To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

“Martin, see who that is,” he said. “Tell them to enter at their own risk.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Edgar looked at Catherine, who rose and came to kiss his forehead.

  “Having a family seemed a lovely idea before the children were born, didn’t it?” she murmured.

  He looked up at her and smiled. “Most days it still does,” he said. “God, what it must be like at your brother’s, with all their own and the fosterlings, as well! I should be grateful.”

  Martin wasn’t sure that Edgar was joking. He hoped the visitor was a friend. Astrolabe was supposed to be staying with the canons of Nôtre Dame until Monday, but perhaps he’d come back for something. That would be safe. He slid open the grille and looked out.

  Before him stood a bedraggled figure in a long muddy cloak. He couldn’t see the face, but the hands appeared feminine, scratched and dirty. He was about to tell the woman to go to Saint Merri for alms when he took another look.

  The cloak was mud-splotched, but not ragged. The weave was good and the pattern complicated. The hands were scratched but not callused or gnarled by work. If this was a beggar, then she hadn’t been at it long.

  “God save you, Lady. Who are you and whom do you seek?” he asked. Catherine had taught him what to say, and, for a wonder, he remembered.

  “I’m Clemence, daughter of Lord Osto of Picardy,” the girl said. “I’m looking for my husband, but no one will help me find him and, even if you’re all demons, I’ve no place else to go except back to Montmartre and I don’t think you’re demons, even though Lambert says so and maybe it wasn’t an imp that the man had and there may be a perfectly good reason for you to be cutting your bread with Father’s knife, so will you please let me in because I’m wet and cold and starving and there’s a man across the road who’s been following me for ages and I don’t like the look of him.”

  She lifted up her hood then, and Martin was captured in her pleading eyes and delicate face. With no more hesitation, he opened the door and let her come in.

  Sixteen

  Paris, a wet Saturday. 9 Kalends June (May 24), 1146; 24 Sivan 4907. Feast of Saint Manahen, milk brother of Herod the great, converted by Saint Luke.

  Douce amie o le vis cler,

  or ne vous ai u quester

  ainc Diu ne fist ce regné

  ne par terre ne par mer,

  se t ’i quidoie trover,

  ne t ’i quesisce.

  Sweet love, of bright countenance

  I don’t know where to seek you

  But God has created no kingdom

  on land or sea,

  that I would not search through

  If I could find you there.

  —Aucassin and Nicolette (35)

  Before allowing him to begin his search, Jehan took Lambert to wash.

  They followed the cry, “li bain sont chaut!” until they came to a bathhouse. The hot tubs were full of people because of the damp weather, so they were forced to wait until the attendent called their names.

  As they sat there, a young woman in a yellow bliaut came up to them with a smile. Lambert’s first thought was that she must be freezing; her chainse was so loosely laced that he could see her bare skin all the way from under her arms to her thighs.

  “Would you be wanting some company in your tub?” she asked. “I can scrub all those places you find hard to reach.”

  Jehan was about to ask her price when Lambert spoke up with indignation.

  “What are you thinking of, jael?” he said. “Can’t you see that this man has taken the cross? Have you no care for his soul, and your own?”

  Instead of being chastened, the woman was amused. She gave Lambert a gentle slap on the cheek.

  “Just in from the country, are you lad?” She laughed. “In that case I can do both of you for a special price, only for warriors of Christ.”

  “Never mind the boy,” Jehan told her. “You spotted him for a rustic. He’s easily affronted, and I humor him. We’ll need none of your aid today. But I think I’ll be more than ready for a good scrubbing before setting out to fight Saracens. I’ll return then and look for you.”

  “I be waiting with my scrubbing brush.” The woman smiled at Jehan and caressed his cheek.

  When she had gone, Lambert shivered.

  “Don’t worry, boy,” Jehan said. “We’ll soon have you warm and dry.”

  “I’m not cold,” Lambert answered. “That woman made me uneasy.”

  “That whore?” Jehan laughed. “Are you so much a monk as that? I pity your wife, then.”

