It was raining.
Edgar could hear it pounding on the roof of the workshop and sizzling as the water found its way down the chimney of the kiln. He had been told to keep the oven hot today and he winced every time he bent to add more charcoal to the fire. His head ached abominably from the clout he had received the night before. He’d let Gaudry and Odo think he was suffering from an excess of devotion to Saint Joseph rather than explain what had really happened. They were most sympathetic, but a late night spent with an ale mug did not excuse him from work.
He gave the bellows a vicious squeeze. Catherine had appeared shortly after he returned home, with a story of saving a kidnapped child. He had believed her; of course he believed her. The more bizarre her explanations, the more likely they were to be true. But she refused to tell him anything more than that Menahem’s son was safe with his family and that he hadn’t seen the men who had thrown the bag over him. More upsetting to Edgar, she had seemed almost unconcerned that he had been knocked out and left for dead in an alley.
“Poor dear,” she had said absently. “But it’s not a very big lump. You’ll be fine in the morning.”
Then she had curled herself into a corner of the bed and cried until she fell asleep. Nothing he could say or do made any difference. Finally, he had given up and tried to sleep, too.
He awoke to the storm at what should have been dawn. Catherine had crawled out of bed over him and was kneeling at the brazier stirring flat beer into a bowl of porridge for the morning meal. The coals had almost burnt to ash so there was little light for him to make out more than her form.
“This would be better with milk,” she said quietly. “I should have bought some yesterday. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t mind,” he answered, wondering if that were all the apology he could expect. “Is there anything left of the honey John brought?”
“A little,” she answered. “I’ll put that in as well.”
Catherine busied herself with this for a few more moments while he dressed, then brought him the bowl and his spoon.
“Uncle Eliazar says that Natan had a box with him on his last visit,” she began. “It was big enough, I think, for a reliquary. About the length of an arm.”
“We suspected that already,” Edgar said as he slurped. “Is that all your uncle told you?”
“No.”
Edgar finished the porridge and handed Catherine the bowl. He waited.
Catherine sat next to him and leaned her forehead against his shoulder, inhaling the smell of his body mixed with that of unwashed wool. It was so familiar and comforting.
“Uncle finally told me his secret. It has to do with what happened to the other canon of Saint-Victor. I told you about him—Thomas, the one who used to study with Andrew.” She spoke into the folds of his tunic. “The beads and bits of a prayer book that I found belonged to him.”
“He was attacked in the cellar? Did Natan murder this canon?” Edgar asked. “Is that why Eliazar is afraid?”
“Uncle only hired Natan to sell the superpellicium that marked Thomas as a cleric,” Catherine said. “And a crucifix. I’m not sure Natan even met the canon.”
“Then how did those things you found get there?” Edgar took the bowl back and laid it on the table. Then he put his arms around Catherine and turned her face up to his. “Why had this canon no further use for his crucifix and surplice? What happened to him? Tell me the truth. Did Eliazar kill him?”
“No, of course not. Uncle would never murder!” Catherine took a deep breath. “But what he did may be worse. Brother Thomas isn’t dead; at least his body still lives. As I understand it, he’s set out for Alexandria, to join the Jewish community there. Uncle convinced him to apostatize.”
Edgar looked down at her in shock. “By the blinding light of the Apostle,” he whispered. “Who’d have thought that gentle old man would have such courage? I’m not sure I could take such a risk for my faith.”
“Courage?” Catherine said. “He’s helped to doom a man to everlasting damnation!”
“Probably,” Edgar answered. “I’m not the final judge of that. But don’t you wonder about a belief so strong that a man could jeopardize not only himself, but his family and friends, for the sake of one soul? Eliazar must feel he’s saved the man from deep idolatry.”
“Yes, that’s what he said, but …” Catherine said.
“I know. It’s a terrible secret for us to carry. And it’s frightened you.” Edgar thought it was time to pause a moment. This wasn’t something that could be handled with logic. So he kissed her.
