“Do you know why they’re here?” Clemence asked.
“No idea,” the man said. “But the queen doesn’t go out much, so it must be something important.”
Lambert turned to Clemence. “We should go. I’m sure we won’t be allowed in tonight.”
Clemence nodded. “Could we wait a bit longer, though, in case the king comes? I’ve never seen a king.”
“He’s just a man,” Lambert said, not willing to admit that he was curious, as well. “But we can stay a little while longer.”
Clemence asked the other watcher, “Do you know what the king looks like? Will you point him out to us?”
“That’s him.” The man gestured. “The thin blond in the center of those riders.”
Clemence looked. Louis, king of France, wasn’t much older than she was, a man in his mid-twenties. His fair hair hung down to his shoulders under the velvet cap he wore. She was disappointed that he wasn’t wearing a crown. She studied his face as he rode by. His countenance was serious and, although he smiled and waved at the people standing by the road, Clemence had the feeling that he didn’t see them. His mind was somewhere far away, Jerusalem, perhaps.
“Queen Eleanor isn’t with him?” she asked.
“No, she and her mother-in-law don’t get along that well,” the man said with an air of one who knew all the doings of the court. “They hardly ever appear together.”
Clemence was about to ask another question when Lambert grabbed her hand and pulled her back into the shelter of the preceptory wall.
“Look!” he told her. “Over there. Careful! They might see us.”
Clemence craned her neck to see around the helpful man. Just behind the king was another group of people. Among them was a man with one hand. On the horse behind him rode a woman in a rose
bliaut
over a deep blue
chainse
.
“What beautiful clothes,” she breathed. “I think the
bliaut
is pure silk. She must be very rich.”
“Never mind the clothes,” Lambert whispered in her ear. “Don’t you recognize them? That’s Hubert LeVendeur’s daughter, Catherine, and her husband. He was the one with the demon this afternoon.”
“Really? He looks much better now,” Clemence said.
“Darling,” Lambert said, “do you understand what this means? They not only have friends at the bishop’s court, but here, as well. Their influence stretches all the way to the king.”
Clemence tore her eyes from the ladies’ attire. “Then we can’t risk telling Master Barre what we know. Oh, Lambert, where can we look to find help?”
“Only to Jehan,” Lambert said. “Where he and I are staying isn’t fit for you. I’m taking you back to Montmartre for now. Then I’m going to report to Jehan at once and ask him what we should do next!”
Paris, the chapel of the Temple perceptory. That same evening.
Prandia cum cena sic sat fiunt opulenta
fercula post multa, post pocula tam numerosa
limpha datur, modicum residetur dum biberetur.
Thus the dinner and banquet were overly abundant
After many courses, after just as many cups
clear wine is given; they linger a while as they drink.
—Ruodlieb. 11, 105–107
“
M
y feet are freezing,” Catherine whispered. “I should have known Genta would insist on a Mass before the donation.”
“Would you rather a Mass or the bears?” Edgar whispered back.
“At least I can sit in warmth to watch the bears,” Catherine grumbled.
Then she swiftly crossed herself and murmured an apology to Christ for disdaining His offering.
She and Edgar were standing toward the back of the chapel, now crowded with members of the Temple, the water merchants and courtiers. They made a strange mix, with the Knights of the Temple appearing the least genteel in their mail and white cloaks with no other ornamentation. All the others were festooned with fine mantles and jewelry.
Catherine kept her toes wiggling in her thin shoes through which she could feel the cold stone floor. At last the service ended. Then the donation was read out and signed by the witnesses. The knights cleared a path to enable Queen Adelaide and her maids, King Louis and his men, Genta and Master Evrard to proceed out. At last the rest of the guests were permitted to leave.
“Don’t try walking across the courtyard in those silly shoes,” Edgar told Catherine. “I’ll get the horse and come back for you. Stand here by the
perron
.”
Dutifully, Catherine waited by the stone block used for riders to stand on while mounting their horses. She looked around at the rest of the company. The king had already left, but William, his butler, was talking with the queen, who had had the forethought to bring a
rug to lay over the mud so that her feet were warm and dry while her chair was being brought to her.
Archer’s wife, Richilde, bowed to her from the other side of the yard, as she listened to Thierry Galeran, one of the courtiers. It was clear that Richilde wanted Catherine to notice that she also had friends in high places.
Catherine was regretting being there at all, when a voice greeted her. The man was standing directly behind her. She jumped when he spoke, nearly landing in the mud, herself.
