The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  “No, I thought it best to talk with him first,” Catherine answered. “I haven’t mentioned seeing Thibault to Edgar, even. He’d rather forget everything to do with the family in Scotland.”

  “If you’ll accept my advice,” Heloise said, “go to Countess Mahaut before you see her husband. She’s well aware that Thibault has bastards and she has a kind heart, especially since the liaison happened long before they were married. Her sympathy for the child’s situation would guarantee Margaret’s acceptance.”

  “Of course!” Catherine exclaimed. “I should have thought of that. The countess is kind. I’ve seen her give judgement and she’s not a person who would punish Margaret for the sins of her grandparents. Thank you, Mother. You’ve eased my mind on this matter.”

  “There’s another matter?” Heloise’s eyebrows raised.

  “I’m afraid so.” Catherine lowered her voice. “It’s about what Sister Bertrada said. Of course both of my children are too young for fostering, but others have told me that it’s madness to traipse about in foreign places taking them with us, and yet I can’t bear to leave them behind for others to tend. Who loves them more than I do? Who would watch over them as carefully?”

  Heloise sighed deeply. She put her hand on Catherine’s.

  “I have no answer for you in this, my dear,” she said. “Whatever you do, someone will question it. That is certain. You can only pray for guidance. If you have faith enough, a way will be shown to you. I know you too well, Catherine. You want definite answers to everything. We always berated you for intellectual pride but the real fault isn’t in thinking you know everything but in refusing to accept that some things can’t be understood. My poor Abelard taught you too well. He always felt that God gave him reason so that he could use it to understand our maker.”

  “But isn’t that correct?” Catherine asked. She had always believed so.

  “I’m not sure anymore,” Heloise said gently. “Recently I’ve been wondering if we weren’t given reason so that we could understand each other.”

  She kissed Catherine’s cheek and left her to sit in the sunlit garden and consider the possibility of comprehending her fellow man.

  After some thought, Catherine decided it might be easier to comprehend God.

  It was early June when the party loaded up again and set out. The day was bright and Catherine’s mood joyful again. The nuns had given them hard-cooked eggs and bread for the journey and the children were each sucking a stick of honey and herbs that Sister Melisande assured Catherine would ward off summer agues.

  Edgar lifted Catherine onto his horse and then handed the baby up to her.

  “Are you sorry to be leaving your sanctuary?” he asked.

  She laughed. “Don’t worry carissime, I have no regrets over not taking vows. But it has been good to see everyone again. This will always be my second home.”

  The journey to Troyes was less than three days, even with the pack animals and frequent stops to eat or rest. As they neared the town the traffic became thick and they often had to take to the verge to pass ox carts, laden with grain or wine or even building stones, all on their way to the city.

  “Do you think Solomon will be there to greet us?” Margaret asked Catherine as they passed through a village near the city walls.

  Catherine had been wondering the same thing.

  “I hope so,” she answered. “He might have news of Agnes. It’s strange to think that she must be married by now.”

  Hubert overheard them. “She might have at least sent word to us of her safe arrival,” he complained.

  “Did you really expect her to?”

  Hubert shrugged. “Once I’d have said that she wouldn’t have crossed Paris without my approval. Perhaps I just long for those days to return.”

  Catherine agreed that it would be pleasant but she really didn’t want her childhood back. Her father had often been gone for months to trade and her mother, she now realized, was slipping into melancholia long before she succumbed to madness. The convent where she lived now wasn’t that far from here, but Catherine knew it would only increase Madeleine’s confusion to see her daughter again.

  No, it was better to live in the present.

  They left the packhorses with some of Hubert’s associates who were already preparing for the fair, which wouldn’t start officially until Saint John’s Eve. Then they hurried to the house of Eliazar where they were greeted with cries of delight.

  “Oh, look how the children have grown!” Johanna exclaimed. “Edana, sweeting, come to your aunt Johanna.”

