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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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Margaret’s eyes grew round with fear. “I didn’t think it was like that here,” she said. “Remember, there are no Jews in Scotland. I’ve had to learn so much since I came to France.”

Catherine squeezed her hand. “I know, and the fact that Solomon is my cousin is somewhat confusing, I’m sure. We trust you with the secret. But with that trust there are responsibilities.”

Margaret sighed. “I’ll remember.”

“Good.” Catherine got up. “Now, while the chaos in the house has abated for a while, will you help me with a more pressing problem?”

“Of course.” Margaret was relieved that the lecture seemed to be over.

“It’s the matter of the body in the counting room,” she said as she led Margaret back down the hallway. “If we can’t find out who he was, we should at least try to learn why he was left with us.”

“How can I help? I don’t know what to look for,” Margaret said.

“I don’t either,” Catherine answered. “But this is the only room in the house that has its own lock. When we got here, the lock had been freshly oiled. Samonie told me she didn’t do it. The only thing I can think of is that someone knew about this room and went to the trouble of bringing oil so that he could pick the lock or to make a key turn more easily.”

“Does that mean it’s someone we know?” Margaret sounded fearful again.

“Not necessarily.” Catherine was speaking more to herself. “The house was empty for several weeks. If someone wanted to steal the supposed ‘treasure,’ then he surely would have expected it to be locked away.”

They entered the counting room. There were still crumbs on the floor from the cakes they had given Brother Baudwin and Master Durand. Rushes weren’t allowed in the room, no more than lamps. Hubert had had an exaggerated nervousness about books and fire.

Catherine went over to the book cabinet and examined the lock.

“That’s odd,” she said. “This one hasn’t been tampered with, that I can tell. Avoi, look Margaret. Do you see any scratches or oil?”

Margaret bent to study the lock. “No, it’s even a bit rusty.”

“Now why do you think someone would go to all the trouble of breaking into the house, into this room, and not try to open the one place where something valuable might be kept?” Catherine tapped her fingers on the wood in irritation.

“They were looking for something big?” Margaret guessed.

“Bigger than the book cabinet?” Catherine couldn’t imagine what that might be.

Margaret shrugged. “I was just guessing.”

“Well, your guess is as good as anyone’s,” Catherine assured her. “I don’t even have that much.”

Below they heard the gate opening. Margaret looked up in anticipation.

“It’s just Edgar coming home,” Catherine said. “I wonder how his talk with the wine sellers went?”

Then they heard voices. Catherine couldn’t make them out, but Margaret did. She was out the door and flying down the stairs so quickly that she missed the last three steps, throwing herself in a leap upon Solomon.

“Sweeting! You nearly knocked me down.” Solomon caught and held her. “Is that any way to …”

He realized that Margaret was sobbing hysterically.

“Margaret, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” he tried to pull the damp hair from her face.

“I thought they’d killed you!” she managed to say. “I thought you’d gone and died and left me behind! Solomon, Solomon, promise me you won’t die without me!”

“Of course, Margaret,” he said. “Or not at all, if you prefer.”

He patted her back as the sobs diminished to gasps for breath and quieter tears. As Catherine came down, he mouthed a question at her.

“What’s wrong?”

Catherine eased Margaret away from him and hugged her cousin, whispering sternly as she did.

“Solomon, we need to talk.”

Six

Paris, the home of Edgar and Catherine, Sunday 2 Ides May, (May 11), 1147: 10 Sivan, 4907. Feast of Saint Antimius, priest and prophet, who was saved by an angel from drowning in the Tiber, only to have his head cut off.

Et idcirco quæ in peccato originali est culpa … ad utrumque tamen tota redundat: in illam quidem quia peccavit in istum, quia peccanti consensit et peccatum illius consentiendo suum fecit.

Therefore, as to whom [Adam or Eve] is more guilty of original sin … it fills them both to the brim; she because she committed the sin, he because he agreed to the sin and allowed her to sin by consenting to it.

—Hugh of Saint Victor
De Sacramentis Christianæ Fidei
Book I, Part VII

I
t was long past sunset. The last of the spring twilight had faded but Catherine, Edgar and Solomon still sat in the hall, sipping their wine and edging around the topic most on their minds.

Finally, Solomon put down his cup. He could barely see the faces of the others in the flickering lamplight.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked abruptly.

“Of course not,” Edgar’s answer came quickly, with a firmness that satisfied Solomon of his sincerity.

Catherine took longer before she replied.

“You’re needed here.” She spoke slowly, unsure of how to give her suggestion without hurting her cousin. “You and Edgar must show that you can trade as dependably as Father and Uncle Eliazar did, if we’re to live. But it might be a good idea if Margaret were sent away for a time. Either to my brother or, if they’ll accept her, to the court of Count Thibault and Countess Mahaut at Troyes.”

