The Wandering Arm (23 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

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

BOOK: The Wandering Arm
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“Illness in the family; she’ll be back soon,” he mumbled.
He took the bread and beer to the table and made Maurice finish it, despite his protest.
“Actually, I’ve been wondering something,” Edgar said. “You might be able to help me.”
“Anything,” Maurice answered through the soup.
“You know I’ve been working with a metalsmith for the past few weeks,” Edgar said. “But it worries me that my master is not attached to any of the guilds. I was curious, do the canons of Notre Dame have their own smithy, somewhere on the grounds?”
Maurice stopped eating long enough to screw up his face in thought. “No,” he said at last. “I suppose there’s no need. We can get anything necessary here in town. Who would want the smell right under the window of the cloister?”
“Yes, and most of the metalsmiths are on the Right Bank, over by the butchers and the tanneries and the other objectionable trades,” Edgar said, mostly to himself.
“That’s not too far to go,” Maurice said.
He dipped the last of the bread in the last of the soup, delighted that it came out even.
“I must be back before Compline,” he told Edgar, “so I’ll take my leave now. Many thanks. I hardly gave you much company in return for your generosity.”
“Give me a paternoster,” Edgar suggested. “I need all the intercession I can get.”
Maurice promised he would give the state of Edgar’s soul earnest consideration during his prayers. He hurried off to do so at once.
Edgar remained at the table, staring into his beer, until Bietrix suggested that he either go home to his own bed or rent one from her, complete with companion. Edgar put on his cloak and left.
Where could that blasted Gaudry have his shop, then? As Edgar made his way through the narrow, twisting streets, he tried to imagine a place on the Île where the sharp distinctive smell would be unnoticed. The east end of the island was the cathedral and the bishop’s property; the west end, the palace of the king. In the middle there were only a few blocks of shops, mostly cloth or other finished goods and the houses of some of the Jews. Most of the Jewish butchers and other businesses were on the Right Bank. Then there were a number of shabby buildings like Bietrix’s that served as housing and classrooms for students and their masters as well as tending to other needs of those young men who were far away from home and family supervision. But Edgar could think of nothing that might mask the smoke and stench of the kiln. And he had just built a second one! Why hadn’t anyone noticed?
Feeling his way through the dark passageways, Edgar reflected that he might indeed have been tricked into doing work for the devil himself. What if the forge and kiln weren’t in the tunnels of the Île, but really part of the vast, unmappable regions of Hell?
He crossed himself with a shiver and prayed that Saint Aldhelm would keep him safe as he descended once again into the pit.
Argenteuil, Thursday, March 13, 1141/2, Nisan, 4901
Multa de acquisitis, plura de quibus ecclesiae ornamentis quae perdere timebamus, videlicet pede decurtatum calicem aureum et quaedam alia, ibidem configi fecimus.
Many of our acquisitions and more of those ornaments of
the church that we feared to lose, for example a chalice of
gold with an engraved foot and other such things, we
ordered to be fastened down.
—Abbot Suger
De Aministratione,
part XXXIII
“
B
ut why would the abbot’s nephew be wandering about the why would the abbot’s nephew be wandering about the countryside in the dark with a stolen chalice?” Catherine asked. “It can’t have been the same man.”
She thought it a reasonable statement. Solomon felt his honor was being challenged.
“Of course it was the same man!” he insisted. “I recognized the voice. He even used some of the same words. I’d like to see this underfed family of his. They seem to be his excuse for any outrage he commits.”
“But the chalice he had wasn’t taken from Saint-Denis,” Catherine said. “We don’t know for certain where it came from. It may not be the one taken from Salisbury. It may not even have been stolen at all.”
“What do you mean, not stolen?” Solomon tried to remember not to shout but he felt Catherine was being purposely obtuse. “Perhaps Mayor Gerard bought it out of the tolls he’s collected and was going to donate it to the priory and he put it in a bag of grain to keep it from being dented. Do you think because he’s related to the abbot that he cannot sin?”
“Of course not!” Catherine tried not to shout back. “I’m not that credulous. You should know me better by now.”
Solomon gathered up the reins of his anger. “Yes, I do know you, as you do me,” he said more quietly. “So will you grant that I’m not mistaken about the voice?”
“Yes, I will,” Catherine conceded. “However unlikely your story. You have a good memory for such things. And if it was Mayor Gerard you met on the road, then he must have acquired the chalice illicitly or he would have complained to the abbey at once that you had taken it and demanded that Abbot Suger lead the search for you himself.”
“That was my thought,” Solomon said. “Now, what do we do?”
