The Outcast Dove: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (6 page)

“I’m sorry to keep you,” he said when he rejoined the bailiff. “I was still stupefied by sleep. Now, can you tell me more about what happened? How seriously was Victor hurt?”

“The watchman said he took a blow to the head,” Marfan told him. “Knocked him out cold, but the watchman said he’d seen worse. He’ll probably be awake by the time we get there.”

“Gratia Deo!”
James made the sign of the cross. Marfan did likewise.

The streets were now completely deserted. Even the taverns were quiet, the last customer having been thrown out or rolled under a table to await the dawn. A cat leapt silently from a wall, intent on chasing a rat. The motion startled James and he quickened his pace. It was less than a mile to the church of Saint Étienne but it seemed to the monk as if they were trapped in an unnatural shadow from which they would never escape.

Marfan was unaware of the fancies of his companion. He assumed the monk was praying for the welfare of his friend. So he was surprised at the joy with which James greeted the sight of the lantern at the gate to the church of Saint Jacques, at the back of Saint Étienne.

“Ah, the porter is waiting for us, no doubt,” he said. “I’ll leave you then. I’m sure they’ll give you a place to rest the remainder of the night. I hope Brother Victor is recovered by now. Good night to you.”

James rang at the gate and a moment later it was opened, not by the porter but by a fellow monk.

“You must be here about the injured man,” he said.

James nodded. “Brother Victor, of Moissac,” he said. “We only arrived today. How is he?”

“I’ll take you to him,” the monk said.

Solomon had some qualms about waking a respectable salt merchant and his family in the middle of the night but Josta didn’t hesitate. She pounded loudly on the thick door, waited a moment, then pounded again.

“Give them time to put on a robe,” Solomon told her.

But the door opened at once. The man facing them was wide awake and fully, if hastily, dressed.

“Josta,” Vidian said. “You’ve come for Belide. It’s all right; she’s here.”

He led them up the stairs to the family chamber.

“I’ve been trying to get some sense out of them,” he said as they climbed. “But neither one is talking. They’ve had a fright, I’m sure, but aren’t hurt.”

“Belide will be soon,” Josta promised, “for the fright she’s given me.”

“I don’t blame you,” Vidian said. “But wait a bit. She seems to be punishing herself quite effectively.”

He opened the door.

Belide sat by a coal brazier, a blanket around her shoulders and a bowl in her hands. On the other side sat Arnald, devouring a leg of chicken. When they saw Josta and Solomon, both of them stood.

“It’s all my fault,
Na
Josta,” Arnald began.

“No, Mother, I was the one who talked him into it,” Belide insisted.

Josta glared at her daughter from the doorway but Solomon noticed that her hands weren’t clenched, but open, as if she desired nothing more than to hold Belide in her arms.

However, her words were not of comfort.

“You have shamed yourself and your family by your actions tonight,” Josta said. “You will now apologize to
Senhor
Vidian for disturbing his rest. Then we shall go home.”

“
Na
Josta.” Arnald put an arm around Belide, forgetting the drumstick he still held. “I swear to you by all the saints that your daughter is blameless in this.”

Josta sighed. “Arnald, don’t perjure yourself. Belide, come. We shall discuss this at home.”

Arnald was about to protest but Belide gave him a warning look. She handed him the blanket and bowl, then bowed to Arnald’s father.

“
Senhor
Vidian,” she said. “I humbly beg your forgiveness for the trouble I’ve caused. Thank you for taking me in at this hour and for the warm broth. Please don’t be angry with Arnald. He has done nothing wrong.”

Vidian shook his head. “If that is so, then I want to know what the pair of you did do.”

Belide and Arnald looked at each other and then at the floor.

“You see?” Vidian turned to Josta and Solomon. “And they expect us to trust them. Take your girl home, Josta. Maybe you and Bonysach can get the story from her.”

As they were leaving, Arnald spoke up.

“Solomon, is Brother Victor all right?”

“Arnald!” Belide cried.

Solomon raised his eyebrows. “If you mean the man who was attacked, I don’t know. And I’m sure your father will want you to tell us how you know his name when no one else seems to.”

But Arnald was taking his orders from Belide.

“I can’t tell you,” he said. “I swore an oath.”

