Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) (34 page)

Read Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) Online

Authors: Sharan Newman

BOOK: Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur)
7.85Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“That’s right,” Gaucher agreed.
Hubert was quickly losing the effect of the wine. “And of course things are different here,” he said.
Gaucher nodded. “These infidels do many things that would horrify good Christians at home. The problem is that the Christians in Spain have fallen into heretical and decadent ways. They are almost Saracens themselves now. No one could be blamed for mistaking them for the enemy, could he?”
Hubert had no idea of what he was talking about, but he agreed.
“Even those clerics come to work for Abbot Peter dress just like the natives. Only their light coloring shows they’re like us.” Gaucher went on.
“Exactly,” Rufus said. “And the boy was dark enough. How were we to know?”
His voice rose plaintively, carrying well across the plaza in the still evening. Gaucher stood, dragging Rufus up with him. “I think we should finish the wine in our room,” he said.
Rufus allowed himself to be guided to the guest-house door. “We only rescued it!” he told the world. “How were we to know?”
Hubert heard the thumps as the two men tripped over stools and tables on their way to the stairs. Then he straightened up and prayed he wasn’t as far gone as Rufus. Lady Griselle, newly washed, her golden hair braided and perfumed, was returning.
“Disgusting, drunken old men!” she greeted him.
Hubert looked around for a bowl of parsley or mint to clear
the wine from his breath. There was nothing. He would just have to try to avoid breathing into her face. He stood and bowed.
“The cook told me that he was preparing kid tonight, simmered in spices and goat’s milk,” he informed her. “I asked him to save you the most tender cut.”
“Such a dear man you are,” Griselle smiled.
Hubert smiled back, inebriated once again. He took her hand and escorted her to their table.
 
Catherine and Edgar stayed in the bathhouse until the water cooled and the hot wind of the day had become evening stillness. They lay in the water and watched the stars appear one by one.
“I don’t believe that the movements of the planets can affect our lives,” Catherine said as she watched the Twins form. “But there is something comforting about being so far from home and seeing them all there, where they belong.”
“And there’s the Milky Way.” Edgar traced its path with his arm. “It’s led us here and we have only to follow it to find our way home.”
They were silent for a while. Catherine started to drift asleep.
“Carissima?”
Edgar said.
“Mmmm?”
“What do you think frightened the men when Mondete opened her cloak?”
Catherine awoke with a start, splashing on them both and getting water in her nose. “I’ve tried not to think,” she said as she climbed out, reaching for her
chainse.
Edgar helped her and she leaned against him, rubbing her wet hair on his shift.
“The more I know about Mondete’s life, the more guilty I feel for complaining about my own,” she told him. “The people we’ve seen on this pilgrimage: sick, lame, grieving, dying. I didn’t know how much I had. I’m ashamed for bothering Saint James with my petition when there are so many others in far greater need than I.”
“Yes,” Edgar said. “We haven’t been grateful enough for what we have.”
He didn’t add the thought that haunted him: that they would be asked to give up something more before they reached the end of the journey as a price for their complacency.
 
By the time they had dressed and managed to comb and braid Catherine’s hair, it was well past Compline. Most people in the town were asleep, including the bathhouse attendant, who had kindly forgotten about them.
The stones of the plaza were still slightly warm under their feet as they went back to the guest house. The building was dark.
“I didn’t realize how late it was,” Edgar said. “I hope the door hasn’t been barred.”
They tried it; it wouldn’t budge.
“Now what?” Catherine asked. “I’d rather not wake the entire household by pounding to be let in.”
“I think there’s a tree by the window to our room,” Edgar said. “I remember noticing that the branches were low enough for a thief to get in that way. I was going to mention it to the owner.”
They went around to the back. The moon, still in the first quarter, gave little light. They made out the outline of the tree and tried to see which was their window. Even in the warm night, all the shutters were closed against intruders, human or otherwise.
“I hate waking my father,” Catherine muttered. “Coming in like this, I forget that we’re a respectable married couple.”
“He may forget as well,” Edgar answered. “But there’s nothing else for it.”
He felt for a low branch to swing himself up by. As he did, something swung out of the dark, bumping into them.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Catherine said, startled.
It swung away, and back again.
They both knew what swayed like that. There were gibbets on half the crossroads of Christendom, often occupied. Criminals
hung for weeks to remind passersby of the fate of those who flouted the law. But this had been a private hanging.
Catherine closed her eyes. “Please,” she begged, “don’t let it be anyone we know.”
Edgar knew he would have to find out. He climbed up onto the branch, took out his knife and cut the rope. Catherine looked as the body fell.
Even in the dim moonlight, she could make out the bald head and the bleached-out red beard. With his eyes bulging and his swollen tongue stuck out, Rufus still seemed to be leering at her.
Estella, very early the next morning, Friday, June 6, 1142; The Feast of Saint Philip, deacon, and his four daughters, prophets.
 
