To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  Satisfied, she folded the paper and went to put it with the writing material, in the counting room.

  Catherine returned to her work, unsettled by the conversation. Solomon had talked with Margaret about his feelings for her and reported that she had told him that her regard for him was what was proper for a ward to her guardian. He had convinced himself there was nothing more than that. But he was also spending more time away from the house, to Catherine’s sorrow, even though she felt it was best.

  As Margaret metamorphosed into a woman, Catherine felt herself more bewildered by her sister-in-law. Of course Margaret had suffered more than Catherine ever had. But there was something so self-contained about her. When the impropriety of her behavior toward Solomon had been explained, she had accepted it without a murmur and adapted accordingly.

  Catherine wished she believed that the inward change had been as dutiful.

  Shortly after sundown Solomon thanked his hosts and rose to leave.

  “Rebecca, your home always fills me with peace,” he said.

  “I’m glad, Solomon,” his hostess answered. “But I would be happier if you told me it filled you with piety.”

  For once, Solomon didn’t laugh. “I wish that came to me as easily as to you and Abraham.” He sighed.

  Rebecca held out her hand to him.

  “If you lived according to halakah, my dear friend, then piety would follow. How can you hear the Holy One, blessed be He, when you’re surrounded by the voices of idolaters?”

  The sadness in Solomon’s eyes distressed her. Rebecca believed that there was great passion in him. But for what, she wasn’t sure.

  “In Wolkenburg, I thought it would be easy for me to follow the law, to pray each morning with my heart,” Solomon told her. “I was happy there. To wake each day and know that I need not pretend to be something I despise. To know that there was nothing impure on the table. It should have been heaven.”

  “It sounds so to me,” Abraham added.

  “But I felt useless,” Solomon said. “I’m no scholar or craftsman. Discussion of tractates puts me to sleep.”

  “Only a few are gifted in study.” Abraham smiled. “You have other skills.”

  “Yes, I know how to survive among the Edomites,” Solomon answered. “In a place where there are none, I am unecessary.”

  “You judge yourself too meagerly.” Rebecca handed him his cloak and kissed his cheek. “Someday you’ll learn that.”

  Abraham stood. “I’ll walk with you,” he said. “I need to move after that meal or it will never shift.”

  They didn’t speak until they were almost to the bridge. The sound of the mill wheels steadily turning made it unlikely that any would overhear them.

  “There was a man asking after your uncle yesterday,” Abraham said. “He acted as if he knew that Hubert wasn’t on a pilgrimage. Seemed to be sure that some of us would know where he really was. His guesses were too close to the truth.”

  Solomon leaned closer. “What did this man look like?”

  “I don’t have to describe him,” Abraham said. “It was that knight who used to carry messages for Hubert and Eliazar to Abbot Suger. You must know him, too.”

  It was as if a horse had kicked Solomon in the center of his stomach.

  “Jehan,” he forced out. “I thought he was long gone.”

  “He wore the cross on his tunic,” Abraham said. “If it was genuine, then he should leave when the king does. Don’t worry; no one was eager to chat with him.”

  Solomon chewed at the corner of his lip. “What did he want, just to find Hubert?”

  Abraham shook his head. “I don’t think so. He seemed more to be gloating over some knowledge. Then he hasn’t tried to speak to Hubert’s daughter?”

  “No,” Solomon said. “She would have told me. At least, I think she would.”

  It occurred to him that Catherine knew well that both he and Edgar would be glad of an excuse to thrash Jehan. It would be like her to try to avoid this.

  “He’s mad, you know,” he told Abraham. “He was always a cold-blooded bastard, who inflicted pain with joy, but now he seems to live for nothing else. His hatred of Hubert’s family has destroyed any sense of honor he might once have had.”

  “Then may the Merciful One keep him from your path,” Abraham said. “At least now you know to be watchful.”

  Solomon grasped his friend’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’m never anything else. Good night, Abraham.”

  “Leila tov, Solomon.”

