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Authors: Sharan Newman

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“No, it’s been very quiet,” Catherine answered.
Jehan, she hoped, would be gone soon. Edgar need never know he had tried to beset them again.
 
It wasn’t until after sunset, when Edgar and Catherine were sitting in the garden savoring the twilight, that they could finally talk. Margaret had gone up to bed when the children did, and Solomon was out visiting Abraham the vintner. They sat for a while without talking, listening to the sounds of the city around them: singing from students in the street; the jingle of the bells around the necks of the pigs as they were gathered and penned for the night; shouting from a nearby house as a woman berated her servants; a wine cryer calling out the latest arrival of casks from Burgundy.
The noises were so familiar to Catherine that she sensed them only as a sign that all was well and she was where she belonged. It was a moment before she paid attention to what Edgar was saying about the invitation.
“Genta!” she whined, when she caught the name. “Oh, Edgar, I know all about her feasts. Father and Mother had to go to them and then Agnes, after Mother had entered the convent. Do we have to go?”
“Yes,” Edgar answered. “I think we do. If we’re to survive in this business, we can’t be seen to be haughty or secretive. If we don’t go, people will say we thought ourselves too good to mingle with other merchants.”
“But it isn’t that,” Catherine protested. “Everything Genta does is so pretentious. There will be eight or ten courses, not counting the sweets, and way too much wine. And we’ll have to hear about each dish and how rare the ingredients are and how it’s not like when she was at court but she does her humble best. She simpers, Edgar. You can’t imagine how awful it is!”
Edgar chuckled at that. “Yes I can,
leoffest
. I’ve met women of her sort before. Why was she raised at court? Is she a bastard of the old king?”
“I don’t know,” Catherine said in annoyance. “No, I remember now. Her father was the old king’s physician. She’s getting a dancing bear, too, isn’t she? They smell so. I always sneeze. And we’ll have to endure the whispers, the gossip about us, even without Margaret.”
“Ah, yes; about Catherine, the woman who ran away from the convent to marry a poor student?” Edgar grinned.
“Or of Edgar, the Scottish lord who abandoned his prospects in the Church for a merchant’s daughter,” Catherine suggested with a smile. “We’ve both behaved scandalously. No wonder people stare. Must we endure an evening like that?”
“Not if you don’t wish to,” Edgar said slowly. “Of course, the reason for this extravagance is for Genta to celebrate her gifts to the Temple of Solomon. I suppose a number of the knights will be there. Perhaps even the master.”
Catherine sat up.
“Why didn’t you say so?” she chided. “Of course we’ll go. A week from today, you say? Samonie will have to start tomorrow on my
bliaut.
The best one needs airing and mending. We need to go to Saint Denis and retrieve the box of jewelry we left with the abbot.”
Edgar smiled. “I’m glad to know your interest is caught. I feared you’d forgotten about discovering the story behind the poor man in the counting room.”
“How could I?” Catherine moved closer to him. The evening was growing cool. She nuzzled against his shoulder until he put his arm around her. “I feel him every time I enter the room. He wants us to help him.”
Edgar peered through the shadows to make out her face. “Are you serious?” he asked. In his family, if someone said he saw a ghost, he was taken at his word.
Catherine laughed. “Not the way you mean. I’m only reminded of the fact that he was left for us. We have a duty to the dead, for they can no longer speak for themselves. It’s not just the danger to us if the truth is never found. His family must not even know that he’s dead. No one has said a Mass for him, except the ones we ordered. I keep thinking about how his soul must be so lonely, with no one to pray for his release from Purgatory.”
Edgar laid his cheek against her head. “My dear, if I were gone on a long journey, perhaps never to return, would you pray for me, not knowing whether I walked the earth or lay beneath it?”
Catherine tried to swallow the terror that rose in her at the very thought. “Every moment,” she breathed. “With every bit of my being. My whole life would be nothing but a prayer for your safety and your return.”
She choked on the last word, and Edgar bit his lip to keep tears from his own voice.
“So what makes you think that this poor man doesn’t have someone who loves him just as much, praying for him as fervently as you would for me?” he said.
Catherine turned her face up to his.
“I can only hope that there is no such person,” she answered. “I would never wish such loss upon anyone. This deep a love is worth any price, but still I pity anyone who must pay it.”
The only answer to that was to hold her close.
They sat together until the darkness was complete, the trees shielding them from the stars until they were roused by the sound of Solomon swearing as he tripped over a toy horse James had left in the hall. Edgar kissed Catherine’s nose to bestir her and took her up to bed.
 
