The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (12 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

BOOK: The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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He backed out of the tent, still shouting.
Edgar sat up. “What are you doing, Hubert?”
“I’m going to find the thief before he can spend all my money.” Hubert grunted as he tightened his belt again.
“Father!” Catherine called from the tent. She was wrapped in a blanket and her braids had come undone. “Edgar will come with you. He’s dressing now. How much was in the purse?”
She caught Hubert in midrage and made him stop and think.
“Not much, really,” he admitted in a lower voice. “Only a few sou. I used most of what I had to buy the horse this afternoon. But that doesn’t matter.”
“Was there anything else?” Catherine asked.
“No, just a bit of parchment, a note.” He stopped. “A note Eliazar had given me with specifications for a candelabra that the count wanted made.”
Hubert bit his lip. “It was in French,” he added, “but the letters were Hebrew.”
Catherine considered this. “The thief probably wouldn’t know one letter from another,” she told him. “He’ll likely just toss it away. And even if he took it to someone, how could he explain where he had found it?”
Hubert was calm now.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But it does mean that it wouldn’t be wise to go after this
putier.
I might have to identify the contents and I don’t want anyone asking how it is that I can read Hebrew.”
“But everyone knows you and Eliazar are partners,” Edgar said as he hesitated before putting on his boots.
Hubert sighed. “No, not since that business two years ago. Everyone thinks I’ve cut off all ties with him. And I don’t know any Christian merchants who carry messages in Hebrew.”
“Father!” Catherine was confused. “Why didn’t you tell us about Eliazar? What about Solomon? No, come back in first. We mustn’t wake the whole fair.”
Hubert saw the sense of this and returned to the tent. He hoped that Edana’s crying had masked his shouts. He patted the baby’s head.
“I was ashamed to tell you,” he admitted. “Eliazar and I both felt things were becoming too dangerous for us but to abandon my own brother to our enemies—! The shame is horrible. As for Solomon, he travels among Christians so much that no one seems to notice him any more.”
Catherine kissed his cheek.
“Uncle Eliazar understands how you feel and I agree,” she said. “Things are unsettled enough now without adding the fear of discovery. It would go harder on you than him if your relationship were
known. And it might well hurt all of us, including my brother and his family even though they know nothing of your past.”
“Yes, you’re right.” Hubert didn’t sound happy about it. “But that means that the man who stole my purse will never pay for it.”
“Of course he will,” Catherine said, as she settled back next to Edgar. “God will see to him.”
It was just as well she couldn’t see Hubert’s face in the dark. His expression said all too clearly what he thought of leaving the punishment to God.
Outside the circle of trader tents, outside the walls of the town, almost to the edge of the dark woods, there was another encampment. No one here could afford a tent although some had fashioned a cover with sticks and ragged cloth. The fire was small and only hot enough to warm the barley broth out of its congealed state. They had set no guard for there was nothing to steal but their lives and they had long since commended those to Fate.
Yet one man sat with his back to the dying coals keeping some sort of watch. His head was thrown back, his eyes on the stars, but he was alert for any noise. So, when the juggler arrived, he was not caught unprepared.
“Matfras.” He greeted the juggler. “I thought you had left us. What kept you so late?”
Matfras squatted next to him and tried to coax some warmth from the dregs of the fire to his chilled hands.
“I fell into a vat,” he answered. “Head first, I’m glad to say.”
“The day went badly?”
“Not so much as a crust,” Matfras spat. “Too many other jugglers, one who does knives and gourds at the same time. No one wants my toys. It was late in the day before I had any luck at all and then only enough to slake my thirst.”
The man waited.
“But I did come across something I thought you should see,” Matfras added.
“Yes.” He had known that when Matfras arrived.
The juggler took a piece of parchment from his sleeve and unfolded it.
“I showed it to a monk and he could make nothing of it,” he told the watcher. “I think it’s magic, a spell of some sort. Could you use it?”
He held out the paper with Eliazar’s hasty scrawl across it. The watcher pressed it to his forehead, eyes closed.
“Yes,” he said at last. “It is a very powerful charm. The ink was made from the charred bones of heretics mixed with the blood of Saracens. But it has no value unless one can pronounce the words and knows the right time to say them.”
“But you do,” Matfras said eagerly. “What will you give me for it?”
The watcher smiled.
“Life everlasting,” he whispered as his knife entered the juggler’s heart.
 
