The Wandering Arm: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  “Why Edgar?” Eliazar asked. “For that matter, why you? What is it to us if the Edomites are stealing from their own god?”

  “It’s a great deal if some of us are helping them,” Solomon answered. He was looking at his uncle as if he were a stranger. “We aren’t, are we?”

  Eliazar covered his eyes. “Oh Solomon, how could you even ask?”

  “You and Uncle Hubert have traded in enough treasure for the abbot of Saint-Denis,” Solomon answered. “I should know; you’ve sent me to Kiev and back for his trinkets. You’ve never kept any part of your business from me, until now.”

  They all looked at Eliazar, waiting.

  He glared back at them. “I’ve told you all I can,” he told them. “I needed something done. Natan seemed the best man to do it. I was mistaken. That’s the end of it.”

  “We need to know, brother,” Hubert said. “At least enough to be sure that, if Natan is taken before the court, you won’t be called to stand with him.”

  Eliazar’s chin went up and he glared at them all stubbornly. “My business was mine alone. It didn’t concern you or anyone else in the community. I have done nothing counter to the spirit of the Law. But even if I had, I would not counsel you to give up your plans to protect me. If you believe there are those among us who are endangering the community through their actions, it’s your duty to find and stop them. As for my connection to Natan, I can only ask you to trust me. You still haven’t answered my question. Why should your English son-in-law be involved in this?”

  “Because he is English and we think that’s where most of this trade may be coming from,” Hubert answered. “And because, according to Solomon, he has the skill to pretend to be an artisan. He may be able to insinuate himself into the group that is actually reshaping these things.”

  “And you think Natan is working with these people, too?” Eliazar said. It was hardly a question. He knew the answer.

  “Natan is an embarrassment and a danger to all of us,” Baruch stated. “He should have been placed under herem years ago.”

  “None of his clients have ever brought a complaint against him before the community,” Solomon said. “I never understood why. I would have borne witness against him after I found he’d bought the sheep those brigands stole from the village of Saint-Marcel two years ago.”

  “That wasn’t our affair,” Eliazar said. “I’m not certain this is.”

  Hubert looked at his brother in astonishment. “What has Natan done to you?” he asked. “You know that if the Christians discover him with one of their stolen holy objects, we’ll … you’ll all be blamed for it.”

  “Or we’ll have to turn him over to their justice,” Baruch added. “And much as I despise the man, I don’t like abandoning him. It provides a bad example.”

  Eliazar slowly nodded agreement. “So. What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing,” Baruch said. “We will handle the matter, now that we know you’re not involved.”

  “Do you mean you came all this way simply to assure yourselves that I wasn’t a thief and dealer in idols!”

  Since that was what they had done, they all immediately assured him that it was never a consideration.

  “We needed to come to Paris anyway,” Hubert said. “The abbot wants to establish another special feast for the monks when they’re given something extra at their meal. He thinks cloves in hot wine would be nice, but he needs more cloves. I held some back from the last shipment for just such a possibility.”

  “I came to help him carry them back,” Solomon said with a straight face.

  “And I wanted only to be with my brethren to observe the Sabbath,” Baruch added, daring Eliazar to contradict.

  Eliazar gave them a look of deep sadness. “I had hoped that my own kinsmen and my friend of forty years would have more faith in me,” he said. “There is no more to be said. I will have beds made up for you by the fire. Good night.”

  The other three watched in gloomy silence as he went up the stairs. Johannah had excused herself and gone up long before. When they heard the door close, Hubert turned to Baruch.

  “Are you satisfied?” he asked.

  “No,” Baruch answered, “but I think we should continue in the plan, all the same. You will speak to Abbot Suger about it?”

  “Yes,” Hubert said. “I’m sure he’ll agree. This activity is much more upsetting to him than to us, don’t you think so, Solomon?”

  Solomon was still staring up toward the ceiling as if he might manage to look though the boards and into his uncle Eliazar’s heart.

  “What?” he said. “Oh, yes, the abbot. I’m sure he’ll help. I only wish I knew what sort of business a man like my uncle could possibly have had that would make Natan ben Judah the best man to accomplish it.”

  The ceiling remained solid and Solomon was left to wonder.

  It was not quite dawn of Septuagesima Sunday. The air was gray with mist. The streets of Paris were empty. Ice had formed over the trough in the center of the roads where rain, wash water and emptied night waste collected. Natan stepped carefully on the frozen mud as he made his way up the rue du Port Saint-Landry. The bag he was carrying was heavy and seemed to grow heavier the closer he came to his destination. He didn’t like the place he was heading for but the choice had not been his. Something in the bag had come unwrapped from its cloth and was digging into his back, just inside the shoulder blade. Natan tried not to think about what it was. The objects he was dealing in were not of his choosing, either.

  All the same, he reasoned as he walked, it wasn’t expressly forbidden. Even if he suspected the goods had been stolen, he had no proof and it wasn’t as if they were truly sacred. He would never steal a Torah, no matter how valuable the casing. He would die for it, just like the martyrs of Mainz, he told himself smugly. And with the profit from this transaction he would himself pay for a new copy of the sacred books to be made.

