“Not entirely,” de Barre answered. “They’re an unusual family. I’ve been asking about them. The man came from Scotland to France to study and ended up marrying a merchant’s daughter whose mother came from a good family in Blois that has little left in the way of land. His family is somewhat more exalted than hers, but he’s the fifth son and unlikely to inherit.”
“That doesn’t seem unusual,” the Marshal commented. “Happens all the time when boys are far from home.”
“There’s more,” de Barre said. “Her father was in partnership for years with a Jew of Paris. There was some gossip about the strength of this Hubert’s faith, although he seems to have gone on a pilgrimage now and left all his effects to his daughter and her husband.”
“Seems?” the preceptor noted the stress on the word.
De Barre nodded.
“He returned just after the Nativity, they say. And, after arranging for the transfer of property to his children, he is said to have spent the rest of the time in the company of Jews.”
“To close out his business dealings with them?” the preceptor suggested.
“Perhaps,” de Barre said. “But perhaps there’s more to these people than first meets the eye. They could be just what they say, travelers who returned to an unpleasant occurrence, their house chosen because it was empty. However, I sense that, whoever this dead man was, he has some connection to Hubert LeVendeur and his family. If he was one of our brethren, then I want to know what that connection is.”
“So you want us to watch them,” the preceptor said.
“Not only that,” the master told him. “Encourage them to share information with you. Let them know as much as you think best of what you discover. If they’re honest, they might be of help. If they aren’t, then eventually they’ll stumble, and we’ll have them.”
Catherine was amazed at the work Samonie had managed to accomplish in the short time they’d been away. The floors that had been left bare were now strewn with rushes and herbs that masked the lingering scent of death. The kitchen had been scrubbed and the fire lit. In the hall, tables and chairs had been set up, wall hangings brought out of the chests and hung. It was beginning to look like home again.
Nervously, Catherine looked up the stairs.
“I’ve done the sleeping chamber,” Samonie told her. “And Willa and some of her friends got the children’s floor ready. But we’ve none of us gone into that room. It gives me shudders.”
Catherine agreed, but she needed to see it once more before bucket, broom and blessing made it fit for use again.
As she entered the room, Catherine wondered if the men sent to fetch the body had heard the rumors of the treasure Hubert was supposed to have left behind. The counting room would have been the most likely place to store gold coins and jewels from the East.
Everything seemed undisturbed. Only the scuff marks on the floor showed that anyone had been in the room in months. Catherine knelt and opened the lock on the book cabinet. The large account book that her father had kept since before she was born was still there, wrapped in a silk cloth. Next to it were the few books she had managed to acquire: a psalter, Macrobius, Boethius’ Arithmetic.
At the bottom was the last present from her father, a copy of one of Master Abelard’s final works, a debate on religion between a philosopher and Christian and a Jew. The Christian had won, of course, but the others had been allowed fair and reasoned arguments for their beliefs. In hindsight, she now wondered if the gift had been a sign of Hubert’s intention to return to the faith of his fathers. Perhaps he had been trying to tell her for years of his decision, and she had simply not wanted to listen.
She shut the chest. No one had disturbed the books, thank the Virgin. She looked around. Nothing had been scrawled on the walls, no threat or symbol of evil. But there must be a reason the man had been left here. If the killer had only needed a place to hide the body, it might have been dumped in the hall or the woodshed. Why go to the trouble of unlocking a room and then carrying what must have been a bulky, heavy load all the way up the stairs?
Nothing in the small chamber gave her an answer. There was little more in it than the book cabinet, a table and chair and an inkpot and pen box. The walls were bare of hangings. Because of the danger of fire they never even lit a candle in here. All work was done by the light from the window.
Catherine went to look out. From the window she could see over the wall and into the garden of their neighbors, a grain merchant and his family. She should go over and speak to them, although she didn’t know them well. Perhaps they had seen lights in the house in the past few weeks or noticed strangers.
