Meum est propositum in taberna mori, Ut sint vina proxima morientis ori. Tunc cantabunt laetis angelorum chori, “Sit deus propitius huïc potatori.
It is my intention to die in a tavern, and let the wine be near.
Then the choir of angels will sing with joy, “May god be
gracious to this drunkard.
—“Golias,” Carmina Burana
Solomon sat again with Catherine in a corner of the tavern. She was amusing herself picking the flakes out of the beer while they waited for Edgar.
“Why don’t you just strain them between your teeth like I do?” Solomon asked.
“I prefer knowing what’s going into my mouth before it’s too late,” Catherine said. “Bietrix, do you know what herbs your son put in the beer?”
The proprietor left her seat at the vat and came to sniff Catherine’s cup.
“Woodruff, I think,” she said. “Samson uses it in the mead, too. Of course, it might be borage, or bog myrtle. Hard to tell, once it’s all mixed in. Why? Don’t you like the taste?”
“No, it’s fine,” Catherine lied. “It’s just that I—”
They were interrupted by a shriek from the back room. Bietrix hurried to see what the problem was. Solomon wiggled uncomfortably.
“Your father may be right,” he told Catherine. “This isn’t a proper place for you.”
“I’m with you, aren’t I?” She answered. “No one has shown any interest in me at all. I wouldn’t come here alone. I do have some sense.”
Solomon thought about responding to that statement, but decided that she had enough to aggravate her at the moment.
The shutters of the tavern were open a crack to let in the brisk spring air. Catherine got up and looked out, noting how the sunlight was already gone from the narrow street. When she came back to her seat, she didn’t say anything, but her inner turmoil showed in the way she pursued the bits of herbs around the rim of her cup.
“Don’t worry,” Solomon said. “He’ll be here soon. The silversmith has never made him work past sundown yet.”
“I know,” Catherine told him. She continued fussing with the beer.
“I wish I could find out where that workshop is.” Solomon was becoming concerned, too. “It’s almost two weeks now and all I can figure out is where it isn’t. I’ve been around the wall of the cloister a dozen times and there’s no sign of a kiln. I wish I could get inside.”
“Edgar wants to ask Maurice to hunt for it,” Catherine said. “But we’re not sure yet how well we can trust him. He seems honest, but he’s also very grateful to the canons for taking him in.”
“Why would the canons of Notre Dame want or need to have a clandestine metal shop?” Solomon asked. “They can set one up quite legitimately to provide for the church.”
Catherine considered straining the herb flecks through her sleeve. It couldn’t make the beer taste any worse. This was not Samson’s best effort. She compromised by using the tip of the sleeve to skim the worst of whatever it was off the top.
“I don’t know the answer, Solomon,” she said. “I’m beginning to believe that we’ll never discover what Gaudry is making there or if he has anything to do with the relics stolen from Salisbury.”
She took another sip of the beer. It was beginning to taste better; the sleeve did help.
“At least Edgar is enjoying himself,” Solomon said.
In spite of her worry, Catherine smiled. “He’s burnt holes in every piece of clothing he owns,” she said. “His arms and back ache all night. His eyes are always red from the fumes. The work is never done to suit. He’s happier than I’ve ever seen him.”
“It’s unnatural.” Solomon swirled the last bit in his cup and drank it, flecks and all. He went to get some more.
What was keeping Edgar?
At about that same time, Eliazar was standing in the walled garden behind his house, head tilted up, searching the sky for the new moon, which would signal the beginning of the month of Nisan. He tried to keep his thoughts on the One who had created the moon, immutable, yet ever changing. How much he regretted not having the gift to understand the deep, mystical meanings behind the laws of the universe. He had tried to study the merkabah, the vision of Ezekial, and the books of the Hekhaloth, but he could not understand how a thing could be both large and small at the same time, nor find the meanings hidden in the words of the creation. In his study of the Torah, he only saw the peshat, the literal meaning of the words. He had not been granted the enlightenment needed to understand the mystical messages. In teaching men such as Brother Andrew, the peshat was all that was safe to expound, but Eliazar wished he had the gift to communicate more of the hidden, true sense.
He sighed. Perhaps not. There was danger in that as well, as he had found to his sorrow.
Somewhere someone was pounding on a door. Why didn’t anyone answer? The knocking was most insistent. Finally Eliazar realized that the reason no one opened the door was because the visitor was at his door and there was no one to answer. Lucia had gone home and Johannah to the mikvah to bathe. He hurried in through the house and flung the door open without bothering to look through the slot.
A woman stood before him, heavily veiled, accompanied by a boy of about eleven years of age whom Eliazar recognized at once. It was Ullo, Hubert’s page and errand runner.
He stared at the woman in astonishment. “Agnes?”
“Do you intend to humiliate me further,” she asked, “by keeping me standing here in the street under the eyes of all your neighbors?”
He stepped out of the way and Agnes entered, followed by Ullo. She lowered the veil and spoke before he could collect himself enough to offer her food or warmth.
“I have just had a messenger from the monastery of Argenteuil,” she said. “He told me that my father was attacked on the road shortly after leaving them yesterday.”
“Heaven protect us!” Eliazar exclaimed. “Is he badly hurt? Where were his guards?”
“He’s alive,” Agnes said. “Or was when the messenger left. As for the guards, I don’t know. He only said that Father had been hurt. The monks sent both to me and my brother, Guillaume, bidding us come at once.”
Her voice broke at the end. Eliazar was gratified to know that, despite her anger, she still had some feeling left for Hubert.
“Of course,” Eliazar said gently. “And you must do so. But it’s nearly dark. You can’t go tonight. I’ll find someone to take you at first light tomorrow. No, I’ll take you myself.”
“I have made my own arrangements,” Agnes told him. “That’s not why I’ve come here. It’s Catherine.”
“Catherine?” Eliazar asked. “She doesn’t know?”
“There was no way to tell her,” Agnes said. “I have no idea where to find her. I don’t even know where she’s living now.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Eliazar reached for his cloak. “At this time of day, she’ll be at Bietrix’s. Wait here and I’ll fetch her.”
“I will not wait here,” Agnes told him. “Tell me where this place is. Ullo and I will find her.”
Eliazar reminded himself that she was young and frightened. He answered her gently.
“It’s a tavern not far from here that the students frequent,” he explained. “Hubert would not approve of my letting you go there with only a child to protect you. The streets are dark now, the shops closed. You’ll be safe here. My wife will be back soon to see to you.”
“I do not wish to stay in your home,” Agnes said. “Nor do I want your wife anywhere near me. You people have nothing to do with me.” Her voice had an edge of hysteria.
Eliazar gave in. “You will then have to bear my company for a time, at least,” he said. “For you cannot go alone. Catherine and Edgar can see you back to your home.”
It was well past dark when Edgar finally arrived. Catherine and Solomon had already started on a bowl of soup. They were dipping crusts in it and sucking them when he walked in.
He slumped onto the benc
h and stared at the food, too tired to reach for it. Catherine took a piece of the soaked bread and held it to his mouth.
“Leoffedest,” she whispered. “What have they done to you?”
He wrapped his hand around hers and bit on the bread. Then kissed her greasy fingers.
“Hauling clay and charcoal all day,” he muttered. “Not to mention the buckets of horse dung. Up and down, from the river to the shop, through those cursed tunnels. He’s building a whole new oven. I’m surprised you knew me with this coating of dust and soot.”
“I recognized the braies,” Catherine said, running her fingers through his soot-streaked hair.
“The river?” Solomon leaned across the table, keeping his voice down. “Do you know what quai he’s using and where the tunnel comes out?”
“Yes, on the north side, above the bishop’s mill,” Edgar said. “We came up outside the cloister wall, but there are so many twists inside that I still can’t tell how far we really are from the workshop. Saint Winfrith’s death ship! I’m an artisan, not a pack mule. And those damn tunnels are so low! I must have cracked my head a dozen times against the beams in the roof. No wonder Odo is perpetually hunched.”
