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Authors: Sharan Newman

To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (26 page)

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“I left them the house, goods and money enough to live on for a time and my blessing,” Hubert said. “Perhaps I would have worried more if I’d known that Jehan hadn’t gone to the Holy Land with Emperor Conrad but was back in Paris. But I did all I could and left my affairs in much better order than many a man does.”

“Did no one else have keys to the house or counting room?” Solomon asked, letting Hubert’s defense stand for the moment.

“I gave Samonie a house key, but only Catherine and I could get into the counting room,” Hubert said.

“But someone did,” Solomon said. “The question is, was the body left there to incriminate you or to hide it so the men who killed him would have time to escape?”

“I can think of safer places to hide a body,” Rebecca commented.

“So can I,” Hubert said. “And you say nothing was taken. It does seem as if someone knew that my daughter and son-in-law wouldn’t simply dispose of it quietly but report the death.”

Solomon hadn’t considered that. “Perhaps they were hoping that Catherine and Edgar would bury the man without ceremony to avoid just the scandal that they’ve been subjected to.”

“It surprises me that anyone expects to discover his identity,” Rebecca said. “Paris is full of foreigners these days. With the eagerness of so many of them to fight, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn of a hundred such unknown corpses.”

“No, it is strange,” Hubert said. “Few men set out alone on an expedition. If not friends, he would have had traveling companions, someone willing, for the gift of a cloak or pair of boots, to tell his family of his death.”

“The matter may never be explained,” Solomon said. “And while the brethren of the Temple may give up the investigation, the gossip will always remain. The street’s full of it already, and you know how that can affect business.”

Hubert scratched at the bandage on his head. “You know, there are days that I wish I’d never let Catherine come home from the
convent,” he said. “It seems that since then there’s been one crisis after another.”

“Oh, really? For ten years?” Solomon said. “You think their god is punishing you for not making your daughter a nun? Hubert, I think you lived as one of them for too long. You’ve caught their superstitions.”

Hubert laughed ruefully. “It’s hard not to see a divine hand at work in things we don’t understand.”

“Of course it is,” Rebecca got up from the table. “Because there is a divine hand. If we didn’t hold to that, we’d all die of despair. And I don’t intend to. Now, Abraham will be back soon and we’ll have a nice Sabbath cup of wine before we eat. Both of you are far too melancholic.”

The rain that had threatened all day Friday broke loose Saturday morning with thunder and lightning that was a harbinger of summer. Lambert pulled the hood of his woolen cloak over his face as he skidded down the hill from Montmartre. In his haste he slipped and fell more than once, sliding into passersby, causing them to drop their bundles and swear at him. By the time he reached Jehan, he was covered with mud as well as more odorous detritus from the streets.

Jehan wrinkled his nose at him.

“What did you do, roll in all the shit in Paris?” he asked as he backed away.

“Sorry,” Lambert said. “I have to tell you though. Clemence is missing!”

“Your wife?” Jehan still kept his distance, but took his fingers from his nose to answer. “How could she be? Did the nuns turn her out?”

“They told me she left after morning prayers,” Lambert said. “She said she was coming to find me. But how could she? I never told her where we were staying.”

“Did the sisters mention any message she might have received from you?” Jehan asked.

“But I sent none.”

“Lambert, anyone can bring a message and say it’s from you,” Jehan said. “You obviously don’t have a devious mind.”

Lambert sighed. He didn’t.

“What should we do?” he asked. “How can we find her? By the sacred corpse of Saint Omer, if those people have hurt her, I’ll …”

“I’m sure you will,” Jehan tried to calm him. “I’ll help you. But before we go to the provost and have his men confront them, we must be certain of what happened. The nuns said she left alone? Could she be trying to reach you?”

“Of course.” Lambert tried to stop shivering. He didn’t notice that he was soaked through. “But she only knew your name, and there are Jehans everywhere. Where could she start?”

“The same place we will,” Jehan decided. “We’ll ask at the stalls and the inns from Montmartre across the Île and out the Orleans road if we must. You told me she was beautiful. Someone will have noticed her.”

He didn’t add that there were many in town who would do more than notice a young girl, lost and alone. Lambert was agitated enough. He found himself hoping, for more reasons than one, that Edgar and Catherine had Clemence.

