“Do you have any evidence?” Catherine’s heart rose. “Did you see him elsewhere that night?”
“Hardly.” Griselle seemed shocked. “I was keeping vigil all night in my room for the soul of my poor Bertran. But I am also my husband’s heir. That means I can at least vouch for the man’s character before the abbot. I believe it to be good, despite his fascination with poor Mondete. Many men seem to share that failing.”
“It’s kind of you,” Catherine answered.
“Bertran would have wanted me to,” Griselle said simply.
She and her entourage rode on.
It annoyed Catherine even more that a stranger could help her cousin and she couldn’t. Uselessness was making her frantic. She was afraid even to go to the church lest someone see her face and associate her with Solomon, to his cost.
She felt a great desire to smash something.
“Persequar inimicos meos, et comprehendam illos,” she muttered as she walked along, hands clenched. “Et non convertar donec deficiant. ‘I shall go after my enemies and I will catch up to them and not turn back until they are vanquished.’”
Psalms had so many wonderful uses. “Confringam illos!” Catherine said more loudly as she walked farther from the town. “‘I shall strike them down!’ Nec poterunt stare! ‘Nor will they be able to stand!’”
It had always helped release her feelings to shout the warrior psalms when she was angry, often while performing another penitential task set her by Sister Bertrada, her special bane in the convent.
She had reached the riverbank and had not yet come up with any workable plan to free Solomon. She picked up a handful of pebbles and threw them in the water, one by one, still chanting anathema to her nebulous enemies.
“And I’m considered mad.”
Catherine stopped. Mondete had come up behind her silently.
“I don’t consider you any more mad than I am,” she told the woman.
Mondete sat on a boulder thrown up by the river. “I don’t find that a firm endorsement of my sanity,” she said. “I was looking for you. I have a question.”
“For me?” Catherine was leaning to Solomon’s opinion that Mondete knew everything but refused to tell. What could she want Catherine to answer?
“Yes. I was wondering if it would do more harm than good if I told the abbot that Solomon was with me all Saturday night.” Mondete pushed back her hood. Sweat glistened on her pale scalp. “What do you think?”
Catherine tried not to look at the bald head, but to consider Mondete’s words. “Were you really with him?” she asked.
Mondete smiled. “Yes. I never met a man so persistent in his wish to simply talk with me,” she said. “It’s a novel experience, so much so that I doubt I’ll be believed. Do you think it will be the worse for him if instead of killing a monk, people simply think he was having la covine with a Christian whore?”
Catherine thought. “Either way, someone will want to hang him,” she decided.
“That’s what I feared,” Mondete said. “So what’s being done to free him?”
Catherine told her. When she heard Griselle’s name, Mondete raised her eyebrows, or would have if she hadn’t shaved them off.
“I never had much use for Griselle of Lugny,” she said. “Her devotion to her husband always seemed her only virtue. To his credit, I don’t believe he ever came to me, so the devotion may have been mutual. But I’m surprised that she would go surety for a stranger.”
“She said her husband would have wanted it,” Catherine explained.
“Did she now?” Mondete said. She put her hood back up and stood. “I’m going back to the church to find out what’s happening. Do you intend to vent your wrath upon the water the rest of the day?”
“It’s better if I stay here.” Catherine threw in another pebble. “Will you tell them where to find me?”
“If you wish.” Mondete left her.
Catherine picked up another handful of pebbles and started another angry psalm recitation.
Solomon was more afraid than he dared show, or admit to himself. He had been in worse situations. There had been that time in Hungary, for instance. The girl had sworn she had no brothers. She didn’t tell him about the uncles and five large male cousins. He had managed to escape that with no friends to help and with all his vital organs intact. This was nothing.
So why was it so hard to keep from shaking?
He stood in the anteroom to the abbot’s chamber. The area had been cleared of guests to allow space for the questioning. High-backed chairs with padded arms and cushions had been placed for the abbots and Bishop Stephen, but at the moment, there was no one in the room but himself and the guards. They waited a few moments in silence, one of the guards shifting constantly from one foot to the other.
