To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  “Hallo!” Edgar called. “Wizard! Merda! I don’t even know if he has a name.”

  “Edgar, if he were here, he’d have answered by now,” Solomon said. “This is hardly a five-level keep.”

  “I wish we had a light,” Edgar swore again. “We should have brought a torch.”

  “I’ll go fetch one,” Solomon offered. “Even better, let’s go together. Just in case he did conjure up a devil after all, and it devoured him.”

  “Yes.” Edgar backed out. “Maybe you’re right. Can you find your way back to the main path?”

  “Now that we know where the door is, I think so.”

  Solomon felt for a space between the bushes and, hands out in front of him, started up toward the path.

  “I think we’re almost to the place where we got lost going down,” he said after a moment. “I think the darkness is lighter up there. Just stay close behind … Ulp!”

  Solomon tripped and fell over an obstacle, with Edgar landing on top of him. They both were immediatly aware that there was a third body present.

  “Is that your leg?” Solomon asked.

  “No. Is this your arm?”

  “No.”

  They gingerly got to their knees and felt the form of a man. He seemed to be merely very deeply asleep until something clanked against Edgar’s ring.

  “What’s that?” Solomon’s voice came from the darkness.

  “I’d say a knife,” Edgar said.

  “Don’t cut yourself.”

  “No fear of that.” Edgar grabbed for Solomon’s hand and guided it to the spot. “It seems to be fully sheathed in this man’s chest.”

  Solomon paused to consider this. “How long do you think he’s been here?” he asked at last.

  They both felt for the man’s skin. It was cold and stiffening.

  “Get the torch, Solomon,” Edgar said. “We need to find out who this is.”

  “I don’t suppose we’d be lucky enough to find it was Jehan,” Solomon grumbled as he left.

  He was back soon with a lantern he had borrowed from a man using it to light his way to the privy.

  “I have to return it by the time he’s finished,” he told Edgar. “Now.”

  The light showed a face contorted more in anger than fear.

  “The wizard,” both men said at once.

  “Now what?” Solomon said.

  “Well, the one who did it is likely long gone by now,” Edgar said. “I wish I could swear this is Jehan’s knife, but I don’t recognize it.”

  “What do you think?” Solomon asked after a moment. “Do we go for the watch or head straight home and forget we ever had this little adventure?”

  Edgar thought about it briefly. “I suppose the watch will want to know what we were doing down here.”

  “We got lost on the way to the Blue Boar?” Solomon said. “It sounds feeble even to me.”

  “Right,” Edgar got up. “Home it is.”

  “You realize,” Solomon said, when they were well away, “if Catherine finds out about this, she’ll never let us hear the end of it.”

  “Why, because we didn’t investigate further?”

  “No,” Solomon answered. “Because this time we were the ones to trip over a body.”

  Catherine got the girls and the little ones settled in for the night. She was amazed at how quickly Clemence fell asleep considering all the uncertainty in her life. It was as if she’d been sharing a bed with Margaret for years. When Catherine checked, the two were nestled together like baby birds sound asleep.

  After checking all the doors and windows again and making Martin a mint-and-honey drink to help him stay awake, Catherine was still restless. She knew she couldn’t go to bed until Edgar was home again. But why was it taking him so long? Had he and Samonie been attacked? Could she have tried to run from him?

  She sat at the top of the steps, her elbows on her knees and her chin resting on her hands. She was prepared to stay there until daybreak, if necessary.

  The house was terribly quiet.

  She could sense the door of the counting room behind her. It was shut and locked. So why did she keep thinking that she heard something rustling inside?

  She was tired, she told herself, and prey to fancy. The ghost of the dead man must know they were doing all they could to find his name and that of his killer. And, if he were a member of the Knights of the Temple, then he must already be in heaven and not likely to haunt the place where he had lain. He hadn’t even died there. The sound was only a breeze in the rushes. Except there were no rushes in the counting room. Very well, then it was only her imagination.

