Read Online Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) by Sharan Newman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sharan Newman
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unnaturally still. Catherine had seen many a man sunk too far into a wine flask to awaken, but she knew there was always some sort of movement. Nervously, she touched his hand. It was cold and flaccid.
Oh, dear.
She made her way back to her corner and found Edgar already awake. She sat down next to him and put her arms around him.
“Do you see the man over there by the fire?” she asked. “It’s the knight from Vézelay, the one who ran into me outside the church. The poor old thing seems to have died in his sleep.”
Four
Le Puy, Sunday in Albis, April 26, 1142; Commemoration of Saint Marcellinus, pope, apostate, penitent.
Quum, ergo sacrificia … pro baptizatis defunctis omnibus offerunter, pro valde bonis gratiarum actiones sunt, pro non valde malis propitiationes, pro valde malis etiamsi nulla sunt adjumenta mortuorum qualescunque vivorum consolationes sunt.
Therefore, when sacrifices … are offered for all the baptized dead, they are, for the very good, acts of thanksgiving: for those neither good nor bad they are propitiations: for the very bad they are of no help to the dead, but are of some consolation to the living.
—Hugh of Saint-Victor
De Sacramentis Septem
Liber II, Pars XVI, Cap. VI
R ufus, Hugh and Gaucher looked down upon the body of their fellow knight and longtime companion. Rufus gave Norbert’s leg a push with his boot. Dead. No way around it.
“I told him he was too old to come along,” Hugh said.
“We all did,” Rufus said, “but when did the old bastard ever listen to us?”
“Now one of us will have to go back and tell his children,” Hugh sighed.
Gaucher spoke for the first time. “Why?” he asked.
“Well, they’ll have to know where he’s buried and start Masses for his soul, and his property will have to be divided,” Hugh answered. “The usual reasons.”
“We’ll send a messenger,” Gaucher said. “We can’t turn back now. And we must stay together.”
The other two looked at him in suspicion. Hugh moved closer so that the others in the room couldn’t hear. “Now don’t start all that nonsense about someone following us, Gaucher,” he said. “What happened in Vézelay was just some pot boy’s tricherie . Norbert was at least seventy. He’d had his three score and ten, and God sent the Angel for him. That’s all.”
“Perhaps,” Gaucher said. “But he was fine yesterday.”
Rufus hadn’t taken his eyes from Norbert’s body. He let the others argue over his head until they wore themselves out.
“I agree with Gaucher, we should send a messenger,” he said at last. “Norbert looks to me as though he gave the Angel a hell of a fight for his soul. I don’t like it. It makes me want to
have friends about me in case whatever took him should come again.”
They all forced themselves to look at Norbert’s face, now stretching into a rictus. Hugh felt something pulling at his own lips. He looked away. “I see nothing untoward,” he insisted. “You’re getting as bad as Gaucher, Rufus.”
But he had seen it. They all had. Even in the vacancy of death, there was an aura of hatred around Norbert. The way his right hand lay, as if going for his sword, his head thrown back and teeth bared. Hugh had seen him like that before, hugely alive and on his feet, dealing out cruel death to others. It was true. Whatever had come for him, Norbert of Bussières had fought it to the last spark of his soul … .
“Yes,” Hugh said at last. “A messenger might be enough. We shall continue the pilgrimage together.”
Edgar had been more resigned than surprised when Catherine had told him of finding the knight’s body. She had a gift for such discoveries. So he was greatly relieved when he and Hubert had gone over to the hearth and realized that this must be a natural death. They were sorry, of course, and offered to come with the man’s companions to say a prayer at his grave, but hundreds of people died on a pilgrimage, some of the
Oh, dear.
She made her way back to her corner and found Edgar already awake. She sat down next to him and put her arms around him.
“Do you see the man over there by the fire?” she asked. “It’s the knight from Vézelay, the one who ran into me outside the church. The poor old thing seems to have died in his sleep.”
Four
Le Puy, Sunday in Albis, April 26, 1142; Commemoration of Saint Marcellinus, pope, apostate, penitent.
Quum, ergo sacrificia … pro baptizatis defunctis omnibus offerunter, pro valde bonis gratiarum actiones sunt, pro non valde malis propitiationes, pro valde malis etiamsi nulla sunt adjumenta mortuorum qualescunque vivorum consolationes sunt.
Therefore, when sacrifices … are offered for all the baptized dead, they are, for the very good, acts of thanksgiving: for those neither good nor bad they are propitiations: for the very bad they are of no help to the dead, but are of some consolation to the living.
—Hugh of Saint-Victor
De Sacramentis Septem
Liber II, Pars XVI, Cap. VI
R ufus, Hugh and Gaucher looked down upon the body of their fellow knight and longtime companion. Rufus gave Norbert’s leg a push with his boot. Dead. No way around it.
“I told him he was too old to come along,” Hugh said.
“We all did,” Rufus said, “but when did the old bastard ever listen to us?”
“Now one of us will have to go back and tell his children,” Hugh sighed.
Gaucher spoke for the first time. “Why?” he asked.
“Well, they’ll have to know where he’s buried and start Masses for his soul, and his property will have to be divided,” Hugh answered. “The usual reasons.”
“We’ll send a messenger,” Gaucher said. “We can’t turn back now. And we must stay together.”
The other two looked at him in suspicion. Hugh moved closer so that the others in the room couldn’t hear. “Now don’t start all that nonsense about someone following us, Gaucher,” he said. “What happened in Vézelay was just some pot boy’s tricherie . Norbert was at least seventy. He’d had his three score and ten, and God sent the Angel for him. That’s all.”
“Perhaps,” Gaucher said. “But he was fine yesterday.”
Rufus hadn’t taken his eyes from Norbert’s body. He let the others argue over his head until they wore themselves out.
“I agree with Gaucher, we should send a messenger,” he said at last. “Norbert looks to me as though he gave the Angel a hell of a fight for his soul. I don’t like it. It makes me want to
have friends about me in case whatever took him should come again.”
They all forced themselves to look at Norbert’s face, now stretching into a rictus. Hugh felt something pulling at his own lips. He looked away. “I see nothing untoward,” he insisted. “You’re getting as bad as Gaucher, Rufus.”
But he had seen it. They all had. Even in the vacancy of death, there was an aura of hatred around Norbert. The way his right hand lay, as if going for his sword, his head thrown back and teeth bared. Hugh had seen him like that before, hugely alive and on his feet, dealing out cruel death to others. It was true. Whatever had come for him, Norbert of Bussières had fought it to the last spark of his soul … .
“Yes,” Hugh said at last. “A messenger might be enough. We shall continue the pilgrimage together.”
Edgar had been more resigned than surprised when Catherine had told him of finding the knight’s body. She had a gift for such discoveries. So he was greatly relieved when he and Hubert had gone over to the hearth and realized that this must be a natural death. They were sorry, of course, and offered to come with the man’s companions to say a prayer at his grave, but hundreds of people died on a pilgrimage, some of the
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