The shouting grew louder as they approached; then there was a wail of grief that tore at Catherine’s ears and heart.
“NO … !” The one word seemed to go on forever, and then to echo across the plain …“NO … !”
Then she realized that there were two cries, lamenting together.
She couldn’t see over the heads of the people, but Edgar was tall enough. “What is it?” she asked him.
“Gaucher of Mâcon and Rufus of Arcy,” Edgar said. “They’re the ones screaming. Move, Catherine, they’re coming this way, carrying something.”
Catherine moved aside as Gaucher and Rufus came out of the thicket, carrying the body of Hugh of Grignon.
She didn’t want to look. She wasn’t going to look. She looked anyway. She had to know.
This wasn’t a natural death. Hugh’s throat had been cut wide open.
Involuntarily, Catherine’s hand went to her own throat. It appeared that now she would have to tell someone about Mondete Ticarde.
Seven
Near Figeac, Wednesday, May 6, 1142; The Feast of Saint John before the Latin Gate, on the occasion of his surviving a bath in boiling oil previous to his exile on Patmos.
Deus qui diligentibus te misericordiam tuam semper impendis et a servientibus tibi in nulla es regione longincus, dirige viam famulorum tuorum illorum in voluntata tua, ut te protectore et te perducente periusitie semitas sine offensione gradiantur.
O God, you who always grant your mercy to those who love you and are in no place far from those who serve you, direct the paths of these servants of yours in your will, so that they may, without offense, walk the paths of justice with you as their guide.
Liturgy of the Pilgrimage
Missal of Vich 1038
“Venerable Father.” Brother James bowed to Abbot Peter. “It grieves me to have to report this, but there was a murder last night among the pilgrims. One of the men wandered only a little away from the campsite and was apparently set upon by brigands. The others are in a panic. They’re begging you to allow them to travel among us under the protection of our guards rather than following behind.”
The abbot considered the information, his forehead creased in thought. “Brigands, you say?” he asked. “Didn’t the pilgrims set a watch?”
“They say they did,” Brother James answered.
“Yet no one saw or heard the men who attacked their comrade?”
Brother James had just dealt with a crowd of hysterical people, all talking at once and all apparently thinking it was up to him to do something. He hadn’t stopped to ask many questions.
“I don’t know, Lord Abbot,” he answered. “No one mentioned it. His companions say he was robbed, however.”
“His companions might have killed and robbed him themselves,” Peter suggested. “Was the murdered man a dependent of Cluny?”
“I’m afraid so,” Brother James sighed. “His name was Hugh of Grignon. He deeded us property and two mills for his soul and that of his wife and asked for burial among us.”
“Well, that won’t be possible now,” Peter answered. “See to it that he’s taken to our priory at Figeac and buried there. If his relatives protest, tell them that the honor is the same. Saint Peter will hear their prayers whether the man lies in the Auvergne or in Burgundy.”
“And what of the guards for the pilgrims?” Brother James asked.
Peter studied his fingers for a moment. “There are several women in that group,” he said at last. “More than usual and younger than usual. I will need some sort of guarantee that they not be allowed to wander among the monks or lay brothers. If they swear to that, tell the pilgrims they may camp within the circle of our guards. Tell two of the guards to ride behind them, but only if the pilgrims can keep up with us. We can’t wait for people determined to make the trip on their knees.”
“Thank you, Lord Abbot.” Brother James bowed again. He turned to go.
“Brother James,” Abbot Peter added.
The monk turned back. “Yes, Lord Abbot?”
“I want you to be sure that this was done by robbers from the woods and not by other members of the party. Aren’t there also two Jews among them, with a letter from our friend, Abbot Suger?”
“This is true, my lord,” Brother James said. “I’ve seen them. But devious as those people are, I can’t believe they would be so stupid as to commit murder like this. They know they would be among the first suspected.”
“It may have been done in anger,” Peter said. “The man might have insulted one of their practices or reneged on a debt. Or, as I said, his own companions may have killed him and placed the blame on brigands. Or, finally, it may be just as it appears, a killing for gold by the outlaws in the forest. I rely on you to discover the truth of the matter. Get Brother Rigaud to help you.”
Brother James reflected that the venerable abbot did not suggest how he was to find the truth. But all the monk said was, “Thank you, Lord Abbot. With God’s help, it shall be done.”
Catherine stewed all morning, trying to decide what to do. Perhaps the person she had seen wasn’t Mondete. She had had only a glimpse of a cloak in the night. She had assumed it was the prostitute on the basis of the activity she had overheard. Or, Catherine considered, the man with the woman might not have been Hugh. She didn’t know when the knight had been killed. He might have come to the bushes sometime later for the same purpose Catherine had and been attacked then. If the brigands had come up quietly behind him, he might have had no time to call for help. And who went armed to the privy?
But, she flipped again, there was that awful gurgling sound. Catherine’s experience was limited, but she didn’t think the sound was normal in carnal activity. Edgar never gurgled. The rustlings she had listened to from dark corners and through bed curtains when she was a child had never ended in gurgling. Occasionally in gasps, giggles and moans that made her curious, but nothing worse.
