To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  The prospect of food decided him. The man bought a hot pie and broke it in two, giving Lambert half.

  “Now all we need is beer.” He laughed. “Don’t worry, young Lambert. We’ll find out what Hubert LeVendeur did to your father, and I’ll see that he’s avenged. Count yourself lucky that you’ve come under the protection of Jehan of Blois.”

  Ten

  Sunday afternoon, 15 kalends June (May 18), 1147; 16 Sivan, 4907. Feast of Saint Theodote, tavern keeper and martyr.

  Marie as piés Nostre Seignor plora

  Lava les bien, terst et oinst et baisa,

  Et tout ses pechiés Jhesus le pardona …

  Ma douce Dame Marie, le barnesse,

  Veés con m’ame est orde et pecerresse …

  Se ne m’aïes, Dame, qui m’aidera?

  Mary you have washed the feet

  of Our Lord with your tears,

  wiped, anointed and kissed them.

  And Jesus pardoned all your sins …

  My sweet Lady Mary, the woman of ill-repute

  You see how my soul is stained and sinful …

  If you don’t help me, Lady, who will?

  —Anonymous (but definitely a woman)

  Prayer to Mary Magdalene

  Bertulf and Godfrey were alarmed when the summons came for them to present themselves before Master Durand. They hurried across the courtyard to the chapter at once.

  “Do you think we’ve been discovered?” Godfrey asked.

  “I don’t see how,” Bertulf answered. “Perhaps we’ve already managed to break one of the rules. Do I appear too proud?”

  “You’ve made no mistakes that I could see,” Godfrey said. “And no man would call you proud.”

  They waited nervously until told to enter by Brother Baudwin.

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” he whispered, seeing their expressions as they passed him. “I wouldn’t mind an assignment like this, myself.”

  Seated at a table facing the door, Master Durand considered the men standing stiffly before him.

  “I understand you’re both new to the Order?” he asked. “Therefore, you haven’t been initiated into the brotherhood, nor have you yet taken any permanent vows.”

  “That is correct, sir,” Bertulf answered. “But we both intend to become full members of the Temple as soon as it is permitted.”

  Durand waved his hand dismissively.

  “I have no doubt that you will,” he said. “Or I wouldn’t set you this task.”

  He could feel the curiousity. But Durand had another question.

  “You’re strangers to Paris?” he asked. “You have no friends or family in the city?”

  A fraction of a hesitation.

  “No,” Bertulf said. “We have no connection to Paris at all.”

  Master Durand nodded.

  “Good. It would be embarrassing for us if you were recognized,” he explained. “We have a problem that requires secrecy and tact.”

  He explained what he wanted them to do. As he did, Godfrey’s eyes widened. He looked sideways at Bertulf, who gave him a nudge with his toe, warning him to say nothing.

  “Do you understand?” Master Durand finished.

  “Yes, sir,” Bertulf said. “We’ve only to keep our ears open and occasionally ask a question. Godfrey and I can do that.”

  “Master,” Godfrey spoke for the first time, “we will need something in hand to buy beer with.”

  Bertulf seemed annoyed by his request.

  “Quite right,” Brother Baudwin said. “We hold everything in common so you assuredly kept nothing back for yourselves when you arrived. You shall have a few sous from the common purse. Don’t drink it all in the first tavern, mind you. We need you to have your heads clear.”

  The two men bowed and left. When they had gone Durand lifted his eyebrows at Baudwin.

  “Those two were the best you could find?”

  Outside, Godfrey was breathing as if he’d just been chased by wolves across an open field.

  “Can you imagine!” he exclaimed. “What are we going to do?”

  Bertulf put a hand on his shoulder. “What we’ve been ordered to do,” he said. “We can’t be blamed if there’s no information to be found.”

  “I don’t like it, Master,” Godfrey said. “Perhaps it would be better if we told the truth.”