Astrologie fu aprés par quoi l‘en fet en eutres leus, et les biens et les maus qui sunt present et a venir. Qui bien set ceste art, il conoist bien s’il a une grant chose a fere qu‘il en est a avenir, ou s’il voit .ii. champions en un champ il saura biens lequeus vientra ou liqueus ert veincuz.
 
After this comes astrology by which one knows of other places and the good and evil events of the present and to come. Who knows this art well realizes that it is a great thing to foresee what is in the future, where if he sees two champions on a field, he will know which will be the victor and which the vanquished.
The Old French Pseudo-Turpin
Laisse 75
, 111—6
 
 
“
I
don’t suppose there’s a chance he committed suicide,” Hubert said when they had roused him. “Perhaps from remorse at having murdered the monk? His hands aren’t tied.”
“That would be too easy,” Edgar answered as he knelt to investigate the body in the light. He tried not to look at Rufus’s face, distorted like a gargoyle’s, or that of an imp in a scene of Hell. Instead, he examined the rope closely.
“Much too easy,” he repeated. “Look at this knot. One could hang him by it from the tree, but there’s no way it could have strangled him. And if his hands were free … here, move the lantern. Let’s have a look.”
Catherine had already knelt down and gingerly moved the flaccid arm outward to see if there were signs of Rufus having been manacled. “That’s odd. He’s wearing his tunic but not his shift. Shouldn’t it be the other way ’round?”
“Catherine, you shouldn’t—” Hubert began.
“Father, not now,” Catherine answered. “This is important. Look at his wrists.”
They all did. There were deep bruises on both wrists, but no mark from a rope. Catherine pushed up the sleeve. There, above Rufus’s elbow, were more bruises, these clearly made by someone’s hands. The pattern of a thumb ended in a deep nail cut that had bled and crusted.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “It looks as though someone shackled him and then held him down for good measure.”
“And then choked him?” Edgar was doubtful. “It doesn’t make sense, but I don’t see any other explanation.”
“But if one wanted to kill him, why choose such a complicated
way?” Catherine wondered. “A simple knife would have been so much quicker, and more effective.”
“Catherine!” Hubert stopped. “Never mind. You’re quite right. I should be glad you’ve learned to put emotion aside and reason clearly in these situations.”
“He’s not someone I cared about, Father,” Catherine reassured him. “I wouldn’t be so dispassionate if it were you.”
“Oh, thank you,” Hubert said. “That’s a great comfort.”
Edgar had gone back to examining the head. “It appears as if he were somehow kept immobile in order to strangle him,” he said. “There’s the mark of another rope of some kind on his neck, much finer than this. That’s what killed him, I’ll wager. And there are bits of cloth on his tongue; I’d say he was gagged.” Edgar sniffed. “
Ehuue
! He seems to have vomited at some point as well.”
“There’s no trace of it on his tunic,” Catherine said. “Maybe it was earlier this evening. You’ve seen how drunk he gets … got.”
“Well, I don’t see how this can be put down to a random thief,” Edgar said firmly. “Whoever did this wanted him to die painfully and slowly.”
“Yes,” Hubert agreed. The lantern shook in his hand. “Each one of the knights has died more horribly than the last. And now there’s only one of them left.”
 
