Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur)

by Newman, Sharan

He and Eliazar waited until the monk had ridden on, back to his companion at the front of the procession. Eliazar chuckled.

  “I don’t believe our pious friend likes laymen of any sort,” he said. “But you were unconscionably rude to him. What made you turn your back like that?”

  Hubert shook his head. “I have no idea,” he said. “The monk said nothing meant to be insulting. I think I became angry for you. Or at myself. We’re brothers. We should be treated in the same fashion.”

  “Forgive me, Hubert,” Eliazar said, “but I don’t think this would be the right moment to renounce your baptism. As the elder brother, I would counsel you to wait until we are not surrounded by monks.”

  Hubert grimaced. “It’s being surrounded by them that makes me feel a coward for not admitting who you are.”

  “Trust me,” Eliazar said. “There will be a better time to become a martyr. Let’s wait until then. Now you have other responsibilities.”

  Hubert looked ahead, where Catherine and Edgar walked, arm in arm. “As usual, brother,” he sighed, “your advice is sound.”

  Brother James thought he was having somewhat better luck with Gaucher and Rufus. They seemed eager to tell him all about Hugh, praising his exploits in various sieges, his devotion to the abbey of Cluny, his generosity to the poor and to his friends. They were loud in their certainty that their friend was on his way to heaven at this very minute.

  “Poor old Hugh had no enemies,” Gaucher mourned. “Kind and gentle, always at his prayers.”

  “We should have mounted a party to scour the woods for whoever slew him,” Rufus added. “What sort of mesel kills a man with his brais down?”

  “Were they down,” Brother James asked, “when he was found?”

  “Around his knees,” Gaucher said, shaking his head. “Saint Sergius’s stone chicken! It’s a shameful way for a warrior to die.”

  “It seems strange that he didn’t hear his attackers approaching,” Brother James commented.

  The other two looked at each other.

  “Ah, well, poor old Hugh was getting a bit deaf with the years,” Rufus said. “Not so he couldn’t talk with you. But a branch crackling underfoot, he might have missed that.”

  This seemed to satisfy Brother James. “And all that you say is missing is a ring?” he asked.

  “Yes, he wore it always,” Gaucher told him. “All the rest of his worldly goods were given to his children or to the Church before we left.”

  “If this ring were found again, would you know it?” the monk asked.

  “Of course,” Rufus said. “We both would. Gold, with one large emerald. A very simple design.”

  Brother James bit his lip. “If necessary, we will search the belongings of the other pilgrims for it,” he said. “Including yours. Would you object to that?”

  “Of course not,” both men said instantly.

  “Thank you,” James told them. “I will report my findings to the abbot and ask him how we are to proceed. It may well be that your friend was killed by those lawless men who infest the forests. But there are some matters here that I don’t understand. No one else reported seeing or hearing anything?”

  “Not to us,” Gaucher said. “Perhaps your religious garb will cause someone to come forth with more information.”

  “Perhaps,” Brother James said. “I will continue searching and speak with you again later.”

  “Anything we can do, you need only ask,” Rufus assured him.

  Brother James continued riding down the line of pilgrims. He wasn’t happy with the answers he had been given, although they sounded truthful enough. He discounted the tales of Hugh’s sanctity. Every man is a saint to his friends after his death. But there was something odd about the manner of both Gaucher and Rufus. If they hadn’t been such battle-hardened knights, James would have sworn the men were terrified. Anger he could understand if their comrade had been killed by bandits, but not fear. Were they afraid of being caught in their lies?

  James resolved to have the party stopped and all luggage searched before they arrived at Figeac.

  He passed Griselle of Lugny. She would certainly object to such an indignity. So would the German townsmen. Perhaps he should consult the abbot before making the decision. His mind was taken up with the problem as he passed Catherine and Edgar. He barely glanced at them in the road below until Catherine chanced to look up. Brother James’s jaw dropped.

