The Wandering Arm: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  She had brought their cloaks and gloves. As they put them on she stood watching as if undecided what to do next.

  “Aunt Johannah?” Catherine said. “Doesn’t Natan’s nephew know about Father?”

  “No, dear, that’s exactly the problem,” Johannah said. “You see, Menahem thinks that you two are simply visitors, business acquaintances of ours. Not many people are aware that your father and Eliazar are brothers. It’s not safe for either of them to have such a thing widely known.”

  “We understand,” Catherine said. “Neither of us will mention it. Will someone from the Jewish community want me to appear as a witness to this?”

  “It’s possible,” Johannah said. “If they decide that Natan was poisoned. Women are allowed to give evidence in … such cases. But since you aren’t one of us, I don’t know what the ruling would be.”

  “We can worry about that when we need to,” Edgar said. “Catherine, do you feel strong enough to walk, or shall we ask Eliazar for the loan of a donkey?”

  Catherine had a sudden image of them fleeing into Egypt. “It’s not far,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

  They said good night and Johannah bustled them out apologetically but as quickly as she could.

  They reached their room well after dark. Edgar had spent the time after they crossed the Grand Pont looking over his shoulder, wishing he had owl eyes. He told himself that no one was following, but thought he could hear footsteps keeping pace with them all the same.

  The next morning Edgar woke suddenly and sat bolt upright. How late was it? The room was dark as Judas’s heart but outside it could be light already. He scrambled out of bed, waking Catherine as he extricated himself from her arms and the leg that she’d wrapped around his. Even asleep, she needed to reassure herself that he was there, that there was someone between her and the door.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked in sleepy alarm.

  He groped around for a taper, lighting it by blowing on the banked coals in the brazier, then found and lit the lamp.

  “In the excitement last night, I forgot all about it,” he told her. “I finally found work, I think, and of the sort we were hoping for. I met a man in a tavern. He told me to be at Saint-Étienne at first light. If I hurry, maybe he’ll still be there waiting for me.”

  “At Saint-Étienne?” Catherine sat up, pulling the blankets around her so that the warmth wouldn’t escape. “I don’t remember any gold-or silversmiths over there. Where did he say his shop was?”

  Edgar had been afraid she’d ask that. “He didn’t say, only that it would be too hard for me to find alone.”

  His voice was indistinct, coming from beneath the tunic he was pulling on over his head. When his top half was covered, he looked around for his pants.

  Catherine didn’t move. Edgar tried to ignore her silence with bustle as he searched. Finally, she spoke.

  “Your braies are in the chestnut box,” she told him. “You’ll want the leather ones if you’re going to work all day.”

  He got them out and put them on, then pulled on the thick woolen hose that kept his boots from chafing.

  “Gaudry told me that he doesn’t work by the bells,” he said carefully. “You mustn’t worry if I’m late.”

  She nodded.

  He stopped midboot. “Catherine,” he said, “this is what we wanted. I’m following the plan.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  He tried again. “Catherine, one thing I’ve learned since I married you is that whenever you become monosyllabic, I’m in trouble. I know you don’t like my going out alone with someone who might be dangerous to a place I have no directions for.”

  She began fussing with a fingernail, avoiding his eyes. “In the search for truth, there are always risks,” she said. “We knew that when we agreed to come here.”

  That did it. He stomped his boots on the floor and glared down at her.

  “You’re plotting something,” he said. “Don’t look at me like that and, for heaven’s sake, don’t lower that blanket. You’ll freeze and I’ll not be able to leave at all. Now, what are you going to be doing today?”

  She kept the covers at her neck and smiled at him. “I thought I’d clean the room and then I might go over to the lie and see who is lecturing. Adam of the Bridge doesn’t seem to mind the cold when he expounds. Or I could go see if Aunt Johannah needs my help. She never did get the cakes made.”

  He was still suspicious. “And that was all?” he asked.

  “I’ll stop by the bakers and get some cabbage pies for dinner,” she added.

