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Authors: Sharan Newman

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BOOK: Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur)
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“Perhaps farther along we can join a more swiftly moving group,” he told Solomon. “When the roads meet at Moissac, it should be easier. For now, you’ll simply have to resign yourself to being surrounded by penitents.”
Solomon gave him a look that would melt chain mail. Then his face changed as he noticed something over Hubert’s shoulder. Hubert twisted his head to see what it was.
“Oh, no,” he told Solomon. “Don’t even think it. I know you. You’re only fascinated by the cloak. Don’t be an idiot, boy. Underneath all that she’s probably toothless, aged and riddled with disease.”
Solomon watched Mondete stride across the open field the lay brothers had camped in. She appeared neither old nor infirm. Nor did she seem meek and remorseful. If anything, there was a tremendous self-assurance in her walk. He did feel pulled to her, but Solomon didn’t think it was just the allure
of feminine mystery. It was true that he wondered what her face was like, how her body curved under the dark robe. But more than that, he wanted to know how she seemed so certain. What had she discovered that allowed her to move like that, as if there were a path unrolling wherever she stepped, leading her directly to the Truth?
He wanted to talk with her, ask her, make her tell him how to find the Way she followed. It never occurred to him that it might be simple acceptance of faith in Christ. He had seen too many Christian pilgrims. They were humble before their Savior. No. Whoever this woman was or had been, she was taking a different pilgrimage. Solomon desperately needed to know where it led.
Ignoring his uncle’s warning, he followed her.
 
Mondete saw the young man from the corner of her eye. When he had offered his arm to her on the ferry, he had seemed innocent enough, but experience had taught her that the ones who appeared the most guileless could be the most cruel. She increased her speed, then slowed, realizing that it was better for him to catch up to her here in the open, under the eyes of the monks. Without looking back, she could feel him closing in on her.
“Lady.”
He sounded out of breath, or frightened. The voice was soft, not what she’d expected. The form of address was one she hadn’t heard used without mockery for many years. Not knowing why, Mondete stopped.
 
Solomon was surprised when she seemed to turn and wait for him. He had gone after her on impulse, drawn without reason. Now that he had to speak to her, he had no idea of what to say.
The sleeves of the robe fell over her hands. The hood was deep, covering her face. Solomon looked at her toes. They were human, at least. He wasn’t sure about the rest of her. She stood before him motionless, the spring breeze not even ruffling the folds of her cloak, the sunlight all around but not
touching the darkness that was Mondete. He felt that they were no longer on the earth. The order of society had no more meaning.
“Lady,” he repeated, “what is your pilgrimage?”
There was a long stillness. Finally, she spoke. “I seek forgiveness, of course.” Her voice was tired and full of contempt.
“What do you want God to forgive you for?”
He was startled when she laughed. “Don’t you think it’s evident?” she asked.
“No.”
She was silent again. This dark young man wasn’t what she had expected. But that only made her warier. Whatever his devices, he would not trick her into trust. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, gathering the material in layers against her skin, guarding against him.
“If you don’t know what everyone else does, then you’re either a fool or even more evil than I,” she said. “Now, leave me alone.”
She turned and continued on her way.
Solomon watched her. Leave her alone? No. He couldn’t do that. He’d heard her voice. That was enough. She knew. He was positive. She had looked outside the world. All the numbers and approximations of truth that the scholars gleaned from the ancient books were irrelevant for her. She had gone past them. If he had to follow her through the ring of fire around the equator and down onto the underside of the globe, he would, until he convinced her to give up her secrets.
“
Desfaé mesel!
” he cursed himself. He wished again that he had never crossed the Pyrenees or met those men entrapped in the paths of the stars. His life had been so much more pleasant when he had simply thought everyone but himself an idiot and searched the world for nothing more than a good meal, untainted wine, and a warm, soft body next to him in bed.
 
Catherine had noticed that Solomon was quieter than usual; he hadn’t teased her about anything since he arrived. That was most unlike him. But she was too worried about Edgar to concern
herself with her cousin. She turned the matter over and over in her mind, her annoying voices making the situation worse with their comments.
He must have known there would be mountains, she thought. Why didn’t he tell me he couldn’t do it?
How do you know he can’t?
the voices chided.
I’ve no right to ask him to
, Catherine told them.
I’m the one who had the dream, who insisted on taking this route
.
No, you’re not
. Lord, those voices were smug!
Edgar decided. He knew what it would entail. He’s giving this offering freely
,
not just for the children you might bear, but for your own safety as well. Did you ever think he might be afraid of losing you? He wants to do this. Stop whining
.
Catherine halted the rabbit chase in her head. Losing her? She hadn’t thought of how he would feel if she died. After all, she wouldn’t be there to see his grief. Odd. She had always known that if his life ended, so would hers. But what if she were the one to go first? There was a whole other side to this problem to consider.
She went to find him.
He had finished loading the packhorse and was busy whittling a green stick while waiting for the rest of the party to resume the journey. She came up and kissed his cheek.
“Edgar,” she said, “what would you do if I died?”
He didn’t take his eyes from the stick. “Go home and marry a blonde,” he said without a beat.
He looked up and grinned at her. For a second, his smile faltered. That tremble told her all she needed to know.
Catherine grinned back. “I feel the same way about you,” she said. “Now, when are we going to leave?”
Edgar sighed. “The abbot’s party left some time ago. Your father and uncle told me we would set out with the next group. To be safe, they want at least fifteen people, but not many more.”
“I wish that the
jongleur
and
jongleuse
would come with us,” Catherine said. “It would be nice to have music on the road.”
“I thought you liked my singing,” he objected.
“But I’ve heard all your songs,” she answered. “Not that they aren’t wonderful, of course. Especially the Saxon ones I can’t understand a word of.”
“I love you, too,” he said.
Catherine decided not to mention mountain roads again.
 
