The Wandering Arm: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  Eliazar shook his head. “No. It’s strange, but I never once thought he might. Perhaps he might have denounced me to the elders, but not to the Christians. Natan had his own honor.”

  “But you and Natan were the only ones who knew what Thomas planned?” Solomon understood what Catherine was implying and didn’t notice her attempt to stop him from talking. “Could Thomas have told anyone? Andrew, for instance?”

  “Thomas knew what the risk was, especially from the other canons of Saint-Victor,” Eliazar answered. “They would have had him in a cell doing penance and being preached to night and day until he recanted. Isn’t that right, Catherine?”

  “I suppose,” Catherine said. “I’ve never known anyone who left the Faith. His superiors would certainly try to convince him of his error.”

  “And starve him until he did,” Baruch sniffed.

  Catherine turned on him angrily. “What would you do if a child of yours asked for baptism?” she asked.

  “I’d never allow—!” Baruch’s repugnance at the thought was obvious. He stopped and took a deep breath. “Yes. I take your meaning.”

  “So it isn’t likely that Andrew would know what Thomas planned and ignore it,” Catherine said. “You know him, Uncle. Do you agree?”

  Eliazar nodded. “Andrew studies our faith only to find confirmation of his own. But, apart from that failing, he’s a good man. He wouldn’t have permitted Thomas to leave Paris, but neither would he have tried to murder me. If he had wished to, he could have done it anytime this past year.”

  “Then who attacked you?” Solomon demanded. “Was Natan murdered because of what he did for you?”

  Catherine thought she heard a gasp from the hall. She started up. How long had Lucia been listening? What had she heard?

  Eliazar stared at Solomon, about to answer. Catherine raised her hands to stop him. Swiftly, she got up and tiptoed to the curtained doorway. With a sudden movement, she pulled the curtain aside.

  Lucia stood in the passage. She showed no indication of being startled or guilty.

  “Come in, Lucia,” Catherine said. “How long have you been listening?”

  “Long enough to know there’s been more evil done in this house than Natan’s small sins,” she answered, entering the room. “I respected you, Master Eliazar. Natan said you were a good man and he was proud to help you. He was wrong. You used him and then left him out in the dark to die.”

  Catherine put an arm around her. “I promised you I’d find Natan’s murderer,” she said. “No matter who it was. We need your help, Lucia. You told me that Natan went to Argentevil to sell some oil clothes. Did you know that after that Natan began dealing in a number of things stolen from a church?”

  Lucia shook her head. “Not exactly, although I wouldn’t have cared. My parish does just fine without golden chalices and silk vestments. Our priest says God has no use for such things, so why should the monks and bishops?”

  No one offered to disagree.

  “Did he ever tell you who he was working with?” Catherine asked. “Someone at Argenteuil?”

  “He went there sometimes,” Lucia answered. “But there was also someone from Notre Dame. He hated going near the cloister, but the man insisted. I don’t know his name. Natan might not have, either.”

  “That still might help,” Catherine said. “If you remember any more, will you tell us?”

  “Of course,” Lucia answered.

  “Thank you,” Catherine said. “And what about Brother Thomas?”

  “Who?” Lucia looked at them all, as if appraising their worth. She shook her head. “I never heard of a Brother Thomas.”

  Johannah looked at the maid with new eyes. But she asked none of the questions that rushed into her mind. “Well, then. Have you finished boiling the pans for Passover?” she asked instead.

  “Not yet,” Lucia answered. “I’ll have them done before I go home tonight. I’ll light the lamps for you before I go.”

  Johannah nodded. “I’ll be down to help you shortly.”

  Lucia left.

  Solomon looked at Catherine. “What was that about?” he asked. “Why did you let her go? She could destroy us all. And where did she learn about the canon? How well did she know Natan?”

  “She just told you that she’ll say nothing,” Catherine answered.

  Solomon still looked doubtful.

  “Under my own roof!” Johannah exclaimed. “How could I be so negligent?”