He pushed aside his hair to show the bruises on his forehead. Then he grinned ruefully.
“I’m not sure I really want to be an artisan, after all,” he said. “Unless I can start as master in my own studio. I think a pack mule must have a better life than I did today.”
“You don’t have to continue this,” Solomon told him. “We haven’t come any closer to finding the answer. It may be that Gaudry has nothing to do with the missing altar vessels or with this Saxon saint.”
Edgar took a drink from Catherine’s cup. The three of them huddled companionably over the soup bowl.
“I think he does,” Edgar insisted. “We were supposed to be crafting a chalice, much the same size as the one you found, Solomon. And Gaudry has orders for several other things, including something that requires gold leaf and fine glass, almost clear. Catherine, your cup is empty.”
Remembering how tired he was, she went and refilled it.
“Drink this one more slowly,” she warned him. “This brewing is bitter but very strong. Now, what happened?”
“Nothing,” Edgar said. “We had everything ready to begin when, as far as I can tell from Odo, who says little, and Gaudry, who mostly yells commands, something went wrong. Someone died suddenly. Without him, they can’t continue. He had something they need and now it’s lost. Not much to make a deduction from, is it?”
“Do you think the dead man is Natan?” Catherine asked.
Edgar shrugged. “They haven’t said a name. It might not be. He couldn’t have been the only man to die in Paris that week.”
“But we know he had a parcel that he wanted Uncle Eliazar to keep for him,” Catherine said. “And we think it was he that Maurice knocked over by the cloister. The man was carrying a bag that clanked. We know Natan had recently begun to deal in jewels and gold, and that his earlier trading had involved stolen goods.”
“The assumption is reasonable,” Edgar said. “But not conclusive. Is there any more soup?”
This time Solomon got up.
Catherine dipped the tip of her sleeve in the cup again. Edgar pulled it out with barely controlled annoyance.
“I don’t like the flavoring,” she explained. “Now what was I thinking of? You distracted me.”
“Sorry,” he said. “You play and I’ll fill my own cup.”
They had just settled down again when the door opened. None of them looked up. Most of the customers this time of night went directly back to the brothel.
Catherine smelled her perfume first. For a second, she thought it was her mother standing next to her. The scent was the same. She looked up.
“You are disgusting, Catherine!” Agnes greeted her. “Our father may be lying at the point of death and here you are, carousing in a tavern. Do you work here, too?”
“Agnes!” Catherine stood and reached out for her. Her sister pushed her away. “What’s this about Father?” Catherine asked. “What’s happened?”
“He’s been hurt, attacked on the road. We have to go to him at once,” Agnes said. “Despite what he’s done, he’s still my father and I know my duty. Do you?”
Solomon and Edgar stood, prepared to leave at once. Agnes regarded Edgar’s layers of filth with revulsion. Then she saw Solomon. She blinked. He smiled at her. He had a charming smile. Agnes didn’t return it. She looked back and forth between him and Catherine, noting the likeness.
When she spoke it was from between clenched teeth. “If you tell me this man is my brother,” she said, “I’m going to start screaming and I’m not going to stop.”
Hubert woke up in bed at the guesthouse at Argenteuil. He blinked several times in confusion. Hadn’t he been there yesterday morning? For a few seconds he wondered if the day before had been a dream. He remembered it in that fragmented way most dreams are recalled.
He tried to lift his head, then changed his mind. The effort sent arrows of pain through his neck and jaw. A hand touched his forehead.
“Don’t try to move, Father,” Guillaume said. “You’ll tear the bandages.”
“Guillaume, why are you here? What happened?” Hubert asked. “Where’s Jehan?”
“You were attacked by a couple of starving ribaux,” Guillaume told him. “The idiots only had short knives. It appears that they planned to fall onto you both from the trees simultaneously, but only one hit his target. The other missed you entirely, landed in the road and broke his back.”
