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Authors: Sharan Newman

Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) (30 page)

BOOK: Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur)
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She wished she dared ask Solomon how he felt about it all. But he had refused to speak to anyone, even Mondete.
After Mass, the pilgrims started out again. If the weather held, they would reach Pamplona today, the home of the king of Navarre. The next day they would come to Puenta la Reina, where all the pilgrimage routes met. From thereon at this time of year, the Way of Saint James would be as crowded as Paris on market days, or so she had been told.
Catherine had fallen asleep without eating and then waited until late morning before getting the bread. As she left the hostel, she felt dizzy and stumbled against the Lady Griselle.
“I beg your pardon,” she murmured as she was steadied.
“Not at all,” Griselle answered. “Let me help you to your horse. Are you quite well, my dear?”
“I just forgot to eat,” Catherine assured her.
“Fasting won’t help you conceive,” Griselle said. “I tried that, along with everything else. Sometimes it just doesn’t happen.”
“It does to me,” Catherine said sadly. “All the time. But the babies never survive.”
“Oh.” Griselle paused, then said decisively, “all the more reason to eat. And perhaps Saint James will take pity on you and grant your request.”
“Yes, thank you,” Catherine said. “And thank you for your kindness to my father. I haven’t seen him so alive in a long time.”
Griselle seemed embarrassed. “Not at all. He’s very kind to amuse me on the journey and to protect me from those
filz a frarine
, Gaucher and Rufus. Excuse me.”
She waved to attract the attention of her guard, who changed direction to meet her.
Edgar set Catherine on the horse, and today she had no complaint. He gave her a hunk of cheese to nibble on but she had no appetite for it. She couldn’t understand why she was still so tired. Sleep was all she wanted.
The road to Pamplona was hilly and rough. At the top of one steep climb, Catherine looked to her left and realized that they were again following a river.
“What it’s called?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Edgar answered. He looked around for someone who knew the area.
“Roberto and Maruxa.” He spotted them farther up in the line. “Good. I was afraid they had left ahead of us. Catherine, you ask Maruxa about the terrain. I want to find out from Roberto what he knows about this ring.”
Catherine could barely keep her head up, but she agreed to keep Maruxa busy while Edgar questioned Roberto.
The
jongleurs
seemed startled when Edgar and Catherine appeared. They had been trudging steadily up and down, not speaking to anyone. Roberto was softly playing his
fristel
, seven-tubed pipes. The tune was mournful.
“
Diex vos saut
,” Edgar said. “We were curious about the name of the river here. Do you know it?”
“The Arga,” Maruxa said. “It flows through Pamplona. We’ll follow it all the way to the city.”
Edgar nudged Catherine.
“And then what?” she asked as Edgar lifted his arms to help her dismount. “After Puenta la Reina, how much farther will it be?”
Maruxa studied Catherine’s face. What she saw there seemed to worry her. “At least two more weeks,” she said, “and the land is empty in many places, and dry. There are ponds whose water is bad. You can see the bones of the horses that drank from them and died. The Navarrese direct the pilgrims there and then come and steal their belongings and skin the horses for the leather. Don’t buy leather in Navarre.”
Catherine nodded. “Very well. And then what?”
Maruxa put her hand on Catherine’s forehead. “Are you well,
p’tite aucel?
” she asked. “You feel cool enough, but you don’t seem yourself.”
“I’m sorry.” Catherine yawned. “I’m only sleepy. I can’t seem to wake up today.”
“You need a tonic,” Maruxa said. “Let me see what I have in my bag.”
 
In the meantime, Edgar had taken Roberto over to the side of the road. “I was told that you are the one who accused Catherine’s father of stealing a ring from the man who had his throat cut near Conques,” he said without preamble.
“I accused no one!” Roberto said indignantly. “I only mentioned that I had seen a gold ring with a hole where a stone would go when Hubert emptied out his purse to pay for his wine. That’s all. It seemed odd to me.”
“So you went at once to Gaucher and Rufus to tell them?” Edgar asked.
“No!” Roberto said. “I mentioned it only to Maruxa. They were at the table as well. They must have overheard.”
“But you did see this ring?” Edgar asked. “You’re sure it was before Hubert was searched?”
“Yes, the night before.” Robert raised his hand. “I swear it. What reason would I have to lie?”
“I can think of several,” Edgar said. “They paid you, they threatened you, or perhaps you simply remembered incorrectly.”
“None of those,” Roberto said. “By the callused palms of Santo Domingo the bridge-builder, I know what I saw, and it was just as I told you.”
Edgar wasn’t sure he believed the
jongleur
. But the man’s sincerity was well-played. He would probably convince a court.
And if he were telling the truth, how had Hubert come by a ring belonging to Hugh of Grignon?
The town of Puenta la Reina, where the roads to Compostela join. Tuesday, June 3, 1142; Commemoration of the Blessed Isaac, put to death by the Saracens in Cordoba in 834; no one is sure why.
Since midnight I’m chased from place to place, pursued by the desert ass; trampled by the forest boar. Everywhere harassed. Keeping the end concealed only makes the pain worse. I suffer ignorance, love, with no one to explain.
—Solomon Ibn Gabriol
 
