The Outcast Dove: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (7 page)

Later the prior and his fellow monks from Moissac came for James and took him back to Saint Pierre des Cuisines. He was sent to his bed in the dortor. A few moments later, Prior Stephen came in.

“You needn’t worry about anything,” his superior told him. “Brother Victor’s body is being taken back to Moissac. You may go with him, if you like. We’ll find someone else to make your journey.”

This brought James briefly to awareness.

“No, of course not,” he said. “Victor believed in it; I must complete the mission. Those men may die if we don’t reach them soon.”

“True,” the prior admitted. “And your ability to converse with the Saracens would be a great help. But it’s not worth risking your health. We can make a final decision later. Now you must rest.”

Rest? That wasn’t right. “Oh, no,” James insisted. “I mustn’t ever rest. Constant vigilance is required. I can’t relax my guard a moment.”

The bells began to ring. James looked about in panic.

“What is the hour?” he asked.

“Sext,” the prior answered. “You didn’t sleep long.”

“I did!” James cried. “I missed two of the Offices. I must join the others.”

The prior put a hand on his shoulder, keeping James from rising from the cot.

“You are excused for the day.” He made it a command. “If you wish, you may repeat the psalms from your bed. I’ll send someone later with a calming
tisane
. Drink it all.”

James did his best to obey. He lay still, reciting the Office of Sext. The hardest thing he had had to learn was to use the Latin version of the psalms. When he was anxious or tired, the Hebrew kept coming into his mind. He concentrated harder.

Just as the bells tolled the end of the Office, James remembered something. Looking around to be sure no one was watching from the doorway, he got up and went over to where Brother Victor’s pack lay, just as it had the night before.

James took out the belt with the bags of money. Even here he felt better keeping it in his own care. He shook it out, preparing to wrap it around his waist. He stopped.

Brother Victor had been carrying six bags, each holding ten gold coins.

Now there were only four.

“She’s been up there two days now,” Josta fretted. “I don’t think this punishment is going to work.”

“Has Arnald’s family had any better luck?” Solomon asked.

“I spoke to his mother, Maria, Friday before the Sabbath started,” Josta said. “He hadn’t confessed to anything yet. He won’t say where he met Belide or why they were out. Maria thinks he’s trying to act ‘noble,’ like the heroes in those stupid
gestes
. She told him he’s better off as a salt merchant who doesn’t keep things from his mother. She’s as close to wit’s end as I am.”

“Do Arnald and Belide know that the poor monk has died?” Hubert asked.

“They do.” Bonysach looked out into the courtyard, where rain was pooling in the hollows of the flagstones. “It seems to make them even more determined to keep silent.”

He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.

“They can’t have had anything to do with the attack,” Solomon said. “Whatever they’re hiding, it’s not criminal.”

“How can I be sure?” Bonysach said. His drumming grew more staccato. “They shouldn’t even have known the monk’s name! No one else in town recognized him. The man entered the monastery as a child and his parents are long dead.”

He sighed. “I have to meet with the other good men of the town and Bourg tomorrow to discuss how we can make the streets safer for clergy out after dark. The monks at Cuisines have demanded that we find the perpetrator but even they know that’s nearly impossible. He could be anyone, most likely some cutthroat pretending to be a pilgrim.”

“So you see about getting more watchmen,” Solomon said. “Suggest to the monks that they keep a closer eye on their visitors. And that will be an end to the matter.”

Bonysach wasn’t assured. “But what if Belide was nearby when the man was attacked and someone saw her?”

“They would have spoken up by now,” Josta said. “Wouldn’t they?”

“Perhaps,” Bonysach said.

“What if she or this Arnald saw someone else?” Hubert asked suddenly.

They all looked at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But they might have seen the man who hit the monk. They knew he was hurt, you said. I only caught a glimpse of a figure in the dark but they might have been where they could see him. What if he was someone they could identify?”

“You think their silence is from fear?” Josta eyes grew wide at the idea.

“It’s possible,” Solomon considered. “For themselves or for someone else.”

Josta threw up her hands.

“I can’t endure this any longer,” she stated. “I’m bringing her down and beating the truth out of her, if I must.”

Bonysach reached out and caught her arm as she stood.

“My dear, you know very well that you would stop at the first cry she made,” he said.

“But we must do something!” She was at the edge of tears.

Solomon sighed.

“Would you like me to try?” he asked. “Both Belide and Arnald told me that they wanted my help. I didn’t speak of it before because I promised them my silence until Aaron returns from Bordeaux. He seems to be a part of it, too.”

“Aaron?” Bonysach looked at him. “But he’s a respectable trader. What would he be doing plotting with these children?”

“Perhaps that’s one thing I could ask her,” Solomon said.

