To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (17 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

BOOK: To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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The nun was speaking to her.
“I beg your pardon,” Clemence said. “What was that?”
“I just wondered what brings you and your husband to Paris,” she repeated. “Is he going to join the king on his pilgrimage?”
“Oh no!” Clemence was terrified at the thought. “It’s our fathers who are going. They left together some weeks ago. But not long after, my mother died suddenly. We came to find my father, Lord Osto, and tell him. He left the care of the village to her, and now there’s no one left but me. If Father doesn’t return, Lord Jordan will give the castellany to someone else, and I’ll have no home.”
“You poor child!” The nun patted her hand. “I’ll pray for the soul of your mother, shall I?”
“Yes, thank you,” Clemence said.
“But you shouldn’t have come yourselves to find him,” the nun continued. “Why didn’t you send one of your men or ask your lord to do so?”
“There was no one who could be spared,” Clemence told her.
She hurried back to her room. Her answer sounded flimsy even to herself, and she wondered if the sister thought so, too. It didn’t seem wise to say that it wasn’t safe for her to stay behind. It was possible that the nuns of Montmartre, noblewomen themselves, wouldn’t approve of her decision.
If Lambert didn’t come for her soon, Clemence vowed that she would go find him, whatever the risk.
Bertulf and Godfrey were sitting on a bench outside the Blue Boar, watching a circle of men playing a complicated game with dice and round wooden counters. Neither one knew the rules and so didn’t join in the suspense felt by other observers.
“Do you think we’ve been here long enough?” Godfrey asked.
“We’ve another few hours of daylight,” Bertulf answered. “We have to be back for Compline, but I doubt Master Durand will be happy to see us much before.”
“I still don’t understand what we’re doing,” Godfrey complained. “The murderer must have left Paris by now. And, as for the rest, we could tell Master Durand most of what he wants to know now.”
“No, the man is still here,” Bertulf said. “I’m sure of it. He has no reason to leave. He knows we couldn’t see his face that night. What he doesn’t realize is that I heard him speak before he attacked us. Master Durand has given us the perfect opportunity. We shall go from tavern to tavern until I hear that voice.”
“And then?” Godfrey asked.
“And then I will dispense justice,” Bertulf answered.
Godfrey hoped no one saw his friend’s face at that moment. It would be the end of their deception, and of their dreams.
Early Monday morning, Samonie slipped out of the house, carrying a bag. She made her way to her daughter’s home, knowing that they would be up at first light to prepare the wool for the day’s work.
Willa was already spreading the matted wool as Belot poured water into the trough. She greeted Samonie with a kiss.
“What are you doing here so early, Mother?” she asked.
“I need a favor of you,
ma fillote
,” Samonie said, holding up the bag. “A man will come by for this later today. His name is Bertulf. He’s somewhat older than I am, and his hair, what remains of it, is brown streaked with grey. His accent is that of Picardy. He’ll ask for you by name. Give this bag to him and no other.”
Willa took the bag gingerly, as if she expected it to snap at her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Food and a few other things I promised him,” Samonie answered.
“Why couldn’t he come to Master Edgar’s?” Belot put down the water bucket to stare at the bag suspiciously.
“Because I’ll be in and out today, and he might miss me,” Samonie answered. “You’ll not be going anywhere, will you?”
“Not with all this to do,” Belot grunted. “Felt hats for every pilgrim in Paris, it seems! By the time King Louis sets out I may have enough to rent a place and open my own shop.”
“That’s wonderful! I’m proud of you both,” Samonie smiled. But as she did, she also noted how red and callused her daughter’s hands and feet had become and how young Belot was already getting a stoop from carrying the heavy water buckets.
“Well, I must be getting back before the porridge boils over,” she said. “Good-bye, my dears. Take care of yourselves.”
The streets were crowded as Samonie made her way back to the Grève. Pilgrims, mountebanks, monks, beggars, citizens of Paris trying to earn their daily bread. Every now and then someone important came through, with guards moving ahead to clear the way for them. The beggars tried to get as close as was permitted, for occasionally a flurry of small coins was tossed to them from the noble riding by.
Catherine was already down when Samonie returned.
“Good morning,” she smiled. “I was hoping you’d gone out for some early strawberries to have with the porridge.”
Samonie showed her empty hands.
“I couldn’t find any,” she said. “The Île is full of people today. I’m surprised some aren’t pushed off the edge into the river.”
“No matter.” Catherine stirred the barley to keep it from forming hard blocks in the broth. “Honey will do. Perhaps you can see if Margaret needs help dressing the children.”
Samonie went at once.
Catherine continued stirring the porridge, staring into the pot as if the answers to all her questions could be revealed there. But the future was as murky as the congealing barley.
Secrets. Did all families have so many? Sometimes Catherine wanted to shout all of hers from the spire of Nôtre Dame, simply to be rid of the solid shadows that kept her from leading an uncomplicated life. They surrounded her and pressed against her throat, choking her when she wanted to speak. And now Samonie had secrets from her, too.
It was such a beautiful morning. Why did her heart feel made of lead?
 
