All pilgrimages were dangerous, of course. It was traditional to prepare for them as if one would never return. But this journey was even more likely to result in martyrdom for it was to be one of battle. The fall of the Christian town of Rohes, once called Edessa, to the Saracens the year before had stirred the young king to raise an army to free it.
Edgar noticed how many men of fighting age stood around him. He could feel their tension, almost see their visions of conquest and glory. He forced down the bile that rose in his throat. He told himself he had never been much of a warrior in any case. Now there was no chance of it. A soldier with one hand was as useless as a three-legged horse.
Sometimes he felt that his life had been a series of sudden changes. Meeting Catherine had taken him from the path his father had set him on toward a bishopric in Scotland. He had hoped that this would leave him free to work at carving and metalwork, something a nobleman should never do. Then, one stroke of a sword and he had been forced to begin again, teaching himself to work with only his right hand. His anger at the loss still bubbled close to the surface.
His bitter reflections were interrupted as he and Catherine were pushed forward by the throng around them. The abbot of Clairvaux, accompanied by the king, the bishop of Liege and other dignitaries, had climbed to the tower and begun to speak.
Catherine stood on tiptoe and squinted in an effort to make out the abbot’s face clearly. She hadn’t seen him since the day at Sens when Bernard had spoken out against her teacher, Peter Abelard. It had been hard for her to feel kindly toward the man, even though it was generally agreed that he was a living saint. But when she learned that Abelard and Bernard had been reconciled just before Abelard’s death, she had decided she could do no less than forgive as well.
The faces of the people around her were upturned to catch the words like rain on dry earth. But she could hear nothing. The abbot’s arms spread out, inviting all to join the king in his pilgrimage. Then he stopped and waited.
The response was instantaneous.
“Give us crosses!” the crowd roared. “Crosses!”
They surged toward the platform, causing some alarm among those perched on it. It swung wildly and one corner suddenly collapsed. The crowd gasped in horror as the abbot disappeared, leaving the king hanging from the railing, the floor sloping away from him. He was able to pull himself up as retainers rushed to shove the populace away and rescue the abbot.
“Dear Virgin, save them!” Catherine cried, echoing the shouts of the others.
Everyone held their breath until the head of Abbot Bernard appeared and he waved to show that he was unharmed.
Catherine exhaled in relief and joined the rejoicing.
“I thought he would be crushed!” she exclaimed to Edgar. “It’s a miracle he wasn’t.”
“It’s a miracle that thing didn’t fall apart sooner,” Edgar answered. “And look, those idiots are putting it together again so that Bernard can finish his sermon. Only a fool would go back up there!”
“Or a man of faith,” Catherine reminded him.
Edgar gave her a look of exasperation. “Carissima, faith in God’s providence is one thing. I have none in the skill of those carpenters.”
Nevertheless, within a few moments, the platform had been repaired and Bernard and Louis climbed the ladder to resume.
The crowd chose to see this as an omen of success in the retaking of the city, and the level of fervor increased tenfold.
After he finished speaking, the abbot reached into a bag at his feet and began to distribute the cloth crosses to the men and women who pressed forward to receive them. Soon he began scattering them like seed upon the people below until the bag was empty. Still more people reached out to him. Bernard looked about for help and, getting none, took off his cowl and tore it to make more crosses for the faithful.
Despite himself, Edgar was carried along by the enthusiasm of the others. For a moment, it seemed to him that there was something he could do, that he mustn’t be left behind. He started toward the platform.
“Edgar?” Catherine was left behind and tried to shove her way through, terrified of losing him in the throng. “Edgar!”
He didn’t hear her. Someone knocked her aside and she fell in the muddy grass. Still the people moved forward, stepping over and then on her every time she tried to get up.
“Edgar!” she screamed again.
She felt someone grab her about the waist from behind and lift her to her feet.
“Thank you,” she gasped. “I thought they would trample …” Her eyes grew wide as she saw the face of her rescuer.
“Jehan! I thought you’d be in the front of that mob!”
The man had recognized her, as well, and gave her a look that said he would have stomped on her, himself, if he had known who she was.
“I received my cross last night from the abbot personally,” he answered proudly.
“Is my sister here with you?” Catherine asked. Perhaps here, amidst the fervor of the faithful, the two of them might find some reconciliation.
Jehan’s face grew bleak. “I haven’t seen her yet today. As she promised, she was here last night to see me accept my cross but then she vanished. I don’t know where she is.”
“But she must be here someplace!” Catherine automatically looked around, although it was impossible to see more than an arm’s length and she was in danger of falling again as people pushed around her. “Help me search for her!”
Jehan didn’t bother to answer. He simply gave her another look of disgust and vanished back into the crowd.
Catherine pushed against the mass of people, squeezing between bodies until she reached a less-populated area. Then she took a deep breath, shaken as much by the sight of Jehan in a pilgrim’s cross as by nearly being crushed in the wild rush of the people to receive their badges.
Jehan. Solidier, knight, warrior. Implacable enemy. He had been on the fringes of her family for years, first as the friend of her uncle Roger, then as messenger for her father and grandfather and then as guard to Agnes. Through a number of ill-fated events Jehan managed to blame Catherine for every piece of misfortune he had ever had, not least that he had no chance of ever marrying Agnes.
