Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) (32 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

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He didn’t say it, but he couldn’t help thinking that the Lady Griselle gave a very good impression of a woman trying to gain the affections of a future stepdaughter.
 
After they had left, Griselle sat for a while chewing pensively on a particularly tough pea pod.
“My lady?” Hersent was folding freshly laundered shifts.
“She doesn’t trust me,” Griselle said. “What does she think I mean to do, steal her inheritance? I know her mother’s still alive. I couldn’t marry some tradesman, in any case.”
“He’s a very attractive man,” Hersent observed.
“He’s kind,” Griselle said. “And very sad, most of the time.”
“And so are you, my lady.”
“Yes,” Griselle sighed. “That may be why I’m so fond of him.”
“You wouldn’t have let those men take him because of the ring, would you?” Hersent asked.
Griselle stiffened. “I never saw the ring they were fussing about. Gaucher and Rufus probably dropped it in Hubert’s scrip while they were searching him. They undoubtedly bribed the
jongleur
to lie about it. Those are not men to be trusted. Remember that.”
“I will, my lady,” Hersent answered.
 
As soon as her chores were finished and Griselle settled for her afternoon prayers, Hersent went in search of Mondete Ticarde.
She found the woman still ministering to Solomon. “Now water, drink lots of water,” she was telling him.
“Didn’t you hear the warning?” he pleaded. “The water around here kills horses.”
“That’s not water from this river.” She was implacable. “Drink.”
She noticed Hersent beckoning at the doorway.
“Finish this ewer before I return,” she ordered.
Hersent drew Mondete to an open space where no one could overhear them. “I need to ask you about those knights,” she said.
“What for?” Mondete asked. “You’re Griselle’s maid, aren’t you? Did she send you?”
“No, she has no idea I’m here,” Hersent said. “I didn’t know any of them before this journey, although I had heard of Hugh and Norbert, of course. Something is confusing me and I must know more about them. I understand you knew them all.”
“More or less,” Mondete said shortly. “Norbert had nothing to do with me after my fourteenth year. That was long ago, as you might guess. The others … Hugh came by once in a while, mostly to talk. It’s common knowledge that his wife was more than he could handle.”
“And the other two?” Hersent asked.
“Gaucher and Rufus. Yes.” She hesitated. “I don’t think anything I can tell you would be of use. If either one of them has propositioned you, don’t believe him. They both like variety. Their tastes are exotic, to say the least.”
She couldn’t repress a shudder at the memory.
“Pigs!” Hersent spat.
“Just Gaucher,” Mondete said. “Rufus only enjoys women, but he expects his whores to earn their payment. And he takes pleasure from their fear of him.”
Hersent swallowed. “Did any of them ever talk to you about their time in Spain?”
“Only to brag,” Mondete told her. “‘I slaughtered so many in battle. I won horses and armor. I stormed the gates of Saragossa and waded in blood to my knees.’ They all go on about something. I rarely listened.”
“What about Hugh? Did you see this ring that Gaucher and Rufus claim was his?”
“He had a ring with an emerald set in it,” Mondete said. “I didn’t see the one that was taken from Hubert. I don’t know if it’s the same.”
“If you saw it, even without the stone, do you think you’d recognize the setting?” Hersent asked.
“I might. Why is it important? Do you think they put another ring in the merchant’s purse and swore it was Hugh’s in order to divert the blame from themselves?”
“Something like that,” Hersent hedged. “If I can get it, would you say publicly whether or not it was the same as the one Hugh wore?”
“Yes, not that I’m considered a credible witness,” Mondete promised.
“Thank you.”
Hersent left and Mondete went back to the inn to see if
Solomon had managed to keep the water down. Considering the amount of liquid he had expelled, it was essential to add more to restore the balance of his humors.
 
