The Outcast Dove: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  Second, Berengar very much admired Jehan. A murder or two in the man’s past wasn’t important. If anything, it made him more intriguing to the young lord. Berengar had been the one to arrange the hiring. At the time it hadn’t seemed odd that a man of good family would take on the task. The knights of the Temple had set the example and the ransom of captives was one of the reasons they were founded. But now James wondered just what the young man’s prospects were. His father had both wealth and power. How many other sons did he have? Was this sort of task all the future Berengar could expect?

  It would be enlightening to know what the two older men thought of him.

  Finally, James needed time to control the disquiet that rose in him at the thought of Solomon as the murderer. It was true that he had once accused Solomon of killing a monk, but that was before he found out that the man was his son. James tried to quell his feelings. He told himself that the relationship shouldn’t matter. Berengar’s suggestion deserved to be considered dispassionately. James could imagine Solomon capable of any crime. The man was a cauldron of resentment. A perfect example of all that was wrong with the Jews. The sight of him was like a constant reproach to Brother James.

  All at once it hit him, like a sponge of cold water squeezed over his sleeping face. He covered his mouth to stop the cry of pain. “Good fruit comes from good seed.” It wasn’t residual affection for his son that made him hope Solomon wasn’t a murderer. It was his own pride. He couldn’t bear the thought of having produced something twisted and rotten. The abbot had often told him that the sin of arrogance would be his downfall. Without humility he could never find true caritas, and without charity, he would never have peace.

  Brother James sighed. Believing in Christ had been so easy. Becoming a Christian seemed to be almost impossible.

  Solomon barely noticed the town of Pamplona growing closer. He was lost in his own world of concerns. The mood of the rest of the group did nothing to dispel his worries. Aaron had still not provided them with a sensible plan for rescuing Mayah and from his brooding silence, Solomon suspected that he didn’t have one. Babylonia hadn’t spoken at all since the night before, nor had she stopped crying. Her tears welled and spilled over from some bottomless spring of silent grief. They seemed to drain her of anger and with it, the strength to live. She was slumped on her horse, held up only by the high front rim of the saddle.

  And he still didn’t know where Yusef was really taking her. The man had managed to tell them her story without revealing his plans at all.

  Of course, Solomon admitted, he had avoided telling the younger men about his father.

  This was not the kind of trust needed among friends on a mission.

  “Solomon!” Arnald’s voice called from behind. “Did you mean it when you said you would come to the baths with me?”

  Solomon rubbed his eyes and tried to pinch back the headache that was forming just behind them. With a sigh, he reined in long enough for Arnald to catch up.

  “You need to find the monks first,” he told the young man. “If they have no objection, I’ll take you tonight. Although it would make more sense if you stayed with the other guards.”

  Arnald scowled at the approaching town. “I don’t feel at ease with them. Berengar looks down on me because my father sells salt. Guy’s accent is so thick I can’t understand most of his jokes and Jehan, well, to be honest, he frightens me.”

  “I see.” Solomon nodded. “Guy does have a strong Norman flavor to his words but he’s clear enough to me. Berengar is angry because he thinks your family is wealthier than his and resents it. But why does Jehan scare you? Has he done anything threatening?”

  “No, not exactly,” Arnald admitted. “It’s more the way he looks, the way he moves. I keep feeling that at any moment, he might spring at me.”

  “Then you have his measure,” Solomon said. “He says he’s changed and I have noticed a difference in his manner from the old days, but I’d no more turn my back on him than an enraged bear. Still, these men are supposed to be your comrades in arms.”

  “Only because my father is such a pig!” Arnald complained. “He forced me to do this. I only agreed so that I could get out of Toulouse with Aaron. I never meant to stay with them.”

  “I know that and we need to think of a good reason for you to go on with us to Fitero. There must be a Christian in the party. But first find out from the monks what they expect of you,” Solomon told him. “Your father may be back in Toulouse, but Jehan is here and what he’ll see is a man who took on a job and now wants to desert.”

