The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (26 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

BOOK: The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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“Isn’t that part of the reason she’s under suspicion?” Hubert asked.
“Yes, but no one seems to have wondered if Gerhardt might have been ill before he died,” Catherine said. “Or even considered that he might have received poison by another means.”
“Do you think anyone at the castle will tell us?” Edgar asked.
“No, but they might tell Berengar.” They all turned to her. Catherine was pleased at the reaction to her surprise. “He’s willing to join us in finding the truth.”
“Really!” Hubert said, raising his eyebrows. “That monk must not be as dried up as he looks.”
“I believe he was impressed by her piety,” Catherine said straight-faced.
“Whatever the reason, that is good news,” Edgar said. “I was beginning to lose hope, but now there may be a chance. Of course, it would help Agnes’s cause if someone could convince that ass Jehan to pack up his tent and return to France.”
“Saint Brendon’s burning house!” Catherine exclamied. “I’d forgotten all about him. He didn’t even come to see Walter while he was mending from his attack. Are you sure he’s still here?”
“Oh yes,” said Edgar, “We saw him today, too. He stalked through town like Death looking for a sinner, bought some cheese and bread at the market and then stalked back out again. I didn’t speak to him, but I wish someone would make it clear to him that he isn’t doing Agnes any good.”
“I doubt he’ll listen to anyone but Agnes, herself,” Catherine said. “Walter told me he’d tried to get him to leave right at the beginning of all this.”
“For now, let’s just hope he does nothing more than lurk by the castle gates,” Hubert said. “We can’t force him to do anything. We’re not his masters.”
Catherine and Edgar agreed with this, but reluctantly. They didn’t feel safe knowing that Jehan was in the vicinity and brooding.
“So, when will you leave for Köln?” Edgar asked.
“I can get a boat by Sunday afternoon,” Hubert answered. “I know a few people there and Solomon knows many more. The use of his name will open doors.”
Catherine didn’t mean to start the quarrel again, but she couldn’t help the snake of worry that slithered across her mind.
“Didn’t we hear that this monk Radulf was on his way to Köln?” she asked.
“Only simpletons will pay him any mind,” Hubert said.
“But if you were faced with a mob of simpletons, Father?” Catherine looked at Hubert earnestly. “Would you remember us and save yourself?”
“Daughter, I won’t speculate on such things,” Hubert said firmly. “I have all the seals and warrants of a merchant of Paris. If anyone assaults me, it will be for my money, not my faith.”
With that Catherine had to be content.
Much later, Walter returned with cold soup and beer for everyone. He was pleased with the amount of information they had gained that day, although he could add little to it.
“I can’t believe how much Gerhardt was admired among the townspeople,” he told them. “No one will breathe a word against him.”
“Perhaps they’ll not be so protective in Köln,” Hubert said.
Walter’s eyebrows drew together in thought. “I should go with you,” he said. “I can speak with more people.”
“No, Walter,” Hubert answered. “I’ll find someone to interpret for me. I’ll feel much better if you’re here, keeping an eye on my family. If I find out anything important, I’ll return at once. If not, it may be a couple of weeks before you see me.”
Catherine made no comment on his decision. In her heart she knew that Hubert was going to do just what he said, find out everything he could about Gerhardt’s business in Köln. But a voice in her mind kept reminding her of how large the Jewish community was there, and she couldn’t help fearing that Hubert might lose himself in it or, even worse, find his true home.
Trier. Thursday, 8 kalends August (July 25), 1146; 25 Ab, 4906. The feast of Saint James, apostle, name saint of Catherine’s son.
 
 
Tunc es elle qui mendaces facies prophetas et evacuebis omnes the-
sauruos pietatis et misericordiae Jesu Christ?
 
 
Are you the one who makes liars of the prophets and empties the store houses of the piety and mercy of Jesus Christ?
 