The next morning, they set off again.
Even though they could all have separated now, joined other pilgrim bands or waited in Puenta la Reina for the return of Abbot Peter with his well-guarded retinue, none of them did. They all assembled shortly after dawn: Edgar and Catherine, Hubert, assisting Griselle to mount her horse, Eliazar among the party of merchants from Toulouse, Roberto and Maruxa, Gaucher and Rufus, Brothers James, Bruno and Deodatus with the three men from Barcelona, and at the very end, Solomon, trailed by Mondete.
Looking at them, Catherine thought how strange it was that they should cling to each other so when they all suspected that one of the group was a murderer.
Just outside Cirauqui, heading down the hillside toward the Roman bridge, Thursday, June 5, 1142; The Feast of Saint Boniface, né Winfrid of Devon, missionary to the Goths and destroyer of ancient oaks.
 
… inde Stella que pane bono et optimo vino et came et piscibus fertilis est, cunctisque felicitatibus plena.
 
… then is [the town of] Estella, where the bread is good, the wine superb, meat and fish abundant and which is altogether full of delights.
—Aimery Picaud
Codex Callistinus,
C. III: “De nominibus villarum
itinerus ejus.”
 
 
T
he group of pilgrims making its way down the path he group of pilgrims making its way down the path from the village was much changed from the one that had started at Le Puy. Instead of the polite indifference of strangers or the careful politeness of neighbors, they were treating each other like members of the same family. A large, unruly one, it was true, subject to bitter hatreds and lengthy feuds, but connected nonetheless. They were now people who knew too much about each other.
Robert, the Englishman who had joined the party at Puenta la Reina, was puzzled by the obvious tension among the pilgrims. He made the mistake of approaching Edgar to ask about it.
Edgar only grunted and pretended to concern himself with a loose strap on one of the packs.
Catherine answered for him. “We’ve had a difficult journey,” she told Robert. “There have been several … accidents. All of us are worn and quick to anger, I fear.”
“Ah.” Robert was intelligent enough to know he’d just been told to mind his own business—but not smart enough to resist making his next comment. “I understand you’re some sort of scholar,” he said.
“Some sort,” Catherine answered. “I studied with the Abbess Heloise, before my marriage.”
“They say she teaches her charges Hebrew,” Robert pried.
“I was taught a little,” Catherine admitted. “Not enough to read the Pentateuch in the original, I’m sorry to say. Can you?”
“My Arabic is better,” he said.
Something in the form of her answers seemed to reassure
him. It took him a minute to realize it was because the entire conversation had been in Latin.
“You wouldn’t happen to know the meaning of the name of the town we just came through, would you?” Catherine asked him, this time in French.
“No, Basque isn’t one of my languages,” Robert said, also in French. Now that credentials had been established, Latin was no longer necessary.
“Nest of vipers,” said a voice from the other side of the horse.
“Oh, Solomon,” Catherine said. “I forgot you spoke Basque.” She shivered in the desert morning. “Vipers.”
She looked back up the steep hill to the few houses clustered tightly at the top. It seemed more innocent than the people who had just passed through. The name crystallized for her the feeling she had had since the revelation that Brother James had once been her uncle, Jacob. They were living in a nest of vipers, and there was no way to tell which ones were sleeping, and no safe path to tread among them. Catherine knew it was only a matter of time before one would strike again.
They others felt it, too. Ever since Roncevalles, Gaucher and Rufus had stuck together like jealous lovers, never leaving each other’s sight for a moment. Watching them, Catherine wasn’t sure if they were together for mutual protection or from mutual distrust. They slept back-to-back, and once, when she passed too near them on her nightly trek to the latrine, Catherine saw the motion of their hands reaching for their knives at the sound of her step, even though they appeared to be asleep.
The Lady Griselle had wilted like a rose browning at the edges. Catherine felt an unkind satisfaction that the rigors of the journey were finally telling on her. Her straight back slumped a bit as she rode, and even Hubert’s company couldn’t cheer her for long. She kept Hersent by her always, but rarely made any demands on her. Oddly, in such an atmosphere of suspicion, she allowed her guards to ride apart from her with those from Cluny and Toulouse, where the men relaxed and enjoyed themselves for the first time since the trip began.