  “Lord Jesus, save me!” the monk cried. “Deus in adjutorium meum intende!”

  It was the ghost he had seen at Le Puy.

  Catherine smiled at him. “Domine, ad adjuvandum me festina ,” she said, automatically giving the response to the verse.

  That was enough to convince him she was not of this world. In life, his ghost would never have spoken Latin. Brother James decided to wait a while before continuing with his investigation. He was shaking too much from this second encounter to think clearly.

  Catherine watched as the monk wheeled his horse about and returned to the front of the procession.

  “How very odd,” she said. “The poor man must have felt suddenly ill. I should have asked if he needed help.”

  “The monks have an infirmarian with them,” Edgar said. “That’s probably where he went so quickly.”

  “Yes, of course.” Catherine spoke slowly. “He seemed very familiar. Have we met him before?”

  Edgar had been going over the order of the saved on the tympanum at Conques. He wanted to be sure he remembered the exact placement. He hadn’t really looked at the monk.

  “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “These monks all tend to look alike after a bit. The tonsure, the robes, the same food, the air of holiness, you know.”

  “Oh well, I don’t suppose it’s important,” Catherine said. “When you have the tympanum clear in your head, I want to tell you about what I heard last night. I think that perhaps I should have stopped the monk and told him, but it’s rather embarrassing.”

  “Then walk closer to me,” Edgar told her, “and tell me now. If you don’t want to repeat it, I’ll go to him for you.”

  So, leaning her head on his shoulder as they walked, Catherine explained about her midnight experience. Although his lips twitched once or twice, Edgar didn’t laugh. When she finished, she was surprised by how tightly he was holding her.

  “Leoffaest,” he said, “how do these things keep happening to you? I suppose we should say something, but …”

  “I know,” Catherine said. “I think it was Hugh of Grignon and Mondete Ticarde, but what if I’m wrong? I don’t want to accuse her unjustly.”

  “But we can’t let a murderer go free, either,” Edgar said. “There must be a way to find out more. After all, even if Mondete has returned to her profession, why would she kill the man?”

  “Perhaps he threatened her,” Catherine suggested.

  “Did you hear any threats?” Edgar asked.

  “I told you everything I heard,” Catherine said. “It was the gurgle that worried me.”

  “Yes,” Edgar said. “And you saw no signs of blood on Mondete’s hands. I wonder. You never heard the woman’s voice?”

  “No, just breathing.”

  “Perhaps it wasn’t a woman,” Edgar said.

  “Oh.” Catherine spent a minute absorbing that.

  “It would be easier to cut a man’s throat from behind,” she admitted. “I remember some interesting marginalia in a manuscript Father borrowed for me once. In that position, one could kill someone and not become covered in blood.”

  Edgar looked at her. “Someday, carissima, you must give me a list of what you’ve read,” he said. “In any case, we are agreed that we need more information.”

  “But how are we going to get it?” she asked.

  “I think we’ve been spending too much time on our own reasons for taking this route and not enough on getting to know our fellow pilgrims,” he said.

  Her eyes lit. Even though the matter was serious, she had to admit that it adde
d some interest to what was certain to be a long journey.

  “Where shall we start?”

  The Lady Griselle was startled when Brother Rigaud approached her. She lowered her veil over her face at once.

  “How may I help you?” she asked.

  “My lady, the abbot wants you to know that he is very concerned about the unfortunate death last night,” Rigaud said. “He has asked Brother James and me to assure ourselves and you that this horrible crime was not committed by anyone among the party.”

  “That is most kind of him,” Griselle answered. “While there are some unusual people in this group, I cannot imagine any of them wishing to murder. After all, we are traveling for the good of our souls. Who would be mad enough to risk eternal damnation at such a time?”

  “I agree that it would be an insane act,” Rigaud answered. “So you neither saw nor heard anything suspicious last night?”

  “If I had, I would have called my guards to investigate,” Griselle told him. “That’s why they are with me.”