  “That well?” Solomon whistled. “And she has very large brothers, too. I did underestimate Natan.”

  Catherine got up. “Solomon, would you walk me home?” she asked. “I’ll explain everything and you can tell me on the way what you intend to do about Abbot Suger’s nephew.”

  “There’s not a lot I can do if Gerard wants to run about the countryside with chalices in his pack,” Solomon replied. “He could easily argue that I attacked him. Baruch agrees with me. There’s nothing more to be done. And if Natan was working with him, there’s all the more reason to forget the matter.”

  He reached for his cloak all the same.

  Catherine kissed her aunt and uncle good-bye, but not with the same warmth as before. They all felt it.

  Solomon helped her on with her cloak. Her scarf was still dripping in the kitchen so she put the hood over her loose braids. Neither one of them spoke until they were out on the street, heading for the rue de Juiverie.

  “Now,” Solomon said cheerfully. “Where are we really going?”

  Edgar had tried to find out from Gaudry more about the man who had ordered the reliquary, but either the smith didn’t know or he wouldn’t say. After much prodding, Edgar decided it was the former.

  “He’s a medium-sized, pinched-faced man,” Gaudry repeated. “Looks underfed, although I’ve heard the canons do fairly well for themselves, out of rents and suchlike.”

  “But you’re not sure he’s from Notre Dame?” Edgar reminded him.

  “Sure enough,” Gaudry said. “I’ve seen him about the town. Even though he lives in the cloister, he has property he takes rent from, not far from the tavern where I met you.”

  “But you’re certain that you don’t know his name?”

  “I never asked.” Gaudry returned to his work. “And don’t start. Neither am I sure where we are right now. I took the directions, but I didn’t look to see what was above us. And if you find out, don’t tell me. It’s always better not to know.”

  That was clear enough. Edgar knew he would get no more information. They had finished for the day. He banked the coals and then studied the gold-plated box in the lamplight. At the moment, that’s all it was, a piece of hollow wood shaped like an arm, its only value the cost of the gold and the skill of the craftsmanship.

  But add a piece of bone or a lock of hair or even a shred of cloth that had belonged to one of the martyrs or church fathers and that same piece of work would become priceless. It would be revered, honored, displayed on the high altar on feast days, even brought out and threatened with destruction if the community thought the saints weren’t doing their best to protect their people. But what if the saint weren’t in the reliquary at all? What if there were no miracles because the box contained the bone of a farmer or the tunic of a bathhouse cleaner? What would that do to the people who prayed and believed they had received no answer?

  Like Catherine, Edgar had a sudden urge to run to someone else who would answer these questions for him. He wanted Master Abelard, but Abelard was now at Cluny, under the protection of Abbot Peter. And the Master was ill, perhaps dying, although Edgar feared it was more from discouragement at the condemnation of his life’s work than from the sickness that had plagued him the past few years.

  No, there was no master he could turn to. But, he remembered, there was a friend.

  Edgar washed his hands and face, collected his sous and went in search of John.

  Catherine hurried through the streets quickly enough to keep Solomon slightly breathless as he trotted b
eside her, but not enough to keep him from noticing that she had turned left, not right, and that they were heading back toward Saint-Étienne.

  “Are you thinking of getting some cider to take home?” he asked her. “Sounds like a good idea, but you forgot your pitcher.”

  When they were almost to the court around the churches, Catherine stopped and pulled Solomon into a doorway.

  “We’ve agreed that Natan has hidden some sort of treasure, right?” She went on without waiting for his answer. “There’s a canon of Notre Dame involved, or someone who says he is, right? You and Edgar are both fairly sure that this hidden workshop is somewhere near the cloister, if not under it, right?”

  She stopped. Solomon was eyeing her with something very near to dread. He backed away.

  “No,”he said. “Absolutely not. I won’t even consider going there and neither will you.”

  “Solomon! Don’t you want to find the truth?”

  “Not if it means dying a moment later,” he answered.

  “Fine,” she said and turned to leave.