Catherine sighed. If her father hadn’t been so protective of his secret, they might have known the neighbors better. Unusual activity would have been noted at once and a cry raised.
“Catherine!” Margaret’s voice was shrill with panic.
“What is it? I’m coming!” Catherine nearly tripped on her skirts in her hurry to get down the stairs.
“Are you hurt?” she asked as she reached the hall. “Margaret, what’s wrong?”
“He’s leaving tomorrow, Catherine,” Margaret wailed. “For Saint-Florentin, and then back to Troyes. We have to reach him today! Catherine, what shall we do?”
“Count Thibault?” Catherine asked. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, Edgar had it from one of the merchants.” Margaret started to cry. “I can’t miss him, now that I know who he is. Please, help me.”
“Oh, Margaret,” Catherine tried to think. “We have nothing proper to wear. None of the boxes has been unpacked. We don’t even know where he’s staying or if he’ll see us.”
“We have to try, don’t we?”
Looking at Margaret’s tear-streaked cheeks, one rivulet running down the scar that had so horrified Marie, Catherine knew that they did.
“Very well,” she said. “Where is your brother now?”
“He went out again, something about the water merchants, he said,” Margaret told her.
“You know how angry he was last year when we went to see the countess without his knowledge,” Catherine reminded her.
“But we can’t wait for him to get back,” Margaret pleaded. “You know how he is; he’ll see a group of men building a house and stand and watch them for hours, forgetting everything else.”
Catherine knew.
“Wait a moment,” she said, calling to the housekeeper. “Samonie! Can you send Martin to find out where the count of Champagne is staying and then take a message to him that his granddaughter would like to meet him?”
She turned back to Margaret.
“We’ll have to wash and see what we can find to wear that’s remotely respectable. I wish the jewel box weren’t still at Saint Denis. And, if Edgar comes back before Martin returns, then we must tell him where we’re going. Is that understood?”
Margaret wiped her eyes and gave Catherine a joyous smile and a hug. “Yes, I’m sure he won’t try to stop me. His pride isn’t that cruel.”
Catherine knew the strength of Edgar’s pride. Secretly she hoped they would be gone before he returned.
Thibault, count of Champagne and Blois, had been a ruler for nearly forty of his fifty-eight years. His land was five times as extensive as that governed by the king. Although, as a grandson of William the Conqueror, he could have also claimed the throne of England after the death of Henry I, he was happy to relinquish it to his younger brother, Stephen. Seeing what a mess that had become, he’d never regretted it.
In his youth he’d been somewhat profligate, causing his mother worry; but the loss of so many of his kindred in the tragedy of the White Ship had abruptly sobered him. For a time he had wanted to enter the monastery of his friend, Bernard of Clairvaux, but he had been counseled to take up his duties as a secular lord. His marriage to Mahaut of Carinthia had been happy. But he had never forgotten the child of his first love.
When Martin arrived with his message, the count was busy with representa
tives from Saint-Florentin, who were trying to convince him that a local lord had been dishonest with them.
“I shall decide the matter when I hear both sides,” Thibault told them. “And not before.”
He noticed Martin.
“Yes, boy. What do you want?” he shouted.
Martin opened his mouth but was too scared to speak. With an effort, he pushed the words out.
“My lord Count, my mistress, Catherine, daughter of Hubert LeVendeur and her sister-in-law, Lady Margaret of Wedderlie, would like permission to see you later this afternoon.”
Thibault’s eyes lit. Mahaut had told him of the girl’s visit the previous year.
“Bring them at once!” he ordered. “The rest of you, go away. I don’t want to hear any more until the trial.”
So, hastily washed and combed and still in their travel garments, Catherine and Margaret appeared shortly thereafter before one of the most powerful men in the land.
He was standing in a small anteroom, quite alone. The servant who admitted them left at once, drawing the curtain behind him.
