The Outcast Dove: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (23 page)

On the first day of the journey, Brother Martin discovered with surprise that the Jews both irritated and fascinated him. Having spent most of his life in the monastery, his vision of the Hebrew people was a tangle of revered Patriarchs and despicable slayers of Christ. These men fit neither image. They seemed much more like the Christian laymen he knew both in appearance and dress. Of course, they did have some customs that set them apart. The little boxes they tied to their heads and arms while praying were delightfully absurd. Martin wondered how a grown man could permit himself to look so foolish.

Other customs, however, were harder to mock; the way they observed their Sabbath for instance.

Saturday morning, the party left at sunrise from the village of L’Isle Jourdain following an ill-kept path through the woods.

When the road widened enough for a horse to pass, Berengar, in the lead with Jehan, fell back to see how everyone was doing. He noticed Brother Martin watching the Jewish men behind him.

“They make good time, don’t they, considering,” he commented.

Considering that the men were all walking, he meant. Brother Martin had been surprised that morning when the Jews had announced that they couldn’t ride on the Sabbath. After an inner struggle, even Solomon had decided to observe the prohibition. His reason was not piety, but a determination to distance himself from anything Brother James might approve of.

But James paid them no attention. He rode near the front of the line of men, keeping close to Jehan and Berengar. It was Brother Martin who found the behavior of the Jews annoying, as if they were flaunting their devotion to their religion. This implied that, somehow, his was lacking.

Added to this was the obvious eagerness of the young man, Samuel, to engage him in theological discourse. Martin was acutely aware that although his faith was firm, he was no match for the wiles of a scholar.

It was these things that made the monk feel that Jews in the flesh were even more aggravating than those in monastic readings. It puzzled him that no one else seemed to be uncomfortable. Berengar and Arnald took their behavior for granted. Jehan just grunted total disinterest in anything Jewish and Guy followed his lead. That left only Brother James to ask. But here Martin’s courage failed.

James had hardly spoken since they set out. He rode with head bowed, as if carrying a great weight. He ate little and, although they had been given a dispensation allowing them to forego their duties, he recited the hours as close to the proper times as he could manage. Martin had been warned that Brother James needed protection from the temptations of his former coreligionists. But Martin wasn’t sure what form these would take. So far there had been no contact between them at all. He wondered if the abbot had meant that the Jews might try to abduct Brother James and drag him back to their synagogue. That would be easy for the burly monk to prevent, but if anything more subtle were attempted, he feared he would be useless.

As the days progressed, Martin had the feeling that James had no need for spiritual protection. He seemed to be building a wall of prayer around himself. The psalms mounted, solid as bricks, with not even a chink for the alluring sound of Hebrew to enter. But sadly, there wasn’t any way for Martin to reach in, either. Inside his cell of words, James was alone.

They were following the great pilgrim route that ended at the shrine of Saint James at Compostella. In many ways it was a good choice. There were inns and shelters at regular intervals. The monks could be certain of a bed at a monastery or priory at each stop. But, especially as one came closer to the mountains, the hazards increased.

“I thought our job was to fight off bandits, not pay them,” Guy grumbled on Monday as they were stopped by yet another toll taker blocking the road.

“Be grateful; our swords keep them from doubling the price,” Jehan said. “Keep good watch at the rear. Tell that Arnald boy to do his best to look fierce. The ones who collect the tolls will signal their friends ahead if they think we’re easy picking.”

“Won’t be anything left to pick at this rate,” Guy grumbled.

“Wait until we get to Saint-Jean-de Sorde,” Jehan told him. “The ferrymen there not only charge a fortune, they do their best to tip the raft over. That way they can scavenge what they like from the drowned pilgrims.”

“I don’t suppose they’d throw dice for the crossing fee?” Guy wondered.

“Then they could fleece you without getting wet!” Jehan couldn’t believe it. “Guy, when are you going to face it that, in your case, Lady Fortune is a disease-riddled whore?”

Guy set his jaw in defiance. “My luck will change soon. I know it,” he insisted.

“Yes,” Jehan agreed. “It will get worse.”