  Solomon let him chew on that until they reached the town. It was time Arnald learned to consider consequences. His life so far seemed to be one rash act after another. It amazed Solomon that he was still among the living.

  The Basques called Pamplona simply Iruñea, ‘the city’. It was the first town of any size they had stayed in since leaving Toulouse. Solomon had been there many times before and always enjoyed it. There was a small Jewish community to stay with, if he wanted to. There were also a number of inns run for the benefit of French-speaking pilgrims. Once the kings of Navarre had retaken the town from the Saracens, they had encouraged settlers from the North. So even travelers from Paris had no problem finding someone who would fleece them in their own language.

  For this stop Solomon agreed to stay with Aaron, Yusef and Babylonia in the house of a Jewish widow who welcomed the chance to give traders a properly prepared meal and a place to pray without being mocked. She was a good woman, still attractive in her fifties with a smile that offered a warm welcome to the right man, but Solomon had no interest. He was haunted by Caudiza and the child he had helped to create.

  Except when his travels brought him to her door, Solomon had never really thought about Caudiza. She was refreshingly different from the women he usually passed time with. She wasn’t interested in another husband and not eager to make public her relations with a Jew. When he appeared at the inn, her bed was usually open to him. She had made it clear from the start that she wanted nothing from him beyond the use of his body. He never thought that he might have given her something more. Anna had been a thunderclap that shattered his complacence.

  His reaction to the child unsettled him acutely. He couldn’t help but be drawn to her. Anna had a joyful radiance that shone on all. Caudiza had said that Anna was pure love. It was easy to believe that she was a special gift, something to be treasured, certainly. But it was also obvious that however long she lived, she would never reach the age of reason. If that meant she didn’t know how to sin, did it also mean she would never know how to pray? What was she in the eyes of her Creator? And, Solomon cringed inwardly, there were also the eyes of men. There was no way he could convince himself that she was a pretty child. Her flat face and large protruding tongue could never be molded into conventional beauty.

  Caudiza was adamant that he not acknowledge Anna as his daughter. Solomon was ashamed at his relief. What if Anna was God’s message to him, a warning to stay away from gentile women? Would all his children be born defective? He wished he could see Anna as Caudiza did, a household saint who would smooth the path to heaven for those who loved her. Instead he only felt that he had done something terrible and the penalty for his sins had fallen on a fragile and innocent child.

  The guilt ate into him, biting more deeply each day.

  He found himself hoping that they would have to fight to free Mayah. Life was so much simpler when someone was trying to kill him.

  “I’m completely well,” Brother Martin assured Brother James. “I haven’t sneezed in hours. The herbal bag worked again. My mother sent it to me. She had it blessed at the shrine of my name saint at Tours.”

  “I’ve heard that Saint Martin takes care of those who honor him,” James said. “I shall say a prayer of thanksgiving for your recovery. It would have been a great sorrow to me to have to leave you behind.”

  “To me, as well,” Martin said. “I have so wanted to be part of a true mission
. I know how important our prayers are to the faithful, but lately it has seemed to me that I could serve Our Lord better in some other way.”

  “You cheerfully take on any task you are set and perform it as best you can,” James told him. “That is the essence of true service.”

  The platitude seemed to comfort Martin.

  “So we set out again in the morning?” he asked.

  James nodded. “I have our guards out getting more provisions. The only one still missing is Arnald. The boy spends too much time with his friend, Aaron. I’m concerned that he isn’t committed to our goal of ransoming the imprisoned knights.”

  “He’s a boy on his first real journey,” Martin said. “It’s natural that he wants to stay close to the ones he knows best. The other guards haven’t welcomed him as much as they might have, either.”

  “Really?” James was surprised at the accuracy of his fellow monk’s observation. He hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps he should talk with Arnald next. The boy might be a good source for the misdeeds of the others if he didn’t feel any loyalty to them.

