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Authors: Sharan Newman

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BOOK: To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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He took Catherine’s elbow and guided her out into the street.
“So where shall we lay our tired bodies tonight?” Catherine grinned. “I agree that Hervice makes a poor hostess, but with Paris so crowded, we might not be able to find anyone better.”
Margaret spoke up. “I want to stay with Willa.”
They both gaped. Margaret hardly ever voiced an opinion.
“Well,” Edgar began, “I’m sure Willa would be happy to take us in. But
deorling
, she and her husband probably don’t have extra space. He’s only a felt maker. Likely they share a corner in the shop room of his master.”
“I don’t mind,” Margaret said, never having slept surrounded by fresh felt.
Willa was the daughter of Catherine’s housekeeper, Samonie, and still Margaret’s best friend. A few years older than Margaret, Willa had comforted and cared for her both in Paris and before, in Scotland, through a dangerous, tragic journey. Not having been brought up at a proper court, Margaret didn’t let the gaping difference in their status affect her feelings for Willa.
Edgar and Catherine, however, were all too aware of what people would say if they arrived in Paris and lodged with a felt maker, as well as how much their request for shelter would disrupt Willa’s husband’s life.
“There are the nuns at Montmartre,” Catherine suggested. “Abbess Cristina would be happy to take us in and hear the news about Agnes.”
Margaret’s shoulders sagged. That would mean returning across the fields and up the hills. Edgar bit his lip. They were all exhausted. He didn’t want his family going door to door hunting for a night’s shelter.
“James,” he said. “Help me unload the tent. Edana, you can carry the pegs if you promise not to run.
“The night is mild,” he added to Catherine. “The garden can’t be so overgrown that there isn’t a space to pitch the tent. It won’t hurt us to spend one more night in the open.”
Catherine nodded agreement. She was as tired as the children.
“Tomorrow we can send for Samonie to come back from Vielleteneuse and help us open the house,” she decided. “If it’s too filthy and full of bad air, then we’ll have to take the children back there. Since my brother has all our servants at his keep, he shouldn’t mind taking us in, as well.”
“Guillaume might be better pleased if we spared him more mouths to feed,” Edgar cautioned.
“Well,” Catherine considered this. “It can’t be helped. He certainly wouldn’t turn us away. And I know my sister-in-law will be delighted.”
That having been settled, they made their way down a passage next to the outside wall through the weeds and vines to the garden. They all stamped down an area large enough for the tent, and then Catherine ran down to the corner tavern for a pitcher of beer and cabbage pies. When she got back, Edgar was pounding in the last stake, balancing the hammer easily in one hand.
The bells for Compline were tolling by the time Catherine fell asleep. All the churches of Paris! How she had missed their individual tones! Saint Jacques, Saint Merri, Saint Magloire. From almost over their heads sounded Saint Gervais and Saint Jean le Pauvre, across the river. Then the deep notes of Nôtre Dame on the Île and farther away the bells of Saint Germain l’Auxerrois. Dozens of churches, all telling her that she was home, wishing her a good night. She snuggled into the blankets, the warmth of her family surrounding her, and felt completely happy.
 
 
It wasn’t Matins yet when she awoke. There was a light glowing outside the tent. She realized at once that it wasn’t from the moon. The brightness grew, not as dawn approaching, but that of someone with a torch.
“Edgar,” She whispered and felt the stump of his hand against her lips. She rolled over and pushed herself to her knees and elbows to see better.
He was kneeling before the tent flap, peering through the narrow opening. His right hand held a knife. She wondered how long he had been awake, guarding them.
The light flickered over the canvas and was followed by that of another torch. Catherine held her breath, wondering if these were enemies of her father, come to burn down the house. Perhaps someone had discovered that Hubert hadn’t gone on a pilgrimage to Rome. What if he hadn’t been as careful as he thought in hiding his intentions?
She put her arms over the sleeping bodies of her children and prayed to Saint Genevieve to keep them safe.
There was a rattling at the boarded door and muffled swearing. Then a voice came on a chance breeze, soft but clear.
