The Wandering Arm (14 page)
“Why take the tunnels at all?” Eliazar said. “Natan was a man who always refused to take the straightest way. He had as many twists as the Seine. It’s like him to confound us even by his death. We may never know the truth of it.”
The torchlight distorted Hubert’s face but Catherine thought she saw fear in it. That chilled her more than the thought of ghosts and demons.
“I think we should try to find out,” Hubert said. “The labyrinth down here is nothing, I fear, to the one we’ve become tangled in out in the world. I’ve had a number of visitors in the past few days, from Saint-Denis and beyond. May I come in?”
As they moved to let him by, Hubert noticed something.
“Why is there water dripping down the staircase?” he asked.
Edgar hadn’t intended on seeing Catherine’s father. When Gaudry had released him, he had hurried home to her, with thoughts of various warming activities speeding his path. The disappointment he felt at finding the room empty amazed him. She hadn’t even left the pasties warming over the coals. Where could she have gone?
Edgar sighed and put his gloves back on. Unknowingly, he echoed Catherine’s thought that any activity was better than waiting.
He had found Hubert supervising the unloading of wine casks from a raft tied up at the Grève. At first his father-in-law had answered distractedly, but when Edgar mentioned Natan’s death, Hubert immediately gave him his full attention.
“Is Catherine all right?” Hubert gave a short, humorless laugh. “I seem to ask you that every time we meet.”
“With good reason,” Edgar sighed. “Yes, she was when I left her this morning.”
“Good. Now tell me again about Natan,” Hubert said.
Edgar repeated the story, keeping only to what he knew and leaving out any speculations. When he finished, Hubert called to one of his men to take over the work.
“I don’t like this,” he said. “I don’t like it at all. I have to talk with my brother. Will you and Catherine be in tonight?”
“I suppose so,” Edgar said. “We generally go to bed soon after dark.”
“As do we all,” Hubert said. “I want to speak with both of you. I’ll come as early as I can. Oh yes, and I also would like to speak with that friend of yours, the man from Salisbury who studied with Abelard. I see him now and again, over by Sainte-Genéviève, sometimes with Master Gilbert or Master Robert.”
“You mean John?” Edgar asked.
“Yes, John, that’s right.” Hubert seemed annoyed at forgetting the name. Edgar had not been aware that he knew John at all. “Can you ask him to meet me at your room?”
“If I can find him, I will,” Edgar said.
So now he was combing the streets, looking for his friend John as well as keeping an eye out for his wife. He hoped he’d find one of them soon. It was growing dark and he was cold and hungry. While he felt obliged to fulfill Hubert’s commission, Edgar rather hoped it would be Catherine he found first.
Although he disliked admitting it, especially to himself, Edgar had always been a little in awe of John. It didn’t seem logical; Edgar’s family had pretensions of royal blood and John’s were only country people, servants of the Salisbury canons. But Edgar had always known that while he was just a student, John was a scholar. Also, unlike most of Edgar’s friends, John took his clerical status seriously and kept his vow of chastity. It was only John’s sense of humor and their shared attachment to their English roots that allowed them to be friends.
It was on his second crossing of the Petit Pont that Edgar noticed John, bundled to the nose, his wax tablet on his lap, sitting in a corner out of the wind to listen to Adam of the Bridge expound on Aristotle. When there was a pause in the lecture for debate, Edgar slid in next to his friend.
“Just as I thought,” he said. “The tablet is just for effect. Any notes you made today would crack the wax to slivers.”
John’s eyes crinkled with amusement. He pulled his scarf from over his mouth.
“You’ve found me out,” he laughed. “I don’t think Master Adam realizes it, though. He’ll wonder all night how I plan to refute him tomorrow. How are you?”
“Well enough,” Edgar told him. “Are you teaching your noble ninnies this afternoon or can you come home with me? Catherine has promised cabbage pie and mulled ale.”
“I did my teaching this morning,” John said. “Mulled ale sounds like heaven. I believe I’ve lost all feeling in my toes.” He stood and shook his feet, stamping them until the warmth returned. “Actually,” he said as they headed across the Île, “I wanted to discuss something with you. Did you know that the empress captured King Stephen at Lincoln last month on the Feast of the Purification?”