  “Catherine?”

  Catherine’s shriek was enough to wake the entire household and topple Martin from the packing barrel where he had been dozing.

  Catherine turned at the bottom of the stairs without remembering how she had arrived there. She put one hand over her heart to keep it from jumping out of her breast.

  “Margaret!” she said. “Don’t ever do that again. Why are you up?”

  “I forgot to fill the water pitcher.” Margaret held up the earthen jug. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Go back to bed, Margaret,” Catherine took the jug. “I’ll bring the water up.”

  “Is my brother back, yet?” Margaret ignored her suggestion, following her out to the kitchen.

  “No,” Catherine said as she poured water from the covered ewer on the table into the little pitcher. “I’m sure he’ll be soon. Here, take this. I’ll wait up. You need your sleep.”

  Margaret seemed about to object, then yawned and, taking the pitcher, went back up to bed.

  Catherine saw that Martin was now sitting alertly on his barrel, although his eyelids were tending to droop.

  “It seems that Edgar and Solomon are staying the night somewhere else,” she told the boy. “Go on to bed.”

  Gratefully, he went. That left Catherine the lone soul awake in the house. Determined not to let her fancies dominate her reason, she returned to the top of the stairs.

  She heard no more noises from the counting room. As the night wore on and nothing more happened, she began to droop, herself. But something told her that she needed to be watchful.

  “What’s the matter with me?” she said aloud. “Hours of quiet without interruption and all I can do is sit and stare at the wall?”

  She got up and found the key to the counting room. She still hadn’t finished reading Master Abelard’s treatise. This would be the perfect time for philosophy. It would also be a chance for her to confront her fear.

  The door opened onto a still room, empty of ghosts or monsters. Catherine laughed at herself. She went over to the book chest and froze mid-breath.

  There on the top of the chest lay her father’s account book.

  She spun around, her eyes searching every dim corner of the room. Then she bent and gingerly touched the book. It was solid. She lifted it and took it out onto the landing to examine it in the lamplight.

  It wasn’t exactly as she had left it. The cloth covering it was torn, and there was a stain of wine or blood on one fold. She checked to be sure the book itself wasn’t damaged. Then she made sure none of the pages had been torn out. When she was satisfied that it hadn’t been ruined, she put it on the floor next to her and stared at it, as if expecting the book to tell her where it had been and how.

  “I shouldn’t have been such a coward,” she berated herself. “When I heard noises in there, I should have gone in to see what it was. Even if it was a demon with scales and burning eyes who took and returned it, at least I’d have known for certain.”

  She stared at it a while longer.

  “Where have you been?” she nearly shouted at it.

  “Hunting for Jehan,” Edgar answered from the bottom of the stairs. “Why are you still up?”

  For the second time that night, Catherine came close to heart failure. Edgar was up the stairs in a moment to lift her from the floor and hold her until she stopped quaking
.

  “You didn’t hear us come in,” he surmised. “I didn’t see you here then. We went to the kitchen to get a bowl of beer and then I helped Solomon set up his cot.”

  “I … I was in the counting room.” Catherine pointed to the book. “Someone must have come through the window. Or maybe it flew. I’m prepared to believe anything at this point.”

  Edgar patted her head. “My poor little cicen,” he soothed. “You must have had a dreadful night.”

  He looked at the book, shaking his head.

  “Why steal something only to return it?” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll go through every page. Something may have been added that will explain everything. Now, both of us are falling over, and dawn comes early this time of year. Come up to bed.”

  Catherine stood, taking the account book with her. “It’s not leaving my side until all this is solved,” she said.

  “Fine.” Edgar yawned. “I only want to sleep tonight, anyway.”

  They looked into the hall before they went up. Solomon was already sound asleep, one arm hanging over the edge of the cot. Wearily, they made their way to their room. Catherine set the book on the bed while they undressed and then, true to her word, took it with her, wedging it into the space between the mattress and the wall.

