Heresy: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (8 page)

Solomon regretted suggesting that they make haste on their journey. The roads were deadly for two men going this quickly on horseback. He expected any moment to be thrown as his poor mount went down on the icy trail.

“Edgar, there’s no point in pushing us like this,” Solomon complained. “We left Paris too late to catch up with the cart. They’ll all be nice and warm at the Paraclete by now.”

“All the more reason to get there soon,” Edgar answered, panting. “Catherine will worry until she sees us.”

They were riding as quickly as the road allowed, too quickly for Solomon.

“Look,
vieux compang
, it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a pagan statue,” he said. “Even Jupiter would cover himself against this wind. And what will Catherine say if you show up with all your parts iced over and ready to break?”

“She’d be furious and tell me that there were some things she couldn’t live without,” Edgar laughed. “Very well, we’ll stop at the next town.”

“Sooner, Edgar,” Solomon begged from beneath the wreath of scarves he wore. “I can’t feel my nose at all and am all too aware of the rasping of the saddle on my ass. And the light will be gone soon.”

They had come to a rise in the woods. Edgar stopped and scanned the horizon before they descended again. He rose in the saddle, exposing his nether region to a chilling blast.

“I can see smoke rising over there,” he pointed to the north. “It may be a village or a company of
ribauz
. Do you want to risk it?”

“Right now I’d rather have my throat slit than continue freezing. At least I’d die in warm blood,” Solomon answered. “Besides, a lot of the
ribauz
are no more than charcoal burners or peasants driven from their land. I don’t mind paying well to share their fire.”

“Be on your guard all the same,” Edgar said. “We’re no match for a troop of desperate men, even if we’re better armed.”

“At least we haven’t much to steal,” Solomon said philosophically as they made their way in the direction of the smoke. “It was a good idea of yours to put all the money under the straw in the cart.”

It was farther than it had looked from the road to the source of the fire. Edgar had begun to fear that they had passed it among the trees when they came upon a trail that seemed more worn than the deer runs they had been following so far. About a hundred yards later, they entered a clearing.

“Amazing!” Solomon exclaimed. “We seem to have chanced upon a rich hermit!”

Edgar was also surprised to find, instead of some rude leantos, two well-built houses on either side of a small stone oratory. There was also what looked like a grain shed behind one of the houses.

Solomon made for the nearest house, but Edgar held him back.

“There’s something odd here,” he said. “Listen. No chickens clucking, no dog. Not a sign on the ground of sheep or goats. No pigsty. What sort of hermit doesn’t even keep a goat?”

“Why don’t we ask him when we get inside,” Solomon suggested. “Perhaps he gave everything away to the poor. Do you think he’ll let us stable the horses in his church?”

“He’ll have to,” Edgar said. “There’s no place else.”

Solomon accepted that. Every now and then Edgar got a tone in his voice that reminded one that he had been born a nobleman, not a merchant. If the owner of the oratory refused their request, Edgar would simply order him to obey. Usually, people did. The worst thing was that he seemed totally unaware of it. As a Jew, Solomon had been forced too often to seek protection from lords who had no intention of ever letting him forget that his safety depended on their power. The mere sight of them made his bile rise. Edgar was his best friend. Solomon didn’t want to be reminded that he came from this same stock.

Of course, he sighed, he was more than willing to use Edgar’s assumption of authority when he needed it.

“Shall we get down and knock on the door,” he asked, “or wait until spring thaws us?”

Edgar dismounted and approached the nearest house. Before he raised his hand, the upper half of the door opened to reveal three frightened faces, two women and a man.

“We mean you no harm,” Edgar said quickly. “My companion and I seek shelter for ourselves and our horses for the night. We have food we can share with you and coin to pay for your trouble.”

The three looked at each other and shut the door. Edgar heard a low, intense conversation.

“I don’t think we need to worry about this lot,” Edgar called back to Solomon. “They seem to be trying to decide if we plan to slit their throats, not the other way around.”

“Well, tell them to be quick about it,” Solomon answered.

The door opened again, this time all the way. The man stood there alone.

