“But you’re both clerics!” James was now outraged. He pointed at Robert. “You say you’re a deacon of Pamplona?”
“Yes, and I must go there someday, when I can spare the time from my work,” Robert said. “I assure you, Brother, that I am as devout in my own way as you. However, my studies are expensive. If the abbot wants me, wants all of us, to give them up, we need to gauge the weight of his money first.”
Brother James was in dire danger of exploding. “Come to Najera,” he said finally. “You will be paid your pieces of silver before you touch pen to parchment.”
“Of course we will.” Robert bowed to him. “Thank you for your time, Brother James.”
The next morning, Solomon remembered why he rarely drank when he was miserable. “I’m going to die,” he said.
“Not soon enough,” Edgar told him cheerfully. “Here, drink a bucket of water and then throw up a few times. You’ll feel better.”
“Is that what you do in Scotland?” Solomon sneered. “We have much more efficacious remedies.”
“Like cutting off your head?”
Solomon used both hands to support his. “That would be a good start. Where’s Catherine?”
“She was up most of the night poring over those pages the two of you found at Moissac,” Edgar told him. “Now she’s waiting for you to become human again so that you can go with her to show them to this Robert of Ketton and his friend Hermann.”
“Who?”
“Mages, I believe. They arrived while you were indisposed.”
Solomon’s red eyes opened wide for a second, then closed in agony. “I’m cursed,” he said.
“That’s a distinct probability.” Edgar had no sympathy for him. “Considering the life you’ve led.”
He stood and stretched. “Catherine’s still asleep. I promised I’d try to find her some green vegetables. She saw some at the market yesterday but we had no money with us. Don’t make any noise to awaken her.”
“You have my word,” Solomon said. “Stop shouting.”
He sighed in relief when Edgar had gone and settled down to await the passing of his self inflicted torment. It wasn’t to be. A few minutes later, Catherine came down the ladder from the sleeping room.
“Solomon!” she cried. “Did Edgar tell you? I think I’ve deciphered enough of those pages so that we can ask those astronomers to expound the rest. Solomon? What’s wrong?”
A shadow moved in the corner. Mondete unfolded out of it. “He needs a mixture of olive oil, myrrh and raw eggs,” she said.
Catherine’s stomach roiled at the thought, and Solomon gagged audibly. “Does it work?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” Mondete said. “There are those who insist it does.”
“I’ll try anything,” Solomon said. “Can you get myrrh here? I have to be able to go with Catherine to see these men.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Mondete said and left.
“I didn’t even notice her there,” Solomon told Catherine. “Unlike you, she knows how to be silent.”
Catherine started to reply sharply, then took pity on him. “Would you like me to tell you what I’ve found in these pages?” she asked. “I can speak softly.”
“Very well, what are they about?” he grumped.
“Not all of it is clear, of course,” Catherine began. “Some of the symbols are unknown to me, and the writer occasionally uses words in his own language, German perhaps. However …”
She bent down to peer into his averted face. Solomon opened one eye. “I’m listening.”
“However,” she went on, “most of this seems to be a series of lecture notes by a student of someone in Toledo who has studied the arts of astrology, necromancy, astronomy and something called ‘algebra.’ I’m not sure what that is, perhaps another way of foretelling the future. Or it might be the name of the master. It’s not clear.”
“Just tell me what is clear.” Solomon lifted his head a fraction.
“He writes about new ways of charting the stars more accurately, especially the wandering of the planets, and deducing the ways we are affected by their temperaments. I’d say you were suffering from a confluence of Mars and Saturn in Pisces, myself.”
“Very funny. What else?”
“There’s a lot here about geomancy, how to set the points randomly so that they will be uninfluenced by the desires of the astronomer, and then a list of masters who have made up astrological tables to chart the results.”
Solomon sat up carefully. He looked at the papers, trying to piece out familiar words.
“Yes, that’s what they were talking about in Cardoba last winter,” he said. “The Arabs have made great strides in perfecting the accuracy of the prognostications. What are the names of these masters?”
“I can’t make them all out.” Catherine pushed him aside. “You’re standing in the light. Avois, here are some: Abdallah, Alkindi, Alpharinus; then some Christian names, Gerard, Guillaume, Petrus, Bernardus. But the tables aren’t here. Unless there is something in these symbols I can’t read, I’m afraid it won’t help you much.”
Solomon smoothed the parchment with his hand. “Yes it does,” he said. “It tells me that there is someone in Toledo who might help me.”
“I see. Does that mean you will abandon us now for Toledo?”
Solomon looked up but didn’t meet her eyes. “It might be better if I left, while that man travels with you.”
“Do you mean your father?”
Now he did look at her. Catherine moved away. Solomon’s green eyes were as hard as jade chips. “I mean Brother James, who seems determined to see that one of this family is executed.” He sat down. “Did that woman go all the way to Jerusalem for myrrh? There’s a stampede of horses in my head.”
Catherine rolled up the parchment pages again. “Do you believe that you will waver in your faith because your father did?” she asked.
“Don’t you want me to?” he countered.
