The Outcast Dove: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (19 page)

Josta looked around the kitchen contentedly. Despite everything that had happened, the house was prepared for the holiday. Every room had been searched for
chametz.
The law was that any piece of bread larger than an olive had to be disposed of. But Josta was more particular than that, to the dismay of her servants and daughter. Every cupboard and box had to be emptied of even the sliver of a crust. That morning, to the delight of the twins, they had burnt it all. And, just in case any had been missed, the formula had been recited to deny ownership.

“Mother,” Belide had said. “Why bother with that? There’s no
chametz
anywhere. A mouse couldn’t find a crumb after the cleaning we’ve done.”

“We don’t want to be charged with even that much,” Josta told her.

Belide sighed. She didn’t understand that Josta would have recited the prayer even if she had been certain they had destroyed every single piece of leaven in all of Toulouse. It was part of the law she followed, the rules for survival that she was trying to impress upon her daughter. Wasn’t it said that even the least commandment must be honored? It might seem trivial to her but who knew its importance to Heaven? Josta took no chances.

But for once she was calm in her mind. Between the servants and an unusually dutiful Belide, the house was beautiful. Muppim and Huppim had gathered wildflowers that were now strewn among the rushes on the floor. The scent of spring intensified as they were crushed beneath her feet. The table was prepared, the silver wine cups and spoons released from the iron treasure box and polished until they shone.

Josta paused to caress the Seder platter that Bonysach had brought all the way from Alexandria in the first year of their marriage. Then, lest the Almighty One think her too proud, she said a quick prayer of thanks for all she had been given.

“Mama!” Huppim broke into her reverie, hopping from one foot to the other in impatience. “The
chametz
is all burnt up. May I have some matzoh now? I’m hungry.”

“Me, too.” Muppim was never far from his twin. “With honey?”

Josta smiled dotingly on her sons, born after ten barren years, when she had despaired of ever having another child. Then she frowned. It wasn’t good to let the evil spirits know how special the boys were to her.

“Look at your hands!” she said. “Covered with soot! Go out and wash at once.”

“Then matzoh?” Muppim asked.

“One piece,” Josta said. “I’ll tell Jermana that’s all you may have.”

“And honey.” Muppim was not to be deterred.

“Very well,” Josta conceded. “Only a spoonful.”

She’d have braved the stings of a thousand bees to scrape it from the comb herself for them. She’d pierce her breast like the phoenix and sustain them with the blood of her heart. But she’d rather have her tongue ripped out than tell them so.

“And don’t get your good clothes all wet!” she shouted after them.

If Solomon thought it odd to be burning
chametz
next to a large mound of dog dung, he made no comment. The courtyard of Gavi’s home was small and entirely given to his craft. Fresh hides were nailed on one wall. Tubs crowded the rest of the space with the scraping tools neatly ranged on a table in the middle. Gavi had covered the dung heap with canvas but the odor couldn’t be disguised.

Afterward all three of them went to the bathhouse. From his solitary tub, Solomon could hear the laughter as Gavi and Nazara scrubbed together. Their excitement over the coming Seder surprised him. Josta must have given her invitation with great delicacy.

Solomon put on his newly washed
chainse
and, in honor of the festival, a long
bliaut
rather than his usual leather
brais.
The movement of air between his legs was pleasant but disconcerting. It made him feel unprotected from sudden attack. Added to that he was wearing hose in blue and yellow stripes. His cloth hat matched the hose. From a dark recess in his pack, he brought out a silver chain from which hung a cluster of garnets. He pinned a similar cluster to the hat. Finally, he took out a pair of soft leather sandals dyed a bright blue. He put these aside to carry with him. He would wear wooden sabots through the muddy streets and at Bonysach’s gate exchange them for the fine ones.

There was a wavery mirror at the tailor’s next to the bathhouse and Solomon stopped to study the effect of his finery.

“Anyone would take you for a nobleman!” Nazara’s face appeared in the mirror next to him. “Come away. You know it’s bad luck to look in a mirror for more than an instant.”

He turned around to admire her.

“Nazara, you look far too beautiful to be married to anyone less than a king!” he exclaimed.

She laughed and spun around. Her robes were all of different shades of green and her silk veil was shot through with threads of gold. She wore earrings of emerald and gold, her entire dowry. Solomon’s compliment was sincere. Nazara was as fine a lady as he had ever seen.

His comment didn’t please her, however. She threw her arms around Gavi.

“I am the wife of a king,” she said. “He rules my heart and my life.”

Gavi looked at the ground in embarrassment.

“My parents gave me a great treasure when they chose her for me,” he told Solomon.

He gently lifted Nazara’s arms from around his neck.

“You don’t want to crush your sleeves,” he reminded her. “It took hours to pleat them with the gauffering iron.

“Goodness no!” she said. Worriedly, she examined the folds in the long sleeves of her
bliaut,
then sighed with relief.

“Shall we go now to the House of Prayer for the services?” she asked the men.

“Why don’t I meet you there?” Solomon suggested. “I need to return my pack to your house. Shall I return your other clothes, as well?”

Gavi laughed. “We can all do that on the way, Solomon. You aren’t getting out of it that easily. What will it hurt you to pray with the community and listen to the cantor’s song?”

Solomon had many answers for that but none that he could give his friend.

“Very well,” he answered in resignation.

“You may be glad you came,” Nazara told him. “You are too much in the company of Edomites. It’s time you remembered how to celebrate with your own people.”

Guy and Berengar were tossing stones into the river. They were finding it hard to occupy themselves while waiting for the monks to be ready to leave for Spain. Guy wished he still had a horse of his own. Then he could go out hawking, if he had a hawk. The two men had spent the morning in mock combat and still had hours of daylight to fill.

