The mug of beer had become two and then three. Edgar and Solomon sat outside a tavern on the Rue de la Cite, drinking, gnawing on hard black bread and trading stories of their travels.
“There’s a loch north of my home.” Edgar paused to belch. “There’s a sea monster in it as long as a meduœrn, longer even. They say that Saint Columba destroyed it once, but that’s not true; it’s still there. I saw its head once on a grey, misty morning, poking up out of the loch. It had a huge selkie snout and a long, black serpent neck. A seldlic sight!”
Solomon put down his mug.
“I can’t understand half you say,” he told Edgar. “It’s bad enough when you ramble on in Latin. At least that has the flavor of proper French, but your German words sound like you’re choking on your bread.”
Edgar laughed. “Saxon, not German. Sorry. To tell you the truth, my family doesn’t even speak good Saxon anymore. I found that out when I went to England. They complain that we garble it with Norse and Gælic.”
“And in your land there are monsters in the waters,” Solomon said. “I’ve seen no monsters, myself, but I’ve often glimpsed strange shapes in the forests here, too often in the fog. Sometimes I think there are demons wandering the earth that only can be seen when the mist hangs on them.”
He shuddered. “I’m sick to death of travelling through dark forests. All I want is to get some vines, a cottage, a few sheep, a nice wife with well-cushioned hipbones and never have to enter the wood again.”
“I can just see you,” Edgar laughed. “Solomon rusticus. It will never happen. You don’t have the soul of a peasant.”
Solomon stared deeply into his beer.
“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But I don’t have the soul of a scholar, either. And, in my family, one either studies or trades.”
“You could convert,” Edgar suggested.
Solomon’s face hardened.
“No,” he said. “I couldn’t.”
Edgar said no more. He finished his cup and squinted at the sun.
“We should be returning to the palace,” he said. “The bells for Sext will start soon and Catherine will be impatient to get on with her commission for the abbess.”
Solomon stood, a bit unsteadily. He shook his head to clear it and then wiped his mug with the hem of his chainse. Edgar did the same. As they crossed the road to the palace, they became aware of angry shouting. The people in the street were scattering, trying to get out of the way of a mass of people who were shoving past the guard at the end of the bridge. Among the frightened townspeople, there was a woman in convent grey, trying to push her way through. She had almost reached the palace gate, when a man with a rack loaded with sausages knocked against her and threw her sideways. As she fell, one of her braids came loose and caught on a sausage hook. She screamed in sudden pain. Edgar and Solomon dropped their mugs and ran to her.
Edgar picked her up as Solomon unhooked her hair. The sausage man swore at all of them.
“Catherine! What are you doing here?” Edgar said as they dragged her back around the corner of the palace. “You were supposed to be with the countess Mahaut.”
“I went to question Alys’s mother.” Catherine rubbed her sore head. “What’s going on?”
The mob had reached the palace gate and were pounding on it.
“Justice!” someone yelled. “We have a murderer and we demand justice!”
“No!” a voice gasped weakly. “I killed no one. My shop! They’ve destroyed my shop!”
“Silence, you lying infidel!”
Solomon’s head came up sharply. He heard the whack as the man was hit and started forward. Edgar grabbed him.
“Don’t!” he said. “You’ll get yourself killed. Go find your elders or leaders or whatever. The countess’s men are coming. They’ll restore order. But, if there really is a charge of murder, this man will need someone to speak for him.”
Solomon took a deep breath and nodded. He edged his way around the crowd and disappeared in the crush.
By this time, people had arrived from everywhere in Troyes, curious and eager for diversion. A woman came out of the bakehouse on the corner and stopped next to Catherine.
“What’s all the noise for?” she asked, wiping the flour from her hands. “I heard someone cry murder.”
“I don’t know,” Catherine told her. “They came from the direction of the tanneries. They seem to have caught a felon.”
“Ah, the guard has opened the palace gates,” the woman said. “You’re taller than I am. Can you see anything?”
