The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  Catherine went back to her pacing. “If only I could find what the poison was in.”

  Edgar gave up trying to work and hung the bow on a hook above the billowing dust.

  The sun was just above the horizen when Simon finished his prayers and left for the river. This wasn’t a bad time of year to be trying to go upstream on the Rhine. The rains of spring were past and the river moved slowly. With a sail and oars, he should be home in a week.

  He was thinking about the children and wondering if Mina’s prediction had come true and there was another baby on the way. He didn’t notice the group of men who had emerged from a side street near the edge of town.

  It wasn’t until he was out of the town walls and on the path that led through the vineyards to the dock where the ship waited that Simon realized he was being followed. He carried no weapon and had thought he needed none in the city. He moved more quickly on the path and began looking around for a house to run to.

  Not far ahead was a barn with fermentation vats around it. It was early in the year to be picking grapes but still there might be someone inside willing to help him. Simon changed his course to approach the barn.

  That was when the men overtook him.

  One caught him by the arm and spun him around.

  “I know you.” He smiled. “You’re a Jew. A stinking Jew. A filthy murderer of Christ strutting along the road like you owned it when you should be crawling through dung for your sins.”

  “Please,” Simon said. “I haven’t much money but you may take all of it.”

  “Money!” The man spat on him. “Thirty pieces of silver, I suppose.”

  Simon realized he’d made a mistake. These men weren’t thieves who would take a bribe for his life but fanatics, and what was worse, they reeked of sour beer. They’d probably steal all he had in the end but they wanted to have some fun with him first.

  “Robbers!” he shouted. “Someone help me!”

  Another man grabbed him and dragged him in among the vines. The others followed, grinning.

  “No one’s going to help you, judeswîn,” the first man gloated. “Nothing will save you but salvation.”

  “What do you want from me?” Simon managed to get out as he was bumped along the dirt.

  “Why, come be baptized, of course,” the man said. “Accept the salvation of Christ and then, being good Christians, we probably won’t kill you.”

  All his life Simon had wondered if he’d be strong enough to stand firm if the time ever came. He never thought it would happen in a vineyard covered with mud.

  “Please,” he tried again. “I have a wife, small children.”

  “There, isn’t that fine, Andreas?” the first man said. “A whole family brought to the Faith. If he accepts Christ, they’ll be bound to follow.”

  Simon had no illusions. He suspected they were just sober enough to spare his life if he agreed to convert and equally just drunk enough to slay him if he didn’t. What was it after all, a little dirty water thrown on his head? What was that when weighed against his life?

  Too much.

  “Never!” Simon said, glaring up at his persecutor. “I will not worship your idols or your hanged god.”

  That was the last sentence he could utter. They hit him, over and over. He could taste the blood in his mouth and the pain told him they had broken one of his arms.

  “Hurry!” Andreas said suddenly. “Someone’s coming.”

  Simon heard him and prayed that the Holy One had sent an angel to smite these wicked men.

  The men lifted Simon and took him into the barn where they found barrels stacked and the wine press ready for the next harvest.

  “No water,” one man said, “But, look, we can anoint him anyway.”

  He rubbed his finger in the blood from Simon’s mouth and smeared it on his face. “There,” he said. “I baptize you in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.”

  Simon tried to rub the blood off onto the man’s tunic, but he was too weak.

  “Quick, bring him over here!” the first man said.

  They dragged him over the vat and shoved his head over the side below the press, two of the men holding him there. With a grunt the leader climbed on top of the press and began turning the handle so that the pressing board screwed down into the vat. Simon gave one scream that stopped abruptly.

  The men stared at the result of their work.

  “Good God, Dieter,” Andreas gasped. “You’ve ripped his head clean off! We’ve got to get rid of the body before we’re found.”

  “Don’t be such a coward,” Dieter said. “Gehabe dich als ein man! It’s not murder. It’s ‘vanquishing the infidel in our midst,’ just like the preacher said.”

  “Right,” the other man agreed. “But we can get into real trouble for ruining a wine press.”

  They tried to unscrew the press but it wouldn’t budge. In the end they carried Simon’s body back outside and dumped it in a ditch, after first removing his money pouch and his boots. Finally they went down to the river to wash off the blood.

  A few minutes later the overseer of the field workers entered the barn with one of his men.

  “Well, there’s no one here now,” he said, as the sunlight flowed into the barn. “Nothing here to steal, anyway.”

  “But I was sure I saw some men go in,” the serf told him. “They had a bundle with them, like old clothes.”

  “If so, they’ve gone now and nothing’s damaged,” the overseer said. “Except … what in God’s creation is that smell? It’s like a butcher’s pen.”

  “It’s strong over here.” The serf went toward the wine press. “The planks are tilted. Could those vandals have stuck a cat in there?”

  He bent down and peered into the vat.

  “Mother of God!” he cried, blessing himself hastily. “It’s a man!”

  It was several hours before Simon’s body was identified. His face was battered beyond recognition. The overseer had sent for his master and they had managed to get some men to pry the crooked press loose and extricate the head. A search was made for the body, which was then brought back to the barn. It was then that it was discovered that the man was Jewish.

