Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur)

by Newman, Sharan

  “Edgar, you saw him, didn’t you?” she asked. “The man who saved me?”

  “There was someone,” he said, “but I couldn’t make out his face. I was only looking for you.”

  “Edgar, do you think it could have been Saint James?” Catherine was uncertain. “He didn’t look like any of the descriptions of the apostle. It wasn’t at all like my dream.”

  Edgar didn’t answer, and Catherine was so worn that she didn’t pursue the matter but let him guide her back to the trail. Solomon, Eliazar, Hubert, and oddly, Mondete, were waiting.

  “No questions now,” Eliazar decreed. “We must get out of this wind. We’re no more than a mile from the hostel.”

  It seemed a thousand miles to Catherine as she walked propped up between Edgar and Solomon. She wished she could ride, but the time it would take to unload the horse and put her on it wasn’t worth it. She was so cold now that she felt warm. At least the rain was washing the dirt from her face and clothes. She tilted her head and opened her mouth to get rid of the grit as well.

  It didn’t seem likely that the man from the tree was the venerable Apostle James, but he had seemed to appear out of nowhere to rescue her. Catherine puzzled over it. The event wasn’t exactly like her dream, but they were in the mountains. The wind had been terrible, she had fallen, and the man had saved her. Could he have been an angel guarding the pilgrims? Did this mean that she didn’t need to worry anymore about falling over the edge? Had the dream been fulfilled? Master Abelard could have told her, but it was too late to ask him.

  She was so tired. Only the arms of her husband and cousin kept her from sliding down in the mud and falling asleep on the first rock she found that was above the puddles.

  When they arrived at the hostel, it was already full of people. The building, made of stone blocks, was one enormous room with a loft running around the walls on three sides. The monks had strung lines from the railings of the loft and these were covered with drying cloaks and blankets. A fire was blazing in the huge hearth at the east end of the room.

  As they came in, the abrupt change from freezing rain to steamy heat made all of them dizzy. Catherine clutched her stomach with one hand and her mouth with the other.

  “Breathe deeply,” Solomon told her. “I’ll get you some wine to sip.”

  “Is everyone else here?” Hubert asked, his eyes searching the room for Griselle.

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure she already has the corner of the loft nearest the fire,” Mondete said, guessing his intent.

  “Do you think we can get closer to the warmth?” Edgar asked. “I’m worried about Catherine. You know how easily she gets sick.”

  “I’m stronger than you think,” Catherine broke in. “And it’s far too warm in here already. Saint Mary Magdalene’s maggoty rags! The stench of this place is more than I can bear. I think I’d rather stay in the rain.”

  Solomon reappeared with the wine. He forced the wooden cup between Catherine’s teeth and tipped, causing most of the liquid to run down the corners of her mouth … but enough got in to ease her shivering.

  They managed to find a place near the wall under the loft and struggled out of their wet clothes and into dry shifts, at least. Most of the other pilgrims were in a similar state of undress. To Hubert, Catherine with her unbelted shift trailing the floor, her hair undone and tangled, looked about fourteen. For an instant, she was his child again, not some other man’s wife. His alone to care for. Then Edgar came up with a blanket to wrap her in and she turned her face up to his. Hubert bit his tongue. The two of them were a world unto themselves; she was his no more. At least, whatever else this marriage might do to her, Catherine was happy.

  It was enough, he told himself firmly; it was more than he had ever had.

  Hubert’s eyes continued to search the room. He still hadn’t found Griselle. He knew that this was the only shelter until they descended to the base of the mountains. Even Aaron and his party were forced to stay in the hostel, grateful that the monks of Roncevalles were willing to allow them in. Finally, Hubert shrugged and tried not to worry. He hadn’t the right to be concerned about the Lady of Lugny. She had probably arrived early enough to get a place in the loft, as Mondete had said, where it was warm and the straw both cleaner and drier.

