Lambert pushed harder. Nothing happened.
Frantically, he felt around the edges. There, just in the center, was the loop and padlock Jehan had forgotten to tell him about.
He sat back on his haunches. What could he do now? The thought of dropping into Jehan’s arms without finding out what was in the chest was more terrifying than his fear of being caught.
In desperation, Lambert tried the key to the door. It turned, and the lock opened.
“It’s a miracle,” he breathed. “Thank you Saint Omer!”
He felt in the chest but there was no chink of gold or stolen church plate, as Jehan had told him. All he felt were books, each wrapped in cloth.
What if the books contained magic spells? He should take them to Jehan to examine. But there were too many to carry. Would one be enough?
He heard movement on the floor above him. One would have to be enough, he decided. He took the top book from the pile, closed and locked the chest and went to the window. Thank goodness no one had thought to shutter it on this mild night!
Below, he could just make out the figure of Jehan, ghostlike in his cloak. Lambert tapped on the sill to catch his attention. Jehan looked up and held out his arms.
Lambert dropped the book from the window. Jehan caught it, falling backward from the weight. Then Lambert eased himself through the narrow window and dropped.
He landed with a thud on the ground. Before he could decide if he were hurt or not, Jehan grabbed him by the arm, yanked him up and over the wall to the grain merchant’s.
Somewhere nearby a dog started barking, setting off all the others in the neighborhood. Jehan pushed Lambert into the cover of the grain shed until it died down. Then the two men crept back to the street and, once out into the open, went as casually as they could down to the bridge and back to their room.
The next morning Catherine came down to find the counting-room door open.
“That’s odd,” she said to herself. “I was sure I locked it last night.”
She looked in. Everything seemed the same. The padlock on the chest was in place. She sniffed. There was a scent of laurel in the room. Strange. The bush was on the other side of the house.
Shaking her head, Catherine took the key from her belt and locked the door.
It wasn’t until the afternoon that she went up to work on the accounts and discovered that the book her father had used to keep his records had vanished.
“Edgar!” she called. “What did you do with the account book?”
His voice came back from the storeroom, where he and Solomon were making headway in the inventory.
“Nothing! Why?”
She went into the storeroom. “You must have,” she insisted. “It’s not in the chest.”
Solomon straightened from the box he was searching through.
“Perhaps you left it out,” he suggested.
“Solomon, I would have noticed if it had been lying there.” But Catherine went back to check.
“No, it’s gone,” she said when she returned. “And I never take it out of the room.”
She then told them about finding the door open.
“But the chest was still locked. How could anyone have gotten in? And why would a thief want a book in the first place?” she said.
Edgar followed her back into the counting room. He moved stiffly, his back still in pain. “We shouldn’t assume it’s been stolen,” he said. “This room is right below ours. We’d hear if someone entered it at night. When did you last use the book?”
“Yesterday,” she said. “I wanted to reconcile what I had there with the inventory. Did you make the deal for the leather?”
“Damedé!” he said. “I’d forgotten all about it. That stone knocked it out of my head.”
“Do you suppose someone hit you to prevent your being able to stop them from breaking into the house?” Solomon asked.
“I don’t think I’m that much of a threat,” Edgar answered. “We have locks. We have guards. I can’t believe anyone could have got in. You must have just misplaced the book.”
“Edgar,” Catherine said quietly. “Look.”
She pointed to the ground under the window. There in the grass was the deep impression of two boots, toes pointed toward the house.
They all stared at the marks. Catherine shivered.
“He must have escaped this way,” she said, feeling unnaturally calm. “But how did he get in?”
They all thought the same thing, but no one said it. Finally, Solomon turned back to examine the door.
“No, we aren’t dealing with a thief who can fly,” he said. “He came in by the door and left it unlocked because he went out by the window and the lock was on the other side.”
Edgar let his breath out. “Of course,” he said. “Perfectly clear what happened.”
“Except,” Catherine said, “how did he get into the house in the first place and where did he get keys to the counting room?”
“And,” she added, “what possible use to him is Father’s book?”
Staring at it in broad daylight, Jehan was thinking much the same thing.
“Where is the treasure box?” he demanded of Lambert. “How could you mistake this for it?”
“There was no treasure,” Lambert insisted. “Just books. I thought they might contain evidence of the wickedness of these people.”
“Catherine and Edgar are too clever for that,” Jehan said. He thought about it a moment longer. “The book was locked up, just like treasure, wasn’t it?”
Lambert nodded eagerly.
Jehan sat on the bed and unfolded the cloth cover, revealing wooden boards. The pages between them had been stitched together at different times as more were needed. Cautiously, Jehan opened the cover and looked at the first page.
Lambert watched, ready to run if black smoke or a giant hand suddenly popped out of the parchment.
“Is it in French?” he asked after a moment. “Can you read it?”
“Very interesting,” Jehan said, sounding less angry. “Parts are in French, but not all by any means. You see these shapes?”
He held the book up, pointing to a long line of letters.
“That’s not Latin,” he stated. “That’s Hebrew. Sorcerers use it to call on the fallen angels by their true names. That’s how you get power over them.”
