Edgar and Lucia had found Goliath in the brewery, pouring a foul-smelling mess into an open trough.
“You idiot!” Lucia greeted him. “You know you can’t leave the cart in the alley like that. What if there were a fire?”
“What are you talking about?” he asked her, staring at Edgar. “Where’s your wife?”
“Waiting for us by your cart,” Edgar said.
“My cart is at the stable by the slaughterhouse, where I always leave it,” he told them.
“It is, is it?” Lucia dragged him to the gate, which luckily, opened inward. “Then what’s this great thing blocking the roadway?”
“Saint Bridget’s beery bathwater!” he roared. “Who put that there?”
There was a slapping sound of boots on the wooden planks that lined the alley. Edgar tried to move past Goliath to see what had become of Catherine. He might as well have tried to move a stone fortress.
“Are you saying someone stole it?” Lucia asked.
“Of course not,” Goliath answered. “How could it be stolen when it’s right here? I’m going to skin that ostler alive if he’s been renting my cart out. But why would anyone leave it at my own door? Hey there! You in the alley! Get this thing out of my way so I can wring your necks!”
He grabbed hold of the slats and began shaking. The cart rocked back and forth, banging against the walls on either side.
“Here, stop that!” Edgar said. “You’ll frighten my wife. Catherine!”
There was no answer. Edgar called again.
“Perhaps she decided she’d rather wait in the tavern,” Lucia suggested. “I’ll go look.”
“She said she’d wait here,” Edgar said. “Catherine!”
There was a space between the top of the cart and the doorway large enough for him to slip through. Edgar pounded Goliath’s back until the carter stopped his demolition work long enough to heed him.
“You’ll never catch your thieves that way. Give me a boost up,” he ordered. “You’ve probably terrified her. Let me get over and tell her it’s not Armageddon, only an earthquake.”
But Edgar knew that a little roaring and shaking weren’t enough to frighten Catherine. It was with a growing sense of panic that he climbed over the side of the cart and into the alleyway. It was empty.
Where had she gone? Would he have been able to hear if she had screamed? Widsith’s bloody sword! What could have happened to her?
Edgar raced to the end of the street, hoping she had decided to follow him to the tavern after all.
He heard the clink of chain mail. He had just enough time for one solid Saxon curse before the blow landed with professional accuracy on the back of his head, knocking him out.
Catherine and Silas stumbled more than ran through the narrow alleyways. Even though the shops had been pulled shut for the night and goods taken in, the route was still cluttered with refuse. Even in daylight it would have been hard to move quickly on the uneven ground. Now, with one person limping to start with and the other stiff from being tied up all evening, it was hopeless to attempt any speed.
After the second turn, Catherine stopped in the shadows to listen for the sound of anyone chasing them.
“I live on the rue de Draperie,” Silas panted. “I want to go home. My mother will be worried, especially after what they did to my father.”
“I know where you live,” Catherine said. “And whoever abducted you does, too. We have to get to Eliazar’s.”
“No!” The boy tried to pull away from her, but Catherine caught him.
“Yes,” she said. “He’ll send word to your parents and get you home safely. I promise.”
“No!” Those men who captured me were hired by Eliazar’s partner, that Christian from Rouen,” Silas insisted. “If you take me there, he’ll give me back to them. Let me go!”
A shutter flapped open somewhere above them.
“What’s going on down there?” a voice called. “I’m trying to sleep.”
Catherine put a finger gently on the boy’s lips, to quiet but not frighten him further.
“Trust me,” she said. “Please.” She searched her mind for the word in Hebrew. “Nave nali, Silas. Your father is mistaken. Hubert knows nothing of the men who hurt him or those who kidnapped you. Eliazar will protect you. I promise. I’ve set you free. I won’t let anyone take you again.”
She couldn’t see his face clearly but felt his shoulders sag in resignation. She wanted to hug him as his mother would, giving him her strength and reassurance. But he was old enough that she feared he would be insulted at the implication that he needed such comfort.
She hugged him anyway. It seemed to help.
They had caught their breath now. They were only a street away from Eliazar’s home. Catherine listened for the sound of pursuit but heard nothing. All the same, she took the last block slowly, staying under the eaves in the darkness lest the growing moon catch them in its light and give them away.
They had no need to worry about being admitted at Eliazar’s gate. Every household of the community was open and people were gathered in the street. There was a knot of men standing in front of Eliazar’s. Catherine could hear them shouting.
“Come out here and face us, Eliazar,” one man yelled. “It’s you who’ve brought this upon us! Why must poor Menahem continue to suffer for your misdeeds?”
Some of the people in the street shouted their agreement. But others tried to pull the speaker away from the door. Catherine couldn’t hear what they were saying but the gestures were those of conciliation. At the edge of the group a figure sat on the ground, his head bent over crossed arms, his shoulders shaking beneath his cloak that, even in moonlight, was bright green and yellow.
Silas broke away from her.
“Abba!” he cried. “Papa!”
Everyone stopped and looked in his direction. Menahem tried to rise but was overcome by his relief and simply held out his arms to the boy speeding toward him.
