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Authors: Sharan Newman

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The translators, Robert, Hermann and Mohammad, had no idea of the turmoil they had landed among. They were under the impression that the job they had been assigned—and for which they had been taken from their customary work—was the main concern of Brother James. Therefore they were not pleased to find that he had little interest in them and scant information regarding their duties.

“You don’t even know where the abbot intends us to work?” Robert asked.

“He said nothing about it to me,” James answered. “His secretary, Pierre, will tell you, I’m sure. I think the idea is dangerous, myself. Such books shouldn’t be translated; they should be burned.”

“Are you afraid that knowledge of the true words of the Prophet will lead to the conversion of the Franks?” Mohammad asked. “If so, I think you have good reason for your terror. Many of your people here have chosen to submit to Allah when they heard his Truth.”

The Moslem was astonished when instead of responding with anger, Brother James began to laugh. “The conversion of the Franks?” he repeated. “From what? They can’t read their own books, much less yours.”

“Then why are you worried about a Koran in Latin?” Robert asked. “Do you fear for the souls of the monks?”

Robert was genuinely curious. He had come to Spain and
learned Arabic to study science, following the example of Adelard of Bath and others. He hadn’t felt any contamination from the religion, only contempt from the Saracens he studied under for those they considered infidels. No one had thought him worth converting.

“I have no fears for my brothers,” James told him quietly. “I simply feel that such heresy should not be honored by putting it into our language.”

Robert shrugged. “The abbot doesn’t agree with you. He believes that by understanding the infidels, we will be better able to refute their arguments and convert them to Christ.”

James laughed again, shortly and without humor. “If this is what my lord abbot wishes, I will not gainsay him,” he told the men. “But I think we would be better served if you translated the evangelists into the tongue of the Saracens to bring our Truth to them.”

“An interesting idea. Have you suggested it to the abbot?”

“It’s not my place to,” Brother James said. “But it doesn’t matter. Conversion comes from the heart, not the mind. We learn the words only later. If you will excuse me, I must keep a man from being murdered.”

When he had left, Hermann turned to Robert and Mohammad. “My French is not as good as yours. Did he say murdered?”

“Perhaps he only meant it in a spiritual sense,” Robert said. “Why would anyone want to murder a fellow pilgrim?”

Hubert had become accustomed to riding near Lady Griselle and Hersent by now. He didn’t notice that Catherine and Edgar were far behind them, and he preferred to believe that Eliazar stayed with Aaron for the sake of discretion, not because he disapproved of Hubert’s friendship with the woman.

It had been so long since a woman had seemed to want his company. Especially a woman like Griselle, with her refined gestures and golden hair. She reminded him a little of his wife, Madeleine, in the days when they were first married, before the uncertainty of his commitment to Christianity began to torment her.

Hubert shifted uneasily in his saddle. Why should he think of poor Madeleine now? She was far away, at the convent of Tart, and her mind was even more remote. It came to him with a shock that it wasn’t only Griselle’s manner that was familiar, but also her expression—so like Madeleine’s had become in the end, as if only a lifetime of training kept her from self-destruction.

“Are you well today, my lady?” he asked cautiously.

She gave him a suspicious glance. “Have you been talking with your daughter recently?”

“About you? Of course not!” he said.

“Perhaps you should,” she answered and lowered the veil she wore over her hat to protect her face from the sun, thus ending conversation.

Hubert was startled, then embarrassed, then angry. What had Catherine said to Griselle? It was bad enough when his brother lectured him on his friendship with the woman, but for his daughter to interfere was intolerable. He wheeled his horse about and went back to tell her so.

He found Catherine draped in front of Edgar on their horse. His anger died in his throat.

“She wouldn’t wait,” Edgar told him. “She needs a litter, but insists there are other pilgrims much more ill than she.”

Catherine spoke without lifting her head from Edgar’s chest. “I’m not ill,” she insisted. “It’s only the heat and the dust. Go away.”

Hubert decided that this wasn’t the time to rail at her for angering Griselle. But no matter what her condition, he wasn’t going to allow his daughter to interfere in his life and he resolved to tell her so as soon as they reached Najera.

At the end of the file, Mondete and Solomon walked in silence. Of all the people in the party, they were the only ones who were in complete agreement.

Twenty

Najera, Monday, June 8, 1142; the day after Pentecost.

Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave; the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.

Song of Solomon
, 8:6

T
he red cliffs of Najera were rough and alien to Catherine’s eyes, and the river was shaded with trees she couldn’t name. But the water was cool and the breeze refreshing, and she began to revive almost at once. A night’s sleep in a quiet room with no death nearby had made her feel almost normal again.

“Could you eat something?” Edgar asked when she awoke.

Catherine asked her stomach. It answered firmly. “No,” she told Edgar, “but you should. Only not where I can see you.”

“Very well. Rest a while longer. I’ll return soon.”

Catherine was happy enough to do that. But as Edgar turned to go, she grabbed his sleeve. “It’s almost over, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice that of a child needing comfort rather than truth. “We’ll be at Compostela soon? No more mountains?”

