Catherine watched her, admiring the cut of her bliaut and the rich color of the chainse underneath. Even though this woman was in mourning, presumably for her husband, she had not abandoned her standards in her grief.
Catherine’s hand found Edgar’s, warm and living. Sometimes she just needed to be sure.
After sundown, the only light in the building came from the glowing coals in the hearth. The huge room never became completely quiet, but after a time, the talking and laughter were replaced by snores and the rustling of bodies in the straw.
Catherine slept well.
It was the aubade before dawn when she awoke. There were spaces now between the clumps of people on the floor. Others were already up, attending to prayers or ablutions. She stretched and eased herself to her feet, trying not to disturb either Edgar or her father. She made her way to the hearth, which still sent out some warmth. There was a man sitting next to it, his back against the wall, head drooping, cup beside him.
Catherine didn’t notice the cup until she knocked it over. A trickle of wine ran out, wetting the hem of her skirt.
“Oh, I’m sorry, my lord,” she said, righting the cup again and placing it by his hand.
He didn’t stir.
He was unnaturally still. Catherine had seen many a man sunk too far into a wine flask to awaken, but she knew there was always some sort of movement. Nervously, she touched his hand. It was cold and flaccid.
Oh, dear.
She made her way back to her corner and found Edgar already awake. She sat down next to him and put her arms around him.
“Do you see the man over there by the fire?” she asked. “It’s the knight from Vézelay, the one who ran into me outside the church. The poor old thing seems to have died in his sleep.”
Four
Le Puy, Sunday in Albis, April 26, 1142; Commemoration of Saint Marcellinus, pope, apostate, penitent.
Quum, ergo sacrificia … pro baptizatis defunctis omnibus offerunter, pro valde bonis gratiarum actiones sunt, pro non valde malis propitiationes, pro valde malis etiamsi nulla sunt adjumenta mortuorum qualescunque vivorum consolationes sunt.
Therefore, when sacrifices … are offered for all the baptized dead, they are, for the very good, acts of thanksgiving: for those neither good nor bad they are propitiations: for the very bad they are of no help to the dead, but are of some consolation to the living.
—Hugh of Saint-Victor
De Sacramentis Septem
Liber II, Pars XVI, Cap. VI
Rufus, Hugh and Gaucher looked down upon the body of their fellow knight and longtime companion. Rufus gave Norbert’s leg a push with his boot. Dead. No way around it.
“I told him he was too old to come along,” Hugh said.
“We all did,” Rufus said, “but when did the old bastard ever listen to us?”
“Now one of us will have to go back and tell his children,” Hugh sighed.
Gaucher spoke for the first time. “Why?” he asked.
“Well, they’ll have to know where he’s buried and start Masses for his soul, and his property will have to be divided,” Hugh answered. “The usual reasons.”
“We’ll send a messenger,” Gaucher said. “We can’t turn back now. And we must stay together.”
The other two looked at him in suspicion. Hugh moved closer so that the others in the room couldn’t hear. “Now don’t start all that nonsense about someone following us, Gaucher,” he said. “What happened in Vézelay was just some pot boy’s tricherie. Norbert was at least seventy. He’d had his three score and ten, and God sent the Angel for him. That’s all.”
“Perhaps,” Gaucher said. “But he was fine yesterday.”
Rufus hadn’t taken his eyes from Norbert’s body. He let the others argue over his head until they wore themselves out.
“I agree with Gaucher, we should send a messenger,” he said at last. “Norbert looks to me as though he gave the Angel a hell of a fight for his soul. I don’t like it. It makes me want to have friends about me in case whatever took him should come again.”
They all forced themselves to look at Norbert’s face, now stretching into a rictus. Hugh felt something pulling at his own lips. He looked away. “I see nothing untoward,” he insisted. “You’re getting as bad as Gaucher, Rufus.”
