“I know, but I had to talk to you.” Arnald sounded as if he was trying not to sneeze. “Can I come out? There are thorns in here.”
“No!” Belide looked over her shoulder. “Papa is gone, but my annoying little brothers could be anywhere and they love to tattle. Now, what is it?”
“You won’t believe it,” Arnald said from the greenery. “My father wants me to go on Victor’s mission.”
“What?” Belide peered into the leaves to see his face. He must be joking.
“Father thinks I should leave for a while,” Arnald went on. “He’s tired of having to ransom me from the Watch. He gave a very long lecture about how I should take life seriously and do something for the good of my soul and on and on. But he heard that they need guards for the monks and asked Prior Stephen at Saint Pierre if I would do.”
“Oh Arnald!” This time Belide did drop the damp linen.
Fear of discovery forgotten, she reached into the bramble and pulled him out. His face was scratched and there was a spider web hanging from one ear. “I thought you told me they were going all the way to Valencia! You could be killed!”
Arnald raked his hands through his hair, dislodging twigs, leaves, and the spider.
“Would you care if I died?” Arnald asked in surprise.
“Of course,” Belide said. “You’re my best friend.”
“Oh,” Arnald answered. “Well, don’t worry. My father isn’t that angry with me. He wouldn’t risk my getting killed. I’m his only son. But how can I go with Aaron if I have to make this journey instead? He needs me.”
“Oh,” Belide said. “Yes, I see the problem. Aaron has to have a Christian with him. But you can’t defy your father now, not without telling him everything.”
“Maybe I should.” Arnald shivered. “There’s something down the back of my chainse. Can you shake it out?”
He turned around so Belide could put her hand up the back of his under garment.
“You know you can’t,” she told him as she tried to get at the bit that was scratching him. “You father would tell mine and then all Aaron’s plans would be for nothing.”
“BELIDE!!”
Arnald leapt back into the laurel, leaving Belide sitting on the grass surrounded by crumpled laundry.
“Just what were you doing!” Bonysach roared. “Arnald, you show yourself at once!”
“Papa, I can explain!” Belide got up quickly. “Really, it was nothing. Arnald came to tell me that he’s going into Andalusia with the monks.”
“Soon?” Bonysach glared at Arnald who now had a new assortment of scratches.
“Immediately after Easter, Senhor Bonysach,” Arnald said. “I wanted to let Belide know but didn’t want to bother anyone, so I…”
“Climbed the wall,” Bonysach finished. “Thoughtful of you. Leave by the gate.”
“Yes. Of course.” Arnald edged around the garden, keeping his face to Bonysach. “Please tell Na Josta that I hope she is recovering quickly.”
“Arnald,” Bonysach warned.
Arnald reached the gate but the latch stuck. After a couple of tries, it popped open and he escaped.
Bonysach turned to his daughter.
“Papa, I swear,” she began when they were interrupted by the sound of snickering from the house.
Belide looked up. Muppim and Huppim were hanging from the window.
“How long have you been there?” she called.
“We saw Arnald hide.” Muppim laughed. “Did he scare you?”
Belide turned back to Bonysach. “You see?” she said indignantly. “I couldn’t misbehave if I wanted to with those two little malvatz brothers of mine.”
She was trying not to cry. Tears were an unfair weapon against her father, to be used only in desperation. “He just came to tell me he was going. He knew you had forbidden me to see him but he wanted to say good-bye. That’s all.”
Bonysach believed her as far as it went. But he was sure that Belide wasn’t giving him the whole truth and what bothered him more was that Josta seemed to be keeping something from him as well, something that worried her. He was certain that it involved Belide.
He clenched his teeth to keep from swearing. It was an evil day when his wife kept secrets and his daughter cringed from him as if he were a tyrant.
Vaguely, he felt that in some way the dead monk was to blame.
“Take the linen back to the laundress, Belide,” he said at last. “I’ll have to pay extra to get those stains out.”
