Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) (16 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

BOOK: Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur)
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“What did Hugh’s wife want with all those poets?” Gaucher asked rhetorically. “And I understand the merchant’s rich.”
“So will we be, when we find the treasure,” Rufus reminded him. “And now we only need to divide the profit between the two of us.”
“That’s true.” Gaucher gave him an appraising look.
Rufus decided that he would continue to wear the mail shirt, however much it might chafe.
 
That evening, clouds began to move in. Remembering the sudden flood the week before, by common consent the pilgrims climbed the narrow paths up to a row of holes in the side of the cliff overlooking the River Celé. On this ascent, even Catherine was nervous. The rocky trail was too much like that of her dream. She, Edgar, Eliazar and Solomon found shelter in the first empty cave they came to.
“The horses won’t fit in here,” Hubert said. “We’ll have to unload them and take them back down.”
“Yes they will,” Edgar said from inside. “It widens once you’re past the opening. Hurry. We need to get a fire started before the sun sets.”
Catherine was glad of the warmth the horses would give off in this dank place. She wondered who, or what, had slept here last. At the moment, it didn’t matter as long as they didn’t return tonight. Because of the good weather and growing daylight, they had walked farther today than ever before. All she wanted was to be allowed to lie flat and close her eyes.
“Catherine.” Solomon touched her shoulder. “Catherine, Mondete didn’t follow us up.”
“You know she doesn’t like to camp near other people,” Catherine answered, feeling for a level place to lay her blanket.
“It’s going to rain tonight,” Solomon said. “Before, she was always at least within sight of the rest of us.”
Catherine felt as if a stone had just been laid on her stomach. “You want me to convince her to come stay with us, don’t you?” she asked her cousin.
“Yes. I’d go, but she won’t listen to me. She thinks I’m mad,” Solomon said.
“So do I,” Catherine told him. “But as a good Christian, I must try to help her.”
“I don’t care why you do it, just bring her back here,” Solomon said. “Please. Before it gets dark.”
Even with the thunder clouds, twilight was long. In the grey evening, Catherine set off back down the narrow path. Solomon came behind her, promising to wait at the foot of the trail for them.
“She won’t come, you know,” Catherine said again.
“Just try,” Solomon answered.
They could see her now, a black shadow by the side of the river. As Catherine approached, Mondete took something out of her knotted sleeve and vanished behind a bush growing out over the water.
Catherine paused. She could wait until Mondete had finished.
Several minutes passed and Mondete did not reappear. Catherine began to worry. She might be ill. She might have fallen into the river.
Just as Catherine reached the riverbank, Mondete reappeared. Catherine froze in terror.
In her right hand the woman held a straight razor. Even in the dim light, Catherine could see it gleam. Mondete took a step toward her. Catherine opened her mouth to scream.
Mondete stopped, puzzled.
Catherine stepped back, her hands up to defend herself. Mondete looked down at the razor, seeming to realize only then what had frightened Catherine so.
“I won’t hurt you,” she said. She wrapped a cloth around the blade and tied it back inside her sleeve. Then she held up her hands. “See? Empty,” she said.
Catherine took another step back. “Is that what you killed Hugh of Grignon with?” she asked.
“What?”
“Solomon! Help!” Catherine called. Then she said to Mondete, “I heard you that night, with Hugh.”
Mondete wavered. Her hands shook. “No,” she said. “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve killed no one. Why should I?”
“I know about Norbert, too,” Catherine said.
“Norbert! Oh, Holy Mother, defend me!” Mondete cried.
“Why would you carry such a thing, but to kill?” Catherine demanded as Solomon came running.
Mondete sank down upon the stones. “For this, young Catherine,” she said.
Mondete lifted her hands and pulled back the cowl.
Somewhere between Figeac and Moissac, Friday, May 8, 1142; Commemoration of the appearance, with building plans, of Saint Michael the Archangel at the site of Mont Saint-Michel.
 
Tercio quoque, cum apud cenobium beate semperque virginis Marie, cognomento Meleredense, demorarer …
 
The third time [I saw the devil] I was staying at the convent of the blessed and ever-virgin Mary at Moutiers-Sainte-Marie
—Ralph Glaber
Historia Liber Quintus
 