In the chill dawn a man and woman approached the north gate of Paris. They were riding a knobbly mule that was one misstep from the tannery. As the bells began ringing for Prime, the gate creaked open. A line of carts loaded with firewood, spring vegetables and cheese moved slowly into the city. They had arrived the night before to be the first at the markets that day. The mule wove between them, the riders too tired to guide it well.
“Watch it!” one of the carters shouted. “Keep that animal away from my lettuce or I’ll have its skin!”
The man roused himself to tug on the reins. The woman looked up at the man on the cart, startled. He stared down into a pair of brown eyes and a delicate, frightened face. The carter pulled off his cap.
“Excuse me, lady,” he began. Then his eyes narrowed. “Here, what are you up to?”
The woman lowered her veil and the man urged the sluggish mule forward. The carter looked after them a moment. Runaway, he thought. Maybe from a convent. Could be a reward in that. Then he shook his head. More likely just trouble. If the lords couldn’t keep their daughters under control, it was no concern of his.
“Are you sure this friend of our fathers will take us in?” Lambert said as they entered the city.
“He must,” Clemence answered. “I heard Father telling Mother that Hubert LeVendeur was the most honest merchant in Paris.”
Lambert was still worried. The burden of her safety weighed on him. They had almost used up the coins they had brought. He had had no idea how many tolls there were between Picardy and Paris.
“Honest is one thing,” he muttered. “But generous is quite another. We look like beggars enough now. I think we should find a bathhouse first.”
“Oh, yes!” Clemence agreed. “I haven’t washed my hair in two weeks, and the rest of me aches in every part.”
“Also,” Lambert added, “I can’t think of a better place to discover how to get to the home of Master LeVendeur.”
 
At home, Catherine was caught up in preparing for the evening out. Edgar had been sent to Saint Denis for the jewelry box and to ask Simon the silversmith to make her a new pair of earrings set with some lapis stones that Solomon had bought the year before.
They had both agreed that Margaret should not go with them. Catherine had anticipated rebellion on Margaret’s part, but the girl accepted the decision with obvious relief.
“I don’t know what to say to people,” she explained. “In Germany I could pretend I didn’t understand. Here I might have to find polite answers to their prying.”
“Very wise of you.” Catherine smiled. “I wish I could stay home, as well. But, since I must go, will you help me get ready? Edgar wants me to dazzle.”
Margaret laughed. “We could sew bits of the silver wire Edgar uses into your
bliaut
so that they reflect the light.”
“That would be impressive,” Catherine agreed. “I’ll let Edgar decide just how radiant he thinks I should be. Why don’t you and I go to the street of the drapers today and find material to edge my old silk
chainse
? And ribbons, I think, for you and Edana.”
They left shortly after, with a list of articles that Samonie needed, as well.
Having the care of the house and the children kept Samonie busy and so, when someone sounded the bell at the front gate she called out to Martin to tell whoever it was that no one was home.
Martin hurried to answer, reciting in his head the things he’d been told to ask of visitors. He knew he’d forget something.
He slid the board in the gate open so that he could see who was waiting.
In front of the gate was a young man in a plain wool tunic and leather
brais
. Behind him was a woman, heavily veiled, seated on a mule.