Vidian snorted his disgust. “What do you think you are, boy, some knight on a mission?”

“No, Father,” Arnald said miserably. “But I still can’t tell.”

“Then I believe we should take our leave,” Solomon bowed.

Vidian said nothing as he took them back to the door to the street. Just before he let them out, he stopped and looked at Belide. She seemed more pitiful than defiant, her large brown eyes glittering with tears.

“If my son has dishonored you in any way, girl, say so,” he told her.

“Oh, no!” Belide clasped her hands. “He is the most noble, self-sacrificing man I know. Please don’t punish him!”

Vidian threw up his hands.

“
Forssenat,
the both of them!” he said. “Good luck in getting any sense out of her.”

He shut the door.

Solomon saw them back to the house. Josta walked in front, her back stiff with anger and mortification. Belide followed, occasionally sniffing back tears. He felt acutely uncomfortable. This was a private matter. As soon as he had seen them through the gate, he thanked Josta for the dinner and turned to go.

“At this hour?” she asked. “All the way back to the street of the
blanchisseurs
? Nonsense. We can make a bed for you here for what’s left of the night.”

“I’m sure you don’t need me in your house now,” he said.

At this moment the door opened.

Bonysach didn’t say a word. He just took Belide in his arms and held her tightly, tears streaming down his face.

“I’m sorry, Papa.” Belide wept. “I’m so very, very sorry.”

“Was she harmed?” Bonysach mouthed to Josta.

His wife shook her head. Bonysach lifted his face.

“May the Holy One be praised and thanked for the safe return of my child,” he said.

“Amen,” Josta agreed. Then she gave them a push into the hallway.

“Now, everyone to bed,” she continued. “I do not want to hear another sound until the first cock crows.”

Brother James sat by the still figure in the infirmary bed.

“I don’t understand,” he said for the tenth time. “What was he doing out there?”

“Perhaps some errand for the prior?” the infirmarian suggested. “The porter at Saint Pierre thought Prior Stephen shouldn’t be disturbed so late but we can ask him in the morning.”

“But Victor will be awake by then, surely,” James said. “He can tell us himself. Isn’t that true?”

He looked up at the infirmarian, who bit his lip in worry.

“I’ve done all I can,” he said. “It’s little enough, a compress of herbs to reduce the swelling and draw out any poison from the wound. There is blood in the white of his eyes. I fear that it indicates an excess of malevolent humors pressing against the inside of his skull.”

“Can’t you stop it?” James asked. He had an image of Brother Victor’s head expanding like a pig bladder until it exploded.

The monk rubbed his hands. “I’ve heard that trepanning might release the noxious fumes building up and reduce the pressure, but I’ve never done it, nor am I allowed to take a knife to another human being. You know that.”

“But there must be a doctor in Toulouse who isn’t a cleric!” James persisted.

“Yes,” the infirmarian said slowly. “The best one is Master Mosse. His home isn’t far from here.

“Mosse,” James repeated. “A Jew.”

“He’s a very good physician,” the infirmarian said. “Last year he cauterized our sacristan’s hemorrhoids with hardly any pain, he said. Brother Ugo can’t praise him enough.”

James clenched his teeth. “Are you certain that cutting a hole in Brother Victor’s skull will save him?”

“No, I’m only certain that, if it isn’t done, he’ll die,” the monk answered simply. “Barring a miracle, of course,” he added.

Brother James bent over Victor. His breathing was so faint that James could barely hear it. His face was calm and empty, as if his soul had already departed.

“There must be another way,” James muttered. “God would not deliver me to my enemies now.”

“What was that?” The infirmarian came closer. “Do you want me to send for Mosse?”

“No,” James answered. “Not yet. I will sit with Victor, to watch and pray. When the prior comes, he must decide.”

The infirmarian looked doubtful but Brother James seemed adamant. And perhaps, the monk considered, it was better to pray for a miracle than to seek the help of an infidel. Although, he reflected, Brother Ugo had been glad that, when prayers failed, Master Mosse had been there to relieve his suffering.

James knelt by the bed, his eyes riveted on the cross hanging above it.

“Please, Lord, if this is a test of my resolve, don’t let Victor be the price,” he begged. “He’s all I have!”