  James adjusted his cowl to cover his head. “I need to make certain that the other three were able to get everything we need. If Arnald reports to the monastery, will you tell him to wait here for my return?”

  “Of course.” Martin grinned. “I’ll stay here until you come back.”

  He liked having an assignment that required no knowledge of Latin or music.

  Guy cursed and scratched at a flea that was eating its way across his leg.

  “Le malfé! I don’t think that laundress did more than dump my hose in a bucket with a hundred others and pour them out again,” he grumbled. “There are more fleas in them now than before I gave them to her.”

  Jehan agreed. “You’ve got to watch out for that. I’ve a powder that you can put on your hose before you wear them. It kills the fleas but you need to rinse it out again right away or the stuff eats through the wool.”

  Berengar looked from one to the other of them in disgust.

  “I thought you two were fighting men!” he said. “You sound like old women comparing cures for flatulence.”

  Guy and Jehan stared at Berengar and then both began laughing. Berengar smiled uncertainly.

  “Were you doing that to tease me?” he asked.

  “Not a bit,” Jehan said. “You still think that a soldier’s greatest enemy is the army ranged against him. What brings most men down is fleas, biting flies, ague-laden air, bad food, and worse water. You try to fend off an enemy while you’re doubled over with cramps and diarrhea and you’ll understand.”

  “Or try to ride when your hands are shaking with fever and you’re coughing so hard that you can’t keep your seat,” Guy added. “Sometimes the only reason you survive is because the other poor bastard feels even worse.”

  “Then there’s blazing sun,” Jehan continued.

  “Or cold rain and mud,” Guy added.

  Berengar was becoming angry. “You’re only talking like that to make sport of me again. What about tournaments and great battles and winning the hearts of beautiful heiresses?”

  “I haven’t done a tournament in years,” Jehan said. “It’s good enough if you need to be noticed by some lord who’ll take you on. There are knights who do them just for sport. But it’s too easy to lose all you own, including your life.”

  “There are priests who won’t give last rites to men who die tourneying,” Guy added.

  “But you’ve both been in battle,” Berengar persisted. “Jehan, you were at the siege of Lisbon. Weren’t you given part of the treasure of the city? And the women, soldiers can take anyone they want, right?”

  Jehan snorted. “Oh yes, they let the men loose for a night or two, to loot what they like and rape anything they can catch. But then the lords put a stop to it so that they can divide the spoils among themselves. In Almeria, they say nothing changed except the names of the men who get the taxes. Yes, I got a few things from Lisbon. A couple of rings, a good cloak, a handful of coins. It was enough for me to stay drunk for a month or two. No more.”

  “But if it’s so awful, why did you choose this life?” Berengar asked.

  “Choose?” Guy said.

  “Choose?” Jehan echoed. “Who gets to choose? The land my father controlled was barely enough for my oldest brother to survive on. I suppose I could have gone into the church but I’ve no head for Latin and no interest in being a parish priest. What else could I do?”

  “My father chose,” Guy said. “He picked Robert of Normandy over Henry of England. Henry defeated Robert, gave our land to one of his men and had my father hanged as a traitor. Left me with a cracked piss pot and two sisters to find husbands for.”

  “Did you?” Berengar asked.

  “One died,” Guy said shortly. “The other had a bastard by the count of Anjou. He married her to one of his castellans. So, unless your father has a mistress he wants disposed of, this is my only trade.”

  Berengar was silent. The three men were busy loading the mule packs with the dried fruit and meat, cheese, and bread they had bought.

  “The knights who come to my father’s hall never told me such things,” he said at last. “Perhaps you have simply been unfortunate.”

  “‘Unfortunate’! Saint Sulpicia’s unsucked tits! Dame Fortune had plenty of help in bringing me down. I’ve been cheated, tricked, slandered, and cursed!” Jehan exploded. “What makes you think it would be any better for you? At least I can defend myself.”

