The Outcast Dove: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (13 page)

The two men faced each other in mutual horror, blocking the street. When neither moved, Berengar reached over to touch Jehan’s arm.

“Jehan?” he said uncertainly. “We need to hurry. My father and the other lords are waiting for us.”

Jehan turned to him jerkily, as if startled from a nightmare. Berengar gestured that they should move on. After a moment, the knight recovered enough to shake the reins. His horse obligingly stepped forward. As the two men continued toward the gate Jehan turned around every few steps to look behind. Solomon was still watching him.

“What is it?” Berengar asked, twisting to see. “Who is that man?”

“You see him, then?” Jehan exhaled in relief. He had feared it was a vision, a remnant of the madness that had once claimed him.

“Of course. Black beard, dun horse, right?” Berengar answered. “An acquaintance of yours?”

“Yes.” They were out of the city now, in the
salvetat
of Saint Catherine. Jehan set his horse to a quick trot, forestalling any more questions.

Berengar scratched his head, then followed, urging his own mount to pass. Soon both were at a full gallop. Jehan leaned low in the saddle oblivious to both the woman whose basket of turnips spilled as she jumped from his path and the chickens squawking their terror as they fluttered out of reach of the pounding hooves. The wind shrieked through his chain mail helm, drowning out his howling memories.

By the time they reached the villa of Berengar’s father, Jehan had managed to recover from the shock and appear once again the imperturbable warrior, ready for anything. Inside he was still shaking. Solomon wasn’t merely an old enemy, but one who knew too many of the secrets Jehan had thought buried forever. How could he keep the man from telling them?

Solomon sat stone-still until Jehan rode out of his sight. He was too stunned to move. It was impossible. The last time he had seen the man was a year before. At that time Jehan had been weighted down with penitential chains, on his way to Jerusalem. How had he escaped? What was he doing in Toulouse?

Even stranger, why had he not attacked him?

Over the past ten years, every time Jehan had crossed his path, the man had tried to kill him, either by denunciation to those in power or more directly, with a sword. Perhaps, like Solomon, he had been too shocked to act. But what would he do if they met again?

Just what he needed, one more enemy in Toulouse.

Once he had returned the horse to the ostler, Solomon made his way to the synagogue quickly. The tranquility he had gained during his stay in Carcassonne evaporated like spit on a hot stone.

The first thing he had to do was warn Hubert.

The courtyard of the
bet midrash
was full of scholars, each one shouting to make his argument heard above the raucous debate. A quick glance told Solomon that Hubert wasn’t among them.

“Samuel.” He grabbed the young man’s arm to get his attention. “Have you seen my uncle, Rav Chaim?”

“I think he went to his room after morning prayers,” Samuel told him. “To study.” He sighed. “I wish I had my own private Torah to read each day.”

“He earned it,” Solomon said. “Be grateful that you didn’t have to endure his life.”

He went back in and knocked on Hubert’s door. He waited, knocked again, and then entered.

Hubert was sitting on a stool before a high lectern on which a book lay open. He was slowly pointing to one word after another with a long silver rod that ended in a tiny hand, the index finger gently resting on the letters.

“Vihi she’amdah la’avoteinu velanu. Shelo…”

Solomon leaned over his shoulder. “Preparing for
Pesach
, Uncle?” he asked. “I think I remember this part.”

Hubert dropped the
yad.
“Solomon? What are you doing here?”

Solomon stooped to pick up the pointer. “I promised I’d be back by now. Remember? But I need to warn you of something.”

Hubert sighed. He understood now why Christians became hermits.

“Was there a problem with my message?” he asked. “The Temple knights of Carcassonne don’t want to work with you?”

“No, that’s fine, but we have another problem,” Solomon said.

He told him about seeing Jehan.

Hubert’s shoulders sagged. “This is too much! I had hoped he was dead. Why do the Saracens kill everyone except the man who most deserves it?”

“You understand that you can’t let him see you?” Solomon wasn’t sure how far Hubert had ascended into philosophy. He didn’t seem to be as practical as in the old days.

“Of course.” Hubert looked up at him, his eyes sharp. “The damned
rabaschier
suspected me of apostasy long before I really renounced Christianity. If he sees me now, word will get back to Paris within the month.”