Stephen, prior of Saint Pierre des Cuisines, and, Rodger, prior of Saint Pierre of Moissac were old friends. They had been novices together and so it was a relief to both of them to be able to consult about the unfortunate tragedy.

“James is taking the death of Brother Victor very hard,” Stephen said. “Do you think he’s capable of concentrating on the task ahead?”

“Brother James does not make friends easily,” Rodger explained. “Of course we are all brothers in Christ, but James is very severe with himself and others. We try to overlook it. All the same, I think that Victor was the first person in years who really got close to James. It’s no wonder he grieves for the boy.”

“They weren’t ‘special’ friends?” Stephen asked worriedly.

“Oh, no! Not at all!” Rodger said. “More as if Victor were the son James never had. He was proud of the boy and saw a great future for him. Now, that’s shattered. But it makes him all the more determined to fulfill Victor’s goal.”

“And the missing gold?” Stephen asked. “What shall we do about that?”

Rodger shook his head. “It does credit to Brother James that he told us at once about its loss. I think that either Victor took it with him when he went out and his attacker stole it or that someone here at Saint Pierre took the bags from his belongings. If it involves a venal monk then we must deal with the matter privately.”

“And if not?”

“That,” Rodger said, “is much more troubling. We still don’t know what made Victor leave his bed without permission. Could he have planned to steal the gold himself? What if he delivered it to a confederate, who then disposed of him? And why arrange a meeting so late, when a lone monk would be remarked upon and questioned? It makes no sense.”

“I know,” Stephen agreed. “In any case, it’s up to the abbot to decide if Brother James should be allowed to complete the mission. The messenger should return from Moissac within the next day or two. Until then, we shall continue with preparations for the journey. Do we have any volunteers to go in Brother Victor’s place?”

They discussed the details for some time. However, when Stephen got up to leave, Prior Rodger had one more matter to discuss.

“Whoever we pick will have to be aware of the temptation that Brother James will be exposed to on this journey.”

Stephen nodded. “I understand that James has always shown himself to be a most devout Christian and your abbot is confident that he is safe even among those who were once his people, but there’s always the possibility…”

“‘Like a dog to it’s own vomit,’” Rodger quoted. “I know. It were better that he lose his life than his soul. You might impress that upon the man assigned to go with him.”

After his summons to the priory, where he learned of the change in plans, the soldier, Jehan, returned to the cheap inn where he and Berengar were staying. He ordered bread, beer, and soup and sat down to wait.

It didn’t take long. He’d barely finished the soup when the first man came in. He was lean and watchful. He spotted Jehan at once but didn’t approach him until the innkeeper had pointed him out.

Jehan invited him to share the beer.

“I hear you’re looking for men who can fight,” the new arrival said. “Where and who for?”

“First, I need to know a few things about you,” Jehan said. “Do you owe service to any lord hereabouts?”

“Nah.” The man took the offered bowl and drank deeply. “I fought for the Count of Foix last year but finished my time with nothing much to show for it. A man told me to go south. Count Ramón is gathering an army to lay siege to Tortosa, they say. But I don’t know that I want to be in an army again.”

“It wasn’t to my taste, either,” Jehan agreed. “You have your own horse and weapons?”

“I do.” The man grimaced. “That horse is worth twice as much as I am. The one thing I brought out of the Count’s war. So, what’s the job?”

“Simple.” Jehan smiled. “Get a pair of monks through Spain to Valencia and back.”

“What!” The man rocked back on the bench. “That’s Saracen land. What reason could there be for monks to go there? If they plan to preach to the infidels, I’ll have no part of it. The Saracens don’t just kill people who try to convert them; they cut off bits beforehand and feed them to their dogs. Then they burn you as a sacrifice to their gods.”

Jehan looked at him in disgust. “You know nothing but rumors and stories from the bottom of a mug. I’ve spent the past two years down there and I know what they’re like. I’ve fought against them and with them, under King Alfonso Enríquez. They’re a strange people, it’s true. Almost as bad as Jews in their commandments about food. Worse, if you count the ones who don’t drink wine. But they have no idols that I’ve seen. Instead they think we do, with all our statues of the Virgin and the saints.”

The man looked at him in suspicion. “What are you?” he asked.

“A soldier,” Jehan answered shortly. “And I’ve killed enough men to know that all blood is red. I also have lived long enough not to trust any one on either side. Have you?”

The man stood.

“I don’t know what you’re paying for this folly,” he said. “And I don’t want to. I don’t travel with madmen.”

The few others in the tavern glanced at them briefly and then returned to their own business. The first applicant stalked out.

Jehan started on his bread, now softened by the last of the soup.

Two more men came by, but one wanted too much for the job and the other looked as though he’d cut their throats the first night out. Jehan ordered more beer and glanced at the man sitting in the corner.

