First she and Johannah had stopped to mop the floor; then Hubert had politely suggested that Solomon take Catherine home while he and Eliazar discussed the matter at hand. Neither Solomon nor Catherine approved of this plan. Catherine also wanted to know about Agnes and why she was in Paris. But Hubert refused to speak about anything until he had talked to his brother.
“I promise, Catherine, I will tell you all about it tonight,” he said. “But now I need to understand from Eliazar what has happened. You already know. Please go.”
“I don’t know enough,” Catherine muttered, as she and Solomon wrapped up for the walk back to the bourg Saint-Germain.
“This is what they used to do to us when we were children,” Solomon grumbled as they left. He was carrying a pot of the lentils and had been warned against spilling it. “Don’t they realize that we’re grown?”
“I don’t think they care,” Catherine said. “I’m sure Father only let me marry Edgar so that I would have a keeper.”
“well …” Solomon started.
The discussion that escalated from that was what made Catherine forget the pies.
They arrived at the room without spilling the lentil pot, at least. The weaver was just closing when they came in.
“You’ll need more food,” he said. “Your husband, if that’s what he is, has brought a friend home.”
Catherine sent Solomon up with the lentils. Then she hurried to the baker’s in the hope of getting whatever was left at a reduced price. The selection wasn’t that good: cabbage and turnip and something that the baker swore was pork but which Catherine suspected was cat meat. She took the vegetable pies.
When she got back, she found that the men had taken a pitcher down to the tavern to fill and now were busy adding honey to the ale and heating it. The lentil pot was precariously placed at the edge of the brazier, which had been stoked with charcoal and was now glowing brightly.
“What took you so long?” was Edgar’s greeting. “I made John promise not to say anything important until you arrived. He’s been uncommonly silent.”
It took a few more minutes for everyone to settle with a cup in one hand and a pie in the other. When there was a hand free, the lentil pot was left open on the table to allow each person to scoop up a spoonful.
“Now, who begins?” Catherine asked, licking her fingers.
“John,” Edgar said. “He’s the only one of us who gets up in the middle of the night to pray. We should let him go early.”
“I expect to share information,” John said. “Not donate it for free. But I’ll tell you what I know. Didn’t you say Catherine’s father was coming here tonight?”
“So he told me,” Edgar said. “But many things could have prevented him. Start now. Catherine is falling asleep on my shoulder.”
“I am not.” She yawned and pulled herself up to pay alert attention.
“I’m sorry that your father isn’t here, Catherine,” John began. “In his dealings with other merchants, he might have learned more about this than I know.”
Nevertheless, he settled in to tell his story.
“Do you remember last year, when King Stephen tried to make Philippe d’Harcourt bishop of Salisbury?” he asked.
Edgar nodded. “After Bishop Roger finally died. I’ve heard talk about that, too. They say Stephen chained Roger up in a cow barn and left him to starve.”
“I’ve heard that, as well,” John said. “But I find it hard to believe that any ruler would so humiliate a prelate of the realm. At any rate, Bishop Roger died and Stephen, or more likely his adviser, Waleran of Meulan, decided that Philippe would be a good candidate for the see. He was already dean of Lincoln and Stephen’s chancellor.”
“But the canons of Salisbury wouldn’t have him and Henry of Winchester wouldn’t let him be consecrated. I know all that,” Edgar continued. “It makes one wonder how well the king and his brother, Henry, are getting along.”
“Henry knows his first duty is to God, even before his family. Stephen should remember that. But that’s of no importance to my story.” John dismissed the speculation. “It seems that Philippe came to Salisbury, though, with Stephen. I know they kept Christmas there. My brother told me. I think that, by then, Stephen knew Philippe couldn’t have the bishopric. After he realized that, Philippe decided, either with the king’s permission or without, to take a few mementos from the cathedral treasury.”
“I thought Stephen had already confiscated all Roger’s property,” Catherine asked, to prove she was still awake.
