Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur)

by Newman, Sharan

  Gaucher raised his eyes to heaven. “Saint Appollina’s double somersault into the flames! What are you talking about? The man is clearly some sort of sorcerer, probably not even human. He can do anything he wants. Did you ever think that he might be stalking us for the treasure? If it’s of value to us and the Church, what do you think it would be worth if he gave it to his master, Satan?”

  Rufus felt his head aching with the effort of following all this. From being an upstart who had stolen Griselle of Lugny from them, Hubert had become an emissary of the devil. It seemed to make sense, but Rufus wasn’t sure.

  “I think I need a large slice of venison, preferably from the shoulder,” he declared. “And a skin or two of wine. Then I’ll decide if I want to do battle with this servant of evil, or just run like hell.”

  James’s attempt to convince people who had lived for weeks on bread, cheese and various suspect things floating in broth to renounce a real piece of meat was a complete failure. As the monk of Roncevalles had warned, James barely escaped martyrdom.

  He was not in good humor as he went back to the priory and answered the benign greeting of the monk there with a most unbrotherly bark. “What kind of salvation do these people think they’ll find?” he shouted at Brother Bruno, startling him from meditation.

  “You know our venerable abbot says that the only true pilgrimage is one that renounces the world forever,” Bruno answered. “There are traps and snares in every path. Too many of these poor people apparently believe that merely reaching Santiago de Compostela will be enough to remit their sins. So one more sin before the end of the journey must not seem too much to them. And in my experience, hunger is harder to resist than lust.”

  James sat on the bench next to Bruno and leaned against the wall, eyes closed. He could resist hunger, thirst, lust, and usually, pride. But there were times when he felt the lure of despair too much to endure. He had been back among laymen for only a few weeks and he didn’t think he could bear another day of it. He was haunted by living ghosts, mocked by those he tried to preach to, and had done nothing to fulfill his directive from Abbot Peter. He had lost his courage and was terrified that he might also lose his faith.

  The only way to regain both was to face the terrors.

  Tomorrow night, when they reached the Augustinian monastery and hostel at Larrasoña, he would question this merchant and find out just what his relationship had been with Rigaud, as well as what it was presently with Lady Griselle. James was sure that one who would consort with and protect unbelievers could do anything. But why? And why were Gaucher and Rufus so eager to blame the merchant and the lady but not forthcoming enough to give a valid reason?

  James suspected that the knights knew a great deal more than they had told him. He wondered if they had used their time in Spain doing more than fighting the Saracens. What if they had had some sort of business transactions with Hubert and then reneged? In that case, wouldn’t the old men be in as much danger as their former partners?

  Brother James let his head thump against the wall. This was an impossible task. People moving about all the time. Not enough information on the lives and characters of accusers or accused. One had to step carefully in this morass. He could feel Despair’s cold fingers tightening around his heart.

  “Quare tristis es, anima mea? Et quare conturbas me?”

  James opened his eyes. Brother Bruno was reciting softly, saying the words as if he really wanted to know the answer. “‘Why are you sad, my soul? And why do you trouble me?’”

  Strange, Brother James thought. Even after all these years, the psalms still don’t sound right in Latin.

  The next morning, the sun shone brightly, welcoming the pilgrims for their descent into Navarre. There were still patches of mud, and those experienced in travel knew that the road down is often more treacherous than the one up. But there was a general air of excitement and a feeling that the worst was over. Catherine even caught Mondete humming as she shook out her cloak and took out her spoon and bowl.

  When she realized that Catherine was watching, Mondete stopped at once. The cloak gave a slight shrug. Catherine bent to hide her smile.

  Edgar had procured a small piece of venison the previous night, and the two of them had shared it as soon as they awoke. While doubtful about the propriety of eating any meat under the circumstances, Catherine had to admit that she felt more energetic this morning than she had since they left Paris.