  “Couldn’t you feel it?” Lambert asked in wonder. “Her lips smiled and her words were merry, but her eyes were full of hate.”

  Jehan looked at Lambert with new respect. Perhaps the boy wasn’t such an innocent as he appeared. It might be wise to pay more attention when telling him things. It wouldn’t do if Lambert started thinking for himself.

  At the Temple preceptory Bertulf and Godfrey were in their room after dinner and as content as they had been since the terrible night when their comrade had been killed.

  “That was the best wine I’ve ever drunk,” Godfrey said. “And the finest game pie. Do you think the knights feed their men that well all the time?”

  Bertulf half opened his eyes. He had been dozing on the pillows that a servant had forgotten to store. “No, Godfrey,” he said. “I think we got such a meal only because the pope was eating with us.”

  Godfrey’s jaw dropped. “He was? Which one was Pope Eugenius? I only saw the bishop and a few of the white monks!”

  “Eugenius used to be a white monk,” Bertulf explained. “Back when he was called Bernardo. It suits him to forgo the regalia of his office sometimes. Especially when his old mentor, the abbot of Clairvaux, is present.”

  “Bernard was there, too?” Godfrey felt like an idiot. “The most important men in Christendom, and I didn’t even recognize them! No wonder everyone was deferring to the monks. I couldn’t understand it.”

  “And no wonder they ate less than anyone else.” Bertulf chuckled. “Master Evrard would have done better feeding them beans and lettuce with water to drink. Poor Brother Baudwin! I could see how torn he was between making a good impression and filling his belly. He must have been in agony!”

  Godfrey sank back onto his pillows, confounded by what he had witnessed all unknowing.

  “Master,” he stated, “we must end this pretense before we lose our lives and our souls.”

  “I know, Godfrey, I know.” Bertulf sighed. “But I see no other path for me than to carry out the plan as best I can. Our dream must not be lost because I lack courage to see it through.”

  “And what shall I tell your wife when I return home?” Godfrey asked with concern.

  Bertulf closed his eyes. “That I charge her to maintain our property, to guide Clemence and Lambert in their duties and to pray for me.”

  Godfrey had been grateful that his duty lay back in Picardy. Now, thinking of those he would have to face there, he wasn’t so sure.

  Clemence had followed Martin into the house like Saint Perpetua entering the coliseum, peering right and left as if expecting the bears and gladiators to attack any moment.

  Instead of a den of heretics, she had found two women working on their sewing and a little boy on the floor with a puppy. The only ominous sight was the one-handed man at a workbench by the window, fashioning some strange object from wood and wire.

  She tried to keep Martin from taking her wet cloak, but he was determined to prove his worth as all-round servant and pulled it from her grasp.

  “Hang it by the kitchen fire to dry,” Catherine told him. “Good afternoon,” she greeted Clemence. “Who are you and what brings you to us on such an inclement day?”

  She was puzzled when their visitor began to back toward the door, smiling uneasily.

  “Edgar?” she asked. “Martin didn’t say the girl was a mute, did he? GOOD AFTERNOON!” she said to Clemence again, grinning brightly.

 
Edgar got up from his worktable and approached Clemence, who continued backing away until she hit the wall.

  “Weren’t you here a day or two ago?” he asked, squinting to see her more clearly. “Yes, with that poor madman. Is there no one looking out for the two of you?”

  Clemence’s response to that was to burst into a flood of tears. Edgar turned to Catherine and Samonie with a helpless gesture.

  Catherine got up at once, spilling the threads again. She came and put her arm around Clemence.

  “Please, douz amie!” she begged. “Compose yourself. Samonie, is there any spiced cider on hand? Could you fetch a bowl for our guest? Now”—she guided Clemence to a stool and sat her down—“tell us all about it, if you’re able.”

  Between sobs, Clemence managed to get most of the story out.

  “I left the convent this morning,” she finished. “I hated it that Lambert wouldn’t tell me what was going on. He wouldn’t let me stay with him and his friend. This man told him you were sorcerers and in league with the Devil, but I thought even facing Satan would be better than the constant torture of waiting.”

  She wiped her nose with her damp sleeve. Catherine handed her a clean cloth. Clemence sniffed and thanked her.

  “So you came here even though you feared we would hurt you,” Catherine said. “That was very brave.”

  “That was very foolish,” Edgar said, frowning. “What do you think your husband will do when he finds you’ve gone?”

  Catherine grimaced. She knew Edgar was speaking from experience.

  Clemence looked up at him with her brown eyes wide in supplication.

  “I thought I could find him,” she said. “But the city is bigger than I believed, and the only place I could find my way to was here. I’m not even sure how to return to Montmartre.”

  She was so pathetic that Edgar gave in.

  “Well, since you have no other guardian at hand,” he said, “we’ll see to you for now. When you’ve eaten and your clothes are dry, I’ll take you back to the convent. Then I’ll try to find your husband for you. Now who is the ‘friend’ of his who believes us to be so wicked?”

  “I’ve never seen him.” Clemence sniffed again. “When we came to Paris, we asked everywhere for Master Hubert, and this Jehan was the only one who would help us.”

  “Jehan!” Catherine and Edgar cried together. “Cristesblud!” Edgar added. They both instantly crossed themselves.

  “Clemence, my dear,” Catherine said in horror, “if this is the same man we know, then Lambert has fallen in with a lunatic, possessed by a demon of hate!”

  “Are you certain?” Clemence’s fear dried her tears. “There are many men with that name. Lambert told me he’s a knight and he wears the cross of a pilgrim.”

  “There are indeed many Jehans,” Edgar agreed. “But only one who would slander us so. He’s an old enemy of ours, who we hoped had vanished forever into Spain with his cross and sword. Catherine is right; his wits are sadly warped, although he may still seem sane to those who don’t know the truth behind his wild tales.”

  “Then we must find them at once.” Clemence rose to go. “Before he does something to Lambert!”

  “Hush, now,” Catherine said. “You say your husband is helping Jehan. As long as he does, then he’s in no bodily danger. You should return to Montmartre in case he comes back looking for you. Then you can tell him not to trust his friend. Jehan won’t help the two of you find your fathers. Is there no one else you can go to?”

  “Only Master Hubert. We came to this house in the first place because he and my father were friends,” Clemence explained. “Father said they would stop with him when they arrived in Paris and before they went to the Temple knights. Lambert’s father was to join, if they would have him.”

  “They never came here,” Catherine said. “Father hasn’t seen them.”

  Clemence looked up quickly. “How do you know?” she asked.

  “I mean, he left before you say they came here.” Catherine hurried to cover her mistake. “Father’s been gone since before Lent.”

  At that moment Samonie came back with the spiced cider and the information that Clemence’s cloak was steaming nicely. Clemence took the drink with thanks for Samonie and a worried glance at Catherine, who was inwardly cursing her own stupidity.

  “As soon as the rain lets up, I’ll send Martin for my horse,” Edgar said. “Or did you ride here?”

  “We have a mule,” Clemence told him, “But I left him with the sisters. The journey here almost finished the poor beast.”

  “Fine, then I’ll take you back to attend to him,” Edgar said.

  Catherine could tell that his temper was fraying once more. He had had little sleep and much worry the past few days.

  As if to emphasize this, there was a flash of lightning followed immediately by the crash of thunder and hard upon it the rush of footsteps as Margaret ran down the stairs, carrying Edana.

  “The oak tree in back by the stream is ablaze,” she gasped. “The lightning struck it as I watched. It was like a giant flaming finger!”

  In her arms, Edana sucked her thumb in a state of unusual quiet.

  “It’s a sign,” Clemence breathed.

  “It certainly is,” Edgar said shortly. “Martin! Run and get Pagan, Archer and Giselbert! Tell them to put out the alarm. We have to make sure the fire doesn’t spread.”

