Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) (18 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

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Maruxa put her hand on his shoulder. “You’re as strong as ever,” she assured him. “It’s only seeing that man again that’s upset you. Stop worrying. Now both he and his wife are dead and their wickedness with them. No one else knows what happened.”
“I wish we could forget it,” Roberto said. “And how do we know that Lord Hugh didn’t tell one of those other men?”
Maruxa didn’t want him thinking in that direction. “Why should he have?” she asked. “That would mean admitting he had been cuckolded.”
“Yes, of course,” he said.
He got up and stretched out the kinks in his back. Maruxa exhaled in relief. She’d kept the secret nearly ten years now. Roberto had confessed what he had been forced to do and she had forgiven him. But she had never had the courage to say what had happened to her. She had tried not to think about it, but seeing Hugh and his companions had brought the nightmare back, as fresh as the morning after.
They would be at Moissac soon. They could find another party to travel with. Maruxa couldn’t stand the constant fear that one of the remaining knights would remember them. She couldn’t bear wondering if Roberto had learned the truth and decided to take his revenge on Hugh of Grignon.
Roberto held out his hand to help her up. Maruxa took it and stood, feeling the ache in her back that told her it was almost her time of the month. One more thing to cope with.
As they passed through the field of lilac bushes, Maruxa thought of how overpoweringly sweet the odor was. It made her want to retch.
Moissac, the abbey of Saint Peter, Saturday, May 17, 1142; Commemoration of the landing of Saint Tropez, noble Roman, martyred under Nero, who later relocated to the south of France.
 
Quid dicamde lectione? Cellam sine lectione infernum reputo sine consolatione, patibulum sine releuamine, carcerem sine lumine, sepulcrum sine respiramine … .
 
What should I say about reading? I consider a room without reading to be a hell without consolation, a gibbet without relief, a prison without light, a tomb without a vent … .
—Peter of Celle,
On Affliction and Reading
8—13 PL 202
 
 
“
W
hat do you mean, the emperor can’t meet with me in Pamplona?” Abbot Peter rose from his chair to face the messenger. “It’s at his invitation that I’ve made this journey.”
“Yes, my Lord Abbot,” the man replied, “but our gracious emperor is at this moment personally conducting a siege of the Almoravid stronghold at Coria. He had hoped to be able to present you with the souls of the citizens for baptism, but they are more reluctant to surrender than we supposed and he fears he will not be able to join you for another six weeks.”
Peter walked around the messenger, who wasn’t sure whether to turn respectfully or stand motionless while being inspected.
“You have been at this siege?” the abbot asked.
“Yes, Lord Abbot.” The man stared straight ahead. “I ask pardon for the state of my clothes. I rode from dawn to sunset for a week to bring you this message.”
“Very well.” Peter waved the man out. “Someone will see that you are fed and given a place to rest. I’ll send for you when my reply to the emperor is ready.”
When the man had left, Peter paced back and forth across the chamber that the local abbot had vacated for his use.
“Well, Pierre,” he asked his secretary, “what shall I do? I could go on to Compostela and meet the emperor upon my return, assuming he brings his siege to a successful conclusion.”
“That would be one possibility,” Pierre answered. “Of course, your appearance at Compostela might be taken to indicate a preference for one episcopal candidate or the other. However, you might also take this opportunity to cross over
into Catalonia and visit our establishments there before heading west. No abbot of Cluny has made an appearance there for at least forty years.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.” The abbot sat again. “It’s all too easy for remote dependencies to become lax in their observance. It’s only proper that I use this gift of extra time to inspect them myself.”
“I’m sure the monks will be overjoyed at the prospect of your arrival,” Pierre told him.
The secretary took out his wax tablet and prepared to compose a draft of the letter to the priories.
“Begin with Sant-Pere-de-Casseres,” Peter said. “Tell the prior that I will also go to Comprodon and Clarà, the roads permitting. Inform Alfonso’s messenger of this and have word sent to me at Casseres when he has concluded his siege and is ready to meet with me.”
“Of course, my Lord Abbot,” Pierre said, scratching the information on the tablet in his own form of shorthand.
As he wrote, he thought of something. “What about all the pilgrims who have been following us?” he asked the abbot. “Most of them won’t wish to continue with you if you’re making such a long detour.”
“That can’t be helped,” Peter answered. “They should be able to make other arrangements from here. The route is well traveled.”
“I will arrange for those who are from our area to be informed.” Pierre made a final note with his stylus, bowed and left the room.
Peter of Cluny wasn’t annoyed at this change in plans. It made excellent sense to make a personal visit at the Catalonian priories. It was important to keep the ties between the mother house and the dependents strong. He did wonder if the time might be better spent staying at one Cluniac house and having the priors come to him. But it seemed wiser to show his concern for his far-flung children by going there himself. It would also be more difficult for them to cover up any irregularities in their observance or accounts.
He wished he had thought to remind Pierre to see if any
translators of Arabic had been found. That project should continue in spite of the emperor’s delay. Peter knew that souls were not won by siege, but by persuasion. And how was he to persuade the Saracens to give up their religion if no one knew what it consisted of?
 
