The Wandering Arm (3 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General

BOOK: The Wandering Arm
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He let go just in time as the man jerked hard on the rope in an effort to throw him into the river.
Solomon scrambled up the bank as the man tried to push him back. Despite having the upper ground, the assailant wasn’t strong enough to stop him. He realized his misjudgment quickly and backed away as Solomon approached.
“I have a knife!” he yelled in panic.
“Do you?” Solomon answered. “Let’s see it, then!”
As he spoke he drew his own knife, not the stubby one he kept for the table but the long one he kept sheathed and tied to his left arm by a leather strap. Even in the dim starlight, it glinted menacingly. The man moved back another step, into a tree.
“Don’t kill me,” he begged. “I’m only a poor farmer, but I’ll give you whatever I have.”
Solomon considered. “What’s that you’re carrying?” he asked. “A weapon?”
“Only food, grain and beans for my family,” the man answered. “It’s alms from the monks at the abbey. Our crop was bad this year and we’ve nothing left. You wouldn’t have my children starve, would you?”
“Show me,” Solomon ordered.
He was puzzled by the sudden change in the man, from bluster to whine. Did this peasant really believe Solomon was an outlaw about to slit his throat? Was the man really no more than some villein bringing back food for his family? His lack of a knife would suggest it. Still, there was something wrong about the whole business. Solomon felt a frisson at the back of his neck.
The man was waiting for someone. Maybe several someones, armed and accustomed to casual murder. He was stalling until they arrived to save him.
The man dropped the bag and began to open it slowly, apparently struggling with the knots. Solomon kicked him away from it and picked it up.
“If this truly came from the monks,” he said, “I’ll see that your family gets it tomorrow. If not … then I suggest you cross the river now and follow your nose north before your friends discover your cowardice. Now!”
The man felt the prick of the knife in his back as he hesitated. Quickly, he splashed across, his boots slipping on the rocks. As soon as he had reached the other side, Solomon slashed at the icy rope until the knife frayed it and it snapped. The rope fell into the water and the peasant grabbed it and pulled it to his side of the river, winding it around his arm.
“This won’t stop them, you know,” he shouted to Solomon. “They have horses. Big horses … and dogs. They have swords and crossbows and …”
He realized he had gone too far. A force like that would be heard for miles in the still evening. But Solomon wasn’t about to wait to find out how much the man had exaggerated. He threw the sack over his shoulder and ran for the town.
Luckily, the guard at the Pontoise Gate knew him and merely waved him through. “More goods for the abbot?” he asked without much interest as he closed the door behind them. “I hope he pays you more than me for freezing your
nache
off on a night like this.”
“Not likely,” Solomon grunted. “I’m just the messenger boy.”
“Well, a good night to you, anyway,” the guard answered. “On a night like this, I look forward to Hell, just to warm my toes again.”
“Save me a place when you get there,” Solomon agreed. “If the bishops haven’t taken all the best seats.”
The guard laughed and returned to the gatehouse. Solomon continued through the quiet streets until he reached the wall of Baruch’s house. Baruch had long ago given him the key to the door by the stables. He took care to lock it again behind him.
There was an oil lamp hanging on a hook near the still-glowing hearth. Solomon took a spill from the kindling box and ignited it on the coals. He lit the lamp from that. He pulled off his gloves, holding his hands over the coals until he could feel his fingers again. Then he turned his attention to the bag.
The knots were pulled tight. Doubt again hit him. Had the man been telling the truth? He cut the cords and opened the bag. Grain fell out onto the stone floor. Baruch’s wife would be furious with him for making such a mess. He reached gingerly inside the bag. There was something cold and hard stashed in the center. Slowly he took it out and held it up to the light. It sparkled, silver, gold, red and green. The monks had certainly been very generous with their alms. He shook the grain off the thing and then gasped in horror as he realized what it was. He dropped it with a loud clank.
Quickly, he stepped away from it, rubbing his hands against his braies to wipe away the very feel of the thing.
He had thought it was a cup, stolen from some lord’s table. But there was no mistaking what the peasant had been carrying.
It was a chalice.
The home of Baruch, silversmith of Saint-Denis, Friday, January 10,
1141/1, Shebat, Rosh Hodesh 4901
Concessimus etiam ut Judei, qui ad presens sunt vel habendi sunt in burgo seu in castello sancti Dionysii, usque ad quinque, cum familiis suis liberi sint ab omni justicia nostra, et ab omni exactione nostra, tantum sub jure vel justicia sint abbatis.
We have granted that the Jews who are at present living in
the village or the citadel of Saint-Denis, up to five
householders with their families, are to be free of all our
judgments and our taxes, and that they be placed under the
jurisdiction of the abbot.
—Privilege of Louis VI granted in 1111 and renewed by his son,
Louis VII, in 1143
“
G
et rid of it!” Baruch stood across the room from the chalice. “I don’t want it in my house. How could you have brought such a thing here?”
“I didn’t know it was in the bag,” Solomon said. “The man said it was food from the abbey.”
“I won’t be dragged into the wickedness of the Christians,” Baruch insisted. “Let them traffic in their own idolatrous wares. Throw it in the midden, or even better, the river. I won’t have it near me.”
