It took Edgar a while to find the right door. He realized with some embarrassment that he had never entered through the front of the house, at least not while conscious. He hoped they would receive him. He hoped they were there. The whole street had the look of a place shut down for the winter, or until some great storm passed.
At first there was no response to his knock. Then he heard a swish of skirts upon the rushes and a narrow slot was pushed back. A brown eye focused on him then looked beyond, as if checking for companions.
“What do you want?” It was a woman’s voice, young but trying to sound old and brusk.
“My name is Edgar,” he said gently. “I’m a friend of Solomon, of this house, and of Hubert LeVendeur. I’ve just returned to Paris and wished for word of them.”
His stomach tightened as he spoke. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about Solomon and Hubert. Catherine! He wanted to shout it. Tell me if Catherine is safe. Tell me that everything is as it was, that we are still betrothed, and I’ll leave you in peace!
But he only stood quietly at the door as the eye examined him once again. The slot closed.
It seemed he stood there for days as other eyes watched him from slots up and down the narrow street. Finally, the door opened a few inches and a hand pulled him in.
He was suddenly smothered in a soft, maternal bosom then pushed to arm’s length. Catherine’s aunt Johannah greeted him.
“You look better than the last time you were here,” she laughed. “How’s the arm?”
“Fine,” he gasped. He had not expected to be welcomed. He straightened and bowed properly.
“May the Lord bless all who dwell here,” he said, remembering at the last minute not to go on to the Virgin and the saints.
“And you,” Johannah smiled again. “Come in, wash the road from your hands and face. I will have Dulce bring you some wine and cheese. Eliazar is out, but I expect him soon.”
It was hard to endure the customs of civilization when operating on basic feelings, but Edgar managed to survive until Catherine’s uncle Eliazar returned.
“Yes,” Edgar answered him. “It is good to see you again, also. I am fully recovered, thanks to your kind attentions. My family is well. My trip was uneventful, except … I was able to sell my land to provide a bridal gift. Please tell me, do I still have a bride?”
Eliazar leaned back in his chair and laughed, his stomach shaking. He ran a hand through his beard and his expression softened to sympathy.
“As far as I know,” he said, “my brother has not changed his mind about allowing you to marry his daughter. Of course, those nuns may give you a fight for her soul. But why don’t you simply go ask Hubert? Why come here and now, of all times?”
Then Edgar realized why the houses were all locked and barred. He had been so caught up in his own life that he had missed the obvious. This was Holy Week. Every day from now until Easter, good Christians were reminded in sermon, play and procession of Christ’s passion and death. More than any other time of the year, the ancient guilt and continued intransigence of the Jews in their midst was made apparent to them.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think …”
Eliazar shrugged. “Why should you? You are not the one they throw stones and fishheads at. Still, you could have gone to my brother’s. He has made a reputation as a good Christian. No one in Paris knows he was born a Jew.”
Edgar hung his head. He felt like a just-thrashed schoolboy. In his part of the world, Jews were mythical beings inhabiting only the Old Testament or Easter sermons. He still found it difficult to associate them with the people of Paris who looked and acted just like everyone else. He had forgotten the shame of Hubert Le Vendeur’s family connections and remembered only the kindness they had shown him when his life was in danger.
Why had he come to Eliazar first? The reasons that came into his mind could not be spoken. Because I felt more likely to be taken in here. Because I wanted someone to be on my side when I see Catherine’s family. Because your wife reminds me of my stepmother and it comforts me to see her. He felt like an idiot and knew that whatever he said would cause laughter or offense. He took a deep breath and decided to tell the truth.
“I didn’t want to appear at Catherine’s door like a beggar or an abductor,” he explained. “Also, I wasn’t sure how I would be received there. Perhaps Hubert has decided that Catherine should remain in the convent, if only for her mother’s sake. You know her mother believes that Catherine has risen bodily into heaven and is now a saint?”