It also occurred to him that she had provided them the perfect excuse for getting into the house on the Grève and searching it without the inhabitants being able to stop them. There was no need to search for long before bringing in the provost.

“Don’t worry,” he told Lambert. “We’ll find her. But first I think you’d better change your clothes. You won’t get close enough to anyone to ask about her as long as you’re smelling like that.”

That morning Catherine was thinking of the peace of the convent with nostalgia. The rain had driven everyone into the hall. Edgar had set up his tools in one corner and was showing Martin how to tell real gold wire from gilt. Margaret and James were trying to teach his puppy to sit on command. Edana was fiddling with the edge of one of the wall hangings on some task known only to herself. Samonie had brought in the sewing, and she and Catherine were trying to decide what could be mended and what made into rags.

“We could use more soft rags,” Catherine commented as she sorted.

“With three women in the house, I’d say so,” Samonie agreed.
“Willa could use some, too, although she hasn’t mentioned it lately. I wonder if she’s expecting. Fancy, me a grandmother!”

“I can’t imagine it,” Catherine said. “But I don’t remember either of mine. You don’t look as if the idea pleases you.”

“No, it isn’t that.” Samonie came out of her reverie. “I was thinking of something else. Nothing that matters.”

The yapping of the puppy made conversation impossible for the next few minutes. James had grown bored with training it, and the two were running in circles, the puppy jumping for an old strip of leather James was holding just out of his reach.

“James, stop that at once,” Edgar shouted. “Before he bites you.”

It was too late. In snapping at the leather, the puppy had got James’s fingers as well. The boy cried out in pain and surprise. Catherine spilled her sewing basket as she rushed over to him.

“Is it bad?” Margaret asked at her elbow. “I’m sorry, I should have stopped him at once.”

Catherine examinded the fingers. Edgar knelt beside her, his pale face ashen.

“It’s all right,” Catherine said, more to reassure Edgar than her son. “It was just a nip. Look the skin isn’t even broken. James, you shouldn’t tease your dog.”

James saw that he wasn’t going to get any more sympathy, so he stopped crying.

Samonie was on her hands and knees trying to find all the cards of thread and needles among the rushes.

“We need to sweep these out and change them,” she grumbled. “Get some straw with fresh herbs. A family that spills like this one can’t leave the rushes a whole month.”

Catherine realized she was right. One more tedious task. She hated the trouble of sweeping out the rooms and filtering the garbage from lost pieces of toys or other salvagables.

She was distracted from this concern by a crow of delight from near the ceiling. Catherine whirled around and gasped. They had been so preoccupied by James and the puppy that they had forgotten to keep an eye on Edana. Somehow the child had managed to reach the
top of the wall hanging and was now dangling from the rod holding it. At the moment she was too proud of her accomplishment to be afraid, but in another instant she would realize that the only way down was to fall.

Edgar ran up at once and reached out to her. He was tall enough that his hand nearly reached her leg.

“Edana,” he ordered. “Jump to Papa.”

Smiling, she let go and fell into his arms. Catherine let out her breath, Edgar turned around with Edana in his arms.

“If one more thing happens today,” he said sternly as he put her down, “I’m going to …” He thought. He didn’t know what he would do, but he did know that he was on the edge of something drastic. “I’m going to be very angry,” he finished.

Margaret shrank from him, hearing an echo of her father’s voice in his. Waldeve didn’t threaten, he acted. So far she hadn’t seen his violence in Edgar but now she was afraid. She bent over and took Edana by the hand.

“Let’s go up to our room and see if we can find your doll,” she suggested. “Maybe we can make a
chainse
for her from Mama’s scraps.”

Edana was oblivious to the tension in the room. She smiled and hopped out at Margaret’s side.

Edgar looked around. Everyone was staring at him, as if he had been the one causing all the commotion. Even the puppy seemed fearful, cringing in James’s lap. That angered him as much as the chaos.

“What’s the matter with you all?” he shouted. “I just want a quiet afternoon and some peace to work in!”

“So do we all, Edgar,” Catherine said softly.

“Good,” he snapped, going to his table to sit down. “Then let’s have no more excitement today.”

It was inevitable that at that moment there would be a crash of thunder followed by a pounding at the gate. Edgar dropped his pincers and swore.

“Martin, see who that is,” he said. “Tell them to enter at their own risk.”