 
B
ehind her, Catherine heard Solomon’s startled cry. She was too shocked to make even a sound. At first, in the grey light, she thought Mondete a skeletal ghost, fulfilling her worst nightmares. Her hand went up instinctively to cross herself, to plead for the protection of the saints. Then she realized that the reason Mondete looked so deathlike was because she had no hair, not even eyebrows. Her head shone pale under the clouds, her cheeks hollow in a face emaciated with fasting.
Moving closer, Catherine saw that Mondete had cut herself recently in her tonsuring. There were fresh and half-healed nicks scattered over her scalp. The woman faced them both with defiance.
“Now do you understand?” Mondete looked from Catherine to Solomon.
“No,” Catherine said. “I mean yes, I see why you have the razor, but no, I don’t know why you did this to yourself. Even the nuns only cut their hair short.”
Solomon said nothing. He slowly moved forward until he was standing just behind Catherine.
Mondete pulled the cowl back on. “Assume that this is part of my penance,” she said. She prepared to resume her place among the rocks.
Solomon brushed past Catherine. “Wait here,” he said to her. He went straight to Mondete and knelt beside her. She buried her covered face in her knees.
“Why can’t you leave me be!” she wept. “Didn’t you see me? There is no mystery, no great knowledge. Only ugliness and anger.”
Solomon bent closer to her, his lips almost touching the edge of the cowl. “I see nothing ugly,” he said. “And I, too, am fueled by anger. I’ll not torment you any longer with questions, although I still believe you have the answers hidden within your heart. But unless you propose to die before you’ve finished your pilgrimage, please give up this self-torture … at least long enough to sleep in the warmth tonight, safe from the storm.”
Mondete was still. It seemed to Catherine that even the river stopped to hear her answer.
From inside the cowl there was a sniff. “Wouldn’t you fear that I would cut your throat as you slept?” she asked.
Solomon gave an unamused laugh. “No more than anyone else in this group might.”
Mondete looked up, letting the hood again fall back to her shoulders. He could just discern the outline of her features in the darkness.
“Come up with us.” He stood and held out his hand.
Very slowly Mondete reached out to him, her hand turned palm upward, as if begging. Solomon laid his hand over hers and their fingers curved together.
 
The wind grew stronger as the three of them made the climb back up the steep cliff to the cave. They entered just as the rain began, a biting torrent on their backs. Edgar was crouched at the entrance, coaxing a small fire to stay lit despite the wind in the entry. He stood when he saw Catherine and hugged her in relief.
“I was just about to go down after you,” he said.
“You were?” Catherine eyed him skeptically.
Edgar wished she had never found out how he felt about these high, narrow trails. She had been alternately overprotective and superior each time they had encountered any sort of rise in the land. It was a situation they would have to resolve soon.
But not tonight. Edgar turned to Mondete and bowed. “Allow me to welcome you to our fortress, lady,” he said, indicating the rest of the cave. “Although the accommodations
are not those of Paris, you will allow that it is secure from the elements.”
Mondete, her cowl once more covering her face, said nothing. She released Solomon’s hand and made her way to the darkest corner, where she sank down, resting her back against the rough wall.
They all stared at her for a moment, then returned to their business as if she weren’t there. Eliazar wrapped his phylacto-ries about his arm in preparation for evening prayer.
“At home,” he said, looking around the damp cave, “Johannah is lighting the candles and saying the Sabbath blessing. When I came back to the house from the synagogue, it would seem as if I were already in Eretz Israel. She makes the desert of our exile bloom. I miss her. Solomon, come pray with me.”
Solomon hesitated, then took the phylactory his uncle was holding out to him. They stood together and recited the evening prayer. Hubert watched them, his lips moving occasionally as he recognized a word.
Catherine waited until they were done to root in the bags for bread and dried fish. She then warmed some beer in a crock over Edgar’s fire and crumbled both bread and fish into it to make a thick potage.
“About all this southern beer is good for,” Hubert muttered as he sniffed the pot. “Can’t drink the stuff.”
When the soup was ready, Catherine ladled it into their shallow wooden drinking bowls. Then she set the remainder in front of Mondete.
“Do you have a spoon?” she asked.
For answer, Mondete untied her right sleeve and pulled out a flat piece of wood. Edgar frowned.
“I can make you a better one by morning,” he said.
“I don’t deserve a better one,” Mondete answered as she scooped up a glob of the potage.
Edgar thought, then said, “It would be an act of charity on your part to allow me to carve you a spoon. You would save me from the sin of idleness.”
Mondete continued to eat. When she had finished, she licked the wooden piece clean and handed it to Edgar. “It’s rare
that I’m given the opportunity to save anyone from sin,” she said. “Thank you.”
She moved closer to the fire. Outside, the rain came down in a steady sheet, cutting them off from the rest of the world.
Edgar had taken out his knife and was singing one of his Saxon stories quietly as he carved. Catherine sat next to him, admiring the skill in his hands. The others watched the fire settle into coals and prepared to sleep. Eliazar got up before all light was gone to make sure the horses were tethered securely for the night.
When he turned around, he found Mondete standing behind him, her cowl once again pulled back to reveal her face. Eliazar’s eyes widened at the sight and his hand moved swiftly to ward off evil.
She stared at him intently, but not meeting his eyes. Eliazar wondered if she were hunting for lice in his beard.
“Do you love your god?” she asked abruptly, looking up.
“What?” he answred, staring into her deep brown eyes. “Of course. And there is only one god. He is yours as well.”
Mondete brushed this aside. “I don’t understand this,” she said. “You people are reviled and despised throughout Christendom. You have been driven from your own land and you are denied advancement in other lands because of your faith. You are shunned, beaten—sometimes killed—and your god does nothing to save you. How can you still trust him? How can you love him?”
Eliazar smiled sadly. “Those are old arguments,” he told her. “We are in exile for our sins perhaps, or as a test of our faith, just as the Holy One, blessed be He, tested Job. We live among you, enduring your scorn, as witnesses to the Truth. When He is ready, we will be returned to Israel.”
“But,” she persisted, “how can you love someone who would treat you so?”
“Faith,” Eliazar answered. “He brought us out of Egypt and home from Babylon. As long as we stand firm in our faith, we will one day be rescued from this exile as well.”
“Faith,” Mondete repeated. “Yes. That’s the answer the priests give me, too. I thought … I had hoped …”
She shook her head and moved away from him, back to her place by the wall. She curled down into her cloak, turned her back to them and said no more.
 
