The Outcast Dove: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  “Will someone please tell me why Yusef, of all people, protects this woman?”

  Belide glared at Babylonia. “No one knows,” she said. “Some think she provides him with some service beyond the usual duties, but that’s more than my imagination will credit. Others say she holds a dark secret about him.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Vidian interrupted. “Yusef was born in Toulouse and spent his whole life here. If he had done something scandalous, someone else would know.”

  At that moment Yusef entered, Huppim at his heels. Bonysach left Josta’s side to confront him.

  “Look what that jael of yours did to my wife!” he shouted. “You’ll pay for this, Yusef! I’ll have you up before the congregation!”

  To Solomon’s astonishment Yusef seemed neither surprised nor angry. He took in the destruction of the kitchen and the darkening bruises on Josta’s face.

  “I am so sorry for what she did to you, Na Josta,” he said. “I should have kept a closer watch on her. I will pay any fine the tubei ha-ir set me.”

  He sighed and motioned Belide off Babylonia. He bent over his servant.

  “Come home now, Babylonia,” was all he said.

  He held out a hand to help her up.

  Meekly and silently, the woman got to her knees, holding out her bound hands. Yusef untied the cords. She got to her feet and stood, her gaze fixed on the stone floor.

  “I promise to deal with her, Bonysach,” Yusef said. “This will not happen again.”

  “You know it will,” Bonysach told him angrily. “None of us will be secure until you send that woman from your home. I’m going to recommend that until you do a herem should be placed on you.”

  Yusef blanched. “Exile? You can’t mean that!”

  “To protect my family? Of course I can!” Bonysach said. “Now, take her and go!”

  Yusef bowed to them all and left, a transformed Babylonia trotting docilely behind him.

  “Is that all that’s going to be done with her?” Solomon asked. “A Christian master would have beaten her soundly and then tossed her into the streets.”

  “That’s up to Yusef to decide,” Bonysach said. “Belide, help your mother up to her bed. And call Rahel to see to her injuries.”

  “Yes, Papa.” Belide went to free her mother from the overwhelming attentions of the twins.

  It was a sign of how badly Josta was hurt that she made no protest. She only sighed as she left the chaos in her kitchen.

  “At least it’s almost Pesach.” The unswollen side of her face tried to smile. “We were going to scrub and purify the house in any case. Solomon, thank you again.”

  He leaned over her while Belide was busy with the little boys.

  “Do you think this has anything to do with last night?” he whispered.

  “No,” Josta answered. “I’m sure not. Ohhh, my poor face, how it hurts. Later, Solomon, please come back later.”

  He promised and, after being assured that there was nothing he could do to help, he left.

  As he continued on his way to the synagogue, Solomon reflected that the relationship between Yusef and his servant was as much of an enigma as the divine mysteries Hubert was trying to unravel. But he wasn’t as certain as Josta that the attack was unrelated to the death of Brother Victor or Belide’s bag of coins. Hadn’t Yusef also been in Moissac when Arnald had asked Victor for help? And hadn’t he also been in the camp days before when Aaron had spoken to Solomon? Yusef could well have reasons of his own for wanting Brother Victor dead and for creating trouble in Bonysach’s home.

  No, he had no intention of leaving Yusef out of his suspicions. Although it might be too much to hope that he could ever have the joy of seeing the man’s pious haughtiness broken if the vicious behavior of his Christian servant couldn’t crack him.

  Brother James had also gone to the meeting in the square. He had hoped to be asked to speak on behalf of his murdered friend but the leaders of the Cité and Bourg had ignored him. After only a few moments of debate, the decision was made to increase the number of times the watch went out each night. James did not expect them to adjourn immediately. He stood puzzled as the men began to disperse.

  “What about the villain still at large?” he demanded. “Is it the custom in Toulouse to give cutthroats the run of the town?”

  Stephan de Pertici was about to give a short answer to the voice from the crowd. He had vineyards to tend. Then he saw that the speaker was a monk.