Since the accusation at Roncevalles, Maruxa and Roberto
had distanced themselves from the others as much as possible. They played and sang at night only if asked, Maruxa once surprising Aaron by singing a secular Jewish song, written in Arabic. It was a story of love and longing, and even those who couldn’t understand the words felt the emotion in her voice. But when they finished, the
jongleurs
picked up the coins tossed to them and retreated to their own corner.
Even among Catherine’s real family, the tension was palpable. Hubert and Eliazar spoke to each other carefully, as if afraid to antagonize by a misplaced word. Solomon spent little time with them. He and Mondete seemed to have formed some sort of pact and now walked together, never speaking or touching. What sort of communication they had was beyond Catherine’s ability to guess.
Brother James did his best to pretend that none of the others existed. Out of a sense of curiosity or family duty, she wasn’t sure which, Catherine had tried to talk to him, but he had brushed her aside and refused to answer. He kept himself in the middle of a tight circle of clerics. Like Gaucher and Rufus, he acted like a man expecting a knife between his ribs.
Edgar, of course, would never be distant with Catherine, but there was an unspoken fear in both of them. It grew as they passed though Navarre and began to realize that the land wasn’t a grassy plain running all the way to Compostela.
“I’ve never seen country like this,” Edgar said. “It’s as if some huge army has been through, ravaging and destroying everything, even the trees.”
Catherine agreed. It was empty and bleak, with only dry, scrubby plants and great red rocks, the latter jutting out of the earth like giants buried alive. They both avoided mentioning the mountains in the distance.
“‘There were giants in the earth in those days,’” she quoted. “I always thought it was a metaphor. No one told us about this.”
No one had mentioned the heat, either. It wasn’t like the humid summers of Paris. This was a dryness that was carried on the wind and beat down from a cloudless sky until everyone
felt that they were living in an oven. The sun followed them without mercy.
“We haven’t brought enough water,” Edgar worried as he emptied another skin.
“Father and Uncle Eliazar prepared better than that,” Catherine assured him. “They have enough to get us to Estella. Actually, I think I should pour some more for you to wipe your face with.”
He was clearly feeling the heat more than she. His normally pale face was red and damp beneath the wide brim of his hat. He was wearing only his shift,
brais
and shoes. The shift was stuck to his back with perspiration. Catherine went to the packhorse and untied one of the water skins. She wet her scarf and went back to Edgar. Solomon saw what she was doing and followed her.
“Don’t use water,” he told her. “Wine is better, some of that stuff from Moissac that’s turned to vinegar. It’s more cooling. Put some on his hands as well.”
“On my hands?” Edgar suspected one of Solomon’s jokes.
“I’ve seen it before,” Solomon said. “You fair-skinned people can’t take this sun. Ask that Hermann, traveling with the monks. You’ve noticed that he dresses like the natives here, all in white, with his head covered. But he also wears gloves.”
Catherine had noticed. They were a thin version of the ones she used in the winter while working in the cold accounts room, with the fingertips cut out. She had thought it odd to wear such things while on the road.
“You can get gloves in Estella,” Solomon told them. “Until then, vinegar.”
They started to thank him, but he was already halfway back to his place at the end of the line.
Catherine stared after him. “Edgar, this is not one of the dangers I expected to encounter on the road,” she said, not meaning the heat. “We can’t continue with everyone coiled up in themselves, ready to lash out at whatever comes near. It feels like the night before a storm. I expect lightning at any minute.”
But nothing happened as they silently crossed the Roman bridge at the bottom of the hill, skirted the town of Urbe and approached the River Salado.
There the party was forced to stop.
Standing on the bridge was a band of Navarrese Basques. They were armed with spears and knives. The guards with the pilgrims drew their weapons. Edgar stepped in front of Catherine protectively. Grateful, but curious, she peered around him.