“Yes, Master.”

Edgar looked at Catherine, who rose and came to kiss his forehead.

“Having a family seemed a lovely idea before the children were born, didn’t it?” she murmured.

He looked up at her and smiled. “Most days it still does,” he said. “God, what it must be like at your brother’s, with all their own and the fosterlings, as well! I should be grateful.”

Martin wasn’t sure that Edgar was joking. He hoped the visitor was a friend. Astrolabe was supposed to be staying with the canons of Nôtre Dame until Monday, but perhaps he’d come back for something. That would be safe. He slid open the grille and looked out.

Before him stood a bedraggled figure in a long muddy cloak. He couldn’t see the face, but the hands appeared feminine, scratched and dirty. He was about to tell the woman to go to Saint Merri for alms when he took another look.

The cloak was mud-splotched, but not ragged. The weave was good and the pattern complicated. The hands were scratched but not callused or gnarled by work. If this was a beggar, then she hadn’t been at it long.

“God save you, Lady. Who are you and whom do you seek?” he asked. Catherine had taught him what to say, and, for a wonder, he remembered.

“I’m Clemence, daughter of Lord Osto of Picardy,” the girl said. “I’m looking for my husband, but no one will help me find him and, even if you’re all demons, I’ve no place else to go except back to Montmartre and I don’t think you’re demons, even though Lambert says so and maybe it wasn’t an imp that the man had and there may be a perfectly good reason for you to be cutting your bread with Father’s knife, so will you please let me in because I’m wet and cold and starving and there’s a man across the road who’s been following me for ages and I don’t like the look of him.”

She lifted up her hood then, and Martin was captured in her pleading eyes and delicate face. With no more hesitation, he opened the door and let her come in.

Sixteen

Paris, a wet Saturday. 9 Kalends June (May 24), 1146; 24 Sivan 4907. Feast of Saint Manahen, milk brother of Herod the great, converted by Saint Luke.

Douce amie o le vis cler,
or ne vous ai u quester
ainc Diu ne fist ce regné
ne par terre ne par mer,
se t ’i quidoie trover,
ne t ’i quesisce.

Sweet love, of bright countenance
I don’t know where to seek you
But God has created no kingdom
on land or sea,
that I would not search through
If I could find you there.

—Aucassin and Nicolette (35)

B
efore allowing him to begin his search, Jehan took Lambert to wash.

They followed the cry, “
li bain sont chaut!
” until they came to a bathhouse. The hot tubs were full of people because of the damp weather, so they were forced to wait until the attendent called their names.

As they sat there, a young woman in a yellow
bliaut
came up to them with a smile. Lambert’s first thought was that she must be freezing; her
chainse
was so loosely laced that he could see her bare skin all the way from under her arms to her thighs.

“Would you be wanting some company in your tub?” she asked. “I can scrub all those places you find hard to reach.”

Jehan was about to ask her price when Lambert spoke up with indignation.

“What are you thinking of,
jael
?” he said. “Can’t you see that this man has taken the cross? Have you no care for his soul, and your own?”

Instead of being chastened, the woman was amused. She gave Lambert a gentle slap on the cheek.

“Just in from the country, are you lad?” She laughed. “In that case I can do both of you for a special price, only for warriors of Christ.”

“Never mind the boy,” Jehan told her. “You spotted him for a rustic. He’s easily affronted, and I humor him. We’ll need none of your aid today. But I think I’ll be more than ready for a good scrubbing before setting out to fight Saracens. I’ll return then and look for you.”

“I be waiting with my scrubbing brush.” The woman smiled at Jehan and caressed his cheek.

When she had gone, Lambert shivered.

“Don’t worry, boy,” Jehan said. “We’ll soon have you warm and dry.”

“I’m not cold,” Lambert answered. “That woman made me uneasy.”

“That whore?” Jehan laughed. “Are you so much a monk as that? I pity your wife, then.”

“Couldn’t you feel it?” Lambert asked in wonder. “Her lips smiled and her words were merry, but her eyes were full of hate.”

Jehan looked at Lambert with new respect. Perhaps the boy wasn’t such an innocent as he appeared. It might be wise to pay more attention when telling him things. It wouldn’t do if Lambert started thinking for himself.

At the Temple preceptory Bertulf and Godfrey were in their room after dinner and as content as they had been since the terrible night when their comrade had been killed.

“That was the best wine I’ve ever drunk,” Godfrey said. “And the finest game pie. Do you think the knights feed their men that well all the time?”

Bertulf half opened his eyes. He had been dozing on the pillows that a servant had forgotten to store. “No, Godfrey,” he said. “I think we got such a meal only because the pope was eating with us.”

Godfrey’s jaw dropped. “He was? Which one was Pope Eugenius? I only saw the bishop and a few of the white monks!”

“Eugenius used to be a white monk,” Bertulf explained. “Back when he was called Bernardo. It suits him to forgo the regalia of his office sometimes. Especially when his old mentor, the abbot of Clairvaux, is present.”

“Bernard was there, too?” Godfrey felt like an idiot. “The most important men in Christendom, and I didn’t even recognize them! No wonder everyone was deferring to the monks. I couldn’t understand it.”

“And no wonder they ate less than anyone else.” Bertulf chuckled. “Master Evrard would have done better feeding them beans and lettuce with water to drink. Poor Brother Baudwin! I could see how torn he was between making a good impression and filling his belly. He must have been in agony!”

Godfrey sank back onto his pillows, confounded by what he had witnessed all unknowing.

“Master,” he stated, “we must end this pretense before we lose our lives and our souls.”

“I know, Godfrey, I know.” Bertulf sighed. “But I see no other path for me than to carry out the plan as best I can. Our dream must not be lost because I lack courage to see it through.”

“And what shall I tell your wife when I return home?” Godfrey asked with concern.

Bertulf closed his eyes. “That I charge her to maintain our property, to guide Clemence and Lambert in their duties and to pray for me.”

Godfrey had been grateful that his duty lay back in Picardy. Now, thinking of those he would have to face there, he wasn’t so sure.

Clemence had followed Martin into the house like Saint Perpetua entering the coliseum, peering right and left as if expecting the bears and gladiators to attack any moment.

Instead of a den of heretics, she had found two women working on their sewing and a little boy on the floor with a puppy. The only ominous sight was the one-handed man at a workbench by the window, fashioning some strange object from wood and wire.

She tried to keep Martin from taking her wet cloak, but he was determined to prove his worth as all-round servant and pulled it from her grasp.

“Hang it by the kitchen fire to dry,” Catherine told him. “Good afternoon,” she greeted Clemence. “Who are you and what brings you to us on such an inclement day?”

She was puzzled when their visitor began to back toward the door, smiling uneasily.

“Edgar?” she asked. “Martin didn’t say the girl was a mute, did he?
GOOD AFTERNOON!” she said to Clemence again, grinning brightly.

Edgar got up from his worktable and approached Clemence, who continued backing away until she hit the wall.

“Weren’t you here a day or two ago?” he asked, squinting to see her more clearly. “Yes, with that poor madman. Is there no one looking out for the two of you?”

Clemence’s response to that was to burst into a flood of tears. Edgar turned to Catherine and Samonie with a helpless gesture.

Catherine got up at once, spilling the threads again. She came and put her arm around Clemence.

“Please,
douz amie
!” she begged. “Compose yourself. Samonie, is there any spiced cider on hand? Could you fetch a bowl for our guest? Now”—she guided Clemence to a stool and sat her down—“tell us all about it, if you’re able.”

Between sobs, Clemence managed to get most of the story out.

“I left the convent this morning,” she finished. “I hated it that Lambert wouldn’t tell me what was going on. He wouldn’t let me stay with him and his friend. This man told him you were sorcerers and in league with the Devil, but I thought even facing Satan would be better than the constant torture of waiting.”

She wiped her nose with her damp sleeve. Catherine handed her a clean cloth. Clemence sniffed and thanked her.

“So you came here even though you feared we would hurt you,” Catherine said. “That was very brave.”

“That was very foolish,” Edgar said, frowning. “What do you think your husband will do when he finds you’ve gone?”

Catherine grimaced. She knew Edgar was speaking from experience.

Clemence looked up at him with her brown eyes wide in supplication.

“I thought I could find him,” she said. “But the city is bigger than I believed, and the only place I could find my way to was here. I’m not even sure how to return to Montmartre.”

She was so pathetic that Edgar gave in.