  Edgar soon joined them, blowing out the little oil lamp once he was under the covers.

  The house fell silent.

  Edgar rolled over, feeling all his muscles loosen and his various bumps and bruises announce their presence. He wriggled a while until he found a comfortable position and then fell asleep.

  The cries from the back garden sent him first bolt upright and then onto the floor in a tangle of covers. He reached for his tunic and knocked over the lamp, spilling oil onto the bedclothes. The shouts were now being echoed up and down the street as dogs took up the call, waking their masters.

  As he started down the stairs, he was overtaken by a blond shape in a tunic too small for her and a blanket over her shoulders.

  “Clemence!” he shouted, as she raced ahead of him, through the hall and out. “Come back! You don’t know what’s out there!”

  She didn’t answer him, but struggled with the bar on the door. Solomon had reached it ahead of her. He was also trying to keep her from leaving.

  “Let me go!” she shrieked. “You can’t keep me from him! He’s out there, and those men are trying to kill him. Papa! Papa! I’m coming!”

  Twenty

  Very early on a moonless Wednesday morning. 5 kalends June (May 28), 1147; 30 Sivan 4907. Rogation day, Vigil of the Ascension and feast of Saint Germanus, protector of the poor and runaway queens, founder of the monastery of Saint Germain des Pres.

  … ideo rationem singulis datum esse, ut inter verum et falsum ea prima judice discernatur. Nisi enim ratio iudex universalis esse deberet, frustra singulis data esset.

  Reason has been given to each person so that they may discern true from false with it as the main judge. If reason were not meant to be the universal judge, there would be no point in each person being given it.

  —Adelard of Bath

  Questiones Naturales

  The door opened on the amazing sight of the proud guards marching up to the house, each followed by a pair of men, hands tied together, on a lead.

  “Papa!” Clemence cried again as she ran to put her arms around one of the men.

  “Clemence!” the man gasped. “What are you doing here? Where are your clothes?”

  “Papa, Papa, I thought you were dead!” she cried over and over.

  He put his tied hands gently over her mouth. “Hush, darling, hush,” he whispered. “I’m Bertulf now. You mustn’t call me Father. I’ll explain later but don’t say anything. Lord Osto is dead.”

  “But …” she started. His hands pressed harder. Clemence nodded acceptance.

  Edgar and Solomon had lit oil lamps and were holding them in the faces of the prisoners.

  “Master Durand!” Edgar exclaimed. “Brother Baudwin! What are you doing creeping around our garden in the dark?”

  Master Durand was furious. When he had announced himself to the guards, ignorant clods that they were, they had not been impressed. They hadn’t released their grip or lowered their knives. One had even made a most improper suggestion as to what a priest might be doing out after dark following a pair of men.

  “I want these men arrested at once!” His gesture included the guards as well as Bertulf and Godfrey.

  Edgar’s response was politely puzzled. “Arrest my own guards?” he said. “They seem to have been doing their job very well. I see you found Clemence’s father,” he told them. “Good work.”

  “My lord,” Bertulf began, “there’s been a mistake. I’ll be happy to explain it all if you’ll tell me why Lord Osto’s daughter, whom he left safe at home in Picardy, is at your home in Paris wearing only a chainse.”

  “I was in bed, P … p … Bertulf,” Clemence explained.

  Behind her Solomon groaned.

  “So,” Edgar concluded, “Bertulf and his servant were coming to visit us. And what were you and Brother Baudwin planning, Master Durand?”

  “We were following the spies,” Baudwin said. He stopped. “Why were we doing that again?” he asked Master Durand.

  “You imbecile!” Durand shouted. “Because we suspected them of being in league with this pack. And this proves we were right! I’ll have you all up before Master Evrard and Bishop Theobald the first thing in the morning! You can answer to them.”