“There are plenty of brethren who will,” Solomon retorted. “Are you telling me you never took their holy vessels as pledges?”
“Never!” Baruch lifted his chin proudly. “I don’t care what Rabbi Solomon said. It’s trafficking in sacrificial wares. And I pity those who are driven by necessity or greed to do so. Such a thing can only bring a curse upon our house.”
“Calm yourself, Baruch. You can give it to me,” Hubert interrupted. He had been awakened by Baruch’s cry of horror at seeing Solomon’s find and, hurrying downstairs, had been greeted by the sight of the two men standing across the room from the golden cup, glaring at it as if it were a griffin poised to strike at them.
“I’ll take it to the prior,” Hubert continued, “and tell him that it was found near my son’s keep. I doubt it was stolen from the abbey. They guard their treasure too closely now for theft, but Hervé may know where it came from. He can deal with the problem of returning it. Is that acceptable to you, Solomon?”
“Of course,” Solomon answered. “I don’t want it any more than Baruch.”
Hubert rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t completely awake yet. His sleep had been heavy and full of dreams that he couldn’t remember but which upset him all the same. Something was amiss.
“Solomon, what are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought you were staying with Edgar last night.”
“Your son convinced me I’d prefer staying with my own people,” Solomon answered. “Don’t worry. When I left, Catherine was already resting more comfortably. Edgar had spoken with her. He said she showed no signs of fever.”
“That is a comfort,” Hubert answered. “I could not have borne to lose her.” He sighed and returned to the problem at hand. “It’s too early to go bothering the monks; they’ll all still be at their prayers. Give me some bread and cheese and a cup of ale to fortify me for the ordeal and then I’ll take this jeweled monstrosity off your hands.”
He took it from the table and examined it carefully. Hubert had started out as a dealer in wine and spices, but during the years he had been supplying the abbot of Saint-Denis with these provisions he had also become more and more involved with Abbot Suger’s quest for precious jewels to glorify his abbey church or to sell to finance its rebuilding. Hubert had of necessity developed some knowledge of craftsmanship and quality.
“However much you may abhor its use,” he commented to Solomon and Baruch as they brought in the bread and cheese, “one can’t help but admire the beauty of the work. See how each pearl and garnet in the foot is set into the filigree. The silver wire is almost as thin as a strand of hair.”
Baruch kept his eyes on the cheese he was cutting. “Lovely, no doubt,” he grunted. “Although either of my apprentices could do better. But a pig in silk is still a pig. And no less forbidden for all its fine wrapping.”
Hubert nodded. In his heart, he agreed. He chewed thoughtfully awhile; then something occurred to him.
“Solomon,” he asked, “did anyone see you with this thing? Could the man you took it from recognize you again?”
“The only one who saw me was the guard at the west gate, Maro, I think he’s called. He asked me no questions about the bag. As for the thief I stole this from, I never got a good look at his face and I doubt he saw mine. I’d know his voice again, though.”
“Are you quite sure he was a thief?” Hubert prodded.
Solomon squirmed on his bench. “Nearly certain,” he said. “He didn’t have the air of a man protecting his own property, but of one who feared being caught in a crime.”
Hubert shook his head. “All the same, I wish you’d left it on the road for the first traveler of the day to pick up.”
“Perhaps I should have let the
mescrûus caiel
throw me into the Croult, bash my head in and add my purse to his collection,” Solomon suggested angrily. “Or I could have taken it to Natan, instead. He would have pried out the jewels and melted the gold into bars before dawn and asked no questions.”
“And slit your throat to be sure you gave no answers!” Hubert answered. “Don’t be a fool, Solomon.”
“Dayenu!”
Baruch raised his hands, palms out. “Enough of this arguing. Forgive my bad temper, Solomon. You acted just as anyone might, meeting a stranger alone in the dark. I was wrong to chastise you. Hubert will take the chalice away with him and we will never speak of it again.”
Hubert wrapped the golden cup in an old sack and shoved it to the bottom of his pack. He wished he had any confidence that the matter could be disposed of so easily. It was tempting to consider taking the chalice apart and creating something else from it, something secular. Thieves did it all the time. He was probably a fool for taking it to the prior. A chalice this elaborate didn’t come from some village parish church. Somewhere there were powerful people who wanted it back—influential churchmen or robber barons or both, working together. Hubert sighed and thought fleetingly of a little house in Aries where he could sit all day and study the Law. Then he forced his attention back to reality, hefted the bag to his shoulder and set off for the abbey.
The morning was icy. It was so cold that even the light seemed to creak as it forced its way through the slits in the windows of the women’s room.
Catherine lay beneath a mound of coverlets and furs, but she was still freezing. And there was a numb frost that lay in her heart and seeped through her body, worse than the harshness of winter.
Both of them could have been warmed by having Edgar lying beside her.
That stupid woman! Did she think there was only one reason for her husband to want to share her bed? She remembered all the nights they had lain together, holding each other and whispering nonsense, laughing sometimes so loudly that a boot would bounce against the bed curtains, reminding them that others in the hall wanted to sleep.
