At Saint Pierre des Cuisines, the monks’ dormitory was almost back to normal. The mattress and pillow stuffing had been swept out and new rushes laid on the floor. There wasn’t enough spare bedding to replace all that had been destroyed but several of the brothers volunteered to sleep on the hard floor with only a blanket. As soon as they spoke up, the rest insisted on doing the same.
“As our life is in common,” a young monk said. “So should we live and sleep in an equal state.”
There was no way to avoid the floor after that.
Saturday afternoon, the monks retired for a rest before the all night Easter vigil. As he tried to find a comfortable position on the hard boards, Brother James prayed that God would be merciful and spare his back. Even the usual monastic mattress made his first steps in the morning agony. He bunched his robe on one side to cushion his thigh and was just dozing off when he sensed someone standing at his side. He opened his eyes.
Brother Martin loomed above him, a blanket draped over his arm.
“Here, Brother James,” he said. “Take my cover. I don’t need it in this warm weather.”
James thought quickly. Should he accept the offer in a spirit of grateful humility? But that would be admitting he was in need of extra care. Yet to refuse would seem churlish. He couldn’t deny that the extra thickness under his hip bones would be very welcome. A voice inside reproved him at once for yielding to physical weakness. Every twinge should be an offering.
He made up his mind.
“A kind gesture, Brother Martin.” He smiled. “But there may be many nights on our journey when we’ll have only the bare earth for a bed. I should prepare myself now.”
Martin squatted next to him.
“Brother James, there’s no need to deny yourself a bit of comfort,” he said. “I’ve seen how, even at Moissac, you are hard on your body. You accept the most irksome tasks. You could spend all your days in the scriptorium or teaching. Prior Rodger says you are a brilliant scholar, adept at rhetoric in many languages.”
“He is over fulsome in his praise,” James answered. “But even if it were true, there are no words, even the most holy, that are more pleasing to Our Lord than honest work done in His name with love.”
Martin crossed himself. “I understand. I’ll not try to force comfort upon you. But at least allow me to share your burden.”
James eyes narrowed. “In what way?”
Brother Martin leaned closer so that the other monks couldn’t overhear.
“When the abbot selected me to take up Brother Victor’s unfinished work, I understood that I was to smooth the path for you,” he said. “You no longer need bear the weight of the ransom yourself.”
Instinctively James’s arm went over the money belt. Brother Martin laughed.
“Do you fear me?” He rocked back in amusement. “For shame, my brother. Why do you think the abbot chose me? When this was first planned, Victor was picked for his good heart and his gift for making friends. You, because you can speak for us and negotiate with the Saracens. But after what happened to poor Victor, the abbot decided a good heart was not enough and that you should have a protector.”
He stood again. From his viewpoint on the floor, James felt as if he were in the shade of a towering cliff. Martin laughed again.
“When I was in the world, my friends called me ‘the ox,’” he said. “And not just for my strength. After eight years at Moissac, I still don’t know the Office. I spend half my time bowing.”
James had noticed that. Each time a monk erred in the prayers, he bowed to the altar to ask forgiveness. Martin spent a lot of time bent over.
“But,” the monk continued, “I can walk all day and not tire, stand against any wind and carry your load, and you too, to the end of the road. The abbot said that you were too stubborn to make use of me. I hope he misjudged you.”
Martin didn’t wait for an answer but returned to his own place on the floor. As he tried once again to settle into a position conducive to sleep, James saw the monk’s blanket, neatly folded, lying next to him. It made a most welcome cushion.
Jehan came into the main hall of the Plucked Crow, carrying a pack. He set it down by the table where Guy and Berengar were idly casting dice.
“What’s that for?” Berengar asked.
“It is my custom to pass the night of Holy Saturday in a vigil of prayer and penance,” Jehan answered. “I’ll return after Mass tomorrow.”
“Do you know something about this mission that we don’t?” Guy asked. “I’ve been shriven, of course, just in case, but I figured I had plenty of time to do my penance.”
“A vigil is a good idea; I’ll go with you,” Berengar announced. “We can do it over at the church where Saint Sarni fought the bull. It’s more fitting for men like us and won’t be as crowded as the cathedral.”
“You have a local saint who was a bullfighter?” Guy asked doubtfully.
“Don’t you know him?” Berengar was astonished. “He was a bishop or something, back when the Romans ruled us. Saturnus is the Latin name. You French call him Sernin. He was to be martyred by being tied to a maddened bull. It dragged him the length of the street from the cathedral to the Capitole.”
“What happened then? Did he tame it?” Guy asked. “Or did a bolt from heaven strike it dead?”
Berengar thought. “I don’t remember. Maybe Sarni just died. The priest will know the whole story.”
Jehan wasn’t interested in local history. “That church will do as well as any. The place isn’t important. I have performed this expiation on mountainsides and by the side of the road.”
He faltered as a memory of shame stabbed him.
“And,” he added, “it’s something I must do alone.”
Guy shrugged. “Fair enough. I’ve said the prayers the priest set me and given a candle to the Knights of the Temple. My sleep will come easily. I’ll see you tomorrow at Mass.”
But Berengar wasn’t so easily put off.