  “Johanna!” Eliazar’s angry shout almost caused her to drop the child. He lowered his voice. “What are you thinking of? What if someone overheard them calling you ‘Aunt’?”

  Johanna went pale. “How stupid of me,” she whispered. “Never mind, Edana, we’ll find a name we can use.”

  “How about ‘nutrix,’” Catherine suggested. “It means nursemaid.”

  “Or even ‘nutricula,’” Edgar added.

  Johanna didn’t care for it. “Nutricula Johanna?”

  “‘Tricula.” Edana laughed.

  Johanna hugged her. “Well, that’s not quite as bad. Very well, love, come with your ‘tricula.”

  Catherine sighed as they followed her into the dining hall. It was a great sorrow to her to have to pretend that Johanna and Eliazar weren’t related to her. If only they would accept baptism.

  That thought led to another.

  “Is Solomon back, yet?” she asked. Spiritual intransigence was always linked to him in her mind.

  “He arrived two days ago,” Eliazar said. “He’s gone out to meet with some friends who’ve come up from Aries with several lengths of Egyptian cotton. You should see the dyes! He’ll be back tonight.”

  “Does he have news from Trier?” Hubert asked.

  “He says that your daughter made a beautiful bride,” Johanna answered. “The procession to the church went all the way through the town and she glittered like a princess. The people there seem very happy with her.”

  Hubert exhaled. “I’m glad of that, at least.”

  They didn’t see Solomon that night. He came in well after the gate had been locked and was still snoring when Catherine and Margaret left for the bathhouse the next morning.

  “I don’t understand why I’m to meet the countess,” Margaret said through the suds Catherine was pouring over her head. “Is she a friend of yours?”

  “Not exactly,” Catherine said. “Father has had dealings with her and Count Thibault over the years and they’ve been good to the family. It’s only polite to pay her a visit.”

  “So we are to be nice to her so she’ll buy from your father.” Margaret nodded as if she understood all about such things.

  “Yes, I suppose so.” Catherine was becoming more unsure about her decision. Keeping this from Edgar worried her considerably. But his pride was of the sort that would never ask favors. Margaret deserved a chance.

  She scrubbed the girl’s head until Margaret squealed in pain. Then they spent another hour combing out the tangles and braiding her hair again. Back at the house, Catherine first assured herself that the men were gone and then dressed herself and Margaret in their best.

  “I’ve sent a messenger to the countess,” she told Margaret. “We need to be ready to go with him when he returns.”

  “What if she has no time for us today?” Margaret fidgeted with the unaccustomed amount of jewelry.

  “Then we try again tomorrow,” Catherine was firm.

  They sat in silence, too fine to do anything but wait.

  “Margaret,” Catherine began. “You’ll be thirteen soon. Have you thought about what you want to do when you’re grown?”

  “Oh yes,” Margaret said with confidence. “I’m going to marry Solomon and go with him to Baghdad and ride a camel.”

  Catherine’s jaw dropped.

  “Um, does Solomon know about this?” she managed to ask.

  Margaret frowned. “Not
exactly. But he said he’d take me with him someday and I know it wouldn’t be proper unless he was my husband.”

  This revelation sent Catherine’s thoughts racing in panic down a very different path that she had intended. She vowed to have a serious talk with Solomon about Margaret before the day was out. She tried a different tack.

  “Do you know what your mother had planned for you?” she asked.

  “She thought I should be a nun.” Margaret sighed. “I do love God, of course, but I don’t like having to get up in the middle of the night and I don’t want to sleep in a narrow bed all alone.”

  That seemed fairly definite.

  “Did she ever suggest that you go back to France for fostering?” Catherine ventured.

  Margaret tried to remember. “She did say that she wished I could learn about how other people lived. I know that my father’s keep wasn’t very …”

  “Civilized,” Catherine supplied. “No, it wasn’t, although your mother tried. I believe that she would have wanted you to learn more about the talents a lady should have: music and embroidery and other such things.”

  Margaret suddenly understood.

