Read To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Online

Authors: Sharan Newman

To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (28 page)

BOOK: To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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There was a swift change in Clemence’s expression.
“Price?” she repeated. “Of course. I hadn’t thought of that. I’m afraid I have nothing to pay with, unless you’ll take my necklace as a pledge.”
She began to unhook it. Edgar closed his eyes and hit his forehead. Not even Catherine had been this naive.
“I’ll settle later with your husband.” He sighed. “Or your father. For now, let’s simply find you a place that will suit you.”
And, he said to himself, where you’ll be off my conscience.
He could have sworn he’d said nothing aloud, but Catherine’s look told him she knew exactly what he was thinking.
The courtyard of the Temple preceptory, Paris. Monday, 7 kalends June (May 26), 1147; 25 Sivan, 4907. Feast of Saint Augustine, not the one who confessed; the other one, the first Archbishop of Canterbury.
 
Sensus vero rationalis in tribus existere dignoscitur, ingenio videlicet, ratione, memoria; quae in animalium capite distinctis, et ordinatis cellulis, ancipite, sincipite, occipite vigere et exercere propria creduntur officia.
 
Rational understanding is usually spoken of as including the threefold faculty of discernment, reason and memory. It is considered that in the heads of animals these three faculties occupy each a particular section, in the order of front, middle and back of the head where each exercises its particular function.
 
—Isaac of Stella
Sermon for Septuagesima Sunday
 
 
T
he ground was beginning to crust and dry from the storm of the previous Saturday. Bertulf and Godfrey had taken Vrieit out in the sun to brush and groom him. He glistened under their attentions, and his strong muscles were well defined beneath his coat.
“I never thought when he was born that Vrieit would be the one we took into battle,” Bertulf said sadly. “I had hoped to sell him to a great lord who would ride him only in jousts.”
“We trained him for what he’ll do best,” Godfrey said as he sponged stable mud from Vrieit’s legs. “I feel better knowing he’ll be with you. He won’t panic at the first smell of blood.”
“Yes, it’s good to know my horse is braver than I,” Bertulf said.
“You won’t know that until you face the enemy,” Godfrey said. “But I believe you have as much courage as any man I know, my lord.”
“Hush,” Bertulf said. “Here comes Father Durand. He’ll want to know if we’ve made any progress, I suppose.”
Both men bowed as the priest came up to them. He greeted them politely but, instead of asking about the investigation, his interest seemed to be totally taken up with Vrieit.
“A fine animal,” he commented, walking around the horse without taking his eyes off him. “How did you two come by him?”
“We bred him ourselves,” Bertulf answered. “From a Spanish stallion. Took years to produce him. He’s sturdy as a Norman pony but faster and, as you can see, larger, but still small enough to mount without a
perron
, if necessary.”
Durand whipped around. “You bred him?” he asked. “And where did you get the money to buy this stallion, to begin with? What right
have you to own a horse like this? He’s clearly a mount for a nobleman, not a miller.”
Bertulf was dumbfounded. He opened his mouth to ask what business it was of the priest’s, who should ride nothing but a mare or gelding. Godfrey sensed trouble and answered quickly.
“We did indeed breed him,” he insisted. “With my lord, Osto. When Master Bertulf made it known that he was going to join the Knights of the Temple, Lord Osto would have him ride no horse but Vrieit. No other was worthy.”
Durand still seemed suspicious.
“A most generous gift. See that you treat him as he deserves,” he said. “And now, about the matter of our dead comrade?”
Both men felt their hearts sink. They had tried to make Durand understand that the search for the man’s identity was hopeless, but he refused to allow them to quit. For the next several minutes, they were forced to listen to a detailed explanation of what they must do next.
“Remember, this is not just the death of one man,” he told them, “He represents one less soldier that we shall have to protect Jerusalem and the pilgrim roads. Whoever killed him has also cost the lives of those he would have saved.”
“We wish for nothing more than that his murderer be brought to justice,” Bertulf said. “But without knowing who he was, it’s impossible.”
Durand couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from Vrieit. Now he turned to face Bertulf. “I’ve just remembered. There was a man here the other day, looking for a Lord Osto. We described the body to him, and he said it didn’t match. But it is odd to me that someone would be looking for your lord, when you say he’s still at home in Picardy.”
“We didn’t say that,” Bertulf replied. “He’s gone to Reims to meet with the count of Flanders and wait for King Louis.”
“Ah, you saw him on his way?” Durand lifted one eyebrow. “Should the young man return, I’ll pass the information to him.”
Finally, Durand left to torment some other servant of the Temple.
Godfrey was concerned.
“Who would be looking for Lord Osto?” he fretted. “And not Bertulf and me, as well.”
“I don’t know,” Bertulf said. “But it unsettles me. Perhaps it’s time to admit that Osto is dead.”
“What will happen to our village, then?” Godfrey asked. “At least as long as there was a chance of his returning, Lady Edwina could perform the duty. Now Lord Jordan is sure to give the keep to one of his men.”
“Edwina won’t let him.”
“She’ll only have dower rights,” Godfrey said. “Perhaps you should have let Clemence and Lambert marry before we left, although even that might not have been enough, but it would have made it harder to give Clemence and her inheritance to someone else.”
Bertulf ran both hands through what was left of his hair.
“Perhaps we should never have attempted such a wild scheme at all.” He sighed. “In the panic of the moment, I didn’t think it through. But here we are, and any way I foresee our stepping seems to land us even more deeply in trouble.”
“Or something just as sticky,” Godfrey sadly agreed.
 