“No, the news hadn’t reached me,” Edgar admitted. “It’s a Norman war; I don’t pay much attention. Has the king been ransomed yet?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” John replied. “And I do follow the events at home. But I have learned something else that touches on what we were speaking of at my last visit.”
“What was that?”
“About the time Stephen was in control of Salisbury,” John said. “You were right, his candidate for the bishopric took a few souvenirs away with him. And now I understand that some of these things have made their way to France. The canons of Salisbury want them back. One thing in particular. But there is a problem. Philippe is reported to have lost it. Will you help us recover this object for Salisbury?”
“Of course,” Edgar answered. “What is it that’s missing?”
John refused to say. “When we are inside,” he warned. “I may have already said too much.”
He looked over his shoulder. Edgar did as well. A beggar held out his bowl to them.
“A crust for God’s mercy?” he pleaded.
John stopped and threw him a coin. They continued on.
A moment later something made Edgar turn around and look again.
The beggar was gone.
The room above the weaver’s, the same day, just past Vespers
Collecto itaque copioso decentissimae militiae cuneo, … pulchram illam et delectabilem circa Salesbiriam omniumque bonorum refertissimam provinciam exterminare aggreditur; captis quoque et direptis quaecumque eis occurrerant, in domibus et in templis iniecerunt … .
So with a collection of many well-armed knights, … [King
Stephen] attacks and destroys the lovely and fine area around
Salisbury, full of all good things; they fell upon and
plundered everything they found, set fire to homes and
churches …
—Gesta Stephani
C
atherine had forgotten about the ale and cabbage pies. It had been that sort of day.
atherine had forgotten about the ale and cabbage pies. It had been that sort of day.
First she and Johannah had stopped to mop the floor; then Hubert had politely suggested that Solomon take Catherine home while he and Eliazar discussed the matter at hand. Neither Solomon nor Catherine approved of this plan. Catherine also wanted to know about Agnes and why she was in Paris. But Hubert refused to speak about anything until he had talked to his brother.
“I promise, Catherine, I will tell you all about it tonight,” he said. “But now I need to understand from Eliazar what has happened. You already know. Please go.”
“I don’t know enough,” Catherine muttered, as she and Solomon wrapped up for the walk back to the bourg Saint-Germain.
“This is what they used to do to us when we were children,” Solomon grumbled as they left. He was carrying a pot of the lentils and had been warned against spilling it. “Don’t they realize that we’re grown?”
“I don’t think they care,” Catherine said. “I’m sure Father only let me marry Edgar so that I would have a keeper.”
“well …” Solomon started.
The discussion that escalated from that was what made Catherine forget the pies.
They arrived at the room without spilling the lentil pot, at least. The weaver was just closing when they came in.
“You’ll need more food,” he said. “Your husband, if that’s what he is, has brought a friend home.”
Catherine sent Solomon up with the lentils. Then she hurried to the baker’s in the hope of getting whatever was left at a reduced price. The selection wasn’t that good: cabbage and turnip and something that the baker swore was pork but which Catherine suspected was cat meat. She took the vegetable pies.
When she got back, she found that the men had taken a pitcher down to the tavern to fill and now were busy adding honey to the ale and heating it. The lentil pot was precariously placed at the edge of the brazier, which had been stoked with charcoal and was now glowing brightly.
“What took you so long?” was Edgar’s greeting. “I made John promise not to say anything important until you arrived. He’s been uncommonly silent.”
It took a few more minutes for everyone to settle with a cup in one hand and a pie in the other. When there was a hand free, the lentil pot was left open on the table to allow each person to scoop up a spoonful.
“Now, who begins?” Catherine asked, licking her fingers.
“John,” Edgar said. “He’s the only one of us who gets up in the middle of the night to pray. We should let him go early.”
“I expect to share information,” John said. “Not donate it for free. But I’ll tell you what I know. Didn’t you say Catherine’s father was coming here tonight?”
“So he told me,” Edgar said. “But many things could have prevented him. Start now. Catherine is falling asleep on my shoulder.”
“I am not.” She yawned and pulled herself up to pay alert attention.
“I’m sorry that your father isn’t here, Catherine,” John began. “In his dealings with other merchants, he might have learned more about this than I know.”
Nevertheless, he settled in to tell his story.