“I have much to repent of,” he said. “I should also fast and pray. We can encourage each other if our will should falter.”
“My atonement requires solitary meditation,” Jehan explained, wondering if the boy would ever take the hint.
“Oh.” Berengar scratched his head. “Then we should probably go somewhere outside the walls. Maybe across the river.”
“I’m sure I can find a place.” Jehan bent to pick up his pack again.
Berengar reached it first. “Here, I’ll help you.”
He started to hoist the pack, grunted, and dropped it again with a clank.
“What do you have in here?” he asked, trying again. “Bars of gold?”
Guy sat up straighter.
“You sure you’re not leaving town?” he asked.
Jehan moved Berengar off the pack and opened the flap.
Inside were coils of iron chain.
“What are you doing with that?” Berengar asked. “Are you planning on taking prisoners tonight?”
Jehan didn’t answer. He closed the pack, lifted it with ease and left the inn.
Guy shook his head.
“You simpleton!” he said to Berengar. “What form a man’s atonement takes is none of your concern. Leave him to it.”
Berengar sat back down slowly.
“Did you see how the weight of those chains was nothing to him? He must have been carrying them a long time. I wonder what he did to deserve such a penance.”
“Take my advice,” Guy said. “Don’t ask him.”
Solomon judged that it was safe to go out again on Easter morning. The bells were ringing all over town. The cathedral was packed and Christians were busy celebrating the return of their god. It had always been a mystery to Solomon why his people were reviled in the streets as those who had killed Jesus when, without that death, no resurrection could have occurred. However, most of the things Christians believed baffled him, despite the best efforts of numerous priests and his cousin, Catherine, to make them sound logica
l and appealing.
At least the laws God gave to the Jews weren’t intended to make sense. The teachers in Troyes had explained that to him when he was a boy. It was enough that the Creator understood the rules. His only duty was to trust and obey.
Solomon had wasted too many years in fighting that dictum. Perhaps he had absorbed some of Peter Abelard’s teaching through Catherine and Edgar, who had been students of the philosopher. Laws should make sense, divine ones especially. Why should men have been given minds if not better to understand the Mind that created them?
Finally he realized that his intelligence wasn’t up to the task. Nor was his piety. What remained was a simmering resentment of those to whom faith was clear and unshakeable.
This Easter morning he was surrounded by them.
His route took him past the cathedral of Saint Sernin and along the road to the Saracen Wall, which separated the Bourg of Toulouse from the Cité. He realized at once that it had been a stupid choice for it was the main street for Easter processions. He was forced against the buildings with the rest of the populace as priests and monks paraded by, carrying crosses and relics of the saints.
The progress of the clerics was slow as many of the devout crowded forward to touch the reliquaries. Many of them held up sick or crippled children, hoping that the saints in the shrines would notice and take pity on them.
Amidst the crowd wandered peddlers, their backs loaded with tin crosses or emblems of the saints. There were also sellers of sweets, to break the Lenten fast and, as always, beggars.
Solomon looked for a passage that would take him away from the throng. He kept his back against the wall, edging along it to find an opening.
Finally he felt air on his neck. Behind him there was a narrow alleyway that seemed to go through. He stepped back into it and bumped against someone sitting in the shadows.
He fell over with a curse and the clanking of metal.
There was a grunt of pain and then a familiar voice.
“I thought you might do that,” Jehan said. “When I saw you enter.”
Solomon sat up, rubbing a scraped knee.
“You might have warned me,” he said. “This was a new stocking. Now it’s ripped clear through and I’m bleeding on it.”
He stopped as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the passage.
“Why are you sitting here wrapped in a chain?” he asked. “Not that I don’t approve but I assumed that you had escaped the jailer who had charge of you when you left Paris.”
Jehan made no answer. He stretched out his arms and stood up amidst a cacophony of iron. Then he held out his hand to help Solomon rise.
Solomon looked at the hand in suspicion and got up on his own.
“I have no jailer outside my own soul,” Jehan said as he unwound the chain. “I began to understand that the farther I went from Paris and Catherine LeVendeur. Once I was free of the torments of that witch and her sister, I expiated my sin in battle against the infidels.”
“You killed a man in Paris,” Solomon reminded him. “And before that, your madness nearly got Catherine’s sister killed. And so you feel you’ve atoned for death by taking more life?”
“No.” Jehan finished freeing himself from the chain. “Only sincere contrition will redeem me. I work at it every day. Seeing you makes me aware that I have not completely renounced old enmities. And so I must continue to force my body to submit to restraint. If not, I can never learn to govern my spirit.”
He let the iron fall in a long spiral into a leather pack at his feet. Solomon saw that he was barefoot and wearing only a linen shift. He had seen many such pilgrims and penitents in his life. Even the highest nobles had humbled themselves for the good of their souls. But he could not believe it of this man.
He must be planning something.
“Well, I should be going.” Solomon checked the passage for further obstacles. “Enjoy your suffering. Yours is a laudable goal. I wish you success.”
He half expected Jehan to answer with a threat or try to stop him, but the man simply watched as Solomon walked through the long, dark alley.
