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Authors: Sharan Newman

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BOOK: Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur)
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“What have I got us into?” she murmured.
Fortunately, her musings were interrupted by Edgar. “Catherine!” he called. “Come down here. You have to see this. Maruxa and Roberto can walk on their hands!”
Catherine decided to worry later.
 
Maruxa had tied her skirts up the middle with her scarf, making billowy pants to tumble in. Roberto caught her heels as she turned upside down and then vaulted her over his shoulders. She landed in a somersault, then sprang to her feet to cheers from the group circled around them. Even some of the monks had come from the separate camp of the abbot to watch.
The noise finally reached the Lady Griselle, resting in the tent her guards had set up for her. She sent her maid to find out what was happening. When she and then the guards didn’t return, Griselle decided to go see for herself.
As she left the tent, she was startled to find a man at her side, offering his arm. Not Gaucher or Rufus, but that merchant, Hubert. Her first impulse was to ignore him. Then she looked at his face and changed her mind.
“Thank you,” she said, in a voice no one had heard since her husband died. “It’s kind of you to help me.”
“I am honored to be of service to you,” Hubert answered.
They said no more until they reached the place where the jongleurs were performing. Then Hubert lowered his arm, bowed and left her to rejoin his family.
“That was very thoughtful of you, Father,” Catherine said. “All her servants had deserted her.”
Eliazar was more observant. He waited until the performance was over, then took his brother aside. “Are you mad?” he asked quietly. “Her guards will kill you, if those idiot knights don’t. And what will your daughter think, you and that woman while Catherine’s mother is still alive? You have a wife; it doesn’t matter to the others that she’s shut up in a convent.”
“Eliazar, I only gave the lady my arm, not my soul,” Hubert answered.
Eliazar wasn’t convinced. “The least you could do is find a nice Jewish widow,” he muttered.
“If we meet one taking a pilgrimage to Santiago, I’ll offer her my arm as well,” Hubert promised.
Eliazar spat on the ground. “Between you and that nephew of ours, I’ll not survive this trip and then you can have my widow, if you want one so badly.”
Hubert sighed. He reflected, as Catherine had, that the journey had scarcely begun. He, too, wondered just what he had got himself into.
 
The moon was near to setting when Catherine opened her eyes. The Milky Way, the
Via Lactea
of the Romans, arched across the sky, a pathway leading to the shrine of Saint James. Catherine would have liked to lie quietly under its glow, but she knew what had wakened her. Just once she’d like to sleep through a night without having to find a chamber pot. As she started to get up, she remembered where she was.
“Oh, no,” she moaned.
There was nothing for it. She’d have to find a nice clump of bushes and hope the grass wasn’t too prickly. At least the night was chilly enough that she was sleeping in her clothes.
She eased out from under the blanket, trying not to let the cold air in to awaken Edgar, and stumbled to the edge of the campsite. She found a hollow fairly well sheltered from wind and the eyes of anyone awake, checked the slope, raised her skirts and squatted.
That was when she heard something in the bushes.
Her first thought was that it was a wild animal. The growl sounded a bit like a wolf’s. A small, not very fierce wolf. A wolf making funny, high-pitched yips in the back of its throat. A wolf that said, “Oh, oh, yes, more … more! Ohhh …”
Oh, dear.
Catherine considered her options. She was hardly in a position to sneak away. Waddle, maybe. No, she wasn’t even sure she could do that. She really couldn’t stay like this much longer. She had waited too long before getting up in the first place. She vowed that she would stop drinking wine in the evening, but it was too late for that now. As she let go, she hoped the couple wasn’t downhill from her.
They didn’t seem to notice anything. As Catherine started to ease herself up, the man gave one last, gurgling cry and then was silent.
Catherine crouched again.
After a moment, she heard the rustle as someone made a path out of the thicket. Through the branches, Catherine caught a glimpse of a dark, hooded figure.
No wonder Mondete didn’t think she deserved my charity,
Catherine thought with a stab of disappointment.
She hasn’t repented her life at all
.
She was terribly curious as to who the man was. He hadn’t appeared yet, probably waiting until Mondete was safely back to camp. Then it struck her that it might be Solomon. It hadn’t sounded like him, but the voice had been muffled.
Catherine didn’t want to know. She couldn’t face her cousin after hearing that cry. On reflection, whoever it was, it would be hard to look at that person in the same way again.
Not caring anymore if she were heard, Catherine backed out of the clump of bushes and hurried across the field to the comfort of her warm husband.
 