Catherine stood on tiptoe, leaning on Edgar.
“Yes, the countess has sent her men. The knights are on horseback. That will make those people think again.”
The crowd did move back as the mounted knights appeared in the open gateway, all but two men in tanning aprons, each holding the arm of a third man, whom they dragged up to the leader, Nocher of Montbard.
“This is Gershom, the Jewish butcher,” one man announced. “It isn’t enough for him that he sells his cast-off meat to us at exorbitant prices. Now he must slaughter a Christian man and hang him up just as he does his cattle!”
There was another commotion as the crowd reacted to the accusation. Nocher leaned over and said something to one of the other knights, who nodded. The woman beside Catherine cried out in horror.
“Quel aborissement! Isn’t it enough that we let them live among us, even when they murdered Our Lord! Must they now murder us, too? Kill him!” she screamed. “Hang him now!”
Her cries were joined by others and the knights moved forward to stop the people from grabbing the prisoner and carrying out their own justice. They used their lances to separate the fainting butcher from his attackers and push him, half crawling, into the palace courtyard.
Catherine tugged on Edgar’s sleeve. He turned to her. Her face was pale with fear.
“Edgar, do you think … ?”
“Yes,” he said, “I do. Now the countess will believe your story.”
“I never had a chance to tell it to her,” Catherine said. “We must get in there. That man couldn’t be guilty. He couldn’t have gotten into the palace after dark.”
“They’ll never let us in again,” Edgar worried. “They don’t want trouble from the town and we look just the same as the rest of these people. Do you see anyone among the knights who knows us?”
“It’s hard to tell with their armor on.” Catherine scanned the dozen or so men. “Wait! Jehan!”
She started to wriggle her way through to the front of the crowd. “Jehan!” she called again. “It’s Catherine!”
Edgar followed, but reluctantly. He remembered Jehan, too. The knight was in service to Count Thibault, but was also sometimes loaned to do jobs for Catherine’s father. In their last meeting, before he and Catherine had been betrothed, Jehan and his fellow knight Sigebert had throttled him in an alley in Paris, dislocating his arm and nearly slitting his throat. He wasn’t eager to renew the acquaintance.
But Catherine forged onward, pushing around anyone in her way and occasionally jumping and waving to attract the knight’s attention. Grimly, Edgar followed.
“Jehan!” Catherine called again, when she was closer. “Jehan! Let us in!”
Finally he noticed her. The others were already through the gate, taking the unfortunate butcher and his immediate accusers with them. Hearing his name, Jehan twisted in the saddle.
“Lady Catherine!” he said. “Saint Simeon’s pillar! What are you doing here?”
“I can’t explain now,” Catherine said as they reached him. “Just let us in. We have to speak with Countess Mahaut.”
Jehan looked down on them from the back of his horse. A flash of anger crossed his face as he recognized Edgar.
“We?” he said. “Not with him. My job is to protect you from his sort.”
“My sort!” Edgar grabbed at the reins. “Does your protection include attacking an unarmed man in an alley? Come down here and face me, questre!”
“Edgar, not now!” Catherine stopped them. “Edgar and I are married, Jehan. You owe us both protection, if you are still the count’s man.”
Jehan regarded them both. Edgar felt at a distinct disadvantage, having neither horse nor armor. His fist itched to land just one good blow straight into that mesel’s gut. But Catherine was right. Now was not the time.
“I have the marriage contract with me,” he said mildly, instead. “It carries Hubert’s mark. Would you like to read it?”
Edgar smiled politely. He knew that it was unlikely that Jehan could do more than make out the letters of his own name.
The knight glared at them for another moment before he grudgingly allowed them through the gate. As they passed through, Jehan signaled the guard to close it behind them. The people in the street muttered to each other, but no one dared challenge.
Inside the courtyard, the chaos was almost as great as in the street. The people of the palace, servants and guests milled about, getting and giving what little information they could find and inventing as they saw fit. Catherine and Edgar ignored them and headed for the Great Hall, where the countess would appear to judge the matter.
