Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur)

by Newman, Sharan

  “Lady,” he repeated, “what is your pilgrimage?”

  There was a long stillness. Finally, she spoke. “I seek forgiveness, of course.” Her voice was tired and full of contempt.

  “What do you want God to forgive you for?”

  He was startled when she laughed. “Don’t you think it’s evident?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She was silent again. This dark young man wasn’t what she had expected. But that only made her warier. Whatever his devices, he would not trick her into trust. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, gathering the material in layers against her skin, guarding against him.

  “If you don’t know what everyone else does, then you’re either a fool or even more evil than I,” she said. “Now, leave me alone.”

  She turned and continued on her way.

  Solomon watched her. Leave her alone? No. He couldn’t do that. He’d heard her voice. That was enough. She knew. He was positive. She had looked outside the world. All the numbers and approximations of truth that the scholars gleaned from the ancient books were irrelevant for her. She had gone past them. If he had to follow her through the ring of fire around the equator and down onto the underside of the globe, he would, until he convinced her to give up her secrets.

  “Desfaé mesel!” he cursed himself. He wished again that he had never crossed the Pyrenees or met those men entrapped in the paths of the stars. His life had been so much more pleasant when he had simply thought everyone but himself an idiot and searched the world for nothing more than a good meal, untainted wine, and a warm, soft body next to him in bed.

  Catherine had noticed that Solomon was quieter than usual; he hadn’t teased her about anything since he arrived. That was most unlike him. But she was too worried about Edgar to concern herself with her cousin. She turned the matter over and over in her mind, her annoying voices making the situation worse with their comments.

  He must have known there would be mountains, she thought. Why didn’t he tell me he couldn’t do it?

  How do you know he can’t? the voices chided.

  I’ve no right to ask him to, Catherine told them. I’m the one who had the dream, who insisted on taking this route.

  No, you’re not. Lord, those voices were smug! Edgar decided. He knew what it would entail. He’s giving this offering freely, not just for the children you might bear, but for your own safety as well. Did you ever think he might be afraid of losing you? He wants to do this. Stop whining.

  Catherine halted the rabbit chase in her head. Losing her? She hadn’t thought of how he would feel if she died. After all, she wouldn’t be there to see his grief. Odd. She had always known that if his life ended, so would hers. But what if she were the one to go first? There was a whole other side to this problem to consider.

  She went to find him.

  He had finished loading the packhorse and was busy whittling a green stick while waiting for the rest of the party to resume the journey. She came up and kissed his cheek.

  “Edgar,” she said, “what would you do if I died?”

  He didn’t take his eyes from the stick. “Go home and marry a blonde,” he said without a beat.

  He looked up and grinned at her. For a second, his smile faltered. That tremble told her all she needed to know.

  Catherine grinned back. “I feel the same way about you,” she said. “Now, when are we going to leave?”

  Edgar sighed. “The abbot’s party left some time ago. Your father and uncle told me we would set out with the next group. To be safe, they want at least fifteen people, but not many more.”

  “I wish that the jongleur and jongleuse would come with us,” Catherine said. “It would be nice to have music on the road.”

  “I thought you liked my singing,” he objected.

  “But I’ve heard all your songs,” she answered. “Not that they aren’t wonderful, of course. Especially the Saxon ones I can’t understand a word of.”

  “I love you, too,” he said.

  Catherine decided not to mention mountain roads again.

  She got her wish for music, though. When the group assembled for the trip to Conques, the jongleur and his wife were part of it. So were the remaining three knights and Griselle of Lugny, along with her guards and maid. There were also four men from Germany who had started out in Spier seven weeks earlier. They came from a village that had been saved from a fire by the intercession of Saint James; the villagers had elected these four to undertake a pilgrimage of gratitude.

  Behind them, close enough for safety but too far for conversation, Mondete Ticarde walked alone.

  When she noticed Solomon among the party, Mondete had hesitated, then shrugged. She didn’t know if he were seeking spiritual or only carnal knowledge from her. It didn’t matter. She had no intention of giving him either. As the days passed without any further confrontations, however, she began to study him. She learned early that he and his uncle were Jews, under the protection of Abbot Suger of Saint-Denis and traveling with a Christian merchant and his family. That didn’t concern her, although there had been strenuous debate among the other pilgrims on the matter the first day out. If the abbot of Saint-Denis associated with these people, she could, too.

  What she couldn’t understand was how she could feel him looking at her when she knew he was staring at the road ahead. It infuriated her. He was a boy, really, ten years younger than she, at least. His eyes in his dark face were surprisingly green, and they did not look on her with lust.

  Why not?

  Mondete forced her thoughts back to her prayers.

  Gaucher and Rufus were highly amused to discover that it was Mondete hiding under the hood; it gave the trip some spice. They both remembered her well from Macon. Of course it was wicked to try to tempt someone away from a life of repentance, but they each had privately resolved to try. Rufus was considering wagering with his friend as to who would be first to break her resolve.

  “I wonder if she can still ring the bells in her earrings with her toes,” Rufus mused as the three knights rode together.

