The Wandering Arm (7 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General

BOOK: The Wandering Arm
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All the same, he reasoned as he walked, it wasn’t expressly forbidden. Even if he suspected the goods had been stolen, he had no proof and it wasn’t as if they were truly sacred. He would never steal a
Torah,
no matter how valuable the casing. He would die for it, just like the martyrs of Mainz, he told himself smugly. And with the profit from this transaction he would himself pay for a new copy of the sacred books to be made.
So, warmed by the glow of piety, Natan reached the little alleyway that led to the door in the cloister wall. With a sigh of relief, he set the bag down and pushed against the latch. As promised, it had been left unhooked.
Someone had taken every precaution. The door swung open smoothly. Even the hinges were silent. Picking up the bag again, Natan crept in and edged along the inner wall until he found the steps leading down. They were slippery and he began to doubt the accuracy of his instructions.
But at the bottom was another door and through the crack under it came the glow of lamplight. Natan knocked and the door opened to admit him.
A small room off the staircase at the keep at Vielleteneuse, Feast of Saint Agatha, virgin and martyr, Tuesday, February 5, 1141/26, Shebat, 4901
… et quae adhuc desunt in utensiliis domus Domini ad explendum aggredere toto mentis conamine, sine quibus divina misteria et officiorum ministeria non valent consistere. Sunt enim haec; calices, candelabra, … sanctorum pignorum scrinia, … Quae si vis componere, hoc incipias ordine.
… and prepare to undertake with all the effort of your mind
[to create] that which is lacking of the utensils of the house of
the Lord, without which the divine mysteries and the service
of the Office cannot take place. These are: chalices,
candlesticks, … cases for the sacred relics, … If you wish to
make these, this is how you begin.”
—Theophilus,
De Diversis Artibus
Book III, preface
“
I
’m perfectly well now,” Catherine insisted. “And I’m going with Edgar.”
“I can’t do this unless she’s with me,” Edgar said. “It’s not unknown for journeymen to bring their wives when they go to a new job.”
Hubert had anticipated her determination but had hoped Edgar would support him. “Do you want Catherine to live in the sort of place they put journeymen?” he countered. “Sometimes it’s no more than a pallet in the workshop.”
“We can rent a room from Aunt Johannah,” Catherine said. “She has four buildings, two on the Île and two more in the bourg Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois.”
“She does?” Hubert was doubtful. “Did she tell you that?”
Catherine nodded. “They were part of her dower and she rents them to students and artisans and people like that. She told me so. No innkeepers or procurers or soapmakers. Nothing smelly or disgusting. We would be fine there.”
Catherine didn’t say it, but she thought it would be wonderful to have a whole room to themselves, even if she would have to buy most of their food from the bakehouse. And they would be in Paris again. While Edgar learned whatever there was to know about silversmithing, there would surely be a chance for her to stroll down to the Île and listen to the lectures of the masters. Now that she was a proper matron, with her hair covered, there was no reason she shouldn’t. She could always carry a basket and do some shopping on her way home, in case anyone asked where she had been.
But matters didn’t appear that simple.
“Edgar will have to spend several weeks working with Baruch in Saint-Denis first,” Hubert said. “And remember, Edgar, if he doesn’t think you can learn enough to convince genuine craftsmen that you’re really a silversmith, even a failed one, then we’ll forget the whole thing.”
Edgar considered that. “And if I can?” he asked quietly.
Hubert paced around the tiny room, stopping to check that no one was waiting and listening on the stairs. The farther he got into this thing, the less he liked it. Especially the part about Catherine.
“Baruch thought you could go to Paris, pretending to be a silversmith with no master to speak for him,” he said at last. “Without a recommendation, even if you showed some skill, few people would take you on. You could seem to be desperate enough to take any sort of work. All we want you to do is keep your eyes and ears open. See if there are any rumors of jobs in the craft for those who ask no questions, especially about where their payment comes from.”
Edgar seemed disappointed. “Is that all?” he asked.
“Of course it is,” Hubert said. “Would you even consider taking Catherine along if it were more dangerous than that?”
