doorway to the chapter of Saint Pierre des Cuisines. Prior Rodger beckoned him to enter.
“Sit down, please,” he said. “I know you haven’t slept well the past few nights. You must be tired. Prior Stephen and I are concerned that this tragedy will affect your ability to complete this mission. Perhaps we should consider letting you return to Moissac and finding someone in Spain to interpret for us.”
James had sat as requested but the prior’s words caused him to leap up again.
“No! You mustn’t replace me!” he begged. “I’m perfectly able to do this. It’s not only my duty to those poor captives, but also what I owe Brother Victor’s memory. If I don’t go, I will have failed him.”
“Calm yourself, my brother,” Rodger said. “You know that Victor would not want you to ruin your health out of a sense of obligation to him. We were concerned about how well you could endure the journey even before this sad event. Forgive me, but you are not a young man, you know.”
James tried to stop the shaking in his hands. Of course he knew. By his reckoning, he was sixty-two this summer. But he wasn’t infirm or feeble. Perhaps he was more tired after a day in the saddle than he had been in his youth. That was all. He told the prior as much.
Rodger looked at the man before him. James was of middle height, lean from fasting and work. The fringe of his tonsure had more black than gray in it. His eyes were alert and he could still read a page without squinting. Rodger suspected that James was more able to stand a journey than he, at least physically.
“Very well,” he conceded. “There’s no doubt that your skills will be needed. Prior Stephen and I need to nominate another monk to accompany you. Is there anyone you would prefer?”
James exhaled in relief. He could not have endured the shame of being left behind. As for someone to take Brother Victor’s place…
“I can think of no one,” he said. “I shall abide by your wisdom.”
“Good. You may leave then. May our Lord bless you.” Prior Rodger dismissed him.
James stayed where he was.
“Yes?” Rodger asked.
“Have you heard anything?” James blurted. “About the man who killed Victor? What is being done to capture him?”
“The bailiff of Saint Pierre has met with the count’s guards and the Good Men of Toulouse,” Rodger told him. “As I understand it, they are at a loss. None of the inns or shelters for pilgrims reported anyone returning after hours that night. Nor was anyone missing the next morning that they know of. All strangers in town have been accounted for.”
“What about the man found with him?” James asked.
“He was vouched for by both one of the citizens of the town and the leader of the synagogue,” Rodger said. “Apparently quite a harmless old scholar. The watchman didn’t think him capable of striking a blow hard enough to break a man’s skull.”
“He was a Jew?” James jaw tightened. “Why did no one tell me this?”
Rodger knew he had to tread carefully here.
“There was no need to mention it,” he said lightly. “All agreed that he had nothing to do with the incident.”
“Then why was he out so late?” James countered.
“A desire to walk out a philosophical quandary,” Rodger said. “I understand that it’s not an unusual habit among scholars.”
James was forced to admit that it was the case. He had often done the same thing, himself, in the days when he had wrestled with the inconsistencies of the Law. But a plausible excuse was still just that, nothing more.
“He may have had a partner to strike the blow,” James continued. “Perhaps his apparent weakness was intended to lure Victor to the spot where his murderer waited. Have his goods been searched for the missing gold?”
Rodger paused. He didn’t know. “I’ll ask the bailiff to find out,” he said.
James took a step forward.
“Why don’t you let me question him?” he asked. “I know these people. I know their
“Sit down, please,” he said. “I know you haven’t slept well the past few nights. You must be tired. Prior Stephen and I are concerned that this tragedy will affect your ability to complete this mission. Perhaps we should consider letting you return to Moissac and finding someone in Spain to interpret for us.”
James had sat as requested but the prior’s words caused him to leap up again.
“No! You mustn’t replace me!” he begged. “I’m perfectly able to do this. It’s not only my duty to those poor captives, but also what I owe Brother Victor’s memory. If I don’t go, I will have failed him.”
“Calm yourself, my brother,” Rodger said. “You know that Victor would not want you to ruin your health out of a sense of obligation to him. We were concerned about how well you could endure the journey even before this sad event. Forgive me, but you are not a young man, you know.”
James tried to stop the shaking in his hands. Of course he knew. By his reckoning, he was sixty-two this summer. But he wasn’t infirm or feeble. Perhaps he was more tired after a day in the saddle than he had been in his youth. That was all. He told the prior as much.
Rodger looked at the man before him. James was of middle height, lean from fasting and work. The fringe of his tonsure had more black than gray in it. His eyes were alert and he could still read a page without squinting. Rodger suspected that James was more able to stand a journey than he, at least physically.
“Very well,” he conceded. “There’s no doubt that your skills will be needed. Prior Stephen and I need to nominate another monk to accompany you. Is there anyone you would prefer?”
James exhaled in relief. He could not have endured the shame of being left behind. As for someone to take Brother Victor’s place…
“I can think of no one,” he said. “I shall abide by your wisdom.”
“Good. You may leave then. May our Lord bless you.” Prior Rodger dismissed him.
James stayed where he was.
“Yes?” Rodger asked.
“Have you heard anything?” James blurted. “About the man who killed Victor? What is being done to capture him?”
“The bailiff of Saint Pierre has met with the count’s guards and the Good Men of Toulouse,” Rodger told him. “As I understand it, they are at a loss. None of the inns or shelters for pilgrims reported anyone returning after hours that night. Nor was anyone missing the next morning that they know of. All strangers in town have been accounted for.”
“What about the man found with him?” James asked.
“He was vouched for by both one of the citizens of the town and the leader of the synagogue,” Rodger said. “Apparently quite a harmless old scholar. The watchman didn’t think him capable of striking a blow hard enough to break a man’s skull.”
“He was a Jew?” James jaw tightened. “Why did no one tell me this?”
Rodger knew he had to tread carefully here.
“There was no need to mention it,” he said lightly. “All agreed that he had nothing to do with the incident.”
“Then why was he out so late?” James countered.
“A desire to walk out a philosophical quandary,” Rodger said. “I understand that it’s not an unusual habit among scholars.”
James was forced to admit that it was the case. He had often done the same thing, himself, in the days when he had wrestled with the inconsistencies of the Law. But a plausible excuse was still just that, nothing more.
“He may have had a partner to strike the blow,” James continued. “Perhaps his apparent weakness was intended to lure Victor to the spot where his murderer waited. Have his goods been searched for the missing gold?”
Rodger paused. He didn’t know. “I’ll ask the bailiff to find out,” he said.
James took a step forward.
“Why don’t you let me question him?” he asked. “I know these people. I know their
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