Catherine stood awkwardly at the doorway. She wondered if Ishmael had ever tried to come home from the wilderness and if Isaac had looked through him as Agnes had looked through her now. And what did her sister mean, that she was mistress here? Was she now reconciled with their father? Had she forgiven Hubert, but not Catherine, for keeping his ancestry secret? Catherine wished with all her heart that she were back in her drafty room, waiting for Edgar to return. One thing was certain: she had to be anywhere but here.
The cloak forgotten, Catherine left the house she had been born in. All she wanted now was to go home.
Edgar inhaled the now-familiar odor of dung and hot metal. The tunnel had come up into a normal workroom, much like Baruch’s. The windows were too high to see from, so he still had no idea where he was, but they provided good light to work by.
Edgar bent to the task he had been given. First he had wet some ashes, put them in a crucible and held it over the coals until the dried mixture had adhered to the surface. Then he had placed the crucible in a hole made by scooping out some of the coals. Finally he added silver and lead and put coals all around to melt them. Now he was blowing carefully on a firebrand to release the lead from the silver. Most of it had been skimmed off already. Baruch would be proud of him.
All of a sudden the silver began bubbling in the crucible. It foamed and threatened to overflow. Edgar took the tongs and pulled it from the furnace.
Gaudry’s head came up at once. “Eh! Mesel!” he shouted. “Can’t you even refine silver? Wasn’t that in your book?”
Edgar put the crucible down on the beaten-earth floor. “This has brass in it,” he said. “I need some ground glass to keep it from boiling over again.”
Gaudry grunted and pointed to a ceramic mortar and pestle. “The broken glass is in the box under the tool table.”
Edgar hated grinding glass. The sound made his hair stand on end and his teeth ache. But he did it without comment. He had been put to the test by Gaudry all morning and, so far, his training had held. He felt a tremendous pride in this achievement. His ignoble talent had some use after all.
Even more, this accident with the silver had been his first clue that he had fallen into the right place. Brass was normally mixed with silver to make niello, which was used in the decorating of fine pieces, like chalices. This silver might not have been melted down from stolen church property, but, considering the unorthodox way he had been hired and led to the workshop, it was a distinct possibility.
Edgar hummed contentedly as the glass screeched. He was so involved in the work that he completely forgot to worry about what Catherine was doing. When he thought of her at all, it was not in connection with ecclesiastical intrigue. Mainly he reflected on a full stomach, laughter and a warm bed.
But not necessarily in that order.
Seven
The room over the weaver’s, Paris, the Feast of Saint Matthais, the thirteenth Apostle, Monday, February 24, 1141 / 14, Adar, 4901, the first day of Purim
Modus legendi in dividendo constat. Divisio fit et partitione et investigarione. Partiendo dividimus, quando ea quae confusa sumt, distinguimus. Investigado dividimus, quando ea quae occulta sunt, reseramus.
Analysis takes place through separating into parts or through
examination. We analyze through separation into parts when
we distinguish from one another things which are mingled
together. We analyze by examination when we open up
things that are hidden.
—Hugh of Saint-Victor
Didascalion, Book VI, Chapter 12
Catherine sat on the bed and cried. First she cried because Agnes had hurt her so and ignored her for Jehan, a man who hated her. Then she cried because she had let Edgar leave without even knowing where he was going. Then she cried some more because she was lonely and frightened and sorry for herself for being so inept that she couldn’t even give birth properly.
Crying solved none of these problems, but, when she had reached the stage of hiccoughs and nose-wiping, she felt much more clearheaded. She rinsed her face and adjusted her scarf so that her hair was covered, except for a curl that snuck out unnoticed over her left ear. Then she sat down again and calmly considered what she should do next.
The bells began: Saint-Leufroi, Saint-Jacques, Saint-Opportune, Saint-Germain and, from farther away, like an echo, Saint-Magloire, Saint-Merri, Saint-Jean. She couldn’t hear the response from the churches on the Île. The wind was from the north and so the ringing was being blown south, toward Orleans. The bells of Paris spoke to Catherine as old friends, telling her secrets, reminding her that she was home.
