The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (29 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

BOOK: The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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“That’s true.” Hubert nodded. “It is unusual. Can you think of anyone who might know more about these people?”
“No, we’ve all wondered,” Matthias answered. “It didn’t seem anything worth troubling the archbishop about, but now that I consider it, he might be very interested. A place like that should be under someone’s supervision. I’ll speak to some of my more highly placed friends and have him approached on the matter.”
“Still, I doubt it will cast much light on why Lord Gerhardt
died,” Hubert said. “Even if he were involved in some wickedness with them, or if he discovered an evil about them that he threatened to expose, how could anyone from here manage to poison his food?”
Matthias had no answer for that. He offered to walk with Hubert back to Hezekiah’s home, perhaps first finding something more substantial to drink than rose water. Hubert agreed with alacrity.
The tavern they stopped at had a number of benches and tables placed out in the open, across from the marketplace. It was full of people this hot afternoon but they were able to squeeze in next to some merchants that Matthias knew.
While the men exhanged news in their own tongue, Hubert idly watched the animals being brought in to sell that day. It wasn’t until a man came by with a string of horses that he came to attention. There was one among them that was obviously out of place. That big grey had never pulled a wagon or a plow in his life.
Hubert stood and pointed.
“That’s Walter’s!” he shouted. “You there! Where did you get that horse?”
The men didn’t understand the words, but the gestures were clear. They all stared at Hubert.
“Matthias, I know that horse,” Hubert said. “It was stolen several days ago from a friend of mine, a knight named Walter of Grancy. Please, ask that man how he came by it.”
Matthias hesitated. “Are you sure, Hubert?” he asked. “That’s Meinwerk from Aachen. He’s well known here as an honest trader.”
“Honest he may be,” Hubert said, “but Walter has a scar on his temple from the one who ambushed him and stole that horse. Look at it. Is that the usual quality sold by this man? Find out who sold it to him.”
Matthias set down his beer and went over to the horse trader, who was now looking decidedly uneasy. They spoke for a few moments while Hubert tried to contain his impatience. Finally Matthias returned, while Meinwerk waited, now holding the bridle of the grey.
“He says that a man sold it to him only yesterday, while he was on his way here,” Matthias reported. “The man told Meinwerk that he was the servant of a lord who had to sell the horse to pay a gambling debt. Meinwerk was suspicious because the seller was willing to take so little, but his desire for the horse overcame his doubts.”
“Go back and tell him that if he’ll sell it to me for what he paid, I’ll return it to the owner and there’ll be no trouble for him,” Hubert said.
“Forgive me, Hubert, but how can Meinwerk be sure that you aren’t just trying to buy a fine horse cheaply?” Matthias asked.
Hubert was annoyed, but saw the justice of the question. “Hezekiah will vouch for me,” he said. “Also, I can identify the bridle, if it’s the same one Walter used. There’s a silver rondel on each side with a walnut tree etched into it. That’s the symbol of Walter’s family.”
Matthias went back and checked. Then he nodded to Meinwerk who managed to look both relieved and disappointed at the same time. Hubert came to join them.
“Tell him I’ll pay for his trouble, as well,” he told Matthias. “The man who owns the horse may also want to reward him for returning it. He’s about to set off for the Holy Land and is feeling generous.”
Meinwerk perked up at this news. Hubert arranged to pay for the animal and have it brought to a stable nearby.
“Now,” he added, “can you find out if Meinwerk could identify the man who sold him the horse? What did he look like?”
When questioned, Meinwerk scratched his chin beneath his beard. “The man was on the tall side,” he said. “Fair, with brown hair and not much of a beard. Oh yes, he had an accent. Lotharin-gian, maybe, or French. I couldn’t be sure. His German was good.”
“Thank you,” Hubert said. “It’s not likely that he’ll see the man again, but if he does, Matthias, may he come to you with the information?”
“Of course,” Matthias, agreed. “Now let’s finish the beer before the sun boils it away.”
They returned to the table, where Matthias explained to his friends what had happened.
“I think the man may still be in the area,” one of them said. “Someone tried to sell me a saddle with a walnut tree symbol on it just this morning. I don’t trade in such things so I sent him on his way. But I remember him well, just as Meinwerk said. If I spot him, I’ll raise a cry after him.”
Hubert thanked them all and went back to Hezekiah’s. If he
hadn’t done much to help Agnes, at least Walter would rejoice that he could once again ride as befitted his station.
 
