The Wandering Arm (35 page)
“He must have trusted you a great deal,” Catherine said. “Do you know what he did with the box?”
“I’m not sure,” Lucia said. “But I have an idea. I wanted to check this morning but there were too many people around.”
“Saint-Étienne?” Catherine asked.
Lucia’s eyes narrowed. “You followed me. No, never mind. It doesn’t matter now. Sometimes Natan and I would meet in a corner of the old crypt. Especially in summer, it was nice and cool.”
“You think he hid the arm there?”
“Yes,” Lucia said. “He would think it appropriate. No one would expect it of him and I know he wouldn’t have desecrated his own home with such a thing. I’m the only one who would know where to look.”
“So?” Catherine asked.
“The beggars who are usually in the church will be gone tomorrow evening,” Lucia said. “The canons of Notre Dame are giving a special dinner to the poor of the Île. I want you to come with me.”
“Me? But why?” Catherine asked.
Lucia wrapped up the pouch and tied it once again around her waist. She licked her lips nervously.
“If it really is a relic of one of the blessed saints, I don’t want to treat it disrespectfully,” she explained. “I suppose I could ask our priest, but he’d ask too many questions. You’re the only other person I know who would know what to say to it. Do you know which saint it is?”
“Saint Aldhelm.”
“I never heard of him,” Lucia said. “Was he one of the martyrs?”
“No, a Saxon bishop, who wrote poetry and a long treatise on virginity,” Catherine said.
“Oh. Then I’m quite sure we would have little to say to each other,” Lucia replied. “Will you come with me?”
“Can we bring Edgar?” Catherine asked. “He’s quite devoted to Saint Aldhelm.”
“No, and I want you to promise not to tell him,” Lucia said. “He’ll bring his English friends and there will be too many questions about how the relic got there and how I knew where to find it.”
Catherine thought about it. “If we find the arm,” she said slowly, “we could take it to the archdeacon, Giles, and tell him that Aldhelm led us to his hiding place. He might believe us. Edgar never would. He knows me too well. He doesn’t need to come with us, but I can’t simply wander off and not tell him where I’m going.”
“Come to the tavern tomorrow night,” Lucia suggested. “We can slip out the back. We’d only be gone a few moments. No one would miss us. If you don’t come with me, I won’t go and you’ll never find it without me.”
Catherine cocked her head, listening. Wasn’t it time for the voices of the convent to tell her what a stupid thing she was considering? They were usually very vocal when she attempted any rash act. Of course, she normally ignored them, but it was odd for them to be silent. Perhaps they knew this was what Saint Aldhelm wanted. And it would be wonderful to be able to give Edgar back this part of his lost heritage, even if it would immediately have to be returned to Salisbury.
“All right,” Catherine said. “I’ll do it. Now, you’d better go unless you want to spend the rest of the day cleaning.”
Edgar came home too drained to notice the preternatural cleanliness. He ate his fish cake and bread in silence. Catherine didn’t try to break it. It was enough that he was there, alive.
“Gaudry had a wife and five children,” he said quietly. “The parish is Saint-Nicholas. He’s been taken there. Odo had no one.”
Catherine crossed herself and murmured a prayer. “We’ll give a candle in his memory,” she said.
“The aged and wise archdeacon wants to send to Rouen for further instructions,” Edgar added. “We couldn’t see the bishop. He’s traveling with the court. He won’t be back until Sunday.” He rubbed his eyes. “I’m tired. And I don’t think we’ll ever discover who did this or where Saint Aldhelm is being held.”
Catherine bit her tongue. “There’s nothing more we can do today,” she said. “Wash your feet and come to bed.”
She filled the tin basin for him, then took pity on his exhaustion and, kneeling on the floor, she took off his shoes and washed his feet herself.
“Catherine.” Edgar sounded unsure. “I don’t think I can … I mean, with all that’s happened and finding …”
“What?” Catherine looked up and understood. “Oh, Edgar, of course not. This is supposed to be a day of abstinence, anyway. Now we’ll have one less penance to do.”