The next morning, Catherine wasn’t sure if she had been dreaming, but the bits of grass on her feet indicated that at least part of the experience had been real. She thought of telling
Edgar, but it didn’t seem right. It was Mondete’s salvation that was at stake. She would just have to find a time to try to discuss it with the woman privately.
The thought was not appealing.
 
They had finished packing and loading the horse for the day in a pattern that was becoming increasingly routine when they heard a commotion from the other side of the camp. Along with everyone else, they hurried to see what it was.
The shouting grew louder as they approached; then there was a wail of grief that tore at Catherine’s ears and heart.
“NO … !” The one word seemed to go on forever, and then to echo across the plain …“NO … !”
Then she realized that there were two cries, lamenting together.
She couldn’t see over the heads of the people, but Edgar was tall enough. “What is it?” she asked him.
“Gaucher of Mâcon and Rufus of Arcy,” Edgar said. “They’re the ones screaming. Move, Catherine, they’re coming this way, carrying something.”
Catherine moved aside as Gaucher and Rufus came out of the thicket, carrying the body of Hugh of Grignon.
She didn’t want to look. She wasn’t going to look. She looked anyway. She had to know.
This wasn’t a natural death. Hugh’s throat had been cut wide open.
Involuntarily, Catherine’s hand went to her own throat. It appeared that now she would have to tell someone about Mondete Ticarde.
Near Figeac, Wednesday, May 6, 1142; The Feast of Saint John before the Latin Gate, on the occasion of his surviving a bath in boiling oil previous to his exile on Patmos.
 
Deus qui diligentibus te misericordiam tuam semper impendis et a servientibus tibi in nulla es regione longincus, dirige viam famulorum tuorum illorum in voluntata tua, ut te protectore et te perducente periusitie semitas sine offensione gradiantur.
 
O God, you who always grant your mercy to those who love you and are in no place far from those who serve you, direct the paths of these servants of yours in your will, so that they may, without offense, walk the paths of justice with you as their guide.
Liturgy of the Pilgrimage
Missal of Vich 1038
 
 
“
V
enerable Father.” Brother James bowed to Abbot Peter. “It grieves me to have to report this, but there was a murder last night among the pilgrims. One of the men wandered only a little away from the campsite and was apparently set upon by brigands. The others are in a panic. They’re begging you to allow them to travel among us under the protection of our guards rather than following behind.”
The abbot considered the information, his forehead creased in thought. “Brigands, you say?” he asked. “Didn’t the pilgrims set a watch?”
“They say they did,” Brother James answered.
“Yet no one saw or heard the men who attacked their comrade?”
Brother James had just dealt with a crowd of hysterical people, all talking at once and all apparently thinking it was up to him to do something. He hadn’t stopped to ask many questions.
“I don’t know, Lord Abbot,” he answered. “No one mentioned it. His companions say he was robbed, however.”
“His companions might have killed and robbed him themselves,” Peter suggested. “Was the murdered man a dependent of Cluny?”
“I’m afraid so,” Brother James sighed. “His name was Hugh of Grignon. He deeded us property and two mills for his soul and that of his wife and asked for burial among us.”
“Well, that won’t be possible now,” Peter answered. “See to it that he’s taken to our priory at Figeac and buried there. If his relatives protest, tell them that the honor is the same. Saint
Peter will hear their prayers whether the man lies in the Auvergne or in Burgundy.”
“And what of the guards for the pilgrims?” Brother James asked.
Peter studied his fingers for a moment. “There are several women in that group,” he said at last. “More than usual and younger than usual. I will need some sort of guarantee that they not be allowed to wander among the monks or lay brothers. If they swear to that, tell the pilgrims they may camp within the circle of our guards. Tell two of the guards to ride behind them, but only if the pilgrims can keep up with us. We can’t wait for people determined to make the trip on their knees.”
“Thank you, Lord Abbot.” Brother James bowed again. He turned to go.
“Brother James,” Abbot Peter added.
The monk turned back. “Yes, Lord Abbot?”
“I want you to be sure that this was done by robbers from the woods and not by other members of the party. Aren’t there also two Jews among them, with a letter from our friend, Abbot Suger?”
“This is true, my lord,” Brother James said. “I’ve seen them. But devious as those people are, I can’t believe they would be so stupid as to commit murder like this. They know they would be among the first suspected.”
“It may have been done in anger,” Peter said. “The man might have insulted one of their practices or reneged on a debt. Or, as I said, his own companions may have killed him and placed the blame on brigands. Or, finally, it may be just as it appears, a killing for gold by the outlaws in the forest. I rely on you to discover the truth of the matter. Get Brother Rigaud to help you.”
Brother James reflected that the venerable abbot did not suggest how he was to find the truth. But all the monk said was, “Thank you, Lord Abbot. With God’s help, it shall be done.”
 
