The Wandering Arm by Sharan Newman Page A

“Stop examining the food. Just swallow it.”
    “Do you?” she asked, swallowing cautiously. It seemed to be a turnip. “Work in metal, I mean?”
    “Not much,” he admitted. “You need to be a real apprentice to learn the techniques. I’ve only been able to work seriously with wood and stone, picking up lessons here and there. I’m not sure I’d be very good at metal, although I’d like to try. I used to watch the armorers at our castle. They made some beautiful stirrups and bridle pieces.”
    “Don’t they make carved molds for molten ores?” Catherine suggested. “You could do that, I suppose. But why would my father encourage it? He doesn’t approve of your doing manual labor any more than your father did.”
    “He wouldn’t tell me,” Edgar said. “Now what are you doing?”
    “This bit is definitely not a turnip,” Catherine said, poking at a lump with the edge of her spoon. “Didn’t he even give you a clue?”
    “Eat it anyway,” Edgar told her. “Not really. He was very close about his reasons. Asked a lot of questions about the time I spent working on the sculptures at Saint-Denis. Did I really do the work or was Garnulf covering for me? How did I adapt to being treated as a workman?”
    Catherine snorted and ate around the suspicious lump. “I can answer that,” she said. “You were the most arrogant apprentice sculptor I ever met.”
    She leaned back on the pillows. Edgar put the almost-empty bowl on the stand by the bed. He smoothed the curls on her forehead.
    “And you were the least spiritual novice nun I ever met.”
    They smiled at each other, remembering.
    Edgar found himself thinking that he was not going to last the forty days required before resuming marital relations. “So,” he said. “What do you make of it?”
    “What?” she asked. Her mind had also wandered from the subject at hand. “Oh, Father. I can’t imagine. But, whatever it is, promise you won’t do it without me.”
    “I already have,” he said.

    Eliazar was not surprised that Natan was not among those at the synagogue for Sabbath prayers. The man was hardly a strict observer of the Law. That didn’t matter so much in a community the size of Paris, where there was always the number required for prayers. He was surprised and delighted, though, to find his nephew, Solomon, among the men. Solomon was not particularly observant, either. With him was Baruch of the community at Saint-Denis. There were not enough adult males in Saint-Denis to make a minyin, so they were considered part of the Paris community, even though Saint-Denis was under the secular lordship of Abbot Suger and the Jews of Paris answered only to the king. Still, it was not often, especially in winter, that the men of Saint-Denis could attend Sabbath services.
    As he hurried to take his place, Eliazar thought he saw another man, seated deep in the shadows. One of the Christian scholars, perhaps. Many of the students of theology had expressed interest in understanding the Hebrew language and Jewish customs. There had been loud debates about letting the Gentiles in, but finally it had been decided that it would only increase suspicion as to the nature of their rituals if the scholars were forbidden to watch. Eliazar was never comfortable when they were there, though. Once one of the students had decided to convert. The trouble that had caused! The man’s superiors immediately sent him away to study his own religion, but all the community had been threatened with severe punishment for proselytizing. Eliazar shuddered at the memory and hurried to his seat.
    The visitor made no sound during the service, and Eliazar forgot about him. It was only when they were leaving that the man rose and started toward them.
    “Brother!” Eliazar exclaimed. “Hubert, what are you doing here? Why didn’t you join us?”
    Hubert hugged his brother but didn’t answer until they were outside. “I’ve wanted to come for years, but was ashamed, and afraid