The hall was also full of people. They had pulled out all the dining tables and were sitting or standing on them. There was a balcony on the landing of the stairs to the women’s quarters. Here several ladies sat with their sewing, waiting for the entertainment to begin. As she was jabbed in the ribs and back by those trying to get a good view, Catherine wished for a second that she were the sort of woman who could always command a comfortable chair.
You’d only trip over it and spill wine on the embroidery, Catherine.
She sighed. She wondered if Sister Bertrada’s opinions would ever leave her head.
“They’re bringing in the prisoner and the tanners now,” Edgar said.
Catherine craned her neck to see. Gershom, the butcher, had his arms tied behind his back and was being guarded by two of the knights. The tanners stood on the opposite side of the room from him. They seemed both angry and awed by the situation.
Finally, Countess Mahaut entered, accompanied by her chamberlain, Girelme, and her chaplain, Conon. They stood behind her as she seated herself at the high table. The room quieted.
“In the absence of my husband, Count Thibault,” she began, “it is my duty to see that the peace of Troyes is preserved. I will now hear the charges against this man.”
Jehan stepped forward.
“My lady countess,” he bowed. “The butcher, Gershom, has been accused of murder. These two men discovered the body.”
The tanners were brought up to the table. Mahaut studied them, noting their filthy aprons and stained hands.
“Give your names,” she said. “Your occupation and status are obviaus.”
The elder of the men stepped forward.
“I am Aymo, Your Excellency,” he bowed. “This is my apprentice, Heldric. I own the tannery east of Nôtre-Dame-aux-Nonnains, on the Grand Rû.”
“Can someone vouch for this man?” the countess asked.
A man stepped forward.
“I can, my lady.”
Mahaut hesitated, then Conon bent down and whispered something in her ear.
“Ah, yes,” she said. “You are Peter of Baschi, deacon of Saint-Aventin?”
“Yes,” the priest said. “I am acquainted with both these men. They have sold leather and vellum to me, of good quality and at a fair price. I believe them to be truthful and of good character.”
Catherine lifted herself on the edge of someone’s stool to get a better look at this man who had borrowed money from Abbess Héloïse and not repaid it. His robes were clerical, but not ascetic. His collar and gloves were embroidered and he wore several heavy rings. She was not disposed to trust or admire him. But the countess nodded, accepting his statement.
Mahaut returned to the tanners. “And you accuse Gershom, the butcher, of murder?” she asked. “Gershom?” The name finally registered. “The Jew? Have his own people been notified of this charge? Nocher?”
“Their leaders have been sent for,” Nocher of Montbard told her.
“Very well,” she said, but she seemed uncomfortable. She gestured for the prisoner to be brought forward.
“Gershom the butcher,” she said, “I wish to decide if the charges against you have any basis in fact. Will you trust me to listen and judge fairly, on my honor as a Christian woman?”
“I killed no one!” Gershom drew himself up. “These idolaters have fouled my shop with human blood. I am the one wronged! I have no fear. The Holy One will protect me, for I have honored the Law.”
Nocher gave the man a blow that sent him to the ground. “How dare you speak to the countess in that manner!” he shouted.
“Nocher!” Mahaut spoke quietly but her voice was cutting. “I will determine if I have been insulted. Now, Aymo, tell your story. And I want no interruptions.”
Now that he was the center of attention, Aymo seemed to have difficulty beginning.
“Well, ah, it was this way, Your Excellency, …” He reached beneath his apron to scratch and then, realizing where he was, withdrew his hand in horror.
“That is,” he began again, “Heldric and me, this morning, we went to Gershom’s, like always, to see if he had any skins to sell. He said no, but he’d received a few sheep the day before and did we want any of the bits his people couldn’t eat. We said we wouldn’t mind. Mutton in spring is a rare treat, however come by.”