  Suddenly he grabbed her and held her until she stopped struggling. Catherine had no idea how strong her cousin could be, or how impervious to reason.

  Not long afterwards the weaver was outraged to have his shop invaded by a man pulling a woman behind him as she protested violently. He debated getting up, even in the middle of a thread, but his second glance told him who the woman was. He recognized the man as a frequent visitor. So he simply glared at them as they passed through, making a note to complain strongly to Johannah about the sort of people she was renting to.

  “Let go of me!” Catherine yelled as Solomon dragged her up the stairs by one wrist.

  “Not until I’ve turned you over to your husband!” Solomon yelled back. “You’re insane, Catherine. You need to be kept under guard for your own safety.” He kicked the door open and threw her in. “Edgar, come take charge of your meshuganah wife,” he said. “Oh, excuse me!”

  Catherine was already halfway up, to give Solomon a bit of his own. She caught his startled look, turned around and blushed scarlet.

  Edgar was sitting at the table just as she expected. But next to him, their jaws open in consternation, were John, the student Maurice and another man, younger than either of them but clearly much more important.

  “Catherine,” Edgar said with a sigh, “may I present Giles du Perche, archdeacon of Rouen? My lord, this is my wife.”

  Seventeen

  Catherine and Edgar’s room, a very short time later

  Sic enim Christianitas viluit, sic cupidas increvit, ut Sanctorum corpora mercen fatiamus [sic], felicas exuvias venum preponentes. Exhorruit primo Monochus immane facinus.

  To such a degree has Christendom been corrupted and to

  such a degree has avarice increased, that we sell the bodies of

  the saints, offering our holy relics for profit. Every monk

  shudders at such a terrible crime.

  —William of Malmesbury

  Gesta Pontificum Anglorum

  Book V Vita Aldhelmi

  “Edgar, I apologize.” Solomon bent over to help Catherine up. “I had no idea you had guests. Catherine, I really wasn’t angry.”

  “I know,” she answered, struggling to regain her feet and her dignity. What would Sister Bertrada say if she saw her now? Catherine shuddered.

  “I ask your pardon for such an unseemly entrance,” she said, giving a half-curtsey.

  It was just as well she didn’t realize the picture she presented. Her head was uncovered and she had lost the ties from her braids so that her hair had unraveled down her back in a perplexity of curls. Her bliaut was stained, with mud-dipped hem. Her boots were covered in street grime. She did not look like the wife of anyone respectable.

  Catherine knew she had committed a terrible social sin and that her appearance was not that of a well-bred lady, but that was no reason for these men to stare at her so. They might have at least risen to greet her. Where were their manners? She took off her cloak and put it on the hook by the door. As she did she glanced toward the corner of the room, relieved to see that the curtain hiding the chamber pot was closed. She couldn’t remember if she’d emptied it this morning.

  “Edgar, is there anything I can get for your guests?” she asked. “Solomon and I can go for soup … or something.”

  She didn’t need any voices to tell her that she looked a complete fool. Edgar must be writhing in embarrassment.

  It was John who saved her. Suddenly remembering himself, he stood. Quickly, the other two followed.

  “Giles arrived last week from Rouen,” John explained. “His uncle, Archbishop Hugh, has entrusted him with the very delicate matter of retrieving the items stolen from Chancellor Philippe.”

  Catherine gave a startled glance at the well-dressed boy. The archbishop’s nephew, Giles du Perche. Oh, dear. Of a very distinguished family from Normandy, as she recalled. Catherine wished the floor would part like the Red Sea and allow her to slip away to safety. Behind her, she could sense Solomon edging for the door. She reached back to stop him.

  “Too many clerics for me,” he muttered in her ear. “Tell Edgar I’ll talk with you both later, luckily for you. Be prepared to repeat to me everything they say.”

  He nodded to the group and made his escape.

  “A friend of yours, as I recall?” John said pleasantly, gesturing toward Solomon as he retreated.

  Catherine relaxed. “Yes, an old family friend. But that does not excuse our behavior. Please forgive me.”