  “Every effort is being made to discover the culprit,” he answered politely. “No one in Toulouse would condone violence against the clergy. If you like, Brother, perhaps your prior could arrange for a guard to accompany the monks when they must go out at night.”

  His tone made it clear that he felt any monk out alone after Compline deserved his fate.

  From the mutterings among those remaining in the square, James realized that the citizens of Toulouse agreed. No one here was going to help him. Sadly, he returned to Saint Pierre des Cuisines.

  But no one at the priory seemed eager to track down Brother Victor’s killer, either.

  “He’s probably long since removed himself from the area,” Prior Stephen told him. “Certainly no one has reported a man trying to spend gold coins. With no description it would be impossible to find him. Leave vengeance to Our Lord and pray for the soul of Brother Victor.”

  “But what about the man found with him?” James persisted. “This Jew. Did no one question him?”

  “From what I understand, the man is a respected scholar, well known to them,” the prior answered. “The watchman says he made no attempt to escape but rather tried to help. He was simply a bystander who could provide no useful information.”

  “I would like to talk with him myself,” Brother James insisted.

  “Ah, well.” The prior was clearly uncomfortable. “Your feelings about your former coreligionists, while laudable, might make it difficult for you.”

  “I can overcome my antipathy for a time if it helps find Victor’s murderer,” James said.

  “Yes, of course. However”—Stephen sighed—“it’s also possible that they won’t permit you to see this man.”

  “Can’t you order them to admit me?” James asked.

  “I’d rather not,” the prior admitted. “The Jews are favored by Count Alphonse and many others of the town. They were active in defending it against the French invasion a few years ago. You don’t understand the politics of Toulouse. There’s a fine balance among the Burghers, the Count, Saint-Sernin and those of us who are affiliated with Moissac and Cluny.”

  “What has that to do with this Jew?”

  The prior felt James was being deliberately obtuse.

  “If the Jews complain that you are persecuting one of their people,” he said. “They can bring a charge before the town leaders. People will take sides. Old grievances will be remembered that have nothing to do with this.”

  He put a hand on James’s shoulder. “If I thought that anything useful would come of your talking with this man, I would permit it. But I believe that you are simply unwilling to accept Victor’s unfortunate death. Attend instead to your devotions. It’s only in them that you will find the answers you seek.”

  Brother James nearly blurted an angry response. He stopped himself in time. That’s what the prior expected. He knew they all thought he could never achieve the true submission to authority required of every monk. After all, he came from a stiff-necked, proud, and stubborn people.

  He bowed his head. “As you wish.”

  However, in the time he had between Sext and None, James fully intended to seek out this so-called scholar and make him confess the truth. Of course, he couldn’t be seen near the synagogue. He had to find a way to make this man come to him.

  He left the priory bustling with plans. In the crowded streets and the bright sun, it never occurred to him to worry that someone might be following him.

  “Uncle, you said you had a commission for me.” Solomon cau
ght at Hubert’s sleeve as he passed from the meeting room to his cell. “Uncle? It’s Solomon, remember? Where are you?”

  Hubert squinted in the dim passage. The small round windows of the synagogue building let in only enough light to find one’s way from room to room. The thick unripe-olive-colored glass created a perpetual twilight even at noon. Still, Solomon thought, that was no reason for Hubert to pass nearly under his nose without noticing him.

  Hubert gave his head a shake to clear it.

  “I’m sorry.” He smiled. “I was trying to keep something in my mind, but it seems to have flown. Never mind. If the Holy One means me to know it, He’ll send it to me again. What was it you wanted?”

  “Could we sit a moment?” Solomon guided him to the open court where a few scholars were arguing happily. At a table to one side was a pitcher and next to it several cups. The day was growing warm and the air was saturated with the perfume of jasmine. For the space of two heartbeats Solomon had an intense image of a woman he had loved once in Córdoba. Then the voices of the men pulled him back to the present.