It was only Tierce. The day had barely begun.
Below she heard someone speaking to the weaver. He answered in the rasping rhythm of the loom. Then there were footsteps on the stairs, coming to her door. Catherine hoped the visitor would be someone too well-mannered to mention how red her eyes were.
Fortune was not being kind to her today. Catherine answered the knock. There stood her cousin Solomon.
“Either you were drinking all last night,” he greeted her, “or sobbing all morning. Edgar started beating you already?”
“Of course not!” she answered. “I just felt like crying.”
He nodded. “Good idea. I often feel like crying myself. Especially when I come all the way to see you and can’t get past the doorway.”
Catherine moved back to let him in. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not thinking too clearly today. A man died on top of me last night.”
Solomon put his hand to his mouth in mock horror. “Catherine! Is that the sort of thing you should boast of? Especially to your poor, unmarried cousin, to whom such pleasure comes rarely?”
Catherine’s eyes narrowed. She pushed him hard enough for him to land on the stool, laughing at her.
“Solomon, why do you always tease me so?” she asked. “You know about it already, don’t you?”
He nodded. “Aunt Johannah sent me over to see how you were. I know it’s a terrible thing to have happen but somehow …” He shrugged apologetically.
“I know,” she said. “It’s me. And some things are so horrid that one must mock them to keep one’s sanity. But I wasn’t weeping over the death. I was frightened then, but now I’m angry. I want to know why this man died.”
There was no point in telling him about Agnes. It was much better to worry about a dead stranger than a live, bitter relative.
“Did you know this man Natan?” she asked.
Solomon grew serious at once. “I knew him,” he said. “He was a thief and a hypocrite. No one mourns him.”
“Not even his nephew?”
He shook his head. “Menahem is an honest man who works hard. Natan was his mother’s brother. His nephew allowed the man to stay with him for her sake. But Menahem disliked him, too. Natan bragged that his clothes were made in Spain and he had no need to buy from a simple Paris draper. Natan was sure he was better than anyone.”
“Was he rich?” Catherine asked.
“Who knows?” Solomon said. “He dressed like a courtier from the south and anointed himself with scented oil. He may have been rich or spent all he had on his raiment. Haquin says he left no money for his burial. None that can be found, anyway.”
Catherine caught the doubt. “Do you think Natan has left a hidden treasure?”
Solomon got up. He hadn’t bothered to take off his cloak. “I don’t know, Catherine,” he said. “But I do know that there’s a lot going on that no one is willing to share with me. I want you and Edgar to help me discover what it is. Where is he, by the way?”
Catherine opened her mouth to answer, then stopped. Was Solomon part of the search for the stolen church property? She couldn’t remember. Too many plots; too many secrets. She hated not knowing what she could say, even to the people she trusted most. Oh, yes, her father had told her; Solomon had started it. Something about a chalice.
“Edgar has found work with a man who cla
ims to need a silversmith and doesn’t want to go to the guild,” she said. “We think he may be a link to this trade in church property.”
“It’s possible,” Solomon spoke slowly. “There are many men who don’t wish to adhere to guild rules, but it’s as hard to avoid them as to get a boat past Paris without belonging to the water merchants. Edgar’s new master may be one who was forced out of a guild or was never allowed in. In that case, working for him could be dangerous.”
“I know,” Catherine answered. Her fears were now clearly ordered in her mind. Edgar came first. “The man wouldn’t tell Edgar where the shop was, likely to protect himself in case Edgar was a spy for the guild. At least I hope that was the only reason. But that means we have no way of finding him.”
“He should have told me about it,” Solomon said. “I could have followed him. What was he thinking of, going alone? That’s the sort of thing I’d expect you to do. I thought Edgar had more sense.”
“Oh, thank you,” Catherine answered. “And who was it who nearly got himself killed walking alone at night from Vielleteneuse to Saint-Denis?”