It was Tuesday afternoon when they reached the infamous ferry. The eyes of the ferryman lit as he saw the party approaching, a tic at one corner computing the number of coins he would get for each mule and packhorse on top of the price to take the men across the river.

By the time they reached the bank, his grin was ecstatic.

“Greetings, my lords.” He bowed. “Good monks. On your way to the shrine of the blessed apostle, no doubt? I’ll be pleased to assist you, unless you want to walk across.”

He roared at his own joke. It tickled him every time he told it. Once a heretic had taken him up on the idea. He hadn’t gone more than three steps before his faith failed him and the devil dragged him under. That tale had earned the ferryman free cider and wine in the taverns for many a year.

No one in the group laughed.

“How much?” Jehan asked. He casually took out his knife to clean his fingernails.

“Ten
pogesia
for each man, eight each for the monks.” The man bowed to Martin and James. “Two
sous
for each horse and mule. Three if they are
sous
of Narbonne.”

Jehan looked at Brother James.

“Three
pogesia
for each of the soldiers,” James said. “We are clerics traveling in the service of Cluny. You have no right to charge us at all.”

The ferryman laughed again. He was feeling very cheerful that day.

“The bishop doesn’t feel that way,” he explained. “Nor does my lord of Saint-Michel. When they come for their share of the toll, they expect each pilgrim and priest to have paid.”

“We shall pay the normal fee,” James said calmly. “Plus a
pagosi
as your cut. But you have more than doubled the amount they charge.”

“I have my own saints to honor.” The ferryman smirked.

“Saint Mammon and Saint Luxuria, I have no doubt,” James answered.

The ferryman rubbed his forehead. “I never heard of those, but I’ll light a candle to them if you think I should. Now, you can pay my fee or find your own place to ford. There may be one a day or two upriver. Or maybe not.”

James beckoned to Jehan. Behind them, Solomon and Aaron were becoming restive.

“The monk can’t think he can bargain with that old thief,” Aaron said. “Doesn’t he know that the man will have a score of friends waiting in the woods?”

“He should,” Solomon answered. “Perhaps he’s forgotten.”

His friend looked questioningly at him and Solomon realized that Aaron hadn’t heard the story of Jacob the convert. Perhaps only the older men knew, the ones who had met Jacob and his brother Eliazar when they were young merchants. The knowledge gave him a pang of sadness that he couldn’t understand.

Jehan and Brother James had finished their consultation. Jehan seemed particularly pleased. The ferryman’s smug expression faded to worry as the knight rode up to him. His hand moved in a series of gyrations.

“Does he have the palsy?” Brother Martin asked Brother James. “I don’t want to risk my life on the skill of someone who shakes.”

“I’d rather that than trust it to this man,” James said sourly. “He’s telling his friends to be ready to attack us if he doesn’t like the taste of our money.”

Jehan leaned down to speak to the ferryman. Their voices were too low for the others to hear. However, when they had finished, the man was grinning again so broadly that the black stumps of his upper molars were visible.

Jehan drew several small coins from his purse and gave them to the man.

“You get the rest when we are safely across,” he reminded the man. “Berengar, you go first. Then the monks, then Guy.”

Berengar had been at the rear, talking to Arnald. He had observed the haggling without much interest. That was something traders did. It wasn’t until he reached the river bank that he saw what was to take him and his horse across the swift river.

“You must be mad!” he cried. “That’s no more than a hollowed log!”

“It’s carried better men than you!” the ferryman retorted. “Why a few years ago the abbot of Cluny was my passenger. He told me he had never felt so safe, just like in his mother’s arms. There was even room for his little white mule.”

“Where? On his lap?” Berengar turned to Jehan. “You can’t mean us to pay money for the chance to drown?”

“It’s this or turn back,” Jehan told him. “Get in the boat. Put your horse on the lead and tie it to your wrist. He’ll swim behind. Go on, do you want the others to think you hide a curling tail in your
brais
?”

“I’m not a coward!” Berengar said. But he made no move toward the ferry.

“Let me go first,” Brother Martin said. “If it will hold me, then the rest of you should have no trouble.”

“No, you need someone to guard you on the other side.” Jehan shook his head at Berengar. “Who knows how many thieves are hiding there.”