  “Or born one at least,” the overseer commented.

  “Was he from Köln?” someone asked.

  “Let me see him!” a voice called from the back. “I might be able to tell you.”

  They let the man through and he knelt and examined Simon’s clothing and what was left of his face. Finally he found a few English coins tied into his sleeve.

  “Yes, it’s him,” he said finally. “He’s just back from England. He’d hired my boat to go back to Trier. When he didn’t show up this morning, I came looking for him. They told me at the place where he was staying that he’d already left.”

  “What shall we do with him, then?” the overseer asked.

  Someone in the crowd snorted. “I say throw the body in the river with the rest of the offal.”

  “No, we take it to the magistrates,” the master decided. “They’ll have to bury him quickly in this heat. They can charge it to the Jews of Köln.”

  So it wasn’t until that evening, when Hubert was preparing for the next day’s journey, that word was brought to Hezekiah of Simon’s death.

  The first reaction was stunned disbelief.

  “Was it thieves?” Hezekiah asked in horror.

  “Probably.” The official who had been sent was uncomfortable with such news.

  “Probably,” Hezekiah repeated.

  The official hesitated. “He had been robbed but, before he died, someone had painted a cross on his forehead in blood.”

  “Before he died.” Hezekiah was trying to grasp that fact alone.

  “Yes.”

  Since no one said anything more, the man bowed and left.

  Hezekiah didn’t notice his departure. “Simon dead? But he was on his way home. This can’t be.”

  But as the truth of it sunk in, so did the significance of t
he cross. Falling to his knees, Hezekiah began to sway back and forth, wailing his grief.

  “Oh Lord, have pity on us, as a father his children! Do not pass judgement on us, for in your sight no man is justified! Rembember, Lord, how we stand against the children of Edom who said, ‘Destroy Jerusalem.’ You will rise and have mercy on Zion, for it is time to pity her! Oh, Lord, accept your martyr, Simon, the pious one!”

  His lamentation brought the rest of the household to him and then, when the reason for it was known, the rest of the community.

  Hubert watched them, too stunned for tears. He realized with horror that he didn’t know the words of the prayers being said for Simon, although he had learned the proper ones for mourning a Christian.

  “I should have been with him,” he whispered.

  In Trier, Catherine was becoming increasingly discouraged. When Edgar asked if she wanted to come with him and Brother Berengar to talk to some villagers she just shook her head.

  “What use is it to question people?” she complained. “It’s always the same. ‘Gerhardt was a good man. He had no enemies. He treated his people well. He and Agnes ate from the same plate and drank from the same cup. Apart from a problem with his joints swelling and aching in bad weather, he was in fine health.’ Did I forget anything?”

  “Yes, that he’s dead,” Edgar said. “And we both know there’s an answer somewhere. We just haven’t asked the right questions.”

  “Then you go and ask them,” Catherine said. “I need to get some cloth to cut Edana a new tunic. Half of what she has is too small and the other half is stained beyond wearing in public.”

  Edgar left her to it, hoping to find her in a better mood when he returned. He met the monk just outside the porta nigra, the northern gate of the town. Berengar was sweating in his black robe and Edgar felt guilty about asking him to take the long walk up toward the castle in such heat.

  “Not at all,” Berengar said. “It’s a small price for the improvement my Latin has received since you and your wife have been here. I’ve learned so many new words. It will help when I go to Metz as the representative of my abbot.”

  “And when will that be?” Edgar asked politely.

  “In the autumn, I think,” Berengar said. “The archbishop is hoping that the pope will consent to come here sometime next year and give a personal judgement on the fight between him and Burgraf Heinrich.”

  “That’s hardly a papal matter, is it?” Edgar commented.

  “It is when it involves the jurisdiction of an abbey that answers to Rome,” Berengar explained. “Which Saint Maximin’s does. Actually, I think Archbishop Albero wants to use the authority of the pope to bolster his own standing in the town. That’s why Abbot Siger wants someone in Metz to speak for us.”

  “Ah, yes,” Edgar said. “There doesn’t seem to be a great deal of respect for your archbishop here.”

  “Well, he is a foreigner, after all,” Berengar said. “Oh, dear, I didn’t mean any insult to you.”

  Edgar laughed. “Don’t worry, after all these years, I’m either a stranger everywhere or nowhere. Now,” he added as they reached the village below the castle. “Where should we begin?”

  The village was only a cluster of huts wedged between the river and the hillside. A wooden palisade separated it from the road. Edgar looked at it in puzzlement.

  “Is the village often attacked?” he asked.

  Berengar grimaced. “Not exactly,” he explained. “Pilgrims coming to view the holy tunic seem to feel that they are entitled to whatever they can reach. So the vegetable gardens and chicken runs have been encircled. I don’t blame the people here. One can only give so much in alms and still feed one’s family.”

  “Of course.” As a pilgrim Edgar had always offered to pay for his food. He didn’t feel much sympathy with those who stole under the guise of piety.

  They entered by the gate near the dock. Edgar noted that at least three of the buildings had symbols on them indicating that they sold wine and beer. They were much more substantial that the little stone structure marked by the cross over the door.