They were sitting beneath an enormous oak tree not far from the Seine but out of earshot of any buildings. Mindful of her father’s recent experience, Catherine had checked the branches for lurking ruffians before she sat down.
“Do?” She thought. “First, you should go tell Baruch of this development. I’ll talk with Father. Let them decide what to tell Suger. They have more experience with the abbot than we do. But I suspect they’ll want something more in the way of proof before they bring an accusation like this before him.”
“Yes, that’s reasonable,” Solomon said.
Catherine gaped at him. “You admit that?”
He held up a warning hand. “Don’t mock me in this. It’s a serious matter. A man has been murdered.”
“And Gerard tried to murder you,” Catherine said. “I don’t forget that.”
Solomon honestly had. “I was thinking of Natan,” he said. “I can’t help feeling that Gerard’s theft is tied to his death.”
“Now that I won’t grant you,” Catherine said. “That’s a leap of logic with no intervening steps.”
Then she started thinking. Perhaps the steps were there. Natan had tried to sell his pried-out pearls to the abbey. At almost the same time, Gerard was near the abbey, with his probably purloined chalice. Both objects might have been from the same hoard. And what of the things she had found in the cellar, the beads and metal strip? Could they have come from Salisbury as well? They seemed too humble for a rich cathedral, but she shouldn’t leave them out.
The most important question was still whether Gerard and Natan had been working together. Catherine didn’t know enough about either man to make a decision. There must be a way to find out more.
“But Natan was killed in Paris,” she said.
“It took you half a day to ride from Paris,” Solomon reminded her. “And if I were trying to smuggle goods from Normandy into France, Argenteuil would be a good place to take them from the river, especially if I were friends with the man who held the
tonlieu
.”
The idea was becoming more plausible to Catherine.
“If we could only place Natan in Argenteuil in January, as well as at Saint-Denis,” she said. “Did you ask Fantin?”
“Yes,” Solomon said. “He knew Natan, but not well. Natan thought the hut was too humble for a man of his status. It’s like him. So Fantin can’t be sure when he was here. He thinks Natan may have stopped by during the winter, but he isn’t sure when or how many times he may have visited.”
Catherine got up and brushed off her skirts to release her exasperation. There were too many things they didn’t know. The problem was that she couldn’t be sure if they were looking at one connected set of events or a dozen unrelated ones. Where had Gerard’s chalice come from? Where did Natan get the pearls he tried to sell Prior Hervé? Were either of them involved in the theft of the arm of Saint Aldhelm from Philippe d’Harcourt, who was himself a thief? Most of all, who had killed Natan, and why? Was any of it related to the job Natan had done for Uncle Eliazar? Eliazar had implied that it was that work that had led to the knife attack on Edgar the year before and to Eliazar’s own, nearly fatal, stabbing soon after.
And above all, how much danger was Edgar in at this very moment?
Solomon had been worrying, too.
“I think it’s time for me to get back to Paris,” he said. “Now that we know your father is recovering. Uncle Eliazar needs me more. I’ll stop at Saint-Denis and tell Baruch what I’ve learned about Gerard.”
Catherine was torn between her duty to her father and her concern for Edgar. And, she admitted, she didn’t want to do anything that would cause Agnes to feel more martyred than she did already. Returning to Paris while their father still required their care would only increase her sister’s contempt.
They were walking back to the priory, both occupied with their own thoughts, when Solomon stopped and caught Catherine’s arm.
“There he is,” he said. “Gerard, the mayor of Argenteuil. There, over by the fence, talking with that priest. Have you seen him before? Don’t stare, just look quickly.”
Catherine did as they strolled by. “He doesn’t look familiar,” she said. “I’d never have taken him for a relative of Suger’s. He’s taller and much rounder.” She took a second look. “That’s odd. The priest Gerard is speaking with does remind me of the abbot. I wonder why?”
“A lot of clerics have ‘nephews’ all over the surrounding countryside,” Solomon guessed. “Maybe the abbot was not so abstemious in his youth as he is now.”
“Suger?” Catherine almost laughed. “Strewing bastards about the region? I don’t believe it. He’s too devoted to the reputation of Saint-Denis. He was an oblate there from childhood. He would never risk shaming the abbey. No, the priest is probably some more distant cousin. That must be why he seems familiar to me. Or perhaps I’ve seen him before, somewhere else.”
She shook her head, releasing the worry. There were enough problems to deal with.
Hubert was sitting up when Catherine came in, clearly feeling better. “I think I could ride if someone gave me a hand up,” he said. “I have too much to do to lie about all day. Also, I don’t like to impose on the hospitality of the monks.”
Catherine was doubtful. “You’ll be too jostled by the gait, I’m sure. We could get Guillaume to send a cart.”