“He said it was open last time.”
The only answer to that was a growl and the sound of footsteps through the brush as the torchlight passed again, heading down to the stream.
It was several moments before Catherine could move. Beneath her arms she felt the steady breathing of Edana and James.
“Edgar!” she whispered. “What should we do? What if they come back with weapons?”
“It’s nearly dawn,” Edgar said quietly. “I don’t think they’ll risk returning tonight. Go back to sleep. I’ll keep watch.”
Edgar stayed at his post until the sky lightened and the bells began for Prime.
Beside him, Catherine lay still, but she couldn’t return to sleep. The rest of the night her mind kept repeating that one sentence. Who had said it was open? What last time? What could those men have
wanted? The mythical treasure her father was supposed to have hidden? Had someone broken in before? What about the guard that Hervice said had been left there? Why had he left his post? And where, oh where, was her cousin Solomon?
Catherine shivered. The dawn was cold.
Paris, a felt maker’s house on the Île de la Cite. Friday, 6 nones May (May 2), 1147. The first of Sivan, 4907. Feast of Saint Athanasius, Patriarch of Alexandria and fighter against heresiarchs.
 
… Bernardus de Ballolio salutem in Domino. Volo notum fieri omnibus, tam futuris quam presentibus, quod, pro dilectione Dei et salute amime mee antecessorumque meorum, fratribus militibus de Templo Solomonis XV libratas terre mee, … Hoc donum in capitolio, quod in octavis Pasche Parisius fuit, feci, domino apostolico Eugenio presente, et ipso rege Francie, et archiepiscopo Senonensi, et Burdegalensi, et Rothomagensi, et Turonensi, et fratribus militibus Templi alba clamide indutis c xxx … .
 
… Bernard of Ballieul greets you in the Lord. I wish it to be marked by all, in the future as it is now, that, for the love of God and the deliverance of my soul and those of my ancestors, I give and concede to the brothers Knights of the Temple of Solomon 15 pounds revenue of my land … This gift was made in the Chapter meeting held on the octave of Easter in Paris, Pope Eugenius present and also the king of France and the Archbishops of Sens and Bourges and Rouen and Tournai and 130 brothers of the Temple in white cloaks … .
 
—Charter of Paris
April 28, 1147
 
 
T
he next morning Catherine and Edgar took the children to the Île, where, down a twisty street near the river, they found Willa outside her house. She was standing in a trough up to her ankles in cold water and soap as she trod the wool to mat it. She greeted them with a startled cry.
“
Enondu!
I can’t believe it!” she gasped. “Why didn’t you send word you were coming? Mother would have come down and had everything ready for you.”
Catherine hugged her, despite Willa’s damp clothes. As she did, she noticed how much thinner the girl was.
“Solomon was supposed to have passed through Paris over a month ago,” she explained. “Didn’t you see him?”
Willa stepped out of the trough and lowered her skirts to cover her bare legs. She was shaking, still astonished at their sudden appearance.
“He never came here,” she told Catherine. “Mother visited me last Sunday and she said nothing about a message, either. I’ll send for her at once.”
“We did that this morning,” Edgar told her. “She should arrive by late afternoon. But Catherine and I want to start work immediately. May we leave the children here with you? Margaret will watch out for them, but things are in such a state at the house that it would be too dangerous for little ones to go unsupervised.”
“Of course!” Willa smiled nervously. “But wouldn’t you rather that Mother and I readied the place first? You shouldn’t have to take care of such matters.”
Catherine hesitated. She wasn’t happy at the thought of spending the day covered with the dust and mold of a house left empty all winter, but she also worried that her father might have left behind a message or something else that might cause trouble if anyone outside the family saw it. She knew Willa and her mother could be trusted, but the state of the house and the midnight intruders had left her uneasy.
“Edgar and I can manage,” she said. “As long as I know James and Edana are safe with you. Margaret will keep them out of your way, won’t you, my dear?”
“I must ask Belot if it will be all right,” Willa said.
