The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (8 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

BOOK: The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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Edgar knelt next to her, wiping the blood from his cheek with his left arm.
“Isaac the draper came to us, saying that there was a mob outside the synagogue. He wanted your father to help,” Edgar began.
“So, of course, you went,” Catherine said. “You didn’t think of sending to the palace for the guards.”
“We wanted to see how bad it was first.” Edgar winced as Catherine wiped his cut with a clean cloth and then spread the paste over it.
“It will dry soon and keep out putrefaction,” she told him. “Don’t touch it. I knew something was happening; we went near there on our way back from seeing Agnes. What started it?”
“I’m not sure,” Edgar said. “It began in a tavern, most likely. From what I could get, someone said that a lot more people could join the king’s pilgrimage if they had the money of the Jews. Then someone else said it wasn’t right that Jews should profit from the misfortunes of the King of Jerusalem. Someone else mentioned Judas and the crucifixion. Then one idea stood upon another until there was a crowd bent on storming the synagogue and stealing all the gold and jewels kept there—”
“But, Edgar, there’s nothing at the synagogue but the books they use in their service,” Catherine interrupted.
“That’s what Abraham the vintner tried to tell them, when they demanded gold,” Edgar said. “And then your father arrived. He pushed through to Abraham’s side and shouted that the people must be mad to attack their neighbors. It wasn’t the right thing to say.”
They both looked at Hubert.
“Someone yelled that he was no better than a Jew, himself,” Edgar continued. “I thought Hubert was going to say something really dangerous then, so I tried to get to him to stop him. That’s when they started throwing things. You’d be amazed at the hard objects that just lie about in the street for any fool to use as a weapon. I think I was hit by a ragged-edged bone.”
“And Father?”
Edgar shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see what happened. I was between him and the crowd so I don’t think he was hit. He just suddenly slumped against the wall. It was shortly after that the king’s guards appeared and broke things up. The boys and I thought it would be best to bring Hubert home, but it took some time to carry him through the streets.”
“And no one offered to help you?” Catherine’s lips tightened.
“We were nearly here when we saw Samonie and sent her for Master Clement,” Edgar finished. He didn’t want to discuss the time
they had had getting Hubert back, nor the things the kindly inhabitants of Paris had yelled at them.
Catherine leaned over her father. He was breathing, but his skin was clammy and grey.
“There seems to be no sign of a blow, but he’s so still. I don’t know what to do.” Catherine swallowed her tears. “Why doesn’t the doctor come?”
It seemed forever before Samonie returned with the doctor, although it was really but a few moments before the man arrived. In the meantime all Catherine could think of was to keep her father warm and to put herbal compresses on his feet to draw out whatever evil was keeping him from waking.
The serving woman had dragged the doctor from his meal and insisted that he accompany her. He didn’t try to hide his irritation when he came in.
“She told me that Master Hubert was dying,” he said. “He’d better be. My wife whipped up egg and quince jam to pour over lamb tonight. Do you know what that tastes like cold?
“Oh, my!” he said when he saw Hubert. He was instantly serious. “How long has he been like this?”
“Perhaps an hour,” Edgar told him. “There was a crowd, shouting and pelting us with street refuse, but I don’t think he was hit.”
“Nor do I.” The doctor took off his cloak and tunic and rolled up his sleeves. He listened to Hubert’s breathing and his heart. “When was he last bled?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Catherine said.
“Idiot! I told him the last time we met that a man in his fifties has to take care of himself.” The doctor turned to Edgar. “I’ll need a urine specimen. However, I believe that he has allowed his humors to become decidedly imbalanced and the excitment today simply pushed them too far. As you can see, he’s cold and moist, when he should be warm and dry.”
“What can we do?” Catherine begged. “Will he waken?”
The man pursed his lips. “I think so, but he must be bled as soon as he does. At least you’ve kept him warm. Take the poultice off his feet and apply one to his head. When he does wake, give him a broth made of partridge, with fennel, marjoram and leeks. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Partridge!” Edgar said, when the man had left. “Where can we find partridge this time of year?”
“Veal will do,” Catherine answered. “It just has to have warm and dry properties. Ullo, run down to the butcher and see if you can get a soup bone.”
She closed her eyes but the tears spilled out anyway.
“Edgar, what shall we do if he doesn’t wake?”
Edgar held her close. “For now, why don’t we just pray that he does.”
 
