Authors: Sharan Newman

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

The Wandering Arm (8 page)

BOOK: The Wandering Arm

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“Do you wish to have him brought before me for judgment?” Suger asked.

Baruch was horrified. “No, of course not. He is a brother, an erring one, perhaps, but ours all the same. We will deal with him.”

“He could cause great trouble for all of you if he were caught with stolen church property,” Suger reminded him.

Baruch leaned forward. “If one of your brothers went astray, would you turn him over to secular justice or would you try to correct him yourself, even if his continued presence in your community were an embarrassment?”

Suger nodded. “Of course I would attend to the matter myself. One does not hand one’s own into the hands of the secular authorities. I understand completely. However, that still leaves me wondering what you need from me.”

Hubert cleared his throat. He had touched on this with the prior earlier, but he was still nervous.

“It is just as you said, my lord abbot,” he began. “Each of us prefers to deal privately with the straying sheep from our own flock. When the utensils used in the Holy Mass are involved, it’s possible that clerics are, also. You are not only the head of the greatest abbey in France, you are also the spiritual leader of many clerics, both in your dependent houses and the parishes of the area. If we discover any such men under your authority who have gone astray, we hope that we can rely on your probity and discretion to handle the matter.”

Hubert’s voice had dropped by the end of his plea. It wasn’t easy to tell such an important man that all they were asking for was the assurance that he would do his job and not try to protect malefactors who also might be members of his spiritual family. A priest had been murdered, but one was missing as well. To Hubert that indicated a plot.

Abbot Suger smiled slightly. His eyes were distant. Hubert wasn’t sure if he was considering the request or searching his memory for another quote. Finally, the abbot put his cup down.

“Bring me the evidence,” he said, “and I assure you, the man will be punished, even if he’s my dearest friend.”

With that, he stood. Baruch and Hubert knew the interview was over. They also rose. The abbot was slight, not even five feet tall, with a delicate frame, but the power of his office and his personal charisma added to his appearance so much that Hubert was always surprised to find himself looking down to meet Suger’s eyes.

They took their leave with many expressions of gratitude. Baruch was silent during the walk back to his home. When they were inside Hubert turned to him.

“I thought it went very well,” he said. “What are you brooding about?”

Baruch made a sour face. “I just realized that now I have to spend the next month teaching your damn scholar son-in-law how to work silver!”

The black mud of Paris was thawing in the morning sun. Natan ben Judah swore richly as his velvet tunic was spattered when a cart he was passing suddenly lurched to life, the wheels slipping as the driver urged his horses forward.

“May all your daughters be walleyed whores!” he shouted at the carter, shaking his fist.

The driver only laughed. “They already are,” he called back. “And still too good for you!”

Natan clenched his teeth and turned away with scornful dignity. He couldn’t think of a riposte. Just wait. One day he’d ride through Paris in a sedan chair, carried by brawny Northmen, with pack-horses full of treasure following him. Then that
avoutre
would be begging him to fondle his daughters.

He cheered himself with this as he plodded down the rue Saint-Christophe to the old church of Saint-Étienne. He hated meeting in these places, but a man who still only dreamed of riches wasn’t in a position to set terms.

Soon, Natan reminded himself.
Very soon.

He knew what they thought of him. He noticed how they were careful to avoid even touching his robe, as if one could catch Judaism like leprosy or plague. Natan despised every one of them, all the cowards and hypocrites, Samaritans and thieves. They were as bad as that Eliazar, using him for their own dirty little jobs, then snubbing him in public. No, he reconsidered; Eliazar was worse. Much worse. He didn’t even have the excuse of being a idolater. He’d pay, too.

Natan was so engrossed in coming glory that he ran directly into someone walking quickly in the opposite direction. The other man had pulled his hood far down over his face and was only looking at the ground. Both of them rebounded and fell into the mud, thereby completing the ruin the carter had made of Natan’s tunic.

“By the pitch-boiled body of Saint Julitta!” the man exclaimed as he unstuck himself from the street. “Are you hurt, my lord?”

Natan had been prepared to bury this young cleric in profanity but, hearing himself addressed as a nobleman, his whole demeanor changed. He allowed himself to be helped from the mud and inexpertly but thoroughly brushed of muck.

“I beg your pardon,” the young man said. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. I deserve all your anger. I’m afraid, if I’ve spoiled your clothing, my lord, that I have no money to replace such fine material, but I will recite the psalms for the good of your soul for the next month, if it will help recompense you for my clumsiness.”

Natan realized that this was only some country cleric, probably in Paris on the smallest of benefices from his parish. He wasn’t much more than a boy, twenty or so, his accent uncultured and his cloak of the roughest wool. There was no hope of getting even the price of his torn hose from this lad.

“That’s quite acceptable, my boy,” Natan said grandly. “It was clearly an accident on your part. I forgive you completely. Be on your way now and watch your step!”

The cleric skidded again in the mud in his effort to bow his thanks and move away before he did any more damage.

“Yes, my lord,” he said. “Thank you, my lord. I won’t forget. Psalms for a month. Who shall I say they’re for, my lord?”

Natan froze a moment, then raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Do you think Our Lord won’t know?” he said.

The cleric turned bright red. He pulled his hood over his head again in confusion. “Of course,” he mumbled. “I … I didn’t think. I’m sorry, my lord.”

Natan waited with benign noblesse as the young man fumbled his way on down the street, turning the corner toward the
petit pont.
Natan readjusted his damaged apparel and, in much better humor, hurried on to his appointment. The thought of the psalms being said for him by this Christian gave him a moment’s worry, but after all, he reflected, they were written by Jews. It wasn’t like a Mass. That would be an abomination. But a few psalms, what could it hurt?

