Read Online The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery by Sharan Newman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sharan Newman
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Jews,” Agnes answered. “Whatever their blood ties to us, there should be no spiritual ones and certainly no friendship. You may not care about the state of your soul, but I won’t risk damnation along with you.”
“I have no fear for my soul,” Catherine answered proudly. “At least not from the arguments of the Jews. I love our cousin and won’t give up seeing him, just as I’ll never stop praying for him to wake to the true faith. Just as I pray for you to wake again to your family’s love.” Her voice softened. “To my love, Agnes. You’ll always be dear to me. You’re my only sister.”
Agnes bit her lip and looked away. “I can’t risk my soul for sentiment,” she said.
Catherine had meant to sweep out with a dignified swish of her garments but that was hard to do while burdened with an unconscious three-year-old and one’s cloak still hanging on a peg on the wall. So she contented herself with keeping back a sharp reply and bundling everyone up as quickly as she could.
Eventually they were sorted out and left for the walk back to the Greve, the merchants’ quarter on the north bank of the Seine. The trip back took longer than the one there, for Catherine felt burdened by Agnes’s animosity as much as by the weight of her son.
As they were heading down the rue de la Lanterne, toward the Grand Pont, Catherine noticed a disturbance to their right. She tried to look around James’s head to see what it was.
“There’s a crowd around the synogogue,” Margaret said. “What could they want?”
“I don’t know,” Catherine said, although she feared that she did. “I think we should hurry past, don’t you?”
She could hear the angry shouting as they went by and then the sound of rocks thrown against wooden shutters. Her first thought was to get her children to safety. The second was relief that Solomon and Uncle Eliazar were in Troyes far away from danger.
But if this were happening in sensible Paris and weeks after Eastertide, what might be going on in other places? Could her father’s family be truly secure anywhere?
They pushed their way across the bridge, fighting the people who had heard the commotion and come to investigate. It wasn’t until they were on their own street, with the gate in sight, that Catherine slowed down. She could hear Margaret panting behind her.
“Father! Edgar!” she called as they entered the house. “There’s a mob attacking the juiverie! ”
No one answered. The house was silent.
“Samonie! Willa!” Catherine called again for the servants. Still no answer.
“Where could they all have gone?” Margaret asked. “None of the boys are here, either.”
Catherine bit her lip in worry. It was unheard of for the house to be left empty. She set James on a pile of cushions on the floor and went to investigate.
“Margaret, mind the baby and don’t go upstairs until I see what’s wrong.”
“I will,” Margaret answered. “I mean, I won’t.”
The quaver in her voice told Catherine how frightened she was.
“Stulta!” she said to herself. “ Margaret’s been through so much already. We brought her here to escape all that. You can’t expect her to be brave all the time.”
“Perhaps she’d be happier someplace secure, like a convent.”
Catherine swore as she continued up the stairs. She had no time now to start one of her internal arguments.
“Samonie!” She called her maid. “Ullo! Hugh! Martin! Anyone?”
All the rooms on the upper floors were empty. Catherine came down again, assured herself that Margaret was coping and went out to the kitchen. There was no one there, either. An iron kettle hung from a hook over the fire, which had recently been stoked. They hadn’t been gone long.
She looked out the back window. The fruit trees were beginning to bud. The creek was still high from winter rain and had flooded the garden. In the summer it would be paradise. Now it just seemed forlorn and definitely uninhabited.
She returned to
“I have no fear for my soul,” Catherine answered proudly. “At least not from the arguments of the Jews. I love our cousin and won’t give up seeing him, just as I’ll never stop praying for him to wake to the true faith. Just as I pray for you to wake again to your family’s love.” Her voice softened. “To my love, Agnes. You’ll always be dear to me. You’re my only sister.”
Agnes bit her lip and looked away. “I can’t risk my soul for sentiment,” she said.
Catherine had meant to sweep out with a dignified swish of her garments but that was hard to do while burdened with an unconscious three-year-old and one’s cloak still hanging on a peg on the wall. So she contented herself with keeping back a sharp reply and bundling everyone up as quickly as she could.
Eventually they were sorted out and left for the walk back to the Greve, the merchants’ quarter on the north bank of the Seine. The trip back took longer than the one there, for Catherine felt burdened by Agnes’s animosity as much as by the weight of her son.
As they were heading down the rue de la Lanterne, toward the Grand Pont, Catherine noticed a disturbance to their right. She tried to look around James’s head to see what it was.
“There’s a crowd around the synogogue,” Margaret said. “What could they want?”
“I don’t know,” Catherine said, although she feared that she did. “I think we should hurry past, don’t you?”
She could hear the angry shouting as they went by and then the sound of rocks thrown against wooden shutters. Her first thought was to get her children to safety. The second was relief that Solomon and Uncle Eliazar were in Troyes far away from danger.
But if this were happening in sensible Paris and weeks after Eastertide, what might be going on in other places? Could her father’s family be truly secure anywhere?
They pushed their way across the bridge, fighting the people who had heard the commotion and come to investigate. It wasn’t until they were on their own street, with the gate in sight, that Catherine slowed down. She could hear Margaret panting behind her.
“Father! Edgar!” she called as they entered the house. “There’s a mob attacking the juiverie! ”
No one answered. The house was silent.
“Samonie! Willa!” Catherine called again for the servants. Still no answer.
“Where could they all have gone?” Margaret asked. “None of the boys are here, either.”
Catherine bit her lip in worry. It was unheard of for the house to be left empty. She set James on a pile of cushions on the floor and went to investigate.
“Margaret, mind the baby and don’t go upstairs until I see what’s wrong.”
“I will,” Margaret answered. “I mean, I won’t.”
The quaver in her voice told Catherine how frightened she was.
“Stulta!” she said to herself. “ Margaret’s been through so much already. We brought her here to escape all that. You can’t expect her to be brave all the time.”
“Perhaps she’d be happier someplace secure, like a convent.”
Catherine swore as she continued up the stairs. She had no time now to start one of her internal arguments.
“Samonie!” She called her maid. “Ullo! Hugh! Martin! Anyone?”
All the rooms on the upper floors were empty. Catherine came down again, assured herself that Margaret was coping and went out to the kitchen. There was no one there, either. An iron kettle hung from a hook over the fire, which had recently been stoked. They hadn’t been gone long.
She looked out the back window. The fruit trees were beginning to bud. The creek was still high from winter rain and had flooded the garden. In the summer it would be paradise. Now it just seemed forlorn and definitely uninhabited.
She returned to
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