The Wandering Arm: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  One of the other men whispered something in Abraham’s ear. The old man nodded.

  “Eliazar,” he said, “your argument with Natan was heard by your neighbors.”

  “How could they not have heard?” Eliazar said. “The man was mad, screaming at me. But it was because I wouldn’t do what he wanted.”

  “This business that you won’t discuss with your friends and brethren,” Abraham began. “It was something Natan did know about, is that correct?”

  Sadly, Eliazar nodded. “I didn’t tell him at first, but you know how he was. He guessed the truth.”

  “And this truth that Natan ben Judah knew,” Abraham continued, his voice growing louder, like a threatening wind, “this thing so terrible that you hide it from your own people, might it not have been information that Natan ben Judah would feel worth selling to others? Or demand that you pay him not to tell?”

  Eliazar thought about that. It was strange. The oddest thing of all, really, considering the kind of man Natan had been. “He never asked me for money to hold his tongue,” Eliazar said. “Even in his wild temper, he never threatened me with that. Perhaps Natan had his own sort of honor.”

  Abraham looked sorrowfully at his former pupil. “Before Natan was buried, Elhanan, the physician, examined him,” he said. “He is quite certain that the death was from poison, although he is unsure of the type. Some form of solenum, he fears. The man died in your house, Eliazar.”

  “Yes!” Eliazar shouted. “I know that! But he didn’t eat here. I don’t know who killed him or how he made his way to my storeroom. I have no answers for you. Do you intend to accuse me of murdering him? Perhaps you’d like to hang me next to the road for all the Christians to see?”

  Eliazar’s neighbor, Joseph, stepped forward. “None of us believes you could murder anyone,” he told Eliazar firmly. “Even one such as Natan. But you have a Christian partner and his daughter is often in your home. This is dangerous enough, but we understand. Many of us have friends among the Edomites and we all have to live in their midst. Now Menahem has been attacked and threatened and he says it was by Christian men. What are we to think?”

  “Whatever you like,” Eliazar said wearily. “I’ve told you all I can. But may I be forced to spend the rest of my life among monks if Hubert had any part in what happened to Menahem. He is an honest man.”

  “I don’t know if that will satisfy Menahem,” Abraham told him. “But I am inclined to trust you for now. What do the others say?”

  He turned to the men behind him. They nodded, some more reluctantly than others. Eliazar knew he had only been given time, not exoneration.

  “I will go to Hubert at once,” he told them. “He knows what calumny such as this can do. He’ll wish to find out who really sent those men to Menahem’s.”

  “If this business of yours has dragged us into the quarrels of the Christians,” Abraham warned, “you may find that only the monks will have you.”

  That same afternoon Hubert was standing on a quai near the monastery of Argenteuil, several twisty miles down the Seine from Paris. He was arranging for the shipment of wine from last year’s pressing. Abbot Suger was particularly fond of the red wine made by the Cistercians from their vines at the source of the river Vouge. The barrels had to be transported overland to Dijon, then to Troyes, then down the Seine, passing through enough different lands to more than quadruple the cost by the time all the tolls and travel expenses had been paid. Hubert admitted, though, that whatever the trouble it took, the abbot never questioned the price.

  The wine was usually unloaded at the Port Saint-Denis, where the Croult emptied into the Seine. But Hubert had been instructed to bring some of the barrels here to Argenteuil, another long loop down the river, for the use of the monks there. The priory of Argenteuil had been a convent from the time of the Merovingians, but was now occupied by monks from Saint-Denis. Catherine had more words than Hubert cared to hear about the manner in which Suger had acquired Argenteuil and all its property. But it did provide a convenient place to unload goods for the abbey that were being brought upstream from Rouen.

  Hubert was very sorry that Héloïse and the other nuns had been forced to find new homes when Suger had pressed the abbey’s claim, but he had heard rumors at the time that the sisters had not been living chaste and holy lives and therefore deserved the expulsion. And as for Catherine’s insistence that the charters the abbot used to prove his ancient rights were forgeries, well, that was for scholars to decide. If the pope believed them genuine, then who was he to argue?