“Not if you can’t do it with joy,” she said. “I have never denied that I pray for your eventual baptism, but not unless your heart and soul are converted as well as your body.”
“And in the meantime?” he asked.
“I can love you for the man you are,” she answered. “There’s no possibility of my giving up the true faith, so no reason why I shouldn’t continue to associate with you.”
Solomon gave her a crooked smile. “And therefore no reason why I shouldn’t stay with you and Edgar, at least as far as Compostela.”
“None at all,” Catherine said. “Ah, here’s Mondete. If you’re really going to drink that concoction she has with her, I think you should do it outside.”
In the end, it was Catherine who left. The smell of the mess in the cup Mondete brought back was too much for her. She wandered down the main road to the church, not paying attention to the traffic, brooding about Solomon’s dilemma.
“Catherine.” The voice was soft and unmistakable. “When will you learn to watch where you’re going?”
“Edgar! You’ve found new peas and lettuce,” she cried. “I love you! Can we eat them at once?”
Her dormant appetite awoke roaring. Greens! It had been too long since she’d had anything but cabbage and roots.
“Here.” He scooped up a handful of peas for her. “They’re young enough that you can eat the whole pod. Don’t worry. I have plenty, enough to share with the others.”
She had been shoving them into her mouth like Golias at the table, but now she slowed, chewing ecstatically.
“You know, carissime, I think we should take some of these to Lady Griselle,” she said. “And while we’re enjoying them together, it would be quite natural to ask her if she happened to notice a ring without a stone in it among the coins Father spilled on the table the other night.”
“Only you could move a topic from lettuce to rings,” Edgar said. “But I’m willing to come with you and pretend it’s a perfectly normal change.”
Griselle received t
he offering graciously, although Edgar suspected that her interest in fresh peas was slight.
“How kind of you to think of me,” she said. “Please, sit down. Hersent, pour some wine for Hubert’s daughter and her husband.”
They were settled into the small room that Griselle had once again managed to get for herself and her maid. The bed had been set up and hung with curtains, and Griselle had her own folding chair and pillow. The others sat on the bench provided by the inn to serve as both table and bed.
“I’ve been wanting to know you better, ma douce,” Griselle told Catherine. “Your father has explained to me all of the history behind that horrendous scene at Roncevalles.”
“He has?” Catherine nearly dropped the wine.
“Well, I had to coax it out of him a bit,” Griselle smiled. “You must be very proud of him.”
“Well, of course.” Catherine looked to Edgar for guidance, but he seemed as bewildered as she.
“That Brother James is a dreadful coward,” Griselle continued, “hiding in the monastery rather than staying among his former coreligionists and fighting for their souls, as Hubert as done.”
Catherine was too stunned to answer. Edgar stepped in to save her. “I’ve heard my father-in-law give many an inspiring sermon,” he said. “It would not be surprising to find the entire Jewish community of Paris coming to Notre Dame as one, clamoring to be admitted into the Church on the strength of his example.”
He thought he had gone too far for credibility, but Lady Griselle smiled her agreement. “Greater miracles have occurred,” she said. “And through far less noble men than Hubert. Do have one of these gastels.” She passed them the plate. “There is an excellent baker in this town. So rare to find good quality in a place that provides for the needs of travelers.”
The conversation continued along those lines for nearly an hour. Finally, Catherine realized that she couldn’t find a way to introduce the topic of the ring. She was forced to surrender to a more worthy opponent.
“We must get back to our inn,” she said, standing. “Thank you for the cakes and wine.”
Griselle rose and kissed them both. “I hope you’ll both come see me often, not only during the journey, but after I return to Burgundy.”
They promised they would and made their escape gratefully.
“Catherine—” Edgar began, but she interrupted.
“Don’t say it, Edgar. Don’t even think it.”
He didn’t say it, but he couldn’t help thinking that the Lady Griselle gave a very good impression of a woman trying to gain the affections of a future stepdaughter.
After they had left, Griselle sat for a while chewing pensively on a particularly tough pea pod.
“My lady?” Hersent was folding freshly laundered shifts.
“She doesn’t trust me,” Griselle said. “What does she think I mean to do, steal her inheritance? I know her mother’s still alive. I couldn’t marry some tradesman, in any case.”
“He’s a very attractive man,” Hersent observed.
“He’s kind,” Griselle said. “And very sad, most of the time.”
“And so are you, my lady.”
“Yes,” Griselle sighed. “That may be why I’m so fond of him.”
“You wouldn’t have let those men take him because of the ring, would you?” Hersent asked.
Griselle stiffened. “I never saw the ring they were fussing about. Gaucher and Rufus probably dropped it in Hubert’s scrip while they were searching him. They undoubtedly bribed the jongleur to lie about it. Those are not men to be trusted. Remember that.”
“I will, my lady,” Hersent answered.
As soon as her chores were finished and Griselle settled for her afternoon prayers, Hersent went in search of Mondete Ticarde.
She found the woman still ministering to Solomon. “Now water, drink lots of water,” she was telling him.
“Didn’t you hear the warning?” he pleaded. “The water around here kills horses.”
“That’s not water from this river.” She was implacable. “Drink.”