  John could control himself no longer. He exploded into laughter. “Only if you will forgive me for telling you I haven’t seen anything so funny in years as Edgar’s face when you burst in here.”

  Edgar felt a flash of irritation at both John and Catherine, but the absurdity of the situation was too great. He gave in and smiled. “Sit down, carissima,” he said. “We have everything we need. John and the archdeacon here have enlisted Maurice to help us.”

  “To find the workshop?” Catherine asked.

  “Partly,” John told her. “But we are fairly certain now that one of the canons is involved in this theft. It is of the utmost importance to discover which one.”

  “You are quite sure this smith said it was a man from Notre Dame?” Archdeacon Giles asked. “Meddling in the affairs of another archdiocese is a very delicate matter. It would be unpardonable if we made an accusation we couldn’t prove.”

  “I’m sure,” Edgar said. “But that’s what we need Maurice for. I’ve never seen the man who commissioned the reliquary. The master silversmith has but doesn’t know, or won’t reveal, his name. All I have is a general description, but Maurice will know if there is anyone at Notre Dame who fits it.”

  “Would Gaudry identify the canon if the man were found?” John asked.

  “Perhaps,” Edgar said. “But Gaudry is not a member of the guild. It would be worth his livelihood, maybe even his life, if he admitted to keeping this workshop, even if the canon would vouch for him, which seems most unlikely.”

  “So Maurice will try to find a canon who wanders the tunnels instead of going out the gate like an honest man?” Catherine asked. “Good, then I can tell Solomon he doesn’t have to go in with me.”

  “Catherine, you weren’t!” Edgar sputtered.

  “It occurred to me that the missing arm might have been hidden somewhere beneath the cloister,” Catherine said. “Or even inside it.”

  Giles gaped at her again. “You intended to enter the bishop’s cloister?”

  “Oh, no,” Catherine assured him. “Just discover where someone else could have.”

  Giles took a long moment to think about this. “I don’t believe any of this is covered in the instructions my uncle gave me,” he replied at last.

  Edgar grinned and was about to speak, when John gave him a kick under the table.

  “It’s well known that Archbishop Hugh trusts your judgment implicitly.” John smiled at the young man.
“I’m sure that’s why he chose you for this mission.”

  Giles still seemed uncomfortable. “Originally, I was told only to go to Saint-Denis, where we had heard that a chalice had been found resembling one taken from the church at Salisbury. Prior Hervé showed it to me and has kindly agreed to keep it safe until my return.”

  “Was it the same one?” Edgar asked.

  “It matched the drawing I was given,” Giles admitted. “The prior suggested that I continue on to Paris and ask John if he could make a positive identification, since he once served at Salisbury. Then I learned that the arm might also have been found.”

  “I told the archdeacon about your search for Saint Aldhelm, Edgar,” John explained. “He insisted on coming to see you.”

  He said this by way of apology. John knew how Edgar felt about Normans. Edgar wasn’t satisfied.

  “With respect, my lord, I’m not sure how you can help us,” he said. “We believe that, for reasons beyond our understanding, Saint Aldhelm has allowed his arm to be transported to Normandy, then stolen and taken to France and finally lost by the very thieves who dared to commit such sacrilege. I suspect that no one alive now knows where he rests.”

  “I will do whatever possible to help,” Giles said. “My only duty is to assist those who are searching for Saint Aldhelm and see that he is returned.”

  “Returned to whom?” Edgar asked. “To the canons of Salisbury? The last I heard, Empress Matilda was in control of that area and had King Stephen in prison in Bristol. I also was under the impression that your uncle was a fervent supporter of the king.”

  “That’s correct,” Giles said.

  “Then would he return property to Salisbury while Matilda still held it?” Edgar challenged him. “Or give it instead to Philippe d’Harcourt to bargain with as the price of the bishopric?”

  “Edgar,” John warned.

  “No.” Edgar waved him off. “I won’t risk my life just to put another damned Norman in a Saxon see.”