The Wandering Arm: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  “You think it may not have been stolen?” Hubert asked.

  Hervé sighed again. “Perhaps, perhaps not. You know as well as I do, Hubert, that such things are sold or pawned often enough. Some priests are venal, others care more for feeding the poor than having splendid vessels for the altar. If they must find a way to save their flock in time of famine, they might prefer to trade the fine church treasures for food. If that is what happened, then we may never discover where it came from. I’m only relieved that this hasn’t been dismantled, like the pieces the man, Natan, tried to sell me. You should warn Baruch that traders such as he can only bring trouble on his people.”

  “Baruch knows that well, Prior Hervé,” Hubert assured him.

  Hervé lifted the chalice and examined the stem. “Was there anything else found with it?” he asked.

  “It was in a sack of grain,” Hubert told him. “Nothing but that. What else were you thinking of, the paten?”

  At first the prior seemed not to be disposed to answer him. Then he leaned closer and whispered, “There have been rumors that the altar vessels of the churches are not all that is being traded recently.” His voice tightened in horror. “I have heard that the blessed saints themselves are being kidnapped from their homes and their reliquaries, even their holy bodies, violated and broken into pieces by soulless demons in the form of men.”

  “How can that be?” Hubert asked. “The saints protect their relics, don’t they, as they do the churches where they are venerated? Would not any man who committed such an act be struck down at once?”

  Hervé nodded. “I would have thought so. Perhaps the saints have allowed it as a punishment on their congregations for not caring for them properly. They may be using these thieves in their search for a more worthy resting place. But I feel it is sacrilege all the same.”

  “So do I,” Hubert agreed. “And I want no part in such matters. If the saints wish to find new homes, I hope they never ask my aid in transporting them.”

  The prior was quiet a moment, his lips pursed in heavy consideration. “And yet,” he said slowly, “if they did ask, we could hardly dare to refuse them.”

  He stared at Hubert as if sizing him up for the Last Judgment.

  Hubert felt a sense of disquiet in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with the bread and cheese resting there. He knew well that Abbot Suger believed that any treasure that came to Saint-Denis was intended to be there by the grace of God and Saint Denis himself, who naturally desired the further glory of his abbey and of France. If a valuable relic were brought to his door, no argument would convince Suger that it was as a result of the larceny of men rather than the will of the saint in question.

  “My Lord Prior.” Hubert held his hands up to ward off any request. “I am only a simple merchant. I buy wine and spices and occasionally agree to carry a few small trinkets out of respect for the good abbot. I’m sure none of the saints would consider me worthy of their notice. I would not so presume.”

  “Your humility honors you, Hubert.” Prior Hervé folded his hands across his robe and smiled. “But, as we know, God often chooses the most humble of his children to serve him.”

  There was a rumble from Hubert’s bowels. “I beg your pardon, Prior Hervé,” he said quickly. However, he fully agreed with his inner opinion. Still, there was nothing left but to face the inevitable. “I am, of course, always at the service of Our Lord. I seek only to serve him through serving you and Abbot Suger, his good servants.”

  “Nicely put,” the prior said. “There is something more you should be aware of. We have had word from Archbishop Hugh of Rouen that one of the priests of his diocese was found murdered recently, his throat cut by brigands on the road.”

  Hubert crossed himself. It was the fear of every merchant. “The poor man!” he said. “But what has that to do with us?”

  “The archbishop has given me to understand that this priest, a Father Geronce, was carrying something of great value with him at the time, something that had been taken by stealth from the church of Salisbury and that he had vowed to deliver safely to Archbishop Hugh.”

  Hubert’s eyes flickered toward the chalice.

  “Yes.” Hervé nodded. “I believe that may come from the same hoard. It has the look of English work. Archbishop Hugh believes those who attacked the priest knew what he carried. Father Geronce was traveling with another man, a canon of Paris, as I understand.”

  “Was it he who reported the theft?” Hubert asked.

