The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (5 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

BOOK: The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery
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“That’s all I did, my dear Denise,” Lanval assured her. “I only looked for those who didn’t appear to be in some state of holy frenzy and greeted them in a friendly manner.”
“I saw you talking with some woman,” one of the others charged. “From her expression, you were doing more than greeting.”
Lanval gave his friend a disgusted glance. “I admit, I was intrigued by her. She gave all the food she had brought to the beggars, and even some of her clothing.”
“So you were praising her for her generosity?” Denise’s tone told the others that she doubted this.
“No, I confess that I was berating her for having so much that she could give and not suffer for it.” Lanval hung his head.
“I knew it,” Denise said. “My darling, you mustn’t take such risks, not yet. Do you want to be condemned before you’re even heard?”
Lanval was not completely convinced. “If we’re never heard, then our cause will die and the world will continue in its squalor. Would you have me watch souls damn themselves and say nothing?”
“No, Lanval,” Denise said tenderly. “I would have you wait until we reach Köln and are among others who share the faith. Then we can preach in a voice so loud, all of Christendom will hear us.”
“Amen,” the others chorused.
They finished their bread, banked the fire and rolled up in their thin cloaks for the night.
Vézelay sheltered many sorts of pilgrims and, to some, it didn’t matter if Edessa were free or not, for the Apocalypse would soon level all cities and only the chosen would survive.
Troyes, Champagne, the home of Eliazar, Catherine’s uncle. Thursday, 2 nones April (April 4), 1146; 19 Nisan, 4906. The feast of Saint Ambrose, who forebade the pope to rebuild a synogogue the people of Rome had burnt; the fifth day of Passover.
 
 
1146: Ex Libris Sibillinis ad votum interpretatis regi Franciae ituro
Iherusolimam magnificam falso promuntur.
 
 
1146: Success was falsely promised by the books of the Sibillines for the journey of the French king, as he had vowed, to Jerusalem.
 
