Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur)

by Newman, Sharan

  “Nest of vipers,” said a voice from the other side of the horse.

  “Oh, Solomon,” Catherine said. “I forgot you spoke Basque.” She shivered in the desert morning. “Vipers.”

  She looked back up the steep hill to the few houses clustered tightly at the top. It seemed more innocent than the people who had just passed through. The name crystallized for her the feeling she had had since the revelation that Brother James had once been her uncle, Jacob. They were living in a nest of vipers, and there was no way to tell which ones were sleeping, and no safe path to tread among them. Catherine knew it was only a matter of time before one would strike again.

  They others felt it, too. Ever since Roncevalles, Gaucher and Rufus had stuck together like jealous lovers, never leaving each other’s sight for a moment. Watching them, Catherine wasn’t sure if they were together for mutual protection or from mutual distrust. They slept back-to-back, and once, when she passed too near them on her nightly trek to the latrine, Catherine saw the motion of their hands reaching for their knives at the sound of her step, even though they appeared to be asleep.

  The Lady Griselle had wilted like a rose browning at the edges. Catherine felt an unkind satisfaction that the rigors of the journey were finally telling on her. Her straight back slumped a bit as she rode, and even Hubert’s company couldn’t cheer her for long. She kept Hersent by her always, but rarely made any demands on her. Oddly, in such an atmosphere of suspicion, she allowed her guards to ride apart from her with those from Cluny and Toulouse, where the men relaxed and enjoyed themselves for the first time since the trip began.

  Since the accusation at Roncevalles, Maruxa and Roberto had distanced themselves from the others as much as possible. They played and sang at night only if asked, Maruxa once surprising Aaron by singing a secular Jewish song, written in Arabic. It was a story of love and longing, and even those who couldn’t understand the words felt the emotion in her voice. But when they finished, the jongleurs picked up the coins tossed to them and retreated to their own corner.

  Even among Catherine’s real family, the tension was palpable. Hubert and Eliazar spoke to each other carefully, as if afraid to antagonize by a misplaced word. Solomon spent little time with them. He and Mondete seemed to have formed some sort of pact and now walked together, never speaking or touching. What sort of communication they had was beyond Catherine’s ability to guess.

  Brother James did his best to pretend that none of the others existed. Out of a sense of curiosity or family duty, she wasn’t sure which, Catherine had tried to talk to him, but he had brushed her aside and refused to answer. He kept himself in the middle of a tight circle of clerics. Like Gaucher and Rufus, he acted like a man expecting a knife between his ribs.

  Edgar, of course, would never be distant with Catherine, but there was an unspoken fear in both of them. It grew as they passed though Navarre and began to realize that the land wasn’t a grassy plain running all the way to Compostela.

  “I’ve never seen country like this,” Edgar said. “It’s as if some huge army has been through, ravaging and destroying everything, even the trees.”

  Catherine agreed. It was empty and bleak, with only dry, scrubby plants and great red rocks, the latter jutting out of the earth like giants buried alive. They both avoided mentioning the mountains in the distance.

  “‘There were giants in the earth in those days,’” she quoted. “I always thought it was a metaphor. No one told us about this.”

  No one had mentioned the heat, either. It wasn’t like the humid summers of Paris. This was a dryness that was carried on the wind and beat down from a cloudless sky until everyone felt that they were living in an oven. The sun followed them without mercy.

  “We haven’t brought enough water,” Edgar worried as he emptied another skin.

  “Father and Uncle Eliazar prepared better than that,” Catherine assured him. “They have enough to get us to Estella. Actually, I think I should pour some more for you to wipe your face with.”

  He was clearly feeling the heat more than she. His normally pale face was red and damp beneath the wide brim of his hat. He was wearing only his shift, brais and shoes. The shift was stuck to his back with perspiration. Catherine went to the packhorse and untied one of the water skins. She wet her scarf and went back to Edgar. Solomon saw what she was doing and followed her.