  “Fine,” Edgar said. “Send your men for us. We’ll be delighted to tell Master Evrard about your activities. Now, if Bertulf and his servant will come in, I’ll have our guards release you, on the condition that you also present yourselves to Master Evrard tomorrow to answer my complaint.”

  Master Durand’s indignant sputters could be heard all the way down to the river, where they were taken up by a flock of ducklings who had been sleeping among the reeds. The point of the guard’s knife in the cleric’s back left him at a disadvantage, however. A few moments later, the guards returned to report that the men had been shown to the street and had set off in the direction of the preceptory.

  Edgar thanked them and ordered that the other prisoners be untied. Then Bertulf and Godfrey entered the house with him, Clemence still clinging to Bertulf. In the hall they found Catherine and Margaret, each holding a child and both wild with anxiety. Between them and the door stood Martin, pale but determined, holding a poker as his only defense.

  The sight of the boy melted Edgar’s anger at the others. He gave Martin a smile and a pat of approval and led all the others into the room. Catherine and Margaret vacated their chairs for the men.

  “Now,” Edgar said, “I believe, Lord Osto, that you owe us an explanation.”

  Bertulf stood and bowed to Edgar. “Lord Edgar, I owe you much more than that. My profound apologies for involving you in what has become a labyrinthine disaster. But you must accept that I am no longer Osto. Lord Osto died and was unfortunately left in your house, which was inforgivable. We had no idea you would return before we could move his body.”

  Catherine wasn’t sure if she were confused or simply too exhausted to hear correctly.

  “You were Osto, but you’re not anymore?” she asked.

  “That is correct,” Bertulf answered. “When my friend Bertulf was killed, I had to assume his identity. Godfrey and I took advantage of the kindness of Samonie to leave his body here. We had planned to move it closer to the Temple preceptory, where the knights would find it. Then we were going to identify it. But when we discovered that you had come home early and already found poor Bertulf, we didn’t know what to do. How could we explain his being in your house?”

  “I’m still waiting for that,” Edgar said.

  “But Papa,” Clemence interrupted, “how could you become Bertulf? And Why? Then Lambert’s father is dead? How?”

  “Yes, my dear,” Bertulf answered. “I dread sending word to Lambert of it. And that br
ings me to you. What, by the blood of the martyrs, are you doing all alone in Paris?”

  “I’m not alone,” Clemence explained. “Lambert and I came together. We had to find you after Mother died.”

  “What?” Bertulf—Osto—seemed to have lost his voice. “That’s impossible. She was fine when I left.”

  Clemence put her arms around him. “I know. It was very sudden. We don’t know what caused it. She suddenly fell ill and died within two days. Lambert and I were afraid Lord Jordan would take me into wardship, so we were married at once and came to get you.”

  Bertulf looked around the room.

  “And where is Lambert now?” he asked.

  Clemence looked at Edgar, who answered. “We’re not sure. But we hope to locate him soon. For the time being, Clemence can stay with us.”

  Bertulf sat stunned. Catherine ran to get him some wine. He shook his head over and over.

  “It seems I owe you even more than I thought,” he told Edgar. “All we wanted was for our children to be happy and the castellany to stay in their family. Bertulf hoped that by becoming one of the brethren of the Temple, he could earn the right for his son to marry Clemence. He was prepared to give his life for that. And he did. But too soon. I have taken on his intention. But it must include taking his place completely, down to his name, or my castellany will pass to another.”

  He closed his eyes. “My poor Edwina. I should have been with you.”

  Godfrey spoke up, facing Catherine and Edgar. “Please don’t be angry with my master. His plans are all awry. Perhaps they were unwise in the first place, but he’s given up everything for them. Taking his life wouldn’t punish him, but revealing our deception would hurt everyone in our village. Who knows what sort of lord we might be given?”

  Edgar ran his hand through his hair, clutching at it for support. This was all too much for a man who couldn’t remember his last night’s sleep.

  “I don’t suppose either of you left an account book in the room upstairs earlier?” he asked. “No? Of course not. That would be too simple.”