He got a bowl of sour pinot with a pot of lavender water to blunt the taste. Then he looked around for a quiet, dim corner to enjoy them in.
That was when his luck ran out.
There was a rustle as a man on one side of the room nudged the one next to him. Solomon heard the muttering. The words weren’t clear but the meaning was. He moved away from the men, hoping that he could put down the wine before one of them jumped him.
The tavern was just a narrow room that might once have been a corridor between streets, now roofed over, with straw spread on the earth. Both ends were covered only with burlap curtains. Solomon gauged the distance to the nearest and what he’d have to leap over to get out quickly.
A sensible man would have left then. But Solomon had paid for his drink and he wasn’t going to let some half-wit Edomites keep him from drinking it.
He put the bowls down on a bench and was about to sit when someone spat on his boot.
He rubbed it off on the leg of the bench, thankful that he wasn’t wearing sandals.
On the other side of the room someone snickered.
He told himself that he had asked for this. He should have stayed with his own people.
The bravest of the men got up and faced him.
“I know you,” he said. “Saw you with Bonysach. He should have told you that we don’t drink with filthy Jews.” He belched in Solomon’s face. The reek of garlic and rotten teeth was choking. “Go back to your sty, pig.”
“Dirty Jew kills our Lord and Savior and then wants to drink our wine,” another man growled.
Solomon revised his opinion of their sobriety. He hoped the ones still seated were too drunk to stand. It would give him infinite joy to knock the man flat. In his state it wouldn’t take more than a push. But he knew that any action he took would be brought back to the community. Homes had been burnt and Jews beaten to death from smaller sparks.
He edged toward the doorway.
The man advanced. Solomon noted the broad shoulders and muscled forearms. Wonderful. He was probably a smith, used to knowing he was stronger than most of the men around. He could smash Solomon’s face open, if he didn’t pass out first.
“There’s no need to cause trouble, Friend,” he said softly.
The man’s fist crashed into him.
Solomon was quick enough that the blow only glanced his shoulder and sent his tormentor tottering forward. Before Solomon could reach the exit, the man made a leap for him, catching him by the belt.
Solomon grabbed a low beam and managed to stay upright, but his weight plus that of the smith threatened to bring down the flimsy roof.
By now the man’s friends had staggered up to join the fun.
“Got him by the tail, you do!”
“Let’s have those boots. Who’ll bet he has goat hooves?” The speaker grabbed Solomon’s foot.
He kicked out, trying to control himself enough to keep from doing them any damage. His belt was about to snap along with his temper.
Hell, he thought. They’ll tell the bishop I caused any mark they have. Why not give them a few?
His right hand reached into his sleeve for his knife.
A shadow blocked the lantern light. Solomon felt his leg yanked and then released as the drunk was picked up and tossed against the far wall. Next, the smith gave a howl and let go Solomon’s belt to clutch his own groin.
For an instant Solomon thought that perhaps the angel Gabriel had descended from heaven to destroy the foes of Israel. Hadn’t he just told his uncle that it was about time for the Messiah to arrive?
Then the light struck the face of his rescuer.
Solomon gaped in disbelief. He squeezed his eyes closed and then quickly opened them. What he saw was no less astonishing than a divine savior.
Jehan of Blois stood in front of him, grinning.
“It fills my heart with joy to see you looking so foolish,” he said. “I can’t believe you’ve lived this long, the way you invite trouble. But if anyone ends your life, it will be me, not some miserable wine-soaked scum.”
He took Solomon’s bowl from the bench and drained it, ignoring the curses and groans of pain from the floor.
“I’d get out of here now,” he told Solomon. “Unless you want to wind up hanged as an Easter offering.”
His words broke Solomon’s paralysis.
“I would thank you but I know you’d throw it back in my teeth,” he said. “It should give you much more satisfaction to know that I’m in your debt.”
Jehan grinned once more. It was an expression of pure gloating. “Oh, it does,” he said.
As Solomon reached the street, he was disgusted to realize that he was shaking as if he had the palsy. He tried to tell himself that it was from anger. But deep down he knew that what he was feeling was pure terror.
Had any of the past hour really happened or had he been caught up in some demonic vision? Had he really been in a dank tavern or on the edge of the grave? The damp, mud-drugged straw, the narrow room, the smell of rancid animal fat as it burned, the faces blurred by smoke, made it a charnel house in his memory.
It couldn’t have been Jehan of Blois who had just saved him. Jehan would have slit his throat as he hung from the rafter. It must have been an incubus in his form. Only that made no sense. Why would Satan protect him from the Christians? But then why would a messenger of the Holy One come in the shape of his worst enemy?
Come to think of it, why would an angel come to him at all?
It was full dark now, the waxing moon just rising. The bells of Toulouse were ringing Compline. Good Christians were saying their prayers and preparing for bed. The watch would be making their rounds soon. Solomon should be on his way to Gavi’s and his own bed. But he needed time to sort out his thoughts. He needed to convince his limbs to be still.