“Uncle, there’s a lot more at stake than your old friends in Paris finding out.” Solomon wanted to shake him. “Have you looked outside your own window? Don’t you know what time of year it is?”

“Oh, that.” Hubert smiled. “Easter in Toulouse isn’t so bad, I understand. They don’t strike a Jew on the Cathedral steps anymore in vengeance for Jesus death. The community just pays a fine instead.”

Solomon rolled his eyes. “Oh, so that makes us all one happy family. Don’t be so complacent. You said it yourself. The bishop is still in the North. The count has gone off to Jerusalem. Who is supposed to protect us if the Edomites decide to murder us all for the death of their god?”

Hubert looked up at him, eyes bright with joy.

“Our Creator, of course,” he said. “Who else?”

“Right, fine job He’s done the last thousand years or so,” Solomon muttered.

“Solomon!” Hubert was shocked. “That’s blasphemy!”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Solomon spoke quickly to avoid a lecture. “The greater the suffering we are sent, the greater our reward when the Messiah comes. I have no doubt that it will be any day now. But I would like you to be alive to see it. So don’t go out any more than is necessary and, when you do, wear a hood or a floppy felt hat or something to keep your face hidden.”

“Perhaps I should dye my beard red as well?” Hubert suggested. “But no, Jehan has never seen me bearded so this is disguise enough.”

He seemed disappointed.

Solomon gave up. If Hubert wouldn’t take the threat seriously, there was nothing more he could do.

“Very well. I’ve warned you. How you behave is your affair. Now, what else has been happening while I was gone? What about that dead monk? Did they find who killed him? Has…the…the other one been bothering you any more?”

Hubert shook his head. “I’ve heard nothing more from Jacob. I doubt he will try to accuse me. The general belief is that the unfortunate Brother Victor was attacked by a common cutpurse.”

“Good.” Solomon opened the door to leave. “It’s likely that’s the truth. I suppose I should report to Bonysach now. Have you seen him since I left?”

“Only here,” Hubert said. “Josta’s face is still badly bruised. They came last Thursday to lay charges against Yusef. He was fined and told to keep his servant under control or be banned from the community.”

“I’m glad they were firm with him,” Solomon said. “
Herem
would destroy Yusef. I can’t believe he would risk it just to keep that woman in his house. She must know some dark secret about him, whatever Bonysach says.”

“Perhaps.” Hubert was losing interest. “If that was all you wanted, Solomon, I need to finish this passage before the light goes. My window faces east, you see. I’m glad you’re back, and I’m grateful for your concern but I really must….”

His eyes strayed back to the page, the letters clear in the morning light.

Shaking his head, Solomon shut the door.

Jehan of Blois was not making a good impression on the lords of Toulouse. Berengar was wishing he had brought Brother James, instead. He could have convinced them to give more toward the release of the captive knights. But Berengar had felt that these men had had enough of preaching. It seemed better to show them how well their money would be guarded on the route.

But Jehan wasn’t acting like a fearless warrior. His eyes moved from side to side, as if trying to see what was behind his back. His right hand gripped and released his sword hilt, leaving it shiny with sweat. In short, he was giving an excellent likeness of a man who was terrified.

Finally Berengar found an excuse to pull Jehan aside.

“What is wrong with you?” he demanded. “My father was going to give you reasons to assure you I wouldn’t be a burden on this journey. Now he’s wondering if you’re the one who needs protecting. And he’s not alone.”

He nodded toward the men seated around the table, conversing in low tones, their gaze directed anywhere but at Jehan.

The two knights were on one side of a long table set up near the vineyard owned by Berengar’s father, Lord Falquet. Their villa was nearby, fenced but not fortified. Beyond it, Jehan could see the spire of the church of Saint Lezat. A cool breeze set the leaves fluttering in the sun, making piebald patterns across the company. Servants brought them dried apricots and Lenten concoctions made from eggs, cheese, olives, garlic, and spices. The wine they poured was clear and cool from the stream.