“You give such strange comfort,
leoffedest,”
he said. “But comfort all the same. Blow out the light.”
leoffedest,”
he said. “But comfort all the same. Blow out the light.”
Paris, the market of the Halles, Palm Sunday, March 23, 1141/14, Nisan, 4901, the first night of Passover
Obtenebrescant oculi vestri qui concupiverunt; arescant manus quae rapuerunt; debilitentur omnia membra, quae adjuverunt … . Ne cessent a vobis hae maledictiones scelerum vestrorum persecutrices quamdiu permanebitis in peccato pervasionis. Amen, fiat, fiat.
May the eyes of you who are covetous be darkened; let the
hands of those who plunder wither away; may all the limbs
of those who aid them be crippled … . may these
maledictions on you endure as long as you persist in the sin
of pillage. So be it. Let it be done, let it be done.
—Archbishop Arnulf of Reims
“Warning and Anathema for
Predators upon the Church”
C
atherine held her shopping basket tightly in both arms to held her shopping basket tightly in both arms to avoid its being crushed by the press of people surrounding her. With her elbows, she forced her way to the dried fruit stall. Even though there was still another week of Lent remaining, the warming weather had brought a sense of awakening. Everyone seemed to feel the need to escape the deprivations of winter even if only by adding something green to the eternal pea or bean and cabbage soup. After the morning procession, all of Paris seemed to congregate at the market.
atherine held her shopping basket tightly in both arms to held her shopping basket tightly in both arms to avoid its being crushed by the press of people surrounding her. With her elbows, she forced her way to the dried fruit stall. Even though there was still another week of Lent remaining, the warming weather had brought a sense of awakening. Everyone seemed to feel the need to escape the deprivations of winter even if only by adding something green to the eternal pea or bean and cabbage soup. After the morning procession, all of Paris seemed to congregate at the market.
The jostling was just what Catherine needed to clear her thoughts. There was no doubt that the people around her were alive and had every intention of remaining so. Cheerful vulgarities flew about, full of creative suggestions. If many of them were acted upon, the population would increase remarkably by Christmas.
She managed to fight her way in to the stalls and out again, onto the rue Saint-Denis. People were still carrying the evergreen branches they had carried in the procession, a commemoration of Christ’s entry into Jerusalem. It had been five years since Catherine had been in Paris for Palm Sunday. The last time had been just before she left for the Paraclete. Then she had believed she would never step outside the convent as long as she lived.
She heard someone call her name just as she was turning onto the rue Saint Germain l’Auxerrois. She looked and nearly dropped the basket. It was the last person she expected or wanted to see.
Jehan appeared equally delighted. “I have been sent by your father to tell you he has returned to Paris and would like you and your husband to dine with him tonight,” he said stiffly.
“Tonight?” Catherine said. “I don’t know. I’ll ask Edgar.”
Jehan turned to go.
“Will Agnes be there?” Catherine hated to have to ask.
He turned back. “No,” he said. “She left for Blois last week. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
“She doesn’t speak to me either, Jehan,” Catherine said. “I’m glad Father, at least, has forgiven you.”
He looked at the ground and spoke between clenched teeth. “He has only granted me the right to atone. I am to first beg your forgiveness. I shouldn’t have abandoned you, no matter what the provocation.”
Catherine admitted that the provocation had been great. “As you see,” she said, “I arrived home unharmed, with my honor intact.”
Jehan snorted his opinion of her honor. “Then I will tell your father you will send word of your decision.”
He vanished before she could ask him anything more.
She was halfway down the street before she remembered her promise to Lucia to go with her to Saint Etienne. That was far more important than any daughterly duty. But how could she get away to meet Lucia without explaining where she was going?
There must be a way.
She went upstairs to put on her cleanest clothes and then hurried over to the Grève.
Hubert opened the gate himself.
“Father, I’m so glad you came home!” Catherine hugged him. “We thought you wouldn’t be back until after Easter.”
“Something Ullo said when he arrived at Vielleteneuse made me think it would be wise to return at once,” Hubert said. “Are you well, child? You seem very pale. Is there any news?”
“News about what?” Catherine asked, then blushed. “No, Father, not yet. It’s only been two months.”