When he emerged into the sunlight, Solomon felt as if he’d been released from the belly of the whale. Nothing found inside Leviathan could possibly be stranger or more unsettling than a seemingly penitent Jehan.
He was beginning to feel that no corner of Toulouse was safe from surprises.
Normally the person he would have gone to first was his uncle Hubert. But Hubert was becoming more distant with every conversation. Solomon couldn’t decide if the change was a result of increased piety or creeping senility. He only knew that his own heart was deeply troubled and there was no one to share it with.
He wished he hadn’t let Edgar go home.
Belide was washing the Passover meat platters. Her mother sat nearby polishing silver.
“Do you need another pillow, Mama?” she asked. “A hat to shade you from the sun? I’ll go get it.”
Josta put down the shining spoon and picked up another. “The sun isn’t too bright, dear,” she said. “I’m quite comfortable.”
Belide worked quietly a little longer. Josta could see that her daughter wanted to tell her something. She hoped it wouldn’t be any more revelations about Arnald or Christian gold. She finished the last spoon and started on the salt cellar.
“Your brothers should be back soon,” she commented. “I do love them but the quiet is restful.”
Belide took a deep breath. “Mother,” she said.
Josta steeled herself.
“Yes, dear?”
“Is Samuel still coming to the Seder tomorrow?” Belide asked.
“Why, I suppose so,” Josta answered. “He hasn’t told your father that he won’t be. Is that a problem? Are you worried that he won’t want to eat with Gavi?”
“No, of course not,” Belide said. “At least, I hadn’t thought of it. It’s just that, when we go to services, he never looks at me. I’m sure he doesn’t want to speak to me after what I did.”
“Perhaps he’s just behaving properly until he speaks to your father,” Josta suggested. “Does his indifference bother you?”
“Not in the slightest.” Belide gave the platter her complete attention, not looking up. “I simply thought that he might find another visit to us uncomfortable.”
“I suppose, my dear, that depends on what you do to him the next time he visits.”
Josta gathered up the silver and took it back into the house, leaving her daughter to think that one out for herself.
Solomon sat at one of the long tables set up in the square, cradling a bowl of beer and watching a woman in a short chainse and multicolored hose do flips over a brazier of glowing coals. Once she had the attention of the crowd, two men got up and lit tapers from the brazier. They proceeded to light streams of fire from their mouths, shooting them at each other until Solomon was sure one of them would ignite.
Instead, the woman returned with a dragon’s head, as large as that of a horse. It was made from cloth on a wooden frame, with evil black eyes and a cavernous mouth. A long red tongue like a whip dangled from it. The woman danced around the men as they tried to catch the head in their flames.
“Your mortal fires can’t hurt me!” the woman cried. “I am the pet of Satan and bathe each day in a molten inferno! I come to herd sinners like you into the depths for my master.”
The men continued to try to set fire to the dragon but the woman nimbly avoided them all the while drawing them closer to a pile of boxes set up on one side of the square. There was a cloth draped over them but as she came close enough, the woman pulled it down to reveal a giant hell mouth, open and grinning.
The audience gave a cry of horror and delight.
“There is no hope for you!” the dragon taunted the men. “Down you go!”
She pushed them into the maw of the beast and, with hideous screams, the fire eaters vanished.
“That is the fate of sinners!” the woman sang, still dancing the dr
agon head about the square. “Who’s next? You? Or you?”
She pointed to several of the spectators.
“Your neighbors don’t know your sins,” she leered at one well-dressed man. “But my master does. Your gold and silk are no protection from him.”
“That’s one who won’t leave a coin on the plate,” a voice said in Solomon’s ear.
He turned around. Arnald grinned at him.
“Father let me out for the day,” he explained. “Since I’m about to leave on a dangerous journey for the good of my soul. Want a sausage?”
He held out a hard greasy stick, well gnawed. Solomon leaned back to avoid the smell.
“Too much garlic?” Arnald asked. Then it hit him “Oh, damn. I didn’t mean to…I forgot it was pork.”
“Keep your voice down,” Solomon hissed.
He glanced around. No one seemed to have heard.
They turned their attention back to the players. The woman had made the rounds of those closest to her, suggesting that they had committed everything from gluttony to lascivious behavior with their goats. The rest of the audience roared with laughter.
“Ah, you can’t hide behind your wife!” she chided one man. “Even if she is a mighty warrior, who outlasts you in every battle! The sharpest spindle can’t dent my scales! I tell you all.” She swept the dragon head in a circle. “There is no protection from me! One by one, you shall all enter my master’s kingdom!”
One of the fire eaters returned from behind the hell mouth. He was now garbed as a demon, with horns, a sooty face, and a huge false nose that hooked over his mouth. His tunic was hitched up in back to show another face tied to his buttocks, the forked tongue protruding obscenely. At the orders of the “dragon,” he picked up a young woman from the crowd and prepared to toss her into the abyss.
The scream she gave sounded genuine. The man near her tried to intervene, but, as he rushed to save her, the dragon head was thrust in his way.
“What could a puny mortal do to rescue her from the consequence of her own sin?” The woman spoke softly but the words reached to the edge of the square.
The Outcast Dove: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 16