And now, when she needed him most, they had shut her up in a place almost as restricted as the convent, only allowing him to visit for a few minutes. They didn’t want him to worry her, they said. Idiots, every one of them! What about his worry, his grief? Didn’t they have the right to mourn together?
Catherine?
She opened her eyes. She didn’t look around for the person who had spoken. All the other women and children were asleep. Catherine sighed. She had never been sure if the voices in her mind were angels or demons, conscience or madness, or just the memory of all the admonitions of Sister Bertrada, who had supervised her morals and behavior during her days at the Paraclete. All she knew was that they surfaced at the most annoying times.
Catherine,
they repeated.
You are not alone. Have faith.
Catherine clenched her teeth. She was not in a mood to be told that God had not forsaken her. She wasn’t ready yet to forgive God for letting her child die without even the promise of heaven. And if those voices were reminding her that they were always with her, she wanted none of it. They were welcome to go harass some other poor
fatua.
“Catherine?”
“Leave … me … alone!” she begged, putting her hands over her ears.
Wait. That voice was real.
“It’s all right, dear. I know how you feel.”
Her sister-in-law, Marie, was standing beside the bed. “I was up early and had the cook steep some herbs and honey for you. I think I strained most of the leaves out.”
She uncovered the thick clay bowl. Steam rose from it.
Catherine smiled an apology and pushed herself to a sitting position. She took the bowl in both hands and drank the posset down in one long draught. Much of the heat had already escaped but there was enough to warm her a bit.
“Thank you.” She handed the bowl back. Marie patted her cheek and smiled in sympathy. Catherine felt the tears gather at the edges of her eyes. “How can we bear it?” she asked.
Marie shook her head. “I don’t know how,” she answered. “We just do. Most of us. I’m not a theologian, Catherine. I don’t really understand why, if we are in this life only to prepare for the next, we should want so deeply to live here and now. I don’t know why, when we try our best to obey God’s law, we should still be given such pain. I asked Father Anselm once, and he said the desire for pleasure was a snare of the devil and we should accept the pain as our lot. But I don’t think he was any more satisfied with his answer than I was.”
In earlier days, Catherine would have been happy to explain various theories of temptation and salvation, but now she only nodded. Life was certainly much easier when she had set it out in
sententiae
, with all the positions of the Fathers of the Church in neat rows. She wondered if Saint Augustine had been able to remain philosophical when his son had died. She would have to look it up when she was better.
“Marie,” she said, “if they won’t let Edgar stay with me up here, can’t I be moved back down to one of the alcoves off the Hall?”
Marie shook her head firmly. “You mustn’t be jostled yet, not until we’re sure the bleeding has stopped. Furthermore, you need to rest. You’ve had a hard time. It always takes a while to get your strength back, even when everything goes well.”
Catherine gave the fur coverlet a feeble, frustrated thump. Dust rose from it, making her sneeze.
“Aiee!” she cried. Her eyes crossed. “Now I know why Saint Perpetua didn’t fear the gladiator’s sword. It couldn’t have hurt more than childbirth.”
Marie nodded calmly, checking under the covers to make sure Catherine hadn’t caused any damage with the sneeze.
“I suspect,” she said, “that’s why most of the stories of the female martyrs make such a fuss about their being virgins. Now you see why you shouldn’t be moved.”
“But I will go mad just lying here,” Catherine answered. “Where’s Edgar? Will you let him come in when the other women have wakened and dressed?”
“He was sitting by the hearth when I passed through the Hall on my way up here,” Marie told her. “I don’t think he slept last night. Of course he may visit you when the others have gone.”
There was a moment of silence. Catherine sighed again. “Guillaume must have told you how many stillborn children our mother had,” she said. “At least two between his birth and mine, then several after Agnes and little Roger. I remember once, after she had miscarried, sitting on the staircase listening to the men telling my father it was no great tragedy. He could make another child all that much sooner. They laughed at his grief. Such ‘comfort’ would only hurt Edgar. We need each other now.”
“I’ll do what I can, if you’ll be quiet for now and try to go back to sleep.”
Marie started to smooth the covers, then, remembering the dust, let them be.
She found Edgar sitting on a stool by the fire, just as he had been all night. There were wood shavings all around him and he was rubbing at something with a cloth. As she approached, he held it out to her.
“Catherine’s rose,” he said. “It’s the best I can do for now. You may look at it but I will give it to her myself.”
Marie took the flat piece of wood. Edgar had made the rose in relief, so that it appeared to be floating just above the surface. The oak was not of good quality; the work had been done quickly; but all the same, there was something about it that was more than merely a crude representation of a flower. The petals were just opening and Marie felt that if she touched one, it would move, revealing the heart of the rose. Carefully she handed it back to Edgar.
“Did you make this with magic?” she asked.
“No.” He smiled. “I made it with love.”
Hervé, prior of Saint-Denis, looked gravely at the chalice Hubert had placed on the table before him.
“It is exquisite,” he sighed. “But not from the abbey. I have never seen it before, I’m sure. If it was stolen, there will certainly be a clamor put out against the thieves. We may hear of it.”

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