The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (23 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

BOOK: The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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At times like these Edgar could almost feel his lost fingers stretching out. Would he ever get used to this?
“Lanval, could you get up that tree?” he asked.
“Of course,” the man told him.
“Then climb up far enough to be able to sight someone coming down the road. I want to see if you’d be visible.”
Lanval nodded and went to the tree, swinging himself up easily. Edgar followed.
“Also look for any sign that someone else has been there. Broken branches, scrapes in the bark, a piece of torn
brais.”
He then went back to the center of the road and watched Lanval’s progress. When the man called out that he had found a solid resting place with a clear view, Edgar and Denise scanned carefully.
“I can’t find him at all,” Edgar said.
“I think I can make out his boot.” Denise squinted. “But I couldn’t if I didn’t know he was there.”
Edgar called up to him. “How much space is there free above you? Could you swing your arm?”
“A little farther down I could,” Lanval shouted back. “But then there’s nothing to shield me.”
“Still, if he moved quickly,” Edgar muttered to himself. “It could have been done that way. Now, if only I could find the stone.”
“What stone?” Denise asked.
“From the sling,” Edgar explained. “How else could one topple a man from a horse? There are no branches overhanging the road. Walter certainly hasn’t been jousting and that’s not an arrow wound.”
He got down on his knees to hunt, wincing as he put weight on the stump. Denise got down to help. Edgar went on muttering.
“Now, if it struck with that much force, it must have bounced back the way it came, but in what direction? Damn!”
He straightened. “Catherine are you almost finished there? I need you to do some geometry.”
In the end, it wasn’t geometry but luck that helped them. The stone wasn’t from that part of the road. It was a bit of quartz that had been chipped to form a rough edge.
Catherine felt it digging into her hand while hunting and, as
she recoiled, noticed first the sharpness and then the stain of dried blood on the pink rock. She picked it up and waved in triumph.
“Of course, finding this only suggests that Walter was hit by a sling; it doesn’t prove it,” Edgar said when she handed it to him proudly. “We still don’t know who attacked him or why.”
“Even if his purse was untouched, the horse is reason enough,” Catherine said. “We should ask Lord Hermann to put the word out for people to beware of anyone trying to sell a warhorse. Unless another
miles
did this the thief would be easily marked. A townsman or peasant could hardly own such an animal.”
“Yes, Hermann might do it if we can explain the problem to him,” Edgar agreed. “Catherine, I think we should stay home in Paris after this. I’m tired of trying to make myself understood.”
“Excuse me,” a soft voice interrupted in accented French.
The both stopped and turned toward the speaker.
He was an elderly man with the look of tired patience that practicing charity towards one’s fellow man for many years in a monastery gives. He cleared his throat nervously.
“My lord Hermann said to me that I did—no, should—help you.” His forehead creased with the effort to get the words right. “I am named Berengar.”
“Thank you,” Edgar said. “We’re extremely relieved to find someone who can translate for us.”
Berengar eyes widened in panic. Edgar realized that he hadn’t understood all of what he’d said.
“
Nonne habes latinam?
” he asked.
The monk’s jaw dropped as if his dog had just spoken.
“Sic aut non?”
Catherine said. She was getting impatient.
“Why, yes,” Berengar said at last in flowing Latin. “It’s much easier for me than French but how do you … ?”
“Never mind for now,” Edgar said. “Just explain in German to Lord Hermann, if you would, how we think Walter was attacked.”
He showed Berengar the stone and the tree and the monk grew very excited. He went to Hermann immediately and told him.
When he had heard the story, Hermann nodded agreement.
“I think we ought to find out where that madman who’s been camping at our gate was last night,” he said.
“Jehan?” Catherine said when she understood. “He is mad, but why would he hurt Walter? They’re friends.”
“I, myself, overheard them arguing just a few days ago,” Hermann insisted. “I believe the madman is jealous of poor Walter.”
“Jealous? Because of my sister?” Catherine couldn’t credit that. “Walter is going to the Holy Land. He isn’t interested in a wife, even if Agnes were freed.”
Hermann shrugged. “The madman wears a cross, too. But he doesn’t behave like a pilgrim.”
“I don’t think we need to worry about Jehan for now. A sling isn’t his kind of weapon,” Edgar said. “It’s more probable that someone was waiting for Walter, just to be sure he didn’t do anything that might prove Agnes innocent. After all, he’s the only one of use with your language.”
Berengar translated. Hermann answered angrily, gave an order to the men with the litter, then mounted his horse and rode back toward the castle.
“He says that he has given you every consideration,” the monk told them. “He promised that you wouldn’t be hindered or harmed in your investigations and you offend him greatly by your insinuations.”
“But we weren’t accusing him!” Edgar began.
Catherine stopped him. “I can see how he might think we were,” she said. “It may be that he knows of someone talented in the use of a sling.”
“That’s true,” Edgar said. “Berengar, do you know whom he might have been thinking of?”
Berengar raised his hands imploringly.
“I spend my day in the scriptorium,” he explained. “I know little of the world outside the cloister. I swear!”
“Can you at least arrange for Lord Hermann to receive us again?” Edgar asked. “Apologize for us. Say that our worry for Lady Agnes causes us to leap when we should stand still. We are fearful among strangers, but he has already been most generous to us and we’re grateful. We’ll meet with him in town or at the castle. We must find out what happened on the day Lord Gerhardt died. We need to know more about him as a man.”
“And ask if I can see my sister,” Catherine added. “Please. She’s all alone there.”
Reluctantly, Berengar agreed to help.
The men with the litter were still trying to load Walter onto it with no success.
“I’m not letting you bounce me anywhere!” he roared at them.
He finally managed to stand, with the help of the tree. Upright, he was much more daunting than he had been supine. The men backed off.
“So, how do you think you’ll get back to Trier?” Catherine demanded.
Walter scowled. “I’d sooner ride that mule of yours that be carried by anyone. I’ll wait here while you go get it.”
“You’ll ride on a mule?” That was so unlike him that Catherine grew worried about the damage to his mind. Walter saw her expression.
“Sorry,” he said. “This has been an Egyptian day for me from the moment I tried to open my eyes.”
“I know, Walter,” Edgar said. “Here, I brought a skin of wine. You have that while we go back to town and get the mule.”
“Bring my crossbow, too,” Walter shouted after them. “In case I see the bastard who made off with my horse.”
 