Eliazar nodded. “His wife’s condition is one of Hubert’s greatest sorrows. Yes, it would be difficult if you appeared at family dinner. Madeleine would not take kindly to your intentions.”
“Exactly,” Edgar said. “If Hubert were not there, I didn’t know how I would explain myself, or to whom. But you know me.”
“Yes,” Eliazar smiled. “We have had a short but illuminating acquaintance. For most of it, you were unconscious, as I recall.”
Edgar grimaced. “Yes, that’s true. I suppose I came here because I know you. You were kind to me. I would have gone directly to the Paraclete and met Catherine there, avoiding the whole problem,” he added, “but I don’t want to be accused of abduction.”
“Very commendable.” Eliazar smiled. “Especially since they would not be likely to let you anywhere near my niece without her father’s permission. Well then, as far as I know, my brother is in Paris. Madeleine is at Vielleteneuse with Catherine’s brother and his family and so safely out of the way. If you want word of Catherine, or a formal contract made up, I think you should go see Hubert. I would send a messenger to him, but I won’t risk anyone this week.”
“I understand,” Edgar got up. “Thank you.”
Johannah came in just as he was leaving. “Are you going without eating? We do allow Christians at our table.”
“You have given me something better than food,” Edgar said. “I will not intrude upon you further.”
When he had gone, Johannah turned to her husband.
“That boy is still in love with Catherine,” she said.
“And what’s wrong with that?” Eliazar asked.
“Love should come after marriage, not before,” she answered firmly. “It’s something that happens in spite of knowing a person’s worst habits. Putting it first will only cause trouble.”
“If you feel that way, I’m very glad you didn’t love me when we got married.”
Johannah patted Eliazar’s stomach. “You foolish man, I’ve loved you since I was six years old.”
Eliazar shook his head. “Then I hope you will forgive me, I’ve only loved you since you were ten.”
Johannah sighed. “Those poor children, from opposite ends of the world. It’s a miracle they even met. I hope nothing prevents their happiness.”
“My dearest, that’s what life does,” he answered sadly. “I only hope they taste a little joy before things go wrong.”
Despite Eliazar’s advice, Edgar went in the opposite direction from Hubert LeVendeur’s house at the Grève on the northern bank of the river. Instead he crossed the Petit Pont and headed west, to Sainte-Geneviève. On the other side of the Seine the crowds were rowdier, younger, much more drunk. He pulled his hood far down over his face and elbowed his way through. He could feel hands groping him, hunting for a purse, he hoped. He had none. He had sent the books and his pack on with Astrolabe. He felt a sudden thud against his side, as if someone had thrown a rock, but in this crush it was impossible. A voice muttered, “Aversier ou serjens? Par le cors Saint Omer! Fils a batart avoutre!”
Edgar looked down in time to see a knife flash away from him, the tip bent. He rubbed his side. There was a tear in his chainse that had slit the cloth underneath. He could feel the smooth gold revealed. He covered it with his hand and wrapped his cloak more tightly. With renewed energy, he shoved himself away from his assailant and hurried on, repeating under his breath, “Deo gratias, Mariae gratias!” over and over.
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“And thank you, too, Egbert,” he added. “For paying me in good thick bezants.”
By the time he reached Sainte-Geneviève, his side was aching fiercely. He would have one beautiful bruise from this, but it made him shaky to think how close he had come to having his stomach gutted. He had passed twice through an England in the middle of civil war and had not come so close to death.
As he climbed the steps to the abbey, he began to wonder about it. The man had not tried to cut a purse. He had thrust at his left side, under the rib cage. He had wanted to murder him in the crowd and be gone. Why? Edgar felt a cold hand on his neck and shuddered violently, turning. There was no one there.
