“That is a forgery!” Constanza shouted. “Or the good abbess has been taken in by lies. Our home was infiltrated by ruffians, and both dear Catherine, who was still delirious with fever, and my serving maid were viciously abducted. My husband was grievously wounded in the attempt to save them, as you can see.”
“Catherine?”
“I was not sick, my lady countess,” Catherine said. “I was starving. Lady Constanza invited me to her home and then kept me prisoner in the women’s rooms. Without the help of the maid and the courage of my husband, I might have died.”
“I see,” Mahaut said. “Of course, if you were as ill as they say, your memory of the event might be incorrect.”
“But I wasn’t!” Catherine couldn’t understand what was happening.
“You can see, my dear countess,”—Constanza came closer to the table—“that her statement can’t be given credence. In her illness she imagined many things. I see now that this is simply a misunderstanding. Although my family has already suffered greatly from the deeds of Walter of Grancy and we intend to continue our search for him, I would be willing to settle this problem without a formal charge. Perhaps if you would allow us to discuss this privately, we might be able to reach an agreement that you could relay to Abbess Héloïse.”
Hubert bit his lip. This smacked of extortion. He feared that Constanza and Rupert had learned more about him than his name.
“Lady Countess,” he said. “For the sake of peace, I will agree. However, may I request that Agnes also be allowed to leave. This has nothing to do with her.”
Agnes faced the table. “My lady, please, let me stay. This is my family. It has everything to do with me.”
She went to her father and knelt before him.
“I have always obeyed you, Father,” she said. “I have never questioned your decisions. But I am grown now and I have a right to know the truth about us. You trust Catherine. You have a secret that has driven my mother to the refuge of the saints. She weeps about it constantly. Should I weep, too? At least, give me the right to decide.”
Hubert drew her up into his arms.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice fearful. “You may stay and listen and I pray you will understand.”
Countess Mahaut stood. “I will allow you a few minutes to come to a peaceful settlement. But I warn you, my guards will be just outside the door.”
Her chaplain and chamberlain preceded her. As she went through the doorway, the countess looked back. Her expression was warning enough.
When she had gone, Hubert turned and faced Constanza, who moved forward, leaving her husband in the shadows.
She laughed at him.
“We know who you really are, Hubert,” she said. “And we plan to tell the countess so that she knows that your word and that of your family is not to be trusted. You were born in Rouen, the son of a Jew. A benevolent Christian took pity on you and had you baptized and taught the True Faith. But we also know that you have spit on your benefactors and returned to your old beliefs like a dog to its vomit.”
“No,” Agnes said. “That’s a horrible lie. Tell her, Father. She has no right to defame us so!”
A few seconds later, no one has moved
What is more against reason than, by reason, to transcend reason?
—Bernard of Clairvaux,
Letter CXC
H
ubert shook his head. “Later, my child.”
Agnes said nothing more but took Catherine’s hand, holding it so tightly that her nails sliced into her sister’s palm.
If Constanza had counted on Hubert to react with fear or anger, she was disappointed. He only watched her.
“Well,” she goaded. “Have you no response?”
Finally Hubert spoke. “Of my birth and my baptism, you may have proof. But you will find no one who will swear to my ever having been anything but a good Christian. Of course, in my business, I would prefer my parentage were not known, but it isn’t that much of a detriment. However, I don’t think it is your intention to expose my past. If your desire were to save the countess from contamination by apostates, you would have told her immediately. What do you want?”
Constanza lifted her chin. “We want only to give you the opportunity of confessing privately, repenting your wickedness and returning to the True Faith.”
Catherine opened her mouth. She had a few similar suggestions for Constanza. Hubert forestalled her. His voice was still even, unconcerned.
“I see,” he said. “I am astounded by your charity. Surely there is something else you desire? Our silence, perhaps, for yours?”
Constanza smiled. Then out of the shadow, Rupert spoke.
“What have we to fear from you?” he said. “You have nothing to keep silent about. We have already explained how your daughter was taken by a fever while in our care. Her ramblings must have deluded the simple maid who sent word that she was being held captive. If her husband had only come and asked for her, instead of entering the house in disguise and stealing her away, all would have been made clear.”
Edgar had a sudden remembrance of Catherine crawling desperately across the room in the keep. His hand went again to his knife.
“For what you have done to my daughter,” Hubert said, his voice for the first time showing his anger, “you will pay, either here or later. But I am more concerned with what you did to two innocent men and, even more despicably, to your own daughter.”
“That’s not true,” Constanza snapped. “She was alive when she left us. Walter of Grancy killed her.”