Gaucher was not insensitive to this fact. As he stared down at the body of his last comrade, his face was drained of all emotion but terror.
“What if Rigaud was right after all?” he murmured. “We may be running from a Spirit bent on revenge. Then where shall I go to hide? If even the cloister couldn’t protect him, then there’s no hope for me.”
He sat down heavily on the ground. “I’m doomed.”
Hubert bent over him, curving the knight’s nerveless fingers around a cup. “Hot wine and herbs, that’s all,” he told Gaucher. “To calm you and help you recover from the shock.”
Gaucher drank automatically. As he lowered the cup, his eyes began to focus. “You found the body?” he asked.
“My daughter and her husband,” Hubert said. “He was hanging from the tree here.”
Gaucher looked up at the branch. “I always said he’d end up like this. But I thought I’d be beside him.”
“We need to take him inside,” Hubert suggested gently. “You don’t want people gathering in the morning to stare.”
“No, of course not.” Gaucher didn’t seem able to offer a course of action, however. He lifted the cup again and drained it, then carefully set it upside down on the ground.
“Father, why don’t you go see if there’s a place where the body can be laid out,” Catherine suggested. “Take this poor man with you. Edgar and I will guard Sir Rufus until you return.”
Hubert took Gaucher’s arm and helped him to stand. Then he guided the knight back into the inn. Gaucher seemed to have aged twenty years. His step was halting and even the gold streak in his hair had dulled.
As soon as they left, Catherine took the lantern and set it close to Rufus’s neck. Keeping her eyes from the distorted face, she touched the marks on the skin.
“You see how they’re different?” Edgar asked.
“Yes. He was pulled up onto the branch with this one just at his jaw, the rope he was hanging from. But the one that killed him was different, thicker, though made of finer thread.”
She saw a gleam in the light and bent closer, trying to pull the bit of rope out. It was so fine that she couldn’t dislodge it from the swollen skin.
“I need a tweezers,” she muttered. “I don’t have a set, but the Lady Griselle might.”
“You can’t wake her this early,” Edgar said.
“I know,” Catherine answered, “but if I don’t get it now, when will I have a chance? You don’t have your bag of silversmithing tools with you, do you?”
Edgar produced them from a pouch at his belt. “I didn’t want to leave them behind,” he explained. “I thought that if we were forced to trade for food or shelter—”
“You don’t need to apologize,” Catherine said. “It was a
good idea. Now, isn’t there some sort of thing you use to hold fine wire?”
He rummaged around in the bag and handed her a set of tweezers nearly as fine as that used by ladies on their eyebrows. Catherine picked carefully at the strand.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she muttered. “I keep worrying that I’m going to hurt him. Edgar, could you?”
They switched places. Edgar took the tweezers and Catherine held the lamp, turning her face away as he prodded until he gripped the end of the gleaming material. With a sigh of relief, he held it up for her to inspect.
“Do you know what it is?” he asked. “It’s even finer than gold thread.”
“I think so,” she answered, “but I don’t believe it. There’s only one person … yet it doesn’t seem possible. Why?”
“The evidence is here,” Edgar said. “We can’t ignore it just because it doesn’t fit with our theories.”
“I know, I know,” Catherine said. “But there’s no reason. No reason to kill Sir Rufus, or to kill all the others. Even if we could find a motive, it’s too preposterous to credit. Who could we tell?”
“Solomon and Mondete would help us find out the truth,” Edgar said. “Unless you still fear that Mondete’s responsible for this.”
“I never wanted to think so,” Catherine told him, “but she had good reason to hate Norbert, and she could have lured Sir Hugh out to the bushes for a tryst and then cut his throat with her razor for much the same reason. Even Brother Rigaud might have been one of those who visited her. Rufus certainly did. But for this deed, Mondete has no weapon.”
“We have to prove it,” Edgar said. “She would still be easy to accuse. I’m keeping this safe until we can use it.” He carefully wrapped the evidence in a piece of chamois cloth and put it back in his pouch.
“Then we should find her and Solomon in the morning and show them what we’ve found,” Edgar decided. “We must discover
why all these men have been killed. Without that, we have nothing really, only guesses, It will be safer if all four of us do the questioning separately. We don’t want anyone becoming suspicious.”
“But we’re in no danger!” Catherine insisted.
“Oh, yes we are.” Edgar took her hand. “Especially if we’re wrong about this.”
They stood on either side of the corpse, hands clasped over it as if making a vow. “Catherine,” Edgar began hesitantly, “promise me you won’t go wandering about alone or with any of these pilgrims, whether you suspect them or not.”
“I should make you promise the same,” she answered.
“No, it’s not the same for me.” He grimaced. “It’s that dream of yours. Even Master Abelard believed it to be a true prophetic sending. I don’t know what lies between here and Compostela, but if you are destined to risk your life in any way, I’d rather be there. It’s not just you, remember, but our son as well.”
Catherine gave him a sharp look. Had he guessed? She’d tried so hard not to give any sign. The nausea wasn’t so bad this time, but the aching and the intense exhaustion, added to the absence of the usual monthly pattern, made her fairly sure. She didn’t want anyone to know yet—not until they had reached Saint James. She feared that Edgar would want her to stop where they were or return-home. But that could bring disaster. They had to complete the pilgrimage as they had sworn to. She couldn’t bear losing another child.
“I promise.” She smiled to cover her nervousness. “To be honest, if I find myself hanging from the side of a cliff, I’d rather you were nearby to pull me back up.”
Hubert returned with some men from the inn to bring in the body of Rufus of Arcy. As they bore the corpse away, Catherine wondered what sort of dreams Rufus had been sent. Had his fear been a premonition, or had he known why his companions were being murdered one by one? If only he had told someone. Now the search would be that much harder. And how was she to comprehend the passion that drove a person to such evil?
She almost felt that Rufus was sticking his tongue out at her in derision.
 