“Do you remember last year, when King Stephen tried to make Philippe d’Harcourt bishop of Salisbury?” he asked.
Edgar nodded. “After Bishop Roger finally died. I’ve heard talk about that, too. They say Stephen chained Roger up in a cow barn and left him to starve.”
“I’ve heard that, as well,” John said. “But I find it hard to believe that any ruler would so humiliate a prelate of the realm. At any rate, Bishop Roger died and Stephen, or more likely his adviser, Waleran of Meulan, decided that Philippe would be a good candidate for the see. He was already dean of Lincoln and Stephen’s chancellor.”
“But the canons of Salisbury wouldn’t have him and Henry of Winchester wouldn’t let him be consecrated. I know all that,” Edgar continued. “It makes one wonder how well the king and his brother, Henry, are getting along.”
“Henry knows his first duty is to God, even before his family. Stephen should remember that. But that’s of no importance to my story.” John dismissed the speculation. “It seems that Philippe came to Salisbury, though, with Stephen. I know they kept Christmas there. My brother told me. I think that, by then, Stephen knew Philippe couldn’t have the bishopric. After he realized that, Philippe decided, either with the king’s permission or without, to take a few mementos from the cathedral treasury.”
“I thought Stephen had already confiscated all Roger’s property,” Catherine asked, to prove she was still awake.
“This wasn’t from Roger’s personal treasure,” John said. His normally calm tones became angry. “These were holy relics from the church of Salisbury itself.”
“How could he dare?” Edgar asked. “The saints protect themselves, we know. Thieves are struck with paralysis or blinding headaches.”
“Unless the saint wishes to be moved,” Catherine added. “Perhaps to punish the community for a lack of piety.”
“I can’t believe this is the case,” John said. “Although there is much about the matter that puzzles me greatly.”
“What did Philippe take?” Solomon asked. He found relics a distasteful subject, at best, and preferred the conversation to continue without tales of miraculous intervention.
“Some small things,” John said. “A chalice, I think, some other implements of the Mass.”
The other three sat up straighter. Solomon opened his mouth to mention that Abbot Suger had already suggested that the chalice might be from Salisbury, but John went on before he could speak.
“It’s said that there is something else missing.” He was almost whispering in his horror. “I have heard that when the canons went to display the sacred relic given to Saint Osmund of blessed memory by Abbot Warin of Malmesbury, they found the silver reliquary empty.”
Catherine felt Edgar go still next to her.
“How could the canons have permitted such a sacrilege?” Edgar spoke with an intensity that frightened her. “I would have died before I let any Norman touch him.”
“The canons didn’t know it was gone,” John said. “Philippe took the relic out of its coffer and put it in another one, a gold-plated box, it is said. It wasn’t until the relics were to be placed on the altar to celebrate the return of cathedral land by Matilda that someone noticed that the reliquary containing Saint Aldhelm’s arm was empty.”
“Saint who?” Catherine asked.
Solomon was grateful that he wasn’t the only ignorant person in the room.
“Aldhelm.” Edgar smiled fondly. “He is a true Saxon saint. He lived over four hundred years ago, when our people were still largely pagan. He was the first great Latin scholar, even before Bede. I’m surprised you didn’t read his work on virginity at the Paraclete. But I love him because he wasn’t ashamed to be Saxon.”
John continued the tale. “He studied at Saint Augustine’s in Canterbury and became renowned for his erudition, but he returned to be a monk in Dorset and began preaching in the little church on his land. It’s still there; I’ve seen it. The roof is gone and yet rain never falls within it. The shepherds go into it for protection during storms. But few people came to Aldhelm’s church in the beginning and those who did only understood the Mass and the gospels imperfectly. Instead of giving up, Aldhelm took his preaching to the bridge leading into the town. He stood there on market day, every week.”
“And he didn’t just shout at them to abandon the old gods or Christ would destroy them,” Edgar interrupted. “He told them the stories of the Evangelist in a way that they could understand, in Saxon poetry, which he wrote and sang himself.”
“He’s an important saint to us,” John finished. “Abbot of Malmesbury and first bishop of Sherborne, scholar, poet and defender of orthodoxy. Are you certain you’ve never read his work?”
Catherine shook her head.