“Constanza!” Rupert’s warning was cold as steel. He addressed Hubert. “We have proof of your perfidy, Hubert of Rouen. You have nothing but speculation and wild assumptions about us.”
Edgar longed to yank the man out of his chair and into the light, but he saw, as Hubert did, that to give in to anger would be to admit defeat. He stepped to the edge of the darkness and spoke directly to Rupert.
“Walter of Grancy is willing to face you and Raynald of Tonnerre in open court to deny that he is responsible for the death of your stepdaughter,” he said. “Do you have the courage to refute him?”
Rupert indicated his injured leg.
“I am hardly able to meet Walter in combat, but Raynald will do so, gladly. I will swear any oath you like, before anyone you name, that I did not kill Alys.”
“And what of your charges against my father-in-law?” Edgar continued. “Are you prepared to show your proof?”
Rupert smiled. “I might consider waiting before making them public. Perhaps Sieur Hubert has kept to the faith, after all. I should give him time to demonstrate his belief.”
Edgar moved back to stand next to Hubert.
“Things are different here in France,” he said casually. “At home, if a man came to my father with such lies, he would find his tongue in the next day’s soup.”
“A fascinating custom,” Rupert responded. “I would be interested in continuing the comparison of our countries over dinner.”
He reached for his crutch. “Countess Mahaut will be happy to learn that we have agreed to settle the matter between ourselves,” he said. “As for Walter, if he dares show his face, we will meet him in Sens. Raynald and his father plan to attend the display of the relics. We leave Paris the day after Pentecost. Constanza, help me up.”
Constanza hurried over to obey him. Until that moment Catherine had been unaware of the pressure of her sister’s fingers. Now the pain hit. She pulled her hand free and held it up.
There were three thin red slices in her palm where Agnes’s nails had dug in. Catherine showed her. Agnes looked without seeing.
“It’s not true, is it?” she asked. “You wouldn’t have kept such a thing from me?”
Catherine looked away. “I only learned of it last year,” she said. “It wasn’t my place to tell you.”
Agnes held her arms across her stomach.
“I can’t stay here,” she said. “I’m going to be sick.”
She rushed from the room, passing the guards, and down the staircase, nearly running into the knight, Jehan, who reached out to stop her.
“Agnes! What is it?” he called after her.
He saw Catherine at the top of the stairs.
“What have you done this time,
lisse?”
he demanded. “Is no one safe from you?”
Catherine paid no attention to him, but ran down the stairs after Anges. Hubert and Edgar followed close behind.
Jehan looked after them, then continued up. He reached the council room just as Rupert and Constanza left.
“Countess Mahaut has sent me to tell you that the bell has rung for dinner,” the knight said, ashamed to have been sent on such a servile mission. “She hopes all of you will be able to join her.”
Rupert thanked him with a self-deprecating bow. “We are grateful for her consideration, and yours,” he said. “My wife and I will be pleased to dine in her company. As for Sieur Hubert and his family, I fear they have become suddenly indisposed. We shall inform the countess that they will be unable to attend.”
Lord Rupert spoke mildly and with humility. But for some reason, Jehan felt a shiver at the back of his neck and had a strong urge to make the sign of the cross, putting it between himself and this poor limping man.
Agnes ran past all the guards and the other guests, out across the court into the rainsoaked street. Catherine ran after her. She caught Agnes at the corner, leaning against the stone wall, retching her stomach empty. Catherine held the veil away from her face.
“Please Agnes, you mustn’t react so,” she cried. “This doesn’t change anything, not who you are or who Father is.”
“How can you say that?” Agnes wept. She coughed and gagged again. “It changes everything. No wonder Mother feels she must do so much penance. I don’t see how she can bear it!”
Catherine grabbed her sister’s shoulders.
“Agnes,” she said fiercely, keeping her voice low. “Father is a Christian, as much as he can be. So are you, as much as you wish to be. There is no disease hiding in you. His parents weren’t lepers; they were Jews. And do you know how his mother,
our grandmother,
died? She was murdered by noble crusaders who couldn’t wait until the Holy Land to start killing the infidel.”
Agnes pushed Catherine away. She wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her
bliaut.
“I don’t want to hear it,” she said. “You always have some fine talk to make sunshine seem moonlight and wrong right. If Father feels no shame about his birth, then why has he kept it secret?”
“I did it for you, Agnes.” Hubert had stopped long enough to get her cloak. He wrapped it around her and held her in it. “I kept silence for you and Catherine and Guillaume and your children and theirs, that there would be no stigma on them in this Christian land. But I could not abandon my brothers, either. I tried to balance myself between the worlds. I’m sorry, Agnes. I wanted to protect you.”
Agnes stood stiffly in the circle of his arms.