Inside, the commotion had awakened the rest of the people in the guest house. Lady Griselle’s maid appeared at the top of the staircase, a blanket wrapped around her loose
chainse.
“Are we being attacked?” she asked.
Hubert looked up. “Nothing to concern yourself with,” he assured her. “Sir Rufus has met with an unfortunate accident … .”
“Don’t speak nonsense.” Griselle’s voice came from behind Hersent’s shoulder. “He’s been killed, hasn’t he? Just like the others. I thought we’d left this all behind in France. Hersent, wake the guards and tell them that from now on, they will sleep one at our door and the other under the window, as well as guard us both all day. We will complete our pilgrimage no matter what wickedness Satan puts in the path.”
The two women vanished back into their room.
“Remarkable woman,” Hubert commented as he returned to his attempt at making sense of Gaucher’s rambling monologue.
“Only me,” the knight kept repeating. “No one left but me. We meant no harm. We were protecting her, saving her from the desecration of the infidel. We didn’t know he was Christian. How could we? Who’s doing this? Only me. It’s all on my shoulders now. What should I do? What should I do?”
He looked directly at Hubert, who had no answer.
“You need a sleeping draught,” he told Gaucher. “In the morning, we can decide what’s to be done.”
Gaucher stared at him as if just realizing who he was. “Not you!” he shouted, standing abruptly. “You took Hugh’s ring! Did you skewer old Rigaud as well? You’re not what you seem. Neither is that other monk. You’re all kin, you and the Jews and that monk. It’s disgusting, twisted! You’re all trying to steal it from us. I’m not a fool. I can see it now. You want to use it in your filthy rituals. But I’ll stop you. The others didn’t know what you were, but now I’m on guard. You’ll never get it. Never!”
His hand went for his knife, but Hubert stepped back in time as Edgar came up from behind and yanked the weapon from the knight’s belt, sheath and all. Gaucher whipped around to attack Edgar, tripped over a stool and sprawled on the floor.
The owner of the guest house lifted him gently. “There, there,” he said. “Calm yourself. It’s a terrible shock you’ve had, especially at your age. Don’t worry. We’ll take the matter to the lord’s men in the morning. They’ll discover who’s to blame.”
“Sir,” Catherine interrupted, “you don’t believe that my father …”
“Not at all,” the landlord told her. “Not that I trust my judgment as to who’s likely to be a murderer, having found that almost anyone is, but your father and I were up playing tric-trac until only a few moments before you came in. He had no time to kill anyone.”

Other books

Weak for Him by Lyra Parish
No More Secrets by Terry Towers
Airel by Patterson, Aaron, White, C.P.
Hawke by Ted Bell
Blood Brothers of Gor by John Norman
Dark Stallion by Willow-Wood, Raven