On the other side of the river, in a small room over a bridle maker’s shop, Lambert was feeling much the same way.
“Are you sure we’re talking about the same man?” he asked Jehan. “How could my father have been so misled? He always spoke of Hubert LeVendeur with the utmost respect.”
“Don’t blame your father,” Jehan told him. “Better men than he have been totally ensorceled by Hubert and his family. He drove my friend Roger to his death and his own wife, Madeleine, to madness. I had prayed that his daughter, Agnes, would escape him, for her eyes were not deceived by his wickedness. But only last year he managed to have her sold into marriage in Germany so that now only I remain to stand against him.”
Lambert tried to put together all he had been told the night before. It was a lot to take in at once.
“I thought you said Hubert was gone,” he said. “That’s what the boy at his house told us.”
“They say he’s gone.” Jehan’s voice lowered. “But I believe he still lurks in Paris, perhaps in the lairs of the Jews, perhaps in secret rooms in his own home. He may even have mastered the trick of becoming invisible and be listening to us at this very moment.”
Lambert shivered and moved farther away from his new friend. It all sounded like nonsense. Christian converts returning to the Jewish faith like dogs to their vomit; plots to infiltrate the court and the abbey of Saint Denis with infidels; A family of heretics and magicians out to destroy all of Christendom, if Jehan were to be believed.
It sounded impossible. But in the past few weeks Lambert had seen and heard so many things he had never thought possible before. And both his father and Lord Osto were missing, along with the faithful Godfrey. No one else had been able to tell him anything. Could this peculiar man be the only one with the truth?
He wanted to discuss it with Clemence.
“I understand the need for haste,” he told Jehan. “But I must inform my wife of what is happening. She’ll be worried.”
“It will upset her more if she knows that you are going to face these monsters in their den,” Jehan answered.
Lambert’s eyes widened. “I am?”
“You must. They don’t know you. You can gain admittance to the house, find out their intentions.” Jehan chewed on a fingernail as he formulated his plan.
“Why would they tell me?” Lambert wasn’t sure this direct approach was the best one. “And what could I ask them, ‘Begging your pardon, did you happen to kill a castellan from Picardy anytime recently?’ I don’t think I’d be very good as a spy.”
“Wait! Do you have a cross about your person?” Jehan asked abruptly.
Lambert pulled out a small iron one on a chain around his neck.
“Good, that will protect you doubly.” Jehan smiled happily. “The cross for Our Lord’s guidance and iron to frighten away the demons.”
Lambert stood and edged toward the door.
“Please, I really don’t think I can do this,” he started.
Jehan’s muscular right arm fell on his shoulder and sat him back down.
“You shake like a heifer when she’s just seen the bull,” he sneered. “Are you a man or not? You came to Paris to find what happened to your father. I believe he was snared by these devils in human form. Isn’t it your duty to confront them? Perhaps they still hold him alive but in constant torture. What would he say if he knew you lacked the
pendons
to rescue him?”
A vision of his father’s face appeared in Lambert’s mind. Bertulf was laughing at him, as he had in the days when he had been teaching Lambert to ride. Then the face changed to one of horror and pain.
This Jehan might well be mad, but Lambert knew that he couldn’t turn his back on the only possibility he had been given.
“Very well.” He sighed. “I’ll return to the house at once. Tell me what I should say to them.”
Jehan’s arm lifted from his shoulder. The knight grinned down at him.
“Don’t worry, friend,” he laughed. “I won’t let you enter the hell mouth unprotected.”
This promise did not reassure Lambert at all.
 
 
Catherine had just finished dressing when the deputation of her neighbors arrived at the door. Martin let the women in and set up chairs for them in the hall before he went to tell her of her unexpected guests.
“Hersende is downstairs,” he said, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “And
Domina
Luca, the baker’s wife, is with her. Also,
Dominae
Alesia, Eremberga and Richilde.”
“Sweet Virgin!” Catherine exclaimed. “Whatever do they want?”
“I don’t know, Mistress,” Martin said. “Should I have asked them?”
“No, no. Just have your mother offer them some wine and sweets and tell them I’ll be down in a moment,”
Catherine rummaged on her dressing table for a hand mirror. None of those women had been inside her house since Agnes had moved out over five years ago. Catherine had a sick feeling that they hadn’t come to welcome her home.
She forced herself to smile and appear relaxed as she entered the hall. Samonie was pouring the wine and Catherine noted that all the women except Hersende had accepted a cup.
“Welcome!” Catherine said. “God save you all. I’m delighted to see you here.”
Hersende stood. “A blessing on the house and all within,” she said quickly and with no warmth.
“Thank you,” Catherine said before she could continue. “May I offer you some
gastelet
? Luca and her husband make them so well.”
Luca smiled nervously. The other women each took one of the small cakes from the platter Martin offered. Catherine took one, as well, and seated herself between the others and the door.
“I regret that I’ve been unable to offer you our hospitality before,” she told them. “I’ve been most remiss since our return from my sister’s wedding. Please forgive me.”
Hersende put down her cake and brushed the crumbs to the floor.
“Catherine, we’ve come not to chastise you for not entertaining your neighbors, but because some very disturbing information has reached us.”
The other women all nodded solemnly.
“We believe that it’s nothing but slander, of course,” Luca added. “But you know how the appearance of scandal can have the same results as the truth of it.”
“I know this all too well, Luca,” Catherine said. “I’m grateful for your bringing me word of this. Who is defaming us and what do they say?”
Luca twisted the end of her sleeve in her hand. “Rumor has no face, Catherine,” she said. “But it is whispered that your father’s departure was much later than he had intended. And that he is not on his way to Rome.”
“Really?” Catherine’s hands were icy. “Where do they say he has gone?”
“Into Spain,”
Domina
Richilde spoke up. “They say he’s gone to Cordoba to study the wizardry of the Jews and Saracens and that, to gain entry into their circle, he had to bring them the blood of a Christian knight.”
Catherine’s jaw dropped.
“What!”

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