The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  “Catherine!” Edgar heard the scream and knew, from experience, that it was not of fear but annoyance. Still, he hurried back to the edge of the ditch, prepared to descend and fetch his bride. He couldn’t say that he hadn’t been warned.

  “Leoffœst!” he called. “Are you hurt? I’m coming!”

  “No, don’t!” Catherine called back. “It’s horridly slimy here. I don’t want to think about what I’ve landed on, but it was soft enough to break my fall. I’ll climb up the side. Hold your nose with one hand and help me up with the other.”

  Catherine began climbing up the bank. She had lost her scarf and her braids were covered with bits of leaves and rushes, as well as the combination of mud, scum and garbage that she’d fallen into. Edgar ignored part of her order and leaned over the edge, holding out both hands to help her up.

  “Give the man some help, Hugh!” The sharp and imperious voice was right at Edgar’s ear and nearly caused him to slide in after Catherine. “Lupel, stop fussing about your hose and get the poor girl out!”

  Two more hands reached out and grabbed one of Catherine’s wrists. Edgar took the other, and together, he and the stranger pulled her back onto the street. Immediately, the stranger backed away, looking around frantically for something to wipe his hands on beside his own linen, fur-edged robe.

  “Here, Lupel, don’t be so fastidious. Take my scarf.”

  They all turned to the sedan chair, now resting in the road. Its occupant appeared oblivious to the fact that all the traffic now had to pass around her, with some difficulty. And none of those so inconvenienced seemed inclined to remonstrate.

  “Are you hurt, girl?” The woman asked Catherine.

  “No, my lady countess.” Catherine recognized her at once and was so abashed she could hardly speak. “I am terribly sorry. It was all my fault. I wasn’t watching the road.”

  Mahaut, countess of Champagne and Blois, wife of Count Thibault, daughter of Englebert, duke of Carinthia, sister to abbots and bishops and mistress of any situation, peered at Catherine. Beneath the mud, she noted that Catherine’s cloak was good wool, and under that, the bliaut was linen and well made. She also saw the delicate carving on the ivory cross around her neck. She looked closer. Catherine returned her stare. In her dark, begrimed face, Catherine’s blue eyes shone like lapis. The countess blinked.

  “I know you, girl,” she said. “I’ve seen you before, I’m sure.”

  “My name is Catherine, daughter of Hubert LeVendeur.” Catherine tried vainly to wipe her face.

  Mahaut suddenly began to laugh. “Of course! How could I forget the little girl who came with her father to my faire at Provins and managed to fall from a tree onto my son and his nurse, spill a pitcher of wine she was carrying to me and nearly be trampled by a bee-stung mule, all in one day.” She tried to control her amusement, but the sight of Catherine was too much. “My dear, you haven’t changed at all!”

  Finally, she sobered. “But what are you doing here? I seem to recall your father asking me to sponsor your entrance into the Paraclete. If you’ve run off from Abbess Héloïse , I’ll have you whipped and sent straight back. And who are these men?” she added, at last noticing Edgar and Solomon.

  “This is my husband,” Catherine said.

  Edgar bowed.

  “If this is true, you have my sympathy, sieur,” the countess said. “If it’s not, I’ll have your …”

  “Of course it is,” Catherine interrupted. “Edgar, show her the contract.”

  Hurriedly, Edgar started rummaging in the pack. Countess Mahaut turned her attention to Solomon. “And this is your brother?”

  “No,” he answered. “Her cousin, Stephen, from Rouen.”

  He glanced a warning at Catherine, who for once held her tongue.

  With a gasp of relief, Edgar found the contract and gave it to the countess. She studied it carefully.

  “In French and Latin,” she said at last. “Signed by Hubert LeVendeur and witnessed by both Abelard and Héloïse. Even if Peter Abelard is a heretic, which I doubt, he should be competent to sanction a marriage. It seems official. And dated … yesterday?”

  She studied them all, Catherine most closely. “Married at the convent, with only your cousin present. Rather unusual and hasty, I would say. Are you pregnant?”

  “No, my lady!” Catherine said with indignation. “Of course not!”

  “Then there must be a story in all this,” the countess said. “I love a good story. Come with me, all of you. Lupel, run on back to the castle and see that a room is prepared for my guests. And start heating water for baths. A lot of water. Hurry.”

  There seemed no reason to argue. Edgar took Catherine’s arm and he and Solomon led the horses in procession behind the countess’s chair.

  “This is a stroke of luck,” Catherine said. “If the countess will help us, no one will dare deny our requests for information.”

  “Nearly getting yourself killed, yet again, is not lucky, Catherine,” Edgar said. “And I don’t like how noticeable we’ve suddenly become. Everyone in town now knows that we’re here. What if the countess disapproves of our requests?”

