The Outcast Dove: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (14 page)

“You’ll find me with Jehan,” he said.

Solomon found Bonysach’s house in chaos. All the furniture was piled in the courtyard and half the pantry was being emptied into the midden. Servants were busy everywhere, carrying, scrubbing, polishing.

Solomon finally spotted Belide in the center of the commotion.

“Not the best time for a visit, I see,” he observed. “May I help?”

The girl was thumping dust out of a thick wall hanging, now dangling on a line between two trees. She handed him the woven beater at once.

“Mother just uses Passover as an excuse,” she grumbled as she rubbed her sore arm. “There aren’t likely to be crumbs in the tapestry.”

Solomon had the feeling he was being watched. He took the beater.

“The search for
chametz
must be thorough, Belide,” he said as he prepared to strike. “If there’s even a speck of leaven in the house the Angel of Death might mistake us for a gentile family and not pass over.”

He heard a gasp from knee level and looked down. He thought so. Two faces looked up at him from between the legs of stacked chairs.

“Are you boys helping prepare for Pesach?” he asked the twins.

Muppim and Huppim both nodded vigorously.

“We’ve found every scrap of bread,” Huppim said. “And put it in the pit to burn.”

He pointed to a hole in the earth lined with stones and partly filled with bits of leavened bread along with a few wooden bowls that had cracked or chipped during the year.

“And we’ve been scouring pans all day,” Muppim added.

“We put a wash tub over in the corner for them,” Belide explained. “That way they can help, get wet, and stay out of the way.”

“Excellent.” Solomon smiled at the dripping children. “You’d better return to it before I strike again, or you’ll both be covered in unkosher dust and have to be scrubbed yourselves!”

His blow to the tapestry justified his warning. The twins scurried out of the way and Belide started coughing.

“A…much…better…achah…job than I could do,” she choked. “Thank you.”

Solomon patted her back. “There. You should have moved back, too.”

He raised his arm again, then lowered it. He checked to see that the boys and the servants were all out of earshot.

“How is your mother?” he asked. “Did you speak to her?”

He whacked the cloth again, giving Belide a moment to answer.

“Mama’s much better,” she told him. “And I told her everything I knew. You were right. She didn’t betray us, not even to my father. She’s agreed not to say anything to him until after Pesach. Also, she means to have a long talk with Aaron when he returns.”

“As do I. Did she tell you that you acted like an idiot?” he asked.

Belide hung her head. “In a lot more words.”

“Good,” he said. “That’s all I came to find out. Give your parents my regards.”

He handed the beater back. Belide took it with reluctance.

“You will be at the Seder?” she asked.

Solomon paused. “I don’t know.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he said. “All Jews are equal at Pesach, right? No matter what, we are all still Israel, even me?”

“Of course.” Belide was confused. “Has someone said you weren’t? Who? Not Yusef?”

“No.” Solomon took her hand. “I was thinking of someone else. Please tell your parents that I thank them for their invitation. However, I have decided that I would prefer to be at the home where Gavi and his wife celebrate the Seder.”

“Oh, Solomon! A tanner at the Seder table!” Belide tried not to show her distaste. “And you want me to tell my parents. You
have
found a way to punish me for the trouble I caused.”

“You know, Belide,” Solomon answered. “I didn’t even think of that.”

During Holy Week the monks were kept busy with special prayers and processions added to the hours of the Office. It was a time that Brother James usually treasured. As a young man he had been one of the despised people ordered into the church and forced to listen to hours of sermons exhorting them to convert. Now he was one of the elect, a participant in the divine Mystery. He gloried in the transformation. Now Easter was his holy time, too.

But this year his devotions were disrupted by far more mundane mysteries.

Despite the counsel of the prior, James couldn’t put the murder of Brother Victor aside. It seemed to him that his friend had been completely erased by the other monks. Of course his name would go onto the scroll taken to all the daughter houses of Cluny and his soul would be prayed for. But here in Toulouse, where he had died, no one even said his name. Another monk, Brother Martin, had arrived from Moissac. He took Victor’s place in the chanting and slept in his bed.

