The jostling was just what Catherine needed to clear her thoughts. There was no doubt that the people around her were alive and had every intention of remaining so. Cheerful vulgarities flew about, full of creative suggestions. If many of them were acted upon, the population would increase remarkably by Christmas.
She managed to fight her way in to the stalls and out again, onto the rue Saint-Denis. People were still carrying the evergreen branches they had carried in the procession, a commemoration of Christ’s entry into Jerusalem. It had been five years since Catherine had been in Paris for Palm Sunday. The last time had been just before she left for the Paraclete. Then she had believed she would never step outside the convent as long as she lived.
She heard someone call her name just as she was turning onto the rue Saint Germain l’Auxerrois. She looked and nearly dropped the basket. It was the last person she expected or wanted to see.
Jehan appeared equally delighted. “I have been sent by your father to tell you he has returned to Paris and would like you and your husband to dine with him tonight,” he said stiffly.
“Tonight?” Catherine said. “I don’t know. I’ll ask Edgar.”
Jehan turned to go.
“Will Agnes be there?” Catherine hated to have to ask.
He turned back. “No,” he said. “She left for Blois last week. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
“She doesn’t speak to me either, Jehan,” Catherine said. “I’m glad Father, at least, has forgiven you.”
He looked at the ground and spoke between clenched teeth. “He has only granted me the right to atone. I am to first beg your forgiveness. I shouldn’t have abandoned you, no matter what the provocation.”
Catherine admitted that the provocation had been great. “As you see,” she said, “I arrived home unharmed, with my honor intact.”
Jehan snorted his opinion of her honor. “Then I will tell your father you will send word of your decision.”
He vanished before she could ask him anything more.
She was halfway down the street before she remembered her promise to Lucia to go with her to Saint Etienne. That was far more important than any daughterly duty. But how could she get away to meet Lucia without explaining where she was going?
There must be a way.
She went upstairs to put on her cleanest clothes and then hurried over to the Grève.
Hubert opened the gate himself.
“Father, I’m so glad you came home!” Catherine hugged him. “We thought you wouldn’t be back until after Easter.”
“Something Ullo said when he arrived at Vielleteneuse made me think it would be wise to return at once,” Hubert said. “Are you well, child? You seem very pale. Is there any news?”
“News about what?” Catherine asked, then blushed. “No, Father, not yet. It’s only been two months.”
“Yes, I suppose,” Hubert conceded. “I do want you to get your strength back before you have another. But there is something wrong, isn’t there? Ullo was full of stories about battles and dragons, but there were enough shreds of reality to tell me something had happened. Tell me what’s been going on. I haven’t seen Eliazar yet. Have they found the person who killed Natan?”
“No, Father, but Uncle has told us why he hired Natan last year.” Catherine went on to explain.
Hubert’s reaction was much the same as that of Solomon and Johannah.
“Eliazar should have trusted me,” he said. “Trying to protect us only made things worse.”
“There’s more, Father. Someone killed the silversmith Edgar was working for.”
“What? Who? When?” Hubert led Catherine up to the great hall. “Catherine. I want you to sit right here and tell me everything that has gone on while I was recovering in blissfully ignorant leisure.”
Catherine sat. She started the story after she had arrived back in Paris. Since he had asked her pardon, there was no need to dwell on what happened after Jehan’s abandonment of her, or mention that she had entered the city in a beer cart. “Everything” was not that all-encompassing. It was difficult to remember so many events in the correct order. Hubert had to stop her several times and make her clarify herself.
One thing caught his attention even more than the deaths of Gaudry and Odo.
“Solomon said that the man he took the chalice from was Suger’s nephew?” he asked.
“He’s certain,” Catherine said. “You can ask him yourself. We don’t know how Gerard is connected with the people here in Paris yet, although I suspect that Argenteuil is one of the places Goliath delivers his beer to.”
“It is strange how many trails seem to lead back to this tavern,” Hubert admitted. “Suger’s nephews. That’s all we needed.”
“Not ‘nephews,’” Catherine said. “There’s only the one, Gerard, mayor of Argenteuil.”
“No, there’s another one, here in Paris.” Hubert shook his head. “Simon. He’s very ambitious, I’ve heard, even if at the moment he’s only a canon at Notre Dame.”
Catherine’s stomach felt as if it had just inverted. “Is he a little man, built rather like Abbot Suger?” she asked, her voice cracking.
“Yes, a bit taller, but the same build,” Hubert said. “Why? Have you seen him?”
“I think so, in Argenteuil,” Catherine answered. “Talking with Gerard. I didn’t know he was a canon, much less of Notre Dame. Father, you should know that the canon who commissioned Gaudry to make a replica of the reliquary was also supposed to have been of medium height. It’s not much of a connection, but …”
She could tell from his expression that his thoughts were following hers. This was becoming dangerous. It was bad enough to accuse a cleric of trading in church property, but not unheard of. To accuse the nephew of the abbot of one of the most powerful houses in France of doing so was madness, especially for someone whose livelihood depended on continued business with that abbey.
“It may not be the same man,” Catherine added.
