The Outcast Dove: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (17 page)

He laced his fingers as if praying for guidance.

“It is unlikely that the name of the one who did this will be discovered until we know why it was done,” he said, staring straight at James. “And I believe that you hold the answer. Do you agree, Brother James?”

James nodded wearily. The bags of gold tied on the belt beneath his robe clinked in response.

Like the rest of the Jews in Toulouse, Solomon spent the days before Easter trying to be inconspicuous. His near disaster in the tavern had disturbed him deeply. The greatest shock was knowing that it was his old enemy Jehan who had kept him from setting off a brawl that could easily have become a riot. He shuddered every time he thought of it.

“Are you sickening for something?” Aaron asked him. “Galde here has a poultice that will cure almost anything if you can survive the smell.”

“But it needs to be freshly compounded to work,” his sister reminded him. “And it’s the Sabbath.”

They were in the courtyard of Aaron’s sister’s house in the Bourg, near the church of Saint Julien. Galde and her husband, Vital, had five arpents of vines just north of the town wall from which they made wine for both Jews and gentiles. Galde also grew herbs and mixed medicines that she sold in the market. Aaron had traded jars of her salve to cure creaking joints as far away as London and Toledo.

Vital, Galde, and Aaron had just returned from services. Solomon had declined, fearing whom he might meet on the way. Instead he waited for them in the courtyard, his thoughts on Mayah.

Galde went to get the tray of cheese, greens, and the last of the bread that she had prepared Friday afternoon. Vital excused himself, yawning, for a Sabbath nap, leaving Aaron and Solomon alone.

“Does your sister know of your plans for this rescue?” Solomon asked as soon as she had left the room.

“No,” Aaron answered. “And not even Belide and Arnald know Mayah’s name. I’ve told Galde that I’m going to fetch my bride from Córdoba. Mayah’s father and I have been discussing the arrangements for over a year now. He was to have the
ketubah
drawn up last autumn. No one will be surprised when we return. Galde and Vital are eager to welcome her.”

“Aaron, why didn’t you get the ransom money from Yishmael?” Solomon asked. “He would have given you money, men, and weapons. You can’t be trying to save him the anguish of knowing about this.”

“Solomon, where have you been this past year?” Aaron answered. “Yishmael collapsed when he learned the news. He died a week later.”

“Oh, my poor friend!” Solomon exclaimed. “May his soul be at peace and his memory honored. But is there no other family?”

“Mayah’s cousins have taken her property,” Aaron went on. “They have assumed she’s dead, or will be soon. As long as we don’t press them for her inheritance, they won’t make trouble about the marriage.”

“Well, at least with the excuse of going to get your bride, you have a reason for your impatience to be off,” Solomon said. “And especially to be heading south when everyone else is going north to the fairs. But, if you must continue this pretense, you need to show more cheer. I’ve observed the phenomenon often and your behavior falls short of the rapture of a man about to wed.”

“Galde puts my gloom down to lovesickness,” Aaron explained. “She keeps trying to slip herbs in the soup to cool my inflamed heart. Mostly they just irritate my bowels.”

He sighed. “The time of year has been a problem, too. With most people going north to the fairs, I’ve been hard put to gather a party of travelers strong enough to risk the Navarrese bandits. However, that may have resolved itself. Yesterday, Arnald told me that his father is insisting he join this group going to ransom captured knights in Al-Andalus. He didn’t know what to answer. I told him to agree to go. The one thing I hadn’t worked out was how to get Arnald to come with me. I need a Christian to treat with those who own the brothel. Now I can arrange for all of us to leave Toulouse in the company of the monks and, when we get to Navarre, you, Arnald, and I will make a detour to this monastery.”

Solomon had been listening to this with growing dread. It was clear to him just which monk would be a part of the delegation. His father spoke good Arabic, as well as Hebrew. His uncles had often lamented not having Jacob to speak for them in Spain. It made sense now. That was why he had left the safety of his monastery. And if the two groups traveled together, there would be no way for him to avoid the monk James.

It was too much to ask.

“Aaron! No!” Solomon thumped both hands on the table, causing a vase to rock. Aaron steadied it, giving Solomon a quizzical look.

“I can’t do it,” Solomon insisted. “Not those monks. I’d rather we take our chances alone.”