  “There is no parish priest at the moment,” Berengar explained. “Lord Gerhardt was to have found another, but he hadn’t done so when he died. The cathedral sends one of the canons down to do baptisms and burials when needed.”

  “Why didn’t Lord Gerhardt fill the vacancy at once?” Edgar asked. “Did he want to collect the tithes for himself?”

  “Oh no!” Berengar was shocked. “He wasn’t that sort. I don’t know why. Every time someone asked him he just said that the right person hadn’t appeared, yet.”

  “Interesting,” Edgar said. “You’d have thought that he had a poor cousin or bright tenant who could take the job. But I don’t suppose it was of any great import, with the canons able to take the sacraments.”

  They wandered between the cottages, Berengar greeting the inhabitants. Edgar stopped for several minutes to watch a smith repairing a grape cutter. An assistant pumped the bellows until the broken edges were hot enough to solder back together.

  “He does good work,” Edgar commented. He wished he could stride in, pick up the tongs and go to work himself. But these days he had to set up all sorts of vises to hold a project before he could begin, and his days of using large amount of glowing metal were over. A man needed both hands to manage the weight.

  The fumes rising from the forge burned his lungs and his eyes, but he would have given a great deal to spend his days inhaling that acrid air.

  Something about the smell set off a memory. Edgar turned to Berengar.

  “You know, it seems to me,” he said, “that we’ve been looking at Gerhardt’s death from the wrong angle.”

  “And which angle should we find for a viewpoint?” Berengar seemed to find the idea amusing.

  Edgar ignored that. “All we’ve done is try to find what the man was eating. It’s done no good at all. But there are other ways to poison someone. Many a goldsmith has died from breathing quicksilver while trying to mill the metal.”

  “We have no goldsmiths here,” Berengar said. “In Trier, of course, but Lord Gerhardt would have no reason to see them.”

  “He wouldn’t have to.” Edgar was becoming enamoured of the idea. “All one would need was quicksilver, trapped in some other element. Most goldsmiths would have it. Did Gerhardt receive any gold objects as a wedding present? No, not gold of course, something else for the quicksilver to be in, good wax candles, perhaps.”

  “We can ask his sister,” Berengar said. “But how could anyone be sure such a thing would harm only Gerhardt?”

  Edgar’s mood deflated. He had been so certain he was going in the right direction.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Unless he had a private chapel where only he prayed. I suppose that is too much to hope for.”

  Berengar looked thoughtful. “I don’t think he did, but many people are reticent about making their private devotions public.”

  “Of course,” Edgar agreed. “That leads to hubris.”

  The monk gave a laugh. “Correct. I should be used to you and your wife by now, but I must admit that in my experience such learning is only found inside a monastery.”

  “Neither Catherine nor I would last long inside a monastery,” Edgar said. “Especially a double house. We have no illusions about our ability to maintain chastity,”

  “I wish others were so honest about their weaknesses before taking vows.” Berengar sighed. “Now, back to Gerhardt. He may have had a private chapel with candles poisoning the air. But it seems a long chance. However, I think you may have the tail of it now. We’ve only sought out things the man might have eaten. What if something he touched or breathed were tainted?”

  “I’ve heard of such things,” Edgar said. “Although mostly in stories of magic and marvels. Still, it’s the first new thread we’ve had in this skein. Where should we start looking?”

  Margaret felt that she had done something wrong but wasn’t sure what. It wa
sn’t that her brother and Catherine were treating her unkindly, quite the opposite. They were as careful of her as they had been in the horrible year after her mother died. But why? At first she thought it was because she had made friends with Peter, but they insisted that wasn’t anything to fret over. Edgar did say that he thought she shouldn’t see him until the business with Catherine’s sister was resolved, but that really had nothing to do with her, although she hoped the poor woman would be released soon. So what had changed?

  She and James had gone down to the old Roman baths to play. All the broken stones and steps were a wonderful place for hide-and-find. There were other children there who joined in with them. Mindful of Catherine’s orders, she always made sure James was in her sight. But he soon tired of the boredom of hiding and decided to amuse himself by climbing up a series of steps on one side of a short hill and rolling down the grass on the other. He seemed happy to continue the routine until dark.

  Margaret was sitting at the crest of the hill where she could watch him on both sides when she suddenly felt herself turning red. She could think of no reason to blush until she turned her head and saw Peter a few feet away, watching her.

  “Hallo,” he said.

  “Hallo,” she answered.

  He scuffed his toe in the dirt.

  She rearranged her skirts.

  “Hallo,” he said again.

  “I can’t come over,” she explained. “I have to mind my nephew.”

  “Can I come up there?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  Peter climbed up the steps and then rolled down the hill a few times with James, partly because he felt shy and partly because he was still young enough to think it was fun.

  Finally he set James down with an avuncular pat and seated himself next to Margaret.

  “Did you come into town with your uncle?” she asked.

  “No, I rode by myself,” he answered. “After all, I’m the master now. I should be able to do what I like.”

  “Of course you should,” Margaret said firmly.

  “I didn’t sneak off, either,” Peter said. “I told them I was going riding and would be back later.”