“Guy! Our young nobleman is afraid of the water,” he called.

Guy sighed. “I’ll go first if he won’t,” he said. “Anyone want to wager that Berengar ends up in the river?”

“I’ll take that,” the ferryman said.

“No, you won’t,” Jehan snapped. “Berengar, hurry. We’ve wasted too much time already.”

Berengar was white with terror but, in the end, he preferred losing his life to his reputation.

With many grumblings, the other guards and the monks were taken across. Jehan went last.

“Wait!” Aaron called as the knight stepped into the ferry. “You’re being paid to protect us, as well.”

“From outlaws, not boatmen,” Jehan called back. “Deal with him yourselves. We’ll meet you at Hostavalla tonight.”

“You…
vopils!
” Aaron shouted. “
Ganador!
Bastard!
Salierissugua!”

“Aaron!” Solomon exclaimed in admiration. “Very good. Although he’s probably done even more disgusting things in his life. I was wondering when the old Jehan would appear.”

“Why didn’t you warn me?” Aaron asked.

“I didn’t think of it,” Solomon admitted. “It never occurred to me that you might trust a Christian.”

“Excuse me?”

Solomon turned around. Arnald was still with them.

“Sorry,” he said. “So shall we find out what kind of bargain that monk and Jehan made for their own passage?”

While they had been talking, Yusef had already approached the ferryman.

“Greetings, Fortus.” He nodded.

The ferryman nodded back. “You brought a friend this time,
Senhor
Yusef.” He smirked at Babylonia, who glared at him.

“So what did they agree to pay in exchange for giving you free rein to gouge us?” Yusef asked.

Fortus chuckled. “Seven
pogesia
for each man, including the monks, two sous for the battle horses and one each for the mules and pack animals.”

“You did well,” Yusef told him. “I’m inclined to give you a couple of sous extra just for the entertainment.”

“I hate those monks.” Fortus’s cheerful mask fell and the anger showed through. “They all think they’re Christ, Himself. But He cared for the poor. They just take from them.”

Yusef nodded. “If I ever met a cleric who could heal the sick or raise the dead, I might convert, myself.”

“Well, they say the apocalypse won’t come until the Jews all accept Our Lord as their savior,” Fortus said philosophically. “If that’s what it will take for you to turn Christian, I figure we’ll all be here a long time yet. So, five men, one woman, four horses, three mules. Not taking much to trade this time, are you?”

“Things are too unsettled in Spain,” Yusef said. “No one’s buying.”

He gave the ferryman the money.

They made it across without incident, although Arnald prayed loudly to a saint Genesius, to whom he offered several candles before they reached the opposite bank.

“Don’t know why you think he’ll help you,” Fortus said. “Saint Genesius knew how to swim.”

“Exactly,” Arnald said. “If I fall in, he’s just the saint I want looking out for me.”

Jehan expected to endure a tirade from the Jews for leaving them on the other side of the river, but no one said anything. Upon arriving at camp later that day, they checked their packs for damp and then took out cloths to dry the horses. Arnald made it clear to everyone that he was expending some of the travel money his father had given him on a candle at the first shrine they came to.

“How many times will we have to do this?” he asked the world in general. “I swear I saw demonic claws just below the surface of the water. I was sure they’d tip the boat over.”

“It’s just a little water,” Berengar said. “Anyone would think you’d never been baptized.”

This was such a turnabout from his behavior on the other side of the river that everyone forgot resentment to gape at him.

Berengar shrugged and laughed. “Well fooled, weren’t you?” he said. “The ferries farther up the Garonne from Toulouse are far worse than that. I only wanted to see if that old
espoarit
would try anything, believing I was too busy reviewing my sins to notice.”

“You had me convinced,” Arnald said. “And I didn’t blame you. I’ve never been in anything so rickety that still floated.”

They continued on with no further conversation. The day was long, but twilight had still settled on them before they reached the town of Hostevalla. It had been built around hostels for the pilgrims, for several roads met there. The next morning they set out for the new town of Santa-Maria-Cabo-la-Puente established at the foot of the Pyrenees by the king of Narvarre for the comfort and taxation of pilgrims and traders.