He paused, glaring around the room, daring anyone to accuse him of planning apostasy.
“I’m sure we all like spring mutton,” Mahaut said patiently. “Continue.”
Aymo swallowed. “Well, then we all went into the storehouse, where Gershom had hung the meat. And there—” he swallowed again and his voice dropped “—there were the sheep, alright, hanging in a row and, at the end was something bigger. We all looked and, well, it was gutted and cleaned just right and hung proper, but it wasn’t a sheep; it was a man. And a Christian man, too. He were naked. I could tell. A poor Christian lamb, slaughtered!”
Aymo had risen to the rhetorical height of his life with his last statement and it reduced him to weeping incoherence.
“It’s true!” he cried over the noise of the audience. “I swear it on the skin of Saint Bartholomew!”
Catherine paid no attention to the outcry arising from this revelation. She was certain now, and she and Edgar had to get to the front to tell what they knew.
Mahaut shuddered and looked at Gershom with revulsion. She waited for the guards to restore order.
“This is a hideous deed!” she said. “A man treated as if he were nothing more than a carcass. What possible defense can you make?”
The butcher was frightened, but still angry. His indignation was apparent.
“I say again, I am a cutter of meat according to the Law. This accusation of murder is pure madness or spite. You have no right to bring me into your Christian sacrileges. Someone has done this to ruin my name in the city. I am respected and have many customers, including your own cook, my lady. Now the Christians will no longer buy from me. I know it!”
He pointed to his accusers, but his gaze included the rest of the room.
“You’ve destroyed me!” he shrieked. “You want a martyr? Someone to blame for your own filthy crimes? Take me, then. My life is worthless!”
He rent his chainse and clawed at his face, falling, sobbing, to the floor.
The countess was impressed, but puzzled.
“These men weep honestly, it appears to me,” she said. “The butcher does not deny that a body was found in his shop. The tanners admit that is all they know. Because the man was hung like an animal, they presume he was killed like one. I feel there is more here than we first thought. Has this Christian body even a name?”
Aymo was still weeping and Gershom sobbing, so Heldric, the apprentice, answered with some relish.
“No name, my lady,” he said. “No h
ead.”
The reaction to this was wondrous to behold. One of the ladies in the balcony screamed, either in horror or delight, and in a forgotten corner, a travelling poet feverishly tried to adjust an old chanson de geste to fit this new event.
Finally, Edgar managed to reach the space before the table.
“My lady countess,” he bowed. “I believe my wife and I can add something to the testimony already given. We do not think that the butcher could have killed this man. Catherine discovered the body before dawn this morning, hanging here, in the palace.”
Another woman shrieked, this time with more sincerity. The poet quickly rewrote a stanza in his head.
Mahaut waited again for everyone to quiet.
“Catherine?” she asked. “Would you care to tell us just how and where you made this discovery.”
Edgar took Catherine’s hand. He stood behind her, shielding her from curious eyes. Catherine took a deep breath and told her story.
“Edgar washed my face,” she ended. “But there is still dried blood in my hair. I tried to tell you this morning.”
Mahaut listened gravely. It was one thing to have to judge a crime committed by one’s townspeople, quite another to have that crime brought inside one’s own home.
Nocher stepped forward.
“This tale is nonsense,” he stated. “The woman is hysterical and has invented the whole thing.”
“For what purpose?” Mahaut asked. She forbore pointing out that Catherine was the only witness so far who hadn’t dissolved into tears.
“We know her father, Hubert, has business with the Jews,” Nocher said. “She is likely under instructions from him to protect them.”
Gershom stopped his wailing to look at her curiously. Catherine moved closer to Edgar, trying to protect herself from so much attention.
Mahaut shook her head. “I find that unlikely,” she said. “I have had business with the Jews, myself. So have most of us in Troyes. But the charge that the man was killed in my house is a grave one and I would like to have proof of it. You say that, when you returned with your wife, there was no evidence of a body.”
The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 16