But he had seen it. They all had. Even in the vacancy of death, there was an aura of hatred around Norbert. The way his right hand lay, as if going for his sword, his head thrown back and teeth bared. Hugh had seen him like that before, hugely alive and on his feet, dealing out cruel death to others. It was true. Whatever had come for him, Norbert of Bussières had fought it to the last spark of his soul … .
“Yes,” Hugh said at last. “A messenger might be enough. We shall continue the pilgrimage together.”
Edgar had been more resigned than surprised when Catherine had told him of finding the knight’s body. She had a gift for such discoveries. So he was greatly relieved when he and Hubert had gone over to the hearth and realized that this must be a natural death. They were sorry, of course, and offered to come with the man’s companions to say a prayer at his grave, but hundreds of people died on a pilgrimage, some of the illness they had set out to find a cure for, some of disease contracted on the road or from accidents or brigandage. This poor old man seemed merely to have succumbed to time.
Edgar returned to the corner, where Catherine was stuffing their belongings into the packs. “The journey was simply too much for the man,” he told her. “We’ll say a paternoster for him tonight.”
Catherine nodded. “He seemed rather frail when we saw him at Vézelay,” she said. “He was so determined not to admit to his infirmities. Ah well, he would have confessed and been absolved before he left his home. It must be a very peaceful way to die.”
“May we all be so fortunate,” Hubert added from behind Edgar’s shoulder. “I presume you two are going to the pilgrims’ Mass today. I’ll see that our horses are being looked after, find Eliazar and Solomon, and meet you afterward in front of the cathedral.”
He paused. “I’m coming with you, you know,” he said. He looked at Catherine, but it was Edgar he was speaking to. “If you have no objection.”
“We would be glad of your company,” Edgar answered. “Will Solomon and Eliazar be in our party as well?”
From his tone, Hubert could divine nothing. He should ask Edgar straight out, he told himself, but he was a coward. Who should he be on this journey? What did his son-in-law want him to be? Hubert turned to Edgar and found himself facing a pair of grey eyes that were like a fog over the thoughts of the man inside. He wondered if Catherine knew how well her husband could hide his true feelings.
She interrupted their stare-down.
“I think we could all ride together,” she said. “I remember there were often mixed parties of Jews and Christians among the merchants on the road. But we should find separate places to stay at night. That way, we can avoid questions that might lead to scandal.”
Edgar and Catherine exchanged a glance, and it hit Hubert with the force of a weight hurled from a trebuchet that Edgar’s eyes changed when they looked at his daughter. Even more startling was the change in hers. She and Edgar communicated in a way that made him ashamed to watch.
Catherine smiled and took her father’s arm in both her hands, as she had when she was small. “Will you travel with us as my father,” she asked, “or do you prefer to be with your brother and nephew?” She rested her chin on his shoulder. “Either way, I shall love you.”
Hubert swallowed. “I am Hubert LeVendeur, merchant of Paris, member of the marchands de l’eau, supporter of the Church, and your father. I would like to stay with you.”
. Catherine kissed him in delight. “Then we would be honored to have you join us on our way to Saint James.”
Mondete Ticarde, late prostitute of the town of Macon, uncurled herself from the straw she had slept in. She brushed bits of it off the back of her cloak and reached underneath to remove
a piece that was stuck to her thigh.
“Enjoy the bed, Mondete?” Giselle stood at the top of the ladder to the loft.
“I’ve slept in worse.” Mondete didn’t look up. “Did you enjoy mocking me at the ferry yesterday?”
Griselle finished climbing up. The guards and the maid were attending to her packing and she wanted amusement. “Not really,” she shrugged. “It was that questre, the ferryman, who infuriated me. After all, my pilgrimage is as genuine as yours, perhaps more so.”
She went over to Mondete and took a bit of the cloak between her fingers, testing the material. “It’s good wool, carefully dyed.” Griselle was impressed. “What do you have on underneath it, a silk shift or a hair shirt?”
“Neither,” Mondete answered. “But how did you know me? No one else has. I haven’t shown my face since I started out.”