  The spring twilight was long and it hadn’t gone completely dark as Solomon crossed the bridge and made his way back to the Grève. Despite his assurances to Abraham, he could feel a wariness at the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades, as if tensing for the prick of a knife.

  There were still people about, students on their way to the brothels, men coming home from the taverns or their stalls at the Halles. In the gathering gloom, each one seemed about to leap at him.

  As he reached the gate with the dragon knocker, Solomon laughed at himself for his nervousness. There was enough to worry about without imagining attacks from lunatics on the streets of Paris.

  As he knocked for Martin to let him in, a hand fell on his shoulder.

  Solomon whipped around at once, his knife half-unsheathed.

  The canon, Maurice, jumped back, terrified.

  Swiftly, Solomon slid the knife back into the sheath.

  “Forgive me, Maurice,” he gasped. “I didn’t know it was you.”

  “I shouldn’t have come up on you so quietly,” the canon told him. “I was hoping to catch Edgar before he went to bed. I’m not normally out this late, myself. You had every right to think me a brigand.”

  At this moment, the grate slid open and Martin’s brown eyes shown in the light of the lamp he carried.

  “Solomon?” he asked.

  “Yes, Martin, with Maurice. Is Edgar still downstairs?”

  “He and Catherine and Margaret are all in the garden,” Martin told them as he opened the gate. “The night is so mild, no one wants to go in. Should I fetch another pitcher of wine?”

  “Oh, no,” Maurice said.

  “Certainly,” Solomon told him. “And cups for both of us.”

  As they came out into the garden, Margaret immediately moved from her bench to sit next to Catherine. Inwardly, Solomon winced. Once she would have demanded that he sit with her. He wished they’d never spoken to her. The feelings she had for him would have faded with maturity, he had no doubt.

  “How wonderful to see you, Maurice!” Edgar exclaimed. “What brings you out so close to Compline?”

  “A favor, I’m afraid,” Maurice answered, taking the wine cup with a nod of thanks.

  “Anything,” Edgar said.

  Maurice licked his lips. “I don’t like to bother you on something so trivial. But the dean was in such a state about it that I promised I’d try.”

  He pulled a gold chain from the purse at his belt. One of the links was twisted and broken.

  “He didn’t want to take it to the goldsmith for the Cathedral,” Maurice explained. “The damage was done in anger, and the chain belongs to the precentor. I’m afraid the dean was so upset about the singing of the liturgy that he snatched the chain from the precenter’s neck and stamped on it.”

  “Goodness!” Catherine said. “What did the bishop say to that?”

  Maurice twisted the chain in his hands as he spoke. “Well, Bishop Theobald is already so angry with both men that he said any more disturbances would result in neither one being allowed to arrange the music, no matter who caused it. That’s why I’m here. I like both of them and wish to help make peace between them.”

  Edgar took the chain and went over to the lamp to examine it.

  “This should only take a few minutes,” he said. “Solomon, would you hold the link over the coals for me to soften it while I get my tools?”

  “I can help,” Maurice said, standing.

  Cathe
rine gestured for him to sit again. “Solomon knows what to do. It will be quicker if you let them. Now, other than this vicious feud in the choir, what other news do you have?”

  “The roof that Stephen Garlande put on Nôtre Dame is leaking,” Maurice commented. “My spot in the choir is just under one of the drips. I don’t suppose that’s of terrible concern to you, though, with the Knights of the Temple questioning people about you.”

  “What!” Catherine sat up straight, spilling the bowl of early strawberries in her lap. “They were asking about us at Nôtre Dame?”

  “I presumed it was about that body left here,” Maurice said as he helped her pick up the berries. “They didn’t speak to me, but I heard about it from one of the canons. Apparently Master Peter the Lombard remembered your association with Abelard and that your husband had been a student of Bishop Gilbert.”

  “What has that to do with anything?” Catherine brushed at her skirts, rubbing the juice into the material. “And Edgar didn’t study with Gilbert de la Porée. I was the one who attended his lectures, when I could.”