Both men stared at her in horror.

“How can you even think of such a thing!” Edgar exclaimed. “After what she’s been through, to exile her as if she’d committed some grave sin!”

“You want to punish her for being fond of me?” Solomon was outraged.

Catherine stood up and went over to the cold hearth, kicking at–the rushes to release her own feelings. She turned back and faced Solomon and Edgar. It was easier to explain things when she could–look down into their faces.

“It’s exactly because Margaret has endured so much that I feel she should be somewhere else,” she said quietly. “Between the damage to her body and to her spirit, her humors are terribly unbalanced. Apart from the attack, dear Lord, she watched her mother murdered!”

Solomon winced. Catherine looked on him with pity. She knew how he blamed himself for not being able to save Adalisa. She would not have mentioned it but for the seriousness of the problem.

“I know very little about the scars Margaret bears in her heart or how best to heal them, but I do believe that she needs some place quiet to become whole again,” she finished.

“Well,
I
think she needs to be with those who love her most,” Solomon said.

“You certainly don’t believe that anyone would find peace at Vielleteneuse,” Edgar argued. “The children alone make the place as chaotic as a battlefield. And with preparations for the count’s son to go with the king to the Holy Land, the court of Champagne is no better. You saw for yourself that Thibault and Mahaut are constantly involved in adjudicating some dispute or other. A court is no place for my sister.”

Catherine rooted among the rushes with her toe for a moment. Both men had reasonable rejoinders to her proposition, but she still sensed that it was imperative that Margaret not be around Solomon until she was calmer and better able to understand the impossibility of her desires. She remembered how, at fourteen, she had fancied herself terribly fond of her uncle Roger. Three years at the convent of the Paraclete had given her time to realize how foolish that was.

“Of course!” she exclaimed. “What better place for Margaret to compose her mind, as well as be educated for whatever position she’ll have in her life. Mother Heloise will take her in, just as she did me.”

“What?” Solomon rose to protest. “No, not a convent! Not even that one.”

“I’m not suggesting she take the veil,” Catherine said. “She’s too young, in any case. Mother Heloise won’t let any woman make final vows before she’s eighteen. Margaret could join the students there. You must admit there’s no better place for her to improve her Latin.”

“Why should she?” Edgar wasn’t convinced. “She reads both French and English well enough. There’s no call for her to study Latin unless she wishes to enter the Church.”

Solomon was standing, too. “That I would never tolerate,” he said. “I promised her mother to care for her, not …”

He was abruptly interrupted.

“I don’t suppose any of you have considered that I might have an opinion in this.”

All three jumped as if lightning had struck the room.

“Margaret!” Catherine cried. “We thought you were asleep.”

“Obviously,” Margaret answered. Her lip trembled, and she bit it to steady herself. “I know that my worry for Solomon may have seemed excessive to you.” She took a deep breath. “Perhaps it caused my melancholic humor to influence my behavior. But that is no excuse for you deciding my future without consulting me.”

“Margaret, we would never …” Edgar started.

“I was only thinking of your welfare,” Catherine said.

“It’s my duty …” Solomon tried to explain.

Margaret just looked at them sadly.

“I do love you, Solomon,” she said. “Perhaps, as you say, my devotion is only as that of a daughter. I don’t know. I haven’t much knowledge of filial affection. You always seemed to care for me more than my own father ever did. Do you wonder that I return your kindness?”

Edgar had to agree with that. His father and Margaret’s had seen his children only as possessions. He was generally indifferent to them unless they opposed him. Edgar had vowed when James was born that he would never treat his son as Waldeve had treated him.

“None of us has denied Solomon the right your mother entrusted to him. Your welfare matters to all of us,” Edgar explained. “But, Margaret, you aren’t a child anymore, and you must understand why we’re concerned.”

Margaret’s hand went to the scar on her cheek. “Yes, I do. Catherine reminded me not long ago. But when we’re all home together, I forget that Solomon is an ‘infidel who must be shunned.”’

Solomon smiled tenderly at her. “I am grateful for that, my dear. I sometimes forget that you all are ‘idolators to be scorned.’”

He sighed and held out his hand. “Come sit with us, then. Do you want some wine? I know that you’re of an age to be consulted. But you’re still weak from all you’ve suffered. Catherine may be right. It would be better if you could be somewhere peaceful to regain your strength.”

Catherine was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. Perhaps her humors needed assistance, too.

“Look around us, Margaret.” She stretched her arm out, as if to include the whole of Paris. “The streets are full of warriors and pilgrims eager for glory, their swords hungry for blood. In the countryside people are starving, and mad heretics roam unchecked. Not a stone’s throw from here civilized scholars want to condemn a bishop for a point of theology so precise only ten people in the world can grasp the subtlety of it. And we’re under suspicion of having murdered a total stranger and locked him in our counting room. Why would you want to stay in this cauldron of wickedness?”

