The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  Catherine pushed her way out and ran as ordered, only tripping once in the mud. She fumbled through the box of documents. Yes, there it was. She scanned it quickly: “ … sub presentia et cum laude et voluntate conjugis sui Raynaldi comitis de Tornordoro,” “ … in the presence, and with the consent and will of her husband, Count Raynald of Tonnerre.” Catherine stuffed the parchment in her sleeve and rushed back.

  “There it is,” she said as she handed the paper to Héloïse . “Mother, shouldn’t we ask her about her attacker?”

  She looked so anguished that Héloïse didn’t have the heart to reprimand her.

  “Catherine, dear,” she said. “This is not the time to seek vengeance. She wants to die a member of this house. That is all that matters. Father, can we proceed?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Hersende, the wardrobe mistress, laid a length of black cloth over his arm. As Héloïse supported her, he arranged it lightly about Alys’s face, since she was unable to do it for herself as prescribed.

  “Accipe, ah … domina, pallium quod perferas sine macula ante tribunal Domini nostri Jesu Christi … . Effunde, Domine, caelestem benedictionem super hanc famulam tuam, Aleydem. Amen.”

  He spoke haltingly, not sure of the form in this situation. But Héloïse seemed satisfied.

  With great effort, Alys moved her hand up to feel the rough wool cloth against her face. “Ah, Jesu,” she breathed.

  Her eyes turned upward and she gave a long sigh, which turned into a rattling in the back of her throat. Hurriedly, Father Guiberc began the prayers for the dying. The sisters began chanting the responsory.

  Alys lay still. She was free.

  Catherine sat outside Héloïse’s room, waiting for her punishment. She felt completely drained of feeling. Even now, the corpse of Alys, once countess of Tonnerre, was being cleaned and wrapped. She had been grateful that her offer to help had been turned down. The sight and smell of that poor, scarred body would have been too much for her to bear. Alys seemed so easily disposed of. Because it was already late afternoon of Holy Thursday, there would not even be a funeral Mass before the burial. It would have to wait until after Easter.

  At least, Catherine thought, she didn’t die alone. But why should she have died at all? Why? She should have told us who killed her.

  To satisfy your curiosity, Catherine? her conscience asked. Were you planning to seek revenge? Start a blood feud? Isn’t it more important that she died in a state of grace?

  Catherine buried her face in her hands. She wanted to scream her anger and frustration, but she was too worn. It wasn’t right simply to bury Alys and forget how she died. Just because she was now in a better world didn’t mean one should ignore the horrors she had endured in this one.

  The door opened and Héloïse appeared.

  “Come in, Catherine,” she said. “I have chosen to speak with you here, instead of in chapter. But you must apologize there next time and take your reprimand.”

  “Of course, Mother,” Catherine said. She waited.

  Héloïse led her into her stark cell. The window was open and Catherine could hear the sound of iron on dirt as the lay brothers dug the grave.

  Héloïse sat and rubbed her eyes.

  “I realize that, for some reason, the plight of the countess … of our sister Alys has affected you strongly. You know that we did all we could for her.”

  Catherine sighed. “Yes, Mother, I know. But I wish we could have done more, before she was hurt. I don’t know why, but I feel it’s important, necessary, that we discover if she were really attacked by Walter of Grancy and, even more, who it was who beat her so many times before.”

  “Catherine, how can that help her now?”

  Héloïse was clearly exhausted. Catherine felt terribly guilty for adding to her burdens. She reached for an acceptable reason for her belief. She was too tired; she could only stare with pleading eyes at this woman who had become her mother. Without warning, she began to cry. Héloïse took her in her arms and rocked her like a baby.

  “Catherine, Catherine,” she murmured. “You can’t grieve like this for a woman you never knew. One can’t hurt so easily when there is so much pain in the world. Alys had a sorrowful life, it seems. But she would not want your pity for her to make your life more sad.”

  Catherine took a deep breath and wiped her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, Mother. I feel foolish and I know I’m not really crying for Alys. She has found peace.”

  She paused.

