide again.
“Help!” she cried as she spit out bits of twigs and dirt.
“
Emadazu escua!
” someone shouted from nearby. “
Andrea! Emadazu escua!”
A hand appeared in front of her face and she grasped it in both of hers. She heard her clothes tear as she was pulled up the slope out of the gorse and at last set on her feet.
“
Cer dembora icigaria!
” a man’s voice said.
Catherine managed to unstick her scarf from her face and peer through the rain at her rescuer. Her eyes widened in fear and disbelief. It was the face she had seen in the tree on the road; pale as snow, hair straight and black as a raven’s wing. Human, or demon?
The man saw her terror and held both his hands up in front of himself, open to show that he had no weapon. He was dressed in a rough wool tunic that ended above his bare knees. His boots were of thick, unshorn sheepskin, as was his vest.
“
Eman gaiten atherpean
,” he said, grabbing her hand again and pulling her in the other direction. “
Ez beldurric izan.
”
“No, let go of me!” Catherine cried. “What are you doing? Where are you taking me? Edgar!”
She tried to dig her heels into the ground, but only slid in the brown mud. The man stopped and looked at her in exasperation. “
Eman gaiten atherpean
,” he repeated slowly. “
Ez beldurric izan
.”
“I don’t understand you,” Catherine answered mournfully. “Please, help me find the others. My husband, my father.”
He pulled on her again. “
Etorri, Andrea
!” He drew his knife. The rain slid easily across the sharp blade.
Catherine gave up and let herself be dragged wherever the man was going. “Saint Catherine, help me!” she begged.
The man stopped with a half-smile. “Catherine,” he said. “
Cattalin
.”
“Yes, my name saint.” With her free hand, Catherine pointed to herself. “
Cattalin
.”
“
Etorri, Cattalin
,” the man said, more softly. “
Ez beldurric izan
.”
He sheathed the knife, but didn’t let go of her wrist.
Somehow, having managed even that much communication with the man gave Catherine the hope that he did not intend to hurt her. She followed with no further protest. They rounded a huge rock in the plateau and emerged from the wind.
“Catherine!”
She fell into Edgar’s arms.
“Oh,
carissime!
” she said. “I lost you and couldn’t find my way through the storm and then I fell and this man …”
She turned around. The man was gone. She stared for a moment at the place where he had been, then shivered. Edgar held her more tightly.
“I thought you’d gone over the edge,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “I heard you cry out but couldn’t reach you.”
“I’m all right,” she said. “The man in the tree pulled me off the mountainside.”
Edgar turned her face up to his. Her teeth were chattering.
“
Leoffaest,
you sound feverish,” he said. “We have to get you to the hostel at once.”
“Edgar, you saw him, didn’t you?” she asked. “The man who saved me?”
“There was someone,” he said, “but I couldn’t make out his face. I was only looking for you.”
“Edgar, do you think it could have been Saint James?” Catherine was uncertain. “He didn’t look like any of the descriptions of the apostle. It wasn’t at all like my dream.”
Edgar didn’t answer, and Catherine was so worn that she didn’t pursue the matter but let him guide her back to the trail. Solomon, Eliazar, Hubert, and oddly, Mondete, were waiting.
“No questions now,” Eliazar decreed. “We must get out of this wind. We’re no more than a mile from the hostel.”
It seemed a thousand miles to Catherine as she walked propped up between Edgar and Solomon. She wished she could ride, but the time it would take to unload the horse and put her on it wasn’t worth it. She was so cold now that she felt warm. At least the rain was washing the dirt from her face and clothes. She tilted her head and opened her mouth to get rid of the grit as well.
It didn’t seem likely that the man from the tree was the venerable Apostle James, but he had seemed to appear out of nowhere to rescue her. Catherine puzzled over it. The event wasn’t exactly like her dream, but they
were
in the mountains. The wind had been terrible, she had fallen, and the man had saved her. Could he have been an angel guarding the pilgrims? Did this mean that she didn’t need to worry anymore about falling over the edge? Had the dream been fulfilled? Master Abelard could have told her, but it was too late to ask him.
She was so tired. Only the arms of her husband and cousin kept her from sliding down in the mud and falling asleep on the first rock she found that was above the puddles.
When they arrived at the hostel, it was already full of people. The building, made of stone blocks, was one enormous room with a loft running around the walls on three sides. The monks had strung lines from the railings of the loft and these were covered with drying cloaks and blankets. A fire was blazing in the huge hearth at the east end of the room.
As they came in, the abrupt change from freezing rain to steamy heat made all of them dizzy. Catherine clutched her stomach with one hand and her mouth with the other.
“Breathe deeply,” Solomon told her. “I’ll get you some wine to sip.”
“Is everyone else here?” Hubert asked, his eyes searching the room for Griselle.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure she already has the corner of the loft nearest the fire,” Mondete said, guessing his intent.