She tried to find the charity to pity him. After a moment she shook her head. She wasn’t a good enough Christian for that.
She climbed a bit up the opposite side of the field, trying to spot Edgar’s blond head above the others. It was hopeless. What could have possessed him to leave her like that? She could only hope he would find her later.
The tumult was far too great to find anyone. Catherine decided that the only sensible thing to do was to find a soft place to sit and eat the bread and cheese she had cached in her sleeve that morning. She found a mossy spot under a tree and settled, shaking the crumbs from the cloth as she munched. Sooner or later, someone would find her.
In another part of the field, Solomon watched the escalating madness with growing horror. He was uneasy among large numbers of Christians at the best of times and was only here because his uncle Eliazar had asked him to observe and report back to him. As more and more of the pilgrims came past him, faces effulgent with the vision of salvation and crosses pinned to their tunics, Solomon’s disquiet became physical.
“Wait until they find that a piece of cloth won’t stop an arrow,” he muttered to his friend.
The man standing next to him smiled. It might have seemed odd that a cleric would respond so mildly to a slur on his faith, but Astrolabe came from an unconventional family and he had known Solomon a long time.
“I’m sure most of them will realize that and find some mail and a shield to add to their protection,” he told Solomon. “People are looking at you, by the way.”
An old woman was certainly staring at him. She caught Solomon’s eye.
“What’s wrong with you,” she shouted. “A big, strong boy like you not going with the king! What’s the matter? Think you have no sins to repent of?”
; Solomon backed away from her. “If I thought I could free the Holy Land, I assure you, bonne feme, I would leave tonight.”
She started to say more to him, but Astrolabe pulled his friend away.
“Don’t even suggest it,” Solomon snapped. “I won’t put one of those things on, not even to save my life.”
“I don’t expect you to, but others will wonder.” Astrolabe grinned at a sudden idea. “I know. If anyone else asks why you’re not taking the cross, I can tell them you have an serious infirmity that keeps you from fighting.”
“Circumcision?” Solomon asked.
This time his friend laughed aloud. “Not at all. The fatal disease of levity,” he said. “It will be the death of you, yet.”
Solomon shook his head. “I don’t take this lightly, I assure you. All I can think is, how long will it be before someone decides it would be easier to attack the Jews in France instead of going all the way to the Holy Land for Saracens?”
“That won’t happen this time, Solomon,” Astrolabe assured him. “Abbot Bernard wouldn’t allow it. He was very clear about who the enemy is and he didn’t mention Jews.”
Solomon gave him a look of disgust. “He didn’t have to, Astrolabe. What has been the text of the sermons for the past week? The death of your god at the hands of the Jews. Do you think none of these people listened to that?”
The other man’s laughter stopped cold. “I’m not so naive as that, Solomon,” he admitted. “I know that many of these people see no difference between the Jews in their midst and the Pharisees of old Jerusalem. Logic has no place in their world. My father learned that all too well.”
“And I don’t believe he ever changed his beliefs either,” Solomon replied softly.
“No, he reconciled with Bernard but felt himself answerable to God alone,” Astrolabe agreed. “Very well, point taken. I promise not to suggest it again.”
“Thank you, now if you could only get my cousin Catherine to stop trying to get my soul into her heaven, I’d be much obliged.”
“A woman taught by both my father and mother, are you mad?” Astrolabe gasped in mock horror. “I’d sooner try to convince a band of Saracens racing toward me with swords.”
“In that case, why don’t we go back to the inn and have some beer before that mob drinks the village dry?”
Astrolabe thought that a fine idea and the two men went back up the hill in complete accord. Behind them people stood proudly clutching their cloth crosses, aware only of the glory to come when they marched triumphantly through the Holy Land.
Edgar came to his senses again quickly with the first person who bumped against him and then noticed his missing hand. The sneers of strangers was something he would never become used to. They all assumed that he was a thief who had been justly punished.
“Out of the way, you stinking mesfetor!” The new soldier of Christ shoved Edgar aside. “Clear a path for honest men.”
“Mesel!” Edgar shoved back. “Who do you think you are?”
The man spun around to retort and Edgar realized that he was in the middle of a well-armed circle of people who had just been exhorted strongly to kill the infidel. Perhaps he should have simply stood aside.
“What did you steal?” a woman jeered. “The church plate? Why couldn’t you work like the rest of us?”
Edgar ignored her. The circle closed in. He swung at the first man that came for him. Someone picked up a rock.
“Hold! Hold there!” The voice came from above. It was that of someone used to being obeyed. “What’s this? Attacking fellow Christians? Shame on you all!”
For a moment it crossed everyone’s mind that the voice came from Heaven. There was a sigh of relief as they realized it was a man on a black war horse. This did not slow their obedience. Men on horseback wielded justice that was more sure and certain than divine retribution.
As the crowd fell away, Edgar looked up at his rescuer. The sun in his eyes made it hard to make out his features. Then the man leaned down, offering him a hand up.