  Maurice rubbed his stained hands on his robe. “I don’t think Master Peter cares anything for a dead knight. Right now everything he hears sooner or later refers to the promulgation of what he sees is Bishop Gilbert’s heresy.”

  “And this is what he told Master Durand and Brother Baudwin?” Catherine was trying to decide if this would hurt them or merely confuse the investigators.

  “Perhaps not,” Maurice admitted. “I only learned of it through the usual gossip, because my friend was aware that I knew you. Master Peter may only have said he knew nothing about Edgar except that he had once been a student. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “No, don’t be sorry,” Catherine said. “I would much rather learn what’s being said of us. How else can we be prepared to answer any questions the men from the Temple may have?”

  “So you don’t know any more about your unwanted visitor?” Maurice asked.

  “Nothing,” Catherine said. “It’s as if he didn’t exist until he appeared in our counting room. I don’t understand it.”

  They fell into silence then. Maurice fidgeted on his bench. Catherine realized he was worried about getting back to the Cathedral by Compline.

  “Margaret,” she said, “could you go see how much longer your brother will be? Margaret?”

  “I think she’s fallen asleep,” Maurice said. “I’ll go see.”

  As he rose, Edgar and Solomon returned. The chain was hanging over Edgar’s left arm. He let it fall into Maurice’s hands.

  “It was a simple matter to twist the metal back to the original shape,” Edgar told him. “There are scratches that would take longer to smooth out. I could do it if you left it here until Monday.”

  “No, this is excellent.” Maurice held up the chain and examined it in the light. “Both the dean and the preceptor owe you their profound thanks, and I shall see that they pay you.”

  “No need,” Edgar said. “Tell them that I did it in the hope that they will come to a reconciliation and together offer a Mass for me and my family.”

  Maurice grinned. “You’re asking for a miracle, Edgar. But I’ll tell them. I fear that at the moment any Mass they assisted at would be most discordant. Actually, I can attest to it.”

  He thanked them again and left. Catherine yawned.

  “Edgar, help me get Margaret awake enough to go up to bed,” she said.

  “Don’t wake her,” Solomon said. “She’s deep asleep. I’ll take her up.”

  Before they could protest, he scooped Margaret off the bench where she lay curled. She did no more than murmur as he carried her up the stairs.

  Just as he reached the door to the room she shared with the children, Margaret stirred, nuzzling against his shoulder, her arm around his neck. She was less than half-awake but the trust implied by the gesture made him stop a moment, swallowing hard before he went in and laid her gently on the bed.

  He met Catherine coming up the stair.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll take off her shoes and belt. She can sleep in her bliaut tonight. Good night, Solomon.”

  She kissed his cheek and continued up.

  Edgar was putting his tools away when Solomon entered the hall.

  “There’s still wine in the pitcher,” he commented. “Enough for two, I’d say. Or one who wants to sit and think.”

  “Shall I leave half for you?” Solomon asked.

  “No, I’m exhausted,” Edgar said. “Don’t forget to bar the door when you come in.”

  He went up stairs.

  Catherine was waiting for him. “This state of affairs isn’t good for either of them,” she said without preamble.

  Edgar got in beside her and turned so that she could rest her cheek against his back with her arm around him. He sighed in contentment. Then he considered her statement.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “It may be that a year at the Paraclete would be just what Margaret needs. But it will be hard to let her go.”

  Catherine didn’t answer, just kissed the nape of his neck and snuggled closer.

  Solomon finished the wine and sat out in the garden until the first streaks of dawn shot into the sky.

  In a stable on the outskirts of town, Lambert huddled under his blanket, grateful that the nuns of Montmartre had accepted Clemence as a guest for the night. There was no other place in all of Paris suitable for her. And she had been spared hours of growing despair. He had been asking everywhere, all day. Even at the Temple preceptory no one had seen or even heard of Lord Osto. Everyone he asked about Hubert knew only that he had gone. It was beginning to appear that they had made the journey for nothing. Both their fathers might be as far as Germany by now.