“Yes, I suppose,” Hubert conceded. “I do want you to get your strength back before you have another. But there is something wrong, isn’t there? Ullo was full of stories about battles and dragons, but there were enough shreds of reality to tell me something had happened. Tell me what’s been going on. I haven’t seen Eliazar yet. Have they found the person who killed Natan?”
“No, Father, but Uncle has told us why he hired Natan last year.” Catherine went on to explain.
Hubert’s reaction was much the same as that of Solomon and Johannah.
“Eliazar should have trusted me,” he said. “Trying to protect us only made things worse.”
“There’s more, Father. Someone killed the silversmith Edgar was working for.”
“What? Who? When?” Hubert led Catherine up to the great hall. “Catherine. I want you to sit right here and tell me everything that has gone on while I was recovering in blissfully ignorant leisure.”
Catherine sat. She started the story after she had arrived back in Paris. Since he had asked her pardon, there was no need to dwell on what happened after Jehan’s abandonment of her, or mention that she had entered the city in a beer cart. “Everything” was not that all-encompassing. It was difficult to remember so many events in the correct order. Hubert had to stop her several times and make her clarify herself.
One thing caught his attention even more than the deaths of Gaudry and Odo.
“Solomon said that the man he took the chalice from was Suger’s nephew?” he asked.
“He’s certain,” Catherine said. “You can ask him yourself. We don’t know how Gerard is connected with the people here in Paris yet, although I suspect that Argenteuil is one of the places Goliath delivers his beer to.”
“It is strange how many trails seem to lead back to this tavern,” Hubert admitted. “Suger’s nephews. That’s all we needed.”
“Not ‘nephews,’” Catherine said. “There’s only the one, Gerard, mayor of Argenteuil.”
“No, there’s another one, here in Paris.” Hubert shook his head. “Simon. He’s very ambitious, I’ve heard, even if at the moment he’s only a canon at Notre Dame.”
Catherine’s stomach felt as if it had just inverted. “Is he a little man, built rather like Abbot Suger?” she asked, her voice cracking.
“Yes, a bit taller, but the same build,” Hubert said. “Why? Have you seen him?”
“I think so, in Argenteuil,” Catherine answered. “Talking with Gerard. I didn’t know he was a canon, much less of Notre Dame. Father, you should know that the canon who commissioned Gaudry to make a replica of the reliquary was also supposed to have been of medium height. It’s not much of a connection, but …”
She could tell from his expression that his thoughts were following hers. This was becoming dangerous. It was bad enough to accuse a cleric of trading in church property, but not unheard of. To accuse the nephew of the abbot of one of the most powerful houses in France of doing so was madness, especially for someone whose livelihood depended on continued business with that abbey.
“It may not be the same man,” Catherine added.
Hubert grimaced. “The Lord would never let my life be that easy,” he sighed.
“Edgar has gone to speak with the envoy of the archbishop of Rouen,” Catherine said. “The return of the property stolen from Salisbury is all that really matters to him. Perhaps, if the arm can be found, everything else can be handled quietly.”
“From what I understand, both Eliazar and Menahem have scoured their homes in search of Natan’s missing treasure,” Hubert reminded her. “No one has found anything. It’s only a matter of time before the whole community falls under suspicion.”
Catherine was reminded again of the importance of being able to get away easily that night.
“Father, until you invited us, Edgar and I were going to meet with John and Maurice at Bietrix’s to eat and decide what should be done next,” she said. “Your information about Canon Simon would be of great interest. Will you come there, instead?”
“I cannot drink that swill they call cider,” Hubert said. “I swear they wring it out of their cats.”
“It’s not that bad,” Catherine said. “You could drink water.”
Hubert cringed at the suggestion but he agreed to come to the tavern later in the evening, to Catherine’s relief.
“Then I think we should discuss your return here,” Hubert continued. “There’s no need for you to stay in that hovel any longer. Edgar’s work has finished and poor Agnes has left. My accounts are far in arrears. I need your help. Will you come home, my child?”
“Oh, yes.” Catherine threw her arms about him. “As soon as this matter is finished, we would be happy to.”
