To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  “Perhaps, but what can I do about it?” Lambert said. “I’ve no proof that Lord Osto and my father even came to Paris. No one reports having seen them here.”

  Jehan reached over and grabbed the young man by the strings of his tunic.

  “What kind of men do they grow in the north?” he growled. “You mewl like a lamb that’s lost its mother. You need proof? Well, I tell you it’s in that house. All you have to do is find it. Now, are you going to go back to that wife of yours and tell her you’ve failed?”

  “Uggleger … argle!” Lambert choked.

  Jehan released the strings. Lambert coughed until he could breathe normally again.

  “I only asked for your advice.” He coughed again.

  “Return to the house,” Jehan ordered. “Pretend to make friends with Catherine and Edgar. Tell them you know no one in Paris; all the things you told me. That should be easy for you. But you must also stay on your guard. Lull them into speaking in front of you without caution. And, no matter what, don’t trust them!”

  “How can I avoid taking hospitality from them?” Lambert asked. “If I’m to feign friendship.”

  That gave Jehan pause. “Hmmm, you’ll need to find something else to counter enchantments and prevent poisoning.”

  “Come with me,” he said suddenly. “I know of someone who can help us.”

  They clattered down the stairs and out into the crowded street.

  “Follow closely,” Jehan spoke softly in Lambert’s ear. “I mean to follow an indirect path, to confuse anyone who might be spying on us.”

  Although the sun was warm on his back, Lambert shivered.

  Jehan led him through the narrow streets, up and down, doubling back often almost to the river. They circled around the Jews’ cemetery and past rows of vines covered with leaves and the promise of wine. They stumbled over bits of masonry from ancient buildings and once cut through a small church. Finally, Jehan stopped at a low door on a narrow street off the rue de la Bucherie. The house was built on the bank of the Biévre, one of the streams flowing into the Seine.

  Jehan knocked softly. After a few moments, the board over the grille moved a fraction. Lambert thought he had a glimpse of a rheumy eye peering at them. Then there was the sound of a bolt being drawn, and the door opened only enough to let them enter.

  Lambert found himself in a room not much higher than the door. Both he and Jehan were forced to stoop. It was dark, smoky and stifling. The only light filtered in from a slot cut in the wall on the far side. It was some moments before Lambert could make out the person they were visiting. He thought it was male, but very short. The house was the right size for its owner.

  “So,” the man said, squinting at Jehan. “Back, are you? The charms I gave you must have worked, or you wouldn’t have returned alive.”

  Jehan snorted. “Well enough, for what they were,” he said. “But I survived through my own strength. This boy needs something to protect him in a stronghold of evil.”

  Lambert could only make out the movement of a head in the gloom. He knew that he was being examined.

  “In case they try to poison or ensorcel me,” he explained to the man.

  “Of course.” Their host turned and began to rummage in a box next to the wall. He pulled out several small bags and laid them on a bench.

  “These should work,” he told them. “I’ll have to mix them. Artemisia, holly, some ground rowan leaves, a few other things. Wear it in a sack around your neck. Breathe into it if you start to feel dazed. A pinch in a wine cup will dilute the effect of most poisons.”

  He worked as he spoke. Lambert had no idea how he could measure and grind the herbs in so little light. What if the man mixed the wrong amounts?

  “Now as to your payment,” Jehan said.

  The man interrupted him. “Three deniers of Paris. I don’t bargain, if you recall.”

  Lambert’s heart sank. “I don’t have that much.”

  “I do.” Jehan went into the bag at his belt. “Just remember, if the boy dies, so do you.”

  This threat gave Lambert no comfort. As they emerged into the sunshine, his only desire was to see Clemence again before he infiltrated the demons’ lair.

  Catherine was going through the jewelry box. Her sister, Agnes, had taken most of it to Germany as her dowry. Now that she had given her mother’s chain, most of the pieces left were ones Edgar had made. She held up a silver brooch, a sample of his first efforts at shaping metal. A true craftsman would have thrown it back in the crucible, but Catherine treasured it.

