Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) (35 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

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He paused. “You two, however …”
“Us? We were at the baths!” Catherine was astonished to be accused.
“So you say,” the man replied. “Even this one—” he gestured at Gaucher “—could have gone up and climbed out a window to meet his friend. I only trust what I witnessed myself.”
“Yes.” Catherine swayed. The rush of energy that comes with shock had subsided and she was horribly tired. “You’re very wise. That’s all anyone can trust in this life. Edgar, will you help me up to bed?”
She barely managed to make it to the top of the stairs and fall onto the bed. Edgar wrapped the blanket around her and started to leave.
“No. Don’t go,” she said. “I’m frightened.”
Edgar was eager to know what was going on downstairs, but he couldn’t ignore her plaintive voice. Anyway, she’d be asleep in a minute and he could slip away then. He got under the blanket and wrapped himself around her.
Her breathing steadied and her body relaxed almost at once. He held her for a few minutes more, just to enjoy the warmth of her body and the smell of her freshly washed hair. Then he carefully eased out from under the blanket.
“Come back soon,” she murmured. “And this time, take your shoes off before you get in bed.”
 
Hubert and the landlord had managed to drag Gaucher up the stairs and dump him on the straw mattress in his room. They were standing at the foot of the stairs discussing what was to be done next when Edgar came down.
“Is Catherine all right?” Hubert asked.
“Just exhausted,” Edgar said. “We’ve got to make her rest more without being obvious. She’s doesn’t want us to know she’s pregnant again.”
“What?” Hubert’s mind spun quickly to this new worry. “She is? We have to stop at once. She shouldn’t travel now.”
“Our Lady did,” Edgar reminded him. “Saint James told us to come to him. He’ll protect Catherine as long as we follow his path.”
Hubert had never believed in Catherine’s dream. But for now, there were too many other problems to deal with.
“I’ve told the landlord about the other deaths,” he said to Edgar.
The man nodded. “A fine group to bring to my door. Still, it does appear that it was one of your party who did it, and that spares me the scandal of having people fear they’ll be robbed and murdered in my house.”
“We’ve been trying to remember,” Hubert said. “Rufus went out just after dark. Alone.”
“Was he dressed then?” Edgar asked. “I mean, it wasn’t just a visit to the outhouse, was it?”
“Yes, he had on a fine tunic that almost reached the top of his boots,” the landlord said, “and a wide belt of brown leather with a big silver buckle. He looked like a man going to meet his
soignant
.”
“Well, considering that the tunic was all he had on when we found him,” Edgar said, “he must have met her. Where were the others?”
“Gaucher said his stomach was bothering him,” Hubert said, “and from the fumes he was putting forth, I’d believe it. He went up early. So did Hersent and the Lady Griselle. I
haven’t seen the
jongleurs.
I don’t believe they’re staying here.”
“But Rufus could have arranged to meet Maruxa somewhere?” Edgar asked.
“Or anyone else,” Hubert said. “That’s the worst thing about each of these deaths. They’re either a hideous string of totally unrelated murders or the work of someone guided by all the guile of Satan.”
The landlord crossed himself. “It’s always on a journey like this,” he said, “that the
Aversier
tries hardest to wrest souls from the haven of the saint’s shrine.”
The three men were silent, each wondering what weapons they had at hand to fight against such evil.
 