The street of the tanners and bleachers of cloth wasn’t far from the Garonne. Instead of going directly to Gavi’s, Solomon went down to the river’s edge. He pulled off his boots, tunic, hose, and leather brais. Clad only in his shift, he plunged into the icy water.
He surfaced a few feet downstream, gasping but clear headed. As he waded, dripping, back to shore he heard a howl of terror from someone standing above him on the bank. He peered through the darkness, but saw no sign of anything dangerous. All the same, he retrieved his clothes in haste and hurried back to the warmth of the tanner’s home.
A few moments later a harness maker stumbled into his house. When his wife could get any sense from him, she learned that he had seen John the Baptist rising from the Garonne, shaking his head in reproach.
“Never again, I swear,” the man vowed. “I promise you, Tilna, I’ll sin no more.”
The next day his wife bought a candle to light at the church of Saint John. He was a saint that she had greatly underappreciated.
It was full dark when the monks finished Compline and proceeded in silence to their dormitory. Brother James was near the end of the line. His steps faltered with fatigue; it was an effort not to stumble into the man in front.
He was at the bottom of the stairs when the commotion began. Someone gave a cry and a moment later one of the younger men came running down, bumping against the others in his haste.
“What is it?” James asked the man ahead.
He feared he might be chided for breaking silence but now all the monks were trying to get into the room. Finally, James reached the top of the stairs. What greeted him was pandemonium. Some of the beds had been overturned and all the bedding torn off and thrown about the room. Straw mattresses had been slashed open and the innards scattered. The thin pillows were in shreds, feathers drifting though the air and landing on the monks as they tried to salvage what they could from the mess.
James crossed to what was left of his own bed. It was in the same state as the others. What could have done this and why? Around him the monks were speculating.
“Some evil spirits must have flown in the windows to create havoc while we were at our prayers,”
one suggested.
“Did no one hear anything?” another asked.
James noticed something near him on the floor. He took a candle from the sconce on the wall and bent down to examine it.
Some feathers were stuck to the wood in a clump. James blew on them and a few fluttered loose. Gingerly, he touched the sticky substance holding the others in place. He sniffed his fingers.
“Mud,” he said. “And the print of a boot heel.”
His new partner, Brother Martin, came over to see.
“Fairly solid evil spirits,” he commented. “But how did they get in here?”
The loud voice of the priory doorkeeper rose from the stairwell.
“I told you, my lord,” he insisted. “No one entered the priory after Vespers. I let the cook’s helpers and the waste collector out. No strangers at all.”
The prior entered the room, followed by the porter who whistled in amazement.
“Aren’t you lads a bit old for pillow fights?” he asked.
Brother Martin spoke for them all.
“Several of us were up here just before Compline,” he told the prior. “This had to have been done while we were in the chapel.”
“Well it wasn’t by an outsider,” the doorkeeper stated. “Nor no sane man, to my mind. Could have been squirrels.”
Prior Stephen raised his eyebrows.
It might also have been a troop of monkeys or lions,” he said. “But I find the theory of demons more believable.”
He addressed the monks.
“Did any of you see anyone, stranger or not, enter the dormitory?”
They all shook their heads.
“Ghosts, perhaps?” one suggested. “Damned souls who wish to keep us from our rest.”
“We’ve had no previous visitations,” the prior said. “Any other possibilities?”
“Whoever it was,” Brother Martin said, “he was well shod.”
He showed the prior the boot print.
“There’s another here.” James had been continuing his search. “And one more at the window.”
He looked out. There was an old chestnut tree whose branches scraped against the wall. It would be no trick for an agile man to climb in and out again.
The other monks came to see. A few feathers clinging to the bark just outside convinced them.
“So, Brother Olivier, you are exonerated,” the prior said.
“No one gets past me,” the doorkeeper muttered. “Thank you, my lord,” he added.
“Brother Martin, Brother James.” Prior Stephen beckoned to them. “Come with me. Bring torches. I want you to see if you can find which way our vandal went. The rest of you, salvage what you can to sleep on tonight.”
James followed Brother Martin reluctantly. He tried to stifle a yawn. The odds were that the street would be so scuffed that they would have no way of tracing the intruders. How many feathers could have stayed on their clothing? Perhaps they would find a scrap torn from a pair of hose or a shift, but that would be no use unless they also found the man who wore them.
But, although the two monks searched on hands and knees, they found nothing but a few dents in the soft earth where the intruders had landed.
They reported this to the prior in his quarters. James tried not to look longingly at his pristine bed.
“I didn’t expect there to be much more evidence,” the prior admitted. “At least there was enough to prove this a deed of human wickedness.”
He laced his fingers as if praying for guidance.
“It is unlikely that the name of the one who did this will be discovered until we know why it was done,” he said, staring straight at James. “And I believe that you hold the answer. Do you agree, Brother James?”
James nodded wearily. The bags of gold tied on the belt beneath his robe clinked in response.
Ten
Toulouse, Holy Saturday, 4 Ides April (April 10) 1148, 12 Nissan 4908, Shabbat Ha Gadol, the Sabbath before Passover.
A porta inferi erue, Domine, animam meam.