“Is this the home of Hubert, merchant of Paris?” the man asked.
Martin thought. “Well, it was,” he said. “But Master Hubert’s gone off on a trip for the good of his soul. Only God knows if he’ll ever return.”
The man’s shoulders sagged.
“Master Hubert had a partner,” he said. “A Jew. Where can we find him?”
“Oh, Master Eliazar lives in Troyes now,” Martin told them.
The woman gave a moan. The man bit his lip in frustration.
“Is there anyone here we can talk with?” he asked.
Remembering his mother’s command, Martin shook his head.
“No one’s here,” he told them. “Come back later.”
He shut the grille with a clap.
Clemence took Lambert’s arm. “What can we do now?” she asked, trying to remain calm.
Lambert thought for a moment, then came to a decision.
“I shall take you to the nuns at Montmartre,” he said. “They’ll
look after you, give you food and a bed while I try to find someone who can help us.”
“But, Lambert,” Clemence protested, “we don’t even know if our fathers came to Paris at all. They may well have both joined Count Thierry in Germany. Your father could have decided to wait to join the Temple until he reaches Jerusalem.”
Lambert stopped and took her hands.
“What else can we do, beloved?” he said quietly. “Go home? There’s no hope there. Surely someone in this city will know where our fathers have gone. And, if not, then we must take our case to someone else who can help us.”
“Well,” Clemence considered, “the pope may still be nearby.”
“Possibly, if it comes to that,” Lambert said. “But I was thinking more of Abbot Bernard. They say he can work miracles, and at this moment that’s what we need.”
A milk pedlar shouted at them for blocking the road. Lambert led the mule under the eaves of a small church.
That gave Clemence time to think.
“It would be best if my father could be found,” she answered. “He’d set everything right in a moment. But, failing that, the support of the Church might be useful. Or the king.”
Lambert put his arms about her waist and laid his head against her breast.
“It might turn out,” he said slowly, “that you’ll be asked to marry someone else.”
“No.” She ran her fingers through his light brown hair. “Father wants two things equally, for you to inherit his castellany and for Lord Jordan never to have control of it. Even if we can’t find him, everyone in the village will confirm this.”
“If only your mother hadn’t died so suddenly,” Lambert said. “I never would have brought you with me.”
“You couldn’t have stopped me.” Clemence smiled sadly. “And, as long as I’m with you, you can be sure Lord Jordan hasn’t tried to force me to marry anyone else.”
“He can’t now.” Lambert touched the ring on her hand.
“He would try to have our marriage annulled,” Clemence said practically. “No, we made the right choice. Now all that remains is to find our fathers and tell them what has been happening at home.”
Gently, she pushed Lambert away, conscious that passersby were gaping at them.
“I would rather stay with you in Paris,” Clemence continued. “But until you find us shelter together, I’ll seek refuge with the nuns. The abbess may well be able to advise us. I have heard of her wisdom and kindness.”
Mournfully, they made their weary way up the hill to the convent of Montmartre, site of martyrdom of Saint Denis. Lambert was overwhelmed with the enormity of their task and his responsibility to protect Clemence. He had yet to learn the depth of her determination or of her fear.
Paris, the preceptory of the Temple. Saturday 16 kalends June, (May 17), 1147; 15 Sivan, 4907. Feast of Saint Montan of Lotharingia, who regained his sight by bathing his eyes in the breast milk of the mother of Saint Remi.
 