She went inside for a moment. They heard voices raised in altercation, then lowered. Willa returned, smiling.
“My husband, Belot, told his master that he’ll be responsible for seeing that the work is still done and the master agreed that it would be no trouble to keep the children here.”
“Yes, I don’t mind staying,” Margaret said eagerly. “I could even help you, Willa.”
Willa smiled fondly at Margaret. Then her smile faded as she noted the scar across the child’s temple and down the side of her cheek. Margaret bent her head and raised her hand as if to brush the mark from her face.
Willa recovered quickly. “Well, I still think it would be better if you waited until Mother arrived, but certainly, I’d be happy to take the children. And Margaret and I have so much to tell each other. I wouldn’t have known Edana! She’s grown so! You don’t remember me, do you, sweet?”
Edana had regarded her with suspicion until she saw Willa welcome Margaret with a hug and kiss and much fussing. Then she became jealous of the attention and demanded to be admired, too.
Although she continued to protest that Catherine and Edgar shouldn’t involve themselves in menial work, Willa agreed to keep the children with her until after Vespers. After giving instructions and leaving a coin for the midday meal, Catherine and Edgar hurried back across the bridge to face the task of prying boards off the doors and nails out of the shuttered windows.
“This is going to be a long day’s work,” Catherine said. “Perhaps Willa was right that we should get someone else to help, at least to unboard the windows.”
“There’s no one in town I trust, except the clerics I studied with,” Edgar answered. “And I can hardly ask them to do servants’ work.”
Catherine then realized that Edgar had been harboring the same fears she had about what Hubert might have left behind. The men who had come in the night had been looking for something, and she wanted to find it first. But the work was hard, and she was clumsy at it even with two hands. It was only a few minutes before she had several slivers from the rough wood stinging her fingers.
“Perhaps we should wait just until Samonie gets here with Martin?” Catherine knew the answer to that by the tightening of Edgar’s jaw. He refused to admit that his missing hand posed any problem.
She didn’t argue. Edgar had come so close to dying when his hand had been sliced off as he tried to stop the sword as his father raised it to strike down a serf. Every day she had to convince him anew that she didn’t care that he only had one hand. That he was alive was all that mattered.
“We can certainly get into the house before they arrive,” Edgar continued. “I want to know what those men were looking for last night.”
“Father’s fantasy ‘treasure,’ of course,” Catherine suggested with some doubt in her voice. “What else?”
“Then why did they expect to find the house open?” Edgar countered. “Who had left it open before?”
Catherine didn’t have an answer. She sighed and prepared herself to be covered in dust by the end of the day, her hands bruised and bleeding.
They decided to try getting in through the back door leading from the kitchen out to the garden. Edgar got a length of iron from the shed and, using his right hand and Catherine’s left, they managed to pry the boards off the door.
“It’s still locked,” Catherine said as she shook the handle. “No one could have opened this since we left. Perhaps those thieves had
the wrong house and we’re worrying about it for nothing. I hope the keyhole hasn’t rusted.”
It took several tries to turn the lock and lift the bar and then a hard push before the door swung open.
Catherine looked around in dismay.
“Oh,
carissime!
It will be weeks before we can cook here again. Everything is filthy and, look, someone even left pots and bowls on the table with food still in them! I don’t understand. Father wouldn’t be so neglectful.”
She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the smell coming from the furry masses in the bowls. Gingerly she picked them up and carried them outside.
“We’ll need to dig a new midden, too,” she announced when she returned. “I think the neighbors must have been throwing their refuse over the wall into ours. Edgar? Where are you?”
She went through the kitchen and up into the hall, the main room of the house, where they ate, entertained, and where the servants usually slept. Edgar was squatting before the cold hearth, poking at the ashes.
“I thought that had been swept out before we left!” Catherine said. “All that spring cleaning for nothing!”
“Someone’s been here,” Edgar said. “Perhaps your father came in for a few days, despite what Hervice told us.”
“He wouldn’t have left food lying out to spoil,” Catherine said. “I can still smell it.”
