“Is Willa worse?” Margaret asked.
“She was too weak to stand this afternoon,” Belot said. “And she’s coughing blood. Lady Margaret, you shouldn’t get too close.”
“Nonsense,” Margaret said. “Martin, run back home. Ask Catherine to send a stretcher for Willa. She should be where she can be cared for. Belot, when you’ve finished, come see her at once. I know she’ll improve if she can have rest and the right medicine.”
Belot gave a wan smile. “I believe you, my lady.”
But when Margaret went in to sit with her friend, she wasn’t so hopeful. Willa was pale as death already, with a feverish flush on her cheeks the only spots of color. Margaret started to say something cheerful but the words froze on her tongue. She simply put her arms around Willa and cried.
“It’s all right, dear,” Willa told her between coughing spasms. “I’ve guessed for some time. But I didn’t want to upset Belot. It will be good to be rid of the pain.”
Margaret managed to control herself.
“Nonsense,” she said. “We’re taking you home, away from the noise and fluff in the air. We’ll let you lie on a bed like a grand lady with hundreds of servants. Then you’ll get well.”
Willa only smiled. Margaret took her hands.
“I’m selfish, Willa,” she whispered. “I’ve lost too many people I love. You can’t leave me, too.”
Willa coughed again, for several minutes, crying in between at the pain. When it finally subsided she lay back on her thin pillow.
“I’d like to die in a garden,” she said.
When Solomon and Edgar returned to the hut, Lambert and Clemence were both sitting on the bed. Lambert obviously knew that his father had died.
“I should have guessed when they described him,” he said. “But they told me at the Temple that the man was wearing the garb of a knight. Why would my father have a white cloak?”
“Perhaps my father can explain it,” Clemence said.
“But that means we have no hope,” Lambert continued. “If Father can’t earn a place of honor among the brethren of the Temple, then how can we convince Lord Jordan to let us keep the castellany?”
“It seems my father has taken his place,” Clemence told him. “When we see him next, you must remember to call him ‘Father’ and not ‘my lord.’”
Lambert didn’t look capable of remembering that or much of anything else. Edgar decided to distract him with the matter at hand.
“We need your help,” he told the young man.
He explained to them both what they had to do.
“Solomon and I will be hiding just inside the door,” he assured them. “You can tell Jehan you were waiting for him or that you were just leaving because the wizard didn’t seem to be home. But you must think of something to get him to go inside. Can you?”
Lambert nodded. “The state he was in when I last saw him, he wouldn’t note a word I said.”
“What do we do now?” Clemence asked.
“We wait,” Solomon said. “Are you well enough? It shouldn’t be long.”
Clemence thought she could endure a bit longer. “But I would so like something to drink,” she sighed.
Lambert saw a pitcher on a shelf and started to pour a cup for her.
“I wouldn’t drink anything I found in this place,” Solomon said.
“I’ll go up to the tavern,” Lambert said. “It won’t take a minute.”
“No, there isn’t time.” Edgar said. “Jehan could come back any moment.”
“Clemence can’t wait,” Lambert said. He started out, then turned back.
“Umm, I forgot,” Lambert added. “I have no money.”
“If you must,” Solomon tossed him a couple of coins and he ran off at once.
“It might be well if he weren’t here,” Edgar commented when he had gone. “Clemence, we want you out of harm’s way. Can you curl up in the far corner of the bed, just as you might be if you were still tied?”
“I won’t put that gag on again,” she said. “You can’t imagine how vile it is.”
“I doubt he’ll be able to see you well enough,” Edgar said. “Sunlight never seems to enter this place.”
They all waited in silence, trying to think of something that might improve their chances of capturing Jehan alive without being slashed to ribbons themselves. Clemence wished she’d never mentioned how thirsty she was. What if these two men attacked Lambert by accident? What if Jehan found him first?
Solomon realized that the sound of the water running nearly under the hut would mask the sound of footsteps approaching. He wondered how long he could stand like this, poised to strike. His muscles were already aching.