—
Lamberti Parvi Annales A
 
 
H
ubert’s brother, Eliazar, looked across the small table at his wife, Johanna. The candlelight was gentle on her face, the lines smoothed. He could almost imagine her the shy yet hopeful girl he had married so many years before. So many years.
The two of them sat alone, eating their unleavened bread and chicken. They should have had children and grandchildren around them, but the Holy One, blessed be He, had not seen fit to grant them any. Instead they had been given their nephew, Solomon, to raise when his father had been lost and his mother died. He had given them all the joy that a son would have and also all the worry.
Johanna smiled at her husband. She knew that was what he was fretting about.
“Solomon is a good boy,” she said. “He knows better than to start trouble when he’s among the Christians.”
Eliazar grunted. “He won’t start it, but he won’t run from it, either.”
“True.” Johanna took the bowls and got up to take them to the kitchen. They had no servant tonight. Then she stopped and hesitated before speaking.
“But my dearest, don’t you wish more of us were like him?” she said. “Don’t you hate having to rely for our safety on the strength of a prince or a bishop who might turn on us at any moment?”
“Of course I do!” Eliazar’s stool tipped over as he stood. “But we must, just like the priests and the peasants do, or be constantly vulnerable to attack. Solomon should have lived in the days of the Maccabees when we could form an army and drive out the infidels. But those days are gone and …”
“And his courage endangers us all,” Johanna finished. “I know and I fear for him every moment. But I’m proud of him, too.”
“So am I,” Eliazar admitted. He looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “It’s lonely here.”
It was lonely and so quiet that the creaking of the hinges of the front door caused them both to jump.
“Aunt Johanna? Uncle?”
The subject of their discussion entered the room. Solomon’s face fell when he saw that they had finished their meal.
“My dear boy,” Johanna exclaimed. “You startled me! We didn’t think you’d be here before Friday. Don’t look so glum. I’ll find you food. Lord knows what
treyf
you’ve been eating among the Edomites.”
Solomon gave her a lopsided smile.
“It’s better that you don’t think about it, Aunt.”
Johanna hurried to the kitchen, shaking her head and muttering that she must have done something wrong in the raising of him.
With a sigh of exhaustion, Solomon plopped himself on a cushion on the floor.
“Did she make cinnamon wine sauce?” he asked.
“She did,” Eliazar told him.
His nephew sighed contentedly and let his head fall back against the wall. His eyes closed.
Eliazar waited a moment.
“We do have beds, you know,” he said mildly.
Solomon sat upright again. “And it will be a rare treat to sleep in one, but I intend to eat first. Aunt Johanna can make matzoh taste like manna.”
“Solomon, what’s wrong?” Eliazar cut through the platitudes.
His nephew had a look about him that Eliazar had never seen before. Solomon had always had a streak of intolerance for the world he lived in, but this was more like contempt.
“I’ve never seen it so bad out there,” Solomon told him. “Bernard of Clairvaux could convince a Saracen to take arms against his own brother. These people listen to him and go off with their hearts full of the wrongs done, not just to the Church or the Christians in the Holy Land, but to the body of their savior over a thousand years ago. And you know who they blame for that.”
Eliazar glanced toward the kitchen and lowered his voice.
“Have there been any incidents?”
“Not yet, but I believe it’s only a matter of time before someone decides the Jews should be killed or at least baptized before the soldiers take the long journey to the Holy Land.”
Eliazar closed his eyes. He had been in Paris when word had come that his mother and sisters and, he believed, his baby brother had been slaughtered by the fanatics on their way to Jerusalem in 1096. If the soldiers were to start purging the towns of Jews, he knew he would rather die with his people than receive such news again.
“Solomon.” He swallowed to keep his voice from shaking. “Don’t go back out there. Stay in the community. Count Thibault and Bishop Henri won’t let anyone hurt us. Out among madmen, who knows what could happen?”
“Uncle! You’re letting your fear create demons,” Solomon answered. “I can take care of myself. And I refuse to hide behind a bishop’s wall. In any case, most of the time no one knows what I am. It’s not as if I have some badge on my chest proclaiming, ‘Here comes a Jew.’”
“That doesn’t comfort me,” Eliazar said.
Solomon got up, and put his arms around his uncle. “I know what you fear most and I can promise you that I’ll never convert, not for anyone, not with a knife at my throat. I may not be a good Jew who knows the Talmud by heart, but I’m a determined one.”
“I know that, Solomon,” Eliazar whispered. “May I be forgiven, but for you what I truly fear most is
qiddush ha-Shem
.”
“Do you know, I’d never considered it.” Solomon sounded surprised. “I’d rather go down fighting than make a sacrifice of myself. But, if it came to that, wouldn’t you rather I died by my own hand in sanctification of the Holy Name, than submit to baptism?”
“I hope so,” Eliazar answered. “But you’re all we have. I don’t know if I could be as pure in my faith as Abraham was to give Isaac.”
Solomon gave him a firm pat on the back. “Then let’s assume the question will never arise. Now, where is my dinner?”
Eliazar tried to put the worry from his mind, but it lay there all night and woke with him the following day. He was willing to be martyred for the faith, if necessary. But at times like these he would
rather hide with those he loved until the danger passed than court martyrdom. He hoped that the Lord would forgive him for it, but dying was the very last thing he wanted to do, and he wanted to put it off a good many more years.
 