“Here, you keep watch,” the guard finally said to the other man. “I can’t hold it anymore. I’ll just go water the abbot’s garden and be right back.”
“What if he attacks me?” the other guard asked.
“What’s wrong? You still limping from what the girl did to you?” his friend jeered. “This one doesn’t look any tougher.”
He wasn’t the first person to assume that because Solomon was slender and fine-boned, he was weak.
When the man had gone, Solomon studied his other captor. The man was a trained fighter, he was sure. But it would be easy to take him by surprise and then escape. The leather bonds at his wrists were loosening already. He could be out of them and gone before the guard realized what was happening.
It took every bit of self-control he had not to run.
What held him wasn’t the thought of the swords of the guards or the fear of being hunted down and hanged. It was knowing that if he ran, his uncle would pay the price. Freedom wasn’t worth it.
He did wish that something would happen soon, though.
The remaining guard was still rubbing his thigh, where Catherine had kicked him. “Bordelere,” he muttered. “A bit to the left and she could have done some real damage. Who is she, your wife?”
“Just a friend,” Solomon answered.
“Ah, some tavern slut,” the guard sneered.
Solomon had been baited much more skillfully than this. He just smiled at the man.
“I said, she must be some weaver’s whore,” the guard continued.
“Not even that,” Solomon said cheerfully. “I think she prefers tanners and dung collectors.”
“And which one are you?” The man seemed really curious.
“Ah, I was just eating with her,” Solomon answered. “For that, she prefers men who smell better.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. He was about to ask another question when his partner reappeared. “That’s better,” he informed them, though no one had asked. “Thought I’d fertilize the cabbage while I was about it.” Having conveyed that information, he fell silent.
At last the door to the abbot’s chambers opened. Peter of Cluny, Stephen of Osma, and the abbot of Saint-Pierre entered and took their places. They were followed by two monks, one carrying a writing tablet. The other one stepped forward to examine the prisoner.
“Is this the man?” he asked the guards.
“This is the one the beggar says he saw enter the church last night,” the guard attacked by Catherine said.
“I see.” The monk stepped up to Solomon. He was built with the same whiplike slenderness as the man he faced, his natural gauntness further aggravated by fasting. He was only a fraction shorter than Solomon. His brown eyes bore into Solomon’s green ones with frightening intensity.
“I’m Brother James,” he announced. “And you are one of the filthy Jews polluting the pilgrims who travel with us.”
Solomon’s jaw tightened. This man was much more proficient than the guard at baiting him.
“My name is Solomon,” he answered as calmly as possible. “My uncle and I are from Paris and are engaged in trade for Suger, abbot of Saint-Denis. We have letters to that effect.”
&nbs
p; “I am aware of that,” Brother James told him. “That is the only reason you were allowed to accompany honest Christians. And this is how you repay the kindness of Saint Peter? To murder one of his monks?”
“I have killed no one,” Solomon answered. “If you know anything about my people, you would be sure that we would never enter a church voluntarily, not for any reason.”
He winced, remembering the times he and the others of the community had been herded into a local church to hear someone preach to them in the hope of effecting a mass conversion.
“The beggar saw you!” Brother James put his face close to Solomon’s and spit the words.
“He was mistaken.” Solomon moved his head back and looked more closely at the monk. “Do I know you?” he asked.
Brother James stepped back in confusion. “Your conscience may know me,” he said proudly, “as the one who will discover your sins and make you pay for them.”
Solomon shook his head. “My conscience has never met you, I’m sure,” he said, “but your face is that of someone I should remember.”
He seemed more concerned about that than about the charges against him.
Abbot Peter leaned forward in his chair. “Do you understand why you have been brought here?” he asked.
