Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur) by Sharan Newman

Jherusalem, grant damage me fais? ” the woman asked. “I’ve always loved that song.”
    “We … we know a version of it,” Maruxa answered, flustered to hear a human voice from this mysterious shape.
    “Perhaps you would sing it for me tonight,” the woman said. “I can only pay you with my prayers.”
    “That will be sufficient,” Maruxa answered. “There will be someone else willing to toss us a coin.”
    She waited for a response, but the cowl dipped down again to rest on the woman’s knees.
    The ferry hit the opposite shore with a thump and they all stood. Maruxa had assumed that the other three men who had crossed with them were lords of some sort, but when they didn’t immediately strut to the front to be let off first, she revised her opinion. They were all rather dark, like the men of her region, and seemed to be related. But two were bearded after the manner of the Jews, and the third was clean-shaven, with only a week or so of stubble showing. The youngest one had a nice smile as he offered her his arm to steady her jump to the riverbank.
    Solomon next reached toward the pilgrim in black, but was rebuffed. The woman steadied herself on the rope stretched across the river to guide the ferry and swung from it to the bank. Her sleeves slipped back to her elbows, revealing strong brown hands and arms. Solomon watched, fascinated, fighting the urge to stretch out his hand and pull back the hood to uncover her face.
    Eliazar recalled him to duty. “Let’s get the packs back on the horses,” he said as they led the animals ashore, “then see if we can find a place to shelter us.”
    “As soon as that’s done,” Hubert added, “I’m going in search of Catherine.”
    “You’d have an easier time if you asked for Edgar,” Solomon suggested. “Not many tall, Saxon-blond men in Le Puy, I’d imagine.”
    Hubert made a face. “Edgar. Yes, you’re right. And if I don’t find Catherine with him …”
    Solomon laughed. “Don’t imagine impossibilities, Uncle. There’s no place else she would be.”
     
    When the abbot of Cluny travels, the entourage is something akin to that of a king. He takes along his own cooks and secretary, a number of lay brothers to see to the animals and the packing and unpacking, several priests, an infirmarian with his herbs and simples for sudden illness, a pair of laundresses, a number of guards, ostlers, friends from among the monks, as well as other prelates. He also takes a treasurer to pay the tolls he can’t bargain away and a cellarer for wine both sacred and
mundane, as well as a steward to be sure the abbatial table is not found wanting. Finally, among the group are several small boys, called garciones , who run errands, carry messages and generally get in everyone’s way. For this pilgrimage, there were over sixty people in the abbot’s entourage to attend and be attended to. Brother Rigaud and Brother James had been put in charge of keeping them all organized.
    “Have beds been found for everyone?” Brother Rigaud asked on the day of their arrival at Le Puy.
    “Sleeping places, at least,” Brother James answered. “The bishop has, of course, provided rooms for Bishop Stephen and Abbot Peter. You and I and the other monks will stay in the monastery dortor. The laundresses and the garciones have been given a place with the nuns. The lay brothers will have to make do in the field.”
    Brother Rigaud scanned the sky. It was unusually clear for spring. Good news for the brothers tonight, but it didn’t bode well for the rest of the journey. Rigaud didn’t trust missions that started out smoothly. One became complacent and therefore unprepared for the disasters that were sure to come.
    Brother James agreed with him. The two were strikingly dissimilar in looks, Rigaud slightly built with a fringe of hair that had once been red, and James of medium height but strong-featured, with a severe tonsure that left only a thin, steel-grey circle around his scalp.