  “No, the man has vanished,” Hervé replied. “Whether he has also been killed or is instead in league with the brigands, I have no guess. Warn your friend Baruch of this.”

  “I’m sure Baruch would have no dealings with murderers or thieves,” Hubert insisted.

  “Perhaps not,” Hervé said. “But his people do not respect our holy things and many of them have a great resentment toward all Christians. He should be reminded of the tolerance we of Saint-Denis have shown the Jews, allowing them to flourish in our midst.”

  Hubert forced his teeth to unclench. “I will do so,” he said and bowed.

  “Thank you.” Hervé smiled. “And we shall be sure to remember you in our prayers. Now I sense that you are eager to be about your business. Thank you for your honesty in bringing this to me. I will let you know if I find the true owner. If it is from Salisbury, the archbishop may decide to reward you for your help.”

  Hubert rose and made his way from the prior’s house, through the gate and out into the courtyard between the row of smaller churches and the looming grandeur of the half-finished abbey church. The narthex of Saint-Denis had been dedicated with great ceremony last summer and the work on the choir begun soon after. Now construction had been halted for the winter, but even incomplete, the church seemed too powerful for him. Hubert hunched his shoulders and quickened his pace toward the gateway. He pulled his cloak more tightly and bent his head into the wind. They would find him out one day; he knew they would.

  He cringed inside his cloak. The air crying through the towers reminded him of the screams of his sisters and his mother as the crusaders dragged them away to be slain. The people of Rouen had done nothing to save his family from the soldiers of God. Only he had been spared, hidden by a neighbor to whom he had run for help. The family had adopted him, baptized him, changed his name and raised him to be a good Christian merchant.

  What would his mother say to him, if she knew he had remained with the people who murdered her? Her martyred soul must cry out every time he denied his faith.

  “Lord, forgive me,” he whispered.

  The feeling of impending doom lay on him until he was back within the walls of Baruch’s home.

  “What’s wrong?” Baruch’s wife asked, as she took his cloak and handed it to a maid. “Did the prior accuse you of stealing from the church?”

  “No, no, everything is fine,” Hubert answered. “I’m just tormented by the weather and my stomach.”

  “Ah, if that’s all, I can help you,” she said. “There’s a fine pot of fish soup hanging above the fire at this very moment. I’ll have some sent to you. Baruch is waiting upstairs to speak with you. Solomon is still with him.”

  “Thank you.” He made an effort to smile. It was not as difficult as he had feared.

  “May the Almighty One bless you,” Baruch said perfunctorily as Hubert entered. “Well, what did the prior say?”

  “He’s worried about holy objects being stolen and traded,” Hubert answered. “He said you should concern yourself with Natan’s activities.”

  “Does he think the community here would engage in the kind of business that one does!” Baruch rose angrily.

  “Sit down,” Hubert said calmly. “No, he gave no indication that he had anything but respect for you. He only implied that anything Natan did would reflect on all of us … you, I mean.”

  “As if I didn’t know that already.” Baruch shook his head.

  The maid came in with a tray. On it was the soup f
or Hubert and cups of cider for all three men. They waited until she had left. Hubert drained his mug before he spoke again.

  “What rumors have you heard, Baruch?” he asked. “Why is Natan, who is corrupt but neither brave nor very lucky, suddenly appearing with pearls and golden chains? This is a man who buys cows and horses from raiders who live in the forests and have no more need for churches than we do. Who has hired him and why?”

  “If I knew that, Hubert,” Baruch answered, “I could start sleeping at night instead of lying awake worrying and listening to my hair falling out onto the pillow.” He rubbed the top of his head, where the hair had long ago completed its exodus. “But I have heard that Natan has been seen coming and going with great regularity”—he paused, took a deep breath, and continued—“from your brother’s house.”