“A beggar sleeping in the narthex thinks he saw me enter the church last night,” Solomon replied. “I wasn’t there. My friends will be coming soon, I hope, to vouch for me.”
“Were they with you last night?” Peter asked.
“No, Lord Abbot,” Solomon answered with a half-smile. “I was with a lady, I’m afraid. I would not wish to damage her reputation merely to save my life.”
The guard smothered a guffaw. The abbot looked at him. “Nothing, Lord Abbot,” the man said quickly. “Dust in my throat.”
Bishop Stephen leaned over to Abbot Peter and said something behind his hand.
“I agree,” Peter said. “Brother James, has anyone come forward to speak for this man? Are any of his people here?”
Brother James went to the door and asked the question of the monk stationed on the other side. The two conversed for a moment, then Brother James returned, apparently annoyed.
“I understand that the Hebrews of Toulouse who are here in the city have offered to pay his ransom, if necessary. They also deny his guilt. Also, there are some Christians here to stand witness to his innocence.”
The door opened and Edgar, Hubert and the Lady Griselle were led in. They all bowed to the abbots and the bishop.
“My lords.” Hubert spoke first. “I am Hubert LeVendeur, a merchant of Paris and a member of the marchands de l’eau. This man has been a trusted messenger for me and for Abbot Suger of Saint-Denis for many years now. He is honest and responsible. I will take the oath that he is innocent of any wrongdoing.”
“Of course you know who I am,” Griselle said. “I have no business or social connection with this man, yet I also believe him to be innocent. I have traveled with him for some weeks now and know him to be as near to a courteous knight as is possible for one of his faith. I will also swear to his innocence and stand for him, as the widow of Bertran de Lugny.”
Peter looked at Edgar. “And you are …”
“My Lord Abbot,” Edgar said, “I am Edgar, son of Waldeve, lord of Wedderlie in Scotland, grandson of Cospatrick, earl of Northumberland, descendant of Alfred the Great, king of the Saxons, and kin to David, king of Scotland.”
Griselle and Hubert tried to hide their surprise. The abbot of Cluny regarded Edgar gravely.
“Are you on the continent only for a pilgrimage to Saint James?” he asked. “Your French is quite good for a Saxon.”
“I am going to Compostela, Lord Abbot,” Edgar said, “but I have been studying in Paris for several years and have known Solomon for some time. While I am unknown in Moissac, there are many in Paris who know my lineage. Master Abelard could have told you my name. And I have been received by Héloïse, abbess of the Paraclete.”
“Really?” Peter leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips. “There aren’t many who have seen Heloise in the past fifteen years. What color are her eyes?”
“Her eyes?” Edgar was taken aback by the question but answered without hesitating. “Brown, my lord, large and as deep as velvet, the saddest I’ve ever seen.”
The abbot was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. “I will accept your oath,” he said.
He turned to the guards. “Where is the beggar who accuses this man?”
The guards looked at each other nervously. “I don’t know, Lord Abbot,” the first said. “Our orders didn’t include keeping him. We were only told to take him with us this morning to point out the prisoner.”
“Haven’t seen him since we took this man,” the other chimed in. “Last I noticed, he was back at the inn.”
“Brother James?” Abbot Peter asked the monk. “I was told that we had a witness to the murder. Where is he?”
“I … I don’t know,” James answered. “He came to me this morning with his tale. I presumed he would be here to repeat it for you.”
Bishop Stephen had been following the French discussion with difficulty. Now he stood up and twisted a kink in his back.
“Do I understand,” he said angrily in Latin, “that we’ve sat half the morning to judge a man whose only accuser is a vanishing beggar?”
Edgar’s face lit. “Sic est,” he said. “Your guards have detained my friend on the word of a man who not only has no one to vouch for him, but who hasn’t even the courage to make his charge in front of the one he accuses. I demand that Solomon be released at once!”
“But he has no one who will swear to having been with him last night!” Brother James protested. “And he’s a Jew!”