For a moment, Margaret hung back. He was so much larger and more vital than she had imagined. Not much older than Catherine’s father and straighter, as a lord should be. Mastery radiated from him. His back was to the light so that she couldn’t make out his face.
As she moved toward him, the sun fell on her face and she heard his gasp. Was it the deep red scar across her cheek? She knelt before him, raising her clasped hands.
“My lord Count,” she whispered.
He stepped forward and put a hand beneath her chin, tilting it up. He smiled.
“You very much resemble your grandmother,” he said softly. “Although she was blond, as was your mother. I never saw Adalisa after she was a child. I’m sorry for that. Is she well?”
Margaret looked up at him in panic. Catherine rescued her.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” she said. “Lady Adalisa was killed by brigands in England not long ago. We brought Margaret back to France with us to keep her safe.”
Count Thibault closed his eyes and crossed himself, murmuring a prayer. “My poor daughter. And is that when you were hurt, as well, Margaret?”
He touched the scar gently.
“No, my lord,” Margaret said. “I was set upon, they say, by villagers in a town near Trier. They thought I was a Jewess, and I didn’t have enough German to tell them who I really was. At least, that’s what I was told. I have no memory of it.”
Thibault set his lips in anger. He turned back to Catherine.
“I thought Abbot Bernard had put a stop to such things?” he said.
“He came to Trier after the incident, too late for Margaret,” Catherine told him. “The men beat her and dragged her into a church. Because it was a holy place, they didn’t violate her, but left her for dead.”
“My poor child.” Thibault shook his head. “And after Bernard arrived?”
“There seem to have been no more occurrences after he preached to the town,” Catherine said.
“No, and now I hear that all the Jews of the area have barricaded themselves at Wolkenberg Fortress,” Thibault commented. Catherine gave a start, but Thibault continued to Margaret, “Never mind, my child. The scar will fade, and I hope the memories never return. This would not have happened in my lands.”
Margaret smiled. “I know, my lord. The Jews of Troyes speak very highly of you.”
Thibault snorted. “Ah yes, I’d forgotten that you now live in Hubert’s family. You must have met many of the Jewish traders.”
“I know it may not have been proper for her to live as we do,” Catherine interjected. “But there’s nothing left for her in Scotland. She has a bit of dower land in the Vexin from her mother, but not enough to live from. Her brother, my husband Edgar, has agreed to take on my father’s affairs in partnership with the Jew, Solomon of Paris. We have more than enough to keep Margaret. We thought it best for her to be with those who love her.”
Thibault caressed Margaret’s cheek again. “I agree,” he said. “But you needn’t worry about a dowry, Margaret. When the time comes, with my wife’s permission, I shall see that you are provided for. And I want to be consulted in the matter,” he added to Catherine.
Catherine bowed. “Of course, my lord Count.”
Thibault smiled. “I should like to spend more time with you, but I have to settle some trivial dispute at Saint-Florentin. There are times when I wish I could bash men’s heads together rather than listen to all these legal speeches.”
He bent toward Margaret. “Now, I expect you to visit me when I return to Troyes. Can you spare a farewell kiss for your grandfather?”
For answer, Margaret threw her arms about him and let him lift her and hold her close.
Thibault set her down at last and blew his nose loudly.
“Thank you for coming,” he told her. “Your grandmother was a noblewoman and a good one. Our families simply had other plans for us. I’ll see you again soon. May Our Lady keep you safe.”
He nodded to Catherine. “Take care of her, now. She’s not to be out wandering alone. The streets are full of ruffians these days.”
Catherine promised. They both bowed to him again and left.
Margaret said nothing all the way home, but her eyes were shining. When they got back, they found that Edgar was home. Catherine hesitated, preparing herself for his anger, but Margaret got round it entirely. She raced in and threw herself at her brother crying, “Edgar, my grandfather is a wonderful man, and he thinks I’m beautiful!”
Over her shoulder Edgar saw Catherine. He shook his head and sighed.
