Authors: Sharan Newman

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General

The Devil's Door (16 page)

BOOK: The Devil's Door

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The hall was also full of people. They had pulled out all the dining tables and were sitting or standing on them. There was a balcony on the landing of the stairs to the women’s quarters. Here several ladies sat with their sewing, waiting for the entertainment to begin. As she was jabbed in the ribs and back by those trying to get a good view, Catherine wished for a second that she were the sort of woman who could always command a comfortable chair.

You’d only trip over it and spill wine on the embroidery, Catherine.

She sighed. She wondered if Sister Bertrada’s opinions would ever leave her head.

“They’re bringing in the prisoner and the tanners now,” Edgar said.

Catherine craned her neck to see. Gershom, the butcher, had his arms tied behind his back and was being guarded by two of the knights. The tanners stood on the opposite side of the room from him. They seemed both angry and awed by the situation.

Finally, Countess Mahaut entered, accompanied by her chamberlain, Girelme, and her chaplain, Conon. They stood behind her as she seated herself at the high table. The room quieted.

“In the absence of my husband, Count Thibault,” she began, “it is my duty to see that the peace of Troyes is preserved. I will now hear the charges against this man.”

Jehan stepped forward.

“My lady countess,” he bowed. “The butcher, Gershom, has been accused of murder. These two men discovered the body.”

The tanners were brought up to the table. Mahaut studied them, noting their filthy aprons and stained hands.

“Give your names,” she said. “Your occupation and status are obviaus.”

The elder of the men stepped forward.

“I am Aymo, Your Excellency,” he bowed. “This is my apprentice, Heldric. I own the tannery east of Nôtre-Dame-aux-Nonnains, on the Grand Rû.”

“Can someone vouch for this man?” the countess asked.

A man stepped forward.

“I can, my lady.”

Mahaut hesitated, then Conon bent down and whispered something in her ear.

“Ah, yes,” she said. “You are Peter of Baschi, deacon of Saint-Aventin?”

“Yes,” the priest said. “I am acquainted with both these men. They have sold leather and vellum to me, of good quality and at a fair price. I believe them to be truthful and of good character.”

Catherine lifted herself on the edge of someone’s stool to get a better look at this man who had borrowed money from Abbess Héloïse and not repaid it. His robes were clerical, but not ascetic. His collar and gloves were embroidered and he wore several heavy rings. She was not disposed to trust or admire him. But the countess nodded, accepting his statement.

Mahaut returned to the tanners. “And you accuse Gershom, the butcher, of murder?” she asked. “Gershom?” The name finally registered. “The Jew? Have his own people been notified of this charge? Nocher?”

“Their leaders have been sent for,” Nocher of Montbard told her.

“Very well,” she said, but she seemed uncomfortable. She gestured for the prisoner to be brought forward.

“Gershom the butcher,” she said, “I wish to decide if the charges against you have any basis in fact. Will you trust me to listen and judge fairly, on my honor as a Christian woman?”

“I killed no one!” Gershom drew himself up. “These idolaters have fouled my shop with human blood. I am the one wronged! I have no fear. The Holy One will protect me, for I have honored the Law.”

Nocher gave the man a blow that sent him to the ground. “How dare you speak to the countess in that manner!” he shouted.

“Nocher!” Mahaut spoke quietly but her voice was cutting. “I will determine if I have been insulted. Now, Aymo, tell your story. And I want no interruptions.”

Now that he was the center of attention, Aymo seemed to have difficulty beginning.

“Well, ah, it was this way, Your Excellency, …” He reached beneath his apron to scratch and then, realizing where he was, withdrew his hand in horror.

“That is,” he began again, “Heldric and me, this morning, we went to Gershom’s, like always, to see if he had any skins to sell. He said no, but he’d received a few sheep the day before and did we want any of the bits his people couldn’t eat. We said we wouldn’t mind. Mutton in spring is a rare treat, however come by.”

He paused, glaring around the room, daring anyone to accuse him of planning apostasy.

“I’m sure we all like spring mutton,” Mahaut said patiently. “Continue.”

Aymo swallowed. “Well, then we all went into the storehouse, where Gershom had hung the meat. And there—” he swallowed again and his voice dropped “—there were the sheep, alright, hanging in a row and, at the end was something bigger. We all looked and, well, it was gutted and cleaned just right and hung proper, but it wasn’t a sheep; it was a man. And a Christian man, too. He were naked. I could tell. A poor Christian lamb, slaughtered!”

Aymo had risen to the rhetorical height of his life with his last statement and it reduced him to weeping incoherence.

“It’s true!” he cried over the noise of the audience. “I swear it on the skin of Saint Bartholomew!”

Catherine paid no attention to the outcry arising from this revelation. She was certain now, and she and Edgar had to get to the front to tell what they knew.

Mahaut shuddered and looked at Gershom with revulsion. She waited for the guards to restore order.

“This is a hideous deed!” she said. “A man treated as if he were nothing more than a carcass. What possible defense can you make?”

The butcher was frightened, but still angry. His indignation was apparent.

“I say again, I am a cutter of meat according to the Law. This accusation of murder is pure madness or spite. You have no right to bring me into your Christian sacrileges. Someone has done this to ruin my name in the city. I am respected and have many customers, including your own cook, my lady. Now the Christians will no longer buy from me. I know it!”

He pointed to his accusers, but his gaze included the rest of the room.

“You’ve destroyed me!” he shrieked. “You want a martyr? Someone to blame for your own filthy crimes? Take me, then. My life is worthless!”

He rent his
chainse
and clawed at his face, falling, sobbing, to the floor.