From the gate of hell, Lord, deliver my soul.
—Antiphon for Holy Saturday
Like the rest of the Jews in Toulouse, Solomon spent the days before Easter trying to be inconspicuous. His near disaster in the tavern had disturbed him deeply. The greatest shock was knowing that it was his old enemy Jehan who had kept him from setting off a brawl that could easily have become a riot. He shuddered every time he thought of it.
“Are you sickening for something?” Aaron asked him. “Galde here has a poultice that will cure almost anything if you can survive the smell.”
“But it needs to be freshly compounded to work,” his sister reminded him. “And it’s the Sabbath.”
They were in the courtyard of Aaron’s sister’s house in the Bourg, near the church of Saint Julien. Galde and her husband, Vital, had five arpents of vines just north of the town wall from which they made wine for both Jews and gentiles. Galde also grew herbs and mixed medicines that she sold in the market. Aaron had traded jars of her salve to cure creaking joints as far away as London and Toledo.
Vital, Galde, and Aaron had just returned from services. Solomon had declined, fearing whom he might meet on the way. Instead he waited for them in the courtyard, his thoughts on Mayah.
Galde went to get the tray of cheese, greens, and the last of the bread that she had prepared Friday afternoon. Vital excused himself, yawning, for a Sabbath nap, leaving Aaron and Solomon alone.
“Does your sister know of your plans for this rescue?” Solomon asked as soon as she had left the room.
“No,” Aaron answered. “And not even Belide and Arnald know Mayah’s name. I’ve told Galde that I’m going to fetch my bride from Córdoba. Mayah’s father and I have been discussing the arrangements for over a year now. He was to have the ketubah drawn up last autumn. No one will be surprised when we return. Galde and Vital are eager to welcome her.”
“Aaron, why didn’t you get the ransom money from Yishmael?” Solomon asked. “He would have given you money, men, and weapons. You can’t be trying to save him the anguish of knowing about this.”
“Solomon, where have you been this past year?” Aaron answered. “Yishmael collapsed when he learned the news. He died a week later.”
“Oh, my poor friend!” Solomon exclaimed. “May his soul be at peace and his memory honored. But is there no other family?”
“Mayah’s cousins have taken her property,” Aaron went on. “They have assumed she’s dead, or will be soon. As long as we don’t press them for her inheritance, they won’t make trouble about the marriage.”
“Well, at least with the excuse of going to get your bride, you have a reason for your impatience to be off,” Solomon said. “And especially to be heading south when everyone else is going north to the fairs. But, if you must continue this pretense, you need to show more cheer. I’ve observed the phenomenon often and your behavior falls short of the rapture of a man about to wed.”
“Galde puts my gloom down to lovesickness,” Aaron explained. “She keeps trying to slip herbs in the soup to cool my inflamed heart. Mostly they just irritate my bowels.”
He sighed. “The time of year has been a problem, too. With most people going north to the fairs, I’ve been hard put to gather a party of travelers strong enough to risk the Navarrese bandits. However, that may have resolved itself. Yesterday, Arnald told me that his father is insisting he join this group going to ransom captured knights in Al-Andalus. He didn’t know what to answer. I told him to agree to go. The one thing I hadn’t worked out was how to get Arnald to come with me. I need a Christian to treat with those who own the brothel. Now I can arrange for all of us to leave Toulouse in the company of the monks and, when we get to Navarre, you, Arnald, and I will make a detour to this monastery.”
Solomon had been listening to this with growing dread. It was clear to him just which monk would be a part of the delegation. His father spoke good Arabic, as well as Hebrew. His uncles had often lamented
not having Jacob to speak for them in Spain. It made sense now. That was why he had left the safety of his monastery. And if the two groups traveled together, there would be no way for him to avoid the monk James.
It was too much to ask.
“Aaron! No!” Solomon thumped both hands on the table, causing a vase to rock. Aaron steadied it, giving Solomon a quizzical look.
“I can’t do it,” Solomon insisted. “Not those monks. I’d rather we take our chances alone.”
At this moment, Galde returned with the tray and set it on the table in front of them. Solomon stared down at the plate.
The smell of cheese and pickled onions was overpowering on top of the news he had just had to stomach.
“Excuse me.” He clamped his hand over his mouth as he rose. He knocked the chair over in his haste to reach the outhouse.
“Poor Solomon!” Galde exclaimed. “Perhaps, in an emergency, I could mix a poultice. The Creator, blessed be He, never meant the sick to go untreated on the Sabbath.”
“I think he’ll be all right as soon as he empties his stomach,” Aaron answered. “I seem to have upset him but I can’t understand why. He does business with monks all the time. Why should it bother him to spend a few days on the road in their company? Even Yusef endures it without complaint.”
Solomon returned a few moments later, wiping his mouth.
“I apologize, Galde,” he said. “I must have eaten a bad olive.”
Galde gave him a cup of water with instructions to sip slowly. As he did, Solomon reflected that he should have had someone read his stars before he set out from Paris. Then he might have been forewarned that Fate was going to send him a particularly nasty future.
The Outcast Dove: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 15