  “Don’t use water,” he told her. “Wine is better, some of that stuff from Moissac that’s turned to vinegar. It’s more cooling. Put some on his hands as well.”

  “On my hands?” Edgar suspected one of Solomon’s jokes.

  “I’ve seen it before,” Solomon said. “You fair-skinned people can’t take this sun. Ask that Hermann, traveling with the monks. You’ve noticed that he dresses like the natives here, all in white, with his head covered. But he also wears gloves.”

  Catherine had noticed. They were a thin version of the ones she used in the winter while working in the cold accounts room, with the fingertips cut out. She had thought it odd to wear such things while on the road.

  “You can get gloves in Estella,” Solomon told them. “Until then, vinegar.”

  They started to thank him, but he was already halfway back to his place at the end of the line.

  Catherine stared after him. “Edgar, this is not one of the dangers I expected to encounter on the road,” she said, not meaning the heat. “We can’t continue with everyone coiled up in themselves, ready to lash out at whatever comes near. It feels like the night before a storm. I expect lightning at any minute.”

  But nothing happened as they silently crossed the Roman bridge at the bottom of the hill, skirted the town of Urbe and approached the River Salado.

  There the party was forced to stop.

  Standing on the bridge was a band of Navarrese Basques. They were armed with spears and knives. The guards with the pilgrims drew their weapons. Edgar stepped in front of Catherine protectively. Grateful, but curious, she peered around him.

  She wasn’t entirely surprised to see the man who had rescued her at Roncevalles. He noticed her and grinned. She pulled her head back.

  “What do you think he wants?” she asked Edgar.

  “I don’t know,” he answered, “but if it involves you, he isn’t going to get it.”

  Catherine rather liked that sentiment. She wasn’t used to being considered attractive, so she didn’t seriously believe that the Basque leader would ask for her specifically. But it was nice that Edgar cared enough to think it possible. She looked around once more.

  Aaron and Solomon had approached the leader. The guards didn’t lower their weapons. They had been hired to defend the pilgrims and traders and were glad to have the chance to prove their worth. Their eagerness for battle seemed to give the Basques great amusement.

  There was a brief conversation among the men, then nods of agreement. Aaron and Solomon went back to their groups to report.

  “He says—” Solomon raised his voice enough that Brother James could hear as well “—he says that he has protected us from Roncesvalles to this river, which is the end of his territory. He has kept all his friends and cousins from robbing us, slitting our throats and stealing our women. This was harder than he expected and therefore he wants another ten metcales before he’ll let us cross.”

  He stopped and waited for the uproar. To his astonishment, there was none. Griselle sighed and reached for the purse hung around her neck. Hubert reached for his also. Roberto fumbled in the bag at his belt, knowing that he had little to give but determined to contribute. Gaucher and Rufus conferred and then brought out their offering. Aaron was taking the collection from the resigned merchants. Only Brother James and the monks made no move to add a coin.

  “These men call themselves Christians,” James muttered. “They think that a poached deer can buy their way into heaven, then they turn around and steal from the Church and honest pilgrims. I will not add to such blatant hypocrisy.”

  Solomon ignored him, taking t
he money from those who offered and giving it to Aaron to count.

  While they were waiting for permission to continue their journey, Brother James took the opportunity to lead his horse down to the river to drink. Catherine watched, waiting for someone to stop him. All the others assiduously looked the other way.

  “Edgar, remember what they told us about the river?” Catherine whispered, “say something. The horse has done nothing wrong.”

  “Perhaps he’ll drink it himself.”

  “Edgar! He’s a man of God!”

  “I think God should have something to say about that,” Edgar answered. “Yes, yes, I’m going.”

  He started to follow the monk to the river but saw that Gaucher had preceded him. The knight was as shocked as Catherine had been, and for the same reason.

  “Whatever you think of the man,” he was fuming, “you don’t harm his horse.”