This was insane, Edgar told himself. There was no reason for someone to single him out for murder. He had no importance. His family’s feuds were confined to the area between Northumbria and Edinburgh. It was unlikely anyone would follow him here for revenge. Apart from a difference of opinion with Catherine’s uncle Roger, now mercifully dead, he had made no enemies that he knew of. His attacker was most likely mad, someone with a grudge against all clerics. Perhaps a student had seduced his wife or cheated him at dice. It was unnerving and painful, but nothing to become morbid about. Cities bred madness; it was a well-known fact.
Astrolabe was sitting by the fire in the monastery hostel. The bag of books and a smaller sack of clothes and writing tools were beside him. Edgar shook himself, forcing the fear from his limbs. There was no point in recounting the tale. Certainly not here, at least, where his explanation of being saved by his belt of gold coins might be overheard.
“What are your plans? Are we leaving soon?” Edgar asked Astrolabe, as he went through the sack for his drinking cup. “Is there any ale?”
“The barrel is in the corner. There’s a monk guarding it,” Astrolabe answered. “My father wants to leave at first light tomorrow.”
Edgar stopped in his quest for a drink. Astrolabe seemed as upset as he was himself. “That worries you?”
Astrolabe rubbed his forehead. “He is much worse. He’s gaunt as if on a perpetual fast. His skin is some part red, some part pale as your own. He barely has the strength to stand.”
“Is he well enough to ride the mule?”
Astrolabe frowned. “I have no idea. It certainly is the proper mount for an abbot and he clings to the perquisites of his office. He has little more.” He covered his face with both hands. “I just don’t know if he could even stand that much jolting. Which would anger my mother more, if I let him use the last of his strength to reach her or if I risked his dying where she could not reach him?”
“I haven’t met your mother,” Edgar said. “But I do know Master Abelard. The decision will be his.”
“Exactly.” A hand descended heavily onto Edgar’s shoulder. At first he thought it was a blow of reprimand, then he realized that, if he moved, Abelard would fall. Edgar looked around slowly. His eyes widened in shock.
In the four months he had been gone, Abelard had aged ten years, it seemed. His hair was nearly white and the skin was stretched over the bones of his face like leather on a new drum. The hand gripping Edgar’s shoulder, however, was iron strong.
“I will spend Easter at the Paraclete,” he announced. “It is my duty to see to the welfare of my daughters in Christ. Then, I must see the archbishop of Sens.”
“Father … !” Astrolabe began. Then he stopped and shook his head in resignation. “Then I’m going to see about getting you a horse. The mule has too uneven a gait. And don’t make any objection,” he added as he got up and put on his cloak. “I may not have your gift for argument, but I’m as stubborn as you and Mother put together.”
Abelard eased himself onto the stool Astrolabe had vacated. He smiled at him fondly.
“I think a horse would be an excellent idea,” he said. “Thank you, son.”
His agreement seemed to alarm Astrolabe even more. Muttering that the Day of Judgement must surely be at hand, he went out.
Edgar finally went for his drink, getting another for Master Abelard. When he returned, he found the master staring blankly into the fire. He roused himself to take the offered cup.
“Do you ever see images in flames?” he asked Edgar.
Startled, Edgar answered, “No, never.”
Abelard sighed. “Neither do I. God grants me no such visions. I see only what logic and common sense tell me is there. It might be better if I saw dragons or visions of damned souls. Instead, I see only something burning to create warmth. One would think a heretic would feel some premonition upon regarding fire.”
Edgar looked at the glowing coals and tried to decide if he was supposed to see something or not. After a few minutes, Abelard spoke again, in a different tone.
“So, are you still determined to steal away one of Héloïse’s charges for the trials of married life?”
Edgar grinned. “Yes, Master, if she’ll still have me.”
“I will not lecture you on the subject again,” Abelard assured him. “Although the ability to enjoy carnal union has been taken from me, I remember it well enough and know the force with which it can overcome us.”