  “Yes, of course.” Rigaud was beginning to feel foolish. He didn’t care for it. “And you know of no reason for anyone here to murder Hugh of Grignon?”

  “No one anywhere,” she answered. “I barely knew him, but his reputation was blameless. After his wife died, there was no gossip about another marriage, or even of a mistress. I believe that all his children are doing well. He seemed a totally inoffensive man.”

  Rigaud thought of the Hugh he had known twenty years before. Griselle’s estimate was true, and yet it seemed such a poor summation of a man’s life, that he had committed no offense. He wished that he could discover something dark and horrible, just to keep Hugh’s memory alive. But he didn’t believe he would. Not Hugh. The man had been too much of a coward to be evil. He’d needed the coercion of his friends just to have a little fun.

  And even then, he hadn’t liked it much.

  Rigaud thanked the Lady Griselle and went to give his report to Brother James.

  “Roberto,” Maruxa whispered as they walked, “those two monks are asking people about the death of Hugh of Grignon. What are we to tell them?”

  “Nothing,” Roberto answered. “They won’t bother with us anyway. Why should they?”

  “But what if someone remembers us?” Maruxa asked.

  “Then we’ll say we forgot,” Roberto said firmly. “It was a long time ago. We travel to so many places. Why should there be anything memorable about Grignon?”

  “You were right. We should have waited to set out,” Maruxa muttered. “There are too many people from that area among the pilgrims here.”

  “Well, we didn’t,” Robert said in exasperation. “And no one has recognized us so far. Even if they did, why should I want to kill Hugh of Grignon? It would make more sense for him to murder me.”

  “That’s true,” Maruxa said. “And the one who is really to blame is already dead, may her soul writhe on a red-hot bed of coals, forever in torment.”

  “Amen,” said Roberto.

  Eight

  Figeac, Wednesday, May 7, 1142; The Feast of Saint Mastidie, Virgin of Troyes, whose deeds have been lost to time.

  Unde si bonum est Iherusalem ubi steterunt pedes domini visitare, longe melius est, caelo ubi ipse facie ad faciem conspicitur, inhiare. Qui ergo quod melius est promittit, quod deterius est pro meliore compensare non potest.

  Therefore, if it is good to visit Jerusalem where the Lord’s feet stood, far better is it to long for heaven where he is seen face-to-face. Therefore, whoever promises that which is better cannot reckon what is poorer to be the equal of that which is greater.

  —Peter the Venerable

  Letter 51, to the knight, Hugh Catula

  “Catherine, I couldn’t understand a word that cobbler said,” Edgar complained. “That was never French.”

  “Something like it,” Catherine said. “Queen Eleanor speaks it and she has no trouble being understood. There are a few strange words and the pronunciation is different, but I can usually make it out. Don’t worry.”

  Catherine continued looking through the felt-maker’s tray in front of his shop, next to the one where they had left their worn shoes. The felt-maker had used scraps of leftover material to create souvenir badges showing the dove of Figeac and the shell of Saint Jacques. He was doing so well with them this year that he was considering setting his daughter and son-in-law up in a stand by the abbey church of Saint Sauveur. He had already looked into making an arrangement with Arnauda, the baker who supplied the workers at the half-built church with bread and sweet gastels, for the space next to her cart. The felt-maker loved pilgrims.

  Edgar wasn’t interested in shopping. He wanted to go to the church and watch the masons at work. Catherine looked at him in pity.

  “Carissime, doesn’t it hurt you to watch work that no one will ever let you do?” she asked.

  “A little,” Edgar said. “But there’s a certain joy just in learning how it’s done, in seeing the stones raised and fit just so. All the tools and machines and men moving together to create this wondrous edifice. It’s beautiful.”

  He stopped. “You don’t understand, do you?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly, “I do. At least I understand that this gives you the same feeling I have when I listen to Master Gilbert lecture or when I can make sense of all the numbers in Father’s account book. It only saddens me that I can’t see the craft the way you do, that I’ll never share it with you.”