Catherine loved the new abbey church at Moissac, with its interior freshly painted in bright patterns of stripes and flowers. As usual, Edgar spent most of his time studying the tympanum and commenting on the technique used to sculpt the figures there.
“Those patterns are new to me,” he told Catherine, pointing at the
roseaux
along the bottom of the tympanum. “I wonder if they were also done by Moorish artists.”
“What I want to know is why those rats are running around the edges,” Catherine said. “I can’t think of any biblical reason for them.”
“I have no idea,” Edgar said. “Why don’t you find someone to ask?”
Catherine took that to mean she had shared his interest long enough. Edgar could sit for hours imagining how the figures had been formed. His interest fascinated her, but her mind didn’t function in that way. The artistry of the work was important to her only in the ability of the creator to make the story come alive. Not understanding the symbolism of the rats irritated her. She would be very angry if she found out they were there simply because some apprentice only knew how to carve rats.
Catherine left her husband at the church, knowing that he wouldn’t have moved at all when it came time to retrieve him. She wandered down the row of shops leading up to the abbey. She paused for a moment to look longingly at a pair of earrings made from beads and bits of polished glass, laid out on a bed of black felt.
“I know a shop you’ll like better than this,” a voice whispered in her ear.
Catherine turned around. “Are you trying to lure me into
a tavern,
Sieur?
” she laughed. “Solomon, what are you doing away from Mondete?”
“She went into the church,” Solomon explained. “At that door, my devotion ends.”
He tugged on one of her braids. “Do you want to see the shop, or not?” he asked. “It’s down a twisting side street. You’d never find it on your own.”
“And what could be for sale that I’d trust you to lead me there without one of your tricks?” Catherine knew from long experience how Solomon loved to tease her.
He smiled and said one word.
“Books.”
Catherine felt as if she had been fasting for a month and someone had just said the word “bread.” Her mouth dropped open and she swallowed to keep from drooling.
“For sale? To anyone?” she asked in disbelief. “Like in Paris?”
“Not on such a grand scale,” Solomon answered, “but a nice selection nonetheless. At least in number. I have no idea what’s inside them.”
Catherine took his hand. “Take me there,” she said, “and I’ll tell you.”
 