“You are welcome to our poor shelter,” he said. “We have no space for horses, but”—he swallowed—“you may use the chapel. There is some straw and water, but we have no hay to give them.”

“Thank you,” Edgar said. “My friend and I will attend to them and then join you, unless you’d rather we stayed with our animals?”

The man’s face showed that he would much prefer that.

“No, of course not,” he answered, aware of the rules of hospitality. “Please return to share what little we have, my lord.”

The door shut on them again. Through the wood, Solomon and Edgar could tell that the argument had started again.

“Two women and one man.” Solomon tried not to smirk. “Being a hermit is suddenly much more appealing.”

“They may be brother and sisters,” Edgar suggested, annoyed at the slur.

“Even more interesting,” Solomon said as they entered the oratory.

The small building had two slits for windows on either side. In the far wall was a larger window, crudely covered with boards. It was nearly dark and the men could see little as they unsaddled the horses and rubbed them down. Solomon went out in search of a bucket and a source of water.

The hermit was waiting for him.

“I’m sorry we don’t have more to offer,” he said, handing him the water bucket. “We have few visitors and almost none on horseback.”

Solomon thanked him and brought the water in.

“These people are hiding something,” he told Edgar.

Edgar had made one pile of straw for the horses to nibble on and was spreading more against the far wall. “Such as…?” he asked.

“How can I tell?” Solomon snapped. “They won’t let me see it. But I want to know what they have in that other hut. I’m sure I heard movement in there before the man stopped me.”

Edgar was tired and worried about his family. There was something strange about the hermits, but they didn’t seem threatening. He laid his bedroll on half the straw pile.

“Unless it’s a feather bed, I don’t care,” he said.

Solomon wasn’t satisfied. He wasn’t convinced of the harmlessness of these people. The hermitage could be a blind, drawing travelers in so that they could be robbed or murdered in the night.

He doubted he’d sleep. But first, he had a more pressing need.

“What do we have to eat?” he asked Edgar. “From the look of this place, gruel is all they can offer.”

“I’ve cheese and dried meat in my pack,” Edgar said. “They probably won’t touch the meat, but the cheese should be welcome. We can spare it.”

But when they returned to the house, they found their gift rebuffed.

“We are fasting this month,” the older woman told them. “We have only grain and water. You are welcome to that.”

“You don’t mind if we eat our own food, do you?” Edgar asked.

In the flicker of the small lamp, Edgar could see the yearning of the younger woman for the cheese and meat, but she set her lips and shook her head when he offered it to her again.

They tried to make conversation, but the three hermits gave only short answers. Once they had eaten, the three bowed their heads and recited a
Nostre Pere
, then they bid them good night. Edgar nudged Solomon when he saw that each went alone to a narrow pallet against the wall.

“Makes our packs and blankets look luxurious, doesn’t it?” he said as they returned to the oratory to sleep.

“I’ll never understand you people,” Solomon said as they unrolled their blankets. “Why should the Holy One give us bodies if he meant us to abuse them? But as long as it’s dry and out of the cold, and we are undisturbed I’ve no complaints.”

They were awakened the next morning by the chanting once again of repeated Our Fathers. Solomon felt that their hosts had deliberately increased their fervor to a level that would make sleep impossible.

When Edgar and Solomon came out, the three were waiting by the door.

“We know you want to be on your way,” the man said. “Please take what you need.” He hesitated. “There’s a broom by the door. If you could remove the evidence of your animals?”

“Certainly.” Only the manners required of a guest kept Edgar from losing his temper. He told himself that these were holy people who had removed themselves from the world and that he was an intruder. He told himself this several times.

The men were soon on their way. Edgar looked behind and saw that the door to the hut was once again shut. He could almost believe that the people had never existed. There were stories about odd beings in the forests. He enjoyed them on a warm summer night in the comfort of Paris. He didn’t care to see them come to life.

“Strangest hermits I ever came across, even if they didn’t try to kill us,” Solomon echoed his thoughts. “Do you think they’re holding the young one against her will? She’d have eaten the cheese if the others hadn’t been there. Pretty, too. Or she would be if she were better fed.”