  She sighed as she lifted a tangle of silver and gold chains. Beneath them lay a pair of gold earrings, with garnets laid into them. Yes, those might do, if she could only find the pendant that went with them.

  Despite her protestations that it would be a dull gathering, Catherine was nervous. She had no doubt that Edgar would behave perfectly. And he was pleasant to look at in more eyes than hers. He might be too fair for some tastes, but she knew there were plenty of women who watched him admiringly.

  Alone in her room, Catherine had to admit that it was her own behavior she doubted. Her mother or sister had always taken care of the social duties. They had excused Catherine as one who was intended for the convent as well as one who was most likely to tip over a tray of sweets or trip over the dogs in the homes of others. As a consequence, Catherine now realized that she had little experience in being a merchant’s wife.

  She was sure she would offend someone or embarrass Edgar. It might be better if Margaret went instead. She was the one everyone wanted to meet.

  Samonie was calling her. Catherine took out the earrings, closed and locked the box. She tried to lock up her doubts, as well.

  The housekeeper was waiting impatiently at the foot of the stairs. Next to her stood Martin. The boy’s tunic was muddy and torn. His face was scratched and one eye was swollen shut.

  “Holy Mother!” Catherine exclaimed. “What happened to you?”

  “He was attacked by a ribaudaille!” Samonie said angrily. “A band of robbers right in the middle of Paris.”

  “Mother, they didn’t rob me,” Martin contradicted her. “And I know who they were. Most were from the students who rent from Archer and Richilde. The others live nearby.”

  “But why?” Catherine said. “What did they want from you?”

  “Nothing,” Martin said. “We just got into an argument, and I came out the worse for it.”

  “Tell her the truth, Martin,” Samonie said. “She should know.”

  Martin glared at his mother. “It was nothing but words, Mistress.”

  “Martin.” Catherine came closer to him. She saw that his lip was cut and swollen, as well. “Have you been defending our honor?”

  Martin looked down. “They said it about all of us. Mother, as well. That you were murderers and Master Hubert had gone on a pilgrimage to Hell and that no one would work in a household like ours except whores and their bastards that no one else would take in.”

  Catherine set her lips tightly. “I see. They did seem to cover everything, didn’t they?”

  Samonie hid her face in her hands. Martin put his arm around her.

  “Mother, don’t cry,” he pled. “I don’t care. I don’t believe any of it. It’s my father who was the bastard, for using you. He’s the only one I blame. If I knew who he was, I’d challenge him.”

  Samonie wiped her eyes and tried to smile.

  “You’re a good, brave son,” she said. “I’m proud of you. Now come to the kitchen and let me wash those cuts.”

  Martin looked to Catherine.

  “I agree,” she said. “Thank you for standing up for us all. It grieves me greatly that you should be so tormented. I’ll do what I can to see that it never happens again.”

  She went slowly back up the stairs. Matters had gone too far. They had lived in too much secrecy, shut off from their neighbors. It was time to face the world. Even if it meant enduring Genta’s simpering and her dancing bears.


  Twelve

  Montmartre, the Convent of Saint Genevieve, Thursday morning, 11 kalends June (May 22), 1147; 20 Sivan, 4907. Feast of Saint Julie, virgin of Carthage, enslaved by the Vandals, but free in her faith. Martyred shortly thereafter.

  Hoc inspectanti divini plasmatis hostis

  Invidie patrie, non esse valebat amori

  Unde sibi ingeniti livoris fomite moto …

  Seeing this, the Father of Envy,

  The enemy of divine creation

  Had no desire to love it

  And thus he fired the tinder of his inborn spite …

  —Gilo of Paris

  Historia Vie Hierosolimitane

  Book VI, lines 150–152

  “You mustn’t worry about me, Clemence,” Lambert urged. “You see, I’m well protected against the snares of evil.”

  Clemence surveyed the collection of crosses, charms and herbs hung around his neck.