  “Are you feeling well enough after last night?” he asked.

  Catherine shivered. “Yes. I’m not trembling anymore. It was so horrible that it seems more like a nightmare. I’m trying not to think about it. Truly, it’s better for me to be out with people around me than sitting here and brooding.”

  He was unconvinced. Having a body fall on her the night before wasn’t enough to make Catherine so tractable. But he could think of no means to make her tell him what she was really up to. He glanced at the window. It was still dark, but there were sounds in the street now. He had to leave. He bent over and kissed her, resisting the urge to get back in bed.

  “You’ll keep the pie warm until I return?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she answered. This time there was no deception in her tone. “I’ll mull some ale for you as well. Be careful.”

  He hurried down the street and across the bridge to the lie. There were few people out in the frozen dawn. A man staggered by under the weight of a crate of noisy chickens. The milk peddler and his wife pulled their cart along the road to the pierre o let, an ancient monolith that had become the center of a market area. They were all wrapped in as many layers as they could wear, red, runny noses sticking out over their scarves. Edgar sniffled as well.

  When he reached the courtyard of Saint-Étienne, it was empty. The wind whirled from the river on his right, carrying a fine icy mist that penetrated through all the wool he was wearing. He looked around. Was he early, or too late? Perhaps Gaudry had changed his mind, had only agreed to take him on to appear charitable before Laudine.

  “You the new metalsmith?” a voice asked at his elbow.

  Edgar jumped, then looked down. The man must have been waiting for him in one of the alleyways, out of the wind. He was shorter than Edgar, but appeared even smaller than he was. He had the perpetual hunch of a person who had spent every day since childhood bent over a table.

  “I am,” Edgar replied. “What is the name of the man who sent you?”

  “Gaudry, as you know well,” the man answered. “But it never hurts to be cautious. I’m Odo. I’m to take you to the workshop.”

  He set off. Edgar followed. He had expected that they would turn down one of the many narrow streets that emptied into the square, but his guide headed for the church itself. Six hundred years old, roofless and unused, it had yet to be deconsecrated and was therefore respected and left in mournful ruins. They entered through a side door and down the northern transept. Odo went boldly into the choir, stepping over fallen beams, and then to the vestry. Edgar hesitated. He had no business in this part of the church, in use or not; it was only for clerics. Odo didn’t look back. With a silent prayer for forgiveness, Edgar hurried to catch up.

  They went through another door and came out in the space between Saint-Étienne and the little church of Notre Dame. They turned right and entered a windowless shed built against the wall of the canon’s cloister.

  The door shut behind them, leaving them in darkness. But Edgar had had time to note that there was nothing in the shed but stores of hay. He felt for his knife, sure that he had walked into a trap.

  He tensed himself for the attack, but it didn’t come. Instead he heard a scrabbling as the hay was pushed aside and then a grunt from Odo.

  “Give me a hand with this,” he said. “The wood has swollen in the damp and it’s stuck.”

  Edgar felt for the door and nearly trip
ped over Odo, who was kneeling and pulling at a ring set into the floor.

  “What sort of shop is this,” he asked, “that one must follow a treasure map to get to it?”

  Odo grunted as the trapdoor opened. The steps below it were moss-covered at the edges but well trafficked in the center. Edgar could see the way because there was a light farther down the tunnel, too far away for him to judge the source. If this Gaudry wasn’t doing something illicit, then he was secretive to the point of madness. One thing Edgar was certain of: no innocent apprentice would go further without hesitating.

  “Why should I follow you?” he asked Odo again. “No one puts a metalworks underground but trolls. You may be leading me to my death.”

  Odo turned around to back down the steps. His face was in shadow, but Edgar sensed that he was grinning.

  “Who would kill the likes of you?” he countered. “Are you hiding a treasure beneath that tunic? Perhaps you think we polish our silver with human blood.”