She wasn’t entirely surprised to see the man who had rescued her at Roncevalles. He noticed her and grinned. She pulled her head back.
“What do you think he wants?” she asked Edgar.
“I don’t know,” he answered, “but if it involves you, he isn’t going to get it.”
Catherine rather liked that sentiment. She wasn’t used to being considered attractive, so she didn’t seriously believe that the Basque leader would ask for her specifically. But it was nice that Edgar cared enough to think it possible. She looked around once more.
Aaron and Solomon had approached the leader. The guards didn’t lower their weapons. They had been hired to defend the pilgrims and traders and were glad to have the chance to prove their worth. Their eagerness for battle seemed to give the Basques great amusement.
There was a brief conversation among the men, then nods of agreement. Aaron and Solomon went back to their groups to report.
“He says—” Solomon raised his voice enough that Brother James could hear as well “—he says that he has protected us from Roncesvalles to this river, which is the end of his territory. He has kept all his friends and cousins from robbing us, slitting our throats and stealing our women. This was harder than he expected and therefore he wants another ten metcales before he’ll let us cross.”
He stopped and waited for the uproar. To his astonishment, there was none. Griselle sighed and reached for the purse hung around her neck. Hubert reached for his also. Roberto
fumbled in the bag at his belt, knowing that he had little to give but determined to contribute. Gaucher and Rufus conferred and then brought out their offering. Aaron was taking the collection from the resigned merchants. Only Brother James and the monks made no move to add a coin.
“These men call themselves Christians,” James muttered. “They think that a poached deer can buy their way into heaven, then they turn around and steal from the Church and honest pilgrims. I will not add to such blatant hypocrisy.”
Solomon ignored him, taking the money from those who offered and giving it to Aaron to count.
While they were waiting for permission to continue their journey, Brother James took the opportunity to lead his horse down to the river to drink. Catherine watched, waiting for someone to stop him. All the others assiduously looked the other way.
“Edgar, remember what they told us about the river?” Catherine whispered, “say something. The horse has done nothing wrong.”
“Perhaps he’ll drink it himself.”
“Edgar! He’s a man of God!”
“I think God should have something to say about that,” Edgar answered. “Yes, yes, I’m going.”
He started to follow the monk to the river but saw that Gaucher had preceded him. The knight was as shocked as Catherine had been, and for the same reason.
“Whatever you think of the man,” he was fuming, “you don’t harm his horse.”
He caught at the bridle and jerked it back just as Brother James reached the river.
“What do you think you’re doing?” James shouted, relieved to yell at someone.
“What’s wrong with you?” Gaucher shouted back. “Don’t you see the bones? The water here is poison. The Navarrese make a living off stupid pilgrims like you.”
James glared up at the people watching the scene. He noted Edgar halfway down the slope and the rest simply staring.
“They all knew, didn’t they?” he said softly. “They were hoping I would drink and die as well.” His jaw tightened, then he took a deep breath. “I shall pray for them anyway, of course. And for you, Gaucher of Macon. Thank you.”
He returned to his place in the procession, looking at no one. His face was expressionless. Catherine felt a sudden pity for him. She tried to suppress it. He had chosen to be what he was. But why? If only she knew what had brought about his conversion. James did not act like a man who had received divine grace and found peace; he was more as one who had always been fleeing from demons and hoped they couldn’t find him at Cluny. But he was unprotected now, and the demons were catching up to him.
Perhaps that was what had caused these deaths. Servants of Satan were everywhere, it was said. In this wilderness, Catherine could almost hear the whir of their leathery wings. Her fingers touched the ornate ivory cross around her neck. No demons, please, she prayed.
The transaction with the Basques completed, the leader motioned for the band to step aside to let the party cross the river. It made Catherine nervous to feel them watching her as she passed by. She kept her eyes on the stones of the bridge.

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