Notum itaque fatio ego, nomine Genta … quod pro remedio anime mee, predecessorumque meorum, et pro anima nobilissimi Francorum regis, venerandeque memorie Ludovici, qui me benignitate regia enutrivit, molendinum quendam Paris in sub magno ponte, quem ab Archerio, filio Savarici, comparaveram, militibus Templi
Ierosolimitani, ipso Archerio et uxore sua concedentibus, in manu Ebrardi de Barris, post decessum meum … donavi.
 
Let it be known that I, Genta, make this gift for the good of my soul and for the soul of the most noble King of France of revered memory, Louis, who very kindly raised me at court, I donate a certain mill in Paris under the Grand Pont, the one that I have prepared with Archer, son of Savaric, to the knights of the temple of Jerusalem, the same Archer and his wife having agreed to give it into the hand of Evrard de Barre, after my death.
 
M
aster Evrard was no more excited about attending a feast than Catherine was. The donations Genta was making were so tied with restrictions that the knights would get little more than a part of the tithe for years. The mill would be theirs at her death, but she was still a young woman, and he was bitterly sure she would long outlive him.
Nevertheless, he had sent his acceptance. Genta was known to be a favorite of the dowager queen, Adelaide. And, now that Adelaide had achieved the enviable position of widow to the king, as well as subsequent happiness with a second husband of her own choosing, she was known for her generosity. She had the profits from whole villages at her disposal.
Evrard turned his mind to more important matters. This desire of Queen Eleanor’s to accompany her husband on his pilgrimage was becoming a serious problem. If she had been content to travel as a simple pilgrim, Evrard would have praised her piety. But the woman was outfitting herself as an “Amazon,” presumably to do battle with the infidel. And now the other ladies of the court were following her example. There had been no word as to whether they would have their right breasts amputated to facilitate the use of a bow. More likely, Evrard feared, they would decide to take their hunting hawks and loose them to bring down Saracens.
The Temple master felt bile rise to his throat again. His stomach had been sour for days. There was too much to do. He could no longer concentrate on his prayers. As he recited his
Pater Noster,
his thoughts dwelt not on the hope of Heaven but the number of men he could
arm. His waking hours were spent on minutiae, reports of problems and nonsense like this dinner.
So when word came that Brother Baudwin and Master Durand wished to confer with him, Evrard was not of a disposition to commiserate with their problems.
“Commander, we have had no luck in finding out who this man was,” Brother Baudwin began. “I’m of the opinion that he had nothing to do with us. Anyone can wear a white cloak.”
“And the brooch?” Evrard asked. “How many wear our symbol? If he wasn’t a Knight of the Temple, then he was posing as one. That should concern us as well.”
Master Durand was tapping his foot impatiently. Evrard looked pointedly at his boot.
“You disagree with me, Father Durand?” he asked.
The boot stopped in mid-tap.
“I propose another possibility, Commander,” Durand said smoothly. “What if these people found a dead man in their home, perhaps someone they knew? What if they also knew who had killed him? In the state the body was in, it would have been difficult for them to dispose of it without someone seeing.”
“Yes, that’s what I think!” Brother Baudwin interrupted. “They dressed the corpse as a knight and laid the problem on us!”
Master Durand gave him a glance that would have shriveled a more sensitive man. Baudwin smiled proudly and went on.
“The man, Edgar, does metalwork, even though he has only one hand. Why, I don’t know. They’re a strange family as we’ve told you. Anyway, he could have made up a brooch easily enough.”
“As the body continued to rot over his head?” Evrard raised his eyebrows.
“He might have had the brooch already,” Master Durand suggested. “As a gift for another knight or even to sell.”
Evrard looked at the men. His glance strayed to the window. He realized with surprise that spring had come. The trees were misty with new leaves. He could hear the bleating of lambs from the field nearby. It only reminded him of how much there was to do before the king set out.
And yet he couldn’t let this death be ignored. If the man was one of their own, then he must be honored and his family notified. If he wasn’t, then they must find out why the Order had been used so shamefully.
He had to know before he left. The Knights of the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem were heroes now when the Saracen threat was imminent and so many needed their protection. But there were too many in Christendom who distrusted the idea of a knight in the service of God. The order could afford no scandal.
“Your speculations are all very well,” he told the men. “But I need proof before accusing these people. Bring me someone who saw the body being carried into the house. Discover where it came from. Find a reason for this Edgar to have involved us at all. Is he working for those who would see the Order disbanded? We have only a few weeks before the army sets out. The matter must be settled by then. Do you understand?”
They did, although neither man looked happy about it.
“We’ve questioned everyone on the street,” Master Durand protested. “And many of the merchants who knew Hubert LeVendeur. No one knows anything.”
“Or perhaps no one will tell you anything,” Evrard said. “Most people prefer pleading ignorance to becoming involved in a murder. You need to be more subtle in your investigation. Get some of the sergeants who aren’t known in town to go to the taverns in the guise of pilgrims. Let them listen to the gossip, dropping a word from time to time to guide it.”
“That takes the skill of a spy,” Master Durand said. “Where will we find such men among the soldiers?”
Evrard sighed. “There are several hundred sergeants in Paris at the moment. Among them you must be able to fιnd two or three with the requisite skills.”
He pressed his hand to his stomach. The fire within was raging.
“I’m sure you want to begin at once,” he told the men. “You may leave.”
Once outside, Brother Baudwin turned to Master Durand.
“To find the right men will take all the time the commander has given us!” he exclaimed. “It’s an impossible task!”
Master Durand pursed his lips. His eyes narrowed. Brother Baudwin knew the signs. The cleric was planning something. Respectful of the workings of a learned mind, Baudwin said no more.
By the time they had reached the main dormitory for the sergeants, Durand had created a plan. Baudwin could tell by the satisfied sniff and thin smile.
“So, what do we do?” Baudwin asked.
“We find the most recent arrivals from the most remote place,” Master Durand answered. “We give them their instructions and send them out to loiter in the taverns, as half the pilgrims in Paris do anyway. Then, if they fail, we put the blame on them.”
Baudwin felt as if he just been given full pardon for all his sins. He grinned in relief.
“I’ll ask the draper who he oufitted last,” he told Durand. “How many do we need?”
“Two should be enough,” Durand told him. “Make sure they come from outside France. I don’t want them recognized.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Baudwin said. “Shall I have them sent to you for instructions?”
Master Durand nodded. “Tomorrow, after Mass. They can start in the afternoon as soon as the taverns open.”
 