“I think you’re beautiful, too,” he told Margaret, but it was Catherine he was looking at.
Four
The Fortress of Wolkenberg, on a hilltop in Lotharingia, near Koln. Tuesday, 2 nones May, (May 6), 1147; 4 Sivan, 4907. Feast of Saint Aurea, hermit and martyr, who charmed scorpions with her beauty.
The children of Israel lifted up their eyes and saw the contemptible oppressors closing in from all around … Each one went to a Gentile acquaintance, anyone who owned either a castle or fortress, to accept him in the cave and hide him until the anger passed.
—Ephrahim of Bonn
Sefer Zekirah
Solomon ben Jacob of Paris looked down from the parapets of Wolkenberg. He had come to the hill fortress only as escort to the widow and children of an old friend. Now it was time to leave. He knew this. He had obligations to his family and to his new partner, Edgar. He shouldn’t have come here at all.
And yet …
In the courtyard below Jewish children were playing happily. Under a tree the scholars met to argue fine points of the Talmud. Their voices rose more loudly than the children’s laughter, but Solomon could hear the joy beneath the sharp tones.
The sun shone on them all.
There were no gentiles at Wolkenberg. For the first time in their lives, these Jewish families were free to be themselves without fear. No one mocked them or threw stones. No one tried to make them feel inferior or unwanted. Solomon knew this was the closest he would ever come to Eretz Israel. He didn’t want to give it up.
“You could stay, you know.”
For a moment Solomon thought the voice was a spirit answering his longings. He’d been so far into his own reflections that he hadn’t heard Mina come up behind him.
“I would live here forever if I believed it would always be like this,” he answered her. “But we both know it’s just a temporary haven. We can’t stay up here forever. There are too few of us. We need the gentiles to survive. At least for now.”
“Yes, we need them, but that doesn’t mean you have to live with them, Solomon.” Mina’s face was serious. “It worries me. You’re more a part of your uncle Hubert’s Christian family than you are one of us.”
“I know,” Solomon admitted. It worried him, too. Until the last year, he had trusted and loved his Christian relatives completely. He still loved them, but when the
persecutions were at their height, he had seen the fear in Catherine’s eyes, not for him, but for her children if they were thought to be Jewish, too. After poor Margaret was attacked, he felt his cousin’s anxiety had been justified. Solomon still felt a stab of guilt about it. He had promised her mother that he would protect Margaret always and then the poor child had been hurt simply because she wasn’t ashamed to be seen in his company.
“Solomon? Are you listening?” Mina snapped her fingers in his face. “I was saying that my cousin, Zipporah, has come of age. She’s a fine woman, gentle and pious and very pretty. Her father might be persuaded to look kindly upon the match.”
“Mina, not again!” Solomon gave a sigh. “Why do you want to inflict me upon these fine innocent girls? What kind of husband would I make to them?”
“A good one, I think,” Mina said. “For you’d feel so sure you were a trial to your wife that you’d be twice as kind to her as any other man.
Solomon shook his head.
“Thank you, Mina, but no thank you,” he said. “It’s true that I’ve been too long among the Edomites. I don’t belong in our community anymore. But I’ll never belong in theirs, I promise.”
Mina laughed.
“Zipporah would soon change your mind about belonging, Solomon,” she said. “If you’d let her. If you wait too long, she’ll be taken.”
“I wish her joy.” Solomon put his arm around Mina. “And I promise that when I decide I must have a good Jewish wife, I’ll let you choose her for me. But for now, I must return to Paris.”
Mina pulled away from him angrily.
“What is wrong with you, Solomon ben Jacob?” she cried. “You’re a grown man, now, past thirty, and it’s time you started a family. I don’t want to see you lost to us as your father was!”
The moment she said it, she knew she had made a terrible mistake. Solomon’s expression was ice.
“What do you know about my father?” he said slowly.
Mina hung her head. “Your uncle Hubert told me before he left. He’s concerned. I’m supposed to look out for you.”
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