If Catherine had thought that Mondete’s revelation and acceptance of their company would make her more friendly, she was quickly disabused of the idea. The storm blew through in the night, and the next morning was washed as clean as Eden. When Catherine awoke to the raucous calls of a thousand birds, Mondete had already slipped out of the cave and was back down by the river.
“Was she really here last night?” she asked Edgar.
“She took the spoon with her,” he answered, “but the shavings I made are still here. Do you think she used her razor to kill Hugh of Grignon?”
“I don’t know,” Catherine said. “Why would she? From what the women at the river said, she might have had a reason to wish Norbert dead. Perhaps Hugh also hurt her in some way, but how could we find out? Who would tell us?”
“From their talk, I had the impression that the other two pilgrim knights knew her far better than Hugh did,” Edgar told her as he finished lading their horse. “They were mocking him for his lack of interest in carnal matters.”
“He may just have been less inclined to brag,” Catherine said as they left the cave. “He must have had some interest to have been lured to his death, if that was what I heard. Edgar, do you want me to lead the horse down so you can have both hands free?”
“No!” Edgar said.
He went out into the sunshine. The narrow path was still muddy from the night’s storm. Over the edge, the drop was directly down to the riverbank. He took a deep breath.
“Catherine, you must stop treating me like a child,” he said. “Yes, I don’t like high places. But most of the time I can walk along them without screaming. It was only that once, when the crowds were so thick that I thought they might push me over, that I felt that terrible panic. It isn’t something that happens every day. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” But she still walked on the outside.
Edgar sighed again. “Catherine, isn’t there anything that you’re afraid of, against reason?”
“Yes,” she said. “Losing you. It terrifies me. If you went over the edge, I would follow you.”
He stopped in the middle of the path, took her hand and kissed her fingers. Catherine blinked tears onto her cheeks and he kissed those, too.
“Saint Agatha’s amputated tits!” someone behind them shouted. “Can’t you do that somewhere else?”
Catherine blushed and wiped her eyes. Edgar grinned at the irate face of one of the pilgrims who had joined them in Figeac.
And another normal day began on the Way of Saint James.
 
Peter, abbot of Cluny, waited patiently at the gate of the priory where he and his party had been sheltered the night before. He was not looking forward to the day’s journey. His digestion was never good, due to frequent fasting, and he feared that even his gentle white mule would be too much for him to ride this morning. He also had awakened with a slight chill and now was worried that a return of the sweating sickness was coming on. He had been plagued with it since his trip to Italy years before, and he prayed it would not keep him from completing the journey.
Bishop Stephen of Osma, standing next to him, noticed the shiver and moved back a pace. “Are you well, Venerable Abbot?” he asked.
Peter nodded. “A bit of trouble with my bowels, that’s all.”
The bishop stepped closer again, reassured. “The rain seems to have blown over,” he remarked. “A good day for travel.”
“Yes,” the abbot agreed. “If the weather remains fair, we should be in Moissac in less than a week. I hope that the messenger you sent to the emperor will be awaiting us there.”
“I’m sure he will be,” Stephen answered. “The Emperor Alfonso is most eager to meet you. He will have sent the man back directly with instructions as to where he will receive you and your party.”
The ostler brought the mule and the bishop’s horse. Peter mounted gingerly, feeling his stomach roil with every movement. Oddly enough, apart from the unpleasantness of his reaction to the food, Peter enjoyed traveling. He was looking forward to Spain and, among his other goals, hoped that he could actually meet a Moor. It would be a fitting accomplishment if he could effect, by his example, the conversion of the infidel.
As they set off, the abbot’s mind wandered to the Jews from Paris who were in the party of pilgrims. He didn’t like knowing they were there. It bothered him even more that they were under the protection of the abbey of Saint-Denis and not to be interfered with. Not that he would do anything to harm them, but he hated knowing that the infidel living in their midst were allowed such freedom. Perhaps, somehow, during the journey, he could persuade them to recognize the Truth and submit to baptism. It had happened before.
Peter felt a twinge in his stomach but resolved to bear it, as he did the other weaknesses of his body, as an offering to the Lord. Brother Bernard had made up the potion recommended by Dr. Bartholomew on his last visit to Cluny, but so far, it was having no effect.

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