Catherine followed more slowly, unsure what her reception would be from this angry group. Fortunately, Johannah chose that moment to open the gate. Catherine took advantage of the commotion around Silas and his father to slip through without being noticed.
“Aunt Johannah,” she whispered, “I must speak to Uncle Eliazar. Immediately!”
“My dear,” Johannah began. “With all this worry and the horrible accusations people are making, I don’t think this would be—”
“What sort of accusations?” Catherine asked.
“About Menahem. That Eliazar and your father murdered Natan and are trying to make Menahem tell where the treasure is.”
Catherine was stunned. “Father? That’s what Silas said. What could he have to do with this?”
“Nothing,” Johannah answered, shutting the gate behind them. “Neither of them have anything to do with Natan’s death. They would never threaten Haquin. They’re good men.”
She sounded as if she had repeated those sentences too often. Catherine took her hands in her own and held them tightly.
“Please, Aunt,” she begged. “I must talk with my uncle, alone.”
Something in Johannah disintegrated. She closed her eyes and pulled away from Catherine.
“Thirty years and more I’ve known him,” she said. “Since I was a child and he came here to study. Never before has he kept anything from me. Now he has a secret so terrible he won’t tell his own wife.” She fixed Catherine with a look.
“You think you know what it is, don’t you?”
Catherine shook her head. “I don’t believe it. I must be wrong. But what I’ve discovered … No, there has to be another explanation. Where is he?”
Johannah pointed. “Up in his room, praying. He’s been there ever since word came that Silas was missing. Go tell him the boy’s been found. Then ask him your questions. May you have better luck than I have making sense of his answers.”
Edgar awoke to the smell of new beer, and the taste. Goliath had poured a pitcher over his hea
d to bring him around.
“Stop!” Edgar spluttered. “I’m awake. Who hit me? Where’s Catherine?”
“I couldn’t see who hit you,” Goliath said. “I saw your wife running the other way down the street with a child running behind her.”
“A child?” Edgar decided there must be beer in his ears, as well. “Are you sure it wasn’t someone dragging her off?”
Goliath was sure. “I saw no one following her, either,” he added.
“Perhaps because they stopped to dispose of me.” Edgar touched the bump on his head and winced. He tried to rise but the pain and sudden nausea forced him down.
“You’re no good to anyone tonight,” Goliath said. “I’ve got to get the ox and take the cart back. I’ll take you home, as well.”
“But … Catherine.” Edgar struggled once again to stand.
Goliath waited until Edgar gave up. “When I last saw her, she looked in better shape than you,” he said. “She may already be at home waiting. If not, I’ll get my brother and we’ll rouse the watch to look for her. Will that do?”
It wouldn’t, but Edgar had no choice. He let himself be dumped in the cart on top of an empty burlap bag. Through the pounding in his head, it occurred to him that his father would have died rather than allow himself to be borne through the streets in a beer cart.
One more reason to be grateful that he was two countries and a large body of water from home.
“Uncle?” Catherine tapped on the door. “Uncle Eliazar? Please let me in. Everything is all right. I found Silas and brought him home. He’s with his father now.”
She heard the latch lift and Eliazar opened the door. His clothes were disheveled and torn and his beard glistened with the tears caught in it. The front of his tunic was covered with dust and bits of chaff. Catherine made a note to ask her aunt how often the rushes were changed in here.
“The child is unhurt?” Eliazar’s voice quavered.
“He’s fine,” Catherine told him. “His abducters frightened him but did him no other harm.”
Eliazar closed his eyes in relief and murmured a prayer. “Does he know who they were?”
“He says it was men sent by you and Father. I don’t think he knew them.”
Catherine forced her voice to remain calm. Looking at her uncle’s reaction to the loss of a child, she couldn’t believe that he was capable of murdering a man. And yet, would he have felt it murder if the man were Christian? She didn’t know. He was of her own blood and yet alien. It humiliated her that in the depth of her soul, there would always be the fear of the chasm that lay between her faith and his.
The distance never seemed so great as at that moment. Eliazar stared back at her from the other side of the Jordan and all the waters rushed between them.
He didn’t speak, only looked at her with a weariness that finally roused her to pity.
“Silas believes what he has heard from his father,” she said more gently. “That you are hunting for a treasure that Natan left.”
“I told him I wanted nothing to do with his trade.” Eliazar shook his head. “I should have done the job myself. My worst mistake was to ask Natan’s help.”
Catherine tried to sort out whom he was talking about. “Told who? Natan’s help with what, Uncle?”
Eliazar’s jaw set in the expression that was all too irritatingly familiar to his friends and relations. Catherine put the question aside but resolved not to allow him to leave the room until it was answered. Temperament must be passed down the generations, for she knew her stubborn nature could meet and rival his.
“Very well, then,” she continued. “There is a treasure, isn’t there?”
Eliazar sighed. “I don’t know.”
He could feel her eyes on him. It wasn’t fair that she should look so much like her grandmother. Thank the Almighty One Catherine didn’t know how impossible it had been for the child Eliazar to dissemble to his mother.
Perhaps she didn’t need to.
He looked up and gave her a sad smile. “He had something that he felt was of value,” he admitted.