  “We couldn’t tell all of it in any case,” Bertulf reminded him. “It would ruin everything. Now we also have a real chance of finding the murderer. And I want to be the one to do it, before Master Durand, in any case.”

  “You don’t like that cleric, do you?”

  “I don’t like the way he looks at me.” Bertulf clenched his fists. “As if I were a horse he didn’t believe could be trained.”

  “Ah, well, that’s the way these men are.” Godfrey was philosophical. “They think nothing has a use if it can’t read Latin. He likely feels the same way about that Brother Baudwin.”

  Catherine spent the afternoon composing a letter to Abbess Heloise for Astrolabe to take to the Paraclete the next time he went there to see her. She told herself that there was no point in asking Margaret to go to the convent if all the places for students were taken. However, down deep she knew that she wanted to postpone bringing the subject up for as long as possible.

  She rolled up the parchment, tied it with a ribbon and sealed the ends of the ribbon with wax. Then she went down to see what trouble her family had managed to get into.

  The hall was empty and eerily quiet. No children, no servants, no clanging of dishes from the kitchen. It was unnatural.

  Catherine passed through to the kichen and then to the back, where the summer oven was hot from bread baking. Still she saw no one.

  “Samonie!” she called. “Margaret!”

  “Down here, Mistress!” Samonie’s voice wafted up from the little orchard by the stream at the bottom of the garden.

  Catherine went down to join them.

  Samonie, with Edana attached to her belt by a long cord, was picking mint to use in a sauce for dinner. Margaret was helping James to climb the low branches of the apple tree.

  “Careful not to knock the blossoms off,” Catherine warned. “Or no apple tarts next winter.”

  “Did you need me for something, Mistress?” Samonie asked as she worked.

  “No, I just wanted to count noses,” Catherine admitted.

  She took another look at Samonie. The woman seemed tired today, lines of weariness tightening her mouth and eyes.

  “You’ve been working too hard,” Catherine told her. “I shouldn’t ask you to take care of the children along with your other duties. I’ll ask Edgar tonight about finding a nurse for the little ones.”

  “They’re no trouble,” Samonie said. She gave a tug on the cord to pull Edana away from the river. “The last thing we need is another person in the house!”

  The ferocity of her response startled Catherine.

  “Very well. If you’re sure,” she said. “I don’t want to overburden you.”

  The anger drained from Samonie. She gave Catherine a wry smile.

  “You have never overburdened me with work, Mistress,” she told Catherine. “My family and I owe you much. Should I need help with the children, I will let you know. Unless,” she added, “you feel I’m lax in my care of them.”

  “No, of course not,” Catherine answered. “Since everything is in order here, I’ll just return to my work.”

  But she didn’t feel that everything was in order. Samonie had been withdrawn and irritable ever since they had returned. What was the matter? Was she worried about Willa and her new husband? Had someone threatened her? Could she possibly know something about the dead knight? If so, why didn’t she tell them? Samonie knew all their secrets; Catherine had thought they knew all hers. What would be so awful that she couldn’t share it?

  Her mind full of dark speculation, Catherine tried to settle into finishing the hemming of a new bliaut for Margaret to wear over the hand-me-
down shift. Even the simple stitch was too much for her to concentrate on. After she had stabbed her finger the third time, she gave it up.

  Wandering aimlessly through the house, she wound up in the upstairs storage room where Edgar and Solomon kept the smaller, more valuable items of their merchandise. Inside were a number of caskets and barrels stuffed with straw to protect the goods. It had never occured to Catherine in her father’s day to ask why this room had no lock and the counting room did. Of course all the containers were sealed or chained shut, but it was strange that Hubert had felt his records to be more precious than his possessions.

  Catherine sat down on one of the boxes, heedless of the dust. Alone there, among the things he had left them, she missed her father as much as if he were dead. Of course, having reverted to Judaism, he was worse than dead. She knew he could never safely return to Paris.

  “Papa,” she whispered, “how could you abandon us? Without you, everything is falling apart. I never realized how much you took care of me.”

