The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  Reluctantly, Edgar nodded. “But as she said, there was blood on her face and in her hair. I believe her.”

  “We need more than your word, sieur,” Mahaut said. “You are not known to us or to anyone here.”

  Catherine could tell that Edgar was angry at being addressed as lowborn. She feared he was about to recite all his ancestors back to Adam, which would not improve anything. There must be some way they could prove that the poor man had been gutted in the palace. She wrung her hands, thinking. They were still sticky from the cake and she rubbed them on her robe. Why could she never stay clean more than ten minutes? Blood in her hair, honey on her fingers, thank goodness she’d had a chance to wash after falling yesterday into that stagnant water.

  All at once, she had a clear image of the pipes coming out of the stonework of the palace and of the still water beneath.

  “My lady countess,” she said, “Edgar and I think that the poor soul was hung up in the privy so that the, uh, entrails could be washed down into the Rû Corde. But the water is low and the place where the pipes drain is away from the main current. There might be some remains there still.”

  She closed her eyes, trying not to see them in her mind.

  The countess showed no emotion.

  “Nocher, take two of your men and search the water beneath the pipes,” she ordered. “If you are worried about damage to your boots, take them off. And hurry.

  “While we are waiting,” she added, “bring me some wine. And open a barrel of beer in the courtyard for anyone who thirsts.”

  The room emptied rapidly, leaving only the butcher, the guards, the countess, and Catherine and Edgar. Mahaut shook her head.

  “This is not how I would have had you repay my hospitality,” she said to them.

  Catherine leaned against Edgar, who put his arm around her.

  “We are truly sorry, my lady,” he said. “We had no wish to bring scandal to your house. But, if we are correct, this man before you is innocent of murder. Your guards would never have allowed him to enter the palace last night. You would not want such an injustice on your soul.”

  Mahaut stiffened. “I trust to divine guidance to prevent that from happening, although you and your wife seem strange instruments of the Lord. But I did not believe the butcher guilty, in any case.”

  Gershom looked up in surprise.

  “I believe that Jews are infidels and damned for their refusal of Our Lord. I do not, however, believe they are, as a rule, stupid. Only a fool would kill a man in his own shop and then show the body to the first people to pass by. Does my reasoning surprise you, butcher Gershom?”

  The man bowed. “I ask your pardon, my lady. I admit, I had not expected justice in a Christian court. Am I free to go?”

  “Not yet,” Mahaut answered. “You’re still a part of this, and I don’t know how you fit. Is this body still hanging in your shop?”

  Gershom shuddered. “Unless the mob took it.”

  The countess signaled to one of the guards.

  “Do you know where the shop is?” she asked. The guard nodded. “Take some men and go there. If the body is as they said, take it to Saint-Loup for the monks to prepare it for burial. Perhaps they will find some indication as to his identity.”

  Mahaut had barely had time to sip at her wine when the commotion began again outside. Her fingers tightened on the stem of the cup and some of the wine spilled onto the table. Watching her, Catherine realized the effort she was making to appear calm and dispassionate.

  I could never do that, she thought with admiration.

  Nocher and his men had returned. They entered the hall, trailed by an excited mass of people. One of the men carried a bucket. He held it as far out from his body as possible and kept his eyes steadily averted from the contents.

  The countess saw the bucket and her face grew still.

  “Did you search the pool?” she asked Nocher.

  His face was pale and he spoke haltingly.

  “We did, Lady Countess,” he said. He stopped and looked at Catherine with an expression she could not read.

  “The woman was correct,” he continued. “Birds and vermin have been at work, but there are streaks of blood on the wall under the pipes and, in the pool, we found this.”

  He gestured for the man with the bucket to come forward.

  “Please, sir!” the man begged.

  “Show her,” Nocher ordered.

  Sweating profusely, the servant reached into the bucket, pulling out a long, white, slimy rope. He let it fall and then, gagging, held up a soft red piece of something, about as large as his fist.

  “I have fought enough to know, my lady,” Nocher said. “This is a human heart.”