She noticed Hersent beckoning at the doorway.
“Finish this ewer before I return,” she ordered.
Hersent drew Mondete to an open space where no one could overhear them. “I need to ask you about those knights,” she said.
“What for?” Mondete asked. “You’re Griselle’s maid, aren’t you? Did she send you?”
“No, she has no idea I’m here,” Hersent said. “I didn’t know any of them before this journey, although I had heard of Hugh and Norbert, of course. Something is confusing me and I must know more about them. I understand you knew them all.”
“More or less,” Mondete said shortly. “Norbert had nothing to do with me after my fourteenth year. That was long ago, as you might guess. The others … Hugh came by once in a while, mostly to talk. It’s common knowledge that his wife was more than he could handle.”
“And the other two?” Hersent asked.
“Gaucher and Rufus. Yes.” She hesitated. “I don’t think anything I can tell you would be of use. If either one of them has propositioned you, don’t believe him. They both like variety. Their tastes are exotic, to say the least.”
She couldn’t repress a shudder at the memory.
“Pigs!” Hersent spat.
“Just Gaucher,” Mondete said. “Rufus only enjoys women, but he expects his whores to earn their payment. And he takes pleasure from their fear of him.”
Hersent swallowed. “Did any of them ever talk to you about their time in Spain?”
“Only to brag,” Mondete told her. “‘I slaughtered so many in battle. I won horses and armor. I stormed the gates of Saragossa and waded in blood to my knees.’ They all go on about something. I rarely listened.”
“What about Hugh? Did you see this ring that Gaucher and Rufus claim was his?”
“He had a ring with an emerald set in it,” Mondete said. “I didn’t see the one that was taken from Hubert. I don’t know if it’s the same.”
“If you saw it, even without the stone, do you think you’d recognize the setting?” Hersent asked.
“I might. Why is it important? Do you think they put another ring in the merchant’s purse and swore it was Hugh’s in order to divert the blame from themselves?”
“Something like that,” Hersent hedged. “If I can get it, would you say publicly whether or not it was the same as the one Hugh wore?”
“Yes, not that I’m considered a credible witness,” Mondete promised.
“Thank you.”
Hersent left and Mondete went back to the inn to see if Solomon had managed to keep the water down. Considering the amount of liquid he had expelled, it was essential to add more to restore the balance of his humors.
The next morning, they set off again.
Even though they could all have separated now, joined other pilgrim bands or waited in Puenta la Reina for the return of Abbot Peter with his well-guarded retinue, none of them did. They all assembled shortly after dawn: Edgar and Catherine, Hubert, assisting Griselle to mount her horse, Eliazar among the party of merchants from Toulouse, Roberto and Maruxa, Gaucher and Rufus, Brothers James, Bruno and Deodatus with the three men from Barcelona, and at the very end, Solomon, trailed by Mondete.
Looking at them, Catherine thought how strange it was that they should cling to each other so when they all suspected that one of the group was a murderer.
Seventeen
Just outside Cirauqui, heading down the hillside toward the Roman bridge, Thursday, June 5, 1142; The Feast of Saint Boniface, né Winfrid of Devon, missionary to the Goths and destroyer of ancient oaks.
… inde Stella que pane bono et optimo vino et came et piscibus fertilis est, cunctisque felicitatibus plena.
… then is [the town of] Estella, where the bread is good, the wine superb, meat and fish abundant and which is altogether full of delights.
—Aimery Picaud
Codex Callistinus,
C. III: “De nominibus villarum
itinerus ejus.”
The group of pilgrims making its way down the path he group of pilgrims making its way down the path from the village was much changed from the one that had started at Le Puy. Instead of the polite indifference of strangers or the careful politeness of neighbors, they were treating each other like members of the same family. A large, unruly one, it was true, subject to bitter hatreds and lengthy feuds, but connected nonetheless. They were now people who knew too much about each other.
Robert, the Englishman who had joined the party at Puenta la Reina, was puzzled by the obvious tension among the pilgrims. He made the mistake of approaching Edgar to ask about it.
Edgar only grunted and pretended to concern himself with a loose strap on one of the packs.
Catherine answered for him. “We’ve had a difficult journey,” she told Robert. “There have been several … accidents. All of us are worn and quick to anger, I fear.”
“Ah.” Robert was intelligent enough to know he’d just been told to mind his own business—but not smart enough to resist making his next comment. “I understand you’re some sort of scholar,” he said.
“Some sort,” Catherine answered. “I studied with the Abbess Heloise, before my marriage.”
“They say she teaches her charges Hebrew,” Robert pried.
“I was taught a little,” Catherine admitted. “Not enough to read the Pentateuch in the original, I’m sorry to say. Can you?”
“My Arabic is better,” he said.
Something in the form of her answers seemed to reassure him. It took him a minute to realize it was because the entire conversation had been in Latin.
“You wouldn’t happen to know the meaning of the name of the town we just came through, would you?” Catherine asked him, this time in French.
“No, Basque isn’t one of my languages,” Robert said, also in French. Now that credentials had been established, Latin was no longer necessary.
Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) Page 27