The countess was impressed, but puzzled.

“These men weep honestly, it appears to me,” she said. “The butcher does not deny that a body was found in his shop. The tanners admit that is all they know. Because the man was hung like an animal, they presume he was killed like one. I feel there is more here than we first thought. Has this Christian body even a name?”

Aymo was still weeping and Gershom sobbing, so Heldric, the apprentice, answered with some relish.

“No name, my lady,” he said. “No head.”

The reaction to this was wondrous to behold. One of the ladies in the balcony screamed, either in horror or delight, and in a forgotten corner, a travelling poet feverishly tried to adjust an old
chanson de geste
to fit this new event.

Finally, Edgar managed to reach the space before the table.

“My lady countess,” he bowed. “I believe my wife and I can add something to the testimony already given. We do not think that the butcher could have killed this man. Catherine discovered the body before dawn this morning, hanging here, in the palace.”

Another woman shrieked, this time with more sincerity. The poet quickly rewrote a stanza in his head.

Mahaut waited again for everyone to quiet.

“Catherine?” she asked. “Would you care to tell us just how and where you made this discovery.”

Edgar took Catherine’s hand. He stood behind her, shielding her from curious eyes. Catherine took a deep breath and told her story.

“Edgar washed my face,” she ended. “But there is still dried blood in my hair. I tried to tell you this morning.”

Mahaut listened gravely. It was one thing to have to judge a crime committed by one’s townspeople, quite another to have that crime brought inside one’s own home.

Nocher stepped forward.

“This tale is nonsense,” he stated. “The woman is hysterical and has invented the whole thing.”

“For what purpose?” Mahaut asked. She forbore pointing out that Catherine was the only witness so far who hadn’t dissolved into tears.

“We know her father, Hubert, has business with the Jews,” Nocher said. “She is likely under instructions from him to protect them.”

Gershom stopped his wailing to look at her curiously. Catherine moved closer to Edgar, trying to protect herself from so much attention.

Mahaut shook her head. “I find that unlikely,” she said. “I have had business with the Jews, myself. So have most of us in Troyes. But the charge that the man was killed in my house is a grave one and I would like to have proof of it. You say that, when you returned with your wife, there was no evidence of a body.”

Reluctantly, Edgar nodded. “But as she said, there was blood on her face and in her hair. I believe her.”

“We need more than your word, sieur,” Mahaut said. “You are not known to us or to anyone here.”

Catherine could tell that Edgar was angry at being addressed as lowborn. She feared he was about to recite all his ancestors back to Adam, which would not improve anything. There must be some way they could prove that the poor man had been gutted in the palace. She wrung her hands, thinking. They were still sticky from the cake and she rubbed them on her robe. Why could she never stay clean more than ten minutes? Blood in her hair, honey on her fingers, thank goodness she’d had a chance to wash after falling yesterday into that stagnant water.

All at once, she had a clear image of the pipes coming out of the stonework of the palace and of the still water beneath.

“My lady countess,” she said, “Edgar and I think that the poor soul was hung up in the privy so that the, uh, entrails could be washed down into the Rû Corde. But the water is low and the place where the pipes drain is away from the main current. There might be some remains there still.”

She closed her eyes, trying not to see them in her mind.

The countess showed no emotion.

“Nocher, take two of your men and search the water beneath the pipes,” she ordered. “If you are worried about damage to your boots, take them off. And hurry.

“While we are waiting,” she added, “bring me some wine. And open a barrel of beer in the courtyard for anyone who thirsts.”

The room emptied rapidly, leaving only the butcher, the guards, the countess, and Catherine and Edgar. Mahaut shook her head.

“This is not how I would have had you repay my hospitality,” she said to them.

Catherine leaned against Edgar, who put his arm around her.

“We are truly sorry, my lady,” he said. “We had no wish to bring scandal to your house. But, if we are correct, this man before you is innocent of murder. Your guards would never have allowed him to enter the palace last night. You would not want such an injustice on your soul.”

Mahaut stiffened. “I trust to divine guidance to prevent that from happening, although you and your wife seem strange instruments of the Lord. But I did not believe the butcher guilty, in any case.”

Gershom looked up in surprise.

“I believe that Jews are infidels and damned for their refusal of Our Lord. I do not, however, believe they are, as a rule, stupid. Only a fool would kill a man in his own shop and then show the body to the first people to pass by. Does my reasoning surprise you, butcher Gershom?”

The man bowed. “I ask your pardon, my lady. I admit, I had not expected justice in a Christian court. Am I free to go?”

“Not yet,” Mahaut answered. “You’re still a part of this, and I don’t know how you fit. Is this body still hanging in your shop?”

Gershom shuddered. “Unless the mob took it.”

The countess signaled to one of the guards.

“Do you know where the shop is?” she asked. The guard nodded. “Take some men and go there. If the body is as they said, take it to Saint-Loup for the monks to prepare it for burial. Perhaps they will find some indication as to his identity.”

Mahaut had barely had time to sip at her wine when the commotion began again outside. Her fingers tightened on the stem of the cup and some of the wine spilled onto the table. Watching her, Catherine realized the effort she was making to appear calm and dispassionate.

I could never do that,
she thought with admiration.

Nocher and his men had returned. They entered the hall, trailed by an excited mass of people. One of the men carried a bucket. He held it as far out from his body as possible and kept his eyes steadily averted from the contents.

The countess saw the bucket and her face grew still.

“Did you search the pool?” she asked Nocher.

His face was pale and he spoke haltingly.

BOOK: The Devil's Door

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