  “My dearest,” she said gently, “if these people are so wicked, why not bring them to the attention of the bishop and let him deal with them?”

  “Because they are far too clever for that.” Lambert had been thoroughly advised by Jehan. “They even have disciples among the canons of Nôtre Dame.”

  Clemence’s eyes widened. “How horrible! But, if that is so, then what chance have you?”

  Lambert explained once more about the efficacy of the charms.

  Clemence was quiet for a moment. Then she looked at Lambert with an expression that, even after less than a month of marriage, he was learning to fear.

  “If your amulets and herbs protect you,” she told him, “they can shield me, as well. We shall face these demons together; my prayers added to yours.”

  “Clemence, no! It’s far too dangerous.”

  “You just told me it wouldn’t be, Lambert. How can it be safe for you and not for me?” She took his hands. “Do you doubt the sincerity of my faith?”

  “These tokens will only save us from magic and sorcery,” Lambert countered. “What if we’re attacked with knives or cudgels?”

  “Then there will be two of us to fight them off.” Clemence let go his hands and began packing her bag as if the matter were decided.

  “But, I can’t let you,” Lambert said with little hope. “What would your father say?”

  “We won’t know until we find him,” Clemence answered, her chin trembling. “And I’m out of patience with waiting here with the sisters, my hands folded in resignation. Mother would never have done so.”

  Now a tear did escape, and Lambert knew he had lost the battle. Deep down, he was relieved that she would be with him when next he faced Edgar and Catherine. He was young enough to believe that love was the strongest weapon against evil. His love for Clemence was too powerful for any demon to pierce.

  So, well armed, they set out.

  Surveying the scene in the children’s room, Edgar would have believed that elves had come in during the night and left a shambles.

  Samonie and Margaret were hemming a border on Catherine’s new bliaut, a rose silk embroidered with vines. Catherine stood on a stool, trying to balance so that the edges would be even.

  “I could just wrap the extra length to hang over my belt without all this torment,” she complained. “My foot’s gone to sleep.”

  “No, you can’t,” Margaret said firmly. “I’ve observed the ladies of the court, and they all wear loose chains for belts that have to be held up by loops. No one shortens her skirt by folding anymore. You don’t want to be out of fashion, do you?”

  “Heaven forbid,” Catherine said. “The street has enough gossip about us already. Edgar! Get that away from Edana!”

  The child had got into the makeup box and was happily spreading kohl over her cheeks.

  “Will you be long at this?” Edgar asked as he took the stick of kohl from his daughter, and then lifted her, screaming in anger, to his hip.

  “Edgar, to make the proper impression, I shall be all day getting ready,” Catherine said. “Once I’m sewn into my sleeves, Samonie still has to arrange my hair.”

  “Why? Won’t it be covered?” Edgar asked.

  Margaret looked at him with pity.

  “Brother, you don’t understand fashion,” she said.

  “Nor do I want to,” Edgar said. “I hope you don’t intend me to wear those idiotic shoes that need hooks on the toes fastening them to the hose to keep one from tripping, because I won’t do it.”

  He turned his attention to the squirming bundle under his arm. “Edana, that’s enough. I’m taking you down to wash this stuff off you. Stop wiggling.”

  “Your good boots will be enough,” Catherine told him. “Samonie has laid out your shift, tunic and hose. Wear the belt of black leather with the silver trim.”

  Edgar left the room before any more orders could be flung at him. He had to admit that when Catherine decided to do a thing, she did it properly.

  He was busy in the kitchen wiping the sticky black kohl from Edana and onto a good table napkin he had found when Martin came in to announce the visitors.

  “It’s that man who was here before,” the boy said. “And this time the lady is with him. Shall I fetch Mistress Catherine?”

  “Godeherre!” Edgar swore. “No, she’s half-stitched right now. Cut up some cheese and bread for them while I make myself presentable. You too, little imp!” he added to Edana.