Lambert backed away.
“What does it say?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” Jehan admitted. “But the wizard might. And there’s plenty of clerics who could tell us. I have a bit of old Hubert’s writing, with these same characters on one side and French on the other. They wouldn’t believe me before, but they’ll have to now. Lambert, we have to get this book back into the chest where you found it.”
“What!” Lambert cried. “Go there again? I couldn’t. No, Jehan, I’ve done all you asked. Now I must find Clemence! You wouldn’t even let me find out if she was there!”
He fell off his stool in his anger and fear and scrambled toward the door on his knees, desperate to get away. Jehan reached over and spun him around. Lambert looked up to see Jehan’s knife pointed at his throat.
“I’ve helped you ever since you got here, you ungrateful mesel,” Jehan hissed. “We’re fighting pure evil here, worse than any Saracen. They could be doing anything to your wife, right this minute.”
“I don’t believe it anymore!” Lambert said. “You aren’t heping me find Clemence. You’re just trying to get me to do your work for you.”
Jehan gave a snort. “Idiot! It’s I who’ve been helping you. What use are you to me? I can easily find a bright boy who will do what I ask with no back talk. You’re the one who’s in trouble. Remember that they may well have killed your wife’s father as well as abducting her. Don’t you want to see these monsters brought to justice?”
Lambert looked steadily into Jehan’s eyes. He was suddenly too worn-out for fear.
“No,” he said. “All I want is to find Clemence, safe. After that, I’ll th
ink about justice.”
The knife shook in Jehan’s hand. Lambert looked away. He had thought he had reached the limits of exhaustion and despair. Jehan’s face showed him how much farther a man could go and still be this side of Hell.
“What did these people do to you?” he asked Jehan.
The knife was flung across the room, ripping the thin wall hanging and landing on the floor with a clang.
“They stole everything I had,” Jehan said. “Even hope. They have taken my life and twisted it like a wet cloth until every drop of happiness was wrung from it. I have nothing left.”
“If that is so, they must be truly as evil as you say,” Lambert said gently. “No wonder you hate them.”
Clemence was finding life in Paris a revelation. At home everyone knew she was the castellan’s daughter, but they treated her more as a much loved pet than a noblewoman. Here she felt one place removed from the queen. Bodille and her husband were eager to please her, sending out for meat dishes and elegant pastries that she never got at home.
The room she was given had been swept thoroughly before the bedding and other furniture Catherine had loaned her was brought in, but Clemence still found herself sneezing all the time from the wisps of felt that permeated the air in and around the house. She couldn’t understand why no one else seemed to notice it.
“I hope you haven’t taken cold, my lady,” Bodille said when she brought Clemence’s midday meal. “It’s all these foreign—” She stopped in mid-sentence. “Well, some broth will help, I’m sure. There’s good local wine in it, and I sprinkled it with mint and rue.”
Clemence thanked her. “Oh, yes,” she added. “Is there anyone who can take a message to Catherine LeVendeur and wait for a reply?”
“Of course,” Bodille said. “Willa can go. She’d probably like a chance to see her mother.”
But when Clemence asked for a tablet and stylus, she was greeted with a blank stare.
“We have no such things. Can’t you just tell her the message?” Bodille asked. “Willa can remember whatever you want to say.”
So Willa was summoned and Clemence explained to her that she wanted to be allowed to visit Catherine that afternoon if it was quite convenient.
“She may be going to a meeting at one of her neighbor’s houses,” Willa said. “The wives of the merchants want to form an alms society for the poor of the parish. Catherine said something about having to go.”
“Perhaps you could deliver my message and find out for me,” Clemence answered. “Tell her I would like to speak with her.”
“If they’d found your husband, they’d have told you,” Willa coughed deeply, covering her mouth. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Thank you.” Clemence said. “I don’t doubt it. But I would still like to speak with Catherine.”
Willa shrugged. She’d done her best.
“I shouldn’t be long,” she said.
Clemence was wondering if she’d ever get started.
It was only a little while though, before Willa returned with a note from Catherine inviting her to dine with them that evening.
“She told me she’s got to go to the blasted meeting or the other ladies will gossip about her, but she’d much rather have spent the afternoon with you,” Willa added. “My brother, Martin, and Lord Edgar will come to escort you after Vespers.”
Clemence wondered how much of Catherine’s message had been intended to be repeated. Nevertheless, she thanked Willa again and went to work making the few pieces of clothing she had brought with her into something appropriate for a dinner.
“Chaim, don’t be so glum,” Abraham told Hubert. “You’re lucky to find a party going south in the spring, instead of north to the fairs.”
“Thank you, Abraham,” Hubert replied listlessly. “It will be good to get back to Arles, where I belong.”
Abraham refused to pity him. “If I can’t be in Eretz Israel, I’d be happy living in the south, with fresh olives, mild winters and dozens of scholars to learn from.”
“Yes, I know.”
Abraham sat across from him. “Chaim, stop this. Your children are all well. You have grandsons. You’ve lived to see them. A man can’t ask for more.”
Hubert bent his head. “I know. It was my choice. Now I regret that none of my grandsons will ever make the covenant of Abraham.”