  “You think I can’t?” Berengar reached for the knife at his belt.

  “Avoi!” Guy nudged him.

  Berengar quickly slid the knife back into its sheath. “Good afternoon, Brother James,” he said. “As you can see, we managed to get the supplies without Arnald’s help. Has he arrived yet?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be ready to leave with us in the morning,” James answered.

  He came over and examined the parcels.

  “You did well,” he said. “Although I think the figs weren’t properly dried. There’s mold on them. Where did you buy them? I may have a word with the vendor.”

  “They were on a table at the market,” Guy said. “The price was good. What’s a little mold, anyway? The cheese is full of it.”

  James gave Guy a sharp look. He wondered how much of the money Guy had been given to buy food had been gambled away instead. It was too much to hope that the man had won.

  “You’ll find out,” was all he said. “I’m also pleased to note that you are keeping your military skills honed. The road from here south is dangerous. Some of it is newly regained from the Saracens. Other parts are inhabited only by brigands and cutthroats.”

  “We won’t be following the pilgrim road any longer?” Guy asked.

  “No, we’ll take the old trade route,” James said. “In years past, when the Almoravids ruled in Andalusia, it was patrolled by both Christian and Moslem guards. But now outlaws roam freely, preying on anyone too weak to resist them.”

  “Are we joining a merchant party then?” Berengar clearly expected a positive answer.

  “There isn’t one going that way,” James answered.

  He finished checking the provisions and stood, dusting his hands on the back of his robe. “We shall have to rely on Christ’s mercy and your strong arms,” he told them. “Until the morning, then.”

  He gave them a blessing and departed.

  Without another word, Jehan and Guy went to work, checking for chinks in their mail shirts, testing the sharpness of their swords and making sure that their helmets were well padded. Berengar watched them for a moment.

  “He isn’t serious, is he?”

  Jehan didn’t look up.

  “I need something thicker to keep the links of this coif from cutting into my head,” he said. “Any ideas?”

  “You could use the figs,” Guy suggested. “Put them in the folds of the cloth.”

  “Not bad,” Jehan said. “It will help the helmet stick to my
head as well.”

  Berengar suddenly wished he hadn’t laughed at his mother when she had begged him to stay home and marry Pelfort of Foix’s daughter, who was nice enough but had a squint. He had planned to win himself a Castilian princess. Now that squint seemed positively alluring.

  He set about sharpening his knife and sword.

  “We may have to manage without Arnald,” Solomon told Aaron. “If he backs out of his agreement with the monks, he’ll be sent back to Toulouse in grain sacks.”

  “Where is he now?” Aaron asked.

  “Gone to buy himself a decent hauberk,” Solomon said. “Brother James told him he’s to stay with the other knights and leave with them at dawn. Why did you ever bring him into this? He’s going to get himself killed.”

  “I didn’t make him come with us,” Aaron answered. “I shared my problems with him; we’ve been friends for years. He offered to do anything he could. He was the one who went to Brother Victor for help.”

  “Avoi,” Solomon said. “If you really need a Christian to buy Mayah back, I can play the part. I’ve done it before.”

  “I don’t know.” Aaron shook his head. “It would be a risk. What if someone recognizes you?”

  “Who? I know no one in Fitero.” Solomon wasn’t interested in further discussion. “Now, I’m going to the kitchen to make sure that Babylonia hasn’t had another fit and broken in to ruin our dinner. Then I told Arnald I would meet him at the tavern across from the cathedral to tell him what we’ve decided.”

  “Don’t drink raw wine and start a fight, please,” Aaron said.

  Solomon was about to give a quip in answer but then realized that Aaron was serious.

  “I promise,” he said. “I shall have all my wits intact for the task before us.”

  Arnald was sitting uncomfortably on a bench outside the tavern when Solomon arrived. The cause of his discomfort was the parcel he was sitting on.