As he wrote, he thought of something. “What about all the pilgrims who have been following us?” he asked the abbot. “Most of them won’t wish to continue with you if you’re making such a long detour.”
“That can’t be helped,” Peter answered. “They should be able to make other arrangements from here. The route is well traveled.”
“I will arrange for those who are from our area to be informed.” Pierre made a final note with his stylus, bowed and left the room.
Peter of Cluny wasn’t annoyed at this change in plans. It made excellent sense to make a personal visit at the Catalonian priories. It was important to keep the ties between the mother house and the dependents strong. He did wonder if the time might be better spent staying at one Cluniac house and having the priors come to him. But it seemed wiser to show his concern for his far-flung children by going there himself. It would also be more difficult for them to cover up any irregularities in their observance or accounts.
He wished he had thought to remind Pierre to see if any translators of Arabic had been found. That project should continue in spite of the emperor’s delay. Peter knew that souls were not won by siege, but by persuasion. And how was he to persuade the Saracens to give up their religion if no one knew what it consisted of?
Catherine loved the new abbey church at Moissac, with its interior freshly painted in bright patterns of stripes and flowers. As usual, Edgar spent most of his time studying the tympanum and commenting on the technique used to sculpt the figures there.
“Those patterns are new to me,” he told Catherine, pointing at the roseaux along the bottom of the tympanum. “I wonder if they were also done by Moorish artists.”
“What I want to know is why those rats are running around the edges,” Catherine said. “I can’t think of any biblical reason for them.”
“I have no idea,” Edgar said. “Why don’t you find someone to ask?”
Catherine took that to mean she had shared his interest long enough. Edgar could sit for hours imagining how the figures had been formed. His interest fascinated her, but her mind didn’t function in that way. The artistry of the work was important to her only in the ability of the creator to make the story come alive. Not understanding the symbolism of the rats irritated her. She would be very angry if she found out they were there simply because some apprentice only knew how to carve rats.
Catherine left her husband at the church, knowing that he wouldn’t have moved at all when it came time to retrieve him. She wandered down the row of shops leading up to the abbey. She paused for a moment to look longingly at a pair of earrings made from beads and bits of polished glass, laid out on a bed of black felt.
“I know a shop you’ll like better than this,” a voice whispered in her ear.
Catherine turned around. “Are you trying to lure me into a tavern, Sieur?” she laughed. “Solomon, what are you doing away from Mondete?”
“She went into the church,” Solomon explained. “At that door, my devotion ends.”
He tugged on one of her braids. “Do you want to see the shop, or not?” he asked. “It’s down a twisting side street. You’d never find it on your own.”
“And what could be for sale that I’d trust you to lead me there without one of your tricks?” Catherine knew from long experience how Solomon loved to tease her.
He smiled and said one word.
“Books.”
Catherine felt as if she had been fasting for a month and someone had just said the word “bread.” Her mouth dropped open and she swallowed to keep from drooling.
“For sale? To anyone?” she asked in disbelief. “Like in Paris?”
“Not on such a grand scale,” Solomon answered, “but a nice selection nonetheless. At least in number. I have no idea what’s inside them.”
Catherine took his hand. “Take me there,” she said, “and I’ll tell you.”
Brother Rigaud was more than a little relieved at the news that they were going to Catalonia.
“Now, if only Rufus and Gaucher leave me alone until we depart,” he muttered to himself as he and Brother James checked the robes of the monks for holes or tears. If they were now going to move east and pass through Toulouse, it would be a good place to buy replacements before confronting the rigors of the trek over the mountains.
“What about boots?” Brother James asked. “Have you asked any of the brothers if their shoes need resoling? I don’t want anyone going lame because of a misplaced desire for asceticism.”
“Yes, it won’t do simply to ask them,” Rigaud sighed. “I’ll have to take a look at each man’s clothing.”
Brother James gave Rigaud a sharp glance. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather someone else did that?” he asked.