“Well, it seems Philippe d’Harcourt has,” Edgar ended grimly. “Why else go to so much trouble to abduct him? What does he think he can gain?”
“But, John,” Catherine said. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with us. If Philippe took Saint Aldhelm, isn’t that a matter for the bishops of England and Normandy to deal with?”
“It will be eventually, I hope,” John answered. “But I think that Saint Aldhelm has decided to return home on his own.”
“Yes?” Catherine waited.
“I have learned that even before Philippe returned to Normandy, the men he entrusted with his treasure were robbed. One poor priest of Evreaux was brutally killed, martyred in his effort to protect the holy relic.” John paused for effect, not knowing that they were already aware of this. “It is said that one of the things taken was the box containing Aldhelm’s arm. And I also have reason to believe that it was brought here, to Paris.”
Their reaction to that was all he could have desired. Edgar was upset that a chalice and jewels had been stolen from Salisbury, but they were only things. Aldhelm was a part of his heritage, as a Christian and a Saxon. He jumped up at once, spilling Catherine off his lap, and proposed gathering all the English students and masters in Paris to begin a house-to-house search. The others managed to convince him that this was impractical.
“Then what are we to do?” Edgar demanded. “Saint Wilfrid’s wicked stepmother! The Normans have taken our land, John. Will we let them steal our saints, as well?”
“I think, Edgar,” John said, “that you are already doing something. Tell me again about this Gaudry and his workshop.”
Hubert left his brother’s house long after dark. He thought about going to Catherine’s, as he had promised, but decided against it. Tomorrow would have to do. He understood that his daughter and Edgar shared a bed; he’d bought it for them. But he still didn’t feel comfortable rousting them out of it or thinking about what they did in it. He wanted grandchildren, of course, but preferred to dwell on their arrival, not their begetting.
As he passed the watch on the Grand Pont Hubert sighed, remembering his other daughter, now sulkily ensconced at home. Agnes was the beautiful one, the ever-dutiful child, who had given up dreams of a home of her own to care for her mother, poor Madeleine, going slowly mad, overwhelmed by religion and guilt. He loved Agnes with a sort of wonder that he never felt about Catherine or Guillaume. There was nothing of him in Agnes, he believed. She was small and fair, with honey-blonde hair and hazel eyes. She looked like the heroine of a love song. She looked like her mother had on the day he had first seen her.
And now she averted her eyes when speaking to him and only spoke when it was necessary. Hubert wasn’t sure whether she hated him for being born Jewish, for not telling her about it or, most likely, for letting poor Madeleine spend her days in obsessive prayer, consumed by her guilt at marrying an apostate. He didn’t know which; Agnes wouldn’t discuss the matter.
“I will stay with you, as mistress of the house,” she had informed him coldly, “until you are able to arrange a suitable marriage for me. Unless, of course, you would rather have Catherine take care of you.”
Hubert had agreed. He loved Catherine dearly but feared that she was completely capable of trading every pot in the kitchen for a new book. She kept accounts like one of Henry Beauclerc’s tax collectors but he didn’t feel she would be happy or extremely competent in the role of lady at the high table. But even more, this would keep Agnes with him for a time. Perhaps one day he could convince her to forgive him.
This was not the day.
The stableman let him in through the side door with a warning.
“Your daughter is waiting up for you.”
Hubert thanked him and squared his shoulders for whatever might come.
Agnes was sitting by the banked fire, wrapped in a fur blanket. Her face was just a white blur in the darkness. She recognized his step and rose.
“You didn’t need to wait up for me,
ma douce
,” he said.
ma douce
,” he said.
“Yes, I did,” she answered. “I wanted to talk with you when no one else was around. You had a visitor tonight. One of your people.”
“My people?”
“He said his name was Menahem and he refused to eat or drink anything I offered,” Agnes said. “I presume he is Jewish.”
“Menahem? What did he want?” Hubert asked.
“Something about your other daughter,” Agnes answered. “At first he seemed to think that I was the one who consorted with infidels. He wanted to know what ‘Natan’ had said to me before he died. I told him he was mad and sent him away, but now I’m sure it has something to do with Catherine. She was here this morning. I sent her away, too. Jehan says she’s an engigneresse who creates destruction. Who is Natan? Did Catherine destroy him, too?”
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