It seemed forever before they were all jolted by the creak as the door was slowly pushed open.
“Agnes, my love,” Jehan said. “I’m—Guai! What—?”
Solomon and Edgar had caught him from either side, causing Jehan to drop his bundles. Solomon had drawn his knife, but in the dark didn’t dare slash out for fear of cutting Edgar. He tried to find Jehan’s neck from the direction of the sputtering and cursing.
“Thieves! Help!” Jehan roared. “Let go of me, you gloton!”
Edgar was trying to wrestle Jehan’s left hand behind his back and discovered that it was hard to do one-handed, even with his opponent befuddled by surprise and the darkness.
“Do you have him?” he shouted at Solomon.
“Is there a knife point in your gut?” Solomon answered.
“No!”
“Then I have him. Don’t move, you bastard,” Solomon told Jehan.
“You!” Jehan yelled, realizing who held him. “Infidel! Mesel! And you, filthy English coward! I should have known. Agnes! what did they do to you?”
He lunged toward the bed. Solomon felt the point of his knife bend on the rings of a mail shirt. The scrape as it ran down the metal set his teeth on edge. Unable to do more, he stuck out his leg as Jehan moved forward, and sent him tumbling onto the bed. Clemence screamed.
“Clemence!” Lambert was standing in the doorway. “I’ll save you!” He stepped in and smashed a full pitcher of beer down on the back of Jehan’s head.
The clay shattered and beer went flying. Jehan’s body slumped, half on the bed and half on the floor. Clemence quickly climbed over him and into Lambert’s arms. Edgar wiped the beer from his eyes and tried to see what had happened.
“Edgar.” Solomon was kneeling by Jehan. “He’s still alive. Help me tie him up before he wakes.”
They used the ropes that Clemence had been bound with. When they had finished, they dragged Jehan out into the dying light.
“How will we get him to the provost?” Solomon asked. “He’s too heavy to carry.”
Edgar stared down on the recumbent form. He would have enjoyed kicking and rolling him the whole way, but too much of it was uphill.
“Clemence and I will go fetch someone with a cart,” Lambert offered.
“Yes. Go to my house. Ask Pagan, who lives next to us,” Edgar said. “He has a cart small enough to make it down the road as far as the path to this hut.”
After they had left, Solomon and Edgar mopped up the spilled beer from their faces and hands. Solomon licked his fingers sadly.
“It was Blue Boar Ascension Feast Special,” he mourned.
“We can drown ourselves in it after we get Jehan safely locked up,” Edgar promised him.
“He won’t slip away this time, will he?” Solomon worried. “Even if no one ever finds the wizard’s body, he still abducted Clemence.”
“My only fear is that he’ll be considered too witless to hang,” Edgar said.
“Mine is that some ignorant priest will set him a pilgrimage as a penance instead of punishing him now,” Solomon said. “I don’t suppose we can prove he also killed ‘Lord Osto.’”
“I don’t see how,” Edgar said. “Although I’d like to try, for Archer’s sake.”
By the time Pagan and Lambert came back with the ca
rt, Jehan was beginning to stir.
“Quickly!” Edgar said. “We forgot to gag him. Where’s that rag he used on Clemence?”
Solomon managed to tie the cloth over Jehan’s mouth before he came fully awake. It took all four men to get him into the cart and then, even trussed up, he shook it so that Pagan was afraid it would upset.
“Keep still!” Edgar ordered. “Or we’ll make you crawl all the way to the provost.”
Jehan subsided.
The sun had set by the time they had made it to the watch house on the Grand Chastelet and convinced the guard to lock Jehan up until the provost could arrange a trial for him. The strong aroma of Blue Boar Ascension Feast Special made it harder for them to convince the guard that the matter was serious. When they left Edgar felt as if a load had been taken from him.
“At least we know he can’t do anything to us from there,” Solomon said.
“And nothing will be done about him tomorrow,” Edgar reminded him. “Everyone will be celebrating the Ascension.”
