They had gone inside and settled when Edgar looked around.
“Why isn’t Walter back, yet?” he asked. “I thought he was only going up to the castle to take Agnes some thread.”
“He went back up there?” Catherine exclaimed. “When?”
“This morning, after he left you,” Edgar answered. “He said he’d return after None.”
“We haven’t seen him,” Hubert said.
“Well,” Catherine said. “At least we know that wherever he is, he can take care of himself.”
“All the same,” she added, “I wish he were here to take care of us.”
Twelve
Outside the castle. Saturday, 3 kalends July (June 29), 1146; 13 Tammuz, 4906. Feast of the martyrdom of Saint Peter, crucified upside down and Saint Paul, beheaded, one of the perks of being a Roman citizen. His head bounced three times before coming to rest and at each spot a spring gushed forth.
Swaz er getet, swaz er gesprach,
daz duhte und waz ouch alse guot
daz ime diu werlt holden muot
und inneclichez herze truc.
Whatever he did, whatever he said
It all seemed so good—and was
That all the world loved him
and held him in heartfelt affection.
—Gottfried von Strassboug
Tristan
Walter’s head ached as if he had drunk a tun of red wine the night before. He didn’t remember drinking, but then he wouldn’t. He certainly didn’t remember falling asleep under a tree on the side of the road.
Gingerly, he felt his head. In the heat, he hadn’t worn his hauberk. He hadn’t thought he needed mail in this area. Almost a fatal mistake. His fingers touched a tender place and came away sticky with drying blood.
He tried to sit up, but that brought such a rush of nausea that he dropped back immediately. The sun shone on his half-open eyes, making the world around gleam piercingly. He closed his eyes and groaned.
“Don’t try to move.”
Walter froze. Was there a knife pointed at his heart? The voice didn’t sound threatening. It sounded almost … motherly. Walter tried opening his eyes again slowly and turning his head toward the sound. Yes, it was a woman in ragged clothes.
“Where do you come from?” she asked. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes, of course,” he answered. He realized with a shock that she was speaking French although with a strong Breton accent. Where was he? What had happened to him? How long had he been unconcious?
The woman held a rough bark cup to his lips. Walter tried to drink the water but most of it spilled into his beard.
“My name is Denise,” the woman told him. “Do you remember who you are? What happened? Did your horse throw you? Were you attacked?”
Walter moved his head and instantly regretted it. He gagged and then threw up. When he had finished, Denise wiped his mouth and hair with the hem of her skirt.
“I’m Walter of Grancy,” he managed to answer. “I don’t know what happened. I remember being on my way to the castle of Lord Gerhardt, but that’s all. What day is it?”
“Saturday,” she answered. “Yesterday was the feast of Saint Emilion. But if you were going to see Lord Gerhardt, you’re too late. He’s dead.”
“I know that. I was visiting someone else.” Walter felt around. “I had some lengths of thread for a lady. I must be going at once. They’ll be wondering where I am.”
With a great effort and help from Denise he was able to sit up, leaning against a tree. He then looked around and realized that something was missing.
“My horse!” he cried. “Oh, Saint Vincent’s guardian ravens, where is my horse? If that horse is lost, I’m ruined. He’s worth half my fief! I’ll never be able to find another as fine in time to leave for the Holy Land with King Louis.”
“I’m sorry,” Denise said. “We found only you. I didn’t see a horse. Did you, Father Milun?”
Now Walter realized that there were more people around him also ragged, thin and pale.
“I didn’t see a horse,” Father Milun said. “Perhaps he ran off. The others have gone to the village to find help for you. Do you have friends at the castle? We want to help you but we must be on our way.”
“My friends are in Trier,” Walter said. “Is this village far? I need to find someone to send word to them that I’m alive.”
He tried to stand but was stopped by the queasiness. He let his weight fall against the tree.
“Lanval and Astolfo will be back soon,” Denise told him. “They’ll bring someone with a litter for you. Lie down again. Here, use my scarf for your head.”
“Thank you, Lady,” Walter answered. “I shall see that you get a much finer one in thanks for your kindness.”
Denise blushed at being addressed so formally.
“You needn’t do that. This will wash easily in the river,” she said. “And we cannot wait any longer.”
“Ah yes, you must be on a pilgrimage to be so far from home,” Walter said. “You didn’t say where you were going.”
“It’s not important; we seek no special shrine.” Denise arranged the scarf to shield Walter’s face from the sun. “Aren’t all pilgrimages really journeys of the spirit more than the flesh?”
Walter didn’t understand this. “I thought we were supposed to visit the places where the saints live so to better venerate them and so they can better hear our prayers.”
“The saints are in Heaven,” Denise told him firmly. “One can pray to them anywhere and they will hear.”
“Well, yes.” Walter’s head ached far too much for this conversation. “But I was always told that they pay more attention to the places where their bones lie. You remind me of another woman who talks as you do. I can rarely understand her, either.”
Denise laughed and Walter let his eyes fall shut again. These people seemed odd, but harmless. If they had wanted to rob him, they would have done it while he was unconscious. He wondered what had happened to him. He hoped the others weren’t too worried.