Hubert grimaced. “The Lord would never let my life be that easy,” he sighed.
“Edgar has gone to speak with the envoy of the archbishop of Rouen,” Catherine said. “The return of the property stolen from Salisbury is all that really matters to him. Perhaps, if the arm can be found, everything else can be handled quietly.”
“From what I understand, both Eliazar and Menahem have scoured their homes in search of Natan’s missing treasure,” Hubert reminded her. “No one has found anything. It’s only a matter of time before the whole community falls under suspicion.”
Catherine was reminded again of the importance of being able to get away easily that night.
“Father, until you invited us, Edgar and I were going to meet with John and Maurice at Bietrix’s to eat and decide what should be done next,” she said. “Your information about Canon Simon would be of great interest. Will you come there, instead?”
“I cannot drink that swill they call cider,” Hubert said. “I swear they wring it out of their cats.”
“It’s not that bad,” Catherine said. “You could drink water.”
Hubert cringed at the suggestion but he agreed to come to the tavern later in the evening, to Catherine’s relief.
“Then I think we should discuss your return here,” Hubert continued. “There’s no need for you to stay in that hovel any longer. Edgar’s work has finished and poor Agnes has left. My accounts are far in arrears. I need your help. Will you come home, my child?”
“Oh, yes.” Catherine threw her arms about him. “As soon as this matter is finished, we would be happy to.”
Hubert patted her back affectionately, although he knew her joy was partly from knowing she would no longer have to cook.
The meeting with Archdeacon Giles was not going well, as far as Edgar was concerned. He had succumbed to John’s counsel and agreed to sit silently, unless he was asked a question.
“Whatever he says to antagonize you, ignore it,” John had said firmly. “Think of something else
. I’ll let you know when to speak.”
Edgar was doing his best to think of something else but it was difficult when the archdeacon was clearly doing his best to imply that he believed Edgar had murdered Gaudry and Odo in order to steal the arm of Saint Aldhelm for himself.
“Suger, lord abbot of Saint-Denis, requested that Edgar take on the disguise of a common artisan in order to locate the arm,” John insisted. “He is well respected by Abbot Suger and it was only out of respect for the abbot and duty to the Church that he was willing to demean himself so.”
Edgar listened admiringly. John had a wonderful oratorical style. He was going to make a fine lawyer someday. It wouldn’t be surprising if he were one day summoned to debate in the papal curia.
He let his mind wander. By common consent, no one had mentioned Natan, either his involvement or his death. John felt, quite reasonably, that it was only a distraction from the main issue. Natan, like Gaudry, had been no more than a tool, to be disposed of when no longer useful.
Except Natan had died before his usefulness ended. Logically, he should have been stabbed and thrown in the river downstream somewhere. His death would have been laid to the danger of travel. And logically he would only have been killed after he had given his parcel to his employers.
Edgar shook his head. The logic failed; therefore one or more of the suppositions was incorrect. He hadn’t been that avid a student, but he had learned that much. He started through it again.
“Edgar?”
He brought himself back. “Yes, John?”
“The archdeacon wants to know if you’ve had any contact with anyone from Salisbury recently.”
Edgar smiled. “Only you, John.”
“Thu fagwyrm!” John told him pleasantly, then turned back to the archdeacon. “Of course, any number of masters here in Paris will bear witness to my character, if you suspect me of aiding in this theft,” he continued. “But I can assure you that Edgar and I both believe strongly that Saint Aldhelm belongs to the land and the people of Salisbury, whoever may rule them now. All we wish is for the poor sainted bishop to be restored to his rightful honor.”
Giles looked at Edgar skeptically.
“Aldhelm belongs in England and to England,” Edgar said. “There is nothing more I want.”
“No reward?” Giles sneered.
John quickly stepped in front of Edgar. “Any temporal reward for such a deed would be an insult,” he said.
“Thank you,” Edgar whispered in his ear.
“I still don’t know how you propose finding the relic,” Giles said. “By your own admission, you don’t know where it is. No one alive does. Are we to hold a prayer vigil until the good saint reveals himself? It would be most inconvenient considering the season.”
Edgar firmly turned his thoughts away from grabbing the archdeacon by the neck and rubbing his face into the stone floor.
John was unfazed. “As you remember, my lord,” he said, “the substitute reliquary that Edgar worked on was stolen. It seems likely to us that your arrival may have precipitated the theft.”
And the murders, Edgar thought.
“So we think it quite possible that you will soon be approached by someone, perhaps even a cleric,” John went on smoothly. “He will have some story about a miraculous discovery of this relic and offer it to you. It will be in a box of yew, plated in gold.”
“I see.”
Although the archdeacon was very young and the archbishop’s nephew, as well, John had heard that Giles was proving himself a competent administrator. He was counting on the truth of the rumors.
“Archbishop Hugh will not be eager to accuse a cleric of Paris of murder,” Giles said slowly. “But he would be pleased to inform Bishop Stephen if one of his canons were polluting the honor of the order by participating in this sacrilegious commerce.”
“And you would not wish such traffic to continue unchecked and unpunished,” John said.