Lady Griselle dismissed him with a wave of her hand. She approached Peter and knelt before him. The silk of her bliaut swished against the rushes on the floor.
“No one saw me last night either, my lord,” she said. “I was in my room alone. Does that mean I murdered your poor monk? And as for Jews, the town is full of them. At least this man admits to his faith. There are many who pretend to be good Christians while hiding black hearts and heretical beliefs.”
Hubert had to control himself to keep from gasping. Who was she speaking of? What did she know?
Griselle gazed imploringly at Abbot Peter, her hands clasped so that the gold of her wedding band caught the light. “If you seek the killer,” she continued, “I suggest you look closer to home. The reason may lie in the life your monk led before he took his vows. Or in a vow he broke.”
Peter’s face was grim as he held out his hands to Griselle. “Rise, my daughter,” he said. “The rushes must be cutting into your skin. Your argument has much merit to it. I will consult with my brothers as to our decision.”
Edgar’s smile grew as he followed the brief Latin discussion. Both the other abbot and Bishop Stephen were of the opinion that their time had been wasted. They said so curtly and rose to go. Peter stayed only to speak with Brother James.
“Release him at once,” he told the monk. “Then report to me after Tierce.”
He left.
The guard was somewhat chagrined when he went to untie Solomon’s bonds and found they had already fallen off.
When they were once again out in the sunlight, Solomon allowed himself a long, convulsive shudder.
“All I want right now is a vat of wine and a dipper,” he said. “Preferably in a town on the other side of the mountains.”
Edgar laughed shakily. “I won’t even ask to share it with you,” he said. “Men have been hanged before without a reliable witness.”
“Was your grandfather really an earl?” Solomon asked. “Or was that to impress the abbot?”
“He was,” Edgar said, “but it’s all gone now. And so is he. I don’t think the abbot was all that impressed in any case. Scotland is too far and Cluny has no houses there. It was Griselle who tipped the balance in your favor, I believe.”
“I do, too,” Solomon said. “I was amazed to see her there. Why would she risk her honor and land for me? I can’t begin to thank her, but I must try.”
Edgar lowered his voice and there was a hint of laughter in it. “Well, I have heard that she likes dark men.”
“Yes,” Solomon answered slowly, “but I don’t seem to be what she had in mind.”
They gaped with wide eyes as Hubert bowed over the hand of the Lady Griselle, then offered to assist her to mount her horse. He started to bend with hands cupped for her to put her foot in, but instead, she laid her hands on his shoulders and allowed him to lift her up by the waist onto her saddle. She seemed to lean against him more than was necessary for good balance. Hubert held her rather longer than courtesy required.
“Saint Eulalia’s cold modesty!” Edgar exclaimed.
Solomon whistled. “I wonder if Catherine will approve of the price of my release.”
Edgar grabbed his arm. “Not a word, Solomon. One hint, one bit of teasing, and I’ll give you to that malevolent monk myself.”
For once, Solomon was completely serious. “Don’t worry, old friend,” he said. “I wouldn’t be the one to tell her this for all the gold in Genoa.”
As they left the square before the church, Solomon saw the hooded figure standing in the shadows. He put his finger to his lips and shook his head.
Mondete slipped away to the riverbank to tell Catherine that Solomon was safe. Then she sat next to the river for a long time watching the water swirl around rocks and roots. The motion was reflected in her troubled heart.
Brother James was both furious and frightened. The beggar had been so sure in his insistence. The man had come to him willingly with his tale. James hadn’t been fool enough to pay him more than a sou, with the promise of much more when he had told his story to the abbot. What could have happened to him? And then all those people standing up for that Jew! Who would have thought that an English lord and the Lady of Lugny would be willing to stand surety for a man like that? Now what was he going to tell the abbot?
He scratched at the door and a voice bid him enter. The abbot was busy dictating letters to his secretary, Pierre. He didn’t look up when Brother James came in.
Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) Page 20