“And the first?” Hubert asked.
“You don’t remember?” Guillaume said. “He landed on Jehan and prepared to cut his throat. You stabbed him in the side with your meat knife.”
“I did?” Hubert said. It didn’t sound like something he would do.
“You saved Jehan’s life.” Guillaume chuckled. “Of course, he may yet die of embarrassment. When his friends learn that the man he was to protect defended him, he’ll be unable to show his face at a tournament for months, perhaps forever. “The guards I sent are going to be digging middens and hauling firewood for some time, as well,” he added. “They never should have let you get so far ahead of them. If those villeins had been any smarter or less hungry, they could have slit both your throats before help arrived.”
“It would have been pointless,” Hubert said. “I was carrying nothing of value.”
“Father,” Guillaume sighed, “You are wearing a gold chain of membership in the marchands de l’eau, as well as two rings, one with a fairly good ruby, and a fur-lined cloak and boots. They would have killed you for the last alone.”
“I see. Well, I’m glad they didn’t. Now, why do I ache so?” Hubert asked.
“Your horse wasn’t pleased by all the noise, as far as I’ve been able to learn from Jehan,” Guillaume answered. “You struck Jehan’s assailant, the man turned to strike back at you, both of you overbalanced. At the same time, your horse decided it was time to run. He threw you in the road, where you landed on top of the thief. The monks thought at first that you’d broken your arm, but it seems merely to be bruised and swollen.”
“What happened to these clumsy thieves?” Hubert wanted to know.
Guillaume snorted. “My brave knights finished them off. Since both were by then unarmed, one shrieking in agony from the pain in his back and the other squealing from the sticking you’d given him, I can’t consider it a brave deed. Father Anselm asked me to consult with the prior while I was here about appropriate penances for them.”
“Starving, were they?” Hubert asked.
“It’s been a hard winter, Father,” Guillaume said. “But they were outlaws already or they would have come to the abbey or to one of the castellans for alms. Don’t concern yourself with them. My men should do penance for making them die unshriven, but they would have ended on the gallows anyway.”
Hubert sighed. He supposed so and good
riddance to them. Half his expenses were to protect his goods from robbers on the journey. But he would have felt more heroic if the villeins had been more evil and less desperate.
The infirmarian from the priory came in to see how Hubert was doing. Guillaume started to leave, then turned back.
“I should warn you, Father,” he said, “that the prior sent word of your accident to Paris as well as to Vielleteneuse.”
Hubert groaned. “Then Catherine knows of this? She’ll be worried. Did you send someone to tell her I was fine?”
“They didn’t go to Catherine, but to the house on the Grève,” Guillaume explained. “The prior didn’t know that Mother no longer lived there. Agnes sent a reply that she was coming at once. But I doubt she can be here before tomorrow morning.”
“Agnes is coming here?” Hubert said. “Do you think she’s forgiven me?”
“Since I don’t know what you did that she wouldn’t forgive, I have no idea,” Guillaume told him. “Neither one of you will talk about it. I don’t know why I should be left out of a family fight.”
“Agnes feels I didn’t treat your mother well,” Hubert equivocated.
“Nonsense,” Guillaume said. “I believe Agnes is angry because you haven’t married her off yet to a count or a duke. Get the girl a husband, Father. There’s nothing wrong with her that can’t be cured by a firm hand. I’ll help you look.”
With that the infirmarian took Guillaume’s arm and guided him from the room, leaving Hubert to reflect upon his injuries and what he might have done to deserve such an interesting variety of children.
It had taken a few minutes to calm Agnes and get all of them out of the tavern. At Catherine’s urgent plea that her sister was about to have a fit and might possibly start foaming at the mouth, Bietrix had brought some wine she kept for the occasional wealthy visitor and administered it. While Agnes sipped, Eliazar explained what he knew about Hubert’s mishap.
The Wandering Arm: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 18
