The Wandering Arm (31 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

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

BOOK: The Wandering Arm
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No, there was no master he could turn to. But, he remembered, there was a friend.
Edgar washed his hands and face, collected his sous and went in search of John.
Catherine hurried through the streets quickly enough to keep Solomon slightly breathless as he trotted beside her, but not enough to keep him from noticing that she had turned left, not right, and that they were heading back toward Saint-Étienne.
“Are you thinking of getting some cider to take home?” he asked her. “Sounds like a good idea, but you forgot your pitcher.”
When they were almost to the court around the churches, Catherine stopped and pulled Solomon into a doorway.
“We’ve agreed that Natan has hidden some sort of treasure, right?” She went on without waiting for his answer. “There’s a canon of Notre Dame involved, or someone who says he is, right? You and Edgar are both fairly sure that this hidden workshop is somewhere near the cloister, if not under it, right?”
She stopped. Solomon was eyeing her with something very near to dread. He backed away.
“No,”he said. “Absolutely not. I won’t even consider going there and neither will you.”
“Solomon! Don’t you want to find the truth?”
“Not if it means dying a moment later,” he answered.
“Fine,” she said and turned to leave.
Suddenly he grabbed her and held her until she stopped struggling. Catherine had no idea how strong her cousin could be, or how impervious to reason.
Not long afterwards the weaver was outraged to have his shop invaded by a man pulling a woman behind him as she protested violently. He debated getting up, even in the middle of a thread, but his second glance told him who the woman was. He recognized the man as a frequent visitor. So he simply glared at them as they passed through, making a note to complain strongly to Johannah about the sort of people she was renting to.
“Let go of me!” Catherine yelled as Solomon dragged her up the stairs by one wrist.
“Not until I’ve turned you over to your husband!” Solomon yelled back. “You’re insane, Catherine. You need to be kept under guard for your own safety.” He kicked the door open and threw her in. “Edgar, come take charge of your
meshuganah
wife,” he said. “Oh, excuse me!”
Catherine was already halfway up, to give Solomon a bit of his own. She caught his startled look, turned around and blushed scarlet.
Edgar was sitting at the table just as she expected. But next to him, their jaws open in consternation, were John, the student Maurice and another man, younger than either of them but clearly much more important.
“Catherine,” Edgar said with a sigh, “may I present Giles du Perche, archdeacon of Rouen? My lord, this is my wife.”
Catherine and Edgar’s room, a very short time later
Sic enim Christianitas viluit, sic cupidas increvit, ut Sanctorum corpora mercen fatiamus [sic], felicas exuvias venum preponentes. Exhorruit primo Monochus immane facinus.
To such a degree has Christendom been corrupted and to
such a degree has avarice increased, that we sell the bodies of
the saints, offering our holy relics for profit. Every monk
shudders at such a terrible crime.
—William of Malmesbury
Gesta Pontificum Anglorum
Book V Vita Aldhelmi
“
E
dgar, I apologize.” Solomon bent over to help Catherine up. “I had no idea you had guests. Catherine, I really wasn’t angry.”
“I know,” she answered, struggling to regain her feet and her dignity. What would Sister Bertrada say if she saw her now? Catherine shuddered.
“I ask your pardon for such an unseemly entrance,” she said, giving a half-curtsey.
It was just as well she didn’t realize the picture she presented. Her head was uncovered and she had lost the ties from her braids so that her hair had unraveled down her back in a perplexity of curls. Her
bliaut
was stained, with mud-dipped hem. Her boots were covered in street grime. She did not look like the wife of anyone respectable.
Catherine knew she had committed a terrible social sin and that her appearance was not that of a well-bred lady, but that was no reason for these men to stare at her so. They might have at least risen to greet her. Where were their manners? She took off her cloak and put it on the hook by the door. As she did she glanced toward the corner of the room, relieved to see that the curtain hiding the chamber pot was closed. She couldn’t remember if she’d emptied it this morning.
“Edgar, is there anything I can get for your guests?” she asked. “Solomon and I can go for soup … or something.”
She didn’t need any voices to tell her that she looked a complete fool. Edgar must be writhing in embarrassment.
It was John who saved her. Suddenly remembering himself, he stood. Quickly, the other two followed.
“Giles arrived last week from Rouen,” John explained. “His uncle, Archbishop Hugh, has entrusted him with the very delicate matter of retrieving the items stolen from Chancellor Philippe.”