 
S
olomon sat on a tree stump and watched the world pass by. Pilgrims, traders, impostors and thieves, sick and well, rich and poor, speaking a dozen languages, everyone heading in the direction of Santiago. Solomon despised them all impartially. He squeezed the wineskin in his lap. Almost empty.
“Even you desert me,” he told it reproachfully. It had been full when he sat down.
He had spent the last two days brooding and then decided that if he were going to feel this bad anyway, he might as well be drunk, too. So far, the wine hadn’t helped.
He had wanted to find universal truth, not personal. What was wrong with him that the fates should trick him so cruelly? What had he done to deserve such shame?
After the first shock of anger, Solomon couldn’t blame Eliazar for lying about what had happened to his father. To convert was the same as dying—worse, because there was no hope even of a reunion in the next world. Jacob ben Meïr was dead.
Solomon wasn’t interested in James, the monk. He didn’t want to see him again, much less demand to know how James could be so selfish as to leave his family, his community, his god. He had. The reasons didn’t matter. What really terrified Solomon and drove him to empty the wineskin was that the seeds of apostasy might be lurking within himself. He had often been taken to task for not obeying the laws of behavior. He couldn’t remember many of them. A teacher in Speyer had once told him that if he was committed to Israel in his heart, nothing else mattered.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
He rolled up the skin to squeeze the last few drops into his mouth. There was just enough sense of self-preservation left in his sodden brain for him to stumble back to the inn before he passed out.
That was how he missed the arrival of two of the men he had returned to Spain to seek.
 