“Naturally not,” Giles answered.
“Then we are in agreement?” John asked.
“We are,” the archdeacon said. “Only one thing worries me. We are assuming that the relic I will be offered is an impostor. But what if it isn’t? How can I be sure?”
“In that case, my lord,” John said, “we will have to rely on Saint Aldhelm to make the truth manifest.”
When they were outside again, John congratulated Edgar on his restraint.
“I don’t know why you wanted me there at all,” Edgar answered. “It was only your intervention that saved his nose from being bent like a crozier.”
“I took the risk because I wanted to remind him that you are as wellborn as he,” John told him. “Even your rudeness indicates your birth. He had to realize that before he would give any credit to your story.”
Edgar stopped dead in the road. “Do you mean that my throwing him out of the house impressed him?”
“Only someone very sure of his place would dare such a thing,” John answered. “I couldn’t have done it. Especially in that house.”
“Yes, you could,” Edgar said. “You’d do it for God’s honor, that’s all. I was thinking only of my family.”
John seemed embarrassed. “In any case, I think he’s convinced. Now we just have to hope that Giles is offered the false reliquary.”
Edgar didn’t answer.
“Something else?” John asked.
“If the canon is ordained, he can’t be hanged for murder,” Edgar said. “At the worst, he’ll be shut up in a monastery somewhere or sent on pilgrimage.”
“Believe me, Edgar, that can be worse than hanging,” John promised. “I’ve heard about the penances given such men.”
“I hope you’re right,” Edgar said.
That afternoon Catherine told Edgar about her father’s offer. “He says he wants me to do his accounts again,” she said happily.
“That’s good,” Edgar said. “You need something to keep you busy.”
“Until?” she asked. She could hear the unsaid half of the sentence more loudly than the words he spoke.
“Until we have children,” he said. “Until you have a husband who needs a chatelaine to attend to his lands. Of course, you may have to wait some time for that. Perhaps your second husband.”
“Edgar!”
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Of course we’ll go live with your father again. I never imagined we’d do anything else.”
“Would you rather stay here?” she asked.
“Of course not,” he answered. “This is no place for a man of my exalted rank. I was just reminded of that.”
Catherine put a hand on his sleeve. “Edgar, I don’t understand everything you’re saying and what I do understand frightens me horribly.”
She bent to find her sabots, hiding her face. When she rose again, she had regained control. “This isn’t a good time to discuss the future,” she told him. “You’re still upset about Gaudry and Odo. So am I. When this business is finished, we’ll talk.”
“Umph,” he said, lacing up his boots.
She assumed that was agreement. There were a thousand things she wanted to say to reassure him. She would say anything to prevent him from slipping into this melancholia. But she was so afraid the words she would choose would be the wrong ones that she couldn’t say anything at all.
The walk across the Grand Pont, down the rue de Juiverie and through the alleyways to the tavern was the longest of Catherine’s life. She was grateful to see that John and Maurice were already there when they arrived. She wouldn’t be expected to say much.
“John told me about your meeting with the archdeacon,” Maurice said. “I think your plan is magnificent.”
“What there is of it,” Edgar said. He took out his cup and started to get up to go fill it.
“I’ll do it,” Catherine said. “If you’ll let me share. I forgot mine. I’ll not dip my sleeve in it. I promise.”
He handed her the cup. As he did, he squeezed her wrist, quickly. It was enough
. She felt instantly better.
She went over to the table and asked Bietrix for some ale.
“Is Lucia in tonight?” she asked.
“She’ll be back once it’s dark,” Bietrix answered. “She offered to work today as they are preparing a feast for tonight.”
Catherine had forgotten. The twilight was deepening now. It shouldn’t be long.
There was something important she had neglected to tell Edgar. It tickled at the edge of her mind as she walked back to the table.
She sat the cup down and gave Edgar the first gulp. He needed it far more than she. Across the table, Maurice smiled at her. She smiled back. He was looking better fed today. Perhaps the archdeacon had seen that he got a decent meal. Thank goodness Maurice wasn’t a canon yet. He didn’t need to join them in their fast tonight.
“That’s it,” Catherine said. “The canon.”
“Yes?” John asked.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Nothing.”
It had occurred to her that the name of the canon wasn’t something to be shouting in a crowded tavern, this one most of all.
Goliath had done business with Natan. Goliath sold beer in Argenteuil. Lucia said her brother liked Natan, but resentment isn’t always obvious from the outside and Goliath was the one who bought the powder they put in the beer. Lucia said it couldn’t kill anyone, but perhaps if it were concentrated enough, it could. Catherine was sure that the strange scent on Natan’s breath was the same as the ground cherry on Solomon’s cloak. But, if Goliath were working with Natan, perhaps transporting stolen goods, why kill him? And why use poison? Goliath could take a man out with one hand. Perhaps Goliath had simply provided someone else with the poison. Someone Natan trusted.
Catherine wished her speculations didn’t keep pointing back to Lucia. There must have been someone else Natan would have taken a cup from. All the same, perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to go with her tonight.
The Wandering Arm: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 31