  “Of course she can’t. She doesn’t wear jewelry anymore,” Hugh reminded him.

  The other two shook their heads. No wonder Hugh’s wife had entertained so many troubadours. Gaucher had often thought that she had died of the tedium of having to sleep with Hugh.

  “Hersent, I need my gloves.”

  The men all turned their attention to Griselle of Lugny. She looked straight ahead as she waited for her maid to rummage in the pack. So far, she had spoken little to anyone besides her servants. Gaucher took the opportunity to pull up beside her, cutting in front of Hubert and forcing him to stop as well.

  “May I be of service, my lady?” said the knight.

  “At the moment, I am capable of putting on my own gloves,” she told him. “Should that change, I will remember your kind offer.”

  He tried again. “I hope the gloves are warm enough. The weather is changeable this time of year. It’s been unusually warm, but tomorrow we could have sleet.”

  Griselle gave him a look reserved for puppies that have not yet learned to contain themselves when held in one’s lap. “I have sufficient clothing for the variations in climate,” she said. “So unless you are offering to regulate the weather for me, I doubt you can be of use.”

  “I only wish to serve,” Gaucher responded huffily.

  “I shall keep it in mind should one of my servants be incapacitated,” Griselle said.

  She took the gloves from the maid and kicked her horse into movement, leaving Gaucher behind. He returned to his friends.

  “I hate widows,” he said. “Give them control of a bit of property and they lose all respect.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Rufus said. “I can remember one or two who showed me a great deal … of respect.”

  It had been impossible for Hubert not to overhear the exchange between Gaucher and Griselle. He had been put to some discomfort to avoid laughing out loud. It was good to he
ar a woman who could so easily deflate the swollen arrogance of a man like Gaucher. His Catherine had the intelligence to parry words, but not the inclination to humble her opponent. Hubert wondered what a woman like that would say if he approached her. She could probably destroy him in three sentences.

  Nevertheless, he was very tempted to find out.

  Catherine walked between Edgar and Solomon, each man leading a packhorse. The day, the sixth since they left Le Puy, had been gentle and the road along the river valley, smooth. She felt so content that it seemed wrong. A pilgrimage shouldn’t be pleasant.

  “We should be in Conques by tomorrow night,” Edgar said. “They say the town is built into the side of the hills, like the monastery we stayed at last night.”

  Catherine gave him a quick appraisal. All the villages here were tucked along the valley, but the monks had chosen to carve their retreats out of the cliffs and perch them far above the rivers. So far, Edgar had shown no discomfort at climbing up to them, but she kept a close watch on him all the same.

  “I’ve always wanted to see the reliquary of Saint Foy,” she said. “It’s supposed to be covered in jewels.”

  “I’ve never understood the penchant you people have for decorating the bodies of your relics,” Solomon said.

  Catherine fought back her annoyance. Her cousin would never be converted by anger. “It’s to honor them,” she explained. “Nothing more. Don’t you do that to the boxes that hold your holy books?”

  He didn’t answer. By that alone, Catherine knew she had scored a point. Although … she couldn’t be sure. Solomon had not regained his former careless attitude. If anything, his mood seemed to deepen every day. He hadn’t goaded her into a real fight since the journey began. It was such unnatural behavior from her cousin, whose greatest delight from childhood on had been teasing her into incoherence, that she began to wonder if he were ill.

  They camped that night near the priory of Saint Marcel, where the party from Cluny was staying. It was at the end of the Gorges du Tarn, the cliffs jutting up sharply from the Lot River. Tomorrow they would have to turn southeast and cross the Ouche and the Dourdou, following another valley to Conques.

  There wasn’t much space for them to set up camp. The land sloped upward almost as soon as it left the river. Catherine was pleased that she didn’t have to go very far to fetch water. Edgar, Solomon and two of the Germans managed to catch enough fish to feed the party. Eliazar’s eyes lit when he realized that Solomon had caught trout and not allowed any of the Christians to touch it. It would be good to have proper food again.

  Maruxa and Roberto paid for their dinner with stories. Mindful of the reason for the journey, they recited lives of the saints. Then Maruxa sang the song Mondete had requested: Jherusalem grant damage me fais. It had always puzzled Catherine. It was supposed to be a lamentation for the Holy City, but it seemed to be more of a song of lost love. She was well aware that earthly love is only a shallow reflection of divine love and that the terminology of the two were interwoven, but this song seemed firmly rooted in the corporeal. Perhaps she just wasn’t spiritual enough. The voices of the singers were passionate:

  Quant me remembre del douz viare cler

  Que je soloie baisier acoler,

  Grant merveilie est que je ne sui dervee

  Catherine moved closer to Edgar and leaned her head on his shoulder. “‘When I remember your sweet face that I have so often kissed and caressed, it is a wonder that I have not gone mad,’” she repeated. No, it was not religious fervor that she felt. In the darkness, Edgar took her hand and set it on his lap. Catherine smiled. It was evident that he shared her interpretation of the song. She thought of how nice it was that they had found a spot a little away from the others to sleep tonight.