  Now Hubert stood in anger, splashing the soup over his legs as he rose. “How dare you say that my brother would have anything to do with that mamzer!” he shouted. “Eliazar is a pious man. He gives more than his allotment to the community. He reads the Law three hours every day. Even the parnas of Paris comes to consult with him. Of all the men I know, he is the most righteous. Didn’t he take in and raise Solomon when his father was lost to us? He even sheltered my daughter and her English husband at the risk of his own life. He was under no commandment to help them. I will hear nothing against Eliazar!”

  He sat down again, arms folded, and looked away from the others.

  Baruch started to defend himself, but Solomon motioned to him to wait.

  They waited.

  After a moment, Hubert uncrossed his arms. “So,” he said. “What should we do about it?”

  “Well.” Baruch leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Solomon and I do have a plan. Solomon says this English boy is uncommonly good with his hands for a nobleman. Is that true?”

  “He carves bits of wood,” Hubert admitted. “I never really noticed.”

  “You should,” Solomon said. “He once managed to convince the sculptors of Saint-Denis that he could carve stone.”

  “Did he?” Hubert asked. “I had forgotten that. That’s right. It was here that he met my Catherine.”

  The memory did not seem to enchant him.

  “Nevertheless,” Baruch continued, “if he could fool the craftsman here, he must be very good. What I want to know is, how grateful is he to Eliazar for saving his life?”

  Catherine was delighted with her rose.

  “Is there something inside it?” she asked.

  Like Marie, she had the sense that within the wooden petals there was a genuine flower.

  “There will be, someday,” Edgar said. “I promise.”

  He bent to kiss her. “Oh, Catherine, don’t start crying again.”

  “I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “I don’t mean to. It’s lying here all day with nothing to do but think. If you could get me a book, maybe a good commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, I would stop this brooding.”

  “In this place, carissima, it would be easier to find you a real rose.”

  “Then tell me a story,” she said. “One of those from your land. You know, the ones with battles and dragons and such.”

  “They never sound the same in your language,” Edgar complained.

  “Then tell me a bit in yours,” she said.

  He thought a moment. “I know.” He sat down cross-legged beside the bed, leaned his head against her and began reciting:

  “Ongin mere secan, maewas ethel,

  onsite saenacan, thaet thu suth heonan

  ofer merelade, monnan findest.”

  “I like that,” Catherine said. “It has a lot of those odd blowing sounds. What does it mean?”

  “It’s part of a story—well, a letter, really, from a man who’s been exiled, asking his wife to come to him. ‘Follow me, across the ocean, the home of the gulls, over the seaway. South from here, you will find your husband,’” he translated. “But that’s not exactly it. You don’t have enough words for water in French.”

  “There does seem to be a lot of it in all your stories,” Catherine said. “Did she go to him?”

  “The story doesn’t say. What do you think?”

  “I think she did,” Catherine answered.

  She let her fingers slip though his long, pale hair. Would their daughter have had hair like his and eyes the color of storm clouds? Would she have learned to pronounce those funny “eth” sounds?

  “Edgar, I think I could bear it if only she had lived to be baptized,” she blurted. “I keep imagining her like that man in your other story, who wandered all alone over the seas with no kin and no one to care for him. It’s not right.”

  Edgar took her hand. “I know. I feel that way, too. But we must try to accept it, even if we don’t understand.”

  There was a thumping on the stairs and a wheezing. Edgar got up quickly as the midwife came in to see how Catherine was doing.

  “I’m leaving,” he said before she could start.

  “I should hope so,” the woman grunted. “I hear you’re some sort of scholar, like they have in Paris. Is that why you’ve nothing better to do than come up here and worry your wife?”

  She looked at him in disgust. Edgar could guess what she’d heard about the scholars of Paris. She seemed about to say more, but turned instead to Catherine.

  “Better today, dear?” she asked. “Your color is back some. You haven’t been crying again?”

  She glared at Edgar.

  “What have you been saying to the poor thing?” she demanded.