  He caught at the bridle and jerked it back just as Brother James reached the river.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” James shouted, relieved to yell at someone.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Gaucher shouted back. “Don’t you see the bones? The water here is poison. The Navarrese make a living off stupid pilgrims like you.”

  James glared up at the people watching the scene. He noted Edgar halfway down the slope and the rest simply staring.

  “They all knew, didn’t they?” he said softly. “They were hoping I would drink and die as well.” His jaw tightened, then he took a deep breath. “I shall pray for them anyway, of course. And for you, Gaucher of Macon. Thank you.”

  He returned to his place in the procession, looking at no one. His face was expressionless. Catherine felt a sudden pity for him. She tried to suppress it. He had chosen to be what he was. But why? If only she knew what had brought about his conversion. James did not act like a man who had received divine grace and found peace; he was more as one who had always been fleeing from demons and hoped they couldn’t find him at Cluny. But he was unprotected now, and the demons were catching up to him.

  Perhaps that was what had caused these deaths. Servants of Satan were everywhere, it was said. In this wilderness, Catherine could almost hear the whir of their leathery wings. Her fingers touched the ornate ivory cross around her neck. No demons, please, she prayed.

  The transaction with the Basques completed, the leader motioned for the band to step aside to let the party cross the river. It made Catherine nervous to feel them watching her as she passed by. She kept her eyes on the stones of the bridge.

  As they reached the other side, there was a commotion behind them. Catherine turned around to see Solomon with his knife out, the point just touching underneath the chin of one of the Basques. Four others of the band were standing around him, knives out, ready to strike.

  “What happened?” Catherine cried.

  “That man came up behind Mondete and tried to find out what was under the cloak,” Hersent answered. “I never even saw Solomon draw the knife. I imagine the Basque didn’t either.”

  Solomon didn’t react at all to the weapons nearly touching his skin. The Basque leader watched but gave no order. On the other side of the river, Hubert and Eliazar hesitated, knowing that Solomon would be dead before they could reach him. It seemed they would stand like that forever.

  Mondete had been startled by the man trying to pull up her skirt. She had spun around to stop him, then been even more surprised at Solomon’s response.

  Now she was angry. She turned with her back to the pilgrims and faced the assembled men. Her fury was so forceful that slowly they were compelled to turn their eyes from Solomon and look at her.

  “Curious, were you?” she said. “Of course. Why should you be different from any of the others? Very well. Why not? I’ll show you. Just release my idiot protector.”

  They didn’t understand her, but her next gesture was clear. She undid the brooches and opened her cloak.

  After one glance at the scars on her body, Solomon looked away. The Basques lowered their knives, unable to look anywhere else. Some blessed themselves as they backed off the bridge to their own side of the river. Mondete refastened the cloak.

  “Happy?” she asked tightly. “Was it worth the trouble? Avoutres! I curse you all! May your eyes burn forever, sleeping and waking. May you never find tears or salve to cool them. May all those you love run from you in fear of the flames in your wicked eyes!”

  She didn’t bother to see what they did next, but took Solomon’s hand and led him away.

  “When will you learn,” she muttered when they had reached safety, “that I have no honor to defend?”

  “Yes you do,” he answered. “And if God allowed that to be done to you, then He’s the one who should ask for forgiveness.”

  Mondete stopped. “Even among Jews,” she said carefully, “I believe that idea is considered blasphemy.”

  Solomon’s head went up sharply. He reached out and lifted the folds of her hood so that he could see her face. She didn’t stop him but fixed his eyes with the flames in her own. They stood thus for a long minute, then Solomon blinked and exhaled.

  “So that’s why,” he said. “This is your final test of God.”

  “Yes,” she answered. “And you?”

  He nodded slowly. “Yes. I hadn’t realized it, but yes, that’s what this is for me as well.”

  He lowered the hood, wrapping her once again in mystery. They started walking.