In Trier, Walter’s friends were not terribly worried about him at all, although Catherine did have a qualm about it when he didn’t return by morning.
“He left his sword and crossbow behind.” She pointed to where they lay in the corner. “How could he defend himself if robbers attacked?”
“If there were fewer than ten of them, I would lay odds on Walter with bare fists.” Edgar smiled. “He may have simply stayed at the castle longer than he expected and decided to remain for the night.”
“I suppose so.” Catherine returned to the chore of mending Edana’s little tunic. She seemed to tear it almost every day. “It would have been foolish to send word in that case.”
There was a silence.
“Mina wants to know if we’d like to come to Sabbath dinner,” Hubert announced abruptly. “Since Simon is still in England, she’s lonely for company. And she’s a wonderful cook.”
Edgar frowned. “I don’t like making a habit of joining in the Jewish rituals,” he said. “With Johanna and Eliazar it’s fine because people are used to seeing us with them. But what will the townspeople think here? They have a bad enough opinion of us already.”
“Many of the merchants of Trier share meals with their Jewish friends,” Hubert said. “No one will think twice. It’s no different from Paris.”
“Yes it is, Hubert.” Edgar was firm. “We’re foreigners. We can’t behave as we do in Paris. We’ve already been called sorcerers; shall we also be considered Judaizers?”
“He’s right, Father,” Catherine said softly. “We have to consider Agnes.”
Hubert was about to argue but at that moment there was a pounding on the door.
Catherine stuck herself with the needle. “Jesu!” she cried.
Hubert got up and started to open the door. Then, mindful of Edgar’s warning, he called out first, demanding to know who was there.
At first there was silence. Then a small voice answered i
n French.
“Only I, Milun. I have a message for Hubert LeVendeur.”
“He doesn’t sound dangerous,” Edgar said. All the same, he lifted Walter’s sword. It surprised him how light it seemed. His right arm must have grown stronger since his accident.
When he saw the man, he nearly laughed at his fear. The Breton was slight and shaking in terror at the sight of the men. Milun stepped back as Hubert’s bulk loomed over him.
“What do you want?” Hubert demanded.
“I come from Walter of Grancy.” Milun licked his lips. “He’s hurt and needs you to come and bring a horse. We tried to get him to ride in a litter but he wouldn’t have it.”
“Hurt?” Hubert repeated. “How? Is it bad?”
“Hardly, Father, if he insists on riding,” Catherine said.
“We found him unconscious this morning,” Milun said, looking at her with reproach. “He’s awake now, but there’s an ugly wound on his head. He should be carried but he’s too fine a knight to be seen alive on a litter.”
Catherine put down the sewing at once and went into the next room for her medicine box.
“You and Edgar go to him,” Hubert told her when she returned. “Margaret and I will stay with the little ones. I’m expecting visitors this afternoon.”
Catherine didn’t think to ask who the visitors might be. She was only concerned with finding out what had happened to Walter. Who would have the temerity to attack him? They would have to be both stupid and impious to try to harm a knight wearing the cross of a pilgrim.
They found Walter under the tree but now he was surrounded by people. There were the men from the village with their litter, making loud complaint about Walter’s refusal of their service. Denise, Astolfo and Lanval were waiting and, surprisingly, so was Lord Hermann. All of them were arguing loudly. Catherine realized that Walter must really be hurt, for normally his voice would have ended any debate. She pushed through the throng and knelt beside him.
“Forgive me, Walter,” she said as she got out a salve for the cut. “We didn’t think to send anyone to search for you when you didn’t return. That’s a nasty wound. How were you attacked?”
“I don’t know,” Walter said weakly. “The last thing I remember is riding along the road, enjoying the sun. I saw no one. Can you get those people to be quiet? My head hurts confoundedly.”
“I’ll try, just hold still so I can bandage this,” Catherine said. “Why haven’t you been tended to, yet?”
“The people who found me have barely enough cloth to cover their bodies,” Walter explained. “I wouldn’t let them tear it for me. I’m not bleeding much.”
Catherine had no words to answer that so she kissed his forehead next to the gash and then returned to her work.
When they had understood that there was a wounded man outside the village, someone had been sent to tell those at the castle. They remembered the body found in the river and wanted to be sure of protection in case of brigands or another attack by Graf Heinrich.
Peter had wanted to go at once. He admired Walter greatly. It was with difficulty that Hermann convinced him to stay behind and then only by reminding him of his duty to protect those within the keep.
Hermann had reached Walter only moments before Catherine and Edgar arrived. When he had discovered that the victim was the only person who knew both languages he had been forced to send to Saint Maximin for a monk who spoke French. Now he knelt on Walter’s other side and watched Catherine.
“Did the pilgrims see anything?” he asked.
Walter turned his head to answer, causing Catherine to use an expletive she had picked up in England.
“Walter, either talk without moving or tell him to wait until I’m finished,” she ordered.
