The Outcast Dove: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (18 page)

This Easter morning he was surrounded by them.

His route took him past the cathedral of Saint Sernin and along the road to the Saracen Wall, which separated the Bourg of Toulouse from the Cité. He realized at once that it had been a stupid choice for it was the main street for Easter processions. He was forced against the buildings with the rest of the populace as priests and monks paraded by, carrying crosses and relics of the saints.

The progress of the clerics was slow as many of the devout crowded forward to touch the reliquaries. Many of them held up sick or crippled children, hoping that the saints in the shrines would notice and take pity on them.

Amidst the crowd wandered peddlers, their backs loaded with tin crosses or emblems of the saints. There were also sellers of sweets, to break the Lenten fast and, as always, beggars.

Solomon looked for a passage that would take him away from the throng. He kept his back against the wall, edging along it to find an opening.

Finally he felt air on his neck. Behind him there was a narrow alleyway that seemed to go through. He stepped back into it and bumped against someone sitting in the shadows.

He fell over with a curse and the clanking of metal.

There was a grunt of pain and then a familiar voice.

“I thought you might do that,” Jehan said. “When I saw you enter.”

Solomon sat up, rubbing a scraped knee.

“You might have warned me,” he said. “This was a new stocking. Now it’s ripped clear through and I’m bleeding on it.”

He stopped as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the passage.

“Why are you sitting here wrapped in a chain?” he asked. “Not that I don’t approve but I assumed that you had escaped the jailer who had charge of you when you left Paris.”

Jehan made no answer. He stretched out his arms and stood up amidst a cacophony of iron. Then he held out his hand to help Solomon rise.

Solomon looked at the hand in suspicion and got up on his own.

“I have no jailer outside my own soul,” Jehan said as he unwound the chain. “I began to understand that the farther I went from Paris and Catherine LeVendeur. Once I was free of the torments of that witch and her sister, I expiated my sin in battle against the infidels.”

“You killed a man in Paris,” Solomon reminded him. “And before that, your madness nearly got Catherine’s sister killed. And so you feel you’ve atoned for death by taking more life?”

“No.” Jehan finished freeing himself from the chain. “Only sincere contrition will redeem me. I work at it every day. Seeing you makes me aware that I have not completely renounced old enmities. And so I must continue to force my body to submit to restraint. If not, I can never learn to govern my spirit.”

He let the iron fall in a long spiral into a leather pack at his feet. Solomon saw that he was barefoot and wearing only a linen shift. He had seen many such pilgrims and penitents in his life. Even the highest nobles had humbled themselves for the good of their souls. But he could not believe it of this man.

He must be planning something.

“Well, I should be going.” Solomon checked the passage for further obstacles. “Enjoy your suffering. Yours is a laudable goal. I wish you success.”

He half expected Jehan to answer with a threat or try to stop him, but the man simply watched as Solomon walked through the long, dark alley.

When he emerged into the sunlight, Solomon felt as if he’d been released from the belly of the whale. Nothing found inside Leviathan could possibly be stranger or more unsettling than a seemingly penitent Jehan.

He was beginning to feel that no corner of Toulouse was safe from surprises.

Normally the person he would have gone to first was his uncle Hubert. But Hubert was becoming more distant with every conversation. Solomon couldn’t decide if the change was a result of increased piety or creeping senility. He only knew that his own heart was deeply troubled and there was no one to share it with.

He wished he hadn’t let Edgar go home.

Belide was washing the Passover meat platters. Her mother sat nearby polishing silver.

“Do you need another pillow, Mama?” she asked. “A hat to shade you from the sun? I’ll go get it.”

Josta put down the shining spoon and picked up another. “The sun isn’t too bright, dear,” she said. “I’m quite comfortable.”

Belide worked quietly a little longer. Josta could see that her daughter wanted to tell her something. She hoped it wouldn’t be any more revelations about Arnald or Christian gold. She finished the last spoon and started on the salt cellar.

“Your brothers should be back soon,” she commented. “I do love them but the quiet is restful.”