  What was he to do? At home he understood how things worked, from repairing the mill to breeding horses to negotiating with the men who came to collect the various tithes and duties. Here he felt like a green stripling, easily flattened.

  Perhaps he and Clemence should have stayed in their own village. The whole town had attended their marriage, and everyone knew it was what their families had most desired. But even if the daughter of a lord were so foolish as to marry the son of a miller, it was rare that she would be allowed to come into her inheritance. Without Lord Osto’s support or the blessing of some great noble, they would be lucky only to be turned out of the castle.

  He was roused from his nightmares at dawn by the ostler who had taken pity on him and not charged for a place in the straw. But the charity ended there, and Lambert was sent out into the streets with the suggestion that he go to the canons of Nôtre Dame for alms.

  “Only get there early,” the man told him. “The lines are longer every day. The winter wheat rotted in the fields, and between our own poor and the pilgrims swarming, there’s not enough for all.”

  The glare the man gave him suggested to Lambert that strangers such as he would do well to leave and not burden the citizens of Paris further.

  He didn’t go to the Cathedral. The shame of begging for his food was too great. The bells of Paris were calling the faithful to Sunday Mass. Most people were going about their business, though, preparing for the opening of the shops in the afternoon or recovering from a night in the tavern.

  It was too early to go fetch Clemence, Lambert realized. She owed the nuns attendance at services in return for their kindness. He wandered aimlessly through the streets, trying to ignore the smell of fresh pastry. The few coins he had left were to care for his wife.

  He was standing in the rue des Juifs, looking wistfully at a boy feeding a sausage to his dog, when a man stopped and asked his name.

  “Lambert, of Picardy,” he said.

  “Are you the one who’s been asking about Hubert LeVendeur?” the man asked.

  Lambert wasn’t sure about answering. The man was half a head taller than he, with a face weathered by time, adversity and something else that made Lambert want to cross himself. His hair and beard were streaked with wh
ite. Still, his clothes were good, and he wore the cross of the pilgrim.

  “Yes,” he admitted at last.

  “What’s he done to you?” the man’s eyes were avid for information.

  Lambert stepped back. “Nothing,” he said. “I only sought information from him about my father who, like you, has set out to free Edessa from the infidel.”

  “Why would Hubert know about him?”

  “They had done business together,” Lambert explained. “My father was raising horses with Lord Osto. They bought a Spanish destrier from Hubert and his partner and sold them some of the foals each year thereafter. My father told me they were going to Paris to make some arrangements with Hubert about future trade before leaving for the Holy land.”

  “I see.” The man stared at him for a moment. “But Hubert supposedly left Paris months ago.”

  Lambert ignored the qualification. “So everyone tells me,” he said sadly. “I’ve had to assume that my father is also long gone.”

  “I wouldn’t be so certain.” The stranger laid a hand on Lambert’s shoulder. “Have you also heard that when Hubert’s daughter arrived home from a journey she found that the house had been shut but that someone had left the body of a murdered knight of the Temple inside.”

  “How sad,” Lambert said. “But Lord Osto had no intention of becoming a member of the Knights of the Temple, sir. My father planned to offer them his services, but he wasn’t a nobleman and would only have become a sergeant or even lower servant. He isn’t a warrior.”

  “Anyone can wear mail,” the man said. “And his skill won’t be tested if he’s already dead. You say your father came to Paris to find Hubert and no one has seen him since. Don’t you think you should at least ask about the man found in his house?”

  Lambert was young, frightened, overwhelmed by his responsibility to Clemence and the people of their village. He didn’t believe that this poor dead man could be his father, but even the hint of it was enough to make his heart constrict.

  “Yes, thank you,” he said. “Do you know where they took the body?”

  “Oh yes.” The man smiled. “I’ll take you there, myself. But first we should break our fast, don’t you think, Lambert? I fancy a meat pie. Will you share it with me?”