and honored or covenant broken and betrayed. Like Gaucher, Hugh and Rufus, like the German townsmen, like Mondete, she had taken a sacred oath to complete the pilgrimage. If she failed through her own weakness, she could hardly expect Saint James to make any effort on her behalf.
Catherine sighed and turned her attention to Griselle. Having spent the night in a comfortable guest room at the priory, and having had her hair combed and then braided with ribbons by her maid that morning, the Lady of Lugny looked radiant. Catherine noted her own rumpled clothes and terminally tangled hair and had a brief struggle with envy.
Never mind , let voices told her. She is a poor lonely widow. You have a perfectly nice husband who’s every bit as disheveled as you at the moment. Charity, child .
Odd how those voices could give her such good advice and still sting with irony. Catherine watched as the “poor lonely widow” refused conversation first with Gaucher, then with that Rufus, his nose as red as his beard had once been. Griselle seemed relieved when Hubert happened to draw up beside her. He said nothing to her beyond a perfunctory greeting, then looked straight ahead as they rode.
Father is more considerate of her than I am, Catherine thought. It’s very kind of him to save her from unwanted attentions .
As they began to climb the road up to the town of Conques, Catherine tried to keep the worry from growing. They had seen no sign of Solomon when they left the banks of the Lot to follow the ravine of the Dourdou. He wouldn’t have followed the river farther. They passed by holes in the side of the limestone cliffs, many as large as doors.
“Father,” Catherine called, causing Hubert to start. He had been occupied with thoughts that didn’t involve his daughter.
“Father,” she said again, “are those hermitages? Could Solomon be in one of them?”
“I don’t know why he would have bothered seeking any shelter before nightfall,” Hubert answered. “And most of those caves are used to store cheese and wine and suchlike. They’re cold and damp all year ’round. Hardly a welcome refuge.”
Still, Catherine examined each dark opening carefully as they passed, hoping that her cousin would magically emerge from one of them.
They finished the long climb to the town just before sundown. The golden light was enhanced by the warm sandstone walls and buildings. Despite her worry for Solomon, Catherine felt herself becoming excited at the thought of being able to worship at the shrine of Saint Foy.
Edgar was walking along more briskly as well. Catherine thought it was because of his nervousness on the narrow path along the steep cliff falling to the river below. But then she realized that he was humming and saw that his face was alive with anticipation.
“I didn’t know you had a particular devotion to Saint Foy,” Catherine said.
Edgar looked up at her, puzzled. “I don’t. I have my own saints.”
“Then what are you so eager for?” she asked, hoping he would say it was the night ahead with her.
“Haven’t you heard about the tympanum here?” He asked.
Of course. Catherine firmly quashed her disappointment.
“It should face west, if the church was built properly,” he continued, not noticing her lack of enthusiasm. “If we can get up there just as the sun is setting, that will be the best time to study it.”
He startled the horse by pulling on the dangling reins. They moved past the other pilgrims and in among the party from Cluny.
Catherine sighed in resignation. When she first met Edgar, he was a student pretending to be an apprentice stonecarver. But now she knew that the real pretense had been the student. Edgar had been born an artist. It wasn’t his fault that he came from a noble family in that almost-mythical Scotland. He had studied, trained to become a cleric, tried to be enthusiastic at the prospect of spending his life as abbot of the family monastery, or Bishop of St. Andrews,
Catherine sighed and turned her attention to Griselle. Having spent the night in a comfortable guest room at the priory, and having had her hair combed and then braided with ribbons by her maid that morning, the Lady of Lugny looked radiant. Catherine noted her own rumpled clothes and terminally tangled hair and had a brief struggle with envy.
Never mind , let voices told her. She is a poor lonely widow. You have a perfectly nice husband who’s every bit as disheveled as you at the moment. Charity, child .
Odd how those voices could give her such good advice and still sting with irony. Catherine watched as the “poor lonely widow” refused conversation first with Gaucher, then with that Rufus, his nose as red as his beard had once been. Griselle seemed relieved when Hubert happened to draw up beside her. He said nothing to her beyond a perfunctory greeting, then looked straight ahead as they rode.
Father is more considerate of her than I am, Catherine thought. It’s very kind of him to save her from unwanted attentions .
As they began to climb the road up to the town of Conques, Catherine tried to keep the worry from growing. They had seen no sign of Solomon when they left the banks of the Lot to follow the ravine of the Dourdou. He wouldn’t have followed the river farther. They passed by holes in the side of the limestone cliffs, many as large as doors.
“Father,” Catherine called, causing Hubert to start. He had been occupied with thoughts that didn’t involve his daughter.
“Father,” she said again, “are those hermitages? Could Solomon be in one of them?”
“I don’t know why he would have bothered seeking any shelter before nightfall,” Hubert answered. “And most of those caves are used to store cheese and wine and suchlike. They’re cold and damp all year ’round. Hardly a welcome refuge.”
Still, Catherine examined each dark opening carefully as they passed, hoping that her cousin would magically emerge from one of them.
They finished the long climb to the town just before sundown. The golden light was enhanced by the warm sandstone walls and buildings. Despite her worry for Solomon, Catherine felt herself becoming excited at the thought of being able to worship at the shrine of Saint Foy.
Edgar was walking along more briskly as well. Catherine thought it was because of his nervousness on the narrow path along the steep cliff falling to the river below. But then she realized that he was humming and saw that his face was alive with anticipation.
“I didn’t know you had a particular devotion to Saint Foy,” Catherine said.
Edgar looked up at her, puzzled. “I don’t. I have my own saints.”
“Then what are you so eager for?” she asked, hoping he would say it was the night ahead with her.
“Haven’t you heard about the tympanum here?” He asked.
Of course. Catherine firmly quashed her disappointment.
“It should face west, if the church was built properly,” he continued, not noticing her lack of enthusiasm. “If we can get up there just as the sun is setting, that will be the best time to study it.”
He startled the horse by pulling on the dangling reins. They moved past the other pilgrims and in among the party from Cluny.
Catherine sighed in resignation. When she first met Edgar, he was a student pretending to be an apprentice stonecarver. But now she knew that the real pretense had been the student. Edgar had been born an artist. It wasn’t his fault that he came from a noble family in that almost-mythical Scotland. He had studied, trained to become a cleric, tried to be enthusiastic at the prospect of spending his life as abbot of the family monastery, or Bishop of St. Andrews,
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