“You don’t know that,” Abraham answered. “Perhaps it will happen when the Messiah comes. Then men will fight for the chance to become Jews.”
That made Hubert laugh, despite himself.
“That’s better,” Rebecca said. She had come in while they were talking. “Edgar and Solomon are here to see you.”
One look at their faces sent Hubert’s mood back to gloom.
“Hubert, what was written in your accounts book?” Edgar surprised him by asking.
“Accounts, of course,” he told them, bewildered.
“Then why was there so much in Hebrew?” Edgar went on.
“I’ve tried to explain it to him,” Solomon added.
“It’s an old practice,” Hubert said. “Even my Christian stepfather used it. He learned it from my father. The letters stand for numbers. They indicate the price we paid as opposed to the selling price. That’s all.”
Edgar glanced at Solomon, who nodded.
“And there are no prayers or incantations to take advantage of competitors?” he asked.
“I wish I’d known some,” Hubert said. “I’d be a richer man today. Now what’s this all about?”
They told him.
“But no one could have got into the house and the counting room,” Hubert said. “Unless someone helped them.”
“I know,” Edgar said. “Catherine would almost prefer to believe that evil spirits stalk the house. Only Samonie or Martin could have let the thief in.”
“But why would they betray you after so many years?” Hubert was incredulous.
“I don’t know,” Edgar answered. “Catherine made me promise to ask you before I questioned Samonie, in case you had given a key to someone else.”
“No, only Catherine and I have had keys since Agnes left to live with my wife’s father,” Hubert answered.
“Did she leave hers with you?”
Hubert thought. “I think so. I don’t remember. You don’t think she would have given it to Jehan?”
“Or he might have found the key and copied it,” Solomon said.
“I’d prefer that to thinking that our servants were plotting against us,” Edgar said. “But I’ll still have to ask Samonie about it. If nothing else, she should have heard someone enter.”
“Be careful not to accuse her unless you have proof,” Hubert said. “Samonie knows far too much about us.”
The tightening of Edgar’s jaw told Hubert that he already knew this.
“Yes, I know,” Hubert concluded. “My fault again.”
Abraham had been pretending not to listen to this exchange. Now he had to add his opinion.
“What if the thief were hunting for the Torah, not the accounts book?” he suggested. “Then, if he tried to use it to denounce the family, he’d look like a fool, as well as a housebreaker.”
“I think that finding Jehan would answer all our questions,” Solomon said. “Everything we’ve discovered so far leads back to him. We know he’s a blustering lunatic. How hard could he be to find?”
“Catherine already saw him,” Edgar told them. “For a wonder this time she didn’t confront him alone. You may be right. I don’t care if the man is a pilgrim festooned with crosses. He has to be stopped.”
The city bells began ringing as he spoke, almost to emphasize his vow.
Solomon nudged him. “Edgar, shouldn’t you be going?”
“Damn,” Edgar said. “Yes, I’m supposed to meet Martin at the felt maker’s and see that the girl from Picardy makes it safely to our house for dinner. As if there weren’t enough going on.”
Edgar and Martin appeared at the appointed
time. Edgar’s eyebrows rose at the change Clemence had wrought in herself, but when he saw her slippers he frowned.
“Catherine didn’t think we needed to order a chair for you,” he explained, “But you can’t walk through the streets in those.”
Bodille offered a pair of her own clogs, but Edgar decided that it would be better to wait while Martin fetched a chair and bearers.
So it was that, as Lambert was crossing the bridge to walk up to Montmartre in his quest for Clemence, he had to wait while some fine lady was carried across in a sedan chair. The curtain was lowered, so he never even saw her face.
Nineteen
Paris, Tuesday evening, 6 kalends June (May 27), 1147; 26 Sivan, 4907. Rogation day, Commemoration of the death of Saint Frederick, bishop of Liege, 1121, believed to have been poisoned by the count of Louvain for the offense of being unbribable.
Et hoc est principale religionis nostrae, ut credeat non solum animas non perire, sed ipsa quoque corpora, quae mortis adventus resolverat, in statum pristinum furtura de beatitudine reparari.
And this is essential to our religion that one believes that not only does the soul not die but that the very bodies, which the coming of death had released, are returned to their pristine condition in the blessed state to come.
—Boethius
“On the Catholic Faith”
“Welcome, Clemence,” Catherine greeted her in the courtyard as the bearers set down her chair. “Thank you for coming. We plan a quiet dinner tonight. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I shall enjoy it,” Clemence replied. “Your kindness is already more than I can repay.”
Catherine made all the proper responses to this and took Clemence into the hall, where the table had been laid and chairs set for four.
First Catherine took Clemence to a side table where the soap pitcher and water had been set out for them, with towels Catherine had embroidered herself back at the convent.
They all stood for the blessing and then sat, while Martin brought in the bread and a fresh fish stuffed with dried fruit and covered in a cinnamon sauce. After it had been admired, he took it back to the kitchen for Samonie to cut up into manageable pieces. Catherine poured the wine. Margaret passed the cup to Clemence.
To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 28