  When the packs were ready, she waited out by the hostel door while Edgar and Hubert went for the horses. Even though the day was cloudless, the wind still whipped through the trees surrounding the slight valley in which they were sheltered. Catherine leaned against the pile of bundles and watched as the other groups set off. What could be keeping them? The merchants from Toulouse had already gone, taking their guards. Others followed after them.

  Edgar arrived with Eliazar, leading the horses.

  “Where’s my father?” Catherine asked.

  Eliazar grimaced. “The Lady Griselle stopped him to ask his advice or some such nonsense.”

  “And Solomon?”

  “Went to find that Basque hunter,” Edgar told her. “He was muttering something about getting another guard.”

  Solomon came back before Hubert did. He nodded to Eliazar, who seemed relieved.

  “What is it?” Edgar asked.

  “I wanted to see Catherine’s savior,” Solomon answered. “It occurred to me that he hadn’t been properly rewarded for saving her life.”

  “That’s true,” Catherine said, embarrassed. “I didn’t even know how to say thank-you.”

  “We came to an understanding,” Solomon said. “I hope. My knowledge of their language is not complete.”

  “You’re sure he’s the right one to deal with?” Eliazar asked.

  “No.” Solomon tucked his purse back inside his tunic. “But if he is, we should have no trouble the rest of the way through Navarre. Besides what I paid him, I think he feels protective of Catherine. He told me not to let her fall anymore.”

  “You mean he’s going to come with us as a guard?” Catherine was puzzled.

  “No, Catherine,” Edgar explained. “I think Solomon means we just paid him so that we wouldn’t need guarding from him and his men.”

  “He’s a bandit? But he was so nice.” Catherine still didn’t understand. “He brought the deer.”

  Solomon was about to explain the intricacies of Navarrese customs when Hersent hurried up to them. “Come at once!” she said. “Those idiots are accusing Sieur Hubert of sorcery and murder! And they’re trying to convince Brother James to let them hang him!”

  Catherine stood stunned by the news. “That’s impossible!” she whispered, unable to get her breath.

  “This has gone far enough.” Eliazar stated grimly.

  Solomon had never seen his uncle look like this before. Eliazar showed no fear, but pure, righteous anger. Sparks seemed to fly from his eyes. Moses breaking the tablets couldn’t have been more wrathful.

  They followed Hersent to the priory gate. Outside stood Hubert, held firmly by Gaucher and Rufus. His cheek was swollen and cut. Brother James faced him, shouting something, but they were too far away to make out the words. The other monks from Cluny watched in confusion but did nothing to intervene. To one side, the Lady Griselle stood, wringing her hands. When she saw them, she ran to Eliazar and clutched his arm in supplication.

  “They’ve gone mad!” she said. “They say I can’t swear for him because I’m under his influence. They’ve found proof that Hubert killed Hugh, they say. It’s all horrible. You have to stop them!”

  “Proof? What proof?” Eliazar paused.

  “A ring, with no stone in it,” Griselle said. “Gaucher insisted on searching him and found it in the bag at his belt with his knife and spoon.”

  Catherine gasped. Eliazar seemed uninterested.

  “Did he now? I’m not surprised.” He continued walking.

  “Uncle!” Solomon caught h
is other arm. “Let me go get help. We can’t stop them alone!”

  “Oh yes I can.” Eliazar reached the group. Hubert saw his face and shook his head.

  “Don’t—” he started.

  But it was too late. Eliazar grabbed Brother James and spun him around roughly. He shook the monk in fury, shouting at him in rapid Hebrew. Then he switched to French.

  “Jacob, you questre! You filthy fils de lisse! It’s Chaim, you fool, little Chaim! I don’t care what you are now; I won’t let you murder your own brother!”

  Fifteen

  A moment later. No one has moved.

  May no joy come to those who jeer that guilty Zion in ruins must lie. Not so. I know her innocence. She will always have my heart and eye.

  —Judah Ha-Levi

  “Liar!” Brother James spun around. “You were always trying to trick me. Chaim is dead!”

  Still holding a stupefied Hubert with one hand, the monk pointed at Eliazar with the other. “Perfidious infidel!” he screamed. “You’d say anything to get me back, but I deny you and condemn you!”