  Everyone else had already turned away.

  It was insane, Catherine thought, that they simply kept moving. No matter what happened or who died, they all moved on, drawn by some tidal force to reach the shrine of Saint James. She knew it was essential that they get there, but she couldn’t think of anything beyond arriving. She tried to imagine Paris, her home, the child they wanted so much, but the images were vague and distant, with no emotions attached.

  “Have we all died and not noticed?” she asked Edgar. “Things happen and we simply shrug and go on. What’s wrong with us?”

  “The wind,” Edgar said. “It’s so hot. It scorches the thoughts out until there’s nothing left but the dust and the sun and the road. Even in my sleep, I hear it.”

  So it wasn’t just her. Everyone was exhausted, constantly whipped by the weather, never in the same place long enough to rest. And tonight they would be in Estella, another place she had never heard of, in another hostel with dirty straw for a bed. Catherine knew she should make the discomforts an offering to the saint, endured in his name, but even her soul had gone numb.

  They kept on walking.

  Griselle forced her back to straighten. She had never in her life ridden astride for so long. It jarred her spine and made her legs ache. But if her suffering would lead to peace for Bertran’s soul, then she was prepared to suffer. Not for one moment could she forget the purpose of her journey. She didn’t worry about what would happen after Compostela. After that, nothing else mattered.

  “Are you well, my lady?”

  Griselle gave Hubert a wan smile. “Yes, certainly,” she told him. “A little worn, as are we all, but nothing more. I should be asking you the same thing. You’ve had more worries than I.”

  Hubert was touched by the concern in her eyes. “The accusation of those knights is not serious,” he said. “Even if the jongleur gives witness that he saw a ring in my possession, they found nothing when they searched me. And you have said that you didn’t see it. Your word will carry more weight than Roberto’s … unless you think that I’ve bewitched you.”

  She laughed. “Gaucher and Rufus would like to believe that. Anything to explain why I refuse their advances.”

  It was on the edge of his tongue to ask if she would refuse his, but Hubert stopped himself just in time. Griselle tolerated him because he wasn’t of her rank. Any improper behavior on his part would result in immediate action by her guards. There was nothing more to it, he told himself severely.

  And yet she hadn’t been repulsed on the discovery
of his ancestry. Could it be that she was fond enough of him to ignore it?

  He wished she would give him some sign.

  The hot wind sapped them more than the cold rain of the north had. By the time they arrived at Estella, everyone was parched inside and out. Catherine felt as if her lungs had been put through a tannery. All she wanted was to immerse herself in liquid.

  Edgar’s mind had fixed on liquid as well, but he was hoping it would be fermented.

  “Do you know what I would like?” he murmured. “To stay in a house in a real bed with sheets and a mattress instead of straw and a blanket. I want to eat from a loaf that hasn’t gone stale and maggoty. I want a cup of wine that isn’t tanning fluid or vinegar. Beer is too much to hope for. I want a hot soak in a deep tub with you.”

  Catherine smiled and took his hand. “You might as well wish we were back in Paris, for all the good it will do.”

  From the distance, the town of Estella looked much like the others they had passed through. It was set half on a crag and half by the river below. There were the towers of churches and fortifications. As they approached, Catherine hoped for no more than a flat place without vermin where she could lie undisturbed.

  The first indication that something was different was when the guard at the gate hailed them in French.

  “Òc plan!” he shouted in Occitan; then, “Halt! Welcome, pilgrims! The citizens of Estella wish you godspeed on your journey and invite you to share their homes and meals. The burgo franco is just down the street of San Martin. Keep your eyes on the church above and you’ll run right into it.”

  The guard assessed the composition of the group with practiced skill. “The Jewish quarter is on the other side of town, on the hill below the castle. And for you monks, black monks are you? The canons at the church will welcome you as they did your abbot, Peter, who passed through here but a few days ago and will await you at the abbey of Santa Maria in Najera.”