The Wandering Arm (16 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General

BOOK: The Wandering Arm
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“Pear cider, Father,” she told him. “All the way from Normandy, the woman said.” Then she leaned closer to him and whispered, “Vinegar, water and honey. I can tell. You taught me the difference.”
“Thank you, my dear,” he said and felt the muscles in his neck relax. She put an arm through his and leaned against him. At least he had one child left.
“You should wait, also,” Solomon told him. “Have a cup of beer. John wanted to speak with you. From what he told us last night, I think he may know something about the other end of the journey for that object I found.”
They looked around. They saw no one else in the room. The tavern keeper, Bietrix, had gone into the back. But walls were thin and no one could be sure what lay on the other side of them.
“What does he think I can do?” Hubert asked.
“Apparently it was only one of several objects,” Solomon said. “He hopes you might help him find the others.”
Catherine leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “We’re going to rescue an abducted Saxon saint.” She kissed his cheek. “Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
At that moment the tavern keeper returned and saw Catherine nestled against Hubert.
“And I believed you were a lady!” she said. “None of your trade in here,
jael
. We have our own guild, you know.”
Catherine and Solomon tried to hide their laughter but Hubert had had enough for one day. He got up and faced the woman.
“I have a trade, too,” he said heavily. “I am of the
marchands de l’eau.
Would you care to have no wine or grain sold to you for the next year or would you prefer to apologize to my daughter?”
He was most proficient at playing the powerful lord. Hubert had become more a part of his world than he realized.
“Your daughter, is she?” Bietrix said. “Then you should watch her more closely. I have a daughter, too, but she isn’t allowed to linger in taverns, even this one.”
“I have more confidence in my daughter’s good sense,” Hubert said. “Now, bring us a ewer of beer.”
As he sat down, Catherine was tempted to ask if he had meant what he said about her good sense, but she was afraid the answer would be no.
Hubert had used his altercation with the tavern keeper to take the time to consider what Catherine and Solomon had just told him. He wondered if this was what Prior Hervé had meant when he had warned that the abbey might require him to “help” the saints in their peregrinations. He hadn’t liked the sound of it then and it was just as discordant to him now.
Did the prior already know where Solomon’s chalice had come from? Did it have something to do with the pearls Natan had tried to sell? If so, was his brother, pious Eliazar, somehow involved with this dangerous trade? Why, and how, had Natan died? Was he sending Edgar into the same peril?
There were only two things he was certain of. The first was that he didn’t want Catherine becoming entangled in this web.
The second was that there was no way she would let him keep her out of it.
At the corner of the rue de Juiverie and the rue des Marmousets, just in front of the synagogue, Friday, February 28, 1141 / 18, Adar, 4901
Adeo, praeter illud quod de illo Beda in Gesti Anglorum tangit, semper infra meritum jacuit, semper desidia civium agente, inhonorus latuit.
Outside of what Bede wrote about him in the Deeds of the
English, he [Aldhelm] has always received less attention than
he deserved, through the apathy of the public, he has always
been neglected.
—William of Malmesbury
Gesta Pontificum Anglorum
Book V,
Vita Aldhelmi
S
pring was coming to Paris. That meant it was wet and muddy. Eliazar had left the house late for morning prayers, his hood pulled down over his face, and didn’t see Menahem standing in the porch of the synagogue until the draper stepped in his path, blocking the doorway. He was also hooded but Eliazar recognized the cloak, a particularly intricate weave of yellow and green.
“
Shalom
, Menahem,” Eliazar said.
Menahem didn’t move.
“May the Almighty One bless you.” Eliazar smiled, taking off his hood now that he was under cover.
Menahem still didn’t move.
“Menahem? What is it?” Eliazar was becoming annoyed. “The others have all gone in already. Have you been struck dumb?”
Menahem reached up and took off his hood. Eliazar gasped in pity and horror. The man’s face had been battered as if kicked by a mule. Both eyes were black, the right one swollen shut. His lip was split, his nose crumpled. There was a cut along his chin and a bruise in the center of it that plainly showed the pattern of a heavy ring.
“Oh, Menahem!” Eliazar said. “How horrible! You shouldn’t be out, but home in bed. What happened? What servant of the devil has done this to you, my poor friend?”
“The servants were of your old friend and partner, Hubert, my friend. He has done this to me,” Menahem croaked. “I wanted you to see, before you went in to pray.”
“You must be mistaken, Menahem,” Eliazar said. “Hubert would never do such a thing. You’re feverish and confused by your pain. Come, let me help you home.”
Menahem swallowed as if fighting nausea. “I am not mistaken,” he said fiercely. “He threatened me and then he sent his ribaux to beat me. He told me he knew nothing about Natan, but he lied, as you lied. Natan left me no treasure, not a denier. But someone believes he had one and they think I know about it. This is what comes of his sort of business, and yours.”