Catherine dropped the sticky spoon.
Edgar could feel an inexorable force pulling them toward the bed, but Catherine’s next words cut off all carnal thoughts.
“But someone else does know,” she said. “Last year, when you were attacked in the streets after you left Uncle’s house, that was the same day Thomas told Uncle Eliazar of his decision and asked for help. He was hiding in the cellar all the time you were there. Whoever tried to kill you must have thought you were helping them.”
Edgar considered. “When the knife bent against me, the man who tried to stab me cried out that I was a demon.”
Catherine nodded. “Of course he did. To him you were a servant of Satan making another conquest. No wonder he thought you couldn’t die.” She sighed and put her hand on his chest. “I’m so glad you were bringing my dower in gold coins that could blunt a knife. I never could have forgiven Uncle Eliazar if the man had killed you. Anyway, Thomas left Paris soon after that, in secret. He couldn’t get permission from Abbot Hugh to make a pilgrimage or even to leave Saint-Victor. Uncle Eliazar asked Natan to sell Thomas’s clerical garb to pay for the journey. Somehow, someone else must have found out about it and decided to take revenge.”
“If they wanted revenge, why not simply denounce Eliazar to the bishop?” Edgar asked.
“I don’t know.” Catherine moved away from him. “I’m guessing now. Uncle told me as little as he could. He loathed disclosing any of it to me. But I wonder if that’s why Natan suddenly began trading in other church property. Lucia says he hated doing it, even though he was well paid.”
“You think there was someone threatening him with exposure unless Natan helped them?” It was plausible, Edgar supposed, but there was no proof. He shook his head, drawing her to him again. He knew Natan’s death wasn’t Catherine’s main concern now. What bothered her was that a canon of Saint-Victor, someone well steeped in orthodox learning, could be so easily convinced to abandon the faith. Catherine was doubting the strength of her own belief, especially in the light of her affection for that side of her family.
“Leoffedest,” he said. “You can’t let yourself worry about the fate of all creation. Master Abelard says that it’s right for children to follow the faith of their fathers out of respect but that, once we are grown, we must come to belief through understanding. If Thomas was convinced through reason that Christ is not the Messiah, that is his decision, and the state of his soul is between him and God.”
“But why was Uncle Eliazar the instrument of such evil?” she asked. “Why does it have to be someone I care about? And why should you have been put in danger because of it?”
“Catherine, do I look like the pope?” he answered. “I don’t know the why of anything. I just do what seems right at the time and trust that I won’t be allowed to go too far into error. And at this moment, I think I should be going to the workshop. But I promise that, if a demon should appear to tempt you to apostasy, you may call me at once and I’ll drive him away with pleasure.”
Catherine smiled at him. One of the reasons she loved Edgar so was that he could always bring her back from the labyrinth of teleological exploration before she got lost, but without making her feel foolish for entering the maze in the first place.
“Thank you,” she said. “I hope you find Saint Aldhelm.”
“I hope he wants to be found,” Edgar answered. “Can we have boiled tripe tonight?”
Catherine shuddered. Was there nothing the English didn’t boil?
“I’ll ask at the butcher’s,” she promised.
The thought of the tripe, boiled and chopped with dried herbs and garlic, was coming between Edgar and the even working of the bellows. Distracted by Catherine’s revelation, he had forgotten to bring even a slab of bread to stave off hunger until evening.
Gaudry had almost finished layering the wooden arm with the gold leaf. He then intended to add swirls of silver wire, which Odo was busy drawing out.
“That canon came to see me last night,” Gaudry mentioned casually. “He said he might be able to give us some agates, garnets and small pearls to decorate the reliquary with.”
“Did he tell you a pattern?” Edgar asked. “If this is to be a copy he must want something similar, at least.”
Gaudry looked up from the work. “No. He told me to make my own pattern. Odd, isn’t it, when he was so adamant about making something simple before?”