Edgar got up and started pacing as well. Catherine pulled her feet in close to her stool to avoid being stepped on. The men went around each other like two dogs deciding whether or not to attack.
“I thought you wanted me to do something important,” Edgar muttered. “Something only I could do. Anyone can wander about picking up gossip.”
“I could do that,” Catherine piped up. She was getting tired of sitting hunched against the wall while the beasts prowled.
Both men glared at her, more in panic than anger. They knew very well from past experience that she was likely to act on anything she heard rather than simply report it.
“Well, I could,” she repeated. “And don’t start lecturing me about danger. What I’ve just gone through was more dangerous than anything that ever happened to me before. What more have I to fear?”
Her deep blue eyes challenged them to refute her. They both looked away.
Hubert’s eyes filled. Edgar stared hard at the cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling. The only emotion men of his family were allowed to show was anger, and that well chilled.
“My beloved child …” Hubert began.
Catherine stopped him. “Father, tell us what needs to be done,” she said calmly. “You know we’ll be safer together, as well as happier, so we should begin from that premise and build our plan from it. Edgar, please come sit down. You’re making me queasy going round and round like that.”
Edgar took her hand, but remained standing next to her. He faced his father-in-law. “When I married Catherine, I gladly gave up my parents’ plans for me to enter the priesthood and follow my uncle into the bishopric,” he said. “But in these last few months you have never been willing to discuss just what I am to do with my life. You’ve kept me occupied with errands, as you do Solomon. I can’t believe that’s all you expect from me. If it’s still your wish, I’ll go to Montpellier, or even Bologna, to study law. However, I’d rather continue my education in Paris.”
“Well, possibly.” Hubert wasn’t ready to commit himself until he learned where this conversation was going.
“In your plotting, you’ve forgotten that I’m known in Paris,” Edgar told him. “I lived there for four years. But that doesn’t need to make me useless for this. If I came back with Catherine and announced that my parents had disowned me for marrying her and I needed to work with my hands to survive, it would be perfectly believable. Any lack of skill could be placed to my not having been trained in the guilds.”
“Edgar, you would do that?” Catherine said. “Your friends would all scorn you, or worse.”
“Not all of them,” Edgar said. “Anyway, don’t you think that I would do that much for you, if this tale were true?”
Catherine knew that he would, but even more, she was well aware that he was desperately eager to. There was no point in letting her father know that.
“I think that’s very noble of you,
carissime,”
she said. “And I think it’s an excellent idea.” She smiled.
“So, as a poor student forced to support a wife,” Edgar went on, “I would be just as likely to fall in with those with unlawful business as if I were a journeyman, and there would be fewer questions asked.”
“It’s always better to stay as close to the truth as possible in these matters,” Catherine added, causing Hubert to wonder how many times he’d been deceived by a tale of hers that was almost true.
“How would you explain your skill?” he asked instead.
“I’ve been mocked enough for cluttering the floor with wood shavings,” Edgar answered. “My friends consider it a harmless madness. They might find it more likely that I’d sell wooden trinkets, I suppose, instead of working in silver.”
“Oh, yes!” Catherine interrupted. “Let’s do that, too. We could set up a stall at the
Lendit!
I’ve always wanted one, with a banner flying from the tent pole.”
“NO!” Hubert told her. He ran his hands through his rapidly greying black hair. This child of his would drive him insane one day. He’d end up sitting in the middle of the street, giggling at the passersby and catching coins in his teeth. It was only a matter of time. “I haven’t worked for thirty years to see my daughter sitting like a common
fame vilaine
bringing cabbages to market!” he shouted.
Catherine folded her hands in her lap and looked at him with demure respect. “Very well, Father,” she said. “No stall. Just a nice, clean room on the Île. Now, when do we leave?”
Hubert sighed. He knew she had won again. “Baruch is willing to let Edgar begin his training tomorrow,” he said. “Catherine, you will be churched on the first Sunday of Lent. If Baruch thinks Edgar’s knowledge enough and if you are fully recovered, we’d like you to leave the next day for Paris.”
Catherine got up and kissed him. “We’d be happy to help,” she said. “You know you can depend on us.”
Hubert nodded in resignation.
