For a moment, Hugh couldn’t remember where or when he was. His mind had leaped in panic to another time, when Gaucher had suggested much the same thing with terrible results.
“No,” Hugh answered. “I don’t mind the wine they give us with our bread.”
“You would if you knew what they made it from,” Rufus laughed. He stopped. “Hugh, what is wrong with you? You’ve been even more gloomy than usual today.”
Hugh caught up with his friends, who had left Griselle to her devotions. He waited until they were on the path to the cave where the monks stored the wine and safely above anyplace where someone might overhear.
“I found something in my pack last night,” he whispered to them.
“I hope it wasn’t as messy as what was left in mine at Vézelay,” Gaucher said.
“No, but more frightening to me,” Hugh answered.
He reached into his pilgrim’s scrip and drew out a ring. It was made of gold and had once had been set with a large stone. Now there was only a gaping hole in the metal, like a missing tooth. They all three stopped to look.
“Why would anyone give you a ring without a stone in it?” Rufus asked.
“Don’t you remember?” Hugh answered. “Either of you?”
He held out his left hand. On the first finger was another ring of gold. This one had a large rough-cut emerald in it.
“Oh, yes,” Rufus said. “That’s right. You got the ring as booty, but you took only the stone. I’ve forgotten why. But this can’t be the ring it came from originally.”
“I would swear it is,” Hugh said. “Gaucher was right. Some one of our old enemies is stalking us. He’s taunting us with signs from our past.”
“That’s nonsense,” Rufus said. “What has an empty ring to do with pig parts? And who here would know anything about us? Do you even remember where you got that emerald?”
“In Spain,” Hugh said softly, seeing it all again. “At the siege of Saragossa. Fighting the Saracens.”
“There,” Rufus said in triumph. “And you think some Saracen lord has decided to go on pilgrimage with us?”
Gaucher had been listening with amusement to Hugh’s tale, but now his forehead creased in worry. “Why not?” he asked. “The men in the party of Bishop Stephen … have we really looked at them? Many of them are Mozarabic Christians. I can’t tell them from Saracens, can you?”
“Who would know we would be traveling with the Cluniacs?” Rufus protested. “And anyway, I didn’t see any of them at Vézelay. I tell you, someone dropped the ring into Hugh’s pack by accident. Someone else thought to play a stupid joke on Gaucher. The events have nothing to do with each other. Ever since Norbert died, the two of you have jumped at every shadow.”
Hugh did not appear convinced, but Gaucher straightened his shoulders and shook his white-and-golden hair like a lion rising to hunt. “We are going back to the places of the deeds of our youth,” he said. “Our minds are much in the past. It’s not surprising that the past should awake to greet us. Whichever, I do not intend to turn coward at this time of my life. I am continuing to the end of the journey, whatever it may be.”
Rufus looked at him sourly. “That’s the sort of speech I’d expect from Hugh here. Why don’t you just say, ‘Damn all the bastards. We don’t surrender’—like you did at Saragossa?”
Gaucher threw his head back and laughed. “You’re right, vieu compang. Damn them all! On to Saint James!”
Catherine had found a place to wash their shifts and stockings as well as certain other articles necessary to women. She hung them in the sun from a branch of the tree by the church and went to sit next to Edgar, who had been cross-legged before the figures on the tympanum all morning.
“One of the townswomen told me that they might have a display of the relics tonight in honor of the abbot of Cluny,” she remarked. “I’d like to see Saint Foy outside of the grillwork in the church. They say her reliquary is exquisite. And, of course, I want to venerate her from as close as possible.”
Edgar nodded, not really hearing. “If only I had a scrap of parchment and a pen,” he lamented. “I don’t know if I can remember it all clearly.”
“You will; you always do,” Catherine said as she studied the work. “I think I know who all the damned are. But I can’t recognize all the saved. They look too much alike. There’s Charlemagne, I suppose, and those others must be his family. And some hermit with Saint Peter, and the usual assortment of local martyrs. I wonder who that is in the corner.”