  Martin found a wooden platter and cut a hunk of cheese and another of bread. He looked around for a smaller knife for the guests to use and picked up the first one he saw. Then, as Edgar quickly washed, he brought the platter in and set it on the table in front of Lambert and Clemence.

  “Master Edgar will join you in a moment,” he said with dignity. “May I bring you some beer, as well?”

  Clemence smiled. “Water please, or cider, if you have it.”

  “Certainly, my lady,” Martin bowed and left the room.

  Lambert surveyed the block of cheese.

  “I suspect the mistress of the house isn’t here,” Clemence said. “We mustn’t hurt the boy’s feelings. Cut me a piece and break off a corner of the bread, if you can. It doesn’t look appealing enough to be enchanted.”

  Lambert picked up the knife and sliced the cheese. He gave a piece to Clemence. Then he stared at the knife, and his eyes grew wide with horror.

  “Beloved, what is it?” Clemence dropped the cheese on the floor as she rushed over to him.

  “Look!” Lambert held up the knife. “Jehan was right! He wasn’t imagining the danger. This is your father’s knife!”

  “Let me see!” Clemence snatched it from him. “It does look like it, but …”

  “The star on the handle, right where one’s thumb would rest, see?” Lambert pointed. “He used to joke that the meat was so tough he would be branded for life with that star.”

  Clemence closed her eyes. He was right. Ralf, the smith, had made two of them, one for each of her parents. She had her mother’s with her.

  “How could they have come by this?” she whispered.

  “Only one way.” Lambert put his arm around her. “Lord Osto wouldn’t have given it away; it’s not fine enough for a present. Everyone here has lied to us. Our fathers were here, at least yours was.”

  Clemence bit her lips. Once she asked the question, she knew there would be no turning back.

  “You believe that Father was the knight whose body was found here, don’t you?”

  “I fear so, my dearest,” Lambert said softly. “Even though the description doesn’t match. We must be on our guard. We’re surrounded by evil, just as Jehan warned.”

  At that moment, Edgar came from the kitchen. Instead of getting the kohl off, he had managed only to get streaks on his own face as Edana rubbed against him. He held her sideways under his arm, her face and hands striped black and white with smears. She was now crowing in delight, enjoying the ride.

  Clemence took one look at them and screamed. Lambert could only gape. He took his wife’s ha
nd and pulled her out of the house as fast as he could.

  Edgar put Edana down and followed them to the door.

  “Hallo?” he called after them. “Are you all right?”

  He shut the door, shaking his head. What strange people! The customs in Picardy must be very different from Paris.

  Lambert and Clemence ran until they were stopped by the river. They stood on the pathway overlooking the bank, panting until they could speak.

  “What was that thing?” Clemence gasped.

  “It was just as Jehan warned, a nuiton, a creature of evil,” Lambert answered. “You see how the man carried it like a pet. Some of its wickedness had even rubbed off onto him!”

  Clemence had caught her breath now and was trying to retrieve her wits. She had been startled by the apparition so soon after recognizing her father’s knife. The sight wasn’t clear in her mind anymore.

  “I’m not certain of that,” she said. “I wish I hadn’t panicked. We had all that protection with us. We should have stayed and demanded an explanation from that man. Was he the master of the house?”

  Lambert was beginning to feel foolish, although any good Christian knew that running from the Devil was the wisest course. But in Paris he was surrounded by pilgrims who were preparing to face not only evil, but cold steel and a hot desert. He should have been brave enough to stand firm.

  “Yes, that was Edgar,” Lambert admitted. “Do you think we should go back?”

  “Not today,” Clemence said. “I couldn’t face them after running off like that. My mind is in such turmoil that I’d muddle a simple Ave Maria and leave myself open to their sorcery.”

  “Do you believe me now?” he asked.

  Clemence put her hands on his shoulders and looked up at him.

  “I know you would never lie to me,” she said. “But I don’t think either one of us has the truth. And, if that truth is that my father has been killed, either by his old friend, Hubert, or by someone of that family, then we must prove it, no matter what the cost to us.”