  As Hubert sorted out the wet garments to hang, he heard a familiar sound, the rattle of wooden dice as they landed on a board. It reminded him that not everyone traveling this route was a devout pilgrim, even those who wore the cross and carried the bourdin and scrip. He wondered why those monks the abbot had sent to investigate Hugh’s death hadn’t been more suspicious of the other pilgrims. Their questions had been aimed only at those who were obviously outsiders. How much easier it would be to pretend great repentance and devotion in order to take others off guard and slit their throats. One heard tales of it all the time. Why hadn’t the monks considered that?

  There was a shout from the circle of men kneeling over the dice. Hubert smiled. He could tell that a number of fervent prayers were being said.

  “You find something amusing in this dreadful place?”

  “After the storm and the fear that my daughter was lost, I find this shelter most congenial,” Hubert answered.

  He had known she was beside him, even before she spoke. The attar of lilies she wore was unmistakable. How did Griselle always manage to look so elegant? She might have just come down from her rooms in her own castle. Her hair was smooth, her face clean. The pleats in her sleeves looked freshly ironed. He felt like an ostler come in straight from mucking out the stables. Hubert rubbed his chin. He hadn’t shaved since leaving Moissac. Griselle smiled.

  “I can understand your feeling,” she told him. “Especially your worry for your child. Bertran and I were not given that joy. I have often regretted it, but perhaps God was kind in also sparing me the grief so many have in their offspring.”

  Hubert laughed at that, but inside, he winced. The shot was closer to the mark than Lady Griselle knew.

  “Would you care to sit by the fire?” he asked. “I can set up a stool for you.”

  “My guard is bringing one,” she answered. “Perhaps you would care to set up one for yourself, next to mine. I would be pleased if you could tell me some more stories of your life in Paris. It might distract me from the noise and closeness in here.”

  “I would be honored,” Hubert said.

  His hands fumbled as he tried to fit the canvas seat over the tripod legs of the stool. What was the matter with him? Eliazar hadn’t needed to remind him that Griselle was Christian and that Madeleine’s retirement to a convent did not free him to remarry in any case. He knew it. Griselle was a good fifteen years younger than he as well, only a few years older than Catherine’s brother, Guillaume. This was insane. He was deluding himself. She only wanted the company of someone harmless, someone to protect her from the attentions’ of Gaucher and Rufus. He had to be careful not to put any meaning to her smiles and half-lidded glances.

  It would be all too easy to make a fool of himself.

  From across the room, Eliazar watched. He knew that look of infatuation. He and Johannah rented out rooms to the students of Paris and he had seen it often. Usually the boys passed through the episode unharmed and returned to their studies and plans for a celibate life. But not always. It was bad enough to see a sixteen-year-old in such a condition. It was dreadful when it was his fifty-two-year-old brother.

  Eliazar turned away. He was sorry now he had ever suggested that Hubert come with them. Instead of helping with the problems, he had become one of them.

  Gaucher and Rufus were also appalled by the sight of Hubert and Griselle sitting together.

  “The next thing you know, she’ll be giving him sops of her bread and they’ll be drinking from the same cup,” Gaucher said.

  “And you know what they say.” Rufus was indignant. “‘Those that eat together will soon share a bed.’”

  “She wouldn’t demean herself so!” Gaucher said.

&n
bsp; “Other women have,” Rufus said. “Remember Hugh’s wife.”

  Gaucher grunted. It was one thing to deceive one’s husband with wandering players. At least they moved on quickly and some of the children turned out to be quite musical. One was the chantor at Saint-Lazare now.

  “It’s another thing to treat the man as an equal and flaunt your friendship before his betters,” Gaucher finished the thought aloud.

  “We need to do something about this,” Rufus said. “It’s indecent.”

  “What does she see in him?” Gaucher blurted. “His hair is thinning!”

  Rufus ran his hand slowly over his smooth head. “It’s well known that bald men are extremely virile,” he said.

  “Really? I thought they were just old and diseased,” Gaucher answered. “No, wait. I ask your pardon, Rufus. We’re letting ourselves be distracted from the problem of this lowborn trader.”

