“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 g
irl 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.
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.
Five
The home of Bonysach, Sunday, (March 28) 1148, 29 Adar II 4908. Passion Sunday, Feast of Saint Ambrose, who tried to convince the pope not to rebuild a synagogue in Rome burnt by zealous Christians. The pope did it anyway.
“‘Bella,’ fich m’ieu, ‘pois jois reviu
ben nos devem apareillar.’
‘Non devem, don, ’que d’als pensiu
ai mon coratage e mon affar.’”
“‘Lovely girl,’ I said. “Since joy awakens
[in the spring] we ought to become a pair.’
‘No, we shouldn’t sir, for there are other things
that fill my heart and thoughts.’”
—Marcabru,
L’autrier, a l’issuda d’abriu
“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, an
d, 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?”
The Outcast Dove: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 7