Catherine stewed all morning, trying to decide what to do. Perhaps the person she had seen wasn’t Mondete. She had had only a glimpse of a cloak in the night. She had assumed it was
the prostitute on the basis of the activity she had overheard. Or, Catherine considered, the man with the woman might not have been Hugh. She didn’t know when the knight had been killed. He might have come to the bushes sometime later for the same purpose Catherine had and been attacked then. If the brigands had come up quietly behind him, he might have had no time to call for help. And who went armed to the privy?
But, she flipped again, there was that awful gurgling sound. Catherine’s experience was limited, but she didn’t think the sound was normal in carnal activity. Edgar never gurgled. The rustlings she had listened to from dark corners and through bed curtains when she was a child had never ended in gurgling. Occasionally in gasps, giggles and moans that made her curious, but nothing worse.
And what about the blood? If he had been on top of Mondete and she slit his throat, then the woman would have been awash in gore. She couldn’t have just casually gone back to her pallet and to sleep … unless she had simply wrapped herself up in the cloak.
Saint Ida’s arrogance! Why did she have to think of that? Catherine realized that she didn’t want Mondete to be a murderer, or a whore either, for that matter, for Solomon’s sake, if not for the woman’s own. Still, the questions had to be reasoned out logically. It wouldn’t do to accuse someone unless she were very certain. But if she were certain, then her duty was clear.
There was only one way to know. She went to find Mondete.
 
Pilgrimages don’t stop long for death. Once the body has been cared for and prayers said, it’s necessary to move on. When a vow has been made to visit the saints, it cannot be broken and ought not be delayed. Therefore, the pilgrims were already preparing to continue the journey, albeit with more seriousness and a greater sense of dread than before.
Mondete, having less to pack than anyone else, was sitting on a stone in the field, waiting. Not far from her, seated on the grass, was Solomon. He didn’t notice Catherine coming up behind him.
“Some of it is in Ezekiel and Isaiah,” he was saying, “but other parts of it have been passed down from master to pupil for a thousand years. Only, no one seems to have the whole of it. I can only find pieces, and they won’t fit together.”
Mondete made no response. She may have thought that if she ignored Solomon, he would get tired and go away. Catherine knew him better than that.
“You’ve found a sliver of the Truth, all on your own,” Solomon continued. “If you tell me what it is, I might be able to finally make the picture whole. You may have the piece of knowledge I’ve been looking for.”
Mondete swung around on the rock. Catherine tried to see if her cloak was stained with blood, but there was so much dirt from the road and dried mud from the river that it was impossible to tell. The woman raised her hands in exasperation. Her nails were long and filthy, but Catherine saw no trace of blood there, either. She didn’t think Mondete could have washed herself enough to remove any signs of murder and yet leave her nails like that.
If Mondete saw Catherine staring at her, she gave no indication of it. All her attention was on Solomon.
“What must I do to convince you that I have no secrets?” she asked. “I am only what they say I am, a
bordelere
and a
meretrix
, who would spread her legs or anything else for anyone with money, including you.”
Solomon wasn’t impressed. “Then why are you here?” he asked. “What happened to change your life?”
Mondete dropped her hands. “Others will tell you that, too. Perhaps I got too old, or became diseased. Perhaps I smelled the sulfur of Hell in some man’s sweat and suddenly feared for my soul. What difference does it make to you?”
Solomon rubbed his forehead as if it ached. He closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “It just does. I don’t wish to torment you. But there is something; I feel it. You may not even be aware of what it is.”
“You’re wrong,” Mondete answered. “You sense nothing more than desolation. That’s all I can give you, and I sense that you already have enough of that of your own.”
Solomon didn’t answer. Nor did he move. Mondete pulled her hands and feet back inside her cloak.
Catherine decided not to bother them now.
 