  She was settling in to a good, steady fit of tears when a thumping from below warned her that Edgar was back. She stood up, wiping her face on her sleeve.

  “I’m up here!” she called. “I’ll be right down.”

  Edgar didn’t wait for her. He came bounding up the steps, two at a time. He met her on the landing and took hold of her, as if to lift her. It was only when his empty arm touched her that he remembered. A shadow crossed his face, then he hugged her and grinned.

  “Solomon and I have a commission!” he announced. “Abbot Suger has sent word that he needs good English wool for blankets for the king’s journey. He wants us to negotiate for them with the wool merchants. The profit from that and what we expect to take in at the Lendit this year should keep us through next winter.”

  It wasn’t until she saw the relief in his eyes that Catherine realized how worried he had been.

  “That’s wonderful, carissime!” She kissed him. “I’m so proud of you!

  “Does that mean you’ll have to go back to England?” she added with less enthusiasm.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll go no farther than Flanders and not until the end of the summer,” Edgar said. “The abbot will send the blankets after the army, to catch up with the king before the winter rains in the Holy Land.”

  “How nice to have something to celebrate,” Catherine said, as they went down to join the rest of the family.

  Clemence had no occasion to rejoice. She was very grateful to the sisters at Montmartre for their care of her. She knew that Paris was a dangerous city just now with so many strangers in it. She was very lucky to have a bed. Clemence knew all this and appreciated her good fortune, but all she wanted was for Lambert to come back and tell her what was happening.

  “Would you like to help us distribute alms?” one of the nuns asked, seeing her sitting alone.

  “Yes, of course,” Clemence answered dutifully.

  She followed the nun to the refectory, where they were given baskets of broken loaves, some soaked in sauce from the last meal.

  “Don’t give more than one piece to anyone,” the nun told her. “Unless it’s very small. It’s dreadful to send people away only partially fed, but Abbess Cristina says that’s better than having to turn some away with nothing at all.”

  “I understand,” Clemence said.

  But when she saw the crowd of people, so many of them with children, Clemence wasn’t sure she could obey the rules. The men frightened her, unkempt, unshaven and with a look of being one step from savagery. Some of them snatched at the bread and began eating without even saying a blessing. The children had eyes too large for their faces. Most were barefoot and had open sores on their legs and faces.

  “Are they lepers?” Clemence whispered, pulling back a little.

  “Probably not,” the nun next to her said. “It’s mostly insect bites or scratches. We try to look for those with the spotted sickness or other illnesses that children pass to each other. But usually the beggars notice it themselves and drive the truly diseased away.”

  “What happens to them?” Clemence asked in horror.

  “Some are tended to at the monasteries; most die or recover, as God wills.” The nun’s tired face showed how much she would have liked to save all who came to them.

  Clemence finished distributing the contents of her basket. They had poor at home in Picardy, of course. But they were the town’s poor. The monks at Saint Omer put by grain every year against famine, and she didn’t think anyone had ever starved, not in her memory.

  There were still people waiting for alms.

  “I’m sorry,” the nun told them. “This is all we have to spare today. Come back tomorrow. Or try Saint Genevieve. The monks there have more than we do.”

  No one even protested. They simply turned from the gate and started back down the hill. Clemence noticed how many leaned on sticks or had to be carried by others.

  “Sister,” she asked, “do I eat food that you would normally give to the poor?”

  “Of course not,” the woman answered. “The bread you left last night went to them. You might say you added to the gift.”

  Clemence was slightly comforted. She was just beginning to realize how sheltered her life had been. Her village was prosperous, so much so that Lambert’s father was much richer in gold and property than her own, even though Osto was the castellan and Bertulf merely a miller.

  The nun was speaking to her.

  “I beg your pardon,” Clemence said. “What was that?”

  “I just wondered what brings you and your husband to Paris,” she repeated. “Is he going to join the king on his pilgrimage?”

