The Wandering Arm (32 page)
He followed them as far as the cloister gate. Maurice knocked and they were admitted.
Solomon stood at the corner of the rue de Boeuf feeling foolish. Twice in one day was too much. Where had he expected them to go? Had he thought they would lead him to a secret meeting with this mysterious canon? He realized that he believed that the men already knew which canon it was and were hiding the truth to protect the probity of the order. He sighed. He wouldn’t learn anything more standing here. It was almost dark. He turned to go home, then brightened.
There was a warm light shining through the cracks in the shutters of Bietrix’s tavern. Someone was singing. Solomon jingled the coins in the bag at his belt. Plenty for a bowl of beer. Perhaps he would have just one before returning to his uncle’s house. Poor Uncle Eliazar! Even with Pesach approaching, there would be little music in his heart this year.
Vowing only to stay the length of time it took to down a mug, Solomon pushed open the door and went in.
The air was smoky from the hearth at the rear of the tavern that backed onto the oven in the brewery. The room was almost empty. In one corner a man in brown was sitting and staring into his cup with the intensity of a soothsayer. Solomon assumed he didn’t want company. Against the far wall lay a beggar, a child with a twisted spine. Bietrix let him sleep in the tavern when the nights were cold. Solomon looked around. Where had the singing come from? The sound had been so clear from outside.
The curtain to the brothel was still. Bietrix was no where to be seen and Solomon did not like the idea of hunting for her in the back room. He knew his money wasn’t welcome there.
Now he was curious. He was sure the music had come from here. He went over to the door to the brewery and knocked. No answer. He put his ear to the wood. There were definitely sounds coming from the other side. Perhaps they hadn’t heard him. Solomon pushed at the door and it opened.
Lucia was standing over a trough containing a disgusting mass of bubbling liquid, wearing a loose
chainse
with a tunic over it that must belong to one of her brothers. She had belted it with a piece of rope. The paddle she used to skim the froth was heavy enough to need both hands and she was singing as she worked.
chainse
with a tunic over it that must belong to one of her brothers. She had belted it with a piece of rope. The paddle she used to skim the froth was heavy enough to need both hands and she was singing as she worked.
“Hu et hu et hu et hu!”
She emphasized each word with a thump of the paddle on the side of the vat.
“Jo l’ai veü. La jus soz la coudroie. Hu et hu et hu et hu! A bien pres l’ocirroie.”
She emphasized each word with a thump of the paddle on the side of the vat.
“Jo l’ai veü. La jus soz la coudroie. Hu et hu et hu et hu! A bien pres l’ocirroie.”
She sang so fiercely, about a pair of lovers interrupted by a thief, that Solomon decided she didn’t want any interruptions, either.
Yet, it was so nice just to watch her. Even with her hair covered by a cap and sweat dripping down into her dress, she was lovely, Solomon thought. He shook himself, remembering the size of Goliath’s fist. Lucia looked up.
The singing stopped.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“To listen to you sing,” he answered without thinking. “I mean, I came in for a beer, but your mother isn’t at the table.”
“Fill your cup, leave a coin on the counter,” Lucia answered. “I can’t leave this.”
“Do you want help?” Solomon asked.
“I can do it,” she answered shortly.
Solomon came closer to peer at the mess in the trough. “Please don’t tell me that I drink something made from this,” he said.
“Not without paying first,” she answered.
“What’s in it?” He sniffed.
“Malt, barley, yeast, water and gruit,” she answered.
“Gruit?” he asked. It sounded like a regurgitation. Smelled like it, too.
“Makes it taste better.” Lucia handed Solomon the paddle. “Here, you hold this. I want to add a bit more.”
She went over to a large ceramic pot, lifted the lid and scooped out a handful of dried herbs and berries. She threw this into the trough.
“Just a little for now,” she said. “We add most of it when it’s in the keg, to flavor it. Now this has to sit for a few days. Since you’re here, you could help pour it into the barrel.”
Solomon looked around nervously. “Isn’t that something your brothers do?” he asked.