“Mmmm…smell that lamb roasting!” Guy licked his lips. “Someone is giving a feast tonight!”

“Oh, that’s the Jews,” Berengar said. “They’re having Passover. It’s like the Last Supper, I think, without the foot washing. Anyway, it’s always about the same time as Easter. I don’t know what they do for it, but I have friends who have gone and they say the food is wonderful, but the bread too flat to hold much meat sauce.”

“I wonder if I could pass for Jewish long enough to get a slice of that meat.”

“I hear they have to feed anyone who comes to their door,” Berengar told him. “I never thought to try it, but if you want to get out your begging bowl…”

“Me? Ask those people for charity?” Guy turned red at the idea. “Not if I were starving.”

“All right, calm down,” Berengar said. “I was only joking. Lots of Christians go to Jewish homes for Passover. The bishops preach against it, but they do anyway. Doesn’t that happen in Anjou?”

Guy shrugged. “I don’t know. There aren’t any Jews in my town. I never saw them much until I came down here. At least I don’t think so. They aren’t what I expected. A man from England told me you could always tell them by their horns.”

Berengar was puzzled by this. “There’s a big horn they blow in their synagogue now and then, but I don’t think many of them are very musical.”

“No, idiot, on their heads.” Guy gestured. “They’re born with horns, the Englishman said. They saw them off when they’re babies but you can still see the scars.”

Berengar shook his head. “I think your friend was making a goat of you. That sounds ridiculous.”

“I’ll bet you just never looked,” Guy muttered. “I bet that if you push back their hair, you’ll see the stumps of those horns.”

“How much?” Berengar asked. “What will you bet?”

Guy laughed. “You know I have nothing left to wager.”

“Your sword?” Berengar said hopefully. He had admired it during their practice.

“I’d bet my soul first,” Guy snorted.

Berengar thought. “All right. What about this? If you can find traces of horns on the head of a Jew, then I’ll give you my bridle with the silver links. My uncle gave it to me when I brought down my first boar.”

Guy knew the one he meant. It was useless for anything but display but he might be able to get enough for it to buy a decent mount.

“And what do you get if I lose?” he asked.

Berengar smiled wickedly. “I get to see you at the gate of Bonysach the Jew, begging for a cut of roast lamb.”

Samuel ben Abraham adjusted the collar of the new
bliaut
his mother had sent him. She had designed and embroidered the intricate pattern herself. Wearing it was like having her there to hug him. He wished she were. He was reciting a poem of his own creation at the service today. It would have been nice to know there was one person in the room who would listen to it uncritically.

Once he had finished dressing, he went to check on Rav Chaim. The old man had become alarmingly vague of late and Samuel had taken it upon himself to see that he remembered to perform daily tasks like washing and eating.

As he feared, Hubert was sitting at his Torah wearing only his shift and nightcap. Even his feet were bare.

“Master?” He spoke softly so as not to startle him.

Hubert didn’t look up. Samuel came closer, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Master?” he asked again.

Hubert started and dropped the
yad
on the floor.

“Samuel!” he said. “What are you doing up so early?”

Samuel stooped and retrieved the pointer. “Master, it’s past the sixth hour. Look.”

They both stared up at the window. The sun had passed above the synagogue. The light entering the room was diffuse, making a rippled pattern on the pages.

“Didn’t you notice?” Samuel asked.

Hubert shook his head. “They made their own light,” he whispered, still staring at the page.

Samuel wasn’t sure what to do next. It was possible that Reb Chaim was just an old man teetering on the rim of dotage. But it was equally possible that he was in the presence of a living saint. Should one tell a saint that he needed to wash his face and feet? Could he be trusted to get his clothes on in the right order?

Samuel tried to think of something in the Talmud that would guide him. There must be directions about saving a holy man from public shame. But how could he be sure it was shameful? Perhaps the Holy One, blessed be his name, was demonstrating that one who neglects himself in the study of the Torah rises beyond the normal laws.

Slowly Hubert straightened on his stool. With a groan, he attempted to stand.

Samuel was at his side at once.

“Do you wish to rest awhile, Rav Chaim?” he asked. “I can come back before sundown with water for washing and fresh clothes.”

He helped Hubert to his bed and made him lie down.

“So peaceful.” Hubert sighed. “So quiet. Rabbi Akiba is the only one in the garden.”

He closed his eyes.

Samuel was so shaken by these words that he had to lean against the door and catch his breath. He knew the story well.

Four wise men entered the garden of the Lord. One saw inside it and died; another looked and went mad. The third began to chop the plants down like weeds. Only Rabbi Akiba entered the garden with peace in his heart and was unharmed.

Was the old man chastising him for his concern with mundane matters?

Or had Rav Chaim had a vision of Akiba?

Samuel knew he was not learned enough to judge.

The elders were all busy preparing for the service. Samuel tried to decide who would be most understanding of the situation.

Halfway across the court he realized that he would have to make a detour. He hurried out the back gate, to the latrine.

The time it took gave him a chance to consider what he would tell the elders. As he got up and adjusted his robes, he said the prayer of thanks for a successful bowel movement. It was true that emptying the body helped to clear the mind. Samuel felt much less agitated as he opened the door.

From behind it there came a grunt and, before he could take more than a step a bag was dropped over his head and his arms were pinioned.

“Help!” he cried. “Thieves! Murder!”

“Shut him up!” someone hissed. “Let’s get a look at his head.”

“How are we supposed to do that with a bag on it?”