Victor’s death was a tragedy, they said, but there was nothing more to be done. Clearly it had been a random act of violence. Perhaps one day a miracle would reveal the villain.

James refused to believe that. His heart was open to miracles, but God must certainly expect him to do his part.

That was why he had insisted on interviewing the man who found Victor.

But seeing Hubert like that had shaken him as much as losing his friend. Hubert had been his only brother in the flesh who had also been Christian! Even though they hadn’t been friends, at least James had been comforted knowing that one of his family was also part of the church. How could Hubert have turned his back on the light that he had been raised in? Didn’t he know how fortunate he was? Had he no fear of damnation?

Now James was left with a worse dilemma than before. A word from him would send his brother to his death. As Easter drew near, with the image of the crucified Christ always before them, even the tolerant citizens of Toulouse would call for the blood of an apostate. It was James’s duty to denounce him.

Was this the ultimate test of his faith?

James had already abandoned his family to follow Christ, just as the Gospel commanded. He knew that if his eye offended, he should pluck it out. But what of his brother’s eye? Would condemning Hubert save his soul? If a man converted in fear of the flames, was that enough? Logic told James that it couldn’t be. God couldn’t want an impure sacrifice.

James paused in his deliberation. Was he thinking like a Talmudic scholar instead of an obedient monk?

Or was he unable to face the thought of sending his little brother to his death?

He didn’t know. All he was sure of was that he wasn’t strong enough to decide. This fear, added to his inability to resolve the death of Brother Victor, consumed James. He tried to appear tranquil. What if the prior should decide he was too unstable to make the journey to Valencia? He could let that happen. Then he would have failed Victor as well as himself.

The strain affected his digestion. It made him grateful for fast days and long hours of prayer. When it came time for bed, he was almost too exhausted to unlace his sandals. He fell at once into oblivion.

But the other monks complained that he disturbed their sleep with his cries.

The day was still young when Solomon escaped from the Passover cleaning. The bright sunshine and lilac-scented air made it hard for him to remain on guard. He tried to recall the peace he had gained in his sojourn in Carcassonne. He heard the rhythmic calls of vendors and followed them to the square of Saint Pierre where he realized that it was market day. For a time he wandered among the stalls, stopping now and then to admire a brightly colored length of cloth or a set of silver earrings.

“Your lady would look beautiful in these.” The woman held them up for him to examine.

“No, thank you,” he told her. “They are skillfully made but gold suits her better.”

He passed on. Now, why had he said that? The first image that had come to him was that of Edgar’s sister, Margaret, and how her gold and pearl earrings glimmered against the radiance of her red hair. Of course, he told himself. He had promised a present for the girl. It must have been in the back of his mind. He would have to get something for Catherine and the children, too, on his way back to Paris.

The square was becoming crowded with people intent on getting provisions for Easter, when the long fast would finally be over. Solomon went on up the street, past the remains of the Saracen wall and into the Bourg, dominated by the cathedral of Saint Sernin. He had no particular place to go but he felt the need to keep moving.

On one corner he bought a few hard-boiled eggs and some fresh parsley from a peasant woman who had come in for the day to sell her surplus. He continued north, leaving a trail of eggshell behind.

He was almost at the parvis of the cathedral when the smell hit him. As he came out of the street he realized that he had made a wrong turn.

In the square the butchers had set up their stalls. At this time of year, fresh meat was almost unheard of. But Solomon was assailed with the odor of pork—smoked, dried, salted; pig in all its forms, ready for the Christians to break their Lenten fast. He put his arm over his nose and backed out, trying to breathe through his sleeve.

Once upwind of the smell, Solomon leaned against a venerable elm and inhaled deeply. He couldn’t understand how the Edomites could gobble the unclean meat so eagerly. Even thinking about it made him gag.