Belide took a deep breath. “Mother,” she said.

Josta steeled herself.

“Yes, dear?”

“Is Samuel still coming to the Seder tomorrow?” Belide asked.

“Why, I suppose so,” Josta answered. “He hasn’t told your father that he won’t be. Is that a problem? Are you worried that he won’t want to eat with Gavi?”

“No, of course not,” Belide said. “At least, I hadn’t thought of it. It’s just that, when we go to services, he never looks at me. I’m sure he doesn’t want to speak to me after what I did.”

“Perhaps he’s just behaving properly until he speaks to your father,” Josta suggested. “Does his indifference bother you?”

“Not in the slightest.” Belide gave the platter her complete attention, not looking up. “I simply thought that he might find another visit to us uncomfortable.”

“I suppose, my dear, that depends on what you do to him the next time he visits.”

Josta gathered up the silver and took it back into the house, leaving her daughter to think that one out for herself.

Solomon sat at one of the long tables set up in the square, cradling a bowl of beer and watching a woman in a short
chainse
and multicolored hose do flips over a brazier of glowing coals. Once she had the attention of the crowd, two men got up and lit tapers from the brazier. They proceeded to light streams of fire from their mouths, shooting them at each other until Solomon was sure one of them would ignite.

Instead, the woman returned with a dragon’s head, as large as that of a horse. It was made from cloth on a wooden frame, with evil black eyes and a cavernous mouth. A long red tongue like a whip dangled from it. The woman danced around the men as they tried to catch the head in their flames.

“Your mortal fires can’t hurt me!” the woman cried. “I am the pet of Satan and bathe each day in a molten inferno! I come to herd sinners like you into the depths for my master.”

The men continued to try to set fire to the dragon but the woman nimbly avoided them all the while drawing them closer to a pile of boxes set up on one side of the square. There was a cloth draped over them but as she came close enough, the woman pulled it down to reveal a giant hell mouth, open and grinning.

The audience gave a cry of horror and delight.

“There is no hope for you!” the dragon taunted the men. “Down you go!”

She pushed them into the maw of the beast and, with hideous screams, the fire eaters vanished.

“That is the fate of sinners!” the woman sang, still dancing the dragon head about the square. “Who’s next? You? Or you?”

She pointed to several of the spectators.

“Your neighbors don’t know your sins,” she leered at one well-dressed man. “But my master does. Your gold and silk are no protection from him.”

“That’s one who won’t leave a coin on the plate,” a voice said in Solomon’s ear.

He turned around. Arnald grinned at him.

“Father let me out for the day,” he explained. “Since I’m about to leave on a dangerous journey for the good of my soul. Want a sausage?”

He held out a hard greasy stick, well gnawed. Solomon leaned back to avoid the smell.

“Too much garlic?” Arnald asked. Then it hit him “Oh, damn. I didn’t mean to…I forgot it was pork.”

“Keep your voice down,” Solomon hissed.

He glanced around. No one seemed to have heard.

They turned their attention back to the players. The woman had made the rounds of those closest to her, suggesting that they had committed everything from gluttony to lascivious behavior with their goats. The rest of the audience roared with laughter.

“Ah, you can’t hide behind your wife!” she chided one man. “Even if she is a mighty warrior, who outlasts you in every battle! The sharpest spindle can’t dent my scales! I tell you all.” She swept the dragon head in a circle. “There is no protection from me! One by one, you shall all enter my master’s kingdom!”

One of the fire eaters returned from behind the hell mouth. He was now garbed as a demon, with horns, a sooty face, and a huge false nose that hooked over his mouth. His tunic was hitched up in back to show another face tied to his buttocks, the forked tongue protruding obscenely. At the orders of the “dragon,” he picked up a young woman from the crowd and prepared to toss her into the abyss.

The scream she gave sounded genuine. The man near her tried to intervene, but, as he rushed to save her, the dragon head was thrust in his way.