  “The roofs should be well drenched,” Catherine said, more to herself than for Clemence. “But the wind is fierce, and sparks could blow anywhere. Margaret, will you run to Hervice and ask for the loan of a bucket and her servants? Here, give me the baby.”

  Samonie had already run to get their buckets and was out in the back garden with Edgar. Catherine watched them from the doorway, hoping that the neighbors would arrive before the branch hanging over the fence and above the merchant’s grain shed cracked and fell. The shed was thatch and wood and would certainly collapse from the weight of the branch whether it caught fire or not.

  Edgar realized that if the branch were cut farther down toward the trunk, where the fire hadn’t yet reached, it could be levered to fall back into their property. He also knew that he couldn’t manage the ladder and saw himself.

  Clemence scurried into a corner out of the way, as Martin returned leading men who carried ladders, buckets already splashing with rainwater, saws and pruning hooks.

  Catherine stepped aside to let them out into the garden.

  “Trickster!” Edgar called, spotting Giselbert. “Bring that ladder over here. I think we can contain this if we hurry.”

  Catherine was watching the activity when she heard a squeal from the hall.

  “What is it?” she cried as she ran back in.

  She found Margaret and Clemence holding a man by his belt as he struggled to free himself without hurting them.

  “Archer!” Catherine said in surprise. “Margaret, why are you hanging on to Archer?”

  “He was trying to go upstairs,” Margaret said. “I saw him as I came back with the bucket. He thought everyone had gone outside.”

  “I was going to see if the fire had caught on any of the trees by the house,” Archer explained, pushing the girls’ arms away and trying to regain his dignity.

  “We’ve nothing growing close by,” Catherine said. “The danger is more to our neighbors than to us. All the others are in the back. Perhaps you could help them.”

  Archer gave a curt nod and followed Catherine out.

  “You saw him, didn’t you?” Margaret asked Clemence. “He was looking for something to steal, I’m sure of it.”

  “I didn’t see him,” Clemence said. “I only heard you cry out and came to help you.”

  “Well, I saw him, and he was sneaking,” Margaret said. “People don’t sneak when they’re trying to help. Oh, and thank you, whoever you are.”

  By the time the rain and the neighbors managed to leave the oak only a smoldering ruin, everyone was soaked and bedraggled. Samonie opened a wine cask a
nd handed cups around, with Martin refilling them as necessary. The men thanked her and tracked mud and soot back through the hall as they left.

  Samonie surveyed the mess.

  “I did say the rushes needed changing anyway,” she said.

  Edgar came in, his face as black as the first time Clemence had seen him, when it was smeared with kohl.

  “God spare me another such day!” he exclaimed. “Are we all accounted for?”

  “Yes, carissime,” Catherine said, trying to find a clean spot on his face to kiss. “Actually, we’ve one extra.”

  She indicated Clemence, back in the corner, looking tired and confused.

  “It’s nearly dark,” Catherine continued. “We’ll have to keep her here for the night.”

  Clemence overheard her. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “Lambert will be frantic!”

  “There’s nothing for it,” Edgar told her. “Montmartre is too far to go in the dark, especially in this weather. Lambert should know that you’d have sense enough to find a safe place to stay.”

  He looked at Clemence. It struck him that she was about the same age Catherine had been when they met and with the same look about her, as if the world hadn’t so much as breathed upon her yet. If Lambert were any kind of man at all, he’d be more than frantic by now. Edgar felt a great pity for him.

  Samonie could be heard down in the kitchen, clanging pans. Catherine looked at Edgar.

  “Perhaps you could go down there to wash,” she suggested. “Instead of having Samonie bring the soap and water to you.”

  Edgar listened. The clanging had an angry tone to it.

  “We should think about bringing in another servant,” he said. “Especially if we have any more days like this.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Clemence said to Catherine after he had left. “I’ve just added to your problems.”

  “Of course not,” Catherine assured her. “You may even be the answer to some of them. If Jehan is now suborning strangers to assist in his plans to harm us, then it’s well past time for him to be stopped.”