Edgar and Catherine conferred with the felt maker and his wife, who were awed to be hosts to someone like Clemence.
“Will she bring her own bedding?” the wife, Bodille, asked. “I’ve nothing fine enough. And dishes?”
“I’ll see that she’s supplied with furnishings suitable to her station,” Catherine said. “The main thing is that she be guarded from danger and the sort of people who are all too common in Paris now.”
“Don’t worry about that,” the felt maker said. “We have children of our own and apprentices. Between the heretics and the soldiers, it’s not safe to venture out even in the midst of day. We’ll see that she’s never unaccompanied in the streets.”
Clemence wasn’t quite as thrilled by that promise as Catherine and Edgar were. She didn’t relish being cooped up in this tiny house for the next few days. But it had been her choice, she reminded herself. And, when Lambert did come, these people would give them one bed, something the nuns would not.
And the only important thing now, she reminded herself, was to find Lambert and rescue him from the madman. If, she considered
again, he was a madman. She liked Catherine, Edgar and their family. But she knew the Devil hides behind fair faces and manners. And there was still the mystery of how her father’s knife had come to be in their house. Somehow, every time she started to ask, they had changed the subject. There must be a way to find out without causing them to become wary of her. There might be an innocent reason, although she could think of none.
If only she could be sure! Without Lambert, there was no one else to trust, no one to turn to. Clemence realized that Catherine was still talking.
“Edgar has sent a messenger to the portress at Montmartre,” Catherine continued. “If your husband comes looking for you there, she’ll direct him to the felt maker.”
“And I’ll ask at the
Parleoir
whether anyone has run across him, as well,” Edgar said. “I know what he looks like. It’s possible he went to one of the other merchants seeking news of Hubert.”
They left Clemence only after she vowed not to leave the house without a proper escort, even if Lambert came for her.
“May I come visit Margaret later?” Clemence asked, a plan forming in her head.
“Of course,” Catherine said. “I’ll send Martin and one of the guards for you.”
As they left the house, Catherine and Edgar both felt as if they had aged in the night. Suddenly, they seemed to have more obligations than they could handle. Each had a wistful, if guilty, longing to be unencumbered once more.
“Will you be all right, going home alone?” Edgar asked as he kissed her good-bye in the
parvis
of Nôtre Dame.
“I’m not a sweet young country rose.” Catherine laughed. “I know what sort of people to avoid.”
“See that you do,
leoffest,”
Edgar said with mock severity.
Once he had gone, Catherine dawdled along the streets of the Île, spending some time looking at the stalls of goods set up in the open space in front of the Cathedral. Near the wall of the canons’ cloister there was a group of boys and young men listening to one of the masters lecture. She went nearer to hear what the lesson was, but was
disappointed to find it an elementary class in arithmetic. It seemed a hundred years since she had sat like that, off to one side, absorbing the teachings of Master Abelard, Robert of Meulan, Gilbert de la Porée, Adam de Petit Pont and so many others. The debates had been lively and exciting. Now Master Abelard was dead, Master Gilbert was bishop of Poitiers. Master Adam was growing old. She didn’t know the new teachers, many of whom seemed as young as she.
In a side street a man dressed in patched
brais