That afternoon Hubert and Baruch made their way down the rue de la Boulangerie in Saint-Denis. On one side was the high wall of the abbey cloister, on the other a row of shops. The smell of fresh bread surrounded them.
“Can you imagine what that aroma does to the poor monks on fast days?” Baruch chuckled. “Even I can pity them. A bakery next to a monastery is a cruel trick.”
“It could have been worse,” Hubert said, smiling. “It might have been a brothel.”
They had composed themselves by the time they reached the corner where the abbot’s house stood. Hubert lifted the solid iron knocker. He hesitated before dropping it.
“Abbot Suger is a very sensible man,” he said to reassure them both. “He’ll give us no trouble about this.”
“Certainly,” Baruch answered with a touch of acidity. “He’ll likely reward us for our honesty. Get on with it, Hubert.”
The clank was answered immediately. A slot in the door slid open and closed quickly and then the door was opened by one of the monks, so hooded and wrapped against the cold that he was no more than a black shape ushering them in.
“We’ve come to see the abbot,” Hubert said. “We are expected.”
The shape nodded and beckoned them to follow. Hubert had a sudden memory of a story told by a traveling player, about a man led into the nether world by just such a figure. He tried to remember the end of the tale, but it wouldn’t come.
They were led only as far the entry room of the abbot’s quarters, where their guide left them with another bow. Baruch shuddered.
“I never get used to their silence,” he complained.
“It’s not their fault,” Hubert said. “Knowing Suger, I’d imagine they don’t get much opportunity to speak. Who would interrupt the abbot?”
“Good afternoon, my friends.”
Both men started like guilty schoolboys. Abbot Suger stood in the doorway to his receiving room. They knelt to greet him. The abbot said the blessing over Hubert, then hesitated when he came to Baruch.
“May the Lord God bless and keep you,” he said, but refrained politely from making the sign of the cross.
“And may the Almighty One protect you, as well,” Baruch answered. “We are honored that you can grant us a few moments with your many duties, Lord Abbot.”
“Of course,” Suger responded. “Come in, sit down. Prior Hervé will be with us momentarily. He’s told me something of your business. A matter of grave concern to us all.”
They all went into the receiving room. The walls were bright with embroidered hangings and the chairs were solid and wide, a tasseled pillow on each one.
The men eased into them gratefully.
“Some wine?” Suger asked, raising the pitcher.
“No, thank you kindly,” Baruch answered.
“Ah, yes, of course not. You only drink your own wine. ‘
Credat Judaeus Apella, non ego,
’” the abbot quoted, pouring his own cup full. “Like Horace, I am not bound by your laws, so I will have some. Hubert?”
Hubert looked guiltily at Baruch, then nodded and drew his cup from the pouch at his waist.
“You are very thoughtful, my lord abbot,” he murmured, wishing that the prior would come soon so that they could get down to business.
They sat sipping in polite silence until they heard a humble scratch on the door.
“Enter,” Suger called.
Prior Hervé came in. His ears and nose were still red from the cold and he accepted the wine with alacrity.
When the prior was settled, Abbot Suger set down his glass and folded his hands.
“Now, I understand you men have a plan to help stem this dreadful practice of trafficking in the holy objects of the church,” he said. “I applaud this, of course, but am puzzled as to how I might help in this laudable endeavor, aside from refusing to accept any suspicious materials brought to the abbey.”
He looked at Prior Hervé, who hastened to add, “As we have always done.”
“Indeed,” Hubert said. “We are well aware of that and have certainly made every effort to know the provenance of any such object that we might come across in our travels so as not to make you the innocent supporter of this activity.”
“It is honest Christian merchants such as you whom I trust to protect the abbey from such embarrassment.” Suger smiled at Hubert, who lowered his head, hoping that the abbot would think the movement one of humility rather than of the shame he felt.
“Unfortunately,” Baruch added, ignoring the implied insult, “not everyone is so conscientious. Among these is the man, Natan, who visited you recently. We of the Jewish community of Saint-Denis and also that of Paris wish to assure you that we do not countenance his behavior. Natan does not have a reputation for honest dealing even among those of his own people who have made transactions with him. He has been warned more than once by the elders.”

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