  “Oh no!” Clemence was terrified at the thought. “It’s our fathers who are going. They left together some weeks ago. But not long after, my mother died suddenly. We came to find my father, Lord Osto, and tell him. He left the care of the village to her, and now there’s no one left but me. If Father doesn’t return, Lord Jordan will give the castellany to someone else, and I’ll have no home.”

  “You poor child!” The nun patted her hand. “I’ll pray for the soul of your mother, shall I?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Clemence said.

  “But you shouldn’t have come yourselves to find him,” the nun continued. “Why didn’t you send one of your men or ask your lord to do so?”

  “There was no one who could be spared,” Clemence told her.

  She hurried back to her room. Her answer sounded flimsy even to herself, and she wondered if the sister thought so, too. It didn’t seem wise to say that it wasn’t safe for her to stay behind. It was possible that the nuns of Montmartre, noblewomen themselves, wouldn’t approve of her decision.

  If Lambert didn’t come for her soon, Clemence vowed that she would go find him, whatever the risk.

  Bertulf and Godfrey were sitting on a bench outside the Blue Boar, watching a circle of men playing a complicated game with dice and round wooden counters. Neither one knew the rules and so didn’t join in the suspense felt by other observers.

  “Do you think we’ve been here long enough?” Godfrey asked.

  “We’ve another few hours of daylight,” Bertulf answered. “We have to be back for Compline, but I doubt Master Durand will be happy to see us much before.”

  “I still don’t understand what we’re doing,” Godfrey complained. “The murderer must have left Paris by now. And, as for the rest, we could tell Master Durand most of what he wants to know now.”

  “No, the man is still here,” Bertulf said. “I’m sure of it. He has no reason to leave. He knows we couldn’t see his face that night. What he doesn’t realize is that I heard him speak before he attacked us. Master Durand has given us the perfect opportunity. We shall go from tavern to tavern until I hear that voice.”

  “And then?” Godfrey asked.

  “And then I will dispense justice,” Bertulf answered.

  Godfrey hoped no one saw his friend’s face at that moment. It would be the end of t
heir deception, and of their dreams.

  Early Monday morning, Samonie slipped out of the house, carrying a bag. She made her way to her daughter’s home, knowing that they would be up at first light to prepare the wool for the day’s work.

  Willa was already spreading the matted wool as Belot poured water into the trough. She greeted Samonie with a kiss.

  “What are you doing here so early, Mother?” she asked.

  “I need a favor of you, ma fillote,” Samonie said, holding up the bag. “A man will come by for this later today. His name is Bertulf. He’s somewhat older than I am, and his hair, what remains of it, is brown streaked with grey. His accent is that of Picardy. He’ll ask for you by name. Give this bag to him and no other.”

  Willa took the bag gingerly, as if she expected it to snap at her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Food and a few other things I promised him,” Samonie answered.

  “Why couldn’t he come to Master Edgar’s?” Belot put down the water bucket to stare at the bag suspiciously.

  “Because I’ll be in and out today, and he might miss me,” Samonie answered. “You’ll not be going anywhere, will you?”

  “Not with all this to do,” Belot grunted. “Felt hats for every pilgrim in Paris, it seems! By the time King Louis sets out I may have enough to rent a place and open my own shop.”

  “That’s wonderful! I’m proud of you both,” Samonie smiled. But as she did, she also noted how red and callused her daughter’s hands and feet had become and how young Belot was already getting a stoop from carrying the heavy water buckets.

  “Well, I must be getting back before the porridge boils over,” she said. “Good-bye, my dears. Take care of yourselves.”

  The streets were crowded as Samonie made her way back to the Grève. Pilgrims, mountebanks, monks, beggars, citizens of Paris trying to earn their daily bread. Every now and then someone important came through, with guards moving ahead to clear the way for them. The beggars tried to get as close as was permitted, for occasionally a flurry of small coins was tossed to them from the noble riding by.