  The cellarer of Argenteuil was a most meticulous man who didn’t seem to mind standing about for hours in a damp wind checking the mark on each barrel and sampling to be sure the contents matched the mark. Hubert might have felt more sympathy if he had thought the man a secret tippler, but Brother Jonas only sniffed and sipped the wine. The red in his cheeks was from the cold, which he must feel even more than Hubert, as he was wearing only a woolen cloak over his habit and sandals with no hose.

  Finally the monk replugged the last spigot, put his own mark on the last barrel and announced to Hubert that he was satisfied.

  “As I’m sure the prior will be, and Abbot Suger, when he visits,” Hubert said. “I’m surprised that his own cellarer isn’t here to supervise. Brother Michael usually prefers to take care of the shipment himself.”

  “Brother Michael is in the abbey infirmary.” Brother Jonas sniffed disapprovingly. Hubert wasn’t sure it was because the question might be construed as an insult or if the monk was contemptuous of those who gave in to the weakness of their bodies.

  “This is a hard time of year,” Hubert said. “Paris resounds with the noise of coughing. I’ve taken to wearing a bag of herbs to ward off the sickness myself. I pray Brother Michael will soon recover.”

  “That’s as God wills, of course,” Brother Jonas answered. “But I understand his condition is not serious. He should soon be able to resume his duties.”

  “It is kind of you to take them on, in addition to your own.” Hubert knew he had offended the man and tried to make amends.

  “I do as my abbot requests,” Brother Jonas said. “All my work is an offering to Our Lord, no matter what form it takes.”

  “Of course,” Hubert said, but the answer puzzled him. Was the man saying that manual labor was as good an offering as prayer and ritual? Hubert knew that. The priests of Paris seemed to take that theme for half their sermons. But the emphasis Brother Jonas had placed on the last sentence seemed to imply something that he thought Hubert should understand. No matter what?

  Hubert took a deep breath and let the cold air clear his head. He’d been brooding too much on secrets lately, until every sentence appeared to have at least three meanings. Why should Brother Jonas’s words be more than they appeared?

  He bid the monk farewell and went to the ostler’s to get his horse. He had accompanied the wine from just above Paris, paying and negotiating its way downriver. Now that the carting of it was no longer his responsibility, he planned to ride as quickly as he could to Vielleteneuse and spend an evening playing with his grandchildren.

  Guillaume had sent two of his men to guard Hubert on the journey. Hubert appreciated his son’s thoughtfulness but felt it was not really necessary. The road from Argenteuil to Vielleteneuse was well protected by the dependents of the abbey.

  So he was not at all pleased to find a third man waiting to accompany him.

  “Jehan!”

  The knight had been lounging against the wall of the stables but stiffened immediately at Hubert’s voice.

  “What brings you here?” Hubert asked. “Who sent you?”

  “No one sent me,” Jehan answered, annoyed. “I was visiting Guillaume and heard you were coming. I thought you’d be glad of an extra sword.”

  Hubert tried to control his anger. After all, he only had Catherine’s impression that there was something between Jehan and Agnes. It wasn’t right to assume the worst and treat the man accordingly.r />
  “Yes, of course, very good of you,” he muttered. “I would be honored if you would ride with me. I’m sure you know all the news from Champagne and Blois. You can tell me what Count Thibault intends to do about his brother’s imprisonment by Empress Matilda.”

  Jehan smiled and bowed politely and, after a meal of hard bread crumbled in broth and a mug or two of beer, they set off. Hubert and Jehan rode in front; the other two guards followed at a great enough distance that they could trap anyone daring to attempt to leap from the woods and attack an unarmed merchant.

  Since the trees were still leafless, the likelihood of anyone doing this without being seen well in advance was remote. The men relaxed and passed a skin of beer back and forth to relieve the chill. They fell farther and farther behind Hubert and Jehan.

  Jehan noted this. He resolved to mention their laxity to Guillaume later. But for now, it was useful to him. There was a matter he needed to discuss with Hubert alone.