“Menahem, please.” Eliazar tried to calm the man. “There must be some mistake.”
“Only the one I made the day I let my mother’s only brother stay under my roof,” Menahem answered. “You know more about this than you’ve said, Eliazar ben Meir. If you wish to tell me the truth, come see me when you’ve finished your pious duty. No! I don’t need your arm. My wife and my son will help me home.”
Eliazar watched him go, leaning heavily on the shoulders of his wife and his eldest son, a child of ten. He decided not to try to help. They needed only to cross the street and go a few more steps. Menahem’s shop was the third one down on the street of the drapers.
But still he stood in the doorway, his heart and mind no longer prepared to worship in the proper spirit. Should he go home? Find Hubert and demand to know what was going on?
Inside he heard the voices rise and fall. The morning benedictions were almost over. The
Shema
would be recited next.
For all of his life, Eliazar had prayed, every morning, every evening. Even in the wilderness on long journeys when there had been no synogogue and only a few brethren with him, he had never once forgotten.
His mind was full of consternation and his spirit in great turmoil. He feared that it was through his actions, not Hubert’s, that Menahem had been subjected to such abuse. It horrified him that something he had considered an act of courage, a deed that would find favor with the Almighty, seemed to be bringing such disaster on others of the community, after all he had done to protect them. How could he have been so wrong in his judgment? Eliazar felt lost and alone.
Wasn’t this the time, above all, when he needed to obey the Commandment and trust in the Lord? “Hear, O Israel …” The voices rose.
Eliazar took off his cloak and went in to join the affirmation.
Edgar arrived at the workshop just after dawn, as ordered, soaked through and shivering. He soon warmed. Gaudry set him to work almost before he had removed his cloak.
“I need to cast silver today, enough to make a large drinking vessel,” he said. “Use the block you refined yesterday. The wax and molds are on the shelf there.”
“Where is the salt box?” Edgar asked.
“Next to the tongs, man,” Gaudry snapped. “Do I have to show you anew each day?”
Edgar prepared for a long day and a fresh set of aches in his arms and back. The silver would have to be melted and cast, perhaps more than once. Then it would need to be dipped in a solution of clear lye and salt, reheated and dipped again. He wondered if Gaudry would let him shape the cup.
“Will the work be plain,” he asked, “or ornamented?”
“That’s not your concern,” Gaudry told him. “Just do as you’re told. I’ll complete the piece. Do you think I’d trust the delicate work to some slack-jawed foreigner, trained God knows where?”
Edgar reminded himself that he was here to locate stolen objects, to find a lost saint, not to increase his artisan’s skills. But he would have liked to try etching a pattern in the silver or setting in a pattern of precious stones and gold wire, as Gaudry had implied that he might. With a sigh, he began to assemble the materials. He looked around. Something was missing.
“Where’s Odo?” he asked casually.
“Sent him on an errand,” Gaudry answered. “Stop babbling. This isn’t one of your classes in grammar. Hold your tongue and do your job, if you want another day’s wages.”
Edgar held his tongue and got on with the work. He reflected sadly that he was unlikely to get any information from Gaudry as a result of friendly conversation between master and apprentice. It wasn’t the same as being Master Abelard’s student. The master had never been too proud to share a mug with his followers. He was ruthless in disputation, of course, and could draw blood with his sarcasm. But when he had cut you to ribbons, he could often be persuaded to pay for the drinks.
It didn’t seem that Gaudry would even give him time to eat the hunk of cheese Catherine had packed. The man was in a state about something. He moved from one job to another with no pattern, leaving tasks undone, neglecting to put tools away. Everything Edgar did was wrong. He was made to cast the silver twice and even then Gaudry wasn’t satisfied.
“Too brittle,” he insisted. “It’s sure to crack before it bends.”
“Let me hammer it out and see, Master,” Edgar asked as humbly as he could manage.
Gaudry’s reply was the back of his hand to the side of Edgar’s head.
Edgar picked himself up. With a superhuman effort, he swallowed his anger and his pride and returned to cast the silver once again.
Toward midday Odo finally appeared. He brought nothing with him, so Edgar assumed that the errand had been for information. He hunched over the crucible, trying to appear oblivious to anything else in the room.
Odo was obviously bursting to tell something. Gaudry made an attempt to muzzle him until he could be pushed back into the passageway.
“This isn’t just street talk, Master,” Odo said as he moved backward through the doorway. “I spoke with a man who’d seen the body. He’s dead, for sure.”