God mustn’t let Victor die. Not when James needed him so much. Victor’s faith was clear and pure. He was beyond being a good Christian. He was simply a good man. James had spent the first half of his life trying to decipher the word of the Lord, to find the hidden message that would make sense of this world. He had spent the second half in rejection of that search, trying instead to open his heart to God’s will and accept it without question.

He feared this would end in failure, as well.

There were preachers in Provence these days, illegal of course and undoubtedly heretical, who said that all flesh was created by Satan and the greatest blessing one could ask would be to be freed from it and allow the spirit to return to the Creator. That was wrong; it had to be. And yet…

James pressed his fingers hard against his forehead and cheeks, trying to force out the momentary doubt. Over and over, he repeated the Credo. “I believe in God the Father and in his only son, Jesus Christ, I believe in…Dear Lord, please save Brother Victor. If You do not, I shall still believe but, if You do, then I can be sure.”

He prayed unceasingly through the night but to no avail. Sometime between Matins and Lauds, well before dawn, Brother Victor’s spirit slipped away.

Solomon woke to the shouts of the twins as they came into the hall and found him curled up on a makeshift bed.

“What are you here for?” Muppim asked. “Did you drink too much to find your way home?”

Solomon pulled the blanket over his head. “Go away,” he grunted.

Huppim tugged at the blanket. “Does that mean you’re going to marry our sister?”

“No!”

Solomon swatted at the child, but Huppim avoided the blow easily. Both boys retreated, however, lured on toward the kitchen by the smell of fresh bread.

Solomon rolled over, his face to the wall and tried to return to sleep. His head ached as though he had drunk a vat. If only he had stayed with Gavi. The tanner was an uncomplicated host, glad of anyone who would brave the stench of his work to enjoy his company.

The household was rousing now. There was clatter from the kitchen and thumps from the upper floors as people prepared for the day. There was nothing else for it. Solomon swung his legs off the bed and hunted for his tunic and boots.

Josta entered just as he was folding the bed against the wall. She was dressed carefully but her drawn face showed that she had slept little, if at all.

“Belide has been forbidden to come down,” she told him. “Until she explains her actions last night. She’s up there like a martyr with the knife at her throat, insisting that she swore to tell no one.”

“Well, it doesn’t sound like a lover’s tryst.” Solomon yawned. “Pardon me.”

“No, I beg your pardon, for keeping you up so late and for bringing you into this,” Josta said. “I don’t know what is the matter with the girl.”

A thought crossed Solomon’s mind. Should he even suggest it? Josta was worried enough, but she should be warned, just in case.

“Is it possible that Belide is planning to convert?”

He regretted his words when he saw the horror on Josta’s face.

“Oh, no!” she said. “Belide would never…never…oh no!”

But they both knew it was a convincing explanation. Why else would a monk agree to meet with a Jewish girl in the middle of the night? What else could be such a horrible secret that she had to hide it from her parents?

“Josta!” Solomon reached out to steady her. “Here, sit down. I may be completely wrong. I’m sure Belide is a good, pious young woman.”

“Of course.” Josta tried to calm the fear in her stomach. “There must be another reason. But I am going to ask her, all the same. I’ll know by her face, even if she denies it.”

“It seems that I’ve disrupted your life far more than you have mine,” Solomon said sadly. “Let me know if I can help you in any way. I’ll take my leave now. No, don’t worry, I’ll get a
gastel
from the baker to break my fast. Tell Bonysach that I’ll see him later. I’ll be at the house of study to visit my uncle this afternoon. If you’ll permit it, I’ll come by afterwards.”

“Of course.” Josta gave him her hand. “Thank you, Solomon.” She gave him a wan smile. “If you continue acting in such a kind and responsible matter, I may reconsider your suitability as a son-in-law.”

Solomon was glad to see she could still tease him.

“I promise you,
Na
Josta,” he said. “This is only a temporary improvement. Tomorrow I shall be as dissolute as ever.”

Brother James was too numbed by the shock of Victor’s death to understand what the men around him were saying. Expressions of sorrow, platitudes on the release from earthly pain, promises of prayers, the words skimmed over him like gulls chasing a wave. Finally, someone took him by the shoulders and led him to another room where he was given a hot drink, after which he slept.