  So, warmed by the glow of piety, Natan reached the little alleyway that led to the door in the cloister wall. With a sigh of relief, he set the bag down and pushed against the latch. As promised, it had been left unhooked.

  Someone had taken every precaution. The door swung open smoothly. Even the hinges were silent. Picking up the bag again, Natan crept in and edged along the inner wall until he found the steps leading down. They were slippery and he began to doubt the accuracy of his instructions.

  But at the bottom was another door and through the crack under it came the glow of lamplight. Natan knocked and the door opened to admit him.

  Four

  A small room off the staircase at the keep at Vielleteneuse, Feast of Saint Agatha, virgin and martyr, Tuesday, February 5, 1141/26, Shebat, 4901

  … et quae adhuc desunt in utensiliis domus Domini ad explendum aggredere toto mentis conamine, sine quibus divina misteria et officiorum ministeria non valent consistere. Sunt enim haec; calices, candelabra, … sanctorum pignorum scrinia, … Quae si vis componere, hoc incipias ordine.

  … and prepare to undertake with all the effort of your mind

  [to create] that which is lacking of the utensils of the house of

  the Lord, without which the divine mysteries and the service

  of the Office cannot take place. These are: chalices,

  candlesticks, … cases for the sacred relics, … If you wish to

  make these, this is how you begin.”

  —Theophilus, De Diversis Artibus Book III, preface

  “I’m perfectly well now,” Catherine insisted. “And I’m going with Edgar.”

  “I can’t do this unless she’s with me,” Edgar said. “It’s not unknown for journeymen to bring their wives when they go to a new job.”

  Hubert had anticipated her determination but had hoped Edgar would support him. “Do you want Catherine to live in the sort of place they put journeymen?” he countered. “Sometimes it’s no more than a pallet in the workshop.”

  “We can rent a room from Aunt Johannah,” Catherine said. “She
has four buildings, two on the Île and two more in the bourg Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois.”

  “She does?” Hubert was doubtful. “Did she tell you that?”

  Catherine nodded. “They were part of her dower and she rents them to students and artisans and people like that. She told me so. No innkeepers or procurers or soapmakers. Nothing smelly or disgusting. We would be fine there.”

  Catherine didn’t say it, but she thought it would be wonderful to have a whole room to themselves, even if she would have to buy most of their food from the bakehouse. And they would be in Paris again. While Edgar learned whatever there was to know about silversmithing, there would surely be a chance for her to stroll down to the Île and listen to the lectures of the masters. Now that she was a proper matron, with her hair covered, there was no reason she shouldn’t. She could always carry a basket and do some shopping on her way home, in case anyone asked where she had been.

  But matters didn’t appear that simple.

  “Edgar will have to spend several weeks working with Baruch in Saint-Denis first,” Hubert said. “And remember, Edgar, if he doesn’t think you can learn enough to convince genuine craftsmen that you’re really a silversmith, even a failed one, then we’ll forget the whole thing.”

  Edgar considered that. “And if I can?” he asked quietly.

  Hubert paced around the tiny room, stopping to check that no one was waiting and listening on the stairs. The farther he got into this thing, the less he liked it. Especially the part about Catherine.

  “Baruch thought you could go to Paris, pretending to be a silversmith with no master to speak for him,” he said at last. “Without a recommendation, even if you showed some skill, few people would take you on. You could seem to be desperate enough to take any sort of work. All we want you to do is keep your eyes and ears open. See if there are any rumors of jobs in the craft for those who ask no questions, especially about where their payment comes from.”

  Edgar seemed disappointed. “Is that all?” he asked.

  “Of course it is,” Hubert said. “Would you even consider taking Catherine along if it were more dangerous than that?”

  Edgar got up and started pacing as well. Catherine pulled her feet in close to her stool to avoid being stepped on. The men went around each other like two dogs deciding whether or not to attack.

  “I thought you wanted me to do something important,” Edgar muttered. “Something only I could do. Anyone can wander about picking up gossip.”

  “I could do that,” Catherine piped up. She was getting tired of sitting hunched against the wall while the beasts prowled.

  Both men glared at her, more in panic than anger. They knew very well from past experience that she was likely to act on anything she heard rather than simply report it.

  “Well, I could,” she repeated. “And don’t start lecturing me about danger. What I’ve just gone through was more dangerous than anything that ever happened to me before. What more have I to fear?”

  Her deep blue eyes challenged them to refute her. They both looked away.

  Hubert’s eyes filled. Edgar stared hard at the cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling. The only emotion men of his family were allowed to show was anger, and that well chilled.

  “My beloved child …” Hubert began.

  Catherine stopped him. “Father, tell us what needs to be done,” she said calmly. “You know we’ll be safer together, as well as happier, so we should begin from that premise and build our plan from it. Edgar, please come sit down. You’re making me queasy going round and round like that.”

  Edgar took her hand, but remained standing next to her. He faced his father-in-law. “When I married Catherine, I gladly gave up my parents’ plans for me to enter the priesthood and follow my uncle into the bishopric,” he said. “But in these last few months you have never been willing to discuss just what I am to do with my life. You’ve kept me occupied with errands, as you do Solomon. I can’t believe that’s all you expect from me. If it’s still your wish, I’ll go to Montpellier, or even Bologna, to study law. However, I’d rather continue my education in Paris.”