“Not everyone,” Solomon said. “But I wouldn’t mind a bucket or two of that beer. I’ll celebrate Rosh Hodesh.”
“What’s that?” Lambert asked.
“The new moon,” said Solomon. “And the start of a new month.”
“A better one, I hope,” Lambert said.
“If it finally sees the departure of all these so-called pilgrims,” Solomon said. “And the end of our troubles with Jehan, it will be.”
Clemence was greeted with joy by Catherine.
“We’ll send word to your father at once,” she promised. “He was frantic about you.”
“Can you have your maid fill a bath for me?” Clemence asked. “I’m not hurt, but dirty and sore from the ropes, and the touch of that horrible man.”
“Oh dear, Samonie can’t now,” Catherine said. “Her daughter is very ill. Willa, you remember.”
“Yes, I noticed when I was there that she didn’t seem well,” Clemence said. “I’m sorry she’s worse. Is it very bad?”
Catherine’s eyes filled. “We’re doing what we can, but I don’t believe she’ll last the night. She’s in Samonie’s bed here.”
“Then I’ll just get a basin and wash my face and hands,” Clemence said. “Can I help with Willa?”
“Margaret and Samonie are taking care of her,” Catherine said. “I’ll run over and ask if Hersende can spare her maid to go to the bathhouse with you. The baths are often busy the night before a feast day, but the one here on the Grève isn’t usually as full as the one on the Île, and you won’t have to worry so much about the students playing jokes. You’re sure Jehan is unconscious and tied up?”
“Oh, yes,” Clemence said. “Or I wouldn’t have let Lambert go back to help transport him.”
Thus reassured; Catherine arranged for Clemence’s bath and then returned to the little room off the kitchen where Willa lay, drifting in and out of awareness.
“I’ve made a drink for her,” Catherine said. “It’s heating now.”
Catherine had rummaged in her medicine box, well stocked thanks to Hubert’s travels. From it she had concocted a syrup from pear wine, honey, balsam, myrrh, pepper, ginger, cinnamon, and iris. It was supposed to fortify the body and stop coughs. Even as she poured the medicine into a cup, she was afraid it was too late.
Samonie took the cup and tried to get Willa to drink a bit. Margaret knelt at the end of the bed, trying to rub some warmth into her friend’s feet.
“There, precious, a little more.” Samonie caught the bit that had dribbled from the side of Willa’s mouth and tried to get her to swallow.
“She’s burning with fever, but she complains that her feet are cold,” Margaret said, panic in her voice. “What more can I do?”
“We’ll sponge her with vinegar,” Catherine said. “And we’ll pray.”
“I haven’t stopped praying since I realized she was sick,” Samonie snapped. “Do you think God will pay more heed because you petition Him in Latin?”
“I’m praying directly from my heart.” Catherine laid a hand on Samonie’s shoulder. “Just as I did when the baby was sick.”
Samonie winced. “In that case, try Latin, Hebrew, anything! I’d pray to Satan if I thought he’d save my child.”
“Samonie, don’t talk like that,” Margaret said. “Willa wouldn’t want you to.”
Catherine watched them for a few moments. She could almost see the life ebbing from Willa. There had been talk of going to Genta for help since her father had been a doctor. But it was clear to them now that it was time to bring in the priest.
Edgar and Solomon came back with Lambert to find a house in which the lamps hadn’t been lit nor dinner prepared. Catherine met them in the entry.
“James and Edana are asleep in the hall so I can hear if they wake,” she said quietly. “Clemence is at the bathhouse, perfectly safe. Why don’t the three of you go to the tavern across from the baths and bring her home, after you’ve eaten?”
“And you?” Edgar asked.
“I can’t eat tonight,” Catherine answered. “I keep choking on my tears.”
She laid her head on Edgar’s shoulder. He held her close and promised that they would take care of themselves until morning.
“What can we do?” he asked.
“Could you go for the priest at Saint Merri?” Catherine asked. “Father Menhard. He knows Willa. I can’t think that she would have anything to confess, but I know she’d want to receive the rites from a friend.”