Edgar agreed. What did it mean? Had this work been intended all along for some other saint than Aldhelm? Was this a legitimate commission after all? That didn’t make sense. The monasteries had their own craftsmen who could replace a reliquary. Gaudry normally worked in jewelry for the nobility—hairpins, necklaces, cups, occasional ornamentation for a saddle or bridle. Why go to him for such important work if it could be made somewhere else by people trained for it?
No. There was something wrong. Edgar had already guessed that the box Natan had been carrying contained the missing arm. That had to be the treasure that these Christians who attacked Menahem were looking for. That meant that Natan must not have delivered it. So why were they making a new reliquary? What would be placed in it? Gaudry refused to look beyond the job he had been hired for. His only worry was that the payment might not be sufficient.
Edgar couldn’t stop speculating. The conclusion he was reaching caused him to pump the bellows more and more fiercely.
“Look out now!” Gaudry shouted. “We need coals, not ash. Slow down.”
With an effort, Edgar returned to the steady pressure that kept the heat even. But inside he was boiling. It was clear to him now. They were going to substitute another arm for Saint Aldhelm’s and ransom it to Salisbury as genuine.
But how would they convince the canons that it was the same relic? If it couldn’t be returned in that same reliquary, then even Philippe would be suspicious. While the number of saints in heaven was immense, the desire of the faithful to have a piece of their remains was such that fraud and substitution were almost commonplace. No one would accept a putative relic without certificates of authenticity.
Or clear evidence of a miracle, of course, preferably in the presence of hundreds of witnesses.
“So, Bishop Aldhelm,” Edgar asked as he stared into the glowing coals. “How do you intend to stop this sacrilege? And just what do you want me to do about it?”
Catherine found that, despite her inner confusion, she couldn’t keep away from her uncle’s house. It shocked her to realize that she desperately needed someone to discuss things with and Aunt Johannah was the only one nearby that she could trust.
For a cowardly hour she had considered running back to the Paraclete and putting the whole matter before Abbess Héloïse. She would know what to do, what comfort to give. The abbess could look at any dilemma without flinching. She wouldn’t condemn Catherine for still loving someone she ought to loathe, for embracing those she should fear. Heloise would tell her what she should do.
It’s rather late to remember that, isn’t it? The voices were so smug. you’re a grown, married woman now. You can’t go running back to the convent every time the world upsets you. That’s not what it’s for.
Isn’t it? Catherine responded.
Not for you, they answered. you can’t five in two worlds.
Catherine brushed the rebuke angrily from her mind. She hated it that those voices were so often right. It was as if Sister Bertrada, who had disciplined her more than once, refused to relinquish Catherine to the life she had chosen. How it galled to admit now that the old nun might have actually had her best interests at heart.
Her inner conflict was so great that Catherine had largely ignored the rain. She arrived at Eliazar’s door with her scarf wet through and her hair dripping.
Lucia took her wool cloak. “Why didn’t you put the hood up?” she asked reasonably.
Catherine shrugged and unwound the soggy linen from around her neck and head. Lucia took it, wringing it out over the stones in the entry.
“Have you found who killed Natan?” she whispered.
“No, only that Eliazar didn’t,” Catherine answered.
Lucia gave her a sidewise look of doubt. “That’s not enough,” she said. Then she and the wet clothes vanished into the kitchen.
Catherine stood in the entry a moment, then followed the sound of voices upstairs to the main hall.
Eliazar, Solomon, Johannah and Baruch were seated on cushioned chairs close to the fire. As Catherine entered, they all looked up with expressions of guilt. Solomon recovered first.
“Did you swim the Seine to get here?” he asked, getting up. “There is a bridge now, you know.”
That brought Johannah to her feet. “My dear, you’re drenched,” she observed. “Come sit here and warm yourself. Solomon, get her a tisane. What brings you to us on such a day?”
Catherine looked at Baruch, who smiled at her, the firelight gleaming cheerfully off his bald head.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I know who you are. I’ve known your father for many years.”