She got her wish for music, though. When the group assembled for the trip to Conques, the
jongleur
and his wife were part of it. So were the remaining three knights and Griselle of Lugny, along with her guards and maid. There were also four men from Germany who had started out in Spier seven weeks earlier. They came from a village that had been saved from a fire by the intercession of Saint James; the villagers had elected these four to undertake a pilgrimage of gratitude.
Behind them, close enough for safety but too far for conversation, Mondete Ticarde walked alone.
 
When she noticed Solomon among the party, Mondete had hesitated, then shrugged. She didn’t know if he were seeking spiritual or only carnal knowledge from her. It didn’t matter. She had no intention of giving him either. As the days passed without any further confrontations, however, she began to study him. She learned early that he and his uncle were Jews, under the protection of Abbot Suger of Saint-Denis and traveling with a Christian merchant and his family. That didn’t concern her, although there had been strenuous debate among the other pilgrims on the matter the first day out. If the abbot of Saint-Denis associated with these people, she could, too.
What she couldn’t understand was how she could feel him looking at her when she knew he was staring at the road ahead. It infuriated her. He was a boy, really, ten years younger than she, at least. His eyes in his dark face were surprisingly green, and they did not look on her with lust.
Why not?
Mondete forced her thoughts back to her prayers.
 
Gaucher and Rufus were highly amused to discover that it was Mondete hiding under the hood; it gave the trip some spice.
They both remembered her well from Macon. Of course it was wicked to try to tempt someone away from a life of repentance, but they each had privately resolved to try. Rufus was considering wagering with his friend as to who would be first to break her resolve.
“I wonder if she can still ring the bells in her earrings with her toes,” Rufus mused as the three knights rode together.
“Of course she can’t. She doesn’t wear jewelry anymore,” Hugh reminded him.
The other two shook their heads. No wonder Hugh’s wife had entertained so many troubadours. Gaucher had often thought that she had died of the tedium of having to sleep with Hugh.
“Hersent, I need my gloves.”
The men all turned their attention to Griselle of Lugny. She looked straight ahead as she waited for her maid to rummage in the pack. So far, she had spoken little to anyone besides her servants. Gaucher took the opportunity to pull up beside her, cutting in front of Hubert and forcing him to stop as well.
“May I be of service, my lady?” said the knight.
“At the moment, I am capable of putting on my own gloves,” she told him. “Should that change, I will remember your kind offer.”
He tried again. “I hope the gloves are warm enough. The weather is changeable this time of year. It’s been unusually warm, but tomorrow we could have sleet.”
Griselle gave him a look reserved for puppies that have not yet learned to contain themselves when held in one’s lap. “I have sufficient clothing for the variations in climate,” she said. “So unless you are offering to regulate the weather for me, I doubt you can be of use.”
“I only wish to serve,” Gaucher responded huffily.
“I shall keep it in mind should one of my servants be incapacitated,” Griselle said.
She took the gloves from the maid and kicked her horse into movement, leaving Gaucher behind. He returned to his friends.
“I hate widows,” he said. “Give them control of a bit of property and they lose all respect.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Rufus said. “I can remember one or two who showed me a great deal … of respect.”
It had been impossible for Hubert not to overhear the exchange between Gaucher and Griselle. He had been put to some discomfort to avoid laughing out loud. It was good to hear a woman who could so easily deflate the swollen arrogance of a man like Gaucher. His Catherine had the intelligence to parry words, but not the inclination to humble her opponent. Hubert wondered what a woman like that would say if he approached her. She could probably destroy him in three sentences.
Nevertheless, he was very tempted to find out.
 
Catherine walked between Edgar and Solomon, each man leading a packhorse. The day, the sixth since they left Le Puy, had been gentle and the road along the river valley, smooth. She felt so content that it seemed wrong. A pilgrimage shouldn’t be pleasant.
“We should be in Conques by tomorrow night,” Edgar said. “They say the town is built into the side of the hills, like the monastery we stayed at last night.”
Catherine gave him a quick appraisal. All the villages here were tucked along the valley, but the monks had chosen to carve their retreats out of the cliffs and perch them far above the rivers. So far, Edgar had shown no discomfort at climbing up to them, but she kept a close watch on him all the same.
“I’ve always wanted to see the reliquary of Saint Foy,” she said. “It’s supposed to be covered in jewels.”
“I’ve never understood the penchant you people have for decorating the bodies of your relics,” Solomon said.
Catherine fought back her annoyance. Her cousin would never be converted by anger. “It’s to honor them,” she explained. “Nothing more. Don’t you do that to the boxes that hold your holy books?”
He didn’t answer. By that alone, Catherine knew she had scored a point. Although … she couldn’t be sure. Solomon
had not regained his former careless attitude. If anything, his mood seemed to deepen every day. He hadn’t goaded her into a real fight since the journey began. It was such unnatural behavior from her cousin, whose greatest delight from childhood on had been teasing her into incoherence, that she began to wonder if he were ill.
BOOK: Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur)
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