Agnes had returned to Paris along with the faithful Jehan, as well as the guards and waiting women sent from Blois. Now that she had her entourage, Agnes started preparing for the journey in ernest.
Catherine and Edgar brought their family back, satisfied with their view of great events and settled back into normal life.
A few days later, Walter of Grancy arrived at their door. Catherine greeted him with delight but also surprise.
“What brings you to Paris?” she asked. “I thought you had gone back to Grancy until the mustering.”
“Actually,” he told her, “I was wondering if your sister needed someone to watch out for her on the road to Trier.”
“I don’t know,” Catherine answered. “We can ask. But why would you want to take such trouble?”
“It will be months before the king is ready to set out,” Walter explained. “But I’m prepared now. I’ve donated most of my land to Saint Peter through the monks of Cluny. I’ve settled my debts. I suppose I could begin the journey on my own, but I’d rather be part of Louis’s army. However, I have nothing to do until then. So, if you need someone to accompany your sister to Germany, I’m happy to offer myself as escort. I spent some years in the service of the duke of Burgundy and the old emperor and I speak the language.”
Hubert was pleased with the offer, since Walter was not only well born, but huge, strong and skilled at fighting. Unlike Jehan, no one had ever bested him in a tournament. Having him at one’s side was almost as good as traveling with a whole troop of retainers. But Hubert knew that the final decision must rest with Agnes.
“I understand,” Walter said. “I’ll go at once to ask her.”
“Tell her I will pay your expenses,” Hubert said. “You and I will settle that. It’s not for her to worry about.”
Walter was known to the nuns and admitted without question. Agnes knew him by reputation and seemed pleased to meet him. She said at once that she would be happy for his company on the road.
It did occur to him that she might not know of his friendship with Catherine and Edgar. He felt it only right to tell her. She received the news calmly enough, with only one reservation.
“Does that affect your loyalty to me?” Agnes asked.
“In no way,” Walter promised.
“Then we shan’t discuss it again.” Agnes closed the subject decidedly.
Walter was intrigued by Agnes’s decision to marry so far away. Before he left, he had to ask her why.
“My grandfather knew Lord Gerhardt’s uncle, back when they both fought at Antioch. He thinks it will be an advantageous alliance,” she answered.
It didn’t satisfy Walter.
“But the language will be difficult for you,” he told her. “The Germans have different customs than ours and, what’s more, they put something in their beer that makes it bitter. But most of all, if you need help, you’ll have no kin around to stand up for you.”
Agnes’s lips tightened. “I’m not afraid of that,” she said. “Nor of the language. If Edgar can learn French, I can certainly learn German.”
“I’m sure you can,” Walter said. “But to be so far from family makes life doubly hard. I have no one and yet it pains me to be leaving my home, even for the Holy Land.”
Agnes appeared insulted.
“My reasons aren’t your concern,” she said. “And I can’t possibly get too far from my family. Once the arrangements here are made, I’ll be happy never to see them again.”
Walter shook his head. Her words made no sense to him. “That reminds me,” he added. “I have a message from your sister. She wants to know when you wish to meet to divide your mother’s jewelry.”
“Tell Catherine to come tomorrow so that we can make a list,” Agnes said. “I want to get this over with.”
Edgar was waiting outside when Walter left the convent.
“She’s beautiful,” Walter said, to no one in particular. “But not at all like Catherine.”
“She’s as arrogant as Matilda Empress,” Edgar said. “And yet Catherine still loves her.”
“Odd,” Walter commented. “Your wife never struck me as one
who misjudges the nature of people. Perhaps her sister is not as haughty as she appears.”
Edgar didn’t want to argue with Walter so he said no more. The two men strolled across the bridge to the Île, stopping to look at some cloth samples and to listen a moment to a preacher who stood on a wooden box between two stalls.
“Brothers! Heed me!” the man exhorted. “The day of Judgement is near! Mankind wallows in greed and blasphemy. Heretics and infidels walk freely through our lands. The holy city of Rome has become Sodom. The time for the cleansing is coming. Will you be among the saved?”
Walter shook his head. “I’d like them to preach something more definite. Those signs have been around for a long time. Now, if there were an earthquake or the sun dripping blood, then I’d know that the Apocalypse was at hand.”
“There are some that say that the fall of Edessa is a sign,” Edgar commented, his mouth full of the hot
gauffre
he had just bought. The honey on the pastry burned his tongue.
“Not good enough,” Walter answered. “A pestilence, now, I’d believe that, or a rain of frogs.”
“You’re a hard man to please, Walter,” Edgar said panting to cool his mouth. “And dangerous. The person who insists upon a sign of doom is most likely to receive one.”
“Move away from me, then.” Walter laughed. “The lightning will probably strike any time now.”
They meandered back across the Île de la Cite, stopping at a tavern Edgar knew well from his student days and finally arrived back home as twilight was fading.
Hubert greeted them with a grunt of annoyance.
“You reek of beer,” he told them.
“We filled a jug for you.” Edgar held it out.
“Oh. In that case.” Hubert took the clay bottle and drank deeply from it. He wiped his mouth. “Thank you. I needed something.”
“What’s wrong, Sir?” Walter asked.

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