“Yes, Papa.” Belide would have preferred a beating. Wrath radiated from him like flame.
She scurried away, bitterly regretting that she had ever let Arnald talk her into this. So far, her mother had kept silent about the gold, but what would happen if her father learned of it?
Belide prayed that Aaron would return soon, to bear the brunt of the explanations. Even for the sake of true love, this was becoming more than she could handle.
Solomon suspected that his uncle’s need for a messenger had been invented. All he had been asked to do was report to the Templar consistory at Carcassonne that Hubert LeVendeur had turned his trade over to his son-in-law Edgar and his partner, Solomon. A note with Hubert’s mark and seal were enough, along with a promise of the same price for pepper as always. The commander seemed perfectly happy to continue the connection. It was all taken care of in a moment.
But Solomon lingered in Carcassonne. He knew no one in the fortress town. He felt no obligation to stay with one of the Jewish families. He spent his time wandering along the wall that ringed the hilltop, sometimes stopping to look out over the greening forest blotched with new villages and vineyards. Once he passed an entire afternoon just watching the birds; storks heading north for their summer nests, hawks that would circle and then dive upon some hapless creature like lightning bolts. To the south the mountains rose, one moment seeming close enough to reach in a day’s walk, the next obscured by fog as if they had never been.
He spoke only to get what he needed to live. When he wanted company for an hour, he bought it. The women seemed grateful that he didn’t require conversation.
His thoughts stayed in the present, if he had them at all. He didn’t wonder about anything, but marveled at the heat of the sun on his face and how the same warmth could make a rose unfold. The days crept toward Passover and his promise to return to Toulouse.
Finally, he knew he could put it off no longer. Solomon paid his bill at the inn, retrieved his horse, and set out.
Hubert had been wise to give him a reason to leave. The time alone had healed his raw spirit. He could now contemplate the possibility of an encounter with his father without panic. What could Brother James do to him that he hadn’t done already?
Two days later he spied the towers of Toulouse, visible for miles before one reached the city. When trees hid the view, he followed the Hers river north until the towers reappeared. The roads were well maintained, with tolls every few miles and no sign of robbers.
Solomon rode through the Narbonne Gate feeling calm and at peace with the world and his place in it. He even edged his horse aside without resentment to allow a pair of armed soldiers to pass.
One of the soldiers nodded thanks. Solomon looked at him, then looked again. The soldier stopped abruptly and did the same.
“It can’t be!” Solomon cried. “You were sent to Jerusalem! You should be dead!”
The other man’s cry was even more aghast. “Filz de porcel! Am I cursed? Can I never be free of this torture? How long have you lain in wait to trap me? Did you bring that witch with you, Solomon of Paris?”
Solomon was too stunned to reply. He had girded himself to face Brother James. It had never occurred to him to prepare to meet his old enemy, Jehan of Blois.
Eight
Wednesday, 7 Ides April (April 7) 1148, 9 Nissan 4908. Feast of St. Hegesipius, Jewish convert and travel writer.
Twelve stand in war:
Three love,
Three hate,
Three give life,
And three kill.
—Sefer Yetzirah, 6:5
The two men faced each other in mutual horror, blocking the street. When neither moved, Berengar reached over to touch Jehan’s arm.
“Jehan?” he said uncertainly. “We need to hurry. My father and the other lords are waiting for us.”
Jehan turned to him jerkily, as if startled from a nightmare. Berengar gestured that they should move on. After a moment, the knight recovered enough to shake the reins. His horse obligingly stepped forward. As the two men continued toward the gate Jehan turned around every few steps to look behind. Solomon was still watching him.
“What is it?” Berengar asked, twisting to see. “Who is that man?”
“You see him, then?” Jehan exhaled in relief. He had feared it was a vision, a remnant of the madness that had once claimed him.
“Of course. Black beard, dun horse, right?” Berengar answered. “An acquaintance of yours?”