And what about the blood? If he had been on top of Mondete and she slit his throat, then the woman would have been awash in gore. She couldn’t have just casually gone back to her pallet and to sleep … unless she had simply wrapped herself up in the cloak.
Saint Ida’s arrogance! Why did she have to think of that? Catherine realized that she didn’t want Mondete to be a murderer, or a whore either, for that matter, for Solomon’s sake, if not for the woman’s own. Still, the questions had to be reasoned out logically. It wouldn’t do to accuse someone unless she were very certain. But if she were certain, then her duty was clear.
There was only one way to know. She went to find Mondete.
Pilgrimages don’t stop long for death. Once the body has been cared for and prayers said, it’s necessary to move on. When a vow has been made to visit the saints, it cannot be broken and ought not be delayed. Therefore, the pilgrims were already preparing to continue the journey, albeit with more seriousness and a greater sense of dread than before.
Mondete, having less to pack than anyone else, was sitting on a stone in the field, waiting. Not far from her, seated on the grass, was Solomon. He didn’t notice Catherine coming up behind him.
“Some of it is in Ezekiel and Isaiah,” he was saying, “but other parts of it have been passed down from master to pupil for a thousand years. Only, no one seems to have the whole of it. I can only find pieces, and they won’t fit together.”
Mondete made no response. She may have thought that if she ignored Solomon, he would get tired and go away. Catherine knew him better than that.
“You’ve found a sliver of the Truth, all on your own,” Solomon continued. “If you tell me what it is, I might be able to finally make the picture whole. You may have the piece of knowledge I’ve been looking for.”
Mondete swung around on the rock. Catherine tried to see if her cloak was stained with blood, but there was so much dirt from the road and dried mud from the river that it was impossible to tell. The woman raised her hands in exasperation. Her nails were long and filthy, but Catherine saw no tra
ce of blood there, either. She didn’t think Mondete could have washed herself enough to remove any signs of murder and yet leave her nails like that.
If Mondete saw Catherine staring at her, she gave no indication of it. All her attention was on Solomon.
“What must I do to convince you that I have no secrets?” she asked. “I am only what they say I am, a bordelere and a meretrix, who would spread her legs or anything else for anyone with money, including you.”
Solomon wasn’t impressed. “Then why are you here?” he asked. “What happened to change your life?”
Mondete dropped her hands. “Others will tell you that, too. Perhaps I got too old, or became diseased. Perhaps I smelled the sulfur of Hell in some man’s sweat and suddenly feared for my soul. What difference does it make to you?”
Solomon rubbed his forehead as if it ached. He closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “It just does. I don’t wish to torment you. But there is something; I feel it. You may not even be aware of what it is.”
“You’re wrong,” Mondete answered. “You sense nothing more than desolation. That’s all I can give you, and I sense that you already have enough of that of your own.”
Solomon didn’t answer. Nor did he move. Mondete pulled her hands and feet back inside her cloak.
Catherine decided not to bother them now.
“The rings are gone, Gaucher,” Rufus said. “I looked in his pack and his scrip. Nothing else is missing.” His voice was shaking in panic.
“The thieves may not have had time to take more,” Gaucher answered. “Stop trembling so. You look like a man with quartan fever.”
Rufus bridled in anger. “Don’t pretend you’re not afraid, Gaucher. I saw your face when we picked up poor Hugh.”
Gaucher looked away, then back. His face was stern. “It’s hardly the first time we’ve seen a man with his throat cut, or a friend slaughtered,” he said firmly. “We’ve become soft living in our keeps with no real fighting to do.”
“First Norbert, now Hugh,” Rufus said. “Pig balls in your pack and that ring. I can see Hugh prizing the stone out even now. He broke a blade-tip on it. But I can’t remember the hand it was on.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Gaucher insisted, running his hands through his hair. “We’re the only ones alive who were there then.”
“How do you know?” Rufus asked. “Anyway, you’re forgetting Rigaud, if you can call what he’s doing now living.”
“I don’t think he slipped out of his cloister and came down here on the chance that Hugh would pick that moment to empty his bladder,” Gaucher sneered.
“I don’t mean that he killed old Hugh,” Rufus answered. “Only that there could be someone else, maybe one of the guards or the lay brothers. You said there could be a Saracen hidden among the men Bishop Stephen brought with him.”
“I don’t know anymore what to think or who to fear,” Gaucher sighed. “But we have to go on, are we agreed on that?”
“Yes,” Rufus said. “But I’m wondering now, if we can even find it after so long, maybe we shouldn’t try to sell it. It might be better for our souls if we simply gave it back or made an offering of it to Saint James.”
“Don’t go on about your soul, Rufus,” Gaucher answered. “It’s too late for that. Norbert spent years preparing for this. We aren’t going to fail him now.”
Edgar had been waiting impatiently for Catherine. “What kept you?” he asked. “Your father and Eliazar are ready to set out.”
“Is Solomon with them?” she asked.
“No, but he’ll catch up; he always does,” Edgar said. “I was worried about you. Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said. “No. I don’t know. I’ll tell you all about it tonight.”