At that moment, Walter felt as if he had become a beast of burden, himself. James and Edana had abandoned their father to perch on his shoulders, so broad he could balance them on either side, although the grip they had on his ears was almost painful. Catherine and Edgar walked behind him, ready to catch should either child fall. Margaret was at his side, carrying a basket of food and face cream for Agnes.
They slowed down as they came to a stoic figure, seated by his tent at the place where the road divided.
“Jehan, why don’t you go home?” Walter asked. “You know that your devotion only makes it harder to prove Agnes innocent.”
“I must be here if she needs me,” Jehan replied without looking up. “She knows I’ll do anything to save her. Unlike some, who seem to be treating her peril as a chance for a summer outing.”
“That’s a lie!” Catherine bent over so he had to look at her. “We’re all worried about her. But there’s no proof of her guilt and, if you just went away, we might get Lord Hermann to let her go in our custody!”
“And forever have the stain of murder on her.” Jehan sneered. “That’s like you. Do whatever least upsets your life. I’ve offered to exonerate her as her champion over and over. She must know that someone is willing to defend her with his life.”
Catherine tried to be gentler, even though Jehan could be very annoying.
“Everyone knows that,” she said. “It’s very brave of you to offer to endure the pain of the ordeal for her sake. But there are always those who’ll deny the proof of it.”
And, she added to herself, there’s always the chance that you’d fail.
He saw the doubt in her eyes and spat on the ground by her feet.
Edgar stepped forward. “How dare you insult my wife!” He shouted, raising his fist.
Jehan only laughed. “Or what? You’ll pound me into the earth like a nail? I wouldn’t stain my sword with the likes of you.”
“Here now!” Walter put the children down and loomed over Jehan. “None of that. A man who’s taken the cross shouldn’t behave like this. If you want to help Agnes, then you should pray for her instead of making a fool of yourself where everyone can see. You’re a soldier of Christ and should act with more charity.”
“Only to those who deserve it, Walter.” Jehan stood so that Walter’s bulk wasn’t so overwhelming. “As a soldier of Christ you should be more selective about the company you keep.”
“Walter?”
He had wanted to raise his hand to the man but there was someone holding it. Margaret looked up at him.
“Don’t hurt him,” she pleaded. “He’s so unhappy already.”
Catherine felt a rush of shame. Of course Margaret didn’t know all the insults and injuries Jehan had given them over the years. But that shouldn’t make any difference. If they couldn’t forgive their enemies then what right had they to castigate others for not behaving like Christians?
However, Catherine found that the best she could do was to hold her tongue. Edgar noticed the way her lips tightened to keep the sarcastic words from escaping. He smiled at her tenderly. Then he sighed; his heart wasn’t yet ready to feel charitable toward Jehan.
Walter’s fist unclenched under Margaret’s gentle touch.
“Jehan,” he said softly, “she’s right. And there’s nothing here that will bring you happiness. Go home. For Agnes’s sake. Go home.”
Jehan turned away from them. Catherine thought she saw tears glittering on his lashes.
“I can’t do that,” he said brusquely.
He bent down and went into his tent, pulling the flap down after him.
“Well, that was a cheery diversion,” Edgar commented as he picked Edana up from the roadside where she had been eating flowers.
“I only hope Agnes is more appreciative of our company,” Catherine said.
 
Agnes was becoming heartily sick of the wall hangings in her room. The blue and yellow woven pattern grated on her, especially when the sunlight struck it showing all the dust that had accumulated since
they were last taken down and washed. She knew she couldn’t complain of ill-treatment. Every morning the chamber pot was emptied and a ewer of warm water brought her to wash with. Once a month a boy came to sweep out the old rushes and replace them. She was fed the same food the family ate. Lately she had received a clear impression that the family was beginning to doubt that she had killed Gerhardt. Even Maria, who had been the most fervent in her accusations, was relenting. Perhaps her father and Catherine were helping.
So why was she still a prisoner?
The worst of it was having so much time to think. It wasn’t something she had ever felt the need to do before. She usually had spent some time each day planning what needed to be done and what she hoped to do, but this enforced lack of activity had driven her to speculation in areas that she would rather not have entered.
She said her prayers as she embroidered the cloth sent to her by the nuns of Saint Irminen, each flower or animal a symbol of the faith. She tried to concentrate on saints who had been unjustly incarcerated and miraculously freed. But against her will, her thoughts kept going back to her father. She had spent so many years blaming him for her mother’s unhappiness. But Madeleine had known of Hubert’s Jewish parentage when they married. Perhaps it was her own guilt that had sent her into madness.
At least her father hadn’t waited until the wedding night to tell her mother what he was. He hadn’t rejected her mother or called her terrible names just because she was happy to take up her marital duties. If Gerhardt hadn’t wanted Agnes, then why had he gone through with the ceremony in the first place? What kind of man would be so hypocritical?
These things went round and round in her head with no satisfactory answers. There were days when Agnes wondered if they were leaving her alone so much so that she would go mad, as well, and thus save everyone the scandal of a trial.
It was in this frame of mind that she began looking forward to Catherine’s visits. Even her sister’s peculiarities were preferable to the notions lurking in her own mind.
Today she heard the dogs barking below and Walter’s clear voice
as he shouted over them. She wondered how many of the others had come. When the door finally opened, Catherine was there alone.
“Brother Berengar couldn’t come today,” she said. “So Hermann will only let us have a few moments. Edgar has been allowed into the library at Saint Maximin and I’ve gone through all the medical manuscripts that the nuns had and we’ve found no illness with symptoms like those you described.”
“Well, I’m sure you tried.” Agnes didn’t hide her disappointment.
“But,” Catherine said, “we did find cases of a nervous condition that could either arise from a seriously troubled mind or—and this is the crucial part so please stop that sewing, Agnes.”
“Catherine, if I don’t do this, I’ll start poking you with the needle,” Agnes answered. “I wish you’d stop using rhetorical devices and just tell me what you found.”
“Sorry, I slip into it without thinking,” Catherine said. “Very well. Gerhardt was behaving in a way that might conform to slow poisoning. If he had a small amount of poison, an extract of monkshood or wolf’s bane, for instance, every day, he could have been building up enough in his body until one day, it was enough to kill him.”
“Are you sure?” Agnes felt a glimmer of hope. “But what could he have been eating that no one else had?”
“Well, it might be something he particularly liked and others didn’t,” Catherine said. “Can you think of anything like that?”
“No, I can’t remember anything,” Agnes said. “No sweetmeat or delicacy. He ate very little, really. It would have been easier to poison me.”
“But there must have been something,” Catherine insisted.
“If there is, I don’t know it,” Agnes told her. “Don’t you think I’d tell you? Do you think I enjoy being up here all summer with nothing to do but wonder if I’ll live to see the autumn? And don’t you realize that if you can’t find a food that was only for Gerhardt, they might go back to assuming I had to have killed him through sourcery? For such a crime, I could be burned.”

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