It was Sunday morning. Catherine and her family packed their belongings and prepared to set out for the Paraclete. A body that had once been a juggler from the south was now hidden under a lilac tree in full bloom. His bones would not be found until autumn. And the boat that carried Agnes down the Moselle to her new home docked at the city of Trier in time for her to attend Mass.
“It’s not so different from the cities I know,” she said bravely as Walter handed her onto the riverbank. “Really, it’s much smaller than Paris. I’m told that the nuns at Saint Irminen will shelter me until Lord Gerhardt comes. Can you find out where that is?”
One of the boatmen had overheard her.
“You can see it from here, my lady.” He pointed. “Up there, just inside the city walls.”
Agnes looked. The convent was substantial, with an air of wealth and tradition. Surely there would be someone there who could instruct her as to local customs. She didn’t want to offend unintentionally before she learned the ways of her new home.
As they walked through the city to the convent, Agnes tried not to stare. She knew that Trier had once been a great capital. Constantine the Great had ruled here before he built his namesake city. The cathedral still held the Holy Tunic, the robe Christ had worn and the Roman soldiers cast lots for. Constantine’s mother, Saint Helena, had brought it from Jerusalem and, when Constantine had departed, the tunic had remained. Pilgrims came all through the year to see it.
There were other signs of the emperor’s presence; the enormous
church he had built, along with a sense of order in the way the streets and marketplace were laid out that was nothing like the haphazard design of Paris. The Roman patterns had not been obliterated here. It was a prosperous place, as well. She could tell that from the clothing of the citizens, their fine glass and metal brooches and gold earrings.
Agnes willed herself to appear regal, even haughty. Instinctively she knew she mustn’t show how daunted she was.
She tightened her hold on Walter’s arm. He looked down at her with concern.
“Perhaps we should have ridden,” she told him.
“We can still, if you like,” he told her. “I didn’t realize that the streets would be so wide. I thought it would be easier to walk.”
“No, we’re almost there.” Agnes realized that they had passed through the marketplace and were approaching the gate to the convent. “While my women and I are being settled, would you find someone to take a message to Lord Gerhardt to tell him that I have arrived?”
“Of course,” Walter answered. “I shall go myself and then return to tell you what this husband of yours is like.”
For the first time in weeks, Agnes smiled.
“Thank you, Walter,” she said as the gate opened.
 
Gerhardt’s land wasn’t very far from Trier, only just past the monastery of Saint Marien, but it took Walter the better part of the afternoon to reach it for the road wound through the vineyards as though it had been cut from land too rocky to plant. Even in Burgundy, Walter had never seen so many vines. They stretched as far up the hillside as he could see and down to the river. He wondered where they grew grain or if they did. Wine was all very well, but he wouldn’t like to rely on trade to provide himself with bread.
He approved of the new castle, though. It was set high above the river with a clear view in three directions and the mountain at the rear. With a water supply inside, it could be defended against any invader.
Before leaving with a local man to guide him, Walter had taken time to change into a black velvet
chainse
and put a fine wool tunic
over it with his pilgrim’s cross as the only ornament. He was well aware that he looked imposing as he gave his name to the guard at the gate.
“Lord Walter of Grancy, in Burgundy,” he announced. “Come to deliver a message to Lord Gerhardt that he has long been expecting.”
He was admitted at once and shown into an anteroom off the great hall, which was being set up for the evening meal. A servant brought him some cheese and a cup of wine. Walter settled down to wait, but only a moment later a man burst in on him.
“Wie
nû?”
he demanded. “What’s happened?”
Walter stared at him in astonishment. The man was wearing leather brais and a short tunic. A conical straw hat hung from a string around his neck. His hands were grimy and his shoes covered in mud.
“Saint Menas’s sacred spring!” Walter said. “Who the devil are you?”
“I’m Lord Gerhardt,” the man answered.
He followed Walter’s gaze to his filthy attire.
“I understood that the message was urgent,” he explained.
“No,” Walter said. “Just expected. A least I assumed so. I’ve come to announce the arrival of the Lady Agnes de Bois Vert at Trier.”
Gerhardt seemed confused. “Yes?”
Walter stood. “You are planning to marry her, aren’t you?”
“Oh my God! Agnes!” Gerhardt breathed. “She’s here already? Oh dear, let me fetch my sister. She’ll know what to do.”
He started to go, then turned back.
“I apologize for my appearance,” he said. “I thought you were … well. I’ll send my sister and go change. Should we give you a bed tonight?”
Walter shook his head but Gerhardt had already gone. Through the curtain he could hear the lord of the castle shouting orders at the servants. The loudest was to find his sister and bring her at once.
Interesting, Walter thought. Not at all what he’d expected. It boded ill for poor Agnes if her intended husband couldn’t even remember her name. He returned to the cheese and wished he had been brought a pitcher of wine along with the cup.
As if his need had been anticipated a boy entered, carrying a
clay pitcher. He set it on the table next to Walter and then looked around, puzzled.
“I thought they said that my new stepmother had arrived,” he said. “I’m Peter, Gerhardt’s son.”
He gave Walter his hand with a slight bow. Walter took it.
“Are you really going to free Edessa?” Peter asked, pointing to the cross.
“As soon as King Louis raises the rest of his army,” Walter told him. “But if he takes his time about it, I may go alone.”
Peter regarded the man before him, too big to fit comfortably in the folding chair he had been given. The sword at Walter’s side was almost as tall as Peter himself.
“I would very much like to go with you,” he said. “Do you need a squire?”
Walter chuckled. “I have one waiting for me back in Burgundy, but I’ll remember your offer if he turns coward. Would you like to examine the sword?”
Peter had not taken his eyes off it. Walter unbuckled it and handed it to him, scabbard and all.
“Have you fought many battles with this?” Peter asked. He longed to try it on, but could tell that the sword would drag along behind if it didn’t topple him over.
“None at all,” Walter said. “This was forged especially for this journey. I have a friend who trades in Spain and he found a swordsmith who is superior to any master I’ve ever known. It’s strong and light and impervious to rust, they say.”
“What is its name?” Peter asked.
“You know,” Walter said, after thinking, “it never occured to me to give it one. Perhaps when I first use the blade, a name will come to me.”
“Yes.” Peter considered that. “I suppose one shouldn’t name something until you know what it can do.”
At that moment the curtain drew aside and Maria entered, followed by her husband, Folmar, and Hermann. All were dressed formally, if with a certain dishevelment indicative of haste.
“Lord Walter.” Maria bowed to him and introduced herself. “Welcome to our home. We understand that your German is excellent. Does that mean the Lady Agnes also speaks it?”

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