Once he had regained his composure, Solomon decided to head outside the town walls into the villages clustered outside the Bourg, between the wall and the Hers river. Perhaps he could find someone selling wine in the open air. It would be nice to spend the afternoon under the trees watching other people work.

If he went as far as Matabiau, he could relax for a time without fearing that he would be confronted by either the father who wished he were dead, or the knight who would be happy to do the job.

The village was just as he had hoped. There was no tavern but a cask of wine lay in a wooden cradle and there was a charming young woman happy to draw a pitcher for him. He took it and his cup across the road to a spot in the shade. The grass was soft and new. He settled on it and leaned back against a smooth tree trunk to observe the world.

He was wakened by the tolling of church bells. By the angle of the sun, he realized that it must be Vespers. He checked the pitcher; it was still half full. Ah well, he thought as he stretched, there are worse ways of passing a day.

And better ones, he added. He sat up in alert amusement as a woman slithered out the half opened door of a cottage on the other side of the road. She was heavily veiled and tried to keep to the shadows as she headed back to the city.

Solomon shook his head in disapproval. Clearly the woman was new at this. She might as well shout to the world, “Adulteress passing!” She hadn’t even brought a basket to fill with herbs or roots as an excuse for being gone so long. He hoped she had a very stupid husband and neighbors who all were blind.

A few moments later, the man came out. He was either more practiced or so besotted that he didn’t care who saw him. He went over to the wine seller and gave her a coin to fill his cup. As his head tilted back to drink, Solomon saw his face.

Oh
merdus!
The man was Arnald.

Solomon tried to move back out of sight but Arnald chose that moment to look up. He dropped his clay cup and it broke on a stone.

Arnald waved at him and tried to smile.

“Solomon!” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

That was evident.

Solomon smiled back. “I came out for a quiet afternoon and fell asleep,” he said. “I’d best be getting back to town. Gavi will be expecting me.”

“I’ll walk back with you,” Arnald offered.

Solomon could think of no reason to refuse. They set off in silence but Solomon could sense the volcano building in the young man.

“Please, oh Lord of the Universe,”
he prayed.
“Don’t let him confide in me!”

But why should God answer the prayers of one who only calls upon Him in adversity?

“Solomon,” Arnald began. “I know I can trust you.”

Solomon’s heart sank.

By the time they reached the Matabiau gate Solomon knew everything about Arnald’s magnificent lady. She was pure and fair and unhappily yoked to a boor of a lord who didn’t appreciate her fragile nature.

“This wouldn’t be the lord you baptized from the tower, would it?” Solomon asked.

“That was before I knew Philippa well,” Arnald said. “I acted childishly. She has taught me to express my feelings with more refinement.”

“I’m sure she’s been an excellent teacher,” Solomon agreed.

This comment passed well over Arnald’s head. He smiled with rapture and spent several more moments detailing how perfect his beloved was.

Despite himself, Solomon felt sympathy for the boy. At least his own youthful passions had been conducted far from home. And none of them had been deep enough to risk the threat of either disembowelment or marriage. He wondered how far Arnald had fallen.

“If, by some mischance, this woman’s husband should fall ill and die,” he asked by way of a test. “Would she then be able to marry you?”

Arnald chewed on that a while.

“Well,” he said at last. “I will have my own vineyards, when I’m of age. And I’ll inherit the salt marshes, of course. But it wouldn’t be enough to give her all she deserves.”

A bell of relief rang in Solomon’s heart.

“Too true.” He shook his head. “A precious jewel like that, can you imagine her having to care for a home and children as your mother does?”

Arnald didn’t answer. His face showed that the vision of his love didn’t fit with the mundane running of a household. Solomon relaxed. There was a shred of sense left in the boy. He wondered if Vidian knew about his son’s indiscretion. If so, it would explain his insistence that Arnald go on this expedition with the monks. A few weeks out of town might save Arnald’s life.

Arnald left Solomon at the
rue des Blanchisseurs
where Gavi lived.

“You won’t tell anyone of this, will you?” Arnald was already regretting his confidences.