“I was driven out by your pious brother!” Solomon was standing now.
“Guillaume wouldn’t have sent you away, not after dark!” Catherine shouted. “It was just your stubborn pride!”
“Too proud to be treated like a dog at his table, you mean!”
They were nose to nose, yelling at the top of their lungs like street peddlers. Almost identical, with black curls and Roman noses, except for their eyes, his green, hers blue. They were well matched in temper, as well. Catherine took a breath to shout a rebuttal.
They both jumped as the floor shook beneath them. The weaver was pounding on the ceiling.
“Damledex! Stop that noise!” he shouted. “I have a customer down here!”
Catherine caught Solomon’s arm as he prepared to stomp a reply. “You always tease and we always fight,” she sighed. “Now, how are we going to find Edgar?”
“Did he give you any sort of clue as to where this place was?” Solomon asked.
“He said he was to meet the man on the Île, near Saint-Étienne,” she said. “But there’s no guarantee that the workshop is anywhere near there. It seems likely to me that it isn’t. That whole end of the Île is the property of the bishop. It’s no where near the street of the goldsmiths.”
“A man who didn’t want to attract the notice of the guild would hardly put his shop under their noses,” Solomon said.
“I know, but how else could one mask the smell of the kilns?” Catherine said. “Edgar used to wash every night before he left Baruch’s and there still was a scent of metal about him.”
“Nevertheless, we need to start somewhere.” Solomon started putting on his gloves. “Do you want to come with me?”
“Of course.”
The day had warmed a bit, the sun watery through the clouds. The court of the church of Saint-Étienne was more crowded now, with students hunting a quick, cheap meal and with those hoping to sell them one. Catherine felt a stab of yearning as she caught tags of conversation, bits of lectures repeated and pondered, Latin accented with all the languages of Christendom. Someday she would come back here and sit at the edge of the schola and once again listen and ponder on her own. Other women did; Mother Heloise had. How desperately she missed the joy of unraveling a passage from Augustine or Jerome and finding the kernel of truth at its heart.
“Do you see Edgar?” Solomon asked.
She shook her head. “It’s not yet Sext. I doubt he will be let go before Vespers. He told me the master doesn’t mind the hours, but I don’t see how they can continue working by candlelight.”
She scanned the faces of the students, all ages, nations and status. There was no one she knew. These were mostly cathedral scholars. Master Abelard’s old students tended to stay on the Left Bank, or study with the teachers on the petit pont.
“Solomon! Shalom!” The voice was loud and cheerful.
Catherine turned to see a big, blond man with a ruddy face clap Solomon on the back with a force that made him wince. Solomon rolled his eyes in resignation at Catherine and then smiled at the man.
“Brother Andrew!” he said. “Salve! How good to see you again. Catherine, this is Brother Andrew, a canon of Saint-Victor. Andrew, this is—”
“Your sister,” Andrew assumed as he inclined his head toward her.
“Frater Andreas, ave,” Catherine said. “Catherine, filia Huberti mercator, amicague Salomonis.”
The canon blinked. He had been prepared for Hebrew, or at least French.
“Perhaps you prefer Saxon?” Catherine continued, still in Latin. “I have lately begun a study of the language of my husband, but my grammar and pronunciation are far from perfect.”
Solomon kicked her discreetly. Catherine winced, but took his meaning. She stopped showing off.
“Catherine’s father and my uncle are occasionally business partners,” Solomon explained. “Before her marriage, she was a student at the convent of the Paraclete.”
“Of course.” Brother Andrew’s face indicated that no further explanation was needed, either for her Latin or her desire to express herself. With a look of relief, he returned to Solomon. “I was just on my way to visit your uncle,” he said. “There is a passage in Numbers that I need his advice on.” To Catherine he added, “Eliazar and his friends have been very helpful in teaching me the Hebrew language and in explaining the interpretation of the Heptateuch in the Hebraica veritas. I am convinced that many of the difficulties we have in reconciling the Old and the New Testaments can be eliminated if we discover and adhere to the original meaning of the words in, of course, the original language.”