“Of course not,” Rigaud answered, purposely misunderstanding. “No task is too menial for the Lord’s servants.”
Brother James shrugged. If Rigaud was willing to perform the task, he should be grateful. After all, despite rumors of Rigaud’s life before entering the monastery, there had been not a whisper of any impropriety since then.
“Very well,” he said. “Have you heard when we are to leave?”
“Not for a few days,” Rigaud answered. “We’ll have time to get things sorted out here.”
James looked at him quizzically. “Are you eager to see Spain again?” he asked.
Rigaud’s face clouded. “No,” he answered. “I fear it, somewhat. There are memories I would not awaken. But that’s cowardly. And I have vowed obedience to my abbot. I’m more afraid of breaking that than of any memory. After all, it’s likely that my apprehension is groundless. I haven’t been there in more than twenty years. Everything is probably different.”
He spoke too quickly, the words falling on top of each other. James wondered how horrible the memories could be.
Brother James closed his eyes. Nothing could be worse than the specter who had been haunting him since Le Puy. He knew now that she was one of the pilgrims from Paris, but how had she come by that face? He remembered the tale of the dissolute pilgrim priest whom the devil had come to in the guise of Saint James. The priest had already repented and Satan feared to lose the man’s soul to God and so, making the penitent believe it was God’s will, he convinced him first to amputate the most sinful of his parts and then to cut his own throat. The prayers of the other pilgrims had caused the true Saint James to bring the man back to life, but Brother James did not remember anything about the lost organ being replaced. It seemed a large price to pay for having been deceived. But it was certainly a stark warning against trusting in visions.
Was this woman also the Great Liar in the form of someone he had loved? He had considered confronting her, but now he was to be spared that decision. In a few days he would head for Catalonia with the abbot, and the woman and her family would continue on through Gascony to Navarre.
Perhaps his prayers had already been answered.
Catherine admitted that she never would have found the book-shop on her own. It was only a small room, next to an atelier where vellum and parchment were prepared and sold, not far from the tanneries. The reek of the chemicals used in the preparation of the material made her eyes water. She was grateful when the door shut behind them.
“Back are you, young man?” a voice came out of the gloom. The room was lit only by a small oil lamp. “Brought your sister, I see. I don’t have anything for ladies. Nothing with gold letters or pictures. A few compendia and a lot of pages that can be scraped and reused. This is a place for scholars. I already told you that.”
“Yes, I know,” Solomon answered. “She’d like to look anyway.”
The man gestured his permission.
Catherine inhaled the scent of ink and leather and felt a sharp pang of longing for the convent and days when study had been her main occupation. She reached for the nearest book. It was crudely bound between boards and not well stitched. Nevertheless, she held it lovingly and, opening it, moved closer to the lamp.
; “It’s not in French, ma douce,” the bookseller said. “I told you.”
Catherine ignored him. She ran her finger along the line. “Lactantius,” she said finally. “On the Death of the Persecutors.” She turned a few pages. “What else is bound with it? Some Gregory, a few passages from Augustine. Where did you get this?”
“From one of those wandering students,” the man said. “Needed to sell his text to continue his studies. Also thought it would be too heavy to take over the mountains. A lot of them do that. Or sell their books on the way back when they discover they haven’t enough money to get home again.”
He got up and took the book from Catherine. “Now, that’s enough of your playing, both of you,” he said. “I know very well that she can’t read. I don’t know why you thought it would be funny to make me think she did. What did you do, look at the book first and then tell her to recite it back?”
Solomon grinned in unholy glee as Catherine’s eyes flashed and her chin went up. “I am not accustomed to being disbelieved,” she said with deceptive restraint. “Therefore, I will excuse your rudeness and prove my honesty. You give me something and I’ll tell you what it says.”
“Done,” the man replied.
She didn’t know how much at that moment she sounded like the Lady Griselle.