“Well, since you have no other guardian at hand,” he said, “we’ll
see to you for now. When you’ve eaten and your clothes are dry, I’ll take you back to the convent. Then I’ll try to find your husband for you. Now who is the ‘friend’ of his who believes us to be so wicked?”

“I’ve never seen him.” Clemence sniffed again. “When we came to Paris, we asked everywhere for Master Hubert, and this Jehan was the only one who would help us.”

“Jehan!” Catherine and Edgar cried together. “
Cristesblud!
” Edgar added. They both instantly crossed themselves.

“Clemence, my dear,” Catherine said in horror, “if this is the same man we know, then Lambert has fallen in with a lunatic, possessed by a demon of hate!”

“Are you certain?” Clemence’s fear dried her tears. “There are many men with that name. Lambert told me he’s a knight and he wears the cross of a pilgrim.”

“There are indeed many Jehans,” Edgar agreed. “But only one who would slander us so. He’s an old enemy of ours, who we hoped had vanished forever into Spain with his cross and sword. Catherine is right; his wits are sadly warped, although he may still seem sane to those who don’t know the truth behind his wild tales.”

“Then we must find them at once.” Clemence rose to go. “Before he does something to Lambert!”

“Hush, now,” Catherine said. “You say your husband is helping Jehan. As long as he does, then he’s in no bodily danger. You should return to Montmartre in case he comes back looking for you. Then you can tell him not to trust his friend. Jehan won’t help the two of you find your fathers. Is there no one else you can go to?”

“Only Master Hubert. We came to this house in the first place because he and my father were friends,” Clemence explained. “Father said they would stop with him when they arrived in Paris and before they went to the Temple knights. Lambert’s father was to join, if they would have him.”

“They never came here,” Catherine said. “Father hasn’t seen them.”

Clemence looked up quickly. “How do you know?” she asked.

“I mean, he left before you say they came here.” Catherine hurried to cover her mistake. “Father’s been gone since before Lent.”

At that moment Samonie came back with the spiced cider and the information that Clemence’s cloak was steaming nicely. Clemence took the drink with thanks for Samonie and a worried glance at Catherine, who was inwardly cursing her own stupidity.

“As soon as the rain lets up, I’ll send Martin for my horse,” Edgar said. “Or did you ride here?”

“We have a mule,” Clemence told him, “But I left him with the sisters. The journey here almost finished the poor beast.”

“Fine, then I’ll take you back to attend to him,” Edgar said.

Catherine could tell that his temper was fraying once more. He had had little sleep and much worry the past few days.

As if to emphasize this, there was a flash of lightning followed immediately by the crash of thunder and hard upon it the rush of footsteps as Margaret ran down the stairs, carrying Edana.

“The oak tree in back by the stream is ablaze,” she gasped. “The lightning struck it as I watched. It was like a giant flaming finger!”

In her arms, Edana sucked her thumb in a state of unusual quiet.

“It’s a sign,” Clemence breathed.

“It certainly is,” Edgar said shortly. “Martin! Run and get Pagan, Archer and Giselbert! Tell them to put out the alarm. We have to make sure the fire doesn’t spread.”

“The roofs should be well drenched,” Catherine said, more to herself than for Clemence. “But the wind is fierce, and sparks could blow anywhere. Margaret, will you run to Hervice and ask for the loan of a bucket and her servants? Here, give me the baby.”

Samonie had already run to get their buckets and was out in the back garden with Edgar. Catherine watched them from the doorway, hoping that the neighbors would arrive before the branch hanging over the fence and above the merchant’s grain shed cracked and fell. The shed was thatch and wood and would certainly collapse from the weight of the branch whether it caught fire or not.

Edgar realized that if the branch were cut farther down toward the trunk, where the fire hadn’t yet reached, it could be levered to fall back into their property. He also knew that he couldn’t manage the ladder and saw himself.

Clemence scurried into a corner out of the way, as Martin returned
leading men who carried ladders, buckets already splashing with rainwater, saws and pruning hooks.

Catherine stepped aside to let them out into the garden.

“Trickster!” Edgar called, spotting Giselbert. “Bring that ladder over here. I think we can contain this if we hurry.”

Catherine was watching the activity when she heard a squeal from the hall.

“What is it?” she cried as she ran back in.

She found Margaret and Clemence holding a man by his belt as he struggled to free himself without hurting them.

BOOK: To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

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