“I’d know your hands anywhere,” Giselle answered. “Even without all the rings.” She looked down. “You have ugly feet but the most exquisite hands.”
Beneath the cloak, Mondete flinched. Too many men had commented on her hands and what they could do.
Griselle went on. “You’ve come down a great deal since we first met.”
Mondete picked up her small bundle and stamped her bare feet on the floor to shake off the last of the straw.
“But I believe I’ve ascended a great deal since we last met,” she said. “And what of you, my pure Griselle, married to a man fifteen years your senior who couldn’t even give you children? Do you expect me to believe you never betrayed him?”
Griselle recoiled as if slapped. “Saint Melanie’s stillborn son!” she exclaimed. “No, I don’t expect you to believe anything I say. Why should you? But it’s true. I never did. I never wanted to. I loved Bertran more than my life, or my soul. He died in battle, far away from me, alone and unshriven. I’m going to Compostela for the remission of his sins, not for my own.”
Mondete’s head dipped. “Then may both our petitions be graciously received,” she said. “I would rather you didn’t speak to me again, Griselle. You’re part of a life that I would rather forget.”
Griselle’s mouth tightened in anger. “Very well,” she said. “If I had ruined my life as thoroughly as you did yours, I would want to forget it, too. I only came to speak to you as an act of charity in the first place.”
The voice from within the cowl was dry. “And it was only in charity that I answered you.”
“You have to at least give him a Mass, Rigaud,” Gaucher told the monk. “We can’t just bury him here without a proper ceremony.”
“I don’t care what your duties are to Cluny,” Hugh added. “You owe Norbert as well, and it’s an older obligation.”
Brother Rigaud was backed into a corner of the narthex of the cathedral with the other two looming over him. He squirmed but could see no way around.
“I’ll see what I can do about it,” he promised them. “What did Norbert leave to Saint Peter in his will? Did he ask the monks to say Masses for him?”
“We’re not talking about Cluny, Rigaud.” Hugh leaned closer. “We’re talking about one low Mass from one little monk for the soul of his friend. What will it cost you?”
“We’ll all attend,” Gaucher said. “You can impress us with your Latin.”
Rigaud gave in. “I don’t believe that a Mass will do him any good, though,” he warned. “He still had to repent before he died.”
“Perhaps he did, Rigaud,” Hugh said and stepped back. “He was the one who insisted we all go on this pilgrimage.”
Brother Rigaud lifted his face to catch the cool air that found its way into the space Hugh had left.
“If he did,” the monk said with certainty, “it wasn’t because he wanted to save your souls. If anything, it was to have one last chance to ensure your damnation.” He held up his hands at their protest. “It doesn’t matter. If a Mass won’t rescue him, it still may help us. It would be a mockery of my conversion if I didn’t at least try.”
“Fair enough,” Gaucher said. “The monks here will bury him, and we’ve sent word to his children. We’ll expect you to say a prayer with us tonight.”
“You ask too much, Gaucher.” Rigaud suddenly stopped caring what they would do to him. “A Mass, yes. In my own time and place. But I won’t pray with you. I’m not one of you now. I wish to heaven I never had been.”
They let him push his way out between them. When he had left, Hugh leaned against the wall, watching the flow of pilgrims through the doors.
“Do you think it’s the tonsure that does it to them?” he asked Gaucher.
“More likely the bed,” Gaucher answered. “Too narrow.”
“If I remember rightly, Rigaud could find a way to fit two in a very narrow space,” Hugh said.
Gaucher laughed. “But they squealed so, like pigs at slaughter.”
He stopped laughing. He didn’t want to remind himself of pigs. It did seem that they had eluded the trickster who had been following them, but Gaucher still felt as if he were being hunted by something. This whole journey had been Norbert’s plan, even though he himself had willingly become involved. Perhaps it would be better if they forgot the whole thing.
Hugh had been thinking the same. He sighed. “We took an oath, Gaucher,” he said. “Once a thing’s been sworn to, you can’t go back on it.”
