Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) (9 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

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“Thank you, Edgar.” Solomon paused for a moment to take his friend’s hand. “If I don’t find her by the time the Lot meets the other rivers, I’ll know she’s lost forever. But I must be sure.”
“I don’t understand your fascination with this woman,” Edgar said.
“Don’t say it,” Solomon said. “She’s nothing but a jael who’s finally repented her licentiousness, and hides her face only because she’s become old and ugly. That’s what those old men say, and the Lady of Lugny as well. I don’t believe it. And I won’t believe she’s drowned.”
“I never said that you would,” Edgar told him. “At Conques by nightfall. Be careful.”
As Edgar made his way back, he shook his head at this new madness in Solomon. Up until now, he had thought Catherine’s cousin always able to counter his intensity with his logic. Solomon had never studied philosophy but he had long been
a classic cynic, never trusting anything enough to take it seriously. What had happened to him on this last trip to Spain?
 
Catherine’s unnatural display of patience lasted only until the sun was fully up. By that time, as much order as possible had been restored and the pilgrims had been fed by the monks of Saint-Marcel. By the haste in which the parties formed Catherine knew she wasn’t the only one eager to leave the narrow valley behind.
“What’s keeping Edgar?” Hubert asked. “Solomon couldn’t have been that far ahead of him.”
“Perhaps we should start now and meet him,” Catherine suggested.
“No,” Hubert said. “Everyone isn’t ready yet. Lady Griselle’s men are still loading her packhorses. If he isn’t here by the time the party sets out—”
He stopped. Catherine had spotted the flaxen hair of her husband among the cluster of people milling about on the road below. She was halfway down the slope before Hubert could finish his sentence. He started after her, then noticed that there was no dark head next to the fair.
Eliazarhad found Edgar also, and as Catherine and Hubert approached, the two men seemed to be having a strong disagreement.
“You should have dragged him back by the belt of his
brais
,” Eliazar was saying. “Hubert, did you hear this? Edgar found that idiot and then let him go wandering off like some poet in a song, hunting for his true love.”
“I couldn’t force him to return, sir,” Edgar said. “And I don’t think he’s looking for love, not this time.”
“Whatever he thinks it is, a good short yank on the back of his
brais
would bring him to his senses,” Eliazar grumbled. “I only hope we don’t lose days searching the riverbank for him.”
No one was in a better mood as the pilgrims set off again, this time following closely behind the party from Cluny. There was little talking and only an occasional mournful toot as
Roberto continued to work on his pipes. As the sun rose higher, many of the party gave off steam when their wool clothing began to dry. They looked like bewildered sinners rescued in the Harrowing of Hell, back in the world but still bearing the stigma of their punishment.
Catherine made no objection when Edgar shifted their packs to Hubert’s horse and hoisted her onto their own. She used the vantage point to take an inventory of her fellow travelers.
The two remaining German men were tight-lipped but determined to continue. They agreed that the loss of their comrades was simply part of the price exacted for the saving of their town. To turn back might only bring further disaster. Catherine felt that this was bad theology. But even knowing the correct doctrine on the matter hadn’t kept her from a feeling that everything in life was a matter of reward and punishment, of covenant made and honored or covenant broken and betrayed. Like Gaucher, Hugh and Rufus, like the German townsmen, like Mondete, she had taken a sacred oath to complete the pilgrimage. If she failed through her own weakness, she could hardly expect Saint James to make any effort on her behalf.
Catherine sighed and turned her attention to Griselle. Having spent the night in a comfortable guest room at the priory, and having had her hair combed and then braided with ribbons by her maid that morning, the Lady of Lugny looked radiant. Catherine noted her own rumpled clothes and terminally tangled hair and had a brief struggle with envy.
Never mind
, let voices told her.
She is a poor lonely widow. You have a perfectly nice husband who’s every bit as disheveled as you at the moment. Charity, child
.
Odd how those voices could give her such good advice and still sting with irony. Catherine watched as the “poor lonely widow” refused conversation first with Gaucher, then with that Rufus, his nose as red as his beard had once been. Griselle seemed relieved when Hubert happened to draw up beside her. He said nothing to her beyond a perfunctory greeting, then looked straight ahead as they rode.
Father is more considerate of her than I am, Catherine thought. It’s very kind of him to save her from unwanted attentions
.
 