  “You want to leave me with the countess?” Her voice had an edge of terror.

  Catherine took the child in her arms and held her tightly, regardless of their finery.

  “Not now, ma douz, not ever if it frightens you so,” she soothed. “But we must consider your future, and the patronage of the count of Champagne is a great thing.”

  Margaret saw the wisdom of this, even if the actuality frightened her. She had barely regained her composure when the messenger arrived, saying that the countess would be pleased for them to come to her at once.

  Outside the city, the broad plain on which the fair took place was already dotted with tents and stakes roped off for areas to show cattle, sheep and horses. Hubert, Solomon and Edgar had brought James along so that he could watch while they inspected the section assigned to them and checked on the goods they had brought. Edana had been left at home for her new “nurse” to cosset.

  James immediately demanded to be put on a horse, where he sat with legs splayed, waving a stick at unseen opponents.

  Hubert watched him with amusement, Edgar with misgiving.

  “That’s all he ever seems to play: warrior and dragons, or knight and Saracens,” he commented, shaking his head.

  “All little boys do,” Hubert said.

  “And in my family they grew to playing at it in earnest,” Edgar reminded him. “I don’t want James to become the kind of man my brothers are, using their power to murder and rape. These games only encourage him.”

  “There are noble knights, you know, who protect others,” Hubert reminded him. “Your friend Walter, for example. After all, what would you have James play at, money changing? He’s but three now. If he goes to my son Guillaume to be trained, he may someday rise to the level where he’ll be a castellan. Let him be for now.”

  Edgar bit back a sharp reply. Hubert was right. It galled him, though. Some part of himself wanted James to have his birthright, even if it was just as the son of a lord’s younger son. He tried to quash these feelings, but they would erupt again when he was least prepared. Logically, he knew that James was infinitely better off living in Paris as a merchant’s grandson than he would ever be in Scotland amidst the thousand enemies that were also his birthright.

  They were distracted by shouting from across the field. Men ran past them as they hurried to see what was happening. The shouts grew louder as they neared and they could make out words.

  “God’s teeth! I say this is my spot! Get off it or I’ll have the count’s men throw you off!”

  “We’ve been here for twenty years, Hugues,” another voice yelled back. “You know that well!”

  “That sounds like Yehiel!” Hubert said and started running.

  “Hubert, wait!” Edgar ran after him. “Remember what happened last time!”

  Hubert kept running and, scooping James up, Edgar raced after him, afraid that this time Hubert might collapse and not get up again. The commotion grew as they neared the site.

  Yehiel was one of the Jewish traders of Troyes. He was standing with Solomon and a few other Jews at the section that they were marking for their stalls. Facing them was a group of other merchants and some men from the nearby village. Edgar noted that several men on both sides were holding wood and iron tools balanced in their hands like weapons.

  “What’s wrong with you, Hugues?” Solomon said. “The Jews of Troyes always set up here. It’s the custom.”

  “Not any longer,” Hugues announced. “We met last night and decided that you Christ-killers aren’t wanted here. We’ve put up with you long enough. Why should you make a profit from the sale of supplies to pilgrims?”

  “Why should you?” Solomon answered. “I thought they were going to fight for the glory of your false God.”

  “Oh, Solomon, don’t!” Edgar warned under his breath.

  Hugues stepped forward, his sickle raised.

  Yehiel grabbed Solomon’s arm before he could draw his knife.

  “Are you mad?” he muttered. “Show a weapon and we’ll all be dead.”

  Hubert pushed through the circle of local Christians, panting and gasping.

  “Hugues de Chappes!” He faced the leader of the group. “What’s happened to you? Last year you were all drinking together. Now you want to ban these men from the fair? Who will you sell your linen to? And where will you buy gold thread?”

  “There’s enough Christians to sell to.” Hugues’s face was set in resentment. “And if it means buying from unbelievers, I’ll not use gold thread.”

  There were mutters of agreement from those around him.