  That hadn’t occurred to Edgar. He wished it hadn’t been mentioned now. Between the Saxon tales of his childhood and the sermons against heretical sects of his school days, he had heard of a number of rituals that required blood to be diverted from its usual course, often taking place in underground caverns. He pulled his gloves up farther over his wrists and tightened his scarf.

  “Go on!” Odo commanded. “Don’t be such a coward. You’d think there was a dragon waiting down there.”

  Since that had been one of the thoughts flitting through Edgar’s mind, he felt obliged to make up for his lapse into pagan superstition at once. He entered the tunnel. Behind him he heard the scrape and thud as Odo pulled the trapdoor shut behind them both.

  After Edgar had left, Catherine dressed herself hurriedly, hose and slippers first, to ward off the cold seeping up through the floor. The weaver had not come in yet from his rooms in the back and there was no heat below to warm their room. It wasn’t much colder than the convent, she reflected, except at the Paraclete one never slept naked but fully dressed, to be prepared to get up for the night Office.

  Of course, the nuns each had their own little bed, with nothing but a blanket and faith to keep them warm. On the whole, she preferred her present arrangement.

  Before she left, Catherine made sure the coals were still glowing beneath their coat of ash and that there were enough to last until she got back. Then she put the leather money pouch around her neck and tucked it under her chainse. There were enough coins in it for pies and ale, she hoped. She wondered if this man would pay Edgar by the day, by the piece, or only with promises.

  In her whole life, Catherine had never been obliged to wonder where money came from. She had done accounts for her father and for Mother Héloïse at the convent, but those had been mathematical exercises. Someone else had always fed and clothed her. Now she was astonished at how quickly the thin quartered coins vanished from her purse and how slowly new ones appeared. Like Edgar, she was suddenly forced to consider what life must be like for those with no father or monastery to care for them.

  With her mind flipping between plans to find out more about this Natan who had so embarrassingly expired in her arms and half-formed schemes to bring in a few more coins, Catherine was not particularly attentive to the traffic. She managed to get to the end of the rue Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois without mishap, but there hesitated. She had planned on turning right onto the rue Saint-Denis and crossing the Grand Pont to the Île and on to Eliazar’s home. But the cutting wind reminded her of a fur-lined cloak she had left at her father’s house on the Grève. It was unlikely that he would be there now, but there should be a servant who could let her in to get it.

  She started across the main road from Paris to Saint-Denis without looking. The next moment she found herself sitting in the gutter in the middle of the road under a shower of curses from a cart driver who had narrowly missed running her down.

  A pair of strong arms reached down to help her to stand. Catherine heard the rasp of chain mail on leather. She looked up into the face of her protector. His grip loosened as they recognized each other.

  “Jehan.” Catherine swallowed. “Diex te saut. Thank you. I wasn’t looking.”

  “That is obvious.”

  Now that she was standing on her own, the knight released her. He seemed more than eager to do so. Catherine guessed that he was regretting stopping to help her at all. Her previous encounters with Jehan had been far from cordial.

  However, they seemed to be going in the same direction. Catherine managed to get to the far side of the road and set out toward the Grève. Jehan followed her, then caught up. Whatever he thought of her, Catherine knew he was duty-bound to protect her as Hubert’s daughter. Although he was usually in service to Thibault, Count of Champagne, Jehan was occasionally loaned to Hubert as part of an armed guard to defend the merchants as they traveled. It was always possible that the count would be displeased if he learned that Hubert’s daughter had come to harm through his inaction.

  Both of them sighed. They walked in silence for a few moments, but lack of conversation made Catherine nervous.

  “Is Count Thibault in Paris now?” she asked.

  “No,” Jehan answered.

  “Countess Mahaut?”

  “No,” Jehan repeated.

  Catherine refused to be defeated. “You are still attached to their court?”

  “Yes,” Jehan said. He gave another deep sigh and spoke without looking at her. “Count Thibaut is in Blois. The countess is at Troyes, I believe. I am in Paris to bring a message to the king from the count.”