“She didn’t seem any worse off than the other two,” Edgar said. “They probably thought we were devils come to tempt them. Still, I’ve never seen a less welcoming group. No wonder they have so little, if they greet everyone like that.”

They rode for a while in silence.

“I would still like to know what was in the other hut,” Solomon said after several minutes of brooding.

Edgar shook his head. “Why? What has it to do with us?”

“Nothing, I hope.” Solomon urged his horse forward. “But there was something alive in there. I don’t like the feeling that, whatever it was, it now knows my scent.”

The hermits had waited behind their barred door for some time after Solomon and Edgar left.

“Do you think they suspected anything?” the elder woman asked.

“Of course not,” the younger answered. “We didn’t preach to them. We’re cowards, you know.”

“There’s a time for bravery,” the man told her. “I’m not eager to burn, are you?”

“Our poor friend must be,” the elder woman said. “We should have brought him in with us last night, no matter the danger.”

The man shook his head. “We’re just lucky that he saw them coming in time to hide.”

“He had had no business becoming involved with those Eonites,” the older woman said as they left the hut.

“It was a family matter,” the man said. “I think he is leaning toward joining us at last after his experience there.”

He tapped on the door of the other hut. “Are you all right? It’s safe to come out now.”

There was a rustling as a bedraggled, shivering man came out from under the pile of straw that had kept him from freezing. He limped to the door, his feet cramped with the cold.

The older woman gave him little sympathy.

“Maybe now you’ll learn that we are your only family,” she said. “Here, I brought barley in hot cider. Eat.”

At her castle in Flanders, Countess Sybil was preparing for her journey somewhat differently than Catherine had. She wasn’t concerned with places that would take her in. As the wife of a pilgrim and as the daughter of King Fulk of Jerusalem, she knew that no monastery would dare turn her away.

But that didn’t mean she had no worries.

“Annora,” she called to her friend, “has word come yet from the lord of Guînes?”

“Nothing,” the lady Annora answered. Her grey eyes reflected Sybil’s disquiet. “I’ve heard that he has been having trouble with the lord of Ardres. Do you think it might keep him from sending the help he owes you?”

“Those two have been fighting over the same worthless piece of land since they were children,” Sybil spoke sharply. Part of her anger was at the lords, part at herself for not having the courage to tell Annora that her sister was still missing. “They can go back to it once this danger is over. Annora, I must have more men to fight Baldwin, or there will be nothing left of Flanders by the time Thierry returns.”

“You’ve done all that could be expected of you,” Annora said. “It’s hard to raise an army when all the important vassals of the count have gone with him to the Holy Land.”

“And when those who remain prove themselves to be oathbreakers,” Sybil said grimly. “I’ve fortified the towns as best I can. Now the pope has insisted that the bishops and abbots come to Reims to debate church policy. Has it never occurred to him that I need those men to preserve order?”

Annora knew she wasn’t expected to answer that. She was younger than Sybil and still somewhat in awe of her. She had been sent to Flanders to stay with the countess when her sister Cecile entered the convent. When her father had died, he had left it to Sybil to find her a husband who would be an advantageous alliance with both Flanders and their small lordship in Normandy. Annora had made no objection. She was grateful that someone was watching out for her interests. Her only request had been to be allowed to examine the candidates for her hand before negotiations began.

She pushed a blond braid out of the way of the embroidery she was working on and made gentle noises of agreement as Sybil continued her plaint.

“One would think that all the prelates of Christendom would be prepared to excommunicate Baldwin.” The countess was preparing a list of items to take. She wrote with such force that she scraped the hoard beneath the wax and had to stop every few minutes to resharpen the point of her wood stylus.

“But no.” Her knife whittled the wood furiously. “Instead they worry about the color of a cleric’s coat or whether consecrated nuns are wandering about the countryside unescorted.” She stopped, aware that she had almost said too much. Better to wait until Cecile was found. She continued. “I tell you, Annora, the next time anyone preaches to raise an army to fight the Saracens, I’ll leave Thierry at home and lead it myself.”