  Rufus was suddenly aware of the ache in his joints, the fatigue in his heart. Perhaps Gaucher wasn’t so far wrong. “What difference does it make?” he asked. “Once we retrieve the treasure, we can buy ourselves a dozen women, younger and more willing than Griselle.”

  “That isn’t the point, Rufus.” Gaucher raised his chin haughtily and glared across the room. “Would you let your daughter behave like that in public with a common workman?”

  “I’d beat her silly,” Rufus said. “Although the lordling she married is no prize, either.”

  “Do you know,” Gaucher said slowly, “I seem to remember overhearing this Hubert LeVendeur shouting and hurling insults at our poor friend, Rigaud.”

  “You do? When?”

  “The morning after Hugh was murdered,” Gaucher said. “You were there. Rigaud was questioning him and that ‘partner’ of his, and suddenly the merchant started shouting and shaking his fist.”

  “Oh yes, now that you mention it, I do remember,” Rufus said. “It’s odd that Rigaud should die so soon after that and in such an unchivalrous manner.”

  “No honorable person would kill a man in such a way,” Gaucher agreed.

  “But one could expect no such honor from a man used to cheating people to make his living,” Rufus finished.

  They both smiled.

  “I think it’s our duty to report this to Brother James,” Gaucher said.

  “After which we’ll be forced by honor to avenge the death of our friend.”

  On the other side of the room, Hubert said something that caused Griselle to laugh merrily. The sound didn’t grate on the old warriors the way it had only a few moments before. Now they knew that Hubert LeVendeur would pay for his audacity.

  Once Edgar was warm and sure that Catherine was taken care of, he became aware of the raging emptiness in his stomach. The bread and cheese they had brought with them from Saint-Jean were calling to him from the soggy packs. As he pawed through them, the door to the hostel opened, bringing the wind inside for a moment. Suddenly his nose was captured by a smell that seemed to emanate from paradise. It had been so long that it took him a moment to identify it.

  Someone was roasting venison.

  Edgar dropped the packs and joined the rush to the door. Outside, the ravenous pilgrims followed the scent to a smaller building nearby. Next to it was a fire pit, and above that, a whole deer was roasting. A collective groan of ecstasy arose from the pilgrims.

  Then the groan turned to one of dismay as someone cried out, “But it’s Friday! We can’t have meat!”

  Edgar’s heart sank. It was true. How could the monks who kept the hostel do this to them?

  Catherine, barefoot, with a blanket thrown over her head and shoulders, had followed Edgar out. “Oh, no!” she moaned. “Meat! What sort of hideous temptation is this?”

  “Meat,” Edgar echoed. Then he snapped out of his dream. “Catherine, you have no shoes on! Get back in there! I’ll find out what this is all about.”

  Catherine hadn’t even noticed. Her body had been deprived of red meat for so long, what with Lent and then penitential fasting, that the scent of it sent out a call stronger than any other need.

  One of the men tending the fire caught her eye. Catherine gasped. He smiled. It was her rescuer.

  “Edgar!” she said. “That’s the man in the tree! Do you see him?”

  “Ah, yes. Basque, perhaps a guide,” Edgar said, still focused on the venison. “I don’t think he’s Saint James in disguise.”

  One of the other pilgrims overheard him. “Maybe not,” he said. “But if it means we can eat that deer tonight, I’ll believe he’s Saint Gilles, offering us his pet doe for dinner. It would be irreverent to turn him down.” He had already taken out his knife, to cut a slice as soon as the meat was within reach.

  “Catherine, I think you should have some,” Edgar said. “It’s well known that women need red meat more than men do.”

  Catherine turned back to the hostel with a sigh. “No. It’s likely just another test, one more temptation to overcome. If there’s any left tomorrow, I’ll eat it as soon as the sun is up. I promise.”

  Edgar agreed sadly. This was not a trial he had expected, which made it all the more likely it was intended. The Great Trickster loved undermining the resolutions of the faithful in just this way.

  Many of the other pilgrims agreed, but not all. There was a thick cluster around the fire, and every turn of the spit was greeted with groans of anticipation.