“A cart!” Hubert was appalled. “Like a criminal? The only way I ride in a cart is inside a coffin.”
Agnes entered in time to hear his last pronouncement. “You aren’t going anywhere,” she said. “I shall stay and nurse you until the infirmarian says you are fit. But, after that, I want you to arrange for me to go to Grandfather’s.”
Hubert fell back onto his pillow. “To Blois? Why go there? Your home is in Paris. I thought we had an agreement.”
“It’s obvious to me that you aren’t able to keep your part of it,” Agnes said. “You are too concerned with your trading and your other family to find me a suitable husband. Grandfather will see that I am properly taken care of. For all I know you’d marry me off to a Saracen, if it brought you profit.”
“Agnes!” Catherine intervened. “Stop that. You’re only making him feel worse. And you’re doing it deliberately. Is that your idea of duty? You should know Father would never sell you into marriage. That’s what the great lords do. We don’t have to.”
Agnes was relentless. “Father, can you deny that you’d marry me to another merchant if you thought the alliance would improve your business?”
Hubert closed his eyes. He should have taken Agnes with him, as well as Catherine, on his journeys, but Madeleine had wanted her home, especially after little Roger died. He should have, should have … too many things; but he hadn’t and this was the result.
“My golden child,” he said, “all I have ever wanted is your happiness and security. I don’t deal in slaves, especially within my own family. If you think your mother’s father can do better for you than I, by all means, go. Ask your brother to arrange an escort and send a messenger to Blois so that they will be expecting you.”
He turned his face away from them. Catherine put a hand out to Agnes. Her sister pushed her away angrily.
“This is your fault,” she sobbed. “All of it. You ran away from the convent. You abandoned God. Everything started to go wrong from then. Now we’re all being punished! I hate you!”
She stormed out.
Catherine should have been used to these outbursts by now, but she simply couldn’t believe that the Agnes she loved could have changed so completely.
She Believes that you are the one who has changed,
her voices reminded her.
“But I can’t go back now,” Catherine told them. “It’s too late.”
“Of course it is, Catherine,” Hubert answered her. “We can only go forward. I learned that years ago. I only wish I knew which direction forward is.”
“I can’t leave you here in her care,” Catherine said. “She’ll only cause you greater suffering.”
“I think you should,” Hubert answered. “First of all, you have a duty to your husband, which comes before what you owe me. Secondly, Agnes may be more amenable to reason if you aren’t here. She’s confused and resentful—and with some reason.”
“I know, Father,” Catherine admitted.
“Also, I need you in Paris to help defend your uncle,” Hubert continued. “From what Solomon said, the elders fear his actions may have endangered the community. They’ll excommunicate him if it proves true.”
“Is that the
herem?”
Catherine asked.
“It comes under that term, although there are forms of the
herem
that are more like a ban,” Hubert said. “But in this case Eliazar would be denied the use of the synagogue and the protection of the community. He might be physically driven out and a letter sent to the other communities, asking that he not be permitted to live among them.”
“They would drive him from his home?” Catherine was horrified.
“If they felt there were good reason,” Hubert said. “So you see, you must return. There has to be a way to uncover this secret of his.”
“And what if he has done something deserving of excommunication?”
“Then I will take him into my home,” Hubert said. “He’s my brother and the ties of family are stronger than those of any community. It’s no use, Catherine. Forgive me. In my heart, I am still a Jew. I cannot abandon Eliazar, no matter what.”
Catherine understood the seriousness of what he proposed. By admitting his apostasy to the world, Hubert would lose his standing in the Christian community, his membership in the merchants’ guild, perhaps his life. Christian society was hard on those who left the Faith. Even if Abbot Suger were willing to protect him, Hubert might well be killed by outraged neighbors. Catherine wasn’t ready for a future that desolate.
“I can forgive you, Father,” she said. “Although I will pray that you may one day receive the grace of true belief. You mustn’t risk your own safety. Give Edgar and me a little more time to discover the truth. I love you and I love Uncle Eliazar and Aunt Johannah and even Solomon. None of you must be hurt, not if I can help it. If there is a way out of this thicket, I promise we will find it.”
Edgar and John were sitting at the table in his room, hunched over a crude map Edgar had made on a wax tablet.
“I know all the turns now,” Edgar said. “And roughly the distance between each one. What I’m not certain of is the angle of each corner. I turn left, but I don’t think it’s ever at a right angle. Somewhere between sixty and one hundred degrees, I’d say. That’s not good enough.”
“Stop beating yourself,” John suggested. “And let’s see what we can make of this. Here’s the entrance to your tunnel in the old crypt of Saint Étienne.” He pointed to an X in the wax.

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