  He sat Hubert down and fetched him a drink from the pitcher, cold well water flavored with mint and honey. He waited until Hubert had finished the cup.

  “Now, Uncle,” he said. “I have promised not to leave for Spain until after Pesach. Or at least until Aaron returns to explain this mysterious rescue he has plotted with Belide and her friend. But that doesn’t mean I must stay all that time in Toulouse. Knowing that man is here in town torments me. I’m afraid to raise my eyes from the ground for fear of seeing him.”

  “What would you do if you did?” Hubert asked softly. “If you turned a corner and came face to face with your father?”

  Solomon looked away. He seemed not to notice that his right hand was moving toward his knife.

  He looked back at Hubert. His hand fell to his side.

  “I would run,” he said. “As far as I could, as if the devil and all his hounds were at my heels.”

  Hubert gave a deep sigh and covered his face with his hands. When he lowered them, Solomon saw in surprise that he was smiling.

  “My greatest fear has passed,” he told Solomon. “Your anger is so strong, I thought you might…”

  “What? Confront him? Tell him what I think of him?” Solomon raised his voice to be heard over the men debating on the other side of the courtyard. “Or, maybe you think I would kill the bastard?”

  The courtyard was suddenly quiet. A dove in the rainspout was startled to hear his own coo. Everyone looked at Solomon.

  “Anagogically speaking,” he said to the scholars.

  “Aah…” The men went back to their topic.

  “Well, Hubert, do you have an errand that will get me out of town for a while?”

  Hubert glanced nervously at his fellow scholars.

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “Something else that I should have seen to before I left my former life. I need you to find someone for me in Carcassonne. Will you do that?”

  “I’ll leave tomorrow.” Solomon got up as if preparing to set off at once. “Tell me who, where to find them, and what the message is.”

  “I’ll have all you need ready in the morning,” Hubert said.

  “Good,” Solomon answered. “I’ll be on the road as soon as the city gates open.”

  Josta lay in her bed swathed in bandages that had been dipped in something both sticky and foul-smelling. Her face ached and she was sure she felt a loose tooth at the point where the pitcher had hit her jaw. She wished her family would stop hovering over her and go make sure the work was being done properly. She could heal just fine by herself but someone needed to make sure the new maid didn’t put the cheese in the same bowl with the sausage.

  “Beride, where are your brovvers?” she mumbled through her wrappings.

  “Jermana took them to the market.” Belide’s face floated in the space above her. “We wanted it quiet for you.”

  “Bedder I cn hear ’em.”

  “What?” Belide sponged more of the balm onto the bandages. “Don’t try to talk, Mama. Rahel says it will strain your jaw.”

  “Hmmmph!” Josta closed her eyes and submitted to her daughter.

  Belide tried to be gentle but every touch of the sponge made her mother wince.

  “I’m sorry, Mama.” She tried not to cry.

  Josta wanted to tell her that it was the pain in her heart that was wracking her, not the bruise on her face. Who was this child? It seemed like her own loving Belide, but what if she were like the serpent in the heart of the fruit? Could this child she had borne, nursed, scolded, and cherished have been replaced by another being, one who could lie with a sweet face? One who would deceive the ones who loved her best?

  What was a lost tooth compared to the empty cavern left in her heart that had once held her faith in Belide?

  When Hubert entered his small room and shut the door, he could still hear the shouting of the students as they argued the reading of the day. Somewhere farther away a donkey was protesting his load. The woman next door was singing to her child. Life was everywhere around him.

  Then he began to read. As he shaped the letters on his lips and in his mind the world ebbed away until he was left on an empty silent shore. The ground seemed to slide from him like sand pulled back into the ocean, but he felt no fear. The words became solid under the pointing finger of the yad. Words of gold with hearts of fire. They lit the path for him ever higher, a spiral that climbed so high the end of it was hidden in the clouds.