“There’s no hope?” Edgar asked.
“Perhaps if she had rested more and had the medicine sooner,” Catherine said. “I don’t know. But now, she has no strength to fight the fever.”
The three men went, as instructed, first to the church and then to the tavern. They all still smelled of beer, but it wasn’t particularly noticeable there.
“Is it just that we’re almost to Saint John’s Eve or has this been an especially long day?” Lambert said. He put his head on the table while waiting for his fish soup and beer.
A moment later he lifted it up carefully. His hair stuck to the wood.
“Maybe I’ll see how Clemence is coming with her bath,” he said. “I am her husband, after all.”
“The attendant won’t believe you,” Solomon said with certainty. “I’ve tried it.”
“She’ll be out soon,” Edgar said. “I think the three of us need some time to decide what we need to do next. I am sorry that it was your father we found, Lambert. I realize that the shock is still new to you.”
“I don’t think I believe yet. So much … and Jehan, what a fool I was.”
“You helped him?” Edgar was aghast.
“I thought you were holding Clemence,” Lambert explained. “From the outside, everything Jehan told me seemed perfectly logical. You had Lord Osto’s knife. You consort with … ah …”
He looked at Solomon in embarrassment.
“You are known for consorting, Edgar,” Solomon said. “I’ve often meant to speak to you about it.”
“I apologize,” Lambert told Solomon. “I didn’t understand the nature of your business.”
“Very well, now you do,” Edgar said. “The question is what are we to do with Jehan?”
“But the provost has him now, doesn’t he?” Lambert asked. “Clemence will testify that he took her from outside your home. What more do we need to worry about?”
“That he’ll convince the provost of Paris he should be tried by someone else,” Edgar suggested. “His ultimate lord is the count of Champagne, not King Louis.”
“What would happen then?” Lambert asked.
Edgar waited while the barmaid brought their bread, and a bowl of thin fish soup as it was a fast day, and poured more beer for all of them.
“I know Count Thibault,” Solomon said as he tore off a piece of bread and dipped it in the soup. “He won’t hang a man who shows repentance or one, like Jehan, who is obviously insane.”
“Then he�
�ll go free?” Lambert was indignant.
“Not exactly,” Edgar said. “He may be told to leave the country and never return. He was already supposed to be going to fight in Spain, so that wouldn’t be so bad. But we can’t count on him dying there.”
“A pity, but true,” Solomon said. “And you and I may well be in Spain some year and run across him again. I confess I’d like this problem taken care of once and for all time.”
“It’s our own fault,” Edgar said. “We should have called the watch when we found the dead wizard. There are reasons for laws like that.”
He and Solomon sat staring glumly into the soup, occasionally pushing a fish head back under the broth. Lambert tried to share their worry. But he was too busy grappling with the idea that his father had died. In some ways, he had anticipated Bertulf’s death when the men had set out for the Holy Land. He’d borne his worst sorrow then. To his shame, what was uppermost in his mind was the fact that Clemence was standing naked in a warm soapy tub just across the road.
“Is there a section for men at this bathhouse?” he asked suddenly.
Edgar and Solomon looked at him in surprise. Then they both looked down, trying to hide their grins.
“I believe so,” Edgar said. “Here are a couple of sous. You’ll have to hurry. She’s been there quite a while.”
They managed to contain their laughter until Lambert was out the door.
“It would be a mitzvah if you and Catherine donated your bed to them tonight.” Solomon chuckled. “Although I’m sure they’d make do with a blanket in the corner.”
“Catherine probably won’t mind,” Edgar said, thinking of Willa. “I doubt she was planning to sleep tonight anyway.”
Solomon nodded. “Margaret will be devastated. Willa is her friend.” He stared into his beer a moment. “I didn’t want to speak of it in front of the boy,” Solomon said, changing the subject, “but what about the accusation against Archer? He could be convicted solely on the evidence that he had fought with Bertulf. I wouldn’t mind if he had done it. The man avoids Jews like lepers. But I can’t see it somehow.”
To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 34