Edgar didn’t know. “Yes,” he said. “A few more days, all gentle walks through valleys full of flowers and lush meadows of grass.”

“Perhaps my dream meant nothing after all,” she said.

“No, Master Abelard believed in it and so do I,” Edgar answered. “But we may have interpreted it too literally. The crisis may be spiritual, not physical. We may have already survived it.”

Catherine smiled at him. “Then we need only thank the good apostle for granting our wish and return home with our son.”

“That’s right. Nothing more to worry about.”

Edgar went out whistling, but the tune stopped as soon as he shut the door. Catherine’s smile faded at the same time. The
closer they came to the shrine of Saint James, the more each feared that the worst was yet to come.

Peter of Montboissier, abbot of Cluny, was highly satisfied with his pilgrimage so far. His visits to the Cluniac daughter houses in Castille had been an excellent idea. He had been greeted with honor, almost adulation, and certain small irregularities in liturgical practice had been noted and rooted out before they blossomed into serious deviations. He had inspected the lands and collected some beautiful and fascinating gifts. One of his prize souvenirs was no more than a glittering white lump of salt that Peter himself had chipped from a shining mountain near one of the priories. Imagine! A whole mountain of salt miles from the sea! Thus did God remind man every day of His power.

But in his journeying, Peter had not forgotten Brother Rigaud. As soon as he learned of the arrival of James, the monk was summoned to his presence.

“I trust you have discovered the one who dared to invade our church at Moissac and murder our dear brother?” The abbot brushed aside the formal greetings that James had begun.

“Not yet, my Lord Abbot,” James answered. “But I have discovered what I believe to be the motive for the death of poor Brother Rigaud. It lies in his secular life, I’m sure, and will leave no wisp of scandal upon our order.”

He went on to tell the story as Gaucher had told it, adding his own interpretation of the knight’s behavior.

The abbot interrupted halfway through the recital. “Do you think that the knights really believed that the woman and the boy were Saracens?”

“I think they did at first,” James answered slowly. “Later they knew that the boy, at least, had been baptized. But, my lord, they were warriors conquering a city, and their blood was hot with rage. I don’t think it would have mattered to them.”

“No, I suppose not,” Peter said sadly. “From what Rigaud told me, none of them were ever truly soldiers of Christ. Continue.”

James hesitated for a moment before going on with the
story. He had felt a sudden rush of anger toward his honored abbot. The force of it horrified him. He had put all strong feeling aside with relief when he had entered the monastery. A passionless existence was all he asked for. Why must he endure this pain?

He steadied himself with a silent appeal to Saint James, his patron. It was seeing his brothers again, Eliazar and Chaim; they were doing this to him. Even more, it was Catherine. Since he had first glimpsed her, his nights had been tormented by visions of the gentle face of his mother covered in blood. He mustn’t allow this to affect him. He was being tested. If he held firm, the Savior would soon have pity and remove this pain.

Brother James finished the story. At the first mention of the statue, the abbot sat up straighter.

“Where is it?” he asked.

“Presumably where the men left it so many years ago. Gaucher wishes to retrieve it himself and present it to you as part of his expiation.”

“A laudable intent,” Peter said. “He can bring it to me after Vespers.”

“Ah, well, he would like to wait until the morning,” James said. “He has asked to spend the night in prayer and purification. I have promised to accompany him to the hiding place as soon as we finish saying Prime tomorrow.”

The abbot was not noticeably pleased at having to wait, but he acknowledged Gaucher’s right to prepare himself.

“Facing the sins of one’s past is a difficult task,” he conceded. “They often smell more foul for being buried so long. But it is necessary to do so for true redemption, and that outweighs all other matters. I shall wait until morning.”

James bowed and went out. In the corridor, he stopped and covered his face in shame. How could he have felt such anger toward the man who had taken him in and treated him equally with all the other men at Cluny despite his birth? It was Eliazar he should hate, who clung defiantly to the old ways … or Chaim even more, who prayed to Christ in public but denied Him in his heart.

James repeated over and over that he despised these men
who were no longer his brothers. He had found a new community of brothers. He said it over and over, just as he recited his psalms. But the Great Deceiver continued to torment him, placing images in his mind of the three of them as children, Chaim barely walking, their sisters fussing oyer the baby and laughing … until the laughter turned to screams in James’s ears.

With a low moan, Brother James turned his face to the stone wall, cold even in summer. He knew he could not sleep tonight. Better to keep watch with Gaucher. Prayer combined with physical deprivation might finally rid him of these ghosts.

Also, he considered, it might be a good idea to attend Sir Gaucher from a discreet distance. It wouldn’t do to distract him—unless, of course, Gaucher was moved in the course of his vigil to retrieve the statue early.

James would have been even more furious if he had known how exactly his plan paralleled those of Solomon and Catherine.

That evening Gaucher dined on beans without salt and water without wine. He then dressed himself in full armor, taking up his shield but leaving his scabbard empty.