“
Dex vos saut
,” he said. “Lady Catherine.”
“Good evening, Master Durand,” Catherine said. “I noticed you at Mass. I hope you’re keeping well.”
Durand lifted his eyebrows. “Do you? Thank you. It surprises me that you’re here.”
“Really?” Catherine raised her eyebrows back at him. “My husband and I have been eager for your report on the unfortunate knight. Have you discovered his identity?”
“Not yet,” Durand answered. “When I do, you and your husband will be among the first to know.”
He smiled thinly and continued on his way. Catherine shivered. She devoutly hoped he wouldn’t be at the banquet at Genta’s.
Edgar soon returned, and they followed the procession to the suburb of Les Champeaux, where Genta had set up a large tent for the banquet. Outside, guests were being entertained by jugglers, tumblers and a fire-eater. From inside came the sound of musicians and the clink of dishes.
“Want to wager what side of the salt we’ll be placed at?” Edgar said as he helped Catherine dismount.
“If Margaret were with you, we’d probably have a salt cellar all to ourselves,” Catherine answered. “But as it’s only me, I suspect we’ll be at the foot and never see the seasoning at all.”
Catherine was mistaken. They were placed at a side table above the saltcellar but only just. She and Edgar were given a silver
escuelle
to eat from and put the remainder of bread or meat bones in. A servant handed out silver spoons. Another pair came around with soap, water, basin and a towel for them to wash their hands.
Then the bread was broken and sent around the table and the courses began to be carried in.
“Where did she get all this meat at this time of year?” Catherine said in wonder as platters went by piled high with smoked pork, fowl and game.
First they were given eels in saffron sauce, then chicken in cumin and garlic, then an assortment of vegetables with lentils and every fresh herb that grew in France, Catherine thought. Then the pork was sliced and handed out. After that there was quail roasted with its own eggs, and a swan. Servants circled constantly to fill the wine cups or replace napkins as they became too greasy to use.
Catherine was already queasy when the washing water was brought around again and the
escuelle
removed before the sweets and the raisin wine were served.
“We’ll have no chance to talk with Master Evrard,” she muttered to Edgar. “We’re trapped in our place, and if I even smell more food, I’m going to throw up.”
“Breathe deeply,” Edgar advised. “I knew we would have little chance to gossip. But we can observe.”
“I suppose,” Catherine said, as she signaled for more water to mix with the wine. “All I see are a lot of people in fine clothes that are rapidly becoming stained.”
Edgar smiled. “
Carissima
, I know you prefer student debates to the feasts of the nobility, and I agree. But try to put aside your intolerance and notice what Genta is accomplishing tonight.”
Catherine gave the cup to Edgar to sip from and tried to follow his suggestion. What did he want her to see?
At the high table, Genta sat with Queen Adelaide and her husband, Roger, at her right. On her left was Master Evrard, looking about as uncomfortable as Catherine felt. There were other members of the court on either side of them. Interspersed among the coutiers were Archer and Richilde and Giselbert Engania, or Trickster, who was now master in the enamelers’ guild. His nickname, however, came from his youth when he had earned a few
maille
on the side from making dice that could be counted on to fall as they were told.
It did seem an unusual combination for the high table. The nobility,
of course, but why the tradesmen? And, as she looked around the room, she wondered why, other than Knights of the Temple, there were no clergy?
“What is Genta doing?” she asked Edgar. “There’s no one from the king’s court except the butler. Louis didn’t even come to Champeaux after the donation. There’s no one from the bishop’s court or any of the monasteries. And Queen Adelaide is sending bits from her dish to a common guildsman.”
“Well, it might be that these are the only people Genta knows,” Edgar said. “But I think she’s telling us something.”
Catherine tried to think what it might be.
“Well, it can’t be that she’s a heretic, or she wouldn’t be associated with the Temple.” She took the cup from Edgar. “The lower tables are almost all guild masters, merchants, the wealthy of the city.”
“Right, and Genta counts herself among them,” Edgar prompted.
“Edgar why don’t you just tell me your conclusions,” Catherine said. “I’ve had too much wine and food to think.”
“Very well,” Edgar said. “I think she wants us to know that she has power. The gift to the Temple was nothing, but it’s a way to remind the rest of us that she has a connection to Jerusalem and those who guard it. In the coming months much of our business will depend on the success of the army. Will the king bankrupt us or bring home booty as well as glory? Genta may be deciding to traffic in information.”