  Catherine buried her head in Edgar’s shoulder. In the corner, the poet abandoned his epic and quietly threw up his beer.

  Thirteen

  The Great Hall of the palace at Troyes, that evening

  Cascuns fuit que mielx pour aler a garant,

  Et li gentis barnages les vas bien encauçant.

  Tous tans fierent sour aus a tas demaintenant,

  De sanc et de cervelle vont La terre jonçant—

  Aval les plains de Rames en vont li rui corant.

  Each one was eager to go to into the fray,

  And the nobility goes avidly to the chase.

  They all strike at once in a great array,

  So that the earth is strewn with blood and brains—

  Flowing across the fields of Ramla in a stream.

  —Chanson de Jérusalem 11.9489—9492

  Catherine and Edgar sat together at dinner that night, the normal seating order being ignored by those who had the stomach to attend. Countess Mahaut sat in her place as usual, but even she was somewhat pale. When the joint was brought in, several people excused themselves abruptly.

  “I don’t think I’m very hungry,” Catherine whispered to Edgar.

  “Let me tear you some bread, at least,” he replied.

  Catherine took it and nibbled on the crust. She looked up and down the table.

  “Who are you looking for?” Edgar asked.

  “That man I sat next to last night, Lisiard,” she said. “The cook’s nephew. I told you about him. He seemed to know a lot about Alys’s family. After meeting her mother and stepfather this morning, I’m curious about them. They weren’t what I expected at all. But I don’t see him here.”

  Edgar looked around, also. “Well, there are a number of people missing. Didn’t you say he was in service with Nocher? I imagine his men are fairly busy tonight. Despite the countess’s decree about the butcher, people are still muttering about the murder of innocent Christians.”

  “Yes, I suppose he might be with the guards,” Catherine nodded absently. “I still don’t understand why the countess didn’t release the butcher. It’s obvious that he knows nothing about the body.”

  “To you, perhaps,” Edgar said. “And to me, and even to the countess, but without guarantees from his people, she doesn’t dare let him go. And, after all, doesn’t it seem odd to you that anyone would think of leaving a body in a place like that? It would be sure to be found.”

  “Perhaps the murderers thought the butcher would be so afraid of being accused that he would hide it for them,” Catherine guessed.

  “Perhaps,” Edgar said. “Or they might have a grudge against the man, personally. He may know something and not even be aware of it. And, in that case, the countess’s jail would be the safest place for him.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. But why hasn’t Solomon come back?” Catherine worried. “If there is trouble for the Jews, I don’t want him involved. He should stay here and pretend to be Stephen. It’s all very disquieting. Where has everyone gone?”

  “I’m still here,” Edgar reminded her.

  Catherine paused in midnibble. “And I don’t want you more than an arm’s length from me until we leave this place,” she said. “I have horrible shivers every time I think of that bucket. And I won’t be truly
at ease until they find the poor man’s head.”

  Edgar shivered, too. Hurriedly, they blessed themselves. When the spiced wine was passed, they both filled their cups to the brim.

  When Solomon heard the butcher’s name, his first thought was to rescue the man himself and find out afterwards what he had been accused of. But Edgar’s warning made more sense. The Christians of Troyes far outnumbered the Jews and had most of the fortifications. If the man were to be saved, it would be in the time-honored tradition of soft words and hard coins. He headed for the yeshiva.

  On his way, he passed the house of Joseph ben Meïr. As he went by, the gate opened and Joseph hissed his name.

  “What are the idolators up to now?” he asked, catching at Solomon’s arm. “Do they seem likely to riot? I have three houses along the Rû Corde. Are they in any danger?”

  Solomon shook him off.

  “I know nothing about your houses,” he said. “And I care less. One of our brothers is facing the Christians alone and the charge is murder. I’m going for the parnassim.”

  “The elders have gone to Ramerupt,” Joseph moaned. “They were having a debate and went to seek the advice of the Rabbenu Tam.”