Catherine gave a startled glance at the well-dressed boy. The archbishop’s nephew, Giles du Perche. Oh, dear. Of a very distinguished family from Normandy, as she recalled. Catherine wished the floor would part like the Red Sea and allow her to slip away to safety. Behind her, she could sense Solomon edging for the door. She reached back to stop him.
“Too many clerics for me,” he muttered in her ear. “Tell Edgar I’ll talk with you both later, luckily for you. Be prepared to repeat to me everything they say.”
He nodded to the group and made his escape.
“A friend of yours, as I recall?” John said pleasantly, gesturing toward Solomon as he retreated.
Catherine relaxed. “Yes, an old family friend. But that does not excuse our behavior. Please forgive me.”
John could control himself no longer. He exploded into laughter. “Only if you will forgive me for telling you I haven’t seen anything so funny in years as Edgar’s face when you burst in here.”
Edgar felt a flash of irritation at both John and Catherine, but the absurdity of the situation was too great. He gave in and smiled. “Sit down,
carissima,”
he said. “We have everything we need. John and the archdeacon here have enlisted Maurice to help us.”
“To find the workshop?” Catherine asked.
“Partly,” John told her. “But we are fairly certain now that one of the canons is involved in this theft. It is of the utmost importance to discover which one.”
“You are quite sure this smith said it was a man from Notre Dame?” Archdeacon Giles asked. “Meddling in the affairs of another archdiocese is a very delicate matter. It would be unpardonable if we made an accusation we couldn’t prove.”
“I’m sure,” Edgar said. “But that’s what we need Maurice for. I’ve never seen the man who commissioned the reliquary. The master silversmith has but doesn’t know, or won’t reveal, his name. All I have is a general description, but Maurice will know if there is anyone at Notre Dame who fits it.”
“Would Gaudry identify the canon if the man were found?” John asked.
“Perhaps,” Edgar said. “But Gaudry is not a member of the guild. It would be worth his livelihood, maybe even his life, if he admitted to keeping this workshop, even if the canon would vouch for him, which seems most unlikely.”
“So Maurice will try to find a canon who wanders the tunnels instead of going out the gate like an honest man?” Catherine asked. “Good, then I can tell Solomon he doesn’t have to go in with me.”
“Catherine, you weren’t!” Edgar sputtered.
“It occurred to me that the missing arm might have been hidden somewhere beneath the cloister,” Catherine said. “Or even inside it.”
Giles gaped at her again. “You intended to enter the bishop’s cloister?”
“Oh, no,” Catherine assured him. “Just discover where someone else could have.”
Giles took a long moment to think about this. “I don’t believe any of this is covered in the instructions my uncle gave me,” he replied at last.
Edgar grinned and was about to speak, when John gave him a kick under the table.
“It’s well known that Archbishop Hugh trusts your judgment implicitly.” John smiled at the young man. “I’m sure that’s why he chose you for this mission.”
Giles still seemed uncomfortable. “Originally, I was told only to go to Saint-Denis, where we had heard that a chalice had been found resembling one taken from the church at Salisbury. Prior Hervé showed it to me and has kindly agreed to keep it safe until my return.”
“Was it the same one?” Edgar asked.
“It matched the drawing I was given,” Giles admitted. “The prior suggested that I continue on to Paris and ask John if he could make a positive identification, since he once served at Salisbury. Then I learned that the arm might also have been found.”
“I told the archdeacon about your search for Saint Aldhelm, Edgar,” John explained. “He insisted on coming to see you.”
He said this by way of apology. John knew how Edgar felt about Normans. Edgar wasn’t satisfied.
“With respect, my lord, I’m not sure how you can help us,” he said. “We believe that, for reasons beyond our understanding, Saint Aldhelm has allowed his arm to be transported to Normandy, then stolen and taken to France and finally lost by the very thieves who dared to commit such sacrilege. I suspect that no one alive now knows where he rests.”
“I will do whatever possible to help,” Giles said. “My only duty is to assist those who are searching for Saint Aldhelm and see that he is returned.”
“Returned to whom?” Edgar asked. “To the canons of Salisbury? The last I heard, Empress Matilda was in control of that area and had King Stephen in prison in Bristol. I also was under the impression that your uncle was a fervent supporter of the king.”
“That’s correct,” Giles said.
“Then would he return property to Salisbury while Matilda still held it?” Edgar challenged him. “Or give it instead to Philippe d’Harcourt to bargain with as the price of the bishopric?”
“Edgar,” John warned.
“No.” Edgar waved him off. “I won’t risk my life just to put another damned Norman in a Saxon see.”
Giles may have been trained as a diplomat, but he was also young and proud of his Norman blood. He reached across the table and pulled Edgar up by the knot at the neck of his
chainse.