  “Mother, …” She tried to think of a way to ask this. “Do you know why Paciana became a lay sister?”

  “Yes,” Héloïse said. “She confessed to me when she entered the Paraclete.”

  “Then you know who she is?”

  “Yes.”

  Catherine was feeling her way now, as through a dark forest. But she was beginning to understand her own intense reaction to the countess’s death.

  “If I had decided to stay and take my vows,” she said slowly, “instead of marrying Edgar, (Oh, please send him sooni!) I wonder what I would do if my sister, Agnes, were brought here in this way, if she had been beaten so horribly, with no one near to protect her. How would I feel? Could I forgive them? Could I forgive myself? Perhaps I’m not a good Christian, but I would want such people punished. Why won’t Paciana tell us who hurt Alys? That is what worries me so.”

  Heloise continued rocking, one finger twisting an errant curl escaped from Catherine’s scarf.

  “I don’t know,” she said at last. “Perhaps Paciana is a better Christian than either of us. You know I cannot betray her confidence. She only told me of her own life, not her sister’s. I have my speculations but I cannot break my word to her any more than you can.”

  Catherine gave one last sniff. “No, but … Oh, Mother Héloïse, I am so confused.”

  To her surprise, Héloïse laughed. “My dearest Catherine, have I never told you? Confused is the natural state of every true scholar.”

  Alys was buried immediately before Vespers that afternoon. The traditional sadness of the day was intensified by this new sorrow, and an extra candle was lit, beside Our Lady’s altar, for her soul.

  Catherine fell into bed that night, more tired than she had ever been in her life.

  “Dear Lord,” she prayed, “let me sleep until Edgar comes. I’m so tired of hurting alone.”

  Five

  Near the Paraclete,

  Good Friday, April 5, 1140

  Quid Salomone sapientius? Attamen infatuatur amoribus feminarum.

  Was ever man wiser than Solomon? Yet love for woman made even him foolish.

  —Saint Jerome,

  Letter to Rusticus

  Dense fog filled the valley as the three travellers made their way down the road from Nogent. Edgar and Astrolabe were warm from walking, but Abelard shivered as the mist coalesced and dripped from the hood of his cloak and down his neck. Astrolabe touched his hand. It was cold and trembling.

  “Perhaps we should find a house to rest in and dry ourselves,” Edgar suggested.

  “Father?” Astrolabe said.

  Abelard looked through the fog, at someone neither Edgar nor Astrolabe could see.

  “You can’t expect everyone to comprehend on faith alone,” Abelard pleaded. “They must be gently guided to belief by simple logic. We are not all saints, after all. If we were, Our Lord’s sacrifice would have no meaning. You must see that. Why won’t you admit it?”

  Astrolabe touched him again, trying to call him back from his wandering.

  “Father!” Astrolabe bit his lip. “You’re not well. Perhaps we shouldn’t go any further. We could stop for the night at Saint-Aubin.”

  “You are called ‘saint,’ even ‘angel,’” his father shouted into the air. “It is not so. You’re only a man, whatever your repute. How dare you correct me!”

  “There’s an inn at Saint-Aubin,” Edgar said. “We should at least get him warm and calm him, if we can. After that, it’s only anoth
er mile or two to the Paraclete. They can care for him there better than anywhere else.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Astrolabe said. “I’m as bad as he, thinking more of his dignity than his health. It’s only that the nuns revere him so. I fear that he might not want them to see him in such a state.”

  “I don’t think their respect for him would be diminished if they saw him ill,” Edgar told him.

  Suddenly, echoing faintly in the fog, came the sound of a wooden clapper, which called clerics to prayer instead of the bells, from the Gloria of the Mass of Maundy Thursday to the Gloria of the Mass of the Easter Vigil. Edgar turned his head, hunting for the source.

  “Listen! It must be None,” he said. “I’d lost all sense of time in this cloud.”

  At the sound, Abelard first started in surprise, then quieted and bowed his head.

  “Parasceve,” he whispered. “I had forgotten! How could I be so full of my own persecution?” Softly, he began to chant, “Nona, qua vera lux penam finierit, subtractam lucem hanc mundo restituit … .”