“This wasn’t from Roger’s personal treasure,” John said. His normally calm tones became angry. “These were holy relics from the church of Salisbury itself.”
“How could he dare?” Edgar asked. “The saints protect themselves, we know. Thieves are struck with paralysis or blinding headaches.”
“Unless the saint wishes to be moved,” Catherine added. “Perhaps to punish the community for a lack of piety.”
“I can’t believe this is the case,” John said. “Although there is much about the matter that puzzles me greatly.”
“What did Philippe take?” Solomon asked. He found relics a distasteful subject, at best, and preferred the conversation to continue without tales of miraculous intervention.
“Some small things,” John said. “A chalice, I think, some other implements of the Mass.”
The other three sat up straighter. Solomon opened his mouth to mention that Abbot Suger had already suggested that the chalice might be from Salisbury, but John went on before he could speak.
“It’s said that there is something else missing.” He was almost whispering in his horror. “I have heard that when the canons went to display the sacred relic given to Saint Osmund of blessed memory by Abbot Warin of Malmesbury, they found the silver reliquary empty.”
Catherine felt Edgar go still next to her.
“How could the canons have permitted such a sacrilege?” Edgar spoke with an intensity that frightened her. “I would have died before I let any Norman touch him.”
“The canons didn’t know it was gone,” John said. “Philippe took the relic out of its coffer and put it in another one, a gold-plated box, it is said. It wasn’t until the relics were to be placed on the altar to celebrate the return of cathedral land by Matilda that someone noticed that the reliquary containing Saint Aldhelm’s arm was empty.”
“Saint who?” Catherine asked.
Solomon was grateful that he wasn’t the only ignorant person in the room.
“Aldhelm.” Edgar smiled fondly. “He is a true Saxon saint. He lived over four hundred years ago, when our people were still largely pagan. He was the first great Latin scholar, even before Bede. I’m surprised you didn’t read his work on virginity at the Paraclete. But I love him because he wasn’t ashamed to be Saxon.”
John continued the tale. “He studied at Saint Augustine’s in Canterbury and became renowned for his erudition, but he returned to be a monk in Dorset and began preaching in the little church on his land. It’s still there; I’ve seen it. The roof is gone and yet rain never falls within it. The shepherds go into it for protection during storms. But few people came to Aldhelm’s church in the beginning and those who did only understood the Mass and the gospels imperfectly. Instead of giving up, Aldhelm took his preaching to the bridge leading into the town. He stood there on market day, every week.”
“And he didn’t just shout at them to abandon the old gods or Christ would destroy them,” Edgar interrupted. “He told them the stories of the Evangelist in a way that they could understand, in Saxon poetry, which he wrote and sang himself.”
“He’s an important saint to us,” John finished. “Abbot of Malmesbury and first bishop of Sherborne, scholar, poet and defender of orthodoxy. Are you certain you’ve never read his work?”
Catherine shook her head.
“Well, it seems Philippe d’Harcourt has,” Edgar ended grimly. “Why else go to so much trouble to abduct him? What does he think he can
gain?”
“But, John,” Catherine said. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with us. If Philippe took Saint Aldhelm, isn’t that a matter for the bishops of England and Normandy to deal with?”
“It will be eventually, I hope,” John answered. “But I think that Saint Aldhelm has decided to return home on his own.”
“Yes?” Catherine waited.
“I have learned that even before Philippe returned to Normandy, the men he entrusted with his treasure were robbed. One poor priest of Evreaux was brutally killed, martyred in his effort to protect the holy relic.” John paused for effect, not knowing that they were already aware of this. “It is said that one of the things taken was the box containing Aldhelm’s arm. And I also have reason to believe that it was brought here, to Paris.”