  Hubert seemed stunned. “Jacob?” he asked. “You? You can’t be! How …”

  Gaucher and Rufus were even more confused by the scene. Their glee at proving Hubert’s guilt with the finding of the ring evaporated as their ally from Cluny suddenly appeared to be refuting accusations against himself. Gaucher stepped toward Eliazar, his hand on his sword hilt.

  “Stay out of this!” he warned. “This has nothing to do with you, unless you and Hubert are also partners in murder. Then there’ll be a rope for you, too, if you’re lucky.”

  “Get out of the way,” Eliazar said quietly, not taking his eyes off Brother James. “Jacob, let your brother go. He is your brother, I tell you. Chaim didn’t die with our mother and sisters; he was taken and baptized and raised a good Christian. Look at him. You know who he is. Look at his daughter. You knew her from the start, but wouldn’t believe it.”

  James and Hubert stared at each other, James in anger, Hubert in wonder. Gaucher stepped away from Eliazar. He didn’t understand what was happening but knew that he had lost the attention of everyone present and doubted he could get it back unless he used the sword. He wasn’t prepared for that, not yet. He gestured to Rufus to come with him. They would have to wait for a better time. Rufus stayed where he was, fascinated by the scene.

  Finally, Brother James released his grip on Hubert, who didn’t move. The monk then turned his attention to Catherine, who was staring at him in horror. He held up his arm to keep her away.

  “I thought you were a spirit,” he said, “the ghost of my mother come back to reproach me for renouncing her. But even that wouldn’t have turned me from my faith. There is nothing you can do to me to make me deny Christ.”

  “Why would I want you to?” Catherine asked.

  Eliazar answered him. “Yes, every time I look at Catherine, I see our poor mother, too. You should have guessed who Hubert was from that alone. But you’ll be pleased to know that Catherine’s mother is a Christian and so is she. So spare her your hatred of your own people.” His voice was thick with bitterness.

  Brother James was just as intense. “Not my people, Eliazar. Not anymore. I have been reborn. My only brothers are those of Cluny.”

  “And your son?” Eliazar shot back. “You would have let Solomon be executed as well?”

  Only Mondete, standing outside the circle as usual, had been watching Solomon. He might have been the ghost, white to the lips. She thought he was about to faint.

  At the mention of his name, Solomon moaned, his head in his hands. “Uncle, what is this?” he pleaded. “My father’s dead. He died just after I was born, drowned while crossing a river. You told me.”

  “So he did, Solomon; it was a horrible death,” Eliazar answered without taking his eyes off the monk. “We said Kaddish for him. We sat shiva. Jacob ben Meïr died the day he shaved his beard, abandoned his wife and child, and went to the priests to be splashed by their filthy water.”

  “That’s right,” James said. “He did. That man no longer exists.”

  Rufus hadn’t left with Gaucher. He had come to see a murderer hanged and felt that the situation was getting too far away from the original matter.

  “Look, I don’t know what you’re all going on about,” he said plaintively. “I don’t care which of you are dead or born again, or if you’re related to each other or not. We found Hugh’s ring in this man’s purse and that’s enough to convince me he killed our friend. Now, if Brother James won’t take him into custody, Gaucher and I will. We can find enough people to help us hang him.”

  “Where?”

  “What?” Rufus looked around.

  It was Edgar who had spoken. “Where will you find anyone to help you? The others have gone ahead. There’s no one here but us and the canons. Do you think they’ll assist in a hanging?”

  “But we have the ring!” Rufus held it up. “Hubert the Merchant killed Hugh, and probably Rigaud, too. We have the right to hang him.”

  “Someone put that in my scrip, I told you,” Hubert insisted. “It wasn’t there last night. You may even have dropped it in when you were searching me. I had no reason to kill your friend. I’ll defend myself in any court.”

  Rufus was near to exploding. He gestured frantically at Gaucher, who had come back, leading their horses. Gaucher put a hand on his shoulder in an effort to calm him.