Catherine seemed on the edge of hysteria, herself. Edgar got up, put his arm around her waist and kissed her temple. Catherine buried her face in his tunic.

“It isn’t only Margaret who needs a respite,
carissima
,” he said to her. “Perhaps you should take the children and all of you pay a visit to the Paraclete.”

“And leave you here to face those men from the Temple?” Catherine exclaimed. “I would never do that!”

“That’s how I feel, Catherine,” Margaret added. “I know I’ve been unsettled lately, but now that Solomon’s back, I already feel much better. I want to help you. Please, don’t send me away.”

The other three looked at Margaret. The lamplight gave her pale skin and auburn hair a glow like ivory and flame. That and her tranquil dignity made her look like some otherworldly apparition that a word might dispel.

Solomon shook his head, astonished to feel tears on his cheeks. He took a draught of his wine, letting the cup hide his face.

“Edgar?” Margaret reached out to him.

Edgar released Catherine and took his sister in his arms. “I’m not our father,” he whispered. “I won’t force you, only beg you to consider my advice.”

Catherine sat down next to Solomon. She took his chin and turned his face away from Margaret’s to hers. The pain she saw in him struck her deeply. The matter wasn’t settled. She realized that he understood his own feelings even less than Margaret did hers. Catherine vowed to stay watchful of them both lest it end in worse than tears.

The next day was clear with a southern wind that promised summer. All of Paris seemed to take a deep breath and move more slowly. Benches were set up outside the taverns, and shops lowered their shutters to use as counters to display their wares. The street of the drapers was festooned with fluttering ribbons, feathers and sparkling glass and bead ornaments.

Catherine barely glanced at them as she made her way to the
rue des juives
. The night before, lying next to Edgar, she had made up her mind, but the decision didn’t rest easily. She feared that what she contemplated was a sin. The theologians weren’t completely certain on the matter. She only hoped that, if it were, one day, far into the future, she might feel enough contrition to repent.

She knocked at the door, trying to look as if she had a perfectly innocent reason for her visit. She had brought a basket of early greens from her garden as a gift.

The maid who opened the door smiled at her in a kindly fashion, but Catherine was so sure that her mission was written on her face that she drew back and stumbled over her words.

“My … my name is Catherine, daughter of Hubert LeVendeur,” she said. “That is, Johanna and Eliazar who used to live nearby, they’re … they’re friends of mine. Johanna once told me … um … I mean, is Rebecca at home?”

“I believe so,” the maid said. “I’ll go see. Would you wait here in the court?”

She stepped back to let Catherine pass through the dark hallway
and out into the inner yard. Gratefully, Catherine perched on the side of a copper washtub and tried to collect herself.

“Catherine!” Rebecca came out almost at once. “I haven’t seen you since Johanna left for Troyes! How delightful! How are your children? Please, have some cider and cake.”

She had brought out a pair of folding stools, and the maid set them up before leaving to fetch the cider.

Catherine felt herself blushing at the welcome. “I’m happy to see you, as well. We’ve only just returned to Paris. I know Solomon and Edgar will be coming by soon to discuss buying wines with your husband, but”—she bit her lip—“I must confess that I wanted to see you alone. Long ago, Johanna said something that made me think perhaps you could help me.”

She paused and looked down. “My last birth was a hard one and the baby too weak to survive the winter and the midwife said …”

Rebecca put her hand over Catherine’s.

“Don’t be ashamed, my dear.” She smiled. “You’re not the first Christian woman who’s come to me for instruction. Why don’t we have something to eat and drink? Tell me what news you have from dear Johanna. Then we’ll go up to my room, and I’ll show you what you need to do.”

The conversation of the night before had been a forceful reminder to Solomon and Edgar that they were now responsible for the survival of the family. They were up in the storage room making an inventory of goods when Martin announced the visitor.

“A man from Flanders, by his accent,” the boy said. “Says he bought a horse from you once. He’s waiting in the hall.”

“Remind me to have Catherine explain to Martin about getting the names of our visitors,” Edgar said, as they went down.

“I’d also like him to find out if they want to complain about a bad bargain or make a new one,” Solomon answered. “I want to know in advance if I’ll need to defend myself.”

The man waiting for them didn’t seem belligerent. He was older and shorter than either of them, his brown hair, what was left of it, greying. He rose as they entered and gave them a nervous smile.

“You may not remember me,” he addressed Solomon. “I’m Bertulf, of Picardy. Several years ago my lord Osto and I bought a horse from you and your former partners at the fair in Troyes.”

“Yes, you do seem familiar,” Solomon squinted to see him better. “It was a Spanish bay, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, a fine animal. We bred him to our lowland mares, and the results were excellent.” Bertulf paused.

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

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