The bookseller rooted about in a pile of vellum pieces. They were irregular or stitched together from scraps, the sort of thing students often bought to make a permanent record of their notes.
“I don’t know how you thought to fool me,” he said as he searched for something difficult. “You didn’t even look as though you were reading. You didn’t say a word. Your mouth hardly moved.”
Catherine bit her lip. She had learned the art of silent reading because she had opened a book so often when she had been told to do something else. It wouldn’t do to be caught reading when one was supposed to be sweeping.
“Put the words in front of me,” she demanded, “and I’ll say each one clearly for you.”
“I’m looking,” the bookseller replied. “Now, you stand back, young man. I don’t want you seeing this and giving her some sort of signal.”
Solomon laughed and covered his eyes. The man pulled a page from the bottom of the pile, looked at it, gave a grunt of satisfaction and handed it to Catherine.
“There,” he said. “See what you can make of that.”
Catherine took the page and held it to the light. The writing was crabbed, the writer using every bit of space, every possible abbreviation. She squinted.
“I thought so,” the bookseller said, reaching for the vellum.
“Just a minute,” Catherine moved closer to the light. “ … celesti celum omne penetranti, celestis munus voveo, quad in-tegritatem scientie in se complectitur … .”
She looked at Solomon in excitement, not noticing the bookseller’s look of disbelief. “I don’t know this work,” she said. “It’s some sort of treatise on the motions of the stars.”
Solomon came to attention. “Who wrote it?” he asked.
“It doesn’t say.” She scanned the page. “Whoever wrote this, though, seems to have studied with someone who could read the language of the Saracens. Dicitur Arabici magistri. ‘It is told by the Arab masters.’”
“How much do you want for it?” Solomon asked the man.
But the bookseller was angry now. “I don’t know how you’re doing this, but I don’t like being the butt of anyone’s joke.”
He snatched the vellum back from Catherine and studied it himself. “You can’t have read this so easily!” he shouted. “I can barely make it out.”
“Perhaps you were not as fortunate as I in choosing your teachers,” Catherine shot back. “I have studied with Master Gilbert de la Porrée and Master Peter Abelard.”
The man’s eyebrows rose. “I never heard of Master Gilbert,” he answered. “And it’s easy for you to say you learned from Abelard, now that he’s dead.”
“What?” The room seemed to freeze around Catherine. “That’s not true. He has retired to Saint-Marcellus, in Burgundy.”
“He died three weeks ago,” the man told her. “Messenger just arrived at the abbey. One of the monks was in a day or two ago and told me. Now, now, sweeting! Don’t go on so. Did you really know him?”
He had reason to be alarmed. Catherine had fallen against the table and was bent over it, sobbing. Solomon rushed to her and made her lean against him. He glared at the bookseller.
“If this is some cruel deception,” he said, “I swear I’ll cut your tongue out. She was raised at the Paraclete, by Héloïse herself. She can read better than you. And now you’ve broken her heart. Well, stop gaping like a tide-bound fish and get her some wine or something!”
“There’s a tavern three doors down,” the bookseller said. “Wait here.” He hurried out.
Solomon helped Catherine to a bench, swept parchment from it and sat her down. Sitting beside her, he patted her shoulder. “Cry all you like, Catherine,” he said, “but that old fool may be wrong, you know. It’s only hearsay.”
“No,” Catherine gulped. “We knew it when we saw him last, Edgar and I. He didn’t expect to live much longer. It’s only … poor Mother Héloïse!”
She wept some more, wiping her eyes and nose on his sleeve, then realized what she’d done and apologized.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s been worse on it.”
The bookseller returned with a ewer of wine.
“We didn’t bring our cups,” Solomon said.
“Never mind,” the man said and brought out his own, wiping it with a blank sheet of parchment, then filling it and handing it to Catherine. “Drink the wine slowly,” he warned her. “There’s no water mixed with it. I’m sorry, young woman. I didn’t mean to grieve you so.”