Hubert patted her back affectionately, although he knew her joy was partly from knowing she would no longer have to cook.
The meeting with Archdeacon Giles was not going well, as far as Edgar was concerned. He had succumbed to John’s counsel and agreed to sit silently, unless he was asked a question.
“Whatever he says to antagonize you, ignore it,” John had said firmly. “Think of something else. I’ll let you know when to speak.”
Edgar was doing his best to think of something else but it was difficult when the archdeacon was clearly doing his best to imply that he believed Edgar had murdered Gaudry and Odo in order to steal the arm of Saint Aldhelm for himself.
“Suger, lord abbot of Saint-Denis, requested that Edgar take on the disguise of a common artisan in order to locate the arm,” John insisted. “He is well respected by Abbot Suger and it was only out of respect for the abbot and duty to the Church that he was willing to demean himself so.”
Edgar listened admiringly. John had a wonderful oratorical style. He was going to make a fine lawyer someday. It wouldn’t be surprising if he were one day summoned to debate in the papal curia.
He let his mind wander. By common consent, no one had mentioned Natan, either his involvement or his death. John felt, quite reasonably, that it was only a distraction from the main issue. Natan, like Gaudry, had been no more than a tool, to be disposed of when no longer useful.
Except Natan had died before his usefulness ended. Logically, he should have been stabbed and thrown in the river downstream somewhere. His death would have been laid to the danger of travel. And logically he would only have been killed after he had given his parcel to his employers.
Edgar shook his head. The logic failed; therefore one or more of the suppositions was incorrect. He hadn’t been that avid a student, but he had learned that much. He started through it again.
“Edgar?”
He brought himself back. “Yes, John?”
“The archdeacon wants to know if you’ve had any contact with anyone from Salisbury recently.”
Edgar smiled. “Only you, John.”
“Thu fagwyrm!”
John told him pleasantly, then turned back to the archdeacon. “Of course, any number of masters here in Paris will bear witness to my character, if you suspect me of aiding in this theft,” he continued. “But I can assure you that Edgar and I both believe strongly that Saint Aldhelm belongs to the land and the people of Salisbury, whoever may rule them now. All we wish is for the poor sainted bishop to be restored to his rightful honor.”
John told him pleasantly, then turned back to the archdeacon. “Of course, any number of masters here in Paris will bear witness to my character, if you suspect me of aiding in this theft,” he continued. “But I can assure you that Edgar and I both believe strongly that Saint Aldhelm belongs to the land and the people of Salisbury, whoever may rule them now. All we wish is for the poor sainted bishop to be restored to his rightful honor.”
Giles looked at Edgar skeptically.
“Aldhelm belongs in England and to England,” Edgar said. “There is nothing more I want.”
“No reward?” Giles sneered.
John quickly stepped in front of Edgar. “Any temporal reward for such a deed would be an insult,” he said.
“Thank you,” Edgar whispered in his ear.
“I still don’t know how you propose finding the relic,” Giles said. “By your own admission, you don’t know where it is. No one alive does. Are we to hold a prayer vigil until the good saint reveals himself? It would be most inconvenient considering the season.”
Edgar firmly turned his thoughts away from grabbing the archdeacon by the neck and rubbing his face into the stone floor.
John was unfazed. “As you remember, my lord,” he said, “the substitute reliquary that Edgar worked on was stolen. It seems likely to us that your arrival may have precipitated the theft.”
And the murders,
Edgar thought.
Edgar thought.
“So we think it quite possible that you will soon be approached by someone, perhaps even a cleric,” John went on smoothly. “He will have some story about a miraculous discovery of this relic and offer it to you. It will be in a box of yew, plated in gold.”
“I see.”
Although the archdeacon was very young and the archbishop’s nephew, as well, John had heard that Giles was proving himself a competent administrator. He was counting on the truth of the rumors.
“Archbishop Hugh will not be eager to accuse a cleric of Paris of murder,” Giles said slowly. “But he would be pleased to inform Bishop Stephen if one of his canons were polluting the honor of the order by participating in this sacrilegious commerce.”
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