“Yes.” They were out of the city now, in the salvetat of Saint Catherine. Jehan set his horse to a quick trot, forestalling any more questions.
Berengar scratched his head, then followed, urging his own mount to pass. Soon both were at a full gallop. Jehan leaned low in the saddle oblivious to both the woman whose basket of turnips spilled as she jumped from his path and the chickens squawking their terror as they fluttered out of reach of the pounding hooves. The wind shrieked through his chain mail helm, drowning out his howling memories.
By the time they reached the villa of Berengar’s father, Jehan had managed to recover from the shock and appear once again the imperturbable warrior, ready for anything. Inside he was still shaking. Solomon wasn’t merely an old enemy, but one who knew too many of the secrets Jehan had thought buried forever. How could he keep the man from telling them?
Solomon sat stone-still until Jehan rode out of his sight. He was too stunned to move. It was impossible. The last time he had seen the man was a year before. At that time Jehan had been weighted down with penitential chains, on his way to Jerusalem. How had he escaped? What was he doing in Toulouse?
Even stranger, why had he not attacked him?
Over the past ten years, every time Jehan had crossed his path, the man had tried to kill him, either by denunciation to those in power or more directly, with a sword. Perhaps, like Solomon, he had been too shocked to act. But what would he do if they met again?
Just what he needed, one more enemy in Toulouse.
Once he had returned the horse to the ostler, Solomon made his way to the synagogue quickly. The tranquility he had gained during his stay in Carcassonne evaporated like spit on a hot stone.
The first thing he had to do was warn Hubert.
The courtyard of the bet midrash was full of scholars, each one shouting to make his argument heard above the raucous debate. A quick glance told Solomon that Hubert wasn’t among them.
“Samuel.” He grabbed the young man’s arm to get his attention. “Have you seen my uncle, Rav Chaim?”
“I think he went to his room after morning prayers,” Samuel told him. “To study.” He sighed. “I wish I had my own private Torah to read each day.”
“He earned it,” Solomon said. “Be grateful that you didn’t have to endure his life.”
He went back in and knocked on Hubert’s door. He waited, knocked again, and then entered.
Hubert was sitting on a stool before a high lectern on which a book lay open. He was slowly pointing to one word after another with a long silver rod that ended in a tiny hand, the index finger gently resting on the letters.
“Vihi she’amdah la’avoteinu velanu. Shelo…”
Solomon leaned over his shoulder. “Preparing for Pesach, Uncle?” he asked. “I think I remember this part.”
Hubert dropped the yad. “Solomon? What are you doing here?”
Solomon stooped to pick up the pointer. “I promised I’d be back by now. Remember? But I need to warn you of something.”
Hubert sighed. He understood now why Christians became hermits.
“Was there a problem with my message?” he asked. “The Temple knights of Carcassonne don’t want to work with you?”
“No, that’s fine, but we have another problem,” Solomon said.
He told him about seeing Jehan.
Hubert’s shoulders sagged. “This is too much! I had hoped he was dead. Why do the Saracens kill everyone except the man who most deserves it?”
“You understand that you can’t let him see you?” Solomon wasn’t sure how far Hubert had ascended into philosophy. He didn’t seem to be as practical as in the old days.
“Of course.” Hubert looked up at him, his eyes sharp. “The damned rabaschier suspected me of apostasy long before I really renounced Christianity. If he sees me now, word will get back to Paris within the month.”
“Uncle, there’s a lot more at stake than your old friends in Paris finding out.” Solomon wanted to shake him. “Have you looked outside your own window? Don’t you know what time of year it is?”
“Oh, that.” Hubert smiled. “Easter in Toulouse isn’t so bad, I understand. They don’t strike a Jew on the Cathedral steps anymore in vengeance for Jesus death. The community just pays a fine instead.”
Solomon rolled his eyes. “Oh, so that makes us all one happy family. Don’t be so complacent. You said it yourself. The bishop is still in the North. The count has gone off to Jerusalem. Who is supposed to protect us if the Edomites decide to murder us all for the death of their god?”