“Where’s Solomon?” Margaret asked.
“He’s spending Saturday with Abraham,” Catherine told her. “He said he felt the need to observe the Sabbath. I hope he isn’t getting sick. He won’t be home until after sundown.”
Margaret went back to the paper she was copying onto a tablet. Every few moments, she’d mutter in annoyance, rub out a letter and start again. Catherine finally left the mending and came to see what was so difficult for her.
“It’s my old
alef-bet
!” she said. “Where did you find it?”
“In the chest with your shifts,” Margaret said. “You were going to cut one down for me.”
“Yes, although you’ve grown so, I think a belt will be enough to keep it from dragging on the floor,” Catherine said. “But why are you copying the letters?”
“I wanted to learn to read Hebrew,” Margaret told her. There was a hint of defiance in her voice. “I thought it might be useful.”
“All knowledge is useful,” Catherine quoted. “I learned Hebrew letters because my father used them as numbers for his accounts. I meant to continue the study when I was at the Paraclete, to be able to read the Pentateuch in the original, but I was never very good at it. Still, you don’t need to bother with such things; we don’t expect you to be our clerk.”
“Perhaps I’ll enter a convent one day,” Margaret said. “Then I can be of use in making translations.”
Catherine had been thinking of other matters, but now she focused all her attention on Margaret.
“I didn’t realize that you had felt called to the religious life,” she said.
“I don’t at the moment,” Margaret answered. “But I might, and it’s good to be prepared.”
Catherine sat down next to her.
“Margaret, dear,” she said, “this interest doesn’t have anything to do with Solomon, does it?”
“Of course not,” Margaret said, but her cheeks flushed. “Except in that in learning the
Hebraica veritas I
might be better able to make him see the error of his beliefs so that he comes to the true Faith.”
“Good luck to you,” Catherine said. “I’ve been trying for years. But he won’t be won by logic; he doesn’t believe logically. Jewish is what he is, more than his religion. If he converted, he wouldn’t be Solomon anymore.”
She thought that idea would bother Margaret, but the girl only nodded.
“I know that.” She went back to the tablet.
A moment later another thought struck her.
“Catherine, is it a sin to care about Solomon?”
“I don’t see how it could be,” Catherine answered carefully. “I talked both with Master Abelard and Mother Heloise about this. Solomon
is a good man, even if he persists in denying the truth of the Incarnation. Master Abelard felt it would be more of a sin to abandon him. Perhaps one day our love and our prayers will cause his eyes to open to the truth.”
The tension in Margaret’s face relaxed. She smiled.
“He told me that preaching would never change his heart,” she said. “But perhaps praying will. And since he won’t hear me, he won’t be vexed by it, either.”
Satisfied, she folded the paper and went to put it with the writing material, in the counting room.
Catherine returned to her work, unsettled by the conversation. Solomon had talked with Margaret about his feelings for her and reported that she had told him that her regard for him was what was proper for a ward to her guardian. He had convinced himself there was nothing more than that. But he was also spending more time away from the house, to Catherine’s sorrow, even though she felt it was best.
As Margaret metamorphosed into a woman, Catherine felt herself more bewildered by her sister-in-law. Of course Margaret had suffered more than Catherine ever had. But there was something so self-contained about her. When the impropriety of her behavior toward Solomon had been explained, she had accepted it without a murmur and adapted accordingly.
Catherine wished she believed that the inward change had been as dutiful.
 
Shortly after sundown Solomon thanked his hosts and rose to leave.
“Rebecca, your home always fills me with peace,” he said.
“I’m glad, Solomon,” his hostess answered. “But I would be happier if you told me it filled you with piety.”
For once, Solomon didn’t laugh. “I wish that came to me as easily as to you and Abraham.” He sighed.
Rebecca held out her hand to him.
“If you lived according to
halakah
, my dear friend, then piety would follow. How can you hear the Holy One, blessed be He, when you’re surrounded by the voices of idolaters?”
The sadness in Solomon’s eyes distressed her. Rebecca believed that there was great passion in him. But for what, she wasn’t sure.
“In Wolkenburg, I thought it would be easy for me to follow the law, to pray each morning with my heart,” Solomon told her. “I was happy there. To wake each day and know that I need not pretend to be something I despise. To know that there was nothing impure on the table. It should have been heaven.”
BOOK: To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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