Catherine finally felt awake again, although her appetite had not returned. She was amazed and delighted by the variety of people here where all the roads blended into one. Even the fairs of Troyes and the Lendit didn’t attract such a mixture. There were pilgrims from as far away as Hungary. There were Italians and Germans and Norsemen, English, Bretons, Lombards and, even more exciting to her, dark men wearing white robes and turbans.
“Do you think they’re Saracens?” she asked Edgar.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “You remember Roberto and Maruxa explaining that even Christians and Jews dress in the Arab fashion here.”
“It’s all very confusing,” Catherine said. “Not what I thought it would be. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to understand anyone and now I find that half the towns were settled by the French after the Reconquest. I thought it would be easy to spot the Moslems, if they dared venture so far into Christian land, but many of the people here follow their customs and look just like them.”
“If Solomon ever comes out of his melancholy, we can ask him about it,” Edgar suggested. “He might know how to tell the difference.”
Solomon had staggered by them a few minutes before without noticing their presence.
“I don’t think that will be for some time,” Catherine said.
The day was warm and sunny. Catherine and Edgar were glad to sit in the shade and watch the parade of diversity go by. This would be the last place they would stop for more than a night until they arrived at Compostela. Everyone else was
bustling about making preparations for the next part of the trip. But Edgar and Catherine had done all they could. Now they only needed to wait until everyone else was ready.
One of the men passing by noticed Catherine watching him. He stopped, then signaled to the two men with him. The three came up to the couple.
“God keep you,” the man said. He had light brown hair and a ruddy face. His accent was obviously Norman. Edgar stiffened, pulled his hat over his face and feigned sleep.
“And you,” Catherine answered, seeing that Edgar wasn’t going to. “May we help you?”
“I hope so. My name is Robert,” the man said. “My friends and I have come from Barcelona. We were told that Peter, abbot of Cluny, would be passing through here soon.”
“I don’t believe he’s arrived yet,” Catherine told him. “But some of the monks who were with him are here now. They’re probably at the priory.”
She looked curiously at the other two men. One was blond and sunburned, the other dark, although his hair was lighter than hers, with red tints.
“Are you all from Normandy?” she asked.
“No,” Robert said. “My friend, Hermann, is from Dalmatia. Do you know where that is?”
“Far to the east, I understand.” Catherine hated being patronized. She addressed the third man. “Are you also Dalmatian?”
He gave her a wide smile and shook his head. Robert answered for him. “Mohammad is from Cordoba,” he said. “We are students of geometry and astronomy. But we were told that the abbot of Cluny wished to engage us to translate the books of the Arabs into Latin.”
This was the first Catherine had heard of it. “I am not in the abbot’s confidence,” she answered. “But I would welcome the opportunity to read your work when it is finished.”
She ignored the look the man gave her at this statement. She was thinking of the pages of notes that she and Solomon had found. Geometers and astronomers. These men might know what some of the arcane symbols meant.
“Will you be staying here in Puenta la Reina to await Abbot Peter?” she asked.
“It depends on what we find out at the priory.” Robert smiled and bowed to her. “Thank you, lady, for your kindness in aiding us.”
It was only as they were walking away that Catherine realized she had finally seen a Saracen.
She nudged Edgar in annoyance. “You can’t hide every time you meet a Norman,” she told him. “They’ve overrun most of Christendom. And that man was a scholar, not a soldier.”
“You spoke for both of us just fine,” he said, pushing his hat back. “I don’t mind.”
Catherine understood his distaste for Normans, but it still made her uncomfortable. It had been nearly eighty years since the conquest, after all. She wanted to see this Robert again, when she was sure it was safe to show him the notes. Since Edgar refused to deal with the race that had taken over his country, that would make it more difficult for her to speak with the Norman scholar. Well, perhaps she could shake Solomon out of his misery long enough for him to go with her.
She settled back against Edgar’s arm, wishing they never had to get up again. It seemed to her that they had been traveling forever, that she had never lived more than a day in one place, that Compostela was as far away as heaven and would take as long to reach.
But it was so nice sitting in the shade, being warm clear through, with the trees full of new leaves, and flowers everywhere. Catherine reflected that it was close enough to heaven for now. She closed her eyes and nuzzled Edgar until he roused himself to put his arm around her, then sank back into somnolence.
“Lady, kind lady,” a voice whined above them. “A coin, for the love of Christ, a crust for a poor leper.”
Catherine’s eyes flew open. A person stood over them, its face covered, its arms and feet bound in rags. The hands were covered with sores and deathly white. Her hand went automatically to her scrip for a coin, less for charity’s sake than to bribe the leper to keep away from her.
“Get away from her, Frolya!” Roberto knocked the leper to the ground.
Catherine and Edgar reached out to help him, then hesitated, remembering what he was. Roberto snorted.
“Frolya doesn’t need your help,” he told them. “His leprosy is painted on fresh every morning.” He gave the man his hand and helped him up. “See?” he said, holding out his hand. There were smudges of red and white where the paint had come off.
“Sorry, Roberto,” Frolya said. “Didn’t know they were friends of yours.”
He shambled off in search of more-sympathetic pilgrims. Catherine and Edgar stared after him in astonishment.
“Why would anyone pretend to be a leper?” Edgar asked.
Roberto laughed. “Frolya collects more in alms than Maruxa and I do for an evening of singing and tumbling. His family eats meat at least once a week, and he gave his wife a silver cross on a chain for her name-saint’s day last year. He’s as much an actor as I am.”
“But he’s taking money that should be given to those who really need it,” Catherine complained.
“Perhaps, but it’s an old custom here to get what one can from the pilgrims,” Roberto said. “Think of it this way; would you rather Frolya took a bit of your money as a leper or all of it as a robber, and cut your throat as well?”
“Are those the only choices?” Edgar asked.
“In this town, yes,” Roberto said.
“Then none of the beggars is truly in need?” Catherine was extremely perturbed. She had given as much as her father would permit all along the route.
“There are many who are,” Roberto assured her. “Of course, they are often robbed in their turn. Once Maruxa and I found a blind pilgrim sitting in just his shift by the roadside. Thieves had set upon him and taken everything he had, even his staff.”
“That’s horrible!”
“I suppose,” Roberto said. “They left him his life, and the canons at Roncesvalles gave him new clothes so he could continue his pilgrimage.”
“Was his sight restored?” Edgar asked.
“Not that I heard,” the
jongleur
answered. “Perhaps the only miracle he deserved was to finish the trip alive. Did you ever find out how that ring got in Hubert’s purse?”
Edgar was surprised by the sudden change of subject. “No,” he said. “When we asked him, he said he didn’t notice it among the coins.”
“How could that be?” Roberto asked. “I tell you, I saw it clearly.”
“You might have,” Catherine said. “Father doesn’t see as well as he used to. In the dim light at the inn, he could have missed the ring. He often asks me to count out the price for him so he doesn’t give too much.”
“But you didn’t that night?”
Catherine was sure she hadn’t. “He was dining with Lady Griselle that night.”
“That might account for her uncertainty when Hubert was accused,” Roberto said. “ … If he denied having the ring and she knew it had been there.”
“She surely hasn’t acted as if she suspected Father of murder,” Catherine disagreed. “Perhaps she didn’t notice the ring either.”
“Perhaps we should ask her,” Edgar said.
“I suppose we’ll have to,” Catherine agreed with reluctance.
Roberto sneezed.
“
Benedicite!
” Catherine and Edgar said together.
“Thank you.” Roberto sniffed. “It’s all these damned flowers. I hate spring.”
 
Not far away, Gaucher and Rufus were having an argument.
“We’ll be at Najera in less than a week,” Gaucher protested. “You can’t want to give up now. Not after waiting so many years.”
“I don’t know what the point is anymore, Gaucher,” Rufus complained. “I came only because Norbert forced me to. He said he’d kill me if I broke my oath.”
“Did he now?” Gaucher said. “That oath didn’t die with Norbert, you know.”
“Perhaps it’s one I never should have made in the first place,” Rufus answered hotly. “Back then, I thought I could do anything as long as I was fighting for Christ. But now I’m not so sure. I don’t think we should sell it, if it’s even still there.”
“Are you proposing that we turn it over to some bishop or other for the good of our souls?” Gaucher’s face showed what he thought of that idea.
BOOK: Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur)
9.95Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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