The only emotion Solomon felt on hearing of the death of Rufus was relief. He and Eliazar had been far from the place, surrounded by brethren and friends. No one could lay this on them.
He did worry about Mondete, though. She had parted from him at the pilgrim’s bridge and he had no idea of where she had decided to sleep. Now that he understood the real reason for her journey, he feared it would be the most unsafe and uncomfortable spot in town.
“You didn’t see which way she went?” Catherine asked him.
“Illogically, I hoped she’d followed the rest of you Christians,” Solomon answered. “But even if she can’t be accounted for, you say there’s no way this death can be put to her, either?”
Catherine hesitated: “Not if Edgar and I are right about what killed Sir Rufus,” she said. “But I would feel better if we knew for certain where she was last night and that there was someone who would swear to having seen her there.”
“I’d feel better if I knew where she was right now,” Solomon said in annoyance. All he had wanted was one night with his own people, eating proper food and sleeping without starting at every noise. One would think the world could move along peacefully without him for that long.
They were seated in the courtyard of the guest house. Edgar
and Hubert had gone with Gaucher to arrange for the burial. It was nearly high summer; Rufus wouldn’t keep for long.
Griselle and Hersent had left early to worship at the church of San Martin and “to pray for the soul of the poor knight.” The guards accompanied them without enthusiasm. Catherine hadn’t seen Maruxa and Roberto yet. She surmised that they had found lodging among the natives of the town, who spoke their language. But there was no sign of Mondete.
“There’s no point in looking for her in a place this size,” Solomon decided. “We may as well wait here. And since there’s nothing else to be done at the moment, couldn’t you take another look at those papers from Moissac?”
Catherine had nearly forgotten about them, rolled inside the rags she hadn’t needed to use lately.
“I suppose I can try to make out the writing once more.” She got up reluctantly. “The brightness of the sun may make it easier. But don’t you think it’s more important to investigate what’s happening now?” She paused. “Or do you think the notes contain some recipe for revealing the murderer? You know I won’t help you if you intend to use the information to look into the future or to force secrets from people’s minds.”
Solomon rolled his eyes. “Catherine, why would I want to see the future? The present is quite awful enough. The stars may tell us such things, but it’s not the secrets of men I’m looking for. I only want to know the mind of the Almighty.”
Catherine blinked. “Oh, is that all? I understand. No wonder Uncle Eliazar thinks you’ve gone mad.”
“Don’t mock me, Catherine.” His voice was low and terrifying. “Look around you. The world is full of insanity. Even when people aren’t evil, they’re selfish and stupid. I’ve been from Toledo to Kiev, to the villas of Rome and huts in the middle of unnamed pagan woods. Life makes no sense! I have to understand why.”
Another voice in her mind echoed Solomon’s words, a more elegant, rational tone, but with just as passionate a need.
“Master Abelard felt that way, too.” Her eyes filled. “He taught us that one has to apply the rules of logic to the universe,
that God is not arbitrary or cruel and so there must be answers if we can only find them.”
“Yes, that’s it,” Solomon said. “And where better for the Lord to leave the answers than in the heavens?”
“However—” Catherine ignored his question “—Abbot Bernard says that it is
hubris
to assume that we can comprehend the divine plan. We will understand God only when we believe so strongly that we lose ourselves in Him and submit to His will.”
“I’ve heard that one,” Solomon told her. “I think it’s nonsense. Why did the Almighty One give us the power of reason only to have us accept the absurdities of this world without question?”
“Are you asking me this?” Catherine was almost shouting. “Halfway across Spain, with bodies falling out of trees, vermin in our food and our beds, bandits on every road, and you want me to stop and explain Faith versus Reason? Maybe you
have
gone mad!”
She was so angry that she started to cry. Furiously, she wiped her cheeks with her sleeve, but the tears went on flowing. Solomon was immediately contrite.
“Catherine, I’m sorry,” he said. “Here, use my sleeve. I didn’t mean to upset you. I forgot about your condition.”
“What! How did you know?” She looked down. “It’s not evident yet, is it?”
Her sobbing slowed and he put his arm around her. “Of course it is,” he told her. “First, you never cry when we argue. Second, you can’t stay awake. The only other times I’ve known you to sleep when something interesting is going on is when you were pregnant. And last, green is not your natural color. Logic, my dear. You aren’t the only scholar in the family.”
Catherine made a fierce effort to regain her composure and keep her breakfast in place. “Your conclusion is correct, I’m afraid,” she said, “but please don’t tell Edgar. He worries so.”
“Of course not,” Solomon promised.
“Now, do you want me to get those notes?” Her expression told him that there would be no more discussion on the subject of her health.
“Later,” he said. “I think that I should try to find Mondete, after all.”
 
Mondete Ticarde might have found a more uncomfortable place to sleep if she’d been left to her own devices, but Maruxa saw her at the river’s edge and called to her.
“Come stay with us. You can lie on rocks in freezing water anywhere. Roberto has cousins in town who will be happy to give you the lumpiest pallet in the house, if it pleases you.”
Mondete shook her head.
“Wouldn’t you like to know what jongleurs sing to each other when no one is paying?” Maruxa coaxed.
Mondete considered. “No one will sneak in while I’m sleeping and try to look under my hood?” she asked.
“The temptation is strong, but I’ll see that no one does,” Maruxa promised.
“Very well.”
The
jongleurs
waited while she climbed back up to the path.
“Hmmph. You’d think the queen had just consented to dine with serfs,” Roberto said.
“Don’t you want to know what’s under that cloak that frightened the Basques so?” his wife whispered.
Roberto was shocked. “But you just told her …”
“I know,” Maruxa said. “No one will force her, of course. But she might just be cajoled into telling us the secret.”
Maruxa was fortunately unaware that Mondete was thinking much the same thing about her.
 
They couldn’t tell if Mondete were enjoying herself or not. Her hands appeared from the ends of her sleeves and took the food she was offered. Bites of it vanished under the hood. Roberto’s cousin looked askance at this creature in his home.
“Why did you bring her?” he asked. “Did she threaten to curse you?”
“The poor thing is under a curse of her own,” Roberto explained. “She can’t harm anyone.”
The cousin was doubtful.
But when the tables and benches had been cleared and the
dancing begun, Mondete sat up more alertly in her self-designated corner. The hood slipped farther back as she forgot herself in the music. The firelight touched her face. Roberto caught a glimpse of her ivory profile and missed a step in astonishment.
Lord, forgive me,
he thought.
She’s the image of the Blessed Virgin in the church at Jaca!
Maruxa gave him a warning glance and he recovered his place in the dance.
When everyone else had gone to sleep, Mondete got up and left the house. She had a vague notion of settling among the roots of an olive tree in the court and waiting for Maruxa to appear. But she didn’t need to wait. The
jongleuse
had heard her and followed her out.
“Don’t you trust our hospitality?” she asked.
Mondete shrugged. “I prefer not to sleep inside. Things happen to you there.”
“Yes, I know.” Maruxa was shaken.
“You and your husband travel from one place to another,” Mondete continued. “I don’t think you realize how closely connected the communities you perform in are.”
“We have often found that word of us has reached one castle from the last before we do,” Maruxa said cautiously.
“In my … occupation, I often learned of things that had happened in the neighborhood,” Mondete said. “Men seemed to feel they could tell me anything, no matter how despicable. I think sometimes the only difference between them and beasts is their clothes.”
“And when they remove their clothing …” Maruxa was speaking more to herself than to Mondete.
“Exactly,” Mondete agreed. “It was an open scandal that the wife of Hugh of Grignon took the wandering poets and minstrels to her bed.”
“Whether they wanted to be there or not.” Maruxa pressed her lips together until they turned white.
“Yes, it’s not men or women; it’s power,” Mondete went on. “But most people don’t know that sometimes Hugh had his revenge.”

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