  “Well, possibly.” Hubert wasn’t ready to commit himself until he learned where this conversation was going.

  “In your plotting, you’ve forgotten that I’m known in Paris,” Edgar told him. “I lived there for four years. But that doesn’t need to make me useless for this. If I came back with Catherine and announced that my parents had disowned me for marrying her and I needed to work with my hands to survive, it would be perfectly believable. Any lack of skill could be placed to my not having been trained in the guilds.”

  “Edgar, you would do that?” Catherine said. “Your friends would all scorn you, or worse.”

  “Not all of them,” Edgar said. “Anyway, don’t you think that I would do that much for you, if this tale were true?”

  Catherine knew that he would, but even more, she was well aware that he was desperately eager to. There was no point in letting her father know that.

  “I think that’s very noble of you, carissime,” she said. “And I think it’s an excellent idea.” She smiled.

  “So, as a poor student forced to support a wife,” Edgar went on, “I would be just as likely to fall in with those with unlawful business as if I were a journeyman, and there would be fewer questions asked.”

  “It’s always better to stay as close to the truth as possible in these matters,” Catherine added, causing Hubert to wonder how many times he’d been deceived by a tale of hers that was almost true.

  “How would you explain your skill?” he asked instead.

  “I’ve been mocked enough for cluttering the floor with wood shavings,” Edgar answered. “My friends consider it a harmless madness. They might find it more likely that I’d sell wooden trinkets, I suppose, instead of working in silver.”

  “Oh, yes!” Catherine interrupted. “Let’s do that, too. We could set up a stall at the Lendit! I’ve always wanted one, with a banner flying from the tent pole.”

  “NO!” Hubert told her. He ran his hands through his rapidly greying black hair. This child of his would drive him insane one day. He’d end up sitting in the middle of the street, giggling at the passersby and catching coins in his teeth. It was only a matter of time. “I haven’t worked for thirty years to see my daughter sitting like a common fame vilaine bringing cabbages to market!” he shouted.

  Catherine folded her hands in her lap and looked at him with demure respect. “Very well, Father,” she said. “No stall. Just a nice, clean room on the Île. Now, when do we leave?”

  Hubert sighed. He knew she had won again. “Baruch is willing to let Edgar begin his training tomorrow,” he said. “Catherine, you will be churched on the first Sunday of Lent. If Baruch thinks Edgar’s knowledge enough and if you are fully recovered, we’d like you to leave the next day for Paris.”

  Catherine got up and kissed him. “We’d be happy to help,” she said. “You know you can depend on us.”

  Hubert nodded in resignation.

  That afternoon Hubert and Baruch made their way down the rue de la Boulangerie in Saint-Denis. On one side was the high wall of the abbey cloister, on the other a row of shops. The smell of fresh bread surrounded them.

  “Can you imagine what that aroma does to the poor monks on fast days?” Baruch chuckled. “Even I can pity them. A bakery next to a monastery is a cruel trick.”

  “It could have been worse,” Hubert said, smiling. “It might have been a brothel.”

  They had composed themselves by the time they reached the corner where the abbot’s house stood. Hubert lifted the solid iron knocker. He hesitated before dropping it.

  “Abbot Suger is a very sensible man,” he said to reassure them both. “He’ll give us no trouble about this.”

  “Certainly,” Baruch answered with a touch of acidity. “He’ll likely reward us for our honesty. Get on with it, Hubert.”

  The clank was answered immediately. A slot in the door sl
id open and closed quickly and then the door was opened by one of the monks, so hooded and wrapped against the cold that he was no more than a black shape ushering them in.

  “We’ve come to see the abbot,” Hubert said. “We are expected.”

  The shape nodded and beckoned them to follow. Hubert had a sudden memory of a story told by a traveling player, about a man led into the nether world by just such a figure. He tried to remember the end of the tale, but it wouldn’t come.

  They were led only as far the entry room of the abbot’s quarters, where their guide left them with another bow. Baruch shuddered.

  “I never get used to their silence,” he complained.

  “It’s not their fault,” Hubert said. “Knowing Suger, I’d imagine they don’t get much opportunity to speak. Who would interrupt the abbot?”

  “Good afternoon, my friends.”

  Both men started like guilty schoolboys. Abbot Suger stood in the doorway to his receiving room. They knelt to greet him. The abbot said the blessing over Hubert, then hesitated when he came to Baruch.

  “May the Lord God bless and keep you,” he said, but refrained politely from making the sign of the cross.

  “And may the Almighty One protect you, as well,” Baruch answered. “We are honored that you can grant us a few moments with your many duties, Lord Abbot.”

  “Of course,” Suger responded. “Come in, sit down. Prior Hervé will be with us momentarily. He’s told me something of your business. A matter of grave concern to us all.”

  They all went into the receiving room. The walls were bright with embroidered hangings and the chairs were solid and wide, a tasseled pillow on each one.

  The men eased into them gratefully.

  “Some wine?” Suger asked, raising the pitcher.