“Arosnide,” said a voice from over her shoulder. “The monk who went to Agen to steal Saint Foy and bring her to Conques.”
Catherine turned and saw Roberto and Maruxa, their vielles as usual in leather cases strapped to their backs.
“The sculptor should have given him a more prominent place,” the jongleur added, “considering the prosperity he brought to the town.”
“But only through the kindness of Saint Foy,” Catherine said. “And she isn’t here at all, is she?”
“Yes, she’s kneeling there, see? Have you found the angel who speaks Arabic?” Maruxa asked.
That got even Edgar’s attention. “Where?” he asked.
They pointed to one of the angels on whose wing there were lines that Catherine had assumed were decoration.
“It is said that a number of workmen came from Spain to help with the building of the church,” Roberto told them. “Some were Moslem, although they didn’t mention it. One of them left that.”
“How do you know?” Edgar asked.
“What is he saying?” Catherine asked at the same time.
“I can’t read it,” Roberto admitted, “but I’ve seen the same design in my travels and been told that it means something like ‘May Allah bless and keep you.’”
“Is Allah one of their gods?” Catherine asked.
“That’s their name for the one God,” Roberto said.
“I thought they worshiped many gods: Mohamet, Apollo, others I don’t remember,” Catherine said.
“No, just the one,” Roberto told her. “Our beliefs confuse them as well. They think we have many gods because of the shrines to the saints. And they can’t understand the idea of the Trinity.”
“Where did you learn all this?” Catherine asked.
Maruxa put her hand on her husband’s arm in warning. “We travel many places, wherever we are paid,” she explained. “Years ago we visited some of the courts of the caliphate. Other entertainers told us stories. We live by stories. It’s important to have new ones from time to time.”
“It’s also important to know something of the beliefs of the people you travel among,” Roberto added. “Tread on a local custom and you can find yourself dead.”
They all returned to the contemplation of the figures over the doors.
“That knight falling off the horse there,” Maruxa said. “Is he supposed to be Anger?”
“Pride, I think,” Catherine told her.
“I’ve never seen anyone fall in that position,” Roberto said. “With his head down and his legs straight out. And the way the demon with the spear is aiming, it looks as though he’s about to be spitted right up his—”
Maruxa kicked him. Roberto looked at Catherine in apology. Catherine sighed. “What is it about me?” she asked. “I know where the spear is pointed. You don’t need to be delicate.”
“We heard you were from the convent,” Maruxa explained. “A few days on the road and no one has secrets anymore.”
“Except Mondete Ticarde,” Catherine said.
There was another silence.
“There’s no secret to her life,” Maruxa said at last. “She was concubine to a lord who eventually tired of her. He passed her on and on and on, until she ended on the streets of Macon. But that’s only the outside. What she is now and why she’s with us, that is a mystery.”
“Not one, I think, that will soon be unraveled,” Roberto said.
Catherine sighed. She only wished Solomon would agre
e.
The next morning was startling in its brightness. Catherine awoke with her mind still glowing from the candles around the golden reliquary of Saint Foy the night before. When she came out of the hostel, the sunlight hit her with a harshness that made her want to duck back inside.
Edgar had much the same feeling. “Your uncle said we should get wide-brimmed felt hats in Moissac for the journey into Spain,” he said, “but perhaps we should buy them now.”
Catherine agreed. “I’m not used to the world this bright,” she complained. “It hurts my eyes.”
The hats made her laugh. They both looked silly in them, like peasants in the vineyards. But the shade hers gave was enough to stop her from squinting. And she needed to see the way clearly as they descended to the valley, crossed the still-high Dourdou and then climbed up the other side.
At the old chapel of Saint Roche, the party stopped for water. Looking back across the valley, Catherine could see the town of Conques. It seemed so remote, as if it had sprouted buildings and trees out of the rock the night before.