She sniffed and then, cautiously, drew a deeper breath. She knew that scent. It was faint, but all too familiar, like wet leaves and wine must, overlaid by something else, sickly sweet.
“Edgar?” she asked, her voice breaking in fear.
He inhaled and noticed it, too.
“Perhaps a mouse left in one of the traps?” he said hopefully.
“It’s stronger over here by the stairs,” Catherine quavered.
She looked up the steps, trying to will her feet to climb them. She would not think of her father. Hubert had gone on to Arles, as he had planned. Or about Solomon. Solomon hadn’t come to Paris.
Everyone said so. It was a mouse in there. A very large mouse; that’s what it was. Maybe even a rat.
“Catherine, wait here,” Edgar said softly from behind her. “Let me check. Why don’t you find a shovel so that I can carry whatever it is out to the midden?”
“Yes,” Catherine said. “Very well.”
But she didn’t move as he went up. She heard his boots clunk over her head as he looked in the small front room, where the chests of clothes and linens were kept, and then their room at the back. Finally, he came to the door of the counting room. She heard him fumbling with the lock holding the bar over the door.
“Should I bring up the key?” she called.
“No, I’ll come down for it,” he answered quickly.
She held out the keyring and handed it to him before he was at the bottom.
“It’s this one,” she told him, separating the counting room key from the others. “The smell is stronger in there, isn’t it?”
“Now, Catherine,” he said firmly. “With all the parchment in there to chew on, there might be a whole nest of mice. Perhaps a cat got in and was trapped, as well.”
She didn’t believe him, which was why she stayed where she was. There were some things she hadn’t the courage for. It made her angry with herself, but if someone she loved were lying dead above her, she wanted to be prepared before she looked on the face.
Edgar went back up. When he was out of Catherine’s sight, he took off his tunic and covered his mouth and nose with it. No mouse, however big, left a smell like that. But even more disquieting to him was when he turned the key. It moved in the lock smooth as butter. The iron padlock had been oiled recently. The thought chilled him. He gave up all hope of discovering nothing more than decaying vermin inside.
There was nothing for it but to find out before Catherine became impatient and came up to investigate.
He took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Cristes-mæl!”
he exclaimed.
“What is it?” Catherine raced up the steps. “Not Father!”
“Catherine, don’t!”
Edgar turned and tried to stop her from seeing, but Catherine craned her neck around him. She recoiled in disgust and then looked again.
“Who is that?” She asked.
“I don’t know,” Edgar said. “By his clothes, I’d say he’s a soldier, a knight perhaps. Certainly a pilgrim.”
Catherine pulled her eyes from what was left of the man’s face to his mail shirt, visible under the white cloak. The dark brown of old blood had stained a cross onto the middle of his chest. There was a small cross of linen pinned to the shoulder of the cloak with an iron brooch.
Catherine studied the design on the brooch, partly to avoid looking at the remains of the man’s face. It was a crude design of two knights riding one horse. Each knight held a shield. Together they held a single spear.
She turned to Edgar in confusion.
“Isn’t this the symbol of the Knights of the Temple of Solomon?”
Edgar nodded. “It’s very like the design on their seal and over the portal of their preceptory. This man must have been of the order.”
“But what is he doing here?” Catherine wondered.
“Rotting, Catherine,” Edgar said. “We have to get the body out of here right away.”
“Edgar, what are we thinking of?” Catherine said.
She crossed herself and began a prayer for the dead. Hastily, Edgar joined her, both their faces raised piously to avoid looking at the still figure on the floor.
When they had finished, Edgar backed out and started to close the door behind them.
“His white cloak is also that of a Knight of the Temple,” he said. “We should go to the Temple preceptory and tell them of this. Perhaps someone there will know who he was.”
“How will they know?” Catherine asked.
Edgar forced himself to look at the body again. She was right. The
eyes and cheeks were gone and the chin eaten away so that the man’s teeth grinned at them hideously. The rest of the face and hands were black with a greenish tint, except where a gray fuzz of mold grew in patches.
BOOK: To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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