“I don’t want to be protected with lies, Father,” she said. “Take me home.”
She broke away from him and walked away toward the stable. Hubert watched helplessly.
“Maybe I am cursed,” he sighed. “Edgar, Catherine is soaked. Will you take her back to Eliazar’s? I’ll come as soon as I can. Tomorrow, or the next day, when Agnes is better.”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
Catherine stood in the rain, ringlets plastered against her cheeks.
“I don’t know how to help her,” she said to Edgar. “It was different for me. Father took me travelling with him; Solomon and I played together even though I didn’t know we were cousins. Mother always insisted that Agnes stay with her. She never knew Jews as people. Even when I went to the Paraclete, there were no sermons about those who crucified Our Lord, only the glory of the Resurrection. Abelard and Héloïse have great respect for the Jews. Héloïse was teaching me the rudiments of Hebrew. I was better prepared to accept this. Agnes had no warning.”
“I had no warning, either,” Edgar said. “But I’ve accustomed myself to it. I like Solomon and your aunt and uncle. Agnes will, too, if she allows herself to. Come along, Catherine, before you freeze.”
They arrived at the Juiverie, dripping and miserable. Johannah bustled around, getting dry robes and warm drinks, all the while clucking under her breath at their story.
“The poor child!” she said, when she had settled them. “I hope Hubert can comfort her; I only wish I could.”
“She needs you now,” Catherine agreed. “I only wish I knew how Rupert and Constanza found out about Father.”
“They live part of the time in Troyes, don’t they?” Johannah asked. “The brethren there all know Hubert, though I can’t imagine one who would betray him.”
“I can.” Solomon had heard them return and had come down from Eliazar’s room. “Joseph ben Meïr. His talk about staying away from the Christians has more fear to it than piety. If he were paid enough or threatened enough, he’d betray us all.”
“But would he have gone to Rupert on his own and told what he knew?” Edgar wasn’t convinced.
Solomon frowned. “I can’t see him doing that. It would be too big a risk.”
Catherine raised her face from her steaming wine posset.
“It was the deacon,” she said.
“What deacon?” Johannah asked.
“Peter of Baschi,” she said. “I can’t prove it, but I’m sure it was he who told Rupert. He’s clearly a man with no principles. He borrowed money from Héloïse and didn’t repay it. He borrowed from Joseph. He was in the mob that captured the butcher and spoke up for his accusers. He dresses above his station and far too luxuriously for a deacon. He’s the sort who uncovers secrets. He’s tall and broad in the shoulder. He might be strong enough to hang a body like a slaughtered sheep.”
“Why would he murder Lisiard?” Solomon asked. “Or attack Paciana? All we know of him now is that he’s venal enough to steal from nuns.”
Catherine had no answer to that, but she was certain she was right. There was something about Peter of Baschi that reminded her of Rupert. Both of them were the sort who deferred to others so that they could walk behind softly, with a knife.
The cup nearly dropped from her fingers. Johannah took it and set in on the table.
“You can do nothing tonight,” she told them. “You are tired and sad. As soon as the sun set, I had your room prepared. It’s just a corner and you’ll have to share it with boxes of spices and bolts of silk, but it’s quiet.”
She kissed Catherine and patted Edgar’s cheek.
“May the Holy One keep you through the night,” she said.
The mingled scents of myrrh and sandalwood, combined with a dozen other spices, filled the room.
“I feel as if we’ve been put in a reliquary,” Catherine said as she snuggled into the feather bed.
Edgar blew out the candle and climbed in beside her. “I hope that doesn’t mean you’re going to pray all night.”
Catherine rolled over to face him. She knew just where her cheek would fit against his collarbone, his chin resting on the top of her head, his arm across her back. She had already memorized the curve of his spine, the smoothness of his skin. It was odd how something so new could have become indispensable to her life. She twisted her head to kiss the underside of his chin. He lowered his so he could reach her mouth.
“What did you say?” he asked a moment later.
“I said”—she ran her hands down his back—“we can pray in the morning.”
Catherine was awakened the next morning by the bells of the Île: Saint-Étienne, Sainte-Marie-Nôtre-Dame, Saint-Denis-du-Pas. They were calling her to Mass. She stretched and rolled over, draping her arm across Edgar’s stomach. He opened one eye, then closed it.
“What’s wrong?” Catherine asked.
“Defututus es
?”
Edgar open both eyes wide, eyebrows raised. “Catherine! I’m shocked at you!”
She grinned. “That I’ve read Catullus?”
“I’m sure they didn’t teach that at the Paraclete,” he answered. “But no, I’m shocked that you could believe one night could wear me out.”