  “I thought they weren’t on speaking terms,” Catherine said. “Because of Raoul leaving the count’s cousin for the queen’s sister.”

  “I don’t indulge in gossip,” Jehan replied. “If I did, I might have something to say about women who leave convents to marry foreign nobodies and shame their families. And I might suggest that they think more about what they’ve done to their own sisters and not worry about the queen’s.”

  Catherine was stung by the accuracy of his dart. “What about my sister?” she asked. “Is something the matter with Agnes? Is she ill?”

  He looked at her now, his face hard with anger. “You know all about Petronilla and Raoul and nothing about Agnes, and you care less,” he said. “You wander about leaving maimed souls behind as you go and you never once bother to turn back and give them your help. You destroyed my friend, Roger. He was your own uncle and he loved you, but you let him die.”

  “You don’t understand …” Catherine began, but Jehan had been started and he was bound to finish.

  “You somehow managed to turn Raynald of Tonnerre into a weeping recluse,” he went on. “And now you’ve abandoned your sister to care for your mother as her own chances for a good marriage vanish.”

  “Agnes must have explained about Mother,” Catherine said. “And the nuns at Tart are caring for her now. Agnes is free to marry, if she wishes.”

  “Then why won’t she?” Jehan countered.

  “Why won’t … ?” Catherine was nearly as tall as Jehan and wearing her shoes with thick, wooden soles. She moved so she could look into his eyes. He turned away.

  She didn’t say anything more. We have had cause to remind you of the consequences of an idle tongue, her voices said smugly.

  Catherine took the reprimand as well deserved. Her pointless questions had brought too many revelations at once. She had purposely forgotten that Jehan had been a friend of her uncle Roger, now dead. She did remember that Jehan had never been fond of Edgar. She was also aware that Jehan blamed her for every bit of bad fortune in his life for the past two years. But it hadn’t occurred to her that part of his resentment involved his feelings about Agnes. Jehan must have come into some property at last if he was thinking of marrying. Or perhaps part of his bitterness was that he was thinking of marrying and no fortune had come his way.

  They reached the Grève and both turned toward Hubert’s house. Catherine began to w
onder about the welcome she would receive there if her sister were home. But it didn’t seem likely that she would be. Agnes hadn’t been in Paris since last spring, when she had learned the truth about her Jewish ancestry. She had told their father she would never live under his roof again. Catherine wondered how Agnes felt about Jehan. Whatever her feelings, she would probably not have told him about Hubert’s incomplete conversion. Would that secret be a reason for her to refuse him?

  Guilt flooded Catherine’s heart. In her desire for Edgar and in her joy at finding in Eliazar and Johannah a loving family of any faith, she had left her sister behind. She’d rarely even thought of her. While Catherine was in the convent, Agnes had been the one to cope with their mother’s growing attachment to the saints to the exclusion of the living. And, when Catherine came home, that had only made matters worse.

  They had reached the gate. Jehan pulled the bell cord and they waited. Catherine wanted desperately to turn around and run. Who would answer? What could she say?

  The servant who answered the bell recognized Catherine. She couldn’t remember his name, but smiled and asked after his health.

  He coughed richly in reply.

  Catherine turned to Jehan. “Thank you for accompanying me,” she said. “Would you care to come in? There must be soup or something to drink.”

  “I was coming here anyway,” Jehan answered. “I also have a message for your father.”

  They were brought into the main hall, the only room with a fireplace. Agnes sat near it, a length of sewing on her lap. Her face lit as she rose to greet them. Catherine started toward her, relieved that her sister was no longer angry with her. Then she realized that Agnes hadn’t even noticed her. The smile was for Jehan.

  Then Agnes saw her. The smile was withdrawn and replaced by a cold stare.

  “You have not been invited,” she said softly. “I am now the mistress here. Please leave the house at once.”

  She turned her back on Catherine, took Jehan’s arm and led him to the fire.