  Edgar had no answer for that. He knew of no way to give her the excitement he felt when watching the men at work on the monumental building. He could no more explain the deep contentment he had when carving a bit of wood into a shape that had before existed only in his mind.

  Catherine laughed at his expression. “It doesn’t grieve me all that much,” she said. “We share other things, don’t we? Now go to the church and enjoy the afternoon.”

  Catherine wandered through the shops a bit more after he left. She didn’t really need to buy anything, but looking at the wares gave her time to think without having to talk with anyone.

  Edgar had agreed that something should be said to someone about Catherine’s midnight expedition, but neither one of them were sure whom to tell.

  Catherine knew that her reluctance to speak with the monk sent by the abbot had to do with the way she felt about Mondete Ticarde. It would be so easy to accuse a reformed prostitute, and Mondete would have so little chance to defend herself.

  “If only I could be sure,” Catherine muttered as she examined a row of bright ribbons.

  The vendor looked up. Catherine shook her head.

  This wouldn’t do. She needed to know more, but who could she ask about Mondete? Not the other knights. They had already made it clear that they had known her quite well, but Catherine didn’t think they would discuss particulars with her. The Lady Griselle? Perhaps not. There was something about the woman that made Catherine feel that she had dirt on her face and a tear in her stockings. Griselle wouldn’t gossip casually with someone so far beneath her. But who else would know?

  The answer came to Catherine.

  Of course. How stupid not to have thought of her first: the invisible woman, Lady Griselle’s maid. Always silent, always in attendance. She would notice much more than her mistress did. She would hear the best gossip. Catherine tried to think of her name. She didn’t remember ever hearing it.

  Now the only problem was to find the woman apart from her mistress and then gain her confidence. But where would Lady Griselle go without her maid? Certainly not to church. The maid always went with her, never more than a step away. Griselle was such a stickler for propriety that Catherine feared she didn’t even go unaccompanied to the privy.

  There must be something inspirational about shopping. As she looked over the lengths of cloth at the scarf-makers, Catherine thought of something a lady would leave her maid to do alone. She was looking at a length of bright yellow cloth, with a pattern worked in red at the edges. Cat
herine fingered her own scarf, dingy now from the elements and too many washings. Wearing something new would make her feel less like a peasant next to Lady Griselle, whose clothes were always clean and scented with lavender, as if freshly taken from the clothes chest. Catherine suspected that Griselle had even brought a gauffering iron to pleat the sleeves of her bliaut.

  Somehow Catherine couldn’t imagine Griselle bent over a washtub. So who would be the one most likely to see to it that the fine linen shifts, silk scarves and woolen bliauts were kept spotless? Was Lady Griselle likely to waste an afternoon in such work? Of course not. That’s what maids were for.

  Catherine decided that her father should buy her the scarf as a reward for her cleverness. She told the woman at the shop to wrap it up to be paid for that afternoon.

  “It never occurred to me that a pilgrimage would be so hard on my clothes,” she commented to the woman. “They become faded and dirty so much more quickly than at home. And my stockings! I washed them at Conques and they should be done again. Where do the women of the town do their washing?”

  “At the river, of course,” the woman answered. “Where do the women of Paris do theirs, at the bathhouses?”

  Catherine was tempted to say yes, that then one could wash body and clothes all at once, but she refrained. Instead, she thanked the woman, promising to return for the scarf.

  Now she only hoped that the Lady Griselle had not brought so many pairs of stockings that she didn’t need to have them washed.

  After questioning the pilgrims, Brother Rigaud and Brother James had conferred and decided that there was no apparent reason for any of them to have murdered Hugh of Grignon.

  “You are quite certain that neither of your old comrades could have had a part in it?” James asked.

  Rigaud was. “Gaucher and Rufus are lecherous, gluttonous and bibulous,” he said, “but they would never slit a man’s throat in such an undignified and cowardly manner.”