Hubert looked up at him, eyes bright with joy.
“Our Creator, of course,” he said. “Who else?”
“Right, fine job He’s done the last thousand years or so,” Solomon muttered.
“Solomon!” Hubert was shocked. “That’s blasphemy!”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Solomon spoke quickly to avoid a lecture. “The greater the suffering we are sent, the greater our reward when the Messiah comes. I have no doubt that it will be any day now. But I would like you to be alive to see it. So don’t go out any more than is necessary and, when you do, wear a hood or a floppy felt hat or something to keep your face hidden.”
“Perhaps I should dye my beard red as well?” Hubert suggested. “But no, Jehan has never seen me bearded so this is disguise enough.”
He seemed disappointed.
Solomon gave up. If Hubert wouldn’t take the threat seriously, there was nothing more he could do.
“Very well. I’ve warned you. How you behave is your affair. Now, what else has been happening while I was gone? What about that dead monk? Did they find who killed him? Has…the…the other one been bothering you any more?”
Hubert shook his head. “I’ve heard nothing more from Jacob. I doubt he will try to accuse me. The general belief is that the unfortunate Brother Victor was attacked by a common cutpurse.”
“Good.” Solomon opened the door to leave. “It’s likely that’s the truth. I suppose I should report to Bonysach now. Have you seen him since I left?”
“Only here,” Hubert said. “Josta’s face is still badly bruised. They came last Thursday to lay charges against Yusef. He was fined and told to keep his servant under control or be banned from the community.”
“I’m glad they were firm with him,” Solomon said. “Herem would destroy Yusef. I can’t believe he would risk it just to keep that woman in his house. She must know some dark secret about him, whatever Bonysach says.”
“Perhaps.” Hubert was losing interest. “If that was all you wanted, Solomon, I need to finish this passage before the light goes. My window faces east, you see. I’m glad you’re back, and I’m grateful for your concern but I really must….”
His eyes strayed back to the page, the letters clear in the morning light.
Shaking his head, Solomon shut the door.
Jehan of Blois was not making a good impression on the lords of Toulouse. Berengar was wishing he had brought Brother James, instead. He could have convinced them
to give more toward the release of the captive knights. But Berengar had felt that these men had had enough of preaching. It seemed better to show them how well their money would be guarded on the route.
But Jehan wasn’t acting like a fearless warrior. His eyes moved from side to side, as if trying to see what was behind his back. His right hand gripped and released his sword hilt, leaving it shiny with sweat. In short, he was giving an excellent likeness of a man who was terrified.
Finally Berengar found an excuse to pull Jehan aside.
“What is wrong with you?” he demanded. “My father was going to give you reasons to assure you I wouldn’t be a burden on this journey. Now he’s wondering if you’re the one who needs protecting. And he’s not alone.”
He nodded toward the men seated around the table, conversing in low tones, their gaze directed anywhere but at Jehan.
The two knights were on one side of a long table set up near the vineyard owned by Berengar’s father, Lord Falquet. Their villa was nearby, fenced but not fortified. Beyond it, Jehan could see the spire of the church of Saint Lezat. A cool breeze set the leaves fluttering in the sun, making piebald patterns across the company. Servants brought them dried apricots and Lenten concoctions made from eggs, cheese, olives, garlic, and spices. The wine they poured was clear and cool from the stream.
Jehan snorted. The men even had thick cushions to protect their tender backsides from the wooden seats. What did these people know of warfare? Occasionally they might be raided by an angry neighbor or an ill-armed band of ribaux from the forest. They hadn’t passed weeks on end sleeping with one eye open and a knife always to hand. Nor had they spent their lives taking on tasks too dangerous or dirty for the flabby burghers and haughty nobles to attempt. He’d lay oath to that.
Who were they to doubt his competence?
He stood, knocking over a bowl of pickled quince. He thumped the table, shaking the cups.
The Outcast Dove: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 12