“What could a puny mortal do to rescue her from the consequence of her own sin?” The woman spoke softly but the words reached to the edge of the square.

“This isn’t funny!” The man made as if to push the player over.

“Help!” the captive shouted from the arms of the demon. “My lord Jesus, save me!”

Arnald nudged Solomon. “I
thought
she was part of the act.”

At that moment, the dragon woman looked up. She pointed to the top of the boxes where, over the entrance to Hell, stood a figure robed in white. He had a gold sheen to his face. Even his beard sparkled. He spread his arms. In one hand he held a thurible, used by priests to sprinkle holy water upon the faithful.

“Release her, in the name of Our Lord!” he commanded the demon, sending down a shower upon it.

With a cry, the demon put down his burden, who scampered back to the crowd.

“Who are you?” the demon whimpered, cringing. “Why have I no power to resist your will?”

“I am the messenger of the Son of God!” The player waited for the cheers to die down. “Death has no dominion over him. And those who believe shall live with him in everlasting joy. They need fear you no more!”

The dragon now approached. Next to Solomon, Arnald leaned forward in eager anticipation.

“I love this part,” he said.

“My master is Lucifer!” the dragon said proudly. “He was once as you, a mere servant of a demanding Master, but now he rules his own domain! Your glory may daunt this feeble minion, but the true power of Satan cannot be defeated!”

The woman now held the dragon head up almost to the height of the man. A pole at the back let her stretch it out away from her body.

“Look at these pathetic creatures.” She turned the head to encompass the circle of people. “Every one of them has listened to the sweet words of my Master and sinned. And will again. They have no chance of escaping his net.”

The angel ignored the dragon head waving directly in front of him. He stretched out his hands to address the audience.

“Do you have faith?” he asked them. “Do you believe in our lord, Jesus, born of the Virgin, who performed the miracle of the fishes and the loaves, who healed the sick and called Lazarus forth from the tomb? Do you believe that he suffered and died for your sins and descended into Hell?”

He pointed to the crude monster beneath him.

“Yes!” the crowd responded.

“And,” the man said with loud passion, “do you believe that on the third day, he rose from the grave and, forty days later, ascended into Heaven, from whence he shall come to judge the living and the dead?”

“Yes! Yes!” Even the wealthy man was on his feet, shouting with the others.

The man smiled.

“Then all the might of Satan shall not prevail.” He raised his arm. “And all his servants shall be defeated. Begone, foul creature!”

The man sprinkled something from the thurible onto the dragon head.

At once it burst into flames.

The woman dropped it onto the brazier, where the painted face blackened and shriveled until there was nothing left but ashes.

The audience in the square cheered and tossed coins on to the large salver that the “demon,” his nose and horns removed, was passing around.

Arnald settled back next to Solomon.

“I never figured out how they light the dragon,” he said. “Do you think there’s a live coal inside?”

“I don’t know,” Solomon answered.

He took a sip of the beer, trying to appear unaffected. He should have expected it. Easter was hardly a day for the usual ribald performances. He told himself that the features of the demon could easily have been meant to be a Saracen, not a Jew. More likely it could serve as both.

It seemed that he was doomed to endure an Easter sermon, no matter where he was.

Next to him Arnald chewed on his sausage, occasionally stopping for a garlic-laden belch and a swallow of beer.

“It wasn’t as good as last year,” he commented. “They had five players then, so the damned soul didn’t have to be the angel, too. But I always like to see the dragon explode.”

Solomon awoke from his dismal reverie long enough for Arnald’s comment to penetrate.

“That’s the most important part of it to you?” he asked. “You come to this performance every year just to see the dragon burst into flame?”

“Of course.” Arnald wrapped the last third of his sausage in oilcloth. “I keep hoping that eventually the whole stage will catch, maybe even spread far enough to burn down the Roaix tower. What other reason could there be?”

Solomon took a deep breath. Suddenly the air seemed cleaner, even though pungent with garlic and pepper.

“I can’t think of any,” he said.

He stretched his legs out under the rickety table and called for more beer.