—Bernard of Clairvaux
Letter 365, on the monk, Radulf
 
 
I
f the reason for their visit hadn’t been so dire, Catherine would have enjoyed spending the summer in Trier. Even with the bustle associated with the archbishop’s court and the wine trade, the pace was slower than in Paris and the people more inclined to find excuses to stay out in the sunshine. She even liked the smells of the town: flowers, the scent of the river and through it all the tang of grapes in all their manifestations.
“I just don’t understand why I can’t learn the language,” she complained to Edgar, after a frustrating attempt to buy replacement herbs for her medicine box. “I had the same problem with English. All I ever can remember are a few words. Latin is so easy for me but it’s helpful only in debates with scholars. I can’t use it when I want to go shopping.”
“Margaret seems to have picked up quite a bit of German,” Edgar said. “Even James jabbers away with the local children. It doesn’t sound like anything to me, but they all seem to comprehend. Perhaps we’re too old to twist our tongues in new ways.”
“I don’t think twenty-six is ancient,” Catherine retorted. “Of course at thirty the mind is certainly starting to decay.”
“Oh, really?” He reached out and grabbed her, causing her to fall onto his lap. “Anything else you feel is eroding with age?”
“What I can feel right now is in excellent form.” She wiggled to be sure and then kissed him. “When do you expect the children will be back with Walter?”
“All too soon,” he said sadly. “But I’d be happy to have you make an inspection later to be sure none of my parts are showing signs of decrepitude.”
“I promise to be very thorough.”
Catherine rested her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes. People thought it odd that after seven years she still found her greatest comfort in his arms. Catherine thought it impossible that she could find it anywhere else. Edgar was the balance that regulated her life. Without him she knew she’d soon slip far into melancholy or choler. Some people used herbs or relics but for Catherine his presence was all the talisman she needed.
That was why she had refused to let him despair when his hand had been cut off, and why she couldn’t bear going anywhere far from the refuge he gave her.
“What are you thinking?” He tilted her face to his.
“Something sacrilegious,” she teased.
Edgar considered what it might be. It would be a shame not to find out.
“You know,” he said. “It might be some time before the others return, after all.”
 