Gaucher nodded. “I know. I wouldn’t break a vow if all the devils and wolves of Hell were following us.” He shivered. “It’s just that I have the feeling they are.”
The only trouble with following the party of the abbot of Cluny was that it moved so slowly. The loaded horses couldn’t be forced to hurry. Nor could those who were walking the route barefoot. It would be better to set out ahead of Peter’s caravan, but then there was the danger of getting too far ahead and losing the protection of the guards and the extra people.
Solomon, Hubert and Eliazar spent much of the morning debating the matter. Finally, they decided to stay in the rear with most of the other pilgrims, at least as far as Conques. Solomon was worried that they would be stopped on a mountain road at sundown, far from any village, hostel or even likely campsite.
“It’s this route I hate,” he muttered, looking to be sure Catherine was out of hearing distance. “There’ll still be places blocked by snow or treacherous with ice. And not enough grass to feed the horses yet. The monks will have taken all the best of everything before we arrive anywhere. I say we get our own guards and go on ahead. A night in the mountain wind can kill as thoroughly as wolves or bandits can.”
Hubert sighed. Solomon’s advice should be given more weight than his years would allow. The young man had spent the past ten of them traveling so that Hubert and Eliazar wouldn’t need to. It startled Hubert to remember that his nephew was only twenty-six. The lines on his face were from the elements, not age, and perhaps from what he had seen and had been forced to do in order to return alive from his sojourns in alien lands.
“Perhaps farther along we can join a more swiftly moving group,” he told Solomon. “When the roads meet at Moissac, it should be easier. For now, you’ll simply have to resign yourself to being surrounded by penitents.”
Solomon gave him a look that would melt chain mail. Then his face changed as he noticed something over Hubert’s shoulder. Hubert twisted his head to see what it was.
“Oh, no,” he told Solomon. “Don’t even think it. I know you. You’re only fascinated by the cloak. Don’t be an idiot, boy. Underneath all that she’s probably toothless, aged and riddled with disease.”
Solomon watched Mondete stride across the open field the lay brothers had camped in. She appeared neither old nor infirm. Nor did she seem meek and remorseful. If anything, there was a tremendous self-assurance in her walk. He did feel pulled to her, but Solomon didn’t think it was just the allure of feminine mystery. It was true that he wondered what her face was like, how her body curved under the dark robe. But more than that, he wanted to know how she seemed so certain. What had
she discovered that allowed her to move like that, as if there were a path unrolling wherever she stepped, leading her directly to the Truth?
He wanted to talk with her, ask her, make her tell him how to find the Way she followed. It never occurred to him that it might be simple acceptance of faith in Christ. He had seen too many Christian pilgrims. They were humble before their Savior. No. Whoever this woman was or had been, she was taking a different pilgrimage. Solomon desperately needed to know where it led.
Ignoring his uncle’s warning, he followed her.
Mondete saw the young man from the corner of her eye. When he had offered his arm to her on the ferry, he had seemed innocent enough, but experience had taught her that the ones who appeared the most guileless could be the most cruel. She increased her speed, then slowed, realizing that it was better for him to catch up to her here in the open, under the eyes of the monks. Without looking back, she could feel him closing in on her.
“Lady.”
He sounded out of breath, or frightened. The voice was soft, not what she’d expected. The form of address was one she hadn’t heard used without mockery for many years. Not knowing why, Mondete stopped.
Solomon was surprised when she seemed to turn and wait for him. He had gone after her on impulse, drawn without reason. Now that he had to speak to her, he had no idea of what to say.
The sleeves of the robe fell over her hands. The hood was deep, covering her face. Solomon looked at her toes. They were human, at least. He wasn’t sure about the rest of her. She stood before him motionless, the spring breeze not even ruffling the folds of her cloak, the sunlight all around but not touching the darkness that was Mondete. He felt that they were no longer on the earth. The order of society had no more meaning.
Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) Page 6