Their reaction to that was all he could have desired. Edgar was upset that a chalice and jewels had been stolen from Salisbury, but they were only things. Aldhelm was a part of his heritage, as a Christian and a Saxon. He jumped up at once, spilling Catherine off his lap, and proposed gathering all the English students and masters in Paris to begin a house-to-house search. The others managed to convince him that this was impractical.
“Then what are we to do?” Edgar demanded. “Saint Wilfrid’s wicked stepmother! The Normans have taken our land, John. Will we let them steal our saints, as well?”
“I think, Edgar,” John said, “that you are already doing something. Tell me again about this Gaudry and his workshop.”
Hubert left his brother’s house long after dark. He thought about going to Catherine’s, as he had promised, but decided against it. Tomorrow would have to do. He understood that his daughter and Edgar shared a bed; he’d bought it for them. But he still didn’t feel comfortable rousting them out of it or thinking about what they did in it. He wanted grandchildren, of course, but preferred to dwell on their arrival, not their begetting.
As he passed the watch on the Grand Pont Hubert sighed, remembering his other daughter, now sulkily ensconced at home. Agnes was the beautiful one, the ever-dutiful child, who had given up dreams of a home of her own to care for her mother, poor Madeleine, going slowly mad, overwhelmed by religion and guilt. He loved Agnes with a sort of wonder that he never felt about Catherine or Guillaume. There was nothing of him in Agnes, he believed. She was small and fair, with honey-blonde hair and hazel eyes. She looked like the heroine of a love song. She looked like her mother had on the day he had first seen her.
And now she averted her eyes when speaking to him and only spoke when it was necessary. Hubert wasn’t sure whether she hated him for being born Jewish, for not telling her about it or, most likely, for letting poor Madeleine spend her days in obsessive prayer, consumed by her guilt at marrying an apostate. He didn’t know which; Agnes wouldn’t discuss the matter.
“I will stay with you, as mistress of the house,” she had informed him coldly, “until you are able to arrange a suitable marriage for me. Unless, of course, you would rather have Catherine take care of you.”
Hubert had agreed. He loved Catherine dearly but feared that she was completely capable of trading every pot in the kitchen for a new book. She kept accounts like one of Henry Beauclerc’s tax collectors but he didn’t feel she would be happy or extremely competent in the role of lady at the high table. But even more, this would keep Agnes with him for a time. Perhaps one day he could convince her to forgive him.
This was not the day.
The stableman let him in through the side door with a warning.
“Your daughter is waiting up for you.”
Hubert thanked him and squared his shoulders for whatever might come.
Agnes was sitting by the banked fire, wrapped in a fur blanket. Her face was just a white blur in the darkness. She recognized his step and rose.
“You didn’t need to wait up for me, ma douce,” he said.
“Yes, I did,” she answered. “I wanted to talk with you when no one else was around. You had a visitor tonight. One of your people.”
“My people?”
“He said his name was Menahem and he refused to eat or drink anything I offered,” Agnes said. “I presume he is Jewish.”
“Menahem? What did he want?” Hubert asked.
“Something about your other daughter,” Agnes answered. “At first he seemed to think that I was the one who consorted with infidels. He wanted to know what ‘Natan’ had said to me before he died. I told him he was mad and sent him away, but now I’m sure it has something to do with Catherine. She was here this morning. I sent her away, too. Jehan says she’s an engigneresse who creates destruction. Who is Natan? Did Catherine destroy him, too?”
“He’s no one you need to concern yourself with,” Hubert answered. “I will deal with Menahem. He had no business coming here. But, Agnes, you should not speak so of your sister, who loves you very much.”
“She is no longer my sister,” Agnes said. “She abandoned her place in the convent and deserted our mother. If you speak of her again, I will leave.”
Hubert knew there would be no more discussion tonight. He waited until Agnes had gone up to her room, to the bed she had used to share with Catherine. Then he sat for a moment, too worn to attempt the stairs. He noticed a clay bowl nestled in the ashes and covered with a flat board. He fished it out carefully with the tongs and found a broth of herbs and barley, kept warm for him.