Natan entered the ruins of the church of Saint-Étienne. The gate to the crypt had been left open.
Why,
he wondered, as he went down the stone steps,
do they always insist on meeting underground?

Edgar stood in the middle of the workshop and gazed about in awe. On one side of the room was a large window, under which a table had been set into a pit in the earthen floor. The workmen sat on the floor, their legs dangling as they twisted or pounded the silver.

Against the windowless wall an oven had been built of fresh clay mixed with equally fresh horse dung. This provided both a fireproof kiln and a comforting stablelike aroma that covered the more acrid fumes of the metal.

On the tables and hung upon the third wall were a myriad of tools: hammers and tongs and pincers of all sizes and shapes, molds and chisels, rasps and files and things Edgar had no name for. But he was going to learn the names and how to use every one of them. Best of all, he wasn’t here in secret, worried that his father or teacher would discover him and give him a thrashing for messing about below his station.

“What should I do first?” he asked Baruch.

Baruch noticed how Edgar’s hands were already twitching, eager to begin. He laughed. “Today, you will learn the names and uses of as many of the implements as you are able,” he began.

Edgar started for the table.

“But you are to touch nothing,” Baruch continued, “until I say you may. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” Edgar answered. He crossed his arms, his hands in his sleeves, to resist temptation.

“Don’t worry,” Baruch said. “You’ll have the chance to maim yourself soon enough.”

He held out his own hands. They were strewn with scars, burns, nicks, calluses. Baruch looked at them proudly.

“This is really why your class isn’t to do manual labor,” he said. “It wouldn’t look right for these hands to wear your fine silks or to touch your pale soft women. Are you sure you want to go on with this?”

Edgar nodded his head. “My father and brothers have been warriors all their lives and are as scarred as you. The women of my land are as pale as I am, it’s true, but they don’t seem too soft to be repelled by rough hands. I don’t think Catherine will be, either.”

“Not from what I’ve seen of her,” Baruch admitted. “Very well …”

He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Before they could respond, the door swung open and a little boy ran in. He was about eight years old, with big brown eyes and a shock of flaming red hair.

“Baruch, I have to pee,” he announced.

“Good boy.” Baruch got a narrow-necked pitcher from a table near the kiln and handed it to the child, who proceeded to urinate in it as Edgar watched in complete confusion.

When the boy had finished, Baruch sent him to the kitchen for his payment. Then he corked the pitcher and put it back.

“What … why?” Edgar began.

Baruch laughed. “A craft secret. The urine of a small redheaded boy is the best element for tempering the iron tools we use to cut the precious gems for jewelry.”

“I see,” said Edgar. “What happens if there is no redheaded boy?”

“Then that of a goat fed on ferns,” Baruch told him. “But that’s a nuisance as the goat isn’t always cooperative.”

“I see,” Edgar repeated. He was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t underestimated the complexity of being a craftsman in metal. But through his doubt was a great excitement. His first day and he had already learned two trade secrets.

“Now,” Baruch said, rolling up his sleeves, “we begin.”

Catherine’s aunt Johannah bustled about, making sure the household was settled for the night. The fire had been banked and nothing combustible left near it. The pans had been scrubbed. All the windows were shuttered and barred. Eliazar had already seen to the outer doors. She was just about to take her candle and go upstairs when she heard a sound in the pantry.

“Not another rat in the barley bin,” she muttered. “I thought we had stopped up the hole they were getting in by.”

With a sigh, she pushed open the door quietly, hoping to catch the rat and find out how it had entered. The door swung inward and hit something. There was a stifled shriek.

Johannah squeezed her way in.

“Lucia!” she said. “What are you doing still here? I thought you were going home tonight.”

The maid was sitting up on a makeshift bed, the blankets pulled up around her chin.

“My mother has cousins visiting from Melun,” she explained. “When I went home, all the beds were full. So I came back and made myself a bed in here. I’m sorry, Mistress. I didn’t wish to disturb you and I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“No, of course not. But how did you get in?” Johannah asked. “I thought Eliazar had locked up already.”

“The back gate was unbarred,” Lucia said. “He must have forgotten.”

“That’s most unlike him,” Johannah said. “But he has been preoccupied lately. I’ll remind him to be more careful. Did you put the bar in place after you came in?”

“Of course, Mistress,” Lucia told her.

“Thank you.” Johannah turned to go. “Are you sure you will be warm enough?”

“Yes, thank you, quite warm,” Lucia answered. She smiled. “Good night, Mistress.”

“Good night.” Johannah took her candle and left. She was glad it hadn’t been a rat, but there was something odd about it all the same. Something in the room was out of place. She couldn’t remember. Oh, yes, the trapdoor to the cellar was uncovered. Now why would that be? Well, perhaps Lucia had simply moved a box or two to make room for the trestle bed. It was late; she was tired. She would check it in the morning. Johannah went upstairs to bed.

In the pantry the trapdoor slowly opened. A small oil lamp appeared. Lucia took it so that Natan could climb the rest of the way out.

“Good girl,” he whispered, patting her. “You can think on your feet. If you hadn’t called out I might have been caught. You deserve a reward for your cleverness.”

“A new linen shift?” She smiled. “This old one is so worn. See, it’s all holes. You can put your finger right through them.”

“So I can,” he said. “And the drawstring is all frayed.”

He untied it and the shift dropped to her feet.

“The mistress won’t be down again tonight.” She began loosening his leather belt. “Isn’t there something else you’d like to give me before you go?”

BOOK: The Wandering Arm

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