“It was Baruch who found Hubert living in Rouen, when we all thought he had died,” Johannah explained. “He brought your father back to us.”
“That may not be a reason for Catherine to rejoice,” said Eliazar. He regarded her warily. Now that she knew about Brother Thomas and his own role in leading the man from Christianity, perhaps Catherine would begin to agree with Agnes’s opinion of him.
Catherine sat down, unsure herself. Solomon gave her a cup of something warm to drink. She didn’t know what it was, but noticed that no bits were floating in it. She looked at him.
“Chamomile. I strained it for you.” He grinned.
For some reason this made her eyes fill. That this should be the one time in his life that Solomon would choose to be considerate—it wasn’t fair. She drank around the lump in her throat, then turned to her uncle.
“Have you told them?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Do you … do you all agree with his actions?” she asked them.
The other three stared at her and she could feel the space between them grow.
“I am ashamed,” Baruch said and Catherine looked at him with hope. He continued, “Ashamed that I should have mistrusted my old friend. You are a hero, Eliazar. I ask your pardon for my doubts.”
“Well, I’m not ashamed; I’m angry.” Solomon sounded it. “How could you use a man like Natan to help you in something so dangerous? Why didn’t you ask me? I could have sold your canon’s possessions easily. Think of the things I’ve traded for Abbot Suger! Why couldn’t you trust me?”
“Or me?” Johannah said quietly.
Eliazar looked sadly at his wife. “For that, I am sorry,” he said. “And I ask your forgiveness, all of you. I was too proud. I wanted to take all the risk to myself or, even worse, put it on a man for whom I had no affection. It was not distrust, but fear, that kept me from telling you.” He sighed and went on. “I wanted to protect those I loved best. If there was retribution, I wanted to bear it alone.”
“That was very selfish of you, Uncle,” Solomon said.
“Do you think that if the Edomites came to punish you, any of us would be spared, even if we knew nothing of what you had done?” Baruch asked. “Or that, knowing, we would betray you to save ourselves?”
“I don’t know anymore what I thought, beyond believing that I must keep the secret at least until
Thomas was safely on his way,” Eliazar said. “After that, I tried not to think of it again. That’s all.”
“Then you didn’t tell them everything, Uncle.” Catherine leaned forward. “They don’t know that someone did find out. Did you reveal that they tried to stab Edgar and very nearly succeeded in killing you?”
“What!” Johannah leapt to her feet and stood over Eliazar, who cowered in his chair. “You told me it was a robbery attempt, that the man tried to cut your purse and got you instead.”
Eliazar put his hands over his face.
“You would have let me be widowed without even knowing why?” Johannah accused. “To think you were the victim of a senseless crime instead of a martyr to the Holy Name? Eliazar, is there no end to your selfishness? I agree with Solomon. Families should die together.”
Eliazar’s fingers parted and he peered up at Johannah with one eye. He gauged the severity of her expression and quickly covered it again.
Solomon tried to stifle a laugh. “I don’t believe I suggested that we all throw ourselves into the flames, Aunt,” he said. “Not unless absolutely necessary. Personally, I feel I have a better chance of avoiding martyrdom if I know what’s going on.”
“Exactly,” Baruch added. “Now, Johannah, stop terrifying us all. Eliazar has said he’s sorry. That should be the end of it.”
“But it isn’t.” Catherine hated to say it. The words made her feel more of an outsider every moment. “Whatever was started last spring is still going on. Natan is dead and whoever killed him may have done it because he helped Brother Thomas. Did none of you ever wonder why, after years of trading in stolen livestock, Natan suddenly began to traffic in gems and ecclesiastical objects? Isn’t that unusual?”
Eliazar shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, I wondered,” he said at last. “I suppose I thought that he had found there was more profit in jewels than sheep. As long as he kept me out of it, I didn’t care. I didn’t like the man. He cheated his own people.”
“Would he have betrayed you?” Catherine asked.
The Wandering Arm: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 26