She never forgot. However deep her bitterness, Agnes always made sure he had his posset before bed.
Hubert cradled the bowl between his hands and salted it with his tears.
“You have three new burns on your thigh,” Catherine said to Edgar just before she snuffed out the lamp. “Do you need some salve?”
“You could just kiss them and heal me,” Edgar suggested.
“I think salve would be more effective,” she replied. “But I could try that first.”
It seemed to be enough. Edgar got into bed and arranged the covers. He settled gratefully into the hollow of the mattress. Every muscle in his body ached. He closed his eyes.
“Edgar?”
“Unh?” He was nearly asleep.
“I suppose that means you also have three new holes in your only leather braies.”
“Unh.”
“Good night, carissime.”
“Mmmmmph …”
Morning proved Catherine was right. But the holes in the leather were small. She could patch them. She was more concerned with where Edgar was going.
“I’m beginning to believe that more happens under the Île than on it,” she complained. “You say this place is below ground?”
“No,” Edgar answered. “But we go under something to reach it and come up inside. It’s hard to keep one’s sense of direction with all the turns, but I think it’s still on the east end, near the bishop’s palace.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know,” Edgar answered. “You’d think someone there would notice the smoke and the fumes.”
She watched him pull his clothes on. He didn’t seem inclined to talk.
“Edgar, about this saint of yours,” she started.
“He’s not mine,” Edgar said. “But he doesn’t belong in France.”
“Even if he wants to be here?” she asked.
Edgar gave her a look of derision. “Why would Saint Aldhelm want to come to France?” he asked.
“You came to France,” she reminded him. “Why did you?”
“To study, of course,” he answered. “To drink wine and be seduced by beautiful French women. And don’t you dare make some sacrilegious comment, Catherine. This isn’t a joke to me.”
“I know that, Edgar,” she said. “But you aren’t thinking in terms of religion. You only see a Saxon being kidnapped by a Norman. Aldhelm isn’t in England or France really; he’s in heaven. No one here can make him do anything. If he has allowed his arm to be taken from Salisbury and then stolen from Philippe d’Harcourt, you might try to imagine what his purpose
is.”
Edgar didn’t answer. She could almost see his mind turning her statement inside out, looking for a flaw in the logic.
“And,” she added, “you might ask what part he wants us to play.”
To her surprise, he grinned at that.
“I was worried,” he said. “It isn’t like you to suggest that we be patient and allow heaven to move according to its own design.”
“Do you think it’s prideful to believe we have a place in divine order?” she asked seriously. The sin of pride was the cause of most of her penances.
“No, I don’t,” Edgar said. “Everything else has a place, why shouldn’t we? But sometimes I wish we lived in the days of the prophets when signs from heaven were much more frequent and easier to understand.”
He put on his cloak and picked up his gloves. “I promised to show Solomon where the route to the workshop begins,” he said. “He’s going to try to discover where it comes out.”
“I would feel better if we knew where you were,” Catherine said. “Almost all the artisans are on this side of the river. I still don’t see why or how Gaudry could have put his atelier on the Île. Do you think he’s working on his own?”
“I haven’t seen enough to guess,” Edgar said. “That’s why I’m going back.”
Catherine swung her legs out of bed. Edgar paused to watch. She laughed and pulled her chainse over her head.
“Of course you are,” she said. “Tell that to John. I know very well that you love every minute you spend there. I only keep the secret because I want you to learn enough to fashion me a pair of silver earrings.”
When Menahem, the draper, returned from morning prayers he found Hubert waiting for him.
“You are never to enter my home again,” Hubert began without greeting, “unless at my express invitation. Moreover, under no circumstances are you ever to speak to my daughters, either of them. Do you understand?”
Menahem backed away, into the door of his shop. Hubert followed.
“I repeat,” he said, and he did. “If you come near my daughters, I shall see that you suffer for it.”
The Wandering Arm: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 13