  Hubert began to climb and the words led him on. He hungered and it seemed that the hand of the pointer became a spoon, sustaining him with the wisdom of the Torah, sweet as honey. He was no longer a man seated before a book but part of the book, the essence of it, not the ink on the page. Higher and higher he ascended. The clouds were thinner now, almost ready to part. Hubert strained to see beyond them.

  From nowhere there came a huge crash of thunder. It shook the pathway and sent him rolling down, down deep into the abyss.

  Hubert cried out. He couldn’t get his breath. He tried to stand but fell back into his chair. And the thunder became ever louder.

  “Mar Chaim!”

  The door opened. The student Samuel gasped in horror at the form of the man slumped over, about to fall from the chair.

  “Mar Chaim,” he repeated as he leapt forward and pushed Hubert back upright. “Are you ill? What can I do?”

  Slowly Hubert returned to life. He seemed confused; a man wakened from a deep dream. Samuel was frightened by how gray his face was and how cold his hand. It was several moments before Hubert knew him.

  “Samuel?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to deliver a message for you,” the young man told him. “But perhaps I should return when you are better. I can see you are ill. Should I fetch Mosse, the physician?”

  Hubert drew in a great breath. The living letters had abandoned him. Once again he needed air to survive. His flesh settled upon him again and he felt the pounding of blood rushing through his body. It was enough to make him weep.

  “No, Samuel,” he said. “I have seen Mosse many times. He never tells me anything new. Now, what was your message?”

  “There is a knight of the town asking for you,” Samuel said. “His name is Berengar and he wants you to go with him. He says one of the friends of the monk who was killed would like to speak to you.”

  A shudder passed across Hubert’s shoulders. “Did he ask for me by name?”

  “No, only for the man who had found Brother Victor.” Samuel looked around for a blanket to throw over Hubert’s shoulders. “Shall I tell him you are not well enough to go out this morning?”

  “No.” Hubert leaned against the desk as he stood. “It was meant to be. There’s no point in delay.”

  “I don’t understand. Should I came with you?”

  Hubert smiled at him gently. “You are a good, kind man, Samuel. But don’t worry. Someday you will understand that there
are demons that a man must face alone.”

  Samuel was too respectful to disagree with him, but he resolved to tell the leader of the synagogue about this at once. Demons of the soul were a man’s private business; one needed friends to battle demons in the street.

  Seven

  An enclosed garden near the priory of Saint Pierre des Cuisines, Monday, 3 kalends April (March 29) 1148, 29 Adar II 4908. Feast of St. Rieul, bishop of Arles in 130, who saw the names of martyrs written in blood on the breasts of doves.

  Ben es mos mals de ben semblan,

  Que mais val mos mals qu’autre bes;

  E pois mon mals aitan bos me’s

  Bos er los bes apres l’afan.

  My pain truly seems beautiful,

  For my pain is worth more than others;

  And since my pain seems somewhat good to me

  The joy that comes after it will be better.

  —Bernart de Ventadorn

  Non es meravelha s’ue chan ll. 29–33

  Berengar stopped Hubert at the gate.

  “I’ll announce you,” he said. “Brother James may be at his prayers. If so then you must wait until he finishes.”

  “Yes, of course.” In a calmer state Hubert might have been amused at the young man’s dim respect for the duties of clerics. Now it was just another moment of torture.

  Hubert rubbed the sweat from his palms as he waited while Berengar approached the monk seated on a stone bench beneath a towering elm tree. The man seemed old, his shoulders hunched, hands shaking even in repose.

  Berengar returned.

  “He’ll see you now,” he said and added with a warning glance, “I’ll be here to escort you back.”

  “You needn’t worry. I have no plans to harm him.” Hubert opened the gate and went in.

  At first the man only watched as Hubert walked across the grass. The leaves of the elm cast dappled shadows that obscured the features of the person coming toward him. As he came closer, James’s look of polite suspicion slowly changed to one of confusion. His eyes narrowed as he tried to make out the shape of Hubert’s face.