The Cistercian monastery of Clairvaux was unadorned—no bell tower, no elaborate paintings or carving. Everything in it was for utility only and not for the edification or comfort of the inhabitants. But, looking out over the fields that the monks and lay brothers had cleared, where grain and vines ripened and wild flowers bloomed, Astrolabe was struck by the beauty of the place.
He had been kept waiting some time in the porter’s lodge. This didn’t surprise him. There were far more important people here to see the abbot. Also, since he had refused to tell Bernard’s protective secretary, Nicholas, the reason for his visit, there was no way for anyone to gauge its importance. And somehow Astrolabe suspected that Nicholas had no interest in letting him approach his master.
He tried not to be bothered by this. Ever since he’d been old enough to understand who his parents were, he’d had to live with the fact that his father’s enemies and even some of his friends could not forgive Astrolabe for existing. The son of Abelard and Heloise took on the weight of their transgression simply by continuing to live. To their credit, neither of his parents had ever shown him anything but love, the few times he had seen them. His mother still seemed to treasure his visits. It was the rest of the world that made the situation difficult.
The monk who had just entered the room, Geoffrey, was one of the difficulties. A former student of Abelard’s, he was now a staunch supporter of Bernard of Clairvaux. And, in castigating his former teacher, he had also conceived a strong dislike for Astrolabe as well.
So, when Geoffrey beckoned him to follow, Astrolabe half suspected that he was being shown the door.
Instead he was conducted into the abbot’s refectory in the guest
house where Abbot Bernard, himself, soon joined him for the meal of bread and soup. No one spoke to him or to each other, although the abbot nodded his greeting. The only sound was that of the lector reading a passage from a life of Saint Anthony. As he listened, Astrolabe reflected that compared to what that hermit saint had eaten, bread and thin soup was a feast.
After the meal the abbot rose and beckoned Astrolabe to follow him. They went to a room in the guest quarters where Bernard motioned for Astrolabe to seat himself.
Astrolabe handed Bernard the letter his mother had entrusted him with. The abbot broke the seal and read it quickly then gave Astrolabe a wry smile.
“I would have known you, even without the letter from your mother,” he said. “You have her eyes, but in all other respects, the features are your father’s.”
“So I’ve been told.” Astrolabe squirmed uncomfortably under the abbot’s gaze.
“And inside?” Bernard regarded him with curiosity.
“I’m not the scholar my father was,” Astrolabe answered. “Nor do I have his need to understand the mind of the Creator. But I loved and admired him very much and am not ashamed to be thought like him.”
“As is only proper,” Bernard answered. “Now, what is the message your mother sent you to tell me? Her letter only says the matter is urgent.”
“Others may have already told you of this,” Astrolabe began uneasily, “but she wanted to be certain you were aware of the growing menace in Lotharingia and the Rhineland.”
“Menace?” Bernard seemed surprised. “What sort? Heretics again?”
“No, my lord abbot.” Astrolabe shifted from foot to foot. “It has come to my mother’s attention that a man claiming to be a monk has been preaching the upcoming expedition to the Holy Land and, in the course of his preaching, has been inciting the people to attack the Jews living among them.”
Bernard was instantly attentive. “That’s impossible!” he said. “I sent a letter to all the bishops forbidding anyone to molest the Jews. We want no repetition of the shameful episodes of 1096.”
“I am aware of that,” Astrolabe said. “But it seems that this brother Radulf is not. They say he is preaching in your name.”
“No!”
The abbot stood suddenly, his right hand in a fist. Astrolabe took a step back.
“Mother had it from witnesses,” he told Bernard. “Merchants coming back from Metz. They had heard Radulf and feared the damage he might do.”
The abbot forced himself to be calm.
“My missives may not have reached the bishops of Lotharingia and Germany, yet,” he said. “But, in any case, I’m sure that the lords of the land will remember that they owe protection to their Jews.”
“Yes, my lord abbot,” Astrolabe answered. “Shall I then return to the Paraclete and tell my mother that her worries are groundless? That you assure her no one will dare to attack the Jews against your instructions?”
Bernard regarded him sharply. “Perhaps there is something of your father in you, after all. I can tell from your tone that you doubt the ability of the bishops.”
“No, Lord Abbot,” Astrolabe said quickly. “But there is nothing so dangerous or deadly as evil rumor, and Mother and I fear that this is what this monk is spreading.”
Bernard considered this for a moment, then nodded agreement.
“I’ll have the matter looked into,” he promised. “And, now, there was something more in your mother’s letter.”
Astrolabe looked at the floor and sighed deeply. He loved his mother and knew she wanted the best for him, but to ask this man of all people to help him! What was she thinking of?
The abbot smiled. “I presume that you know what she has asked of me?”
“I’m afraid so,” Astrolabe answered. “She’s worried because she has nothing to leave me. She wants to see that I have a living. She already asked the abbot of Cluny about it, but he had nothing. I’ve tried to tell her that I survive quite well. I teach a little and write letters and documents for those who need them. I have no real need of a benefice.”
“I’m glad to hear it, my son.” Bernard held up his hand to give
a farewell benediction. “For I’m afraid I have none to give. But I shall keep you in mind, should something appear.”
Astrolabe tried to make his grimace a grateful smile.
“Thank you, my lord abbot.” He bowed and left.
Alone, Bernard carefully folded the letter from Heloise. A beautiful woman, he recalled, filled with a passion that was now being put to the service of God. Perhaps he could find a way to help her son. And as for this renegade self-proclaimed monk …
“Porter!” he called. “Run fetch brother Nicholas. I need him to send another letter to the bishops of Germany! At once!”
 
“I think he’s waking.”
“Hush! don’t startle him!”
Hubert heard the voices but couldn’t seem to wake up enough to answer. He felt cold. With a great effort, he made a noise.
“Ghharrr.”
“Father?” Catherine leaned over him. “Father, what happened? Are you all right?”
“Give him some wine; his throat’s parched,” Edgar said.
“Broth.” Catherine was firm.
Hubert wished they’d stop arguing and give him something. The feeling was coming back to his limbs now. Nothing hurt. He was just tired, as if he’d been running for hours without a rest. He felt a spoon between his lips. He opened and swallowed.
“More,” he grunted.
Soon he felt able to sit up enough to drink without spilling half the broth down his jaw and into his shift.
“We could find no wound,” Edgar told him. “Were you hit?”
Hubert tried to remember. “No, I don’t think so. I just felt suddenly dizzy and cold and too weak to stand. Then I woke up here.”
Catherine bit her lip. “We’ll have the doctor back,” she told him. “He thinks your humors just became imbalanced. You need to remember to be bled once a month.”
“Nonsense!” Hubert said. “That’s only for clerks and monks who pray and fast all day. I’m fine. Probably just something I ate. I feel better already.”
He moved to get up but three pairs of arms stopped him.
“Rest for now, Hubert,” Edgar entreated over Hubert’s protest. “You fightened us. We want you to regain your strength. I won’t let you up unless you can promise that this won’t happen again. Can you?”

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