As they began to climb the road up to the town of Conques, Catherine tried to keep the worry from growing. They had seen no sign of Solomon when they left the banks of the Lot to follow the ravine of the Dourdou. He wouldn’t have followed the river farther. They passed by holes in the side of the limestone cliffs, many as large as doors.
“Father,” Catherine called, causing Hubert to start. He had been occupied with thoughts that didn’t involve his daughter.
“Father,” she said again, “are those hermitages? Could Solomon be in one of them?”
“I don’t know why he would have bothered seeking any shelter before nightfall,” Hubert answered. “And most of those caves are used to store cheese and wine and suchlike. They’re cold and damp all year ’round. Hardly a welcome refuge.”
Still, Catherine examined each dark opening carefully as they passed, hoping that her cousin would magically emerge from one of them.
They finished the long climb to the town just before sundown. The golden light was enhanced by the warm sandstone walls and buildings. Despite her worry for Solomon, Catherine felt herself becoming excited at the thought of being able to worship at the shrine of Saint Foy.
Edgar was walking along more briskly as well. Catherine thought it was because of his nervousness on the narrow path along the steep cliff falling to the river below. But then she realized that he was humming and saw that his face was alive with anticipation.
“I didn’t know you had a particular devotion to Saint Foy,” Catherine said.
Edgar looked up at her, puzzled. “I don’t. I have my own saints.”
“Then what are you so eager for?” she asked, hoping he would say it was the night ahead with her.
“Haven’t you heard about the tympanum here?” He asked.
Of course. Catherine firmly quashed her disappointment.
“It should face west, if the church was built properly,” he continued, not noticing her lack of enthusiasm. “If we can get up there just as the sun is setting, that will be the best time to study it.”
He startled the horse by pulling on the dangling reins. They moved past the other pilgrims and in among the party from Cluny.
Catherine sighed in resignation. When she first met Edgar, he was a student pretending to be an apprentice stonecarver. But now she knew that the real pretense had been the student. Edgar had been born an artist. It wasn’t his fault that he came from a noble family in that almost-mythical Scotland. He had studied, trained to become a cleric, tried to be enthusiastic at the prospect of spending his life as abbot of the family monastery, or Bishop of St. Andrews, but his hands would always search out something to carve: wood, stone, ivory.
Catherine touched the delicate ivory cross at her neck. Edgar had made it for her and been too ashamed to tell her the work was his own. At first she had felt strange about this craftsman’s trade that he loved so much. But not anymore. At some point without realizing it, she had come to love him so much that anything he did seemed wonderful to her.
All the same, she wished that it had been the prospect of a night in a real bed with her that had hastened his step.
“I’ve heard that the Last Judgment is one of the best in France,” Edgar said.
Catherine felt a flicker of interest. She had a nebulous memory about the Hell at Conques, a recollection that real people were portrayed on it: abbots who had despoiled the property of the abbey, a lord who had tried to encroach upon land belonging to Saint-Foy. And there were always inventive punishments for the usual run of sinners. She couldn’t see the tympanum in the same way Edgar did, but still, it might be worth the visit.
 
Griselle was suspicious when the merchant from Paris began to ride alongside her. She wasn’t inclined to speak to such people … although she had heard someone mention that this Hubert LeVendeur had married into a fairly good family of Blois. That might make him acceptable at least as a dinner companion. But what had happened to his wife? Not that it was of any matter to her. Griselle of Lugny had only one desire: to fulfill her husband’s unfinished goal, let his anguished soul find satisfaction for the terrible wrongs done to him, and then to join him in Purgatory.
Now, perversely, she wished that Hubert would talk to her.
 
Gaucher and Rufus amused themselves on the journey with reminiscences, greatly expanded and wildly embroidered, of their years together and nights apart.
“And there were those Saracen twins in Narbonne.” Rufus leered at the memory. “Wanted to know if I was as red all over as my beard. What could I do but show them?”
“You slept with Saracens?” Gaucher asked in mock horror.
“Not a wink,” Rufus answered.
“Good man,” Gaucher said. “Always have to be vigilant with the enemy.”
“Sword always unsheathed and ready to attack,” Rufus agreed.
Hugh turned to them with a sour expression. “I thought this journey was to do penance for our sins, not to glory in them,” he said.
Gaucher and Rufus stared back at him, all innocence.
“We were simply remembering our battles against the infidel,” Rufus said.
“All of which were victorious,” Gaucher added solemnly.
Hugh snorted and moved away from them, almost knocking over Roberto, who was walking behind him, still fussing with the clogged flute.
“Watch where you’re going!” Hugh shouted. “Stupid man.”
He stopped and peered down at the startled
jongleur
. “Have we met before?” he asked.
Roberto shook his head decisively. “My wife and I are returning
from Troyes,” he said. “We joined your party at Le Puy.”
“Your wife.” Hugh turned his attention to Maruxa, who modestly pulled her scarf closer across her face. “I don’t know, both of you seem familiar. Are you sure you never entertained at Grignon? I was castellan there for many years. My wife always had a soft spot for musicians.”
“No, never,” Roberto said earnestly. “I’m quite sure.”
“Strange.” Hugh moved on, and a moment later forgot them.
Maruxa lowered the scarf with shaking fingers. “He doesn’t remember,” she whispered. “He couldn’t. Anyway, he never knew the truth. Who would have told him?”
“Saint Vitus’s twinkling toes!” Roberto tried to catch his breath. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. But I wish now that we’d waited for another party. I don’t like having him searching his memory every time he looks at us between here and Astorga.”
Maruxa took his hand. “I don’t want to wait. I want to go home. Don’t worry. We’ll simply stay out of his way.”
“And how will we do that and live?” Roberto asked her. “What if we’re asked to perform again?”
Maruxa thought. “We’ll simply have to sing something new and hope that Sir Hugh still has no ear for music.”
 
Between the terror of the previous night and the long journey that day, everyone was moving more slowly up the last steep incline to the gate of the town of Conques. Catherine had dismounted so that the packs could be distributed between the two horses. Even Griselle had consented to walk to spare her palfrey.
The gate was too low to allow a mounted rider admittance anyway. The monks were not so otherworldly as to allow pillagers easy entrance. The pilgrims went in one by one, following the abbot of Cluny, who was being given a ceremonial welcome.
Catherine was so tired that she noticed little of the beauty of the town, built in narrow steps up the side of the cliff, with giant chestnut trees in new leaf casting long shadows over the
streets. She just wanted to find a place to wash and rest. The rows of vines along the path they trod gave her hope that the monks might have wine to share.
When they came to the parvis of the church, Edgar gave a cry of delight. Catherine looked up. The tympanum must be everything he had hoped for. She gasped.
In the full light of the setting sun, the images within the porch of the church were incredible. Brightly painted reliefs of Christ giving judgment, the saved sitting demurely at His right hand, the damned doing much more fascinating things at His left.

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