To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery by Sharan Newman Page B

Catherine may be right. It would be better if you could be somewhere peaceful to regain your strength.”
    Catherine was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. Perhaps her humors needed assistance, too.
    “Look around us, Margaret.” She stretched her arm out, as if to include the whole of Paris. “The streets are full of warriors and pilgrims eager for glory, their swords hungry for blood. In the countryside people are starving, and mad heretics roam unchecked. Not a stone’s throw from here civilized scholars want to condemn a bishop for a point of theology so precise only ten people in the world can grasp the subtlety of it. And we’re under suspicion of having murdered a total stranger and locked him in our counting room. Why would you want to stay in this cauldron of wickedness?”
    Catherine seemed on the edge of hysteria, herself. Edgar got up, put his arm around her waist and kissed her temple. Catherine buried her face in his tunic.
    “It isn’t only Margaret who needs a respite, carissima ,” he said to her. “Perhaps you should take the children and all of you pay a visit to the Paraclete.”
    “And leave you here to face those men from the Temple?” Catherine exclaimed. “I would never do that!”
    “That’s how I feel, Catherine,” Margaret added. “I know I’ve been unsettled lately, but now that Solomon’s back, I already feel much better. I want to help you. Please, don’t send me away.”
    The other three looked at Margaret. The lamplight gave her pale skin and auburn hair a glow like ivory and flame. That and her tranquil dignity made her look like some otherworldly apparition that a word might dispel.
    Solomon shook his head, astonished to feel tears on his cheeks. He took a draught of his wine, letting the cup hide his face.
    “Edgar?” Margaret reached out to him.
    Edgar released Catherine and took his sister in his arms. “I’m not our father,” he whispered. “I won’t force you, only beg you to consider my advice.”
    Catherine sat down next to Solomon. She took his chin and turned his face away from Margaret’s to hers. The pain she saw in him struck her deeply. The matter wasn’t settled. She realized that he understood his own feelings even less than Margaret did hers. Catherine vowed to stay watchful of them both lest it end in worse than tears.
     
    The next day was clear with a southern wind that promised summer. All of Paris seemed to take a deep breath and move more slowly. Benches were set up outside the taverns, and shops lowered their shutters to use as counters to display their wares. The street of the drapers was festooned with fluttering ribbons, feathers and sparkling glass and bead ornaments.
    Catherine barely glanced at them as she made her way to the rue des juives . The night before, lying next to Edgar, she had made up her mind, but the decision didn’t rest easily. She feared that what she contemplated was a sin. The theologians weren’t completely certain on the matter. She only hoped that, if it were, one day, far into the future, she might feel enough contrition to repent.
    She knocked at the door, trying to look as if she had a perfectly innocent reason for her visit. She had brought a basket of early greens from her garden as a gift.
    The maid who opened the door smiled at her in a kindly fashion, but Catherine was so sure that her mission was written on her face that she drew back and stumbled over her words.
    “My … my name is Catherine, daughter of Hubert LeVendeur,” she said. “That is, Johanna and Eliazar who used to live nearby, they’re … they’re friends of mine. Johanna once told me … um … I mean, is Rebecca at home?”
    “I believe so,” the maid said. “I’ll go see. Would you wait here in the court?”
    She stepped back to let Catherine pass through the dark hallway
and out into the inner yard. Gratefully, Catherine perched on the side of a copper washtub and tried to collect herself.
    “Catherine!” Rebecca came out