“I shall not need my sword again,” he announced. “I hope you will all come with me tomorrow to witness my return of the statue of Our Lady to her Church.”

“Of course,” Griselle spoke for them. “I confess that I am eager to see this beautiful image of the Virgin. If it is to be hidden away within the cloister, I may have no other opportunity.”

As the June twilight set in, Gaucher left.

Mondete rose from the corner where she had been waiting and silently followed him.

“Where is she going?” Griselle asked.

“I imagine the inn is too comfortable for her,” Catherine answered. “She’s probably seeking out a damp spot near the river.”

“With thorn bushes,” Edgar added.

Griselle nodded sadly. “The poor thing. You’d think she’d have punished herself enough by now.”

She yawned. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said. “The sun stays bright so much longer in Spain than in Burgundy. Isn’t that strange? It must be later than I realized. I shall bid you all good night. Hersent?”

The maid followed her to their small room on the ground floor. The guards took up their positions in front of the door.

Catherine was fighting exhaustion as well. She didn’t want to sleep. It seemed she had been doing nothing else for days. As the sky grew darker, Solomon and Eliazar stood to go.

“Our brothers have constructed an erov for the Sabbath,” Eliazar told them, “as there is none in this town. We must be within its boundaries before the third star appears.”

Solomon did not appear pleased. “I think I should stay behind, Uncle,” he said. “There are enough to say the prayers together without me. I may be needed here.”

Eliazar’s jaw tightened. “Solomon, I would not have you drift into apostasy as your father did. I don’t want you to come to make up the minyan, but to remind you of who you are. Your aunt and I didn’t raise you to break the Sabbath.”

Solomon put his hand on Eliazar’s shoulder. “I know that. You taught me to fear the Almighty and to worship according to the Law. But I’ve strayed from it many times all the same, and for less reason.”

“You wish to help save the life of this ‘soldier of Christ’?” Eliazar didn’t hide his scorn. “This man who is the same as those who have slaughtered your people? Let the Christians look to their own. They don’t need you.”

Catherine watched her cousin’s face. There was something in his expression that she had never seen before. She had no name for it, and it frightened her.

Solomon looked directly at his uncle. “They may not need me, but I need to be here. Forgive me, Uncle, and include me in your prayers.”

Eliazar did not go willingly or quietly, but he made no attempt to force Solomon to come with him. “A man who must be tied up and dragged to his prayers may as well not be there at all,” he muttered.

“
Shabat Shalom
,” Solomon told him as he left.

The only answer was the thump of the door as it closed.

Solomon sat down again. The others didn’t look at him. Catherine hoped he wouldn’t try to justify the hurt he had just inflicted on his uncle. He didn’t. He poured himself another cup of wine instead.

“I told Mondete I would wait outside the church for her signal,” he said. “If Gaucher intends to keep his word, we’ll have lost a night’s sleep for nothing. If he doesn’t …”

“Then we’ll have him,” Edgar finished. “And probably the person who killed the others.”

“Yes, all that they needed was for one of the knights to survive to lead the way to the hiding place,” Hubert agreed.

Catherine wasn’t so certain about this. It was possible for revenge and greed to be combined; they were a perfectly matched pair. It made sense that the original owners would want the statue returned to them. But there was something different here. The murders of the other men had been done too carefully. She suspected a more vengeful reason for allowing Gaucher to remain alive this long. She yawned again.

“Catherine needs her rest.” Hubert nudged Edgar. “Take her up, will you? Don’t scowl at me, daughter. I know you want to be a part of everything, but you have a duty to the child you carry that’s greater than any other. You know that.”

She did. She knew how worried they all were and how little it would take for them to make her remain here at Najera until after the baby was born. She mustn’t let them do that. So for now, it was better to be compliant. And anyway, she could barely keep her eyes open.

“Don’t worry,
leoffaest
,” Edgar told her. “With so many people watching, it stands to reason that nothing at all will happen tonight.”

Catherine awoke far into the night. Edgar lay beside her, making that odd snore of his that was half a whistle. From the other side of the room, Hubert’s presence was much more pronounced.

She didn’t know what had awakened her, but now that she was up, she might as well go down to the outhouse.

Edgar was used to being climbed over once a night and didn’t stir. It was so warm that Catherine didn’t bother to put on her shoes. She tiptoed down the stairs.

The snoring she had left behind was echoed by that of Griselle’s guards, sound asleep in front of the lady’s door. Fumbling in the dark, Catherine reached out for the bar over the door to the inn. She felt the slot, but the thick wooden plank was missing. Either the innkeeper had forgotten to put it in place or someone had gone out before her.

She pulled the door open and peered out.

Now she knew what sound had awakened her. In the dim light she could make out the shapes of two women hurrying away from the inn. They weren’t following the path to the outhouse.

I should go wake Edgar,
she thought.

The two shapes turned the corner and vanished.

Solomon is out there watching,
Catherine rationalized.
I should find him first and then come back and wake Edgar.

BOOK: Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur)

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