  Hubert seemed determined to learn all the news of England and Normandy first. “They say Geoffrey of Anjou is leaving a trail of ashes in his conquest of Normandy,” he was saying. “Is the devastation that bad? They also say Stephen is on the point of ceding it to the empress as his ransom. Can that be?”

  Jehan shrugged. “I haven’t been north in months,” he told Hubert. “Certainly Stephen has made enemies of his own people and Geoffrey has exploited that. As far as I know, no terms have been set to ransom the king. Nor has anyone approached Count Thibault to contribute to it.”

  “Odd,” Hubert mused. “I’ve never understood why Thibault refused the duchy of Normandy when it was offered him. He could have controlled the entire north of France and squeezed the Capets like a cluster of grapes in a press.”

  This was an old question and Jehan didn’t feel like pursuing it. He had no idea what was in the count’s mind. It wasn’t his job to. He simply went where he was told and fought whomever his lord was battling at the moment. And tried thereby to earn the reward of a piece of land of his own or even a castellany. Originally, he had hoped for an heiress to come with the property, but lately he had been trying to devise a plan that wouldn’t include such a drastic step. After all, Agnes would not be dowerless.

  “Master Hubert,” he began.

  At that moment a man leaped upon him from a branch overhanging the road. Jehan felt the weight on his back and the knife at his throat and cursed himself for ignoring a lifetime of training. He should have been automatically scanning the hedges and trees. Instead, his mind had been on Agnes. It seemed that both he and her father were about to pay for his lapse. He tried to reach for his own knife, but it was too late.

  Eliazar looked around nervously as he crossed the open space of the Grève, but no one seemed to be following him. Still, he couldn’t escape the feeling of being watched as he pulled on the bell rope at Hubert’s door. The slot in the door moved and a pair of young blue eyes stared up at him.

  “Good day, Ullo.” Eliazar was relieved that someone he knew was tending to the house this afternoon. “I’ve come to see your master. Is he in?”

  The boy moved the slot back and opened the door. Instead of letting Eliazar in, he leaned out.

  “Master’s gone downriver with the wine for the abbey,” he explained. “Be back in two or three days, most likely. There’s no one here now but my Lady Agnes.”

  “No one watching out for her?” Eliazar asked.

  “Me,” Ullo answered indignantly. “And she has her maid and Anna, who comes in by day to cook.”

  “Ullo, who is it?” Agnes’s voice came from somewhere above.

  “It’s Master Eliazar, come to talk with Master Hubert,” Ullo shouted up the stairs. “I’m telling him when to come back.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then Agnes appeared at the top of the steps.

  “Ask Master Eliazar if he would like a cup of something warm to drink before he leaves,” she said.

  Eliazar looked up in astonishment. He could only see her feet and the hem of her robe. He wished he had a view of her face. What was she thinking of? Both Hubert and Catherine had told him of Agnes’s reaction to the news of her ancestry. Well, he would find out nothing by refusing her offer.

  “Please tell your mistress that I would be most grateful for her hospitality,” he said to Ullo.

  He wondered if she would now have him sent round to the kitchen like a beggar. But no, Ullo was leading him up the stairs to the main hall. The fire in the hearth was bright and welcoming. Agnes went in and seated herself at a small table next to it. She motioned him to a stool on the opposite side.

  “Do your boots need drying?” she asked. “I can have someone attend to that while you have your drink. You may hang your gloves on the hook there. Do you prefer spiced cider or ale?”

  “Ale, if it’s convenient,” Eliazar answered. “My boots are dry enough, thank you.”

  She picked up a small bell from the table and rang it. Eliazar studied her as, he supposed, she was studying him.

  She wasn’t like Hubert at all. Or Catherine. Agnes was small and fair with a delicate nose and chin. It crossed his mind that perhaps Hubert had had nothing to do with the making of her, that Madeleine had deceived him. It might be a comfort to Agnes if she found out she was a bastard rather than the daughter of a Jew. Then she raised her chin and stared straight into his eyes and he knew she was in some way part of his family. It was just the look his own father had worn when he caught his children playing quoits when they were supposed to be studying their verses.