Gaudry shut the door behind them. Edgar set the crucible on the edge of the oven and crossed the room. He put his ear against the wood but heard nothing more than muffled sounds, Gaudry low and worried, Odo high and excited.
Edgar went back to the kiln. He resalted the metal and set the crucible on the coals once more. The door creaked and opened a crack. Gaudry’s voice came through more clearly. Edgar held the pot steady with the tongs and held his breath.
“There must be more to it,” Gaudry said. “Go back and ask again. No one would be stupid enough to kill him without knowing what he’d done with it. Someone’s lying. Find out who.”
He came back in, barely glancing at Edgar as he removed the crucible one more time.
“Pour it,” he ordered. “And don’t lose a grain. Then you can see that all my etching tools are prepared. After that, scrub and sand the worktable. After that, I’ll think of something.”
Edgar stifled a sigh. He wondered what Catherine would say about the new holes in his leather
braies
.
Catherine was at that moment wedged into a corner of the Bishop’s Hall. The large room was full of people, come to hear Master Gilbert de la Porée give his views on Boethius’ views of the trinity. Most of the listeners were male, clerics of all sorts and all ages, but there were a few other women, discreetly veiled. Catherine wondered if one of them were Queen Eleanor. While the queen’s taste seemed to run to epics and the poetry of the south, she occasionally came to more serious lectures and debates.
Catherine had seen Eleanor many times as she rode with her retainers out to hunt or on one of her incessant journeys. The bright colors and sparkling jewelry, the laughter as they passed, were from another world. There were those who derided her opulent apparel and openly condemned her love of pleasure, but to Catherine it was like catching a glimpse of something magical. Even though Hubert trafficked in the jewels and ointments that Eleanor loved, they were simply parcels to Catherine. The queen transmuted them to the realm of legend.
None of the ladies were sparkling today. They were all quietly dressed and attentive. Catherine turned her own attention back to Master Gilbert.
At first she was somewhat annoyed, as his discourse was aimed at refuting Peter Abelard’s assignment of attributes to the different persons of the Trinity. On the other hand, Master Gilbert seemed also to be refuting Saint Augustine’s theories. That took courage, not to mention intellectual confidence to the point of hubris. She forgot her resentment and settled in to follow the argument. It took all her concentration. Master Gilbert’s distinctions were subtle, indeed.
When the lecture had concluded, Catherine waited for John, who had offered to escort her back home. When he found her, he had another man with him. He was about Edgar’s age and wearing a patched and threadbare robe. His brown hair was carefully tonsured and his eyes were an indeterminate light brown. His cheekbones jutted over hollow cheeks. Clearly the man did not get enough to eat. Catherine wondered if the reason were asceticism or poverty.
John answered the question for her. He took her aside and whispered, “Are you and Edgar too poor now to give alms?”
“Of course not,” Catherine answered at once. “I hope we never will be.”
“Then may I bring Maurice with me tomorrow?” John nodded at the young cleric. “He’s just come up from the Orleanais. From what I can tell, his prebend allows him to eat three days out of seven. He won’t beg, but I fear he may starve. He’s fallen in love with Paris, I believe, and would rather die here than leave. When his stomach is not gnawing at him, he’s good company.”
“You could bring him if he were mute and stupid as a rabbit,” Catherine assured him. “He’ll no doubt fast today, anyway, as it’s Friday, and I only have bread and flaked fish for the evening meal, but tomorrow there will be pease porridge with a bit of cabbage and, perhaps, a little meat. I’ll set the peas to soak tonight and put in an extra spoonful.”
John thanked her and then went over and spoke to Maurice, who glanced at Catherine and nodded thanks, giving her a shy smile before he wandered off into the crowd.
When John and Catherine were outside and on their way back to the Right Bank, John confessed that his desire to have Maurice dine with them was not only charitable.
“He has a bed with one of the canons of Notre Dame at the moment,” John explained. “That means he can come and go within the cloister as he wishes. From what Edgar said, this metal shop may be near, or even within the bishop’s walls.”
“Will he help us?” Catherine asked. “If the workshop is in there, how could the bishop be unaware of it? Maurice would be in danger of losing the little he has if anyone caught him spying on them or if he brought scandal to the house that sheltered him.”
“I would never ask him to spy,” John told her. “Edgar and I will simply question him gently about anything unusual he may have seen—”
“Or smelled,” Catherine interrupted.
“Or smelled,” John went on. “In the vicinity of the cloister.”
“That seems harmless enough,” Catherine agreed, her conscience assuaged. “Until tomorrow, then,” she added. “
God ceapeth thu
.”
‘God protect you, as well,” he laughed.
The door at the top of the stairs was standing open. Catherine stopped. The weaver had said nothing about a visitor. She should go back down and ask him.

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