and a ragged tunic pleaded with passersby to return to the life of the apostles, give up their goods to the poor and trust to God for their sustenance. He had gathered a small group around him, but most people avoided looking at him or jeered as they went by. Catherine hurried on, feeling uncomfortable with the earnestness in the young man’s demeanor. She knew that unless he advocated taking goods from the rich or despoiling the churches as they had done in Rome and other places, no one in authority would trouble the fervent reformer to get a license to preach from the bishop, but no one was likely to act upon his suggestions, either.
As she made her way to the bridge, Catherine was tempted to stop at Abraham’s to see her father. It was true that he had seemed to cast them off along with Christianity, but she couldn’t stop loving him. How dangerous could it be to drop by for a few minutes?
She had just made up her mind to go and had even turned her steps back when she saw a familiar shape from the corner of her eye. Quickly, she ducked behind a stack of pewter dishes outside a shop and peeked around them in the hope that she had been mistaken.
No, it was Jehan.
Her first impulse was to throw herself at him, kicking and pounding. The intense anger that surged through her had been building for years. Just once she’d like to give way to the need to hurt him for all he’d done to them. She was stopped only by the knowledge that he was strong enough to shake her off like a hound would a playful kitten. She couldn’t hurt him, but he could kill her with a blow.
There seemed to be no one with him. Catherine looked around for Lambert, but there was no young man in the vicinity, only a little girl sitting on a barrel enjoying the shaft of sunlight that fell between
the eaves overhanging the street on either side. Farther down some women were chatting at the communal well.
So, what was Jehan up to?
Catherine knew that whatever it was, she should find out about it. Now, how could she follow him without being recognized? She already had her head covered, the black braids tucked out of sight. Perhaps if she bent a bit to hide her face and walked with a limp. She tried that. After a moment she decided she ought not to make the lameness too exaggerated, or she would soon lose him in the twisty streets.
She hoped he was returning to the room he shared with Lambert. Then Edgar and his friends could go later and extricate the young man. But as she followed, she noticed that Jehan was heading away from the area where one could rent rooms across the river and went down along the bank, where poor people made shift with crude huts and lean-tos that were washed away each year in the spring tides.
She found it hard to keep her footing on the marshy path, especially since she had to duck behind a bush or low wall every few moments. She caught her scarf on one bramble and nearly lost Jehan as she struggled to free it.
Finally, he turned down a narrow trail, hardly wide enough for one. Catherine stopped in time to see him knock at the door of a building that seemed to have grown like a mushroom by the river, a confusion of boards, stone and moss. She jumped back as the door opened and so didn’t see who answered. When she looked again, Jehan was gone.
While she was standing on the path considering what to do next, she was startled to hear someone call her name.
“Catherine? Have you come to consult the wizard?”
Once she had pushed her heart down from her throat, Catherine smiled.
“The wizard, Maurice?” she said. “Is that who lives there? It looks like a sorcerer’s hut, now that I consider it. No, I was just … uh, hunting for early berries. What brings you this way?”
Maurice smiled back at her.
BOOK: To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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