“And by associating the gift with Queen Adelaide and the memory of old King Louis, she reminds us that she has the protection of the king, as well,” Catherine finished. “So everyone here is silently calculating what she can do for them and what they’ll have to pay for it.”
“Exactly.” Edgar wiped some gravy from her cheek. “Your deductive skills aren’t as impaired as you think.”
“But why were we invited?” Catherine wasn’t satisfied. “Is it just because she hoped Margaret would come, too?”
“That I don’t know,” Edgar admitted. “I’m hoping that at some point in the evening it will be revealed. Look, the bears are being led in.”
Catherine didn’t need to look. The smell of bear, mixed with lamp oil, meat and a hundred bodies was too much for her.
“Edgar, I’ve got to get out of here at once.” She stood. “I hope Genta thought to arrange for privies. No,” she added as he rose. “I can go alone. You’ve held my head enough times.”
Her lips pressed together and the napkin held over her mouth and nose, Catherine hurried out of the tent.
Outside, there were attendants ready to point the way to a row of curtained cubicles. Catherine went into one, only to find nothing but a folding stool with a hole in the seat set over a bucket. The smell from that was worse than the bears. She slipped out the other side and made her way into a wooded area nearby.
Away from the crush of people, she leaned against one of the trees, taking slow breaths of sweet air. She began to feel better but was unsure of what would happen if she moved.
It was nearly dark. The wood was full of shadows and the reflections of the flicker of the torches around the tent. Mist was beginning to creep along the ground. Behind her, the darkness seemed populated by unearthly beings. Catherine stepped out of the concealment of the trees, closer to the light. A few feet away from her, one of the shadows moved.
Edgar enjoyed the dancing bears. They stumbled about with an odd dignity that reminded him of his uncle Æthelræd. The trainers gave them stemmed goblets that they took in both paws to drink from. Then one put its paws on the other one’s shoulders, and they marched in step around the tent and out.
It wasn’t until the minstrels had returned to sing an interminable lay that had something vaguely to do with Charlemagne but was mostly a series of verses detailing one single combat after another between Christian and Saracen knights that Edgar realized Catherine had been gone an unusually long time. Her stomach had always been sensitive, and several pregnancies had only increased the problem, so her nausea hadn’t worried him. The fear crossed his mind that perhaps the
mokh
hadn’t been as effective as they had been told. No, he realized, the unaccustomed rich food was enough of an excuse.
He waited a few more minutes. Then, since the minstrels showed no sign of coming to a close, he got up.
Outside he met Giselbert Engania.
“Edgar!” the man said. “Quite a feast, isn’t it?”
“Too much for me, Trickster,” Edgar said. “I’ve no head for so much wine anymore.”
“And I thought the English were famous drinkers!” Giselbert commented. “I noticed that Catherine decided to leave early, but I assumed you’d stay the course.”
“What?” Edgar gave Giselbert full attention. “Catherine only went out for some air.”
“From the back of a horse?”
Edgar’s hand caught Giselbert’s arm. “When did you see her?” he demanded.
“Not long ago,” Giselbert told him. “I went out to relieve myself and saw Catherine come out of the woods with a man.”
He paused there, for effect, but Edgar’s face had turned to stone.
“And?” Edgar said.
“The man was leading a horse. He mounted and pulled Catherine up behind him. They rode off toward Paris.”
“You didn’t try to stop him?” Edgar said. “Or call out to her?”
Giselbert shrugged. “Why should I? She didn’t seem in trouble. It wasn’t my business.”
“Are you certain it was Catherine? The woods are dark.”
“The torchlight shone on her face clear enough,” Giselbert insisted. “Her scarf had slipped back, so I could make out her features easily.”
“The man, what did he look like?” Edgar’s hold on Giselbert’s arm tightened.
“He wore a felt hat; I didn’t see his face,” Giselbert said. “He wasn’t dressed for the banquet, more like a squire. I assumed he was a friend of hers.”
Edgar didn’t like the emphasis the Trickster put on the word friend. But he was too worried to be distracted by it.
“Dressed like a messenger, perhaps?” Edgar said.
“I suppose,” Giselbert answered. “But if there was a message, why didn’t the man ask for you in the tent? You needn’t pretend with me, Edgar. It’s not that unusual. She probably thought she’d be back before you missed her.”
He didn’t have time to feel relief when Edgar let go of his arm because the next moment Edgar’s fist crashed into his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground.
“You idiot!” Edgar shouted. “She’s been abducted and you did nothing to save her!”
“Don’t be so blind, Edgar.” Giselbert struggled to get up. “She didn’t call for help.”