The ride home cooled Hermann down somewhat. It had startled him to find that Agnes’s sister and her husband were literate. Long ago there had been talk of making him a cleric, since he was the younger son, but Hermann had shown no aptitude for letters. He was better at fighting, and his father had agreed that it didn’t hurt to have two sons able to defend their small holding.
But he had grown up with a respect for those who could read the Church fathers in their own language. His doubts about Agnes’s guilt increased.
She had only been imprisoned because there had been no one else to blame. Hermann knew that, and he didn’t want to turn her over to be punished unless he was sure in his heart that she was the one who had poisoned Gerhardt. But he couldn’t release her, either, not at this point. There had to be proof, either rational or divine.
He only hoped that Agnes’s family could provide it. All he wanted was to be free of doubt.
Hermann bit his lip. He was lying to himself. What he really wanted, more than anything, was to have his brother back.
Maria was waiting for him when he arrived.
“Is Walter very badly hurt?” she asked. “What shall we do without him?”
“I believe he’ll recover,” Hermann said. “And the abbot has sent a monk to talk to the French for us. Tell Folmar to send some men out to hunt for a warhorse without an owner. Walter’s is missing.”
“Hermann, my husband isn’t a servant here,” Maria chided.
“No, they do useful work,” her brother snapped. “Why didn’t we notice before you were bethrothed that the man has no spine?”
“Hermann,
du bist vil alwaere!
Folmar has many fine qualities!”
“I’m sure,” he said wearily. “Someday you must show me a list of them, but for now just see to it that the search is begun.”
After she had gone he ordered wine and sausage, threw his riding gloves in a corner and seated himself by an open window, looking out across the river to the lands of Graf Heinrich. They looked so peaceful, almost a mirror of the vine-covered hills behind him. He tried to rub the sense of misgiving from his head, but the feeling wouldn’t ease. There was something hidden in all this, something that would make everything that had happened become clear.
He prayed for enlightenment, but none came.
In the bailey just below he saw Peter practicing his swordsmanship on a battered dummy. The straw man had been slashed from all sides but it still stood, despite Peter’s fierce blows. The forcefulness of the blows told of Peter’s feelings. Hermann wished there was something he could do to alleviate the boy’s grief.
Farther away he saw a small band of travelers. Three men and a woman. He could tell by their clothing that they were the ones who had found Walter. He wondered where they were headed and why, but only idly. As he watched, another man appeared from the riverbank. The sun glinted on something metal in his hand and Hermann felt a sudden fear that they were about to be assailed while he was too far away to do anything but watch.
Instead the four greeted the man as an old friend and, after a moment of talk, they all started off again.
Hermann’s sense of disquiet grew. There was something wrong about the last man. He didn’t seem to fit with the others. He stood too straight, held his head too high. This wasn’t someone used to taking orders and trying to be invisible. The others were peasants. This one was free. Hermann tried to define what bothered him about this. As they passed from his sight he finally realized why the stance of the man upset him so. He didn’t move like a free man who is a master and has one above him. No, this was a person who owed nothing to anyone. He had no place in the order of the world. There was no one above to govern him and no one beneath him to care for. This man was dangerous.
The wine came. Hermann picked up his goblet and when he looked back, the party was gone. He shivered, then laughed at himself for his fancy. Who could conclude so much just from the movement of a man? It was nonsense. He had let his disquiet affect his reason. He took a long gulp from the goblet. Wine would restore his balance.
Through the window he could hear Peter’s grunts as he dismantled the dummy.
 
Walter was able to get around almost as usual within a week. The humiliation of riding on a mule seemed to speed his healing. After a day he decided that he much preferred staying with them than taking hospitality from the monks.
“Monks don’t make enough noise,” he confided to Catherine.
“That’s never a problem here.” She laughed.
“But it’s a good noise,” he told her seriously. “Even when you’re fighting I can hear the love underneath.”
“Saint Eustace’s brazen bull, Walter! Just when I think I know you, you say something that makes me cry.” Catherine wiped her nose on her sleeve, wondering if perhaps she might be pregnant again. Perhaps it was just her fear for Agnes that made simple things so significant.
What if one day dear, sweet Margaret despised her as much as Agnes did? How could Catherine be sure it wouldn’t happen? She had assumed nothing could destroy the bond between her and her sister. But something had. If that could be broken, who else might grow to loathe her? Her thoughts started drifting into perilous depths.
“Don’t even imagine it.”
The voices of her childhood rarely intruded on her life, but Catherine was grateful now. “
What could happen to you and Edgar that you haven’t endured together already?
”

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