Hermann understone the tone, if not the words and moved away, waiting impatiently for the monk to arrive.
Edgar was speaking with Lanval and Denise.
“Have we met before?” he asked them. “I’ve seen you somewhere.”
“Perhaps on the road,” Lanval answered. “We’ve been traveling since early spring.”
Catherine looked up from her work. “I remember,” she said with a smile. “I spoke with you at Vézelay. You’re the man who believes we should all live like monks.”
Lanval smiled nervously.
“Now, as to Walter.” Edgar returned to the matter at hand. “So you say there was no one about when you found him?”
“No one at all,” Denise said. “Just the poor man. We thought he was sleeping at first, until we saw the blood.”
“Odd that his purse hasn’t been touched,” Edgar commented.
“We’re not thieves, sir!” Lanval drew himself up proudly.
“I meant no slander,” Edgar said. “But don’t you think it strange that he would be set upon and then nothing taken from him? I don’t suppose he could have hit his head on a low branch instead?”
The idea seemed preposterous, even to him, but how else could a grown man be knocked from a horse with only a head wound? Edgar had a thought.
“Where exactly was he lying?” he asked them.
Denise pointed to a crushed patch of weeds at the roadside. Edgar then walked back down the road, turned and started toward them. He stopped just beyond the place Denise had indicated and looked up. A short distance away on the opposite side of the road there was a tall oak tree, lush with leaves. The branches were low enough that a man could climb it.
A man with two hands, that is.
At times like these Edgar could almost feel his lost fingers stretching out. Would he ever get used to this?
“Lanval, could you get up that tree?” he asked.
“Of course,” the man told him.
“Then climb up far enough to be able to sight someone coming down the road. I want to see if you’d be visible.”
Lanval nodded and went to the tree, swinging himself up easily. Edgar followed.
“Also look for any sign that someone else has been there. Broken branches, scrapes in the bark, a piece of torn brais.”
He then went back to the center of the road and watched Lanval’s progress. When the man called out that he had found a solid resting place with a clear view, Edgar and Denise scanned carefully.
“I can’t find him at all,” Edgar said.
“I think I can make out his boot.” Denise squinted. “But I couldn’t if I didn’t know he was there.”
Edgar called up to him. “How much space is there free above you? Could you swing your arm?”
“A little farther down I could,” Lanval shouted back. “But then there’s nothing to shield me.”
“Still, if he moved quickly,” Edgar muttered to himself. “It could have been done that way. Now, if only I could find the stone.”
“What stone?” Denise asked.
“From the sling,” Edgar explained. “How else could one topple a man from a horse? There are no branches overhanging the road. Walter certainly hasn’t been jousting and that’s not an arrow wound.”
He got down on his knees to hunt, wincing as he put weight on the stump. Denise got down to help. Edgar went on muttering.
“Now, if it struck with that much force, it must have bounced back the way it came, but in what direction? Damn!”
He straightened. “Catherine are you almost finished there? I need you to do some geometry.”
In the end, it wasn’t geometry but luck that helped them. The stone wasn’t from that part of the road. It was a bit of quartz that had been chipped to form a rough edge.
Catherine felt it digging into her hand while hunting and, as she recoiled, noticed first the sharpness and then the stain of dried blood on the pink rock. She picked it up and waved in triumph.
“Of course, finding this only suggests that Walter was hit by a sling; it doesn’t prove it,” Edgar said when she handed it to him proudly. “We still don’t know who attacked him or why.”
“Even if his purse was untouched, the horse is reason enough,” Catheri
ne said. “We should ask Lord Hermann to put the word out for people to beware of anyone trying to sell a warhorse. Unless another miles did this the thief would be easily marked. A townsman or peasant could hardly own such an animal.”
“Yes, Hermann might do it if we can explain the problem to him,” Edgar agreed. “Catherine, I think we should stay home in Paris after this. I’m tired of trying to make myself understood.”
“Excuse me,” a soft voice interrupted in accented French.
The both stopped and turned toward the speaker.
He was an elderly man with the look of tired patience that practicing charity towards one’s fellow man for many years in a monastery gives. He cleared his throat nervously.
“My lord Hermann said to me that I did—no, should—help you.” His forehead creased with the effort to get the words right. “I am named Berengar.”
“Thank you,” Edgar said. “We’re extremely relieved to find someone who can translate for us.”
Berengar eyes widened in panic. Edgar realized that he hadn’t understood all of what he’d said.
“Nonne habes latinam?” he asked.
The monk’s jaw dropped as if his dog had just spoken.
“Sic aut non?” Catherine said. She was getting impatient.
“Why, yes,” Berengar said at last in flowing Latin. “It’s much easier for me than French but how do you … ?”
“Never mind for now,” Edgar said. “Just explain in German to Lord Hermann, if you would, how we think Walter was attacked.”
He showed Berengar the stone and the tree and the monk grew very excited. He went to Hermann immediately and told him.
When he had heard the story, Hermann nodded agreement.
“I think we ought to find out where that madman who’s been camping at our gate was last night,” he said.
The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 19