“Neither of us has taken any other vows,” Edgar reminded him. “It isn’t the easiest road to salvation, I know, but …”
“You intend to marry this woman, don’t you?” Abelard asked sharply. “You intend to live with her and honor her and engender children upon her who will be raised in the faith. Is that correct?”
“Yes, of course,” Edgar answered, though he hadn’t actually thought too far beyond the initial consummation as yet.
“Then I see no reason for you to alter your plans. The apostle would not have told couples to pay each other the marriage debt if it were a sin. I believe that no such natural pleasure of the flesh, such as that which is necessary to continue the human race, should be called a sin. Nor should it be considered a fault if we take pleasure from the act in marriage when the pleasure is unavoidable.”
“I remember your lecture on that, Master,” Edgar said. “So you feel that I should not consider it a sin if I prefer marriage to burning.”
“Precisely,” Abelard replied. He set down his cup, serious again. “I wonder if that is among the list of heresies the former abbot of Saint-Thierry is making from my writings.”
“I don’t understand this new controversy.” Edgar said fiercely. “Haven’t they persecuted you enough? After Soissons, didn’t they realize how ridiculous these charges of heresy were?”
“That was many years ago,” Abelard answered. “Since then, I have achieved even more respect and renown for my theological studies. Little minds fear me. They are in terror of the influence I might have. My books are read even in Rome. William of Saint-Thierry was once my friend. He must know my faith is as strong and orthodox as his own. But I intend to settle this matter once and for all.”
“How?” Edgar wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“Henry Sanglier, archbishop of Sens, is holding a display of relics on the octave of Pentecost. He has invited the king, the count of Champagne and a number of bishops and nobles. The following day I propose to debate William’s champion, the abbot of Clairvaux, on these matters that he considers counter to dogma. I will prove my case before everyone.”
Abelard sank back on the stool, exhausted. Edgar didn’t know what to say. He believed completely that his teacher was no heretic, that he was the most brilliant scholar in France, or anywhere else. But he did not believe that Abelard, in his present state of health, was strong enough to debate anyone, especially someone with the passion and certainty of Bernard of Clairvaux. But, as Astrolabe had said, there was only one person who could outargue Peter Abelard.
“You say we’ll leave for the Paraclete at first light?” he asked. “I must go now to make arrangements with Catherine’s father. Where shall I meet you?”
“At the Devil’s Fart,” Abelard answered. “Be there before the sun strikes the spire of Saint-Jean, or we’ll leave without you.�
�
Four
Paris, at a house on the right bank near the Grève,
Palm Sunday and the eve of the Feast of All Fools,
March 31, 1140
Brutescent homines si concessi dote priventur eloquii, ipsaeque urbes videbuntur potius pecorum quasi saepta quam coetus hominum nexu quodam societatis foederatus, ut participatione officiorum et amica invicem vicissitudine eodem iure vivat,
Deprived of their gift of speech, men would degenerate to the condition of brute animals, and cities would seem like corrals for livestock, rather than communities composed of human beings united by a common bond for the purpose of living in society, serving one another and cooperating as friends.
—John of Salisbury,
Metalogicon
The open field of the Grève was still cluttered with stalls and celebrants when Edgar arrived that evening. He waded through the broken evergreen branches, carried in lieu of palms by most of the people in the processions. The scent of pine mingled with that of stale beer, incense and the sharp tang of freshly tanned hides. Edgar inhaled deeply. It reminded him of home. He wondered if he should buy another draught of beer to fortify him for the meeting with Catherine’s father.
A woman was lounging against the keg.
“How much to fill a cup this size?” Edgar asked, holding up his drinking mug.
The woman smiled and straightened. “It depends on what I fill it with,” she said, wrapping an arm about his waist.
It was only then that Edgar noticed the bright yellow belt the woman wore. As she brushed against him, he also realized that her chainse was laced up so loosely that one could see her naked skin showing between the ribbons from armpit to thigh. She must have been cold without her shift. But he didn’t have the time, money or inclination to warm her.
The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 4