“Walter of Grancy!” Edgar exclaimed in delight. “Saint Alban’s persecuted priest! I am glad to see you!”
Walter, as tall as Edgar and twice as thick, easily lifted his friend up behind him on the horse. Edgar noticed that Walter, too, wore a cross.
“I’m going for the soul of my Alys,” Walter said. “If I couldn’t save her life, at least I can help make her place in Heaven more secure.”
“A noble reason,” Edgar said warmly. He and Catherine had helped Walter find the one who had killed Alys six years before and they had become friends.
“Don’t give me my palm and crown, yet.” Walter laughed. “I’ll enjoy bashing a few Saracen heads. I’ll need to, just to keep me in a charitable mood toward my fellow pilgrims, especially that one.”
He indicated another mounted man not far away. Edgar’s jaw dropped.
“Raynald of Tonnerre!” he gasped. “I can’t believe it. But he’s a murderer!”
Walter shrugged. “All the more reason to go to the Holy Land. How else could anyone expiate such a crime?”
Edgar could think of a number of ways, including the one his own father was enduring now, that of becoming a lay brother and working at the most menial tasks under the stern eyes of an English abbot. In comparison, dying in battle was infinitely preferable.
“Still,” he said aloud. “I imagine that it’s the only way that would be acceptable to Raynald and his father. Is Count William going as well?”
“No, just both his sons,” Walter told him. “Now, how did you come to be at the center of a mob of angry peasants?”
Edgar explained, now ashamed of his momentary ardor. “Catherine, who didn’t you … ?” he finished, then looked around. “Catherine! Walter, I thought she was right behind me. Saint Ethelwold’s mighty organ! I’ve lost her. How could I be such an idiot?”
“I’m sure she’ll tell you.” Walter laughed. “Well, where was she when you last saw her? As I remember, we need only look for a spot where everyone seems to be tripping over something.”
“Yes, that would be Catherine,” Edgar said, not laughing. “But in this chaos how can we tell? Oh, leoffest, I hope your name saint is watching out for you.”
Catherine had actually got well out of the pathway for once. However, she was soon joined by a collection of beggars who saw that she had more food than she needed.
“Please, kind lady,” a woman pleaded. “For Christ’s pity, help me feed my child.”
Catherine gave her half the cheese.
“I’ve had nothing since Thursday.” A man whose body was covered with open sores edged closer. “And no one will give me a place to rest.”
Catherine tossed her bread to him and prayed he would go away.
Another woman only stared at her with eyes much too large for her thin face. Beneath her rags, Catherine saw that she was close to the end of her pregnancy, if she survived that long. She handed over the remainder of the cheese and her linen scarf.
That left only one man, who had seated himself next to her. He was as thin as the others and pale as a prisoner.
“I’m sorry,” Catherine said. “I have no more food to give. I thought that here, of all places, there would be alms enough.”
“There are never alms enough, good lady,” the man looked at her with compassion.
There was something about him that made Catherine embarrassed that she had offered him charity. His clothes were as ragged as any of the poor but he had an air of calm, even contentment, that she had rarely seen in any human outside of the cloister.
“But we give so much,” she said. “One would think that there should be no one hungry, except when all are.”
“When the vessels of the Mass are bedecked in gold and jewels and women wear bliaux of silk trimmed with fur, then the poor will be with us,” he said sadly. “But it need not be so.”
Catherine looked guiltily at her clothes, then remembered that she was wearing wool and linen. But the man saw
her expression and smiled.
She looked at him suspiciously. “Are you a follower of Arnold of Brescia or a Patarene?” she asked. “Would you have all people hold property in common, with no kings or lords?”
“Perhaps I’m nothing more than a monk who believes we should all live as monks.” He was laughing at her, she could tell, although his face remained kind.
“If you’re a monk, then why have you no tonsure?” she countered. “And, if we were all cloistered and celibate it would be but a short time before there was no one left on earth. Then where would we be?”
“In heaven, my lady,” he stood. “Of course. May the Lord be with you.”
“And with you,” she responded automatically.
After he had gone, she sat for some time, going over the conversation in her mind.
“He’s a heretic,” one side assured her.
“But he said nothing counter to the Faith,” Catherine answered.
“Saying that all men should live as monks? That property should belong to everyone? That’s not heresy?” The voices were shocked.
“Many of the fathers of the Church said the same,” Catherine reasoned.
“Catherine! Thank God!”
Catherine looked up with a start. Edgar jumped down and took her in his arms.
“I was so worried,” he said, holding her tightly. “I thought you’d been crushed. Instead I find you sitting alone, talking to yourself.”
“Well, you abandoned me in the crowd,” she explained. “Do you want me to talk to strangers? Where did you go?” She looked up then and recognized the man on the horse. “Walter! How wonderful to see you again. Will you dine with us tonight?”
Walter grinned and nodded.
Edgar stepped back but kept hold of Catherine’s hand.
“You are all right, aren’t you?” he asked. “I’m so sorry. I should have watched out for you.”
Catherine brushed his cheek with her hand. “I’m fine,” she said. “I was only afraid for you.”
The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 3