“The rings are gone, Gaucher,” Rufus said. “I looked in his pack and his scrip. Nothing else is missing.” His voice was shaking in panic.
“The thieves may not have had time to take more,” Gaucher answered. “Stop trembling so. You look like a man with quartan fever.”
Rufus bridled in anger. “Don’t pretend you’re not afraid, Gaucher. I saw your face when we picked up poor Hugh.”
Gaucher looked away, then back. His face was stern. “It’s hardly the first time we’ve seen a man with his throat cut, or a friend slaughtered,” he said firmly. “We’ve become soft living in our keeps with no real fighting to do.”
“First Norbert, now Hugh,” Rufus said. “Pig balls in your pack and that ring. I can see Hugh prizing the stone out even now. He broke a blade-tip on it. But I can’t remember the hand it was on.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Gaucher insisted, running his hands through his hair. “We’re the only ones alive who were there then.”
“How do you know?” Rufus asked. “Anyway, you’re forgetting Rigaud, if you can call what he’s doing now living.”
“I don’t think he slipped out of his cloister and came down here on the chance that Hugh would pick that moment to empty his bladder,” Gaucher sneered.
“I don’t mean that he killed old Hugh,” Rufus answered. “Only that there could be someone else, maybe one of the guards or the lay brothers. You said there could be a Saracen hidden among the men Bishop Stephen brought with him.”
“I don’t know anymore what to think or who to fear,” Gaucher sighed. “But we have to go on, are we agreed on that?”
“Yes,” Rufus said. “But I’m wondering now, if we can even find it after so long, maybe we shouldn’t try to sell it. It might be better for our souls if we simply gave it back or made an offering of it to Saint James.”
“Don’t go on about your soul, Rufus,” Gaucher answered. “It’s too late for that. Norbert spent years preparing for this. We aren’t going to fail him now.”
 
Edgar had been waiting impatiently for Catherine. “What kept you?” he asked. “Your father and Eliazar are ready to set out.”
“Is Solomon with them?” she asked.
“No, but he’ll catch up; he always does,” Edgar said. “I was worried about you. Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said. “No. I don’t know. I’ll tell you all about it tonight.”
Edgar knew that mood. He didn’t press her. “We’ll be in Figeac by evening,” he said. “We can get our shoes resoled and maybe find a private corner with a mattress.”
Catherine smiled. He always knew how to cheer her. “Even more, I’d like to find a bathhouse,” she said, fingering her greasy braids. “The only thing good about having hair this filthy is that the curl is pulled out of it. Your hair could use washing as well, you know. I would be happy to do yours at the same time as my own.”
Edgar smiled. Catherine had ways of cheering him, too.
 
Brother James was shocked by Brother Rigaud’s reaction to the news of the murder.
“You knew the man?” he repeated. “Why didn’t you tell me that you’d fought alongside Hugh of Grignon?”
“Why should I?” Rigaud answered. “It’s from a life I wish to forget. I renounced all of that when I took my vows. Do I ask you about what you were before you came to Cluny?”
“I’ve never made a secret of it,” James bridled.
“Nor did I,” Rigaud said. “But I saw no reason to give all the names of the men who were my companions or my friends. That was more than twenty years ago.”
“But they knew you, you said?” Brother James asked. “They approached you?”
“They tried to,” Rigaud answered. “I repulsed them, consigned them to Hell unless they joined me in my conversion. They laughed at me, of course. So you can see that I’m not the
person to question Gaucher and Rufus concerning Hugh’s death.”
James scratched his chin, where the dark beard was again in need of a razor. “I would think you’d be the best one to question them,” he said. “They couldn’t lie as easily to you. However, let me try at first. I’ll tell you their replies and let you judge their veracity. In return, I want you to speak with that merchant from Paris and his Jewish friends.”
Rigaud rubbed the back of his neck. Ever since Gaucher had slapped him on the back at Le Puy, there had been a kink in it. “But, Brother James, if Hugh was killed by one of the
ribaux
that lurk in the woods, what is the point of questioning any of these people?” he asked.
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