She nodded her understanding and took his advice about the wine, which was rough and strong. After a few sips, she gave the cup back.
“We should be going,” she told Solomon. “I don’t want Edgar to learn this from a stranger.”
“Yes, very well,” Solomon said. “But first, please, will you look for any other pages in this same hand? I need to know what’s in them, where they came from.”
He turned to the bookseller. “Who did you buy this from?” he asked. “I’ll pay whatever you like for it, and for any others she finds.”
“That’s no way to trade,” the man said. “There may be a few more pieces in the pile. I got them from some northerner, English or German, I think. He was on his way back from Toledo. Said he needed enough money for a good Christian whore.”
“And how much was that?” Solomon asked, pulling out his purse.
“Depends on what you want her to do,” the man answered.
He gave Catherine another apologetic look, but she was busy among the pages and hadn’t heard him.
“How much?” Solomon repeated.
“Ten sous of Narbonne,” the bookseller told him finally. “Or four of Troyes. Have you changed your money yet?”
“Here.” Solomon counted out the coins. “Did you find any more, Catherine?”
“Yes, a few.” She held them up. “But there seem to be some missing. I’m not sure. I need time to look at them properly.”
Solomon took the pages from her. “Six of them,” he counted. “Is this all you bought?” he asked the bookseller.
“No, there were ten, I think, but Abbot Peter’s notary was in yesterday and took a number of pieces to be scraped and used again. The other four might have been among them. I didn’t look. It’s not quality material.”
“All right, we’ll buy what there is.” Solomon took back a coin. “Catherine, are you feeling well enough to walk back to the hostel?”
“Yes,” she said, “but take me to the church instead. I need to find Edgar. Now.”
The man rolled up the pages, tied them with a string, and with more apologies, showed them out. When they had gone, he refilled his cup from the ewer and drank the wine in one draught.
Catherine felt numb as Solomon led her back up the twisting road to the church. She ought to rejoice that Master Abelard had at last found peace after so many years of physical and intellectual torment. She told herself that. But all the time, she was aware that there was a hole torn in her universe that couldn’t be repaired. It was as bad as if she had lost her father.
Solomon was struggling between the knowledge that he should respect her grief and the fierce desire to know what was written on the pages. What astronomical secrets had this student learned? How far had he gone to find a master? How could he have been so degenerate as to sell what he had learned for a night of lust?
That led his mind to other speculations, but he quickly returned to wondering what might be written on the smudged pages. He could read in French and Hebrew but had no Latin, and all the abbreviations made it impossible to even sound words out. Catherine and Edgar were the only Latin scholars he knew well enough to ask for help. He knew it was selfish, but he hoped they could overcome their sorrow enough to be of use to him.
As Catherine had expected, Edgar was seated just where she had left him, staring up at the carvings on the tympanum. She began crying again as she knelt beside him, and it was several minutes before he understood what had upset her so. He crossed himself and bowed his head.
“We should go in and pray for his soul,” he told Catherine.
She took his hand and they went inside the church. Solomon watched, knowing that for the moment he had been forgotten. He didn’t mind. He had known Abelard, too. The master had been an extraordinary man in many ways, not the least of which was his understanding of and sympathy for the plight of the Jews.
“Baruch atta Adonai,” Solomon said quietly. “Even though the man was a misguided infidel, Lord, take care of him. There must be a place for such a one in Your garden.”
Hubert and Eliazar had their minds only on business. Moissac was a confluence of rivers and trade. Merchants on their way from Italy and the East passed through as well as Norse traders coming down with furs and amber to sell in Spain. Mozarabic and Jewish merchants waited here for those who preferred not to cross the mountains but wished to buy goods from Al-Andalus and Africa. The streets near the abbey were crowded with inns, boot-makers, money changers, wine-sellers, brothels, and suppliers of anything else a traveler might need.
Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) Page 16