“Edgar,” she said, her gaze roaming the hills and woods around them, “I wonder if the sunlight is affecting my mind. I keep feeling that we’ve wandered into one of your stories and that dragons and giants will suddenly swoop out of the forest, or that half-human trees will begin to sing and lure us from the path.”
Edgar was doing his best to avoid looking at the view that so enchanted his wife. He wished Catherine would stay farther from the edge of the road. There was no need to imagine dragons. In one form or another, they were all around him.
Solomon, passing by, pulled the reins of her horse, bringing Catherine back to the center of the path. “There are no dragons in France anymore,” he said with certainty. “Your saints drove them all away. But there are still wolves and wild boar and wilder men. So stop dawdling, Catherine.”
Instead of being annoyed, Catherine rejoiced at Solomon’s querulous tone. That was more like her cousin’s usual mood. Perhaps the sunlight had awakened him from his fascination with discovering the secret of the universe.
The mild weather, and the fact that they were well above the river now, seemed to raise everyone’s spirits. Maruxa and Roberto played a dance tune from their region that made even the horses move more briskly. The three elderly knights were telling stories of their exploits, each tale grander than the last, to any who came near enough to listen. Occasionally one of them would glance at the Lady Griselle, to be sure she hadn’t moved out of hearing distance. The two remaining Germans were enthralled and begged for more.
Behind them, Hubert and Eliazar rode intent on their own conversation. If they approached the knights too closely, Hubert would give a sour look and slow down until they had dropped back.
Ahead of them all was the splendor of the entourage of the abbot of Cluny. At the very end as usual, Mondete walked alone.
Solomon seemed to have learned his lesson. Every now and then he checked to be sure the woman hadn’t fallen too far behind. But he offered no help. Neither did anyone else.
By that afternoon the party had reached another meander of the Lot River. By common consent, they went a few more miles until the plain broadened and they found an area well away from the water to camp. As Catherine shook out their blankets, getting rid of the last of the dried mud, she thought how strange it was that such a short time ago they had all nearly been swept away by raging waters. Yet now they were in another place behaving as if it had been years ago.
It was something about the pilgrimage itself, she realized. She and Edgar were going in the hope of life, but so many others—the knights, Mondete, the German townsmen, even Griselle—were prepared for death. If they escaped it today, there was always the chance it would meet them tomorrow. Therefore, Catherine reasoned, disaster must not affect them the way it would if it had occurred on their doorsteps.
In the convent, Mother Heloise had scoffed at those who went great distances to reach the shrines of saints or the sites of the passion of Christ. Life was enough of a pilgrimage for her. Staying in one place when her whole being longed to be somewhere else was as arduous as anything that might face them on the way to Compostela.
At least Catherine hoped so. They had barely begun the journey and already three people had died. By Solomon’s reckoning, it would take two more weeks at least to reach the other side of the Pyrenees and another four or five weeks before they arrived at Compostela. And then, Deo volente, there would be the long road home.
“What have I got us into?” she murmured.
Fortunately, her musings were interrupted by Edgar. “Catherine!” he called. “Come down here. You have to see this. Maruxa and Roberto can walk on their hands!”
Catherine decided to worry later.
Maruxa had tied her skirts up the middle with her scarf, making billowy pants to tumble in. Roberto caught her heels as she turned upside down and then vaulted her over his shoulders. She landed in a somersault, then sprang to her feet to cheers from the group circled around them. Even some of the monks had come from the separate camp of the abbot to watch.
The noise finally reached the Lady Griselle, resting in the tent her guards had set up for her. She sent her maid to find out what was happening. When she and then the guards didn’t return, Griselle decided to go see for herself.
As she left the tent, she was startled to find a man at her side, offering his arm. Not Gaucher or Rufus, but that merchant, Hubert. Her first impulse was to ignore him. Then she looked at his face and changed her mind.
“Thank you,” she said, in a voice no one had heard since her husband died. “It’s kind of you to help me.”