  Edgar touched Hubert’s shoulder.

  “You won’t convince them with sense,” he said. “These men aren’t susceptible to logic.”

  Yehiel moved to stand closer to them.

  “I’ve sent for the count’s men,” he whispered. “I just pray that they arrive before this comes to blows. Edgar’s right, Hubert. You can’t talk to them. The tolls on the stalls were raised this year and they need someone to blame.”

  Hugues heard the last part of this.

  “That’s right. Why should we pay more? The Jews come here, make profit from our need and leave. They should be fined the extra toll.”

  “Hugues,” Yehiel said in exasperation. “I live two streets over from you. I’m at the market at Saint Jean every Tuesday.”

  “I thought you said reason wouldn’t work,” Hubert reminded him.

  Yehiel threw up his hands. “It didn’t.” He gestured at one man who was holding what looked like a piece from a hackling board, sharp spikes running most of the length of it. “They’ve come to hurt us and won’t leave until blood in spilt.”

  Edgar was acutely aware of James clinging to him, eyes wide with fear.

  “Hubert,” he said. “We need to get your grandson somewhere safe.”

  “Enough talk!” Hugues roared suddenly, causing James to shriek in fear. “Start packing up your goods.”

  Solomon faced him.

  “Only the count can force us to leave,” he stated. “You have no authority.”

  Hugues raised the sickle. Solomon crouched to leap at him, drawing the knife.

  “Solomon!” Hubert rushed forward to stop them.

  Edgar’s heart froze. He grabbed at Hubert with his free hand at the same time as Yehiel pulled Solomon back so that the sickle passed through the air where Solomon’s head had been and stuck fast in a tree stump.

  “Halt in the name of the count!” a voice cried from above them.

  The clanking of chain mail and the breath of the horses on their necks was enough to cause most of the men to stop. Hugues struggled to remove the sickle from the stump, but everyone else turned. Only James cried on, impervious to Edgar’s attempts to calm him.

  The guards moved aside and Henry, son of Count Thibault, rode through. The cross
he had taken at Vézelay had been sewn to his tunic and embellished with gold braid.

  “Where are the men who have decided who shall attend my father’s fair and who shall not?” he boomed.

  Those on the edge of the crowd started moving away, but a few at the core stood their ground.

  “We want no more dealings with the Jews!” one shouted. “They shouldn’t be allowed to take trade from honest Christians.”

  Henry’s eyes lit on the man who had spoken.

  “Ah, Ithier!” he said. “Honesty isn’t a word I’ve heard much in connection with you. Weren’t you fined last year for putting sand in your salt? I thought you’d been banned altogether.”

  The man sputtered but backed down. Henry scanned the rest of the group.

  “Violence committed at the fairs is judged in the count’s court,” he reminded them. “All who attend and pay the duty are under his protection. Anyone who wishes to dispute that is welcome to come with me and do so. Or, you can come with me even further and help me to free Edessa from the hands of the Saracens instead of persecuting your fellow traders.”

  No one was inclined to accept his offers. The group quickly dispersed. Henry waited until all the men had left.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Yehiel said. “We are grateful for your intervention and wish you much success on your expedition to the Holy Land.”

  “I’ll see that the guards remain for the whole of the fair,” Henry told him. “You’ve been good and loyal subjects and I’ll not have you harmed.”

  Yehiel bowed. “I have just received several casks of wine from Rabbenu Jacob’s vineyard at Ramerupt. May I send some to you as a gift, in return for your benevolence.”

  Henry smiled. “That would be most welcome,” he told them.

  After he had left, Hubert and Edgar took Solomon home. They made him walk between them and stayed in open spaces as much as possible.

  “Did you expect me to stand there and let that imbecile Edomite drive us off?” he grumbled.

  “You drew a knife on him,” Edgar said.

  “And I meant to use it.” Solomon took James from Edgar and put the boy on his shoulders. “James isn’t the only one who believes in slaying dragons.”