Jehan had noticed the man some time before. He had ordered one pitcher of beer and was drinking it slowly. The purse he had shaken the sliver of coin from looked empty. He fidgeted with the bowl, tapping it on the table in an annoying cadence. Occasionally, he would look quickly in Jehan’s direction, then away. Jehan wondered when he’d find the courage to come over.

Finally the constant tapping got on his nerves. Jehan rose and went to him. As he approached, he noted that the man’s clothes were worn, but of good quality, especially the boots. His tunic was closed with a tarnished silver brooch that had lost its stones. Under the tunic, there was the glint of mail, well oiled and polished.

“You’ve been watching me,” he said without preamble. “I’m going to Valencia to ransom knights taken in battle with the Saracen. Will you come with me?”

The man gave a surly look, as though he would refuse. Then the look turned to shame.

“I can’t,” he said into his cup. “I don’t have a horse anymore.”

Jehan studied him. “Lose him in a tournament?”

The man gave a short laugh. “Me? I don’t go to those things. If you have to know, I lost him at dice. All or nothing.”

“But you kept your sword and mail,” Jehan noted.

“I’d wager my mother before my sword,” the man replied.

Jehan sat down across from him.

“If a horse were provided,” he asked. “Would you take the commission? Payment in gold to you or your family by the abbey of Cluny at Saint Pierre of Moissac.”

The man tried not to show his eagerness, but it was evident in the way his shoulders relaxed as if a burden had been lifted from them. Jehan had been right in gauging the contents of his purse.

“When do we leave?” he asked.

“Shortly after Easter.” Jehan held out his hand. “Now, what is the name of my new sergeant?”

“Guy of Anjou.” Guy took the offered hand. “A free man of decent birth and no prospects.”

“Jehan of Blois.” Jehan smiled. “The same.”

Solomon was having a much more difficult confrontation. Belide had been brought downstairs and now sat facing him. Her expression was a mixture of fear and defiance. How was he to get her to confide in him?

He took a straight back chair from by the empty hearth, spun it around and straddled it so that he could rest his arms on the top. He looked over them at the quivering girl.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Do you think your cowardly parents have delegated me to whip you until you tell all?”

To his surprise, she nodded.

Solomon laughed. “Well, they probably should have. You’re acting like a child too young to understand reason. Now, you and Arnald both say that this adventure you have undertaken was concocted by Aaron, the horse trader, right? Well, I don’t believe you. I’ve known Aaron since you were in swaddling and he’s not one for mysterious plots and sneaking about by night. Nor would he ask you to do anything that might endanger your life.”

“I wasn’t in danger!” she blurted out.

“Oh?” Solomon leaned forward, tipping the chair precariously toward her. “A man died. It could have been you. Did you see who hit him?’

“No, I had already gone by then…” Belide clapped her hand over her mouth.

Solomon let the chair fall back with a satisfied thud.

“So.” He smiled. “You left a guest in your garden to run out into the night in order to meet a black monk. Or was it both Arnald and the monk? And you wonder why your parents are angry with you? What would you think if a child of yours behaved like that?”

Slowly, realization swept through Belide. Her mouth dropped open and a deep blush rose from her neck to her forehead.

“Oh, Solomon! They can’t think that I was going to convert and marry Arnald?” she said. “That’s ridiculous! I would never do such a thing!”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Solomon told her. “And your parents will be, as well. But that still leaves the problem. What were you up to with two Christian men in the middle of the night?”

Gloom settled on her again as she slumped on her stool. She sat for a moment, biting her upper lip. Finally, she came to a decision.

“I can’t tell you everything, because I don’t know it,” she muttered at the floor.

Solomon got up and came to kneel beside her. He felt like a priest waiting for a confession. The thought made him queasy.

“How did you know Brother Victor?” he asked quietly.

“I didn’t,” Belide said. “I only met him briefly in the square. He seemed a good man, for a monk. He comes from near here. Arnald and Aaron were both friends of his. When he went to Moissac, Arnald asked him for advice. He offered to help. At least that’s what Arnald said. I think his sympathy was genuine. Look at the risk he took, leaving his cloister so late at night.”

“Belide.” Solomon’s voice held a warning. “Help you do what?”

Belide sank even lower.

“Rescue a woman from the white monks in Spain.”

“What?” Of all the possibilities Solomon had considered, this wasn’t even on the list.

“Aaron told us. He knows her. She was taken by the Genoese last fall, when they raided Almeria,” Belide said. “She was then sold as a slave and brought to Catalonia and now some white monks have her, but Aaron doesn’t yet know where.”

“Belide, you can’t have this right.” Solomon took her shoulders and pulled her up to face him. “I don’t much care for monks of any sort, but I’m fairly certain that they don’t buy female slaves to slake their lust, as least not officially.”