Catherine said nothing.
“I don’t know what it was,” Eliazar insisted. “A box, so by so.” He showed the measurements with his hands. “He wouldn’t tell me what was inside and so I refused to keep it for him. I thought it might be stolen goods, maybe even some of the church property he tried to sell at Saint-Denis. I don’t want those things in my house. I don’t know where he took it and I don’t care.”
Catherine still didn’t speak, simply continued to look at him. Her eyes were lighter than his mother’s had been. Catherine’s were blue. Hers had been green, like Solomon’s, evidence of an ancestress who had been caught in the path of a Viking raid two hundred years before. But the color didn’t matter, only the long steady gaze, full of sorrow.
“It’s the truth,” Eliazar told her softly.
Catherine nodded. “I believe you,” she said. “About Natan’s treasure.” She paused, hoping he would tell her the rest. She wished she had brought the bits of metal and paper she had found in the cellar.
Perhaps it’s better that they are out of his reach, her voices intruded. Without them there is no evidence that he might destroy.“Hush!” Catherine drove those wicked doubts to the back of her mind. But they had been there all along and would remain until she knew the truth. She took a step forward and put her hands on his. “What happened to Brother Thomas, Uncle?”
It was as if she were suddenly holding a block of ice. His hands never moved, but all the warmth left them. His face turned gray and she feared she had killed him with her question.
His mouth opened and closed several times before he could force the sound out. “Who? … I heard … he went … on a pilgrimage.”
“A pilgrimage?” she snapped. “Where? Conques? Rome? Vézeley? Compostella? Where?”
The words flew at him like arrows from an arbalest.
“Did he get permission from his superior? Did he tell his friend, Andrew? Shall I ask at Saint-Victor for someone who went with him, someone who has heard from him?”
Eliazar had never seen Catherine angry. He had always thought of her as loving and tolerant. Finally, he realized what she was accusing him of.
“You think I killed that poor, gentle boy?” he wailed in dismay. “Oh, Catherine! How could you?”
Catherine let go of his hands. Neither one of them noticed the marks her nails had left on his palms.
“I found pieces of clerical belongings in the cellar, Uncle,” she said. “Why were they there?”
“That book of his,” Eliazar muttered in annoyance, confirming her fear. “I thought I had found all the bits. And the beads rolled everywhere. I hoped they were lost forever.”
“Please,” Catherine said. “Tell me the truth. I can’t bear the things my mind suggests. If Thomas wasn’t murdered, then what happened?”
Eliazar shook his head sadly. “Come, child, sit down,” he said. “I didn’t kill Thomas. As far as I know, he’s alive and well, may the Lord protect him. I will tell you, but I fear that, when you know what I have done, you may prefer me to be a murderer.”
The pieces of the puzzle jumbled in her mind and suddenly arranged themselves in a new pattern. What could be worse than murder? The answer hit her all in a rush and Catherine realized that her uncle might be right in that she would rather he had only killed a man. But she sat on the stool by the fire all the same and waited, hands clasped around her knees like a child prepared to hear a fable.
By the time he finished the story, her hands were covering her face as she shook with horror at what he had done and terror at what might happen to him if his crime were discovered.
“Forgive me, Catherine,” Eliazar said. “Not for what I did. I know you can’t do that. And I need no pardon from you. I would do it again. I’m proud that the Almighty One, blessed be He, chose me for this. But I never meant you to be burdened with such knowledge.”
Catherine swallowed. “I forced you
to tell me,” she said. “You bear no blame for that. As for the other … I don’t know. I can’t think rationally about it now. But I think you should tell Aunt Johannah.”
“And have her incriminated with me?” Eliazar asked.
“She would rather that than be kept outside your heart, which is where she feels you’ve placed her now.”
Eliazar nodded. “You’re right. I’ve hurt my Johannah. I thought it would be best. I was wrong. I’ve felt for some time that I wasn’t protecting her with my silence, but how did you know that was how she felt?”
“There is no truth more horrible than knowing the person you love best in the world won’t trust you,” Catherine said. “Even I know that.”
Eliazar reached over and stroked her untidy curls. “Edgar may not always realize it,” he said to her, “but he is a very lucky man.”
“So are you, Uncle,” Catherine answered. “I will keep your secret and pray that both you and Brother Thomas may one day be saved.”
She stood up and shook out her skirts, as if ridding herself of all she had just heard.
“Now,” she said. “I need to get home before Edgar believes I’ve been captured by brigands. And then we are going to start a serious search for this mysterious treasure and for the people who want it so badly.”
Sixteen
Gaudry’s workshop, somewhere in Paris, vernal equinox, Feast of Saint Benedict, Abbot Friday, March 21, 1141 / 11, Nisan, 4901
Neque guttae graciliter, Manabant, sed minaciter, Mundi rotam rorantibus, Umectabant cum imbribus, … Quae catervatim caelitus, Crebantur nigris nubibus.
Nor did the raindrops trickle down, but drenched the
spinning world with darkly dropping showers … that
thundered in torrents down from the heavens in black
clouds.
—Saint Aldhelm
Carmen Rhythmicum 45–54
The Wandering Arm: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 25