Walter had discovered a new talent: he made a wonderful uncle. Everything he did seem to appeal to the children. It was like having one’s own sycophants constantly in attendance, but his were sincere in their adulation.
Today he had decided to load everyone on the mule and take them wading in a little creek he had found that emptied into the Moselle. He was still lamenting the loss of his horse and the older two had been drilled to keep a constant watch for it.
The day was warm and Walter got into the spirit by splashing with the little ones wearing only his tunic and rolled-up
brais.
James and Edana were worn out after a few hours and by midafternoon they were both curled up asleep against Walter’s comforting bulk, lulled by his rhythmic snores.
Margaret had played, too, but wasn’t tired. She had brought a bag and planned a search near the creek for plants that could be used, either for food or for Catherine’s store of remedies. The medicine box was easily depleted by all the scrapes and upset stomachs that the household was subject to.
She was happily up to her knees in a patch of peppermint and willowherb when she had the shivery feeling that someone was watching her. Slowly she looked around. There on the other side of
the creek was Peter, the boy from the castle. She gave him a timid smile.
Peter turned bright red and then gave her a little wave.
“Waz tuost dû?”
he called to her.
She held up the plants.
“Heiltranc!”
she called back. She
thought
that was the word for medicine.
“Can I help?” he mimed picking the plants.
Margaret nodded. Peter waded across the stream. She showed him which plants she needed. Picking a leaf from the peppermint, she held it under his nose. He sniffed and then caught her hand as the leaf tickled him. Margaret started like a rabbit and pulled away.
“
Ez ist mir
leit,”
Peter said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Here, I’ll get some from this patch, shall I?”
Margaret only understood part of what he said, but his expression made the rest clear. She smiled an acceptance of his apology and returned to gathering the herbs.
Peter bent to his work but watched her out of the corner of his eye. He liked the way her red braids swung, sometimes dipping into the water when she fought with a resisting root. Her body curved nicely, too, but she didn’t seem aware of it. The girls his age around the castle all treated him with a certain deference now that he was the lord, at least in name. It confused him, as did the obvious advances of some of the older ones. This was the kind of thing his father had been good about explaining. Peter didn’t feel comfortable talking with Uncle Hermann about it.
But Margaret wasn’t like the local girls. She was—Peter hunted in his mind for the right word—she was foreign, even mysterious. She was also very pretty, and the slight air of fearfulness about her made him feel very grown up and protective.
The afternoon passed with both of them working their way farther up the bank, not saying much as Margaret’s vocabulary was still limited. As last the bag was full and Margaret sat down under a tree to sort and tie the herbs. Peter sat beside her wanting to help but feeling suddenly clumsy.
Margaret was busy braiding the peppermint to dry and sorting out the other things she and Peter had found. She popped one of the mint leaves in her mouth, savoring the bite. The she offered one
to Peter. He took it and ate it. Then he looked around for something to give her.
He spied a horseradish plant and went over to tug it out of the soil. Not as delicate a gift as mint, but very useful. He cut a bit from the root and handed it to her.
Margaret had been busy with the braiding and had not paid attention to what Peter was doing. She took the slice of root absently and was about to bite into when she recognized the plant.
“Peter!
Nein!”
She knocked the piece he had just cut for himself from his hand. “It’s poison!”
She didn’t know the word in German. “It’s not radish; it’s wolf’s bane. One bite can kill you!”
She made a face as if she were gagging and choking, the stuck her tongue out and rolled her eyes back.
“
Himmeltrût
!” Peter cried and the color drained from his face.
“Oh, Peter, I’m sorry.” Margaret brushed the herbs aside and put her hands on his shoulders. “It was so thoughtless of me. How could I do that after the way your father died! Please forgive me!”
He didn’t understand the words, but the meaning was clear. He put his hand on her cheek.
“I understand,” he said. “You were trying to warn me. Thank you.”
Margaret felt the warmth of his hand and smelled the mint-laced scent of his breath as they moved closer to each other.
At this interesting moment, Walter appeared, splashing upstream with Edana in his arms and James at his side.
“What’s this?” he shouted. “Peter,
wes wil du beginnen?”
Margaret fell back and tipped over the herbs. Peter got up hastily.
“I was helping Margaret,” he said quickly.
“We found peppermint!” Margaret held up the plants.
“So I see.” Walter was reconsidering his enjoyment of uncledom. “Margaret, would you take the little ones and put their shoes back on? Peter, I need to speak to you.”
With a nervous glance from Walter to Peter, Margaret took the children’s hands and guided them back to where the shoes lay in a pile by the stream. Peter looked up at Walter.
“We weren’t doing anything wrong,” he stated.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Walter said. “Because Margaret isn’t some goosegirl for you to practice seduction on. Besides being the daughter of a lord in Scotland, Catherine told me that she’s also the granddaughter of Thibault of Champagne.”
“The count!” Peter was amazed. “I didn’t know. She didn’t mention it. That’s terrible! That means no one would ever consider an alliance between us. He’s almost as powerful as the emperor.”
“There’s plenty of time to plan a betrothal, young man,” Walter said. “Both of you are too young for such things now. And by the time you’re sixteen or seventeen, there may be someone else who seems more suitable for you.”
Peter looked so dejected that Walter had a hard time keeping himself from laughing. Then he remembered his Alys. He had loved her from the time he was Peter’s age and had gone on loving her despite her marriage to another. He would love her until he died. Who was he to poke fun at the boy’s infatuation?
“I suppose there will be many men who’ll want her,” Peter said wistfully. “She’ll have a large dowry.”
“Perhaps not.” Walter decided to throw him a bit of hope. “Margaret is legitimate, but her mother wasn’t. And now that her uncle is lord of Wedderlie, he may not be eager to give her much as a marriage portion. Of course, that might lessen her in the eyes of your family.”
Peter’s eyes lit. He was at the age where such obstacles only made the prize greater.
“Now,” Walter added. “I want you to promise not to speak to her of such things. Not until you’re older and certainly not until the death of your father has been resolved.”
Peter nodded, serious again. For a while he had forgotten that he was now the lord, even though Uncle Hermann was doing most of the work for him. Walter’s words laid the burden back.
“Have you found anything?” he asked. “I don’t want to have to see my stepmother punished if she did nothing wrong. But I don’t know how long we can go on with this uncertainty.”
“Yes, I know,” Walter admitted. “We have some clues that lead away from Agnes. Her father has gone to Köln to seek more information. Peter, what we discover might put your father in a bad light.
I have no proof, or even a guess on what it could be, but you should be prepared.”
“My father was an honest man.” Peter lifted his head proudly. “He was kind and brave. However it might look, I don’t believe he did anything shameful. You’d have to lie to bring such an accusation against him.”
“Hubert won’t create a false tale,” Walter said. “Not even to save his daughter. He’s an honorable man.”
“Just remember,” Peter said. “Your proof must be undeniable before my uncle and I will release Agnes. Someone must pay for my father’s death.”
Walter saw in his face the toll the past weeks had extracted from the boy. He wished he could offer some sort of comfort.
“Walter!” Margaret called. “I just heard the bells for Vespers. Shouldn’t we be getting back?”
“Coming!” Walter called back. “Now, Peter, it’s time that you went home, as well.”
Peter sadly picked up his shoes and started to put them on. “Walter?” he asked as the man was leaving. “May I see Margaret again before she goes back to France?”
“If her brother permits it, I don’t see why not,” Walter answered.
With that Peter had to be content.
 
It had been several years since Hubert had been in Köln and he didn’t remember the streets as well as he’d hoped. The Jewish population here was much larger than Paris and spread through several neighborhoods. As his stumbling questions were met with incomprehension, he cursed his own pride for not taking Walter with him.
Finally he found someone who spoke French and could direct him to the synagogue. The man gave him a look of deep suspicion that should have put Hubert more on his guard. His preoccupation was so great that he simply thanked his informant and hurried to reach his friends before night fell.
As he passed through the streets, trying to keep the directions straight, it appeared to him that a number of people were going the same way. He wondered if there were a local festival. Everyone seemed in high spirits.

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