  Eliazar smiled. Agnes didn’t.

  “You know who I am,” she said.

  Her hands were laced tightly together in her lap, her knuckles white with the pressure.

  “Of course,” he said. “The daughter of my old friend, Hubert. I haven’t seen you since you were a little girl, so I’m sure you don’t remember me.”

  “No, I don’t” she said. “I do know that my father has had business dealings with you and that you have been partners in several of his trade journeys.”

  “That’s right,” he answered warily.

  Ullo entered and Agnes ordered him to bring the ale.

  “Shall I tell Humberga to come in and sit with you?” he asked.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Agnes told him. “She’s busy airing the mattresses to take with us to Vielleteneuse.” She turned back to Eliazar. “We plan to spend Eastertide with my brother, Guillaume,” she explained. “Do you know him, as well?”

  “We have met,” Eliazar answered. He felt her tension but knew of no way to help her.

  Her fingers twisted in her lap. She studied them a long time. Eliazar waited. Finally she seemed to come to a decision. She looked up at him.

  “I suppose you are some sort of relation of mine,” she said. Her eyes dared him to try to lie to her. He could do it no more than he ever had been able to lie to his father.

  “You are my niece,” he said softly. “Your father is my youngest brother.”

  Her face didn’t change, but her hands suddenly stopped moving and rested, palms up, limp in her lap.

  “My father always told us his family were all dead,” she said evenly. “That he had been taken in and raised by an elderly merchant of Rouen, who had no children.”

  “Did he tell you how this family died?” Eliazar asked.

  “No, but last year, Catherine did.” Agnes’s lips tightened. “She said they were murdered by the soldiers who had taken the cross to free Jerusalem. They reasoned that it was foolish to kill the infidel in the Holy Land and allow the infidel in their midst to live. I hadn’t known that happened in Rouen. I had only heard of the incidents in Germany.”

  Eliazar closed his eyes, remembering anew the devastation he had felt when the messenger came to Paris with the news. His mother and three sisters, all slaughtered. It was years before he learned that poor Hubert, a child of five at the time, had been taken in by old Milon, who had had him baptised and raised as his son.

&n
bsp; “My sister, Jochabed, was about your age then,” he said quietly. “She had just been betrothed.”

  “I don’t want to hear about her,” Agnes said. “She was a fool. She could have chosen baptism and life, both here and hereafter.”

  Eliazar rose. “Jochabed died a martyr in sanctification of the Holy Name. She is one of the righteous. Did you ask me up here to sneer at her sacrifice? Do you think only Christians are prepared to die for their faith?”

  Agnes stood also. “We die for the true faith,” she said. “You let yourselves be killed because you’re too stubborn to see what is obvious to the rest of us. You die blindly in the darkness. Your sister is in Hell.”

  Eliazar stepped toward her, his hand tensed to strike. She glared at him with defiance. She wanted him to hit her, he realized, so that she could prove she was as brave as Jochabed had been.

  Perhaps she was. Eliazar lowered his hand. Breathing as if he had just fought for his life, he stepped back and took his gloves from the hook over the hearth. He told himself that it wasn’t her fault. This was how she had been taught. The real miracle was Catherine, who loved him in spite of her upbringing.

  With all his heart Eliazar tried to pity Agnes, but all he could feel was abhorrence. “So do you now intend to destroy your father, by denouncing him to Bishop Stephen?” he asked.

  Agnes’s eyes opened wide. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “I couldn’t. The shame would be too great. No, I couldn’t betray my father, even though he has betrayed me. No. No, of course not.”

  She sat down again, suddenly a lost and frightened child. Eliazar could think of no comfort to give her. He wasn’t sure he wanted her to have any.

  He mumbled his thanks for the drink he hadn’t tasted, put on his gloves and left.

  The man shivering in the alley across from the house gave a sigh of relief and went after him. He was careful not to be seen, but it didn’t matter. Eliazar was too upset to notice.

  Eleven

  The tavern owned by Lucia’s mother, late afternoon, Monday, March 10, 1141/28, Adar, 4901