“The Saxons were no more than slaves of the Danes long before we came to England,” he shouted as Maurice and John tried to unhook his fingers. “Duke William was the savior of Britain. And you come from a race of weak-winded, vulgar cowards.”
Instinctively, Edgar reached for a sword. It shocked him to remember that he’d never worn one. His hand seemed to know the way so well. Instead, he grasped hold of the table to prevent himself for going for the archdeacon’s throat.
“Get out of my house,” Edgar said quietly, looking straight into his eyes. “Or I’ll kill you.”
With some difficulty, John and Maurice convinced Giles to leave with them. Maurice offered to take the archdeacon to the cloister for a proper meal and a warm bed in the guesthouse. Catherine was sure both would be far better than Maurice was used to.
Edgar waited until the door closed and the sound of their voices had faded. Then he released his hands from the tabletop. Catherine sat in unnatural silence. She could see that his nails had broken with the force of his grip. She had never realized how strong his hatred was for the people who had driven his ancestors north. Perhaps that was why he had no energy left to despise Jews.
He flexed his hands several times, stretching his long fingers until the joints cracked. Finally he looked at her.
“It seems that neither of us made a good first impression on Lord Giles,” he said. “I don’t suppose we’ll be invited to Rouen any time soon for dinner with the archbishop.”
Catherine tried to smile. “I’ve nothing appropriate to wear, anyway,” she answered.
She got up and began fumbling with their few dishes. Edgar watched her.
“Catherine?”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t matter. John will calm him down. If necessary, I’ll even apologize for insulting a guest. At least the archdeacon knows that I’d rather have Aldhelm lost forever than be used as a simoniacal purchase.”
“Yes.”
“Catherine, what is it?” Edgar asked. “Do you think I should have agreed to help that bastard?”
“Not if you felt it was counter to the wishes of Saint Aldhelm.”
She dropped a clay cup. It cracked.
“There’s something more, isn’t there?” he said softly. “Tell me.”
She moved the dishes around a few moments longer. “I’ve never seen you angry before,” she said at last. “Annoyed, often, but never angry. I thought you might try to kill him. You frightened me.”
Edgar stretched out his hands again, studying them. “You have one sort of pride, Catherine, which is all your own. I have no idea where it came from. I have another that was born in me and was fed to me every day of my life with every meal and every family prayer. This rage is that of my father and his brothers and my mother’s kin, as well. They intended me for the church, as you know. But not the contemplative life. I was to be another sort of fighter in the struggle to regain our land.
“These last few years in Paris, I thought the fury had dulled. It’s been seventy-five years since the conquest, after all.” His hands curled back into fists. “I was wrong. It might as well have been yesterday and the blood of my fathers still fresh on the ground. I’m sorry I frightened you.”
Catherine knelt by the chair and took his hands, smoothing them out over hers. “It’s good to be able to feel passionately,” she said. “I would want you to be strong enough to defend the Faith, or our … children, or even your own people, if any of them were in danger. But not to provoke a boy who believes in his own family and people as much as you do and who may very well be part of Saint Aldhelm’s plan. Also,” she added as she felt him tense, “I’m frightened that someday I might transgress one of those beliefs and draw your anger to myself. If that happens, I hope you kill me quickly because I couldn’t bear living with a man I feared.”
“Catherine! I will never hurt you; I promise.”
His injured innocence broke the spell. She smiled.
“Of course you will. We’re not saints. Our behavior this afternoon is certainly proof of that.”
Edgar grimaced. “I wonder if John will want to speak to me again.”
“Probably,” Catherine said. “He has a forgiving nature.”
The oil lamp flickered. It was almost empty.
“It’s not dark out yet,” Edgar said. “Do you want to get something to eat?”
“No,” she answered. “I’m not hungry. I want you to hold me.”
“Yes,” he said. “I need to hold you.” His fingers moved to untie her chainse. “By the way,” he added, “did you notice that your hair’s come undone? No,” he added, as she felt for it. “Leave it like that. I’ll help you comb it out in the morning.”
“Shall I put on my sleeping cap?”
His fingers moved through her curls.
“Not yet.”
Solomon didn’t expect to be overtaken by Edgar’s guests only minutes after his leaving. They didn’t notice him as they passed. The archdeacon, Giles, marched stiffly down the road with John on one side of him, expostulating with eloquent gestures, and Maurice on the other, looking nervous.
What had happened? Solomon was tempted to turn back and find out but decided instead to follow the trio. They all seemed to be heading in the same direction, back to the Île.

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