  “Are there no tovim in this town who will help Gershom?” Solomon glared at Joseph, but the man ignored the slur.

  “I told you,” he said. “All the elders are gone. Do you want me to get myself killed for a butcher? I have a family. I have property.”

  He backed away and slammed the gate shut. Solomon heard the sound of the bolt being drawn.

  “I’ll also see that you have herem put on you for your cowardice!” he cried. But the gate remained shut.

  There seemed nothing else to do. Solomon went to the place where he had stabled his horse. With luck, he could reach Ramerupt before dark and have the parnassim back by morning. He only hoped the countess’s justice would let Gershom live that long.

  The dinner was slow and conversation sporadic. The poet, when asked for a cheerful tale, could only think of bits from the Siege of Antioch, mostly about wading through the blood of infidels. It wasn’t a popular choice. But no one seemed eager to leave the table. The darkness grew and the torches and candles seemed to make more shadows than light. Even Catherine was reduced to monosyllables.

  “I love you,” she said to Edgar.

  It seemed necessary to repeat it.

  “I love you,” he replied, as required.

  They held hands and sipped from each other’s cups and pretended for a while that there was no one else in the room and that nothing so horrible as murder had ever happened.

  But the interlude was short. Nocher returned while they were still lingering over the dried fruit soaked in honey. Behind him, Catherine saw Jehan among the guards. His tired face was streaked with sweat and dirt.

  Countess Mahaut got up at Nocher’s entrance and motioned him into an alcove to give his report. Noticing Catherine, Jehan came over to the table. She handed him her cup and pushed the bread toward him.

  “What is happening outside?” she asked. “Rumors are flying like crows tonight and I’ve heard nothing so far that I can believe.”

  Jehan glanced at Edgar, who glared back at him but held his tongue. The knight stiffened for a moment, then his shoulders sagged and he picked up the cup and filled it from the wine pitcher.

  “They’ve discovered who the man was. His father finally identified the body,” Jehan said. “He had a mole on his back shaped like a duck. Funny, I’ve known him for years and never noticed it. I thought it was odd that he didn’t join us tonight, but Lisiard was always slipping off to the kitchens to see his soignant. Sometimes he doesn’t hear the summons.”

  Catherine nodded, her heart sinking. It was what she had feared all along, even while refusing to admit it to herself. Perhaps she had felt something familiar about the body when she first saw it. But had Lisiard been killed for speaking too freely to her about Walter of Grancy and the countess Alys or had he made such cruel enemies for other reasons?

  “He was the son of a provost and the nephew of a cook,” she murmured. “How odd.”

  Jehan didn’t seem surprised that she knew the man. “Isembard has far more wealth than Lisiard’s father,” he said. “Some people prefer gold to an honorable occupation.”

  He emptied the cup and poured another.

  “Perhaps Lisiard should have been a cook, also,” he added. “He hadn’t the stomach for fighting.”

  Edgar remembered the things in the bucket and tried not to think that now Lisiard didn’t have the stomach for anything.

  Jehan didn’t seem bothered by any such thoughts. He cut himself a piece from the cold joint, wiped his knife on the bread and returned it to its sheath. He tore at the tough meat, wincing as he hit a tender tooth.

  “Has anyone been accused?” Catherine asked.

  “Only the butcher,” Jehan said around his mouthful. “But no one here believes Gershom did it, not after what you said.” He paused and looked at her in fury. “Damn you, Catherine! You bring evil wherever you go! First Roger, now Lisiard. Do you intend to kill all my friends? You are the most malastrue woman I’ve ever known.”

  As the knight spoke, Edgar stood and leaned across the table, forgetting that Jehan was twice his weight and well armed.

  “Say one more word in that tone to my wife,” he told Jehan, “and you will do it through a broken jaw. Is that clear?”

  Jehan stared at him, then at Catherine. She looked back, her eyes glowing in the torchlight. Edgar didn’t move. He merely waited.

  With a curse, Jehan threw the meat across the room, where it was snatched in midair by one of the palace dogs. He then took Catherine’s cup and the pitcher and returned to the table where the other knights were now seated.