Brother Rigaud was more than a little relieved at the news that they were going to Catalonia.
“Now, if only Rufus and Gaucher leave me alone until we depart,” he muttered to himself as he and Brother James checked the robes of the monks for holes or tears. If they were now going to move east and pass through Toulouse, it would be a good place to buy replacements before confronting the rigors of the trek over the mountains.
“What about boots?” Brother James asked. “Have you asked any of the brothers if their shoes need resoling? I don’t want anyone going lame because of a misplaced desire for asceticism.”
“Yes, it won’t do simply to ask them,” Rigaud sighed. “I’ll have to take a look at each man’s clothing.”
Brother James gave Rigaud a sharp glance. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather someone else did that?” he asked.
“Of course not,” Rigaud answered, purposely misunderstanding. “No task is too menial for the Lord’s servants.”
Brother James shrugged. If Rigaud was willing to perform the task, he should be grateful. After all, despite rumors of Rigaud’s life before entering the monastery, there had been not a whisper of any impropriety since then.
“Very well,” he said. “Have you heard when we are to leave?”
“Not for a few days,” Rigaud answered. “We’ll have time to get things sorted out here.”
James looked at him quizzically. “Are you eager to see Spain again?” he asked.
Rigaud’s face clouded. “No,” he answered. “I fear it, somewhat. There are memories I would not awaken. But that’s cowardly. And I have vowed obedience to my abbot. I’m more afraid of breaking that than of any memory. After all, it’s likely that my apprehension is groundless. I haven’t been there in more than twenty years. Everything is probably different.”
He spoke too quickly, the words falling on top of each other. James wondered how horrible the memories could be.
Brother James closed his eyes. Nothing could be worse than the specter who had been haunting him since Le Puy. He knew now that she was one of the pilgrims from Paris, but how had she come by that face? He remembered the tale of the dissolute pilgrim priest whom the devil had come to in the guise of Saint James. The priest had already repented and Satan feared to lose the man’s soul to God and so, making the penitent believe it was God’s will, he convinced him first to amputate the most sinful of his parts and then to cut his own throat. The prayers of the other pilgrims had caused the true Saint James to bring the man back to life, but Brother James did not remember anything about the lost organ being replaced. It seemed a large price to pay for having been deceived. But it was certainly a stark warning against trusting in visions.
Was this woman also the Great Liar in the form of someone he had loved? He had considered confronting her, but now
he was to be spared that decision. In a few days he would head for Catalonia with the abbot, and the woman and her family would continue on through Gascony to Navarre.
Perhaps his prayers had already been answered.
 
Catherine admitted that she never would have found the book-shop on her own. It was only a small room, next to an atelier where vellum and parchment were prepared and sold, not far from the tanneries. The reek of the chemicals used in the preparation of the material made her eyes water. She was grateful when the door shut behind them.
“Back are you, young man?” a voice came out of the gloom. The room was lit only by a small oil lamp. “Brought your sister, I see. I don’t have anything for ladies. Nothing with gold letters or pictures. A few compendia and a lot of pages that can be scraped and reused. This is a place for scholars. I already told you that.”
“Yes, I know,” Solomon answered. “She’d like to look anyway.”
The man gestured his permission.
Catherine inhaled the scent of ink and leather and felt a sharp pang of longing for the convent and days when study had been her main occupation. She reached for the nearest book. It was crudely bound between boards and not well stitched. Nevertheless, she held it lovingly and, opening it, moved closer to the lamp.
“It’s not in French, ma
douce
,” the bookseller said. “I told you.”
Catherine ignored him. She ran her finger along the line. “Lactantius,” she said finally. “
On the Death of the Persecutors
.” She turned a few pages. “What else is bound with it? Some Gregory, a few passages from Augustine. Where did you get this?”
“From one of those wandering students,” the man said. “Needed to sell his text to continue his studies. Also thought it would be too heavy to take over the mountains. A lot of them do that. Or sell their books on the way back when they discover they haven’t enough money to get home again.”
He got up and took the book from Catherine. “Now, that’s
enough of your playing, both of you,” he said. “I know very well that she can’t read. I don’t know why you thought it would be funny to make me think she did. What did you do, look at the book first and then tell her to recite it back?”
Solomon grinned in unholy glee as Catherine’s eyes flashed and her chin went up. “I am not accustomed to being disbelieved,” she said with deceptive restraint. “Therefore, I will excuse your rudeness and prove my honesty. You give me something and I’ll tell you what it says.”
“Done,” the man replied.
She didn’t know how much at that moment she sounded like the Lady Griselle.
The bookseller rooted about in a pile of vellum pieces. They were irregular or stitched together from scraps, the sort of thing students often bought to make a permanent record of their notes.
“I don’t know how you thought to fool me,” he said as he searched for something difficult. “You didn’t even look as though you were reading. You didn’t say a word. Your mouth hardly moved.”

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