“Do you think we can get closer to the warmth?” Edgar asked. “I’m worried about Catherine. You know how easily she gets sick.”
“I’m stronger than you think,” Catherine broke in. “And it’s far too warm in here already. Saint Mary Magdalene’s maggoty rags! The stench of this place is more than I can bear. I think I’d rather stay in the rain.”
Solomon reappeared with the wine. He forced the wooden cup between Catherine’s teeth and tipped, causing most of the liquid to run down the corners of her mouth … but enough got in to ease her shivering.
They managed to find a place near the wall under the loft and struggled out of their wet clothes and into dry shifts, at least. Most of the other pilgrims were in a similar state of undress. To Hubert, Catherine with her unbelted shift trailing the floor, her hair undone and tangled, looked about fourteen. For an instant, she was his child again, not some other man’s wife. His alone to care for. Then Edgar came up with a blanket to wrap her in and she turned her face up to his. Hubert bit his tongue. The two of them were a world unto themselves; she was
his no more. At least, whatever else this marriage might do to her, Catherine was happy.
It was enough, he told himself firmly; it was more than he had ever had.
Hubert’s eyes continued to search the room. He still hadn’t found Griselle. He knew that this was the only shelter until they descended to the base of the mountains. Even Aaron and his party were forced to stay in the hostel, grateful that the monks of Roncevalles were willing to allow them in. Finally, Hubert shrugged and tried not to worry. He hadn’t the right to be concerned about the Lady of Lugny. She had probably arrived early enough to get a place in the loft, as Mondete had said, where it was warm and the straw both cleaner and drier.
As Hubert sorted out the wet garments to hang, he heard a familiar sound, the rattle of wooden dice as they landed on a board. It reminded him that not everyone traveling this route was a devout pilgrim, even those who wore the cross and carried the
bourdin
and scrip. He wondered why those monks the abbot had sent to investigate Hugh’s death hadn’t been more suspicious of the other pilgrims. Their questions had been aimed only at those who were obviously outsiders. How much easier it would be to pretend great repentance and devotion in order to take others off guard and slit their throats. One heard tales of it all the time. Why hadn’t the monks considered that?
There was a shout from the circle of men kneeling over the dice. Hubert smiled. He could tell that a number of fervent prayers were being said.
“You find something amusing in this dreadful place?”
“After the storm and the fear that my daughter was lost, I find this shelter most congenial,” Hubert answered.
He had known she was beside him, even before she spoke. The attar of lilies she wore was unmistakable. How did Griselle always manage to look so elegant? She might have just come down from her rooms in her own castle. Her hair was smooth, her face clean. The pleats in her sleeves looked freshly ironed. He felt like an ostler come in straight from mucking out the stables. Hubert rubbed his chin. He hadn’t shaved since leaving Moissac. Griselle smiled.
“I can understand your feeling,” she told him. “Especially your worry for your child. Bertran and I were not given that joy. I have often regretted it, but perhaps God was kind in also sparing me the grief so many have in their offspring.”
Hubert laughed at that, but inside, he winced. The shot was closer to the mark than Lady Griselle knew.
“Would you care to sit by the fire?” he asked. “I can set up a stool for you.”
“My guard is bringing one,” she answered. “Perhaps you would care to set up one for yourself, next to mine. I would be pleased if you could tell me some more stories of your life in Paris. It might distract me from the noise and closeness in here.”
“I would be honored,” Hubert said.
His hands fumbled as he tried to fit the canvas seat over the tripod legs of the stool. What was the matter with him? Eliazar hadn’t needed to remind him that Griselle was Christian and that Madeleine’s retirement to a convent did not free him to remarry in any case. He knew it. Griselle was a good fifteen years younger than he as well, only a few years older than Catherine’s brother, Guillaume. This was insane. He was deluding himself. She only wanted the company of someone harmless, someone to protect her from the attentions’ of Gaucher and Rufus. He had to be careful not to put any meaning to her smiles and half-lidded glances.
It would be all too easy to make a fool of himself.
From across the room, Eliazar watched. He knew that look of infatuation. He and Johannah rented out rooms to the students of Paris and he had seen it often. Usually the boys passed through the episode unharmed and returned to their studies and plans for a celibate life. But not always. It was bad enough to see a sixteen-year-old in such a condition. It was dreadful when it was his fifty-two-year-old brother.
Eliazar turned away. He was sorry now he had ever suggested that Hubert come with them. Instead of helping with the problems, he had become one of them.
 
Gaucher and Rufus were also appalled by the sight of Hubert and Griselle sitting together.
“The next thing you know, she’ll be giving him sops of her bread and they’ll be drinking from the same cup,” Gaucher said.
“And you know what they say.” Rufus was indignant. “‘Those that eat together will soon share a bed.’”

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