  Edgar sat down again, feeling as if he had just survived a bout with a dragon. He was absurdly pleased with himself. He rubbed the shoulder Jehan had twisted in their last encounter.

  “Even enough,” he muttered.

  Catherine wiped her eyes. “That poor man,” she said. “It is my fault. I tried to get him to tell me all he knew. He was so innocent. He just wanted to tell stories. Kitchen gossip is the best, he told me. Do you think they cut him up with the kitchen knives?”

  Edgar looked at her sharply. Her voice was distant, soft. He’d heard her speak like that once before.

  “Catherine,” he said, “Jehan is an idiot. Lisiard would have been killed whether he spoke to you or not. He knew something and couldn’t be trusted to keep it secret. But, if you hadn’t been here today, they might have killed the butcher despite the countess’s authority. So you saved a man’s life. You are not to blame for Lisiard’s death or anyone else’s, do you understand?”

  Catherine took a deep breath and returned. “Yes,” she said. “I understand. But I can’t help but feel responsible. I think that his murder is connected with what happened to Alys, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.” Edgar spoke with such certainty that Catherine was startled. “But not just because you asked about her.”

  He went on. “Did you see who spoke for the tanners? That same deacon who owes Abbess Héloïse twenty marks. Doesn’t it seem strange to you that he should have been here at all? He owes Joseph ben Meïr, as well. I wonder if he also does business with Raynald of Tonnerre. This affair has more twists to it than a bloom of fresh metal, but somehow, it’s all connected.”

  “Peter of Baschi,” Catherine said. “I wonder why Mother Héloïse loaned him money in the first place. It’s not as if the convent were rich. Some winters we can barely feed ourselves.”

  “Clearly he’s not from a church that’s adopted the rules of reform,” Edgar said. “He probably has his own house and a concubine. Perhaps he’s amassing a fortune to buy his sons a place at the count’s court.”

  Catherine was exhausted. She had forgotten to dilute the wine. Just as well Jehan had taken her cup or she’d have been under the table with the dogs by now. She tried to piece it all togethe
r. Alys, Raynald, the Paraclete, Lisiard, Walter of Grancy, who seemed to have vanished, Constanza and her husband, Peter of Baschi, Paciana. Paciana who was so gentle and humble and who had given her a wedding gift of hate. And who else was part of all this? What was so secret and so important that people would be killed for it, that Raynald would risk damnation by attempting to abduct a woman from the convent, that a human body would be treated like an animal’s?

  “I don’t understand anything,” she said at last. “I need to go to bed.”

  Edgar smiled.

  “That’s an excellent idea,” he said. “I think I’ll join you.”

  By keeping his horse at a killing pace, Solomon managed to reach Ramerupt early that evening. He had no trouble finding the home of the Rabbenu Jacob Tarn. The house was large and surrounded by vineyards. Near it was the school where the finest Talmudic scholars of northern Europe came to study. As in the schools of Paris, men of all ages and from all corners of the world came to Ramerupt to learn from the man considered the greatest living authority on the Law.

  Jacob ben Meïr ben Samuel, Rabbenu Tam, agreed fully with this judgement.

  As Solomon approached the house, he saw the elders of Troyes sitting in a disconsolate circle in the courtyard next to the wine press. By their faces, their mission had not been successful.

  Solomon went up to a man he knew.

  “Yehiel,” he began. “There’s trouble in town. You all need to return.”

  Yehiel stood, brushing the dirt from his tunic.

  “There’s trouble here,” he said. “The Rabbenu won’t change the ruling on accepting wine as payment from the Christians. He says it doesn’t matter if it isn’t meant for their sacrifices, it’s still not halakah. His grandfather decreed it and so it shall be.”

  Solomon looked around at the arpents of vines.

  “Perhaps Rabbenu Tarn has his own reasons,” he commented.

  Yehiel followed his glance.

  “There are those who say that, also,” he said. “But not to the man’s face. Now what is the trouble?”