  They had climbed to a sheltered ledge surrounded by trees and laid out their blankets. Edgar tied branches together and leaned them against the rock face to protect them should the weather change.

  “I don’t think it will, though,” he said. “Everyone told us it would be freezing and drizzly here, but it’s been warmer than Paris.”

  “Almost anything would be.” Catherine had endured her share of springs in Paris and the rheum and chilblains that went with them.

  “No one can see us from here. Do you think it’s mild enough to sleep without your shift on?” Edgar asked.

  Catherine started untying the drawstring at her neck. “As long as you can think of some other way to keep me warm,” she told him. “From your reaction to the music, I’m confident you can come up with something.”

  It was late into the night, between moonset and sunrise, that Catherine awoke to the sound of a great roaring. For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. The sound was like a thousand waterwheels turning at once. Then from below, there were shouts of alarm. The roaring grew louder. It was coming from farther up the valley, the route they had traveled the day before.

  “Edgar, what is it?” she cried as he stood to look.

  “Saint Columba’s creaking curragh!” Edgar said. “The river! It’s pouring out of the gorge. Catherine, stay here.” He started down the hillside, pulling his shift over his head as he went.

  From below, the sounds of confusion and panic were increasing. People had been awakened by icy water splashing over their faces. Those nearest the river had no chance even to stand as the sudden rush encircled them, pushing them downstream with the flow.

  Catherine struggled into her clothes. “Edgar!” she called. “Wait! Edgar! Where is my father?”

  As she ran down after him, stones and branches cutting her feet, Catherine tried to think of a saint she could beg for help—but all she could feel was anger at heaven for its cruel way of reminding them who was in charge.

  Five

  At the southern end of the Gorges du Tarn. The cusp of dawn, Saturday, May 2, 1142; The Feast of Saint Athanasius, stubborn bishop and exile.

  … et simul imbres cadant, flumina increscant, maria sedibus suis excita procurrant et omnia uno agmine ad exitum humani generis incumbant.

  … and at the same time the rains will fall, the rivers flood, the seas will rush forth wildly from their beds and all as one concerted force will concentrate itself upon the destruction of the human race.

  —Seneca, Naturales Quaestiones

  Book III, 27. 1

  Edgar, sliding down the hill, had met Hubert hurrying up. “Don’t let her follow!” Edgar had yelled. “Where’s Solomon?”

  “We were all camped on high ground,” Hubert panted, “but at the first roar, he leaped up and went off in search of that jael. I came to find you. Eliazar is taking care of the horses and moving the luggage up to the priory.”

  “I don’t understand this,” Edgar shouted above the roar. “It hasn’t been raining. Why should the river suddenly flood?”

  “Ask the Almighty,” Hubert shouted back.

  “After I find Solomon.” Edgar continued his slide.

  Hubert found Catherine half-dressed, trying to negotiate the slope without falling. He took her firmly by the elbow and led her back up.

  “Father, there are people down there who need help,” she remonstrated.

  “There’s little we can do now,” Hubert told her. “Those who were carried away in the first rush are beyond our help, and everyone else is wandering about in soggy confusion. We would only add to it.”

  “Then what is Edgar doing?” Catherine asked, still prepared to descend into the maelstrom.

  Hubert hesitated. “Your cousin ran off after that engieneuse in the black shroud. Edgar has gone to find him and bring him back.”

  “Did you see where she was camped?” Catherine asked.

  Hubert shook his head, not in denial, but in worry. “Among the rocks at the water’s edge,” he said. “The dampest, most uncomfortable place possible.”

  “But then she would have been—” Catherine stopped.

  “He won’t find her,” Hubert said. “It’s too late. I tried to tell him. The first r
ush came like a just-opened millrace, sweeping everything before it; then the force of the water subsided. But it’s still high, and slowly rising again. I’m afraid the road up to the priory will be covered by the time there’s enough light to see it. However, it’s no longer gushing. Don’t worry, ma douce. Edgar is in no danger, and I hope Solomon has more sense than to jump into floodwaters.”

  “Then we can only wait.” Catherine sat down.

  If the emperor of Byzantium had appeared at his side selling the gilded fingertips of Saint John Chrysostom, Hubert could not have been more surprised. Catherine suggesting patience?

  “Are you ill, daughter?” he asked.

  She looked up at him with a sad smile. “No, Father, and not pregnant again, either. Just intimidated, I think. We tempted fate. We were enjoying something that is supposed to be an act of expiation.” She sighed. “But it does seem a cruel trick. Don’t you think God could give us more gentle lessons?”

  Hubert had no answer for that, so he sat next to her, and wrapping a blanket around her, held her as he had when she was little and he could explain everything.

  Abbot Peter had not been awakened by the tumult down below. He had finished saying the Night Office and Lauds with the community of Saint-Marcel and was spending the brief time before Prime going over a copy of the instructions he had left for the management of Cluny in his absence. The cell he had been given was solid against the cliff wall, and no sound from the world intruded.

  So he was surprised at the rapid knock at the door and the disheveled appearance of Brother James.

  “Are our people all accounted for?” Peter asked when the monk had explained the situation.