“I am honored to be of service to you,” Hubert answered.
They said no more until they reached the place where the jongleurs were performing. Then Hubert lowered his arm, bowed and left her to rejoin his family.
“That was very thoughtful of you, Father,” Catherine said. “All her servants had deserted her.”
Eliazar was more observant. He waited until the performance was over, then took his brother aside. “Are you mad?” he asked quietly. “Her guards will kill you, if those idiot knights don’t. And what will your daughter think, you and that woman while Catherine’s mother is still alive? You have a wife; it doesn’t matter to the others that she’s shut up in a convent.”
“Eliazar, I only gave the lady my arm, not my soul,” Hubert answered.
Eliazar wasn’t convinced. “The least you could do is find a nice Jewish widow,” he muttered.
“If we meet one taking a pilgrimage to Santiago, I’ll offer her my arm as well,” Hubert promised.
Eliazar spat on the ground. “Between you and that nephew of ours, I’ll not survive this trip and then you can have my widow, if you want one so badly.”
Hubert sighed. He reflected, as Catherine had, that the journey had scarcely begun. He, too, wondered just what he had got himself into.
The moon was near to setting when Catherine opened her eyes. The Milky Way, the Via Lactea of the Romans, arched across the sky, a pathway leading to the shrine of Saint James. Catherine would have liked to lie quietly under its glow, but she knew what had wakened her. Just once she’d like to sleep through a night without having to find a chamber pot. As she started to get up, she remembered where she was.
“Oh, no,” she moaned.
There was nothing for it. She’d have to find a nice clump of bushes and hope the grass wasn’t too prickly. At least the night was chilly enough that she was sleeping in her clothes.
She eased out from under the blanket, trying not to let the cold air in to awaken Edgar, and stumbled to the edge of the campsite. She found a hollow fairly well sheltered from wind and the eyes of anyone awake, checked the slope, raised her skirts and squatted.
That was when she heard something in the bushes.
Her first thought was that it was a wild animal. The growl sounded a bit like a wolf’s. A small, not very fierce wolf. A wolf making funny,
high-pitched yips in the back of its throat. A wolf that said, “Oh, oh, yes, more … more! Ohhh …”
Oh, dear.
Catherine considered her options. She was hardly in a position to sneak away. Waddle, maybe. No, she wasn’t even sure she could do that. She really couldn’t stay like this much longer. She had waited too long before getting up in the first place. She vowed that she would stop drinking wine in the evening, but it was too late for that now. As she let go, she hoped the couple wasn’t downhill from her.
They didn’t seem to notice anything. As Catherine started to ease herself up, the man gave one last, gurgling cry and then was silent.
Catherine crouched again.
After a moment, she heard the rustle as someone made a path out of the thicket. Through the branches, Catherine caught a glimpse of a dark, hooded figure.
No wonder Mondete didn’t think she deserved my charity, Catherine thought with a stab of disappointment. She hasn’t repented her life at all.
She was terribly curious as to who the man was. He hadn’t appeared yet, probably waiting until Mondete was safely back to camp. Then it struck her that it might be Solomon. It hadn’t sounded like him, but the voice had been muffled.
Catherine didn’t want to know. She couldn’t face her cousin after hearing that cry. On reflection, whoever it was, it would be hard to look at that person in the same way again.
Not caring anymore if she were heard, Catherine backed out of the clump of bushes and hurried across the field to the comfort of her warm husband.
The next morning, Catherine wasn’t sure if she had been dreaming, but the bits of grass on her feet indicated that at least part of the experience had been real. She thought of telling Edgar, but it didn’t seem right. It was Mondete’s salvation that was at stake. She would just have to find a time to try to discuss it with the woman privately.
The thought was not appealing.
They had finished packing and loading the horse for the day in a pattern that was becoming increasingly routine when they heard a commotion from the other side of the camp. Along with everyone else, they hurried to see what it was.
Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) Page 10