  Brother James heard the commotion from the small priory where he and Brothers Bruno and Deodatus were staying. He asked one of the monks of Roncevalles what was happening. The monk laughed.

  “Some of the shepherds of the region have brought us an offering,” he explained. “They do that from time to time. The pilgrims are always most grateful. Many of the poorer ones have never eaten fresh game, at least not to admit to. It’s a rare treat for them to dine as well as the great lords; it reminds them that Our Lord makes no distinction of earthly rank.”

  Brother James was outraged. “You allow these barbarians to corrupt honest pilgrims with red meat? And on a fast day as well! What sort of shepherds are you?”

  “Ones who believe that their flock needs material sustenance as well as spiritual,” the monk retorted. “Nor are we too proud to take any gift the forest sends.”

  “You should be,” Brother James answered. “This would never happen at Cluny. And if you won’t prevent the pilgrims from eating this tonight, I will.”

  The monk of Roncevalles wasn’t swayed. “I can’t stop you from preaching to them, if you must,” he said. “But if you try to come between them and the first red meat many have seen in years, then I will stop you. And you’ll be grateful I kept you from being killed. Hunger may give visions to some, but most people are only driven to desperation by it.”

  Brother James was so overpowered by his wrath that he forgot his resolve to keep in the shadows while observing the suspects in Rigaud’s death. Even if he had given himself time to reflect, he would have considered the danger to himself unimportant next to his duty.

  Rufus and Gaucher had no qualms about a nice slice of venison, whatever the night. They had broken worse rules. But the sight of Brother James bearing down on the crowd around the fire reminded them of their higher mission.

  “Brother James!” Rufus called. “A moment, please! We have information that might be of interest to you.”

  James stopped. He had to convince the people not to yield to the temptation of gaining a full stomach. But these men were wealthy and had been soldiers of Christ. He owed them some courtesy. Reluctantly, he came over to them.

  “Don’t worry,” Rufus told him. “There’ll be plenty of meat left. We’ve just remembered an incident that may have some bearing on poor Rigaud’s unnatural death.”

  They proceeded to explain.

  At first James was annoyed that they assumed he was as eager for the venison as they. Then, as their story progressed, he was too excited to chastise them.

  “Do you mean the merchant who spoke for that Solomon pe
rson?” he asked again. “The one who made me look a fool before my abbot?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Gaucher hedged. “Hubert is certainly in business with Solomon and his uncle.”

  “But Lady Griselle was a witness as well,” James said.

  “They could hardly have suborned her.”

  “Ah, but that is even worse!” Rufus shouted. He looked around, then lowered his voice. “We believe she didn’t speak for the man voluntarily. This merchant from Paris may have ensorcelled her.”

  James was pleased with the accusation against Hubert, who was not attached to Cluny in any way and who associated with known infidels. He would be a perfect prisoner to present to Abbot Peter. But recent experience had made him cautious.

  “Have you proof of this?” he asked.

  “He and Griselle are sitting together at this very hour,” Rufus said, “talking and laughing and drinking in a most unseemly manner. He’s probably put some kind of potion in her wine.”

  “I’ll question the man, of course,” James said. “And your evidence does make me suspicious. But I can do nothing without some form of proof. I’ve observed the Lady Griselle and she doesn’t appear to be under the influence of any sort of necromancy. She is most regular in her attendance at the sacrament and in her devotions.”

  “You mean you’ll do nothing?” Gaucher was outraged.

  “Not without the accusation of an eyewitness,” James said patiently. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. There are people here about to commit the sins of fast-breaking and gluttony. I must help them find the strength to resist.”

  He left Gaucher and Rufus standing open-mouthed in the rain.

  “Now what do we do?” Rufus asked his friend.

  “Find an eyewitness,” Gaucher answered. “Or find evidence of the crime. There must be something.”

  “But, Gaucher—” Rufus wiped his head with his sleeve “—I thought we’d decided that Hugh and Rigaud were killed by the same person who played those tricks on us at Vézelay. Hubert wasn’t there then. And why would he want to murder Hugh?”