At this moment, Galde returned with the tray and set it on the table in front of them. Solomon stared down at the plate.

The smell of cheese and pickled onions was overpowering on top of the news he had just had to stomach.

“Excuse me.” He clamped his hand over his mouth as he rose. He knocked the chair over in his haste to reach the outhouse.

“Poor Solomon!” Galde exclaimed. “Perhaps, in an emergency, I could mix a poultice. The Creator, blessed be He, never meant the sick to go untreated on the Sabbath.”

“I think he’ll be all right as soon as he empties his stomach,” Aaron answered. “I seem to have upset him but I can’t understand why. He does business with monks all the time. Why should it bother him to spend a few days on the road in their company? Even Yusef endures it without complaint.”

Solomon returned a few moments later, wiping his mouth.

“I apologize, Galde,” he said. “I must have eaten a bad olive.”

Galde gave him a cup of water with instructions to sip slowly. As he did, Solomon reflected that he should have had someone read his stars before he set out from Paris. Then he might have been forewarned that Fate was going to send him a particularly nasty future.

At Saint Pierre des Cuisines, the monks’ dormitory was almost back to normal. The mattress and pillow stuffing had been swept out and new rushes laid on the floor. There wasn’t enough spare bedding to replace all that had been destroyed but several of the brothers volunteered to sleep on the hard floor with only a blanket. As soon as they spoke up, the rest insisted on doing the same.

“As our life is in common,” a young monk said. “So should we live and sleep in an equal state.”

There was no way to avoid the floor after that.

Saturday afternoon, the monks retired for a rest before the all night Easter vigil. As he tried to find a comfortable position on the hard boards, Brother James prayed that God would be merciful and spare his back. Even the usual monastic mattress made his first steps in the morning agony. He bunched his robe on one side to cushion his thigh and was just dozing off when he sensed someone standing at his side. He opened his eyes.

Brother Martin loomed above him, a blanket draped over his arm.

“Here, Brother James,” he said. “Take my cover. I don’t need it in this warm weather.”

James thought quickly. Should he accept the offer in a spirit of grateful humility? But that would be admitting he was in need of extra care. Yet to refuse would seem churlish. He couldn’t deny that the extra thickness under his hip bones would be very welcome. A voice inside reproved him at once for yielding to physical weakness. Every twinge should be an offering.

He made up his mind.

“A kind gesture, Brother Martin.” He smiled. “But there may be many nights on our journey when we’ll have only the bare earth for a bed. I should prepare myself now.”

Martin squatted next to him.

“Brother James, there’s no need to deny yourself a bit of comfort,” he said. “I’ve seen how, even at Moissac, you are hard on your body. You accept the most irksome tasks. You could spend all your days in the scriptorium or teaching. Prior Rodger says you are a brilliant scholar, adept at rhetoric in many languages.”

“He is over fulsome in his praise,” James answered. “But even if it were true, there are no words, even the most holy, that are more pleasing to Our Lord than honest work done in His name with love.”

Martin crossed himself. “I understand. I’ll not try to force comfort upon you. But at least allow me to share your burden.”

James eyes narrowed. “In what way?”

Brother Martin leaned closer so that the other monks couldn’t overhear.

“When the abbot selected me to take up Brother Victor’s unfinished work, I understood that I was to smooth the path for you,” he said. “You no longer need bear the weight of the ransom yourself.”

Instinctively James’s arm went over the money belt. Brother Martin laughed.

“Do you fear me?” He rocked back in amusement. “For shame, my brother. Why do you think the abbot chose me? When this was first planned, Victor was picked for his good heart and his gift for making friends. You, because you can speak for us and negotiate with the Saracens. But after what happened to poor Victor, the abbot decided a good heart was not enough and that you should have a protector.”

He stood again. From his viewpoint on the floor, James felt as if he were in the shade of a towering cliff. Martin laughed again.

“When I was in the world, my friends called me ‘the ox,’” he said. “And not just for my strength. After eight years at Moissac, I still don’t know the Office. I spend half my time bowing.”

James had noticed that. Each time a monk erred in the prayers, he bowed to the altar to ask forgiveness. Martin spent a lot of time bent over.