Edgar knew that mood. He didn’t press her. “We’ll be in Figeac by evening,” he said. “We can get our shoes resoled and maybe find a private corner with a mattress.”
Catherine smiled. He always knew how to cheer her. “Even more, I’d like to find a bathhouse,” she said, fingering her greasy braids. “The only thing good about having hair this filthy is that the curl is pulled out of it. Your hair could use washing as well, you know. I would be happy to do yours at the same time as my own.”
Edgar smiled. Catherine had ways of cheering him, too.
Brother James was shocked by Brother Rigaud’s reaction to the news of the murder.
“You knew the man?” he repeated. “Why didn’t you tell me that you’d fought alongside Hugh of Grignon?”
“Why should I?” Rigaud answered. “It’s from a life I wish to forget. I renounced all of that when I took my vows. Do I ask you about what you were before you came to Cluny?”
“I’ve never made a secret of it,” James bridled.
“Nor did I,” Rigaud said. “But I saw no reason to give all the names of the men who were my companions or my friends. That was more than twenty years ago.”
“But they knew you, you said?” Brother James asked. “They approached you?”
“They tried to,” Rigaud answered. “I repulsed them, consigned them to Hell unless they joined me in my conversion. They laughed at me, of course. So you can see that I’m not the person to question Gaucher and Rufus concerning Hugh’s death.”
James scratched his chin, where the dark beard was again in need of a razor. “I would think you’d be the best one to question them,” he said. “They couldn’t lie as easily to you. However, let me try at first. I’ll tell you their replies and let you judge their veracity. In return, I want you to speak with that merchant from Paris and his Jewish friends.”
Rigaud rubbed the back of his neck. Ever since Gaucher had slapped him on the back at Le Puy, there had been a kink in it. “But, Brother James, if Hugh was killed by one of the ribaux that lurk in the woods, what is the point of questioning any of these people?” he asked.
Brother James put his hand on Rigaud’s shoulder. “Because the abbot has told us to,” he said, “and obedience is our first duty.”
Rigaud shook the hand off in annoyance. “You might have said that in the beginning,” he complained. “Of course I shall start at once. Since the group is now traveling among us, I can question the traders as we ride.”
“And, since they are now among us,” Brother James replied, “it’s all the more important to make sure that none of them is a murderer.”
The idea made Brother Rigaud’s right palm tingle with the sort of itch that can only be soothed by the pressure of a tightly held sword. He blessed himself hurriedly instead.
“May the Lord aid us in our search for the truth,” he murmured.
“Amen,” said Brother James.
The route to Figeac was an easy one after the steep up-and-down of the previous several days. They rode through a wide valley in which the road was well maintained and the forest often interrupted by clusters of homes and cleared fields. Gradually, the mood of the pilgrims began to lighten. Sheltered now more securely under the wing of Saint Peter and in the bright spring sunshine, they felt less fear of the terror stalking by night.
Eliazar considered the questions of the monk, Rigaud, to be no more than the usual nuisance. He was used to being the first questioned when anything nefarious happened.
“No, I didn’t know the man,” he said. “We don’t come from Burgundy, but Paris. My nephew and I are traveling with my partner, Hubert LeVendeur.”
“And why are you with this man?” Rigaud addressed Hubert.
“My daughter and her husband wished to make a pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint James,” he explained. “Abbot Suger has business for me in Spain, so with the permission of your abbot, we joined the party. The other pilgrims are all strangers to us.”
“But why with this man?” Rigaud asked suspiciously. “Why would a Christian have a Jewish partner?”
“For a number of reasons,” Hubert answered. “Including their contacts in Spain. If Abbot Suger has no objection, why should you? It
’s not unusual, especially here in the south.”
“I was not objecting,” Rigaud said. “Merely asking. My duty is to assure the abbot that the ones who murdered and robbed Hugh of Grignon are not still among us.”
“Then do your duty,” Hubert said. “We have no more wish to travel with a murderer than you do.”
He turned away from Rigaud and resumed his conversation with Eliazar.
Rigaud drew himself up in anger. “How dare you turn your back on me!” he said, grabbing the reins of Hubert’s horse and jerking them so that Hubert was forced to turn back. “You’ve clearly spent too much of your time among these stiff-necked unbelievers. You’ve forgotten the respect you owe the Church and her servants. I am not one of your apprentices to be ignored or ordered about. How dare you treat me like this! How dare you!”
His voice rose with each sentence, becoming a shriek that alarmed Hubert and caused those nearby to stop and stare at them.
“Good Brother,” Hubert began, “I had no attention of offending you or insulting your order. I merely—”
“Merely dismissed me like an errant pot boy!” Rigaud shouted.
“I thought you had finished with us,” Hubert said, flustered at the intensity of the man’s reaction. “I humbly ask your pardon—” he swallowed—“as one Christian to another.”
Rigaud had stopped his tirade long enough to notice the people around him. With a great effort, he managed to control himself.
“I accept your apology—” he said “—as a good Christian ought. But the next time I have questions for you, I expect to be given every courtesy and the respect due me.”
“Of course,” Hubert said, fists clenched.
Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) Page 11