Jehan snorted. The men even had thick cushions to protect their tender backsides from the wooden seats. What did these people know of warfare? Occasionally they might be raided by an angry neighbor or an ill-armed band of
ribaux
from the forest. They hadn’t passed weeks on end sleeping with one eye open and a knife always to hand. Nor had they spent their lives taking on tasks too dangerous or dirty for the flabby burghers and haughty nobles to attempt. He’d lay oath to that.

Who were they to doubt his competence?

He stood, knocking over a bowl of pickled quince. He thumped the table, shaking the cups.

“If you want to know what I can do, then ask me!” he said.

The conversation around the table stopped. Everyone looked at him.

Jehan stared back at the men, all dressed in long parti-colored
bliaux
embroidered with silk flowers and gold thread. “Or why don’t you challenge me and see who survives?” he continued. “I fought with fat old King Louis in the Auvergne and against the young king when he invaded Champagne. I’ve seen to it that the Countess Mahaut and her children traveled safely in the midst of famine and rebellion. And I’ve saved more than one overly ambitious trader from death when he misjudged the greed of his enemies. The scars I bear are nothing next to the ones I’ve carved.”

He paused for breath, his hatchet glance daring them to interrupt.

“Where did you celebrate the Nativity of Our Lord last year?” He pointed at Berengar’s father. “I heard Mass amidst the ruins of Lisbon. I thanked God that I had been chosen to be one of the first to breach the city walls and free it from the infidel. But, looking at you, I wonder if the Saracens have taken Toulouse while I was fighting in Portugal. In those long robes you look just like the painted
femmelets
who offered themselves to us at the city gates, hoping to save their lives by giving us their asses.”

“How dare you!” The man across the table from him was so angry that he didn’t bother to stand as he drew his knife and lunged.

Jehan stepped back, avoiding his attacker easily.

“Careful,” he told the man. “You might tear your skirt.”

Two more men rose and advanced on him, knives out.

Jehan laughed. This was something he understood.

He drew his sword and his
coutelet
, the short knife meant for slashing at anyone who attacked from his left. His muscles tensed, ready to move in any direction.

“Is this why you told Guy to stay behind?” he called to Berengar. “To see if I could defeat your friends on my own? What sort of treachery are you expecting on our journey?”

“No! Of course not!” Berengar tried to trip the man advancing on them. “All of you, stop! Are you barbarians?”

The men ignored him. Jehan moved without looking to a position where his back was protected. He smiled at the men coming toward him and they suddenly remembered that he was wearing mail. It wasn’t as fashionable as silk but it would effectively blunt a sword while their elegant clothes wouldn’t even soak up blood.

They hesitated. In the moment of uncertainty, Berengar’s father stepped in.

“Peire! Vital! Drop your weapons,” Lord Falquet ordered. “You, too, Willel. And someone help Orso. He’s stuck himself to the table.”

Jehan’s eager grin was more of a reason to retreat than Falquet’s command. The men backed off at once.

Lord Falquet came over to where Jehan stood, his back to a wine cask, his sword and knife still raised.

“The remark about our dress was unwise,” he told the knight. “But you’ve made your point. I believe you will guard both my son and my money well. We agree to make up the rest of the funds needed for the ransom. I can have it collected for you by the feast of Saint Ambrose.”

Slowly, Jehan sheathed the sword. He’d made new enemies today. Good. It helped him push the faces of old ones farther back in his mind.

“That’s more than a week after we intended to leave,” he told Falquet. “Brother James wanted to set out Easter Monday.”

“It’s the best I can do,” Berengar’s father told him. “Gold coins aren’t that easy to come by. I’ll explain the problem to Prior Stephen. If he can find the money elsewhere, I won’t delay you.”

Jehan stuck the knife in his belt.

“As long as my men and I are housed and fed, you may take all summer,” he said. “It’s the men in chains in Valencia who will suffer. When you have everything ready, you’ll find me at the Plucked Crow.
Mes seignors.
” He managed to give the words a slur of scorn.

Berengar looked from Jehan to his father and the other men, then back to Jehan. Falquet and his friends were now treating the knight with nervous respect. This removed the last of Berengar’s doubt. This was the hero he had expected. He made a quick rearrangement of his loyalties.