“But,” the monk continued, “I can walk all day and not tire, stand against any wind and carry your load, and you too, to the end of the road. The abbot said that you were too stubborn to make use of me. I hope he misjudged you.”

Martin didn’t wait for an answer but returned to his own place on the floor. As he tried once again to settle into a position conducive to sleep, James saw the monk’s blanket, neatly folded, lying next to him. It made a most welcome cushion.

Jehan came into the main hall of the Plucked Crow, carrying a pack. He set it down by the table where Guy and Berengar were idly casting dice.

“What’s that for?” Berengar asked.

“It is my custom to pass the night of Holy Saturday in a vigil of prayer and penance,” Jehan answered. “I’ll return after Mass tomorrow.”

“Do you know something about this mission that we don’t?” Guy asked. “I’ve been shriven, of course, just in case, but I figured I had plenty of time to do my penance.”

“A vigil is a good idea; I’ll go with you,” Berengar announced. “We can do it over at the church where Saint Sarni fought the bull. It’s more fitting for men like us and won’t be as crowded as the cathedral.”

“You have a local saint who was a bullfighter?” Guy asked doubtfully.

“Don’t you know him?” Berengar was astonished. “He was a bishop or something, back when the Romans ruled us. Saturnus is the Latin name. You French call him Sernin. He was to be martyred by being tied to a maddened bull. It dragged him the length of the street from the cathedral to the Capitole.”

“What happened then? Did he tame it?” Guy asked. “Or did a bolt from heaven strike it dead?”

Berengar thought. “I don’t remember. Maybe Sarni just died. The priest will know the whole story.”

Jehan wasn’t interested in local history. “That church will do as well as any. The place isn’t important. I have performed this expiation on mountainsides and by the side of the road.”

He faltered as a memory of shame stabbed him.

“And,” he added, “it’s something I must do alone.”

Guy shrugged. “Fair enough. I’ve said the prayers the priest set me and given a candle to the Knights of the Temple. My sleep will come easily. I’ll see you tomorrow at Mass.”

But Berengar wasn’t so easily put off.

“I have much to repent of,” he said. “I should also fast and pray. We can encourage each other if our will should falter.”

“My atonement requires solitary meditation,” Jehan explained, wondering if the boy would ever take the hint.

“Oh.” Berengar scratched his head. “Then we should probably go somewhere outside the walls. Maybe across the river.”

“I’m sure I can find a place.” Jehan bent to pick up his pack again.

Berengar reached it first. “Here, I’ll help you.”

He started to hoist the pack, grunted, and dropped it again with a clank.

“What do you have in here?” he asked, trying again. “Bars of gold?”

Guy sat up straighter.

“You sure you’re not leaving town?” he asked.

Jehan moved Berengar off the pack and opened the flap.

Inside were coils of iron chain.

“What are you doing with that?” Berengar asked. “Are you planning on taking prisoners tonight?”

Jehan didn’t answer. He closed the pack, lifted it with ease and left the inn.

Guy shook his head.

“You simpleton!” he said to Berengar. “What form a man’s atonement takes is none of your concern. Leave him to it.”

Berengar sat back down slowly.

“Did you see how the weight of those chains was nothing to him? He must have been carrying them a long time. I wonder what he did to deserve such a penance.”

“Take my advice,” Guy said. “Don’t ask him.”

Solomon judged that it was safe to go out again on Easter morning. The bells were ringing all over town. The cathedral was packed and Christians were busy celebrating the return of their god. It had always been a mystery to Solomon why his people were reviled in the streets as those who had killed Jesus when, without that death, no resurrection could have occurred. However, most of the things Christians believed baffled him, despite the best efforts of numerous priests and his cousin, Catherine, to make them sound logical and appealing.

At least the laws God gave to the Jews weren’t intended to make sense. The teachers in Troyes had explained that to him when he was a boy. It was enough that the Creator understood the rules. His only duty was to trust and obey.

Solomon had wasted too many years in fighting that dictum. Perhaps he had absorbed some of Peter Abelard’s teaching through Catherine and Edgar, who had been students of the philosopher. Laws should make sense, divine ones especially. Why should men have been given minds if not better to understand the Mind that created them?

Finally he realized that his intelligence wasn’t up to the task. Nor was his piety. What remained was a simmering resentment of those to whom faith was clear and unshakeable.