  “‘At the ninth hour, when the true light ended his torment, he restored to this world the light that had been lost,’” Edgar translated. “I don’t know that hymn.”

  “It’s Father’s,” Astrolabe said. “He wrote it for the Paraclete, for Mother. He made one for almost every office of the last days of Holy Week.”

  They listened without moving until Abelard fell silent.

  “How much farther?” he asked.

  Edgar looked up. Master Abelard smiled at him. His eyes were red and his hands still shaking, but he had returned to them.

  “A couple of miles,” Astrolabe told him. “Do you feel well enough to continue?”

  “Of course. I am ashamed of myself. In my own anger over my troubles, I had forgotten the day. How can I complain of those who torment me, when I think of what Our Lord suffered at this very hour for speaking his truth?”

  He set his horse at a brisker pace. Astrolabe and Edgar soon had no breath for conversation, but neither suggested they slow down. Edgar was glad that the redness of his face could be put down to the exercise, but he was also ashamed. He had known well enough that it was Good Friday but, instead of remembering the passion and death of Christ, he had only been thinking of his own passion for Catherine. It was just as well he had decided not to become a bishop.

  They began to hear another sound, growing rapidly, that of hooves beating against the dirt road. Without warning, a party of knights galloped out of the fog, giving them no time to move out of the way. Edgar managed to hold onto the neck of Abelard’s horse as the party raced by, not even seeming to see them, but Astrolabe was thrown to the side of the road.

  Abelard rose in his stirrups. “Questres!” he shouted at them. “Fis des lisses! If you’ve no care for your own worthless necks, think of your horses!”

  Edgar ran to Astrolabe, who was trying to untangle himself from a thornbush.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured them. “Apart from scratches, I’m fine. What incredible bricons! Who would be insane enough to ride at top speed in weather like this?”

  “Perhaps,” Abelard said, “they’ve had a divine summons and were hurrying to join the brothers of Clairvaux.”

  Astrolabe looked at his father and then at Edgar. He relaxed and then began to laugh much more than the joke allowed.

  “You’re feeling better, Father,” he said at last. “I stand rebuked. Who are we to keep the converted from hastening to their new life?”

  “That’s right, my son,” Abelard answered. “Of course, as they journey, we might piously wish that they will soon discover how the mighty may be humbled.”

  “Still,” Edgar added, “I would feel better if I knew where they were really going. There isn’t much along this road besides the Paraclete.”

  The three men looked at each other, considering Edgar’s observation. Without speaking, they started off again, even more quickly than before.

  The clapper sounded also at the Paraclete. Barefoot, the nuns headed to the oratory. But Catherine was not among them. She knelt on the hard floor of the infirmary. Her hands were raw and her nose running. She dipped the brush into the bucket again and splashed the soapy water onto the wall. The scent of death still lingered in the room despite all the scrubbing and censing.

  They had taken down all the dried flowers and herbs and put them in a brazier in the center of the room, where they were slowly burning. The smoke seared Catherine’s lungs and eyes. Kneeling beside her on the floor, Paciana rubbed at the oaken planks with her scrub brush as if attempting to cut through them. She kept her head down. Catherine had given up trying to talk with her.

  Together in silence, they wiped up the water and opened the door to let out the smoke.

  In silence they changed their wet robes. In silence they walked to the chapter house for the daily conference, a practice not omitted at the Paraclete even on Good Friday. Catherine sat silently next to Paciana in the back with the lay sisters. Her decision to return to the world had removed her from a place with the other nuns. But all here could listen to the conference, a short spiritual talk given by Héloïse or one of the other sisters.

  Héloïse entered and all the women rose.

  “I had planned today,” she started, “to speak to you on the Book of Luke, chapter twenty-three, verse forty-four. However, my original thoughts have been superceded.”

  She smiled at them tenderly.

  “We are a young house and have lost few of our own since our founding, for which we thank God. Yesterday, a woman died among us. She was only one of our community for a moment. Yet she was our sister, and our benefactress, and it is right that we mourn her on this solemn day and also rejoice that she came to us in time to die surrounded by our love and prayers.”

  Catherine felt the resentment rising to her throat again.

  Stop this, Catherine! her voices rang in her head. Charity, forgiveness! Anyway … you’re being hypocritical admit it. It’s not what was done to Alys that upsets you. It’s the fear that it might happen to you.

  No! Edgar would never hurt me! Catherine thought.

  Of course not. She knew he wouldn’t. It was true they had only spoken a dozen times, but the circumstances had been optimal for complete understanding. She hated those voices, that part of her that had been trained to line up arguments on both sides of every question. They bored through everything she said to comfort herself and illuminated the smallest shred of doubt.

  “Therefore,” the abbess concluded, “on this day of grief and hope, let us all pray that the soul of our sister Alys be granted the true peace, which is unknown to any of us still on this earth.”

  Héloïse handed the list of daily duties to the prioress and left. Catherine looked about, embarrassed. She had missed most of what the abbess had said. Catherine took a deep breath, the first all day that didn’t smell of smoke or decay. Peace. There were small sounds in the room; the creak of the wooden chapter seats, the rustle of clothing, a gentle click of beads, the patient elderly voice of Prioress Astane, who had grown up in a convent and come with Héloïse from Argenteuil, going over a few rubrical details concerning the Good Friday afternoon liturgy.

  This was contentment. This was what she knew, where she belonged. To Catherine, heaven was a convent, one with no novice mistress and an infinite number of books.

  And Edgar?

  “By the thundering vengeance of Saint Emerentiana, stop!”

  “Catherine!” Prioress Astane stared at her reproachfully. Sister Bertrada started toward her, stick raised.

  Catherine looked up in horror, half expecting a thunderbolt to strike her down and half hoping one would. Those stupid voices, changing sides on her so suddenly that she had spoken aloud. She was too embarrassed even to apologize. She just buried her face in her hands and hunched over. Someone nearby giggled.

  Thwack! The giggle was replaced by a yipe of pain.

  Catherine felt a wisp of comfort. God may choos
e his own time and place for revenge, but the blows of Sister Bertrada were swift and certain.

  As they left the chapter, Catherine managed to pass near Emilie and Sister Bietriz. Emilie shook her head at her, trying not to laugh.

  “If you must carry on arguments with demons, Catherine,” she teased, “couldn’t you at least use a softer voice?”

  Catherine sighed. “The demons were winning this time.”

  Bietriz put a hand on Catherine’s shoulder. She was a tall woman who moved with more resolve than grace. Her face was all wrong for the standard of beauty extolled in the songs of the jongleurs. Her nose was straight and large, her hair almost as dark as Catherine’s own, and her eyebrows so thick that a lady of the court would have plucked them to almost nothing. Her chin was also firm and decided. All the same, as the niece of the seneschal of the count of Champagne, she could have made a good marriage, had she wanted to. Catherine admired her greatly, but always felt a little bit in awe of someone so completely undistracted by imagination.

  Bietriz smiled. “Emilie tells me that you are concerned about the death of Sister Alys. No, I correct myself, it is her life that troubles you.”

  “Yes,” Catherine said. “She suffered greatly.”

  “It is a mystery why some have lives of so much pain and others, who seem no more deserving, have so little,” Bietriz said sadly. “The Book of Job has never seemed to me to give an adequate answer to this paradox. But I trust that there is one, if only our minds were capable of comprehension.”

  “No doubt, Sister,” Catherine answered. “I understand that you may know something more about the mystery of Countess … of Sister Alys’s family.”

  Bietriz nodded. “Oh, that’s no mystery. We all know her family. She is the child of Gerhard of Quincy’s second wife, Constanza. Constanza is the daughter of Norbert, who was the second son of Hugo, lord of Neuvry. Her brother is Robert, prior of Vauluisant. Constanza’s second husband is a man named Rupert, of no discernible family whatever, as far as I know. I can’t imagine why she chose him.