She laughed. “They took the cart today to deliver the last brewing before Holy Week begins. If I don’t get this into the kegs there’ll be nothing left for us to drink on Easter.”
“You mean it will be ready by then?” The frothing mass of liquid did not resemble anything he remembered drinking. No, that wasn’t right. There was that fermented milk drink he’d had in Kiev once. Solomon gagged at the memory.
Lucia seemed confused by his questions. “Haven’t you ever seen beer made before?” she asked.
“Not really,” Solomon answered. “My aunt and uncle don’t brew. They buy from Abraham. I suppose I’ve seen the casks and, of course, I know the odor. That’s how I find the best tavern in a strange town. But I never thought to ask about the process.”
Lucia shook her head at such ignorance. “Well, trust me,” she told him. “By next week, this will be beer.”
“How does it turn from white to brown?” he asked, not sure he wanted to know.
“Part of the time in the keg is to let it settle,” she answered. “If it doesn’t, or if it starts to go bad, we add other things.”
She went over to another earthenware crock and opened it. Solomon put down the paddle and went over to look. Inside was a grayish coarse powder. Solomon sifted some through his fingers and then wiped them on his tunic.
“What is it?”
“The leaves and stems from the ground cherry,” Lucia said. “Sometimes we use eggshells, but this time of year the hens aren’t laying, so this does as well. We dry them and pound them as finely as possible. Some property of the plant draws the impurities to itself.”
“Fascinating,” Solomon said, looking at her.
Lucia smiled up at him. She reflected that she had always been fond of dark men. Her smile dimmed. He wasn’t Natan.
“
Avois!
What do you think you’re doing here,
mesel?”
Avois!
What do you think you’re doing here,
mesel?”
They both jumped. Thanks to years of practice, Solomon put himself at once between his interrogator and the door back to the tavern.
“Samson!” Lucia said with annoyance. “You remember Solomon, Master Eliazar’s nephew. He came in for some beer but there was no one to take his money since you and Goliath were gone and I had to work back here.”
“Where’s Mother?” Samson countered.
“Visiting a friend,” Lucia answered. “Solomon was just about to help me pour this.”
“Well, I’m here now,” Samson told her, glaring at him.
“Glad to see you,” Solomon lied. “Did you ever find out who took your cart?”
“No. What do you know about it?” Samson took a step forward. Solomon took two back.
“Just what Edgar told me,” Solomon said. “It seemed odd that anyone would steal a cart only to leave it at your door.”
“Just some
trigoleurs
with no sense,” Samson answered. “If I ever find them, they’ll learn quick enough not to play their tricks on us.”
trigoleurs
with no sense,” Samson answered. “If I ever find them, they’ll learn quick enough not to play their tricks on us.”
Solomon had no doubt of that. “So, I should be heading home.” He tried to sound casual. “Thank you for the information, Lucia. Good night.”
Outside, Solomon leaned against the wall for a moment, until he could breathe properly once more. Where had that man popped from? He could have sworn he hadn’t heard the door creak or felt a draft from outside. Of course, there was something about Lucia that focused his senses away from such things. Another good reason not to pursue her. His life depended all too often on being able to keep his wits about him.
The next morning Catherine and Edgar were eating bread soaked in hot water when a pebble bounced against the window. Edgar looked out. John stood below in the street.
“May I come up?” he called.
“Of course.” Edgar hurried down to let him in, relieved that they were still on speaking terms. “What brings you here so early?” he asked as they went up.
“I needed to see you before you left,” John explained. “I wanted to explain about Giles.”
“Oh, that.” Edgar rubbed at a sudden kink in his neck. “I’m sorry I lost my temper with him. Do you want me to beg his pardon?”
“It might be worth it just to see you on your knees to anyone.” John laughed. “And you may have to do it, but not for my sake. Look, Edgar, from what I understand, Philippe is desperate to recover the Salisbury treasure, especially the arm, but not to bargain for that bishopric. He knows he’ll never get Salisbury now. But he does want to be nominated to the next Norman see available and Archbishop Hugh has made the restitution of the treasure the price.”
Edgar considered. “The archbishop guarantees the items will be returned to Salisbury?”
“Yes, and he’s a man of his word,” John assured him. “But if you think we’ll ever see another Saxon as bishop there, you’ve learned nothing from history. Perhaps in a few generations there will be a man with a Saxon name, but I suspect he’ll have Norman relations as well.”
“Never,” Edgar said, but he spoke with more defiance than denial.
John shrugged. “We’re all one in the Church, anyway. Remember?”
Edgar sighed. “I suppose so, but it doesn’t change how I feel.”
“Will you continue your efforts to find the arm?”
“Yes, of course,” Edgar said. “I spoke in anger last night. I don’t want such a precious relic to be lost forever or sold to the highest bidder even farther from home. But I don’t think the man who hired Gaudry knows where the arm is any more than we do.”
“But you will go back to the workshop today?” John asked.
“I will,” Edgar said.
Satisfied, John took his leave, again apologizing for coming so early.
They finished their Lenten breakfast. Catherine prodded at an undissolved crust with her spoon.
“Everything points to Natan being the last one to have the arm,” she said. “What I don’t understand is why his accomplices would poison him without knowing for certain where he had hidden it.”
“Perhaps they thought they did know,” Edgar suggested.
“Perhaps,” Catherine said.
“We’re not even positive he was poisoned on purpose,” Edgar reminded her. “No one knows where or how he came by what killed him. It’s even possible that his nephew did it, thinking he would inherit treasure.”
“And then beat himself up and kidnap his own son to draw suspicion away?” Catherine asked.
“Catherine, sarcasm is very unattractive,” Edgar said. “But Menahem could have killed Natan, found no treasure and then had to deal with the men his uncle had been working with.”
“Yes, that would explain a lot,” Catherine admitted. “Especially how Natan was willing to eat or drink whatever killed him. But I keep feeling that we’re missing something all the same.”
“Catherine,” Edgar sighed. “I love you. You know I love you. But my temper has been somewhat strained recently and, if you don’t stop pushing that lump of bread around, I’m going to take your spoon and twist it into a double knot.”
Catherine gave the lump a bash that finally disintegrated it. “I love you, too, Edgar,” she said. “But I foresee that we shall someday have a whole set of twisted spoons. It’s a very good thing that you’re learning how to make new ones.”
After that matter had been amicably settled and Edgar had left for the day, Catherine sat and considered what she should be doing. Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week, was tomorrow and there were a number of things she needed to shop for. She had heard nothing from her father and presumed that he was planning to remain with Guillaume until after Easter. She knew even less about Agnes. Was anyone living now at the house on the Grève? While there were many good points about having a room that was all one’s own, Catherine admitted it would be nice to be in a place once again where someone else shopped and cooked and cleaned.
You had that in the convent, you know.
That didn’t even deserve an answer. Catherine took her basket and went out to fight the crowds in the Halles for bread, cheese and the first greens of spring.
On her return, she found her cousin sitting on the stoop.
“Your guests didn’t stay long last night,” Solomon began. “Did we offend them that much?”
“Actually, Edgar and the archdeacon had a difference of opinion,” Catherine admitted. “It made our entrance almost a model of courtesy by comparison.”
Solomon’s eyebrows rose. “I miss all the fun,” he sighed. “Oh, well. Aunt Johannah sent me to ask if you and Edgar would eat with us Sunday night; it’s Erev Pesach, the feast of the firstborn.”
“I’ll ask Edgar,” Catherine said. “But I don’t see why not. Is Ullo still staying with you?”
“Yes, but I think he’s leaving for Vielleteneuse later today,” Solomon said. “Uncle Hubert felt that he should be with his own people for Easter week. He didn’t want anyone thinking we were trying to convert a Christian child.”
Catherine nodded. “This time of year people are reminded too often of the primary difference in our beliefs.”
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