The Wandering Arm by Sharan Newman

Author:Sharan Newman [Newman, Sharan]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery & Detective, General, Fiction
ISBN: 9781405526371
Google: gBwgY6GtvxEC
Publisher: Hachette UK
Published: 2013-04-24T13:00:00+00:00

Eleven

The tavern owned by Lucia’s mother, late afternoon, Monday, March 10, 1141/28, Adar, 4901

Meum est propositum in taberna mori, Ut sint vina proxima morientis ori. Tunc cantabunt laetis angelorum chori, “Sit deus propitius huïc potatori.

It is my intention to die in a tavern, and let the wine be near.

Then the choir of angels will sing with joy, “May god be

gracious to this drunkard.

—“Golias,” Carmina Burana

Solomon sat again with Catherine in a corner of the tavern. She was amusing herself picking the flakes out of the beer while they waited for Edgar.

“Why don’t you just strain them between your teeth like I do?” Solomon asked.

“I prefer knowing what’s going into my mouth before it’s too late,” Catherine said. “Bietrix, do you know what herbs your son put in the beer?”

The proprietor left her seat at the vat and came to sniff Catherine’s cup.

“Woodruff, I think,” she said. “Samson uses it in the mead, too. Of course, it might be borage, or bog myrtle. Hard to tell, once it’s all mixed in. Why? Don’t you like the taste?”

“No, it’s fine,” Catherine lied. “It’s just that I—”

They were interrupted by a shriek from the back room. Bietrix hurried to see what the problem was. Solomon wiggled uncomfortably.

“Your father may be right,” he told Catherine. “This isn’t a proper place for you.”

“I’m with you, aren’t I?” She answered. “No one has shown any interest in me at all. I wouldn’t come here alone. I do have some sense.”

Solomon thought about responding to that statement, but decided that she had enough to aggravate her at the moment.

The shutters of the tavern were open a crack to let in the brisk spring air. Catherine got up and looked out, noting how the sunlight was already gone from the narrow street. When she came back to her seat, she didn’t say anything, but her inner turmoil showed in the way she pursued the bits of herbs around the rim of her cup.

“Don’t worry,” Solomon said. “He’ll be here soon. The silversmith has never made him work past sundown yet.”

“I know,” Catherine told him. She continued fussing with the beer.

“I wish I could find out where that workshop is.” Solomon was becoming concerned, too. “It’s almost two weeks now and all I can figure out is where it isn’t. I’ve been around the wall of the cloister a dozen times and there’s no sign of a kiln. I wish I could get inside.”

“Edgar wants to ask Maurice to hunt for it,” Catherine said. “But we’re not sure yet how well we can trust him. He seems honest, but he’s also very grateful to the canons for taking him in.”

“Why would the canons of Notre Dame want or need to have a clandestine metal shop?” Solomon asked. “They can set one up quite legitimately to provide for the church.”

Catherine considered straining the herb flecks through her sleeve. It couldn’t make the beer taste any worse. This was not Samson’s best effort. She compromised by using the tip of the sleeve to skim the worst of whatever it was off the top.

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