  “He said nothing,” Catherine told her. “It hurts us both very much that the child didn’t live long enough to be baptized.”

  “Not baptized?” the midwife asked. “Who told you that?”

  “She was stillborn,” Edgar said. “Marie told me she was dead when she appeared. How could she … .?”

  “What do you learn in Paris, then?” the midwife asked. “The child was wiggling when I turned it. As soon as that little foot appeared, I dipped my hand in the holy water Father Anselm gave me and said as I pushed it around, ‘Child of God, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. May Satan never claim thee.’ Just as I was taught.”

  “You did?” Edgar and Catherine spoke together, so pleadingly that the midwife softened to them.

  “You poor children,” she said. “I will take an oath on it, if you like. Here you’ve been harrowing your souls and all you had to do was ask me. That’s a penance for pride, that is.”

  “It is, indeed!” Edgar said and, to her great astonishment, he grabbed the old woman and kissed her. “I am well and truly penitent. Thank you.”

  Catherine was trying without success not to start crying again. She felt as if there had been a thick pillow pressing down on her, smothering her, and then all at once it had been released. She took a deep breath.

  You see? the voices were smug. We told you to have faith.

  She was so relieved, she let them gloat.

  Three

  Paris, the home of Eliazar, scholar and merchant, Feast of Saint Timothy, follower of Saint Paul, Friday afternoon, January 24, 1141/13, Shebat, 4901

  shelo’ lekach genivat gabbea’ veto’evah u-begadin tzeva’im vesefen tefillot ’avodah zaah ve-kol meshamsheyah mashum sekenah.

  [one should] not buy a stolen chalice or cross or ecclesiastical garb, or prayer books of foreign worship or any of the ritual implements, because of the danger.

  —Takkanah of R. Jacob Tam

  “You have a visitor,” Eliazar’s wife, Johannah, told him. “I’ve put him in the entryway.”

  “A visitor? Now?” Eliazar asked. “But it’s almost Shabbat. And you didn’t ask him to join our Sabbath meal? Is he Christian?”

  “You know I keep special dishes for our Christian guests,” Johannah reminded him. “I would not be so rude as to send them away without at least offering to share our meal. No, it’s Natan again, with his oily hair and beard and that smile that makes me want to
lock up all the serving girls.”

  Eliazar laughed. “Charity, my dear. He is one of us, and we owe him an invitation, even if his appearance doesn’t please you.” Or me, he added to himself.

  “But if you hurry your business with him, he can be out well before sundown and celebrate Shabbat with his own family,” Johannah said. “Go on now.”

  She gave his shoulder a gentle push. With a sigh, he rose from his chair and went down to greet his visitor.

  Johannah was not so unmindful of her duty as a hostess to simply leave Natan shivering in the entry. She had set him down next to a brazier of hot coals set on an iron tripod and given him a measure of warmed spiced beer. All the same, the man was not happy about being left outside the main part of the house. He stood as soon as Eliazar came down, and not out of respect.

  “What sort of welcome is this?” he demanded. “Am I, a brother, to be left here in the cold? You wouldn’t even treat an Edomite beggar like this.”

  Eliazar spread his hands in apology. “What can I do, Natan? When Johannah starts cleaning for the Sabbath, even I am forced to do business in the street.”

  Privately, he was glad he had such a strong-willed wife. In the times Natan had eaten with them, he had criticized the purity of the food, the quality of the dishes and the conversation. His beard and hair were shiny with perfume and oil, like the men of the court whom he imitated. His surcoat was embroidered with sleeves slashed in the latest fashion also. These manners had been brought to Paris four years ago, along with the new queen from Aquitaine, Eleanor, and were considered terribly sophisticated in some circles.

  Eliazar had no use for those who aped the behavior of the southerners. In this he was not alone. There had been numerous sermons by the Christian priests against the frivolity of the court, not least those preached by the influential abbot of Clairvaux, Bernard. But the sale of perfume and scented oil continued to rise all the same.