He didn’t ask if she agreed. “By the way,” he added to her, “I’m not Saxon; my family came to England from Normandy with Duke William, so I’d prefer it if you speak French.”
Solomon took his arm and gestured to Catherine to follow them. “It’s fortunate that I met you, Andrew,” he said. “You would find my uncle’s house empty today. Everyone is in the synagogue for morning prayers.”
“They should be over by now, certainly,” Andrew said.
“In your studies, I can see that you haven’t included our feast days,” Solomon answered. “Even the women and children go today to hear the Megillah read and cheer Haman’s defeat through the courage of Esther. They won’t be back until after Sext, I should think, and then there will be a feast, as yesterday was a day of fasting.”
Brother Andrew was disconcerted by this news. “Of course, I have no wish to intrude in one of your festivals,” he said. “Although I would be very curious to see how it is performed. Why aren’t you with them?”
“I intend to be there when the food is served,” Solomon answered. “But I had unavoidable duty this morning. Catherine’s husband, Edgar, asked me to accompany her on her errands as he cannot and they have no servants.”
“Edgar?” Andrew asked. “Tall fellow, Saxon from Scotland?”
“That’s right,” Catherine answered. “You know him?”
Andrew sighed. “Yes, we met many times at various lectures. I always liked him, despite his leanings. I tried to warn him of the danger of following Peter Abelard, but he wouldn’t listen. Such a good family, too, even though they are also all wrongheaded and stubborn. I had hoped he would mellow with ecclesiastical advancement.”
He glared at Catherine. “But now you’ve married him and doomed his career, if not his soul. And you came from the Paraclete. I might have guessed. The poison of that man Abelard spreads, just as our Abbot William of blessed memory said it would.”
“The truth that Master Abelard spoke will not be silenced, if that is what you mean.” Catherine’s jaw quivered with anger.
Brother Andrew looked her up and down with his own cool anger. Then he bowed to Solomon. “I have a great respect for the Jews,” he said. “But I have none for heretics, or their concubines. Please inform your uncle that I will visit him on Thu
rsday for our regular lesson.”
Brother Andrew hurried away, brushing his cloak as if the heresy of Peter Abelard might have affixed itself to him. Solomon watched him go, shaking his head.
“I should have hit him for insulting you that way, Catherine,” he said.
“Of course. You may insult me, but no one else is allowed to,” Catherine answered.
“If I were Christian, I would have defended you,” Solomon insisted.
“Assaulting a cleric would have been just as stupid if you were Christian, unless you were a greater cleric,” Catherine said. “The canons of Saint-Victor have always disliked Master Abelard, and the feeling was returned. The master had no use for Abbot William of Champeaux and his old style of teaching.”
“Why do you speak of Abelard as in the past?” Solomon asked. “He’s still living at Cluny, isn’t he?”
Catherine sighed. “Yes, of course. But he seemed so frail when he left Sens. I suppose that I feel that if he has truly embraced the monastic life this time, he is no longer of this world. I’m glad Edgar wasn’t here. He might have hit Brother Andrew, and not on my account.”
The crowd was clearing as the clerics went their ways, either to say the Office or sleep until the afternoon lectures. Catherine continued looking for Edgar, but she suspected that there was no way to find him. She could only pray that he would return safely.
“What should we do now?” she asked Solomon.
“How do you feel about honey cakes and lentils in goose broth?” he asked. “Don’t worry, the lentils aren’t from the cellar. Aunt Johannah borrowed them from a neighbor so that the Purim dinner would be complete.”
The question reminded Catherine that she hadn’t eaten yet and it was past midday. “Do you allow heretics to eat at your table?” She grinned at Solomon.
“Only if they remember not to wipe their mouths on their sleeves,” Solomon answered.
“I’m a well-mannered heretic,” she assured him.
The Wandering Arm: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 11