  “We’ve clearly fallen into something more important to these people than life or death.” He looked from Hubert to James to Eliazar in appraisal. “This knowledge might even turn out to be of use to us. I think we should wait.”

  “But the ring!” Rufus protested.

  Gaucher pulled him away from the others and lowered his voice. “Yes,” he whispered, “it was odd about the ring. The merchant seemed honestly surprised to find it there. More than you, even.”

  Rufus shot him a flash of malice. “You didn’t seem unsure about his guilt before. Or were you just relieved that someone had been found to take the blame and draw interest away from yourself?”

  “I desire nothing more than the swift punishment of the killer,” Gaucher said. “But for my own safety, I want to be positive we’ve found the right one. At least now that he knows we suspect him, this man is less likely to try to attack us, and we can both be on our guard against him.”

  “What if he tries to flee?” Rufus asked.

  “Then it will be an admission of guilt,” Gaucher said. “And we can track him down and administer justice with no questions. Remember, he’s under the protection of Saint-Denis. Abbot Suger is still a powerful man. We must be able to justify our actions.”

  Reluctantly, Rufus agreed. They returned to the group.

  “Gaucher and I have decided that you’re not a neutral judge,” Rufus told Brother James. “Therefore we will allow this man to continue the journey under our surveillance, if he gives his oath that he will answer the charges against him before Abbot Peter when we reach Burgos.”

  James took a deep breath. He wanted to deny any prejudice in the matter, but couldn’t. He was still shaking. All these people, all these faces he wanted to forget. This was worse than ghosts. This was the living past come to torment him.

  He refused to surrender to it. He bowed his submission to the knights, then turned to Hubert. “Sieur Hubert,” he said coldly, “do you take the oath like a Christian?”

  “Of course,” Hubert answered. “I have often. I am a Christian.”

  “So you say,” James answered. “Then will you give your word by the Holy Body of Christ that you will not attempt to escape and that you will present yourself in Burgos and accept the judgment of the abbot of Cluny?”

  “Yes,” Hubert answered. “I swear by Christ, the Virgin, Saint Nicholas and Saint Vincent that I had no part in the death of Hugh of Grignon or in that of the monk Rigaud, and I will prove it by oath or by ordeal anywhere you like.”

  “I’ll stand surety for him,” Edgar said. “D
o you doubt the validity of my oath?”

  James looked as though he wanted to, but he shook his head. He had to get away from these people, especially from the hard eyes of Solomon, whom he refused to think of as his son. He continued shaking his head as he moved through the door of the priory, shut it and slammed the bar down with a firm thud.

  Catherine wondered if everyone else were as dazed as she. That was the only explanation she could give for the way they all backed away from each other, not speaking, and returned to their packs and their horses as if nothing had happened.

  Edgar and Solomon finished loading the animals. They didn’t look at each other. Hubert let Eliazar guide him to his horse and help him mount. When they were ready to set out, Hubert only said one thing to his brother.

  “You haven’t called me Chaim in twenty years.”

  Eliazar smiled sadly but gave no answer.

  They headed for the road leading them down into the kingdom of Navarre. Everyone was unnaturally quiet. Hubert rode slumped over, letting the horse find its own way. Eliazar watched him in silence. Behind them, Edgar and Catherine walked together, holding hands. They could find nothing to say either.

  At the end of the line, Solomon led his packhorse. For once, he didn’t seem to notice Mondete Ticarde, trudging next to him.

  Mondete wasn’t intimidated by the silence. “It seems you’ve found some of the answers you were seeking,” she said conversationally.

  The day was growing warm. She put her hood down. Then she came closer to Solomon and touched his arm. “I never understood what was so wonderful about truth,” she said. “There have been many times in my life when I would have preferred a kind lie.”

  “My uncle didn’t lie to me,” Solomon said. “My father is dead. You heard him say so himself.”

  “That should be conclusive,” Mondete agreed.

  She inhaled as if preparing to say more, then shut her mouth, put up her hood and moved back to her old place at the tail of the procession.