  He rubbed his aching side. Money and property, internecine greed and death, Catherine’s uncle attacked in Paris just as he had been. He wondered if the man—it must be the same man—who had tried to stick his knife into Eliazar and himself had meant to kill them at all. It was odd to have two such inept attempts. Of course, he amended, Saint Guthlac may well have been watching out for him. But what saint would save a Jew? And always he worried about these whispers of heresy. Even now in Paris they were drawing up sides to condemn or defend Abelard. From the countess’s comment, they were doing the same in Troyes. And how many there had actually read his work?

  Edgar rubbed absently at his side. He should have gone with Abelard to Paris. Now his place was at the side of his master, not entangled in some sordid plot of the champenois and burgundian nobility. What did their earthly struggles matter when Truth was being threatened?

  Catherine noticed the gesture. That bruise must hurt more than he had said. She plodded along, filthy, exhausted, mortified at her continued clumsiness and wondering why she had left the convent.

  You’re walking beside the reason, Catherine. Stop whining.

  That was true. In spite of her discomfort, Catherine smiled. She’d have taken Edgar’s arm, but didn’t want to smear his clothes any more than they had been. Hot water, soap, dry clothes, good food, a warm bed, Edgar. Hot water, soap, dry clothes … like a litany, Catherine hummed her desires. There was no room in her tired brain for further disquiet.

  Solomon followed as ordered, hoping he would be allowed to wash alone. His faith would be evident the moment he dropped his pants. In the past, he had resorted to convoluted explanations to avoid being seen naked. And he did long for a hot soak. Beyond that, he refused to worry. He had long ago realized that his life was not his own. If the Almighty One was now telling him to dine with the countess of Champagne, who was he to question?

  Countess Mahaut was a thorough hostess and they were all provided with whatever they needed. Edgar was dismayed to realize that the amenities didn’t include a chance to indulge his steamy fantasy. He and Solomon were given the curtained tub and Catherine was sent to the women’s rooms to have the countess’s ladies heat the water, wash and braid her hair with ribbons and sew her into a pair of sleeves so tight they almost cut off the blood to her hands.

  Catherine felt like a newborn butterfly in the borrowed finery. The linen chainse was a bright yellow and the silk bliaut over it was blue. The hem and neckline were embroidered with vines. Although Catherine had insisted that the chainse be laced tightly on the sides so that her skin was covered, the bliaut was done up loosely, so that the yellow cloth showed through. She had a belt of blue silk in a darker shade, with gold fringes at the ends that she found fascinating.

  The countess came up to inspect her. Catherine stood nervously. Part of her was enchanted by the beauty
and softness of the clothes. But another part was ashamed that these worldly things could give her such pleasure.

  Mahaut pursed her lips. “I don’t suppose you brought any jewelry from the Paraclete?” she asked. “No, of course not. I know Abbess Héloïse too well to think she would allow such things. I was one of her first patrons, did you know that?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Catherine said. “You’ve been very generous to us, I mean, them.”

  The countess let that pass. “Well, then, I have a fancy to see you dressed as a lady should be. It would be fun to dazzle that new husband of yours. Have the holes in your ears closed during your time at the convent?”

  Catherine rubbed her earlobes. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, if they have, a hot needle will take care of it. I have a nice little pair of earrings, gold and set with beryl. You may have them as my wedding gift.”

  “Thank you, Lady Countess. You are very kind to me. I have no way to repay you,” Catherine said.

  “You can include me in your prayers,” Mahaut answered. “And I may think of something else for you to do. Am I right in assuming that you were at the Paraclete when Alys of Tonnerre died?”

  Startled, Catherine dropped the earring she was trying on into the rushes. With a sigh, one of the ladies knelt to hunt for it.

  “Yes, I was,” Catherine answered.

  “Did she say anything before she died?”

  “Only that she wanted to be made a member of our order,” Catherine said. “She received the veil ad succurendum.”

  “I’m glad to hear that she died in the life she most desired,” Mahaut said. “So. We still don’t know.”

  Catherine started to ask what, then noticed that the woman hunting for the earring had stopped and was listening intently.

  “I’m sure Our Lady will intercede for her in heaven and that she is now at peace,” she said instead.

  “Deo volente,” Mahaut said as she blessed herself. “Poor Alys. We will speak of her later.”

  Edgar was indeed dazzled by Catherine when she came down to the hall for dinner. But she was even more surprised by the change in him.

  “Who are you?” she said as she took his offered hand.

  He had been shaved and his hair trimmed, which altered his appearance somewhat, but from somewhere, he, too, had been transformed, from a student-cleric into a nobleman. His boots were of black leather, and his stockings and braies were also dark. His chainse was grey wool, embroidered at the neck in red flowers, and over it, his surcoat was red silk, with freshly goffered sleeves. He wore a gold chain around his neck and his surcoat was pinned with a brooch of gold twisted into a design similar to the one on her cross.

  “Your husband,” he said, with a smile that made her throat constrict. “I brought these to be married in, but there wasn’t time to change. I hope you don’t expect me to dress like this every day.”

  “I’d be afraid to get close to you if you did. We’d never get ink stains out of that.”

  He lowered his head to the level of her ear, as if to mutter endearments. “Catherine,” he said, “Solomon and I have been talking with some of the men here about Walter of Grancy. It seems he was near Tonnerre on the night the countess was attacked. There were others besides the count’s men who saw him.”

  She brushed her lips across his cheek. “That doesn’t mean he did it. He may have been trying to rescue her.”

  “You have no facts upon which to establish that hypothesis,” Edgar answered, kissing the tip of her nose.

  “That’s quite enough of that,” Mahaut interrupted. “You cannot behave as if my home were the streets of Paris. Catherine, Gervais, here, will show you to your place. You, what’s your name? Edgar, go with Richilde. Richilde, this young man has just married the daughter of an old friend of mine. Keep your hands above the table.”

  Catherine was rather glad to hear that. Richilde was radiantly blonde and fashionably flat-chested. Being loved by a man was too new an experience for Catherine to trust her ability to compete with someone like that. When she considered the situation, it seemed much more likely that Edgar would suddenly start up, announce he’d been enchanted by a witch but was miraculously healed and then hurry back to Scotland as fast as possible.

  Richilde was pouting. “Is that one married?” she asked, pointing at Solomon.

  He winked at her.

  “I presume not,” Mahaut said. “You may put him on your other side, Richilde, but my admonition holds for them both.”

  They had all been set at the lower tables. The countess of Champagne entertained at all times on a grand scale. Catherine guessed there were more people in the hall that afternoon than the convent maintained in a year. Gervais, the page, had put Catherine between two men of about her own age. The one on her left glanced at her, but she apparently did not meet his standards and he turned away.

  The man on her right smiled at her. “I’m Lisiard. My father is provost of Chateau Saint-Thierry and I should warn you that my uncle, Isembard, is the count’s cook.”

  “I would never criticize the food,” Catherine assured him. “I’m Catherine LeVendeur, of Paris, and I’m so hungry, I’d eat saltless gruel.”

  “Have no fear, Uncle will provide you with better than that. Wait, … LeVendeur. Hubert’s daughter?” Lisiard asked. “He sells wine to us.”

  “Does everyone know my father?” Catherine asked.

  “Most people in this area, I would say.” Lisiard grabbed a pitcher going by on a tray and poured wine for Catherine and himself. “It’s rare to find a merchant who’s honest, smart and Christian. Doesn’t he also have connections with the abbey of Saint-Denis?”

  Catherine nodded. She craned her neck along the side of the table to see how Edgar was doing. He and that Richilde seemed to be discussing something seriously. One of her hands was under the table, but she was relieved to see it was on Solomon’s side.

  “Do all these people eat here every day?” she asked Lisiard.

  “Oh, no, it changes all the time. I don’t know all of them. Most of the usual men have gone with Count Thibault and King Louis to put down the commune at Reims. You know about that, don’t you?”

  Yes, she knew. Catherine had a certain sympathy with the burghers at Reims, who, like many others recently, had formed groups to try to win tax and toll concessions from the local lords. Sometimes they got what they wanted, but other times their demands were refused. When that happened, too often the result was violent protest. The king had just crushed one such commune at Poitiers. Catherine felt it was his own fault in the case of Reims, though. If Louis hadn’t allowed the episcopal see to stay empty so long, the townspeople wouldn’t have taken matters into their own hands. However, she didn’t want to get involved in a discussion about that. People tended to have strong opinions and express them forcibly.

  “Are there any people here from Tonnerre?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so.” He looked up and down the table. “The count’s men usually dine with the lady Constanza, his mother-in-law. Of course, they are mourning the death of his wife, now. He would want them to join him in his prayers for her.”

  Catherine wondered how many prayers Count Raynald had authorized. Then her attention was distracted by the arrival of food. The pages had finally finished serving the high table and were passing out the trenchers of bread and slabs of meat, with dishes of sauces. It was all Catherine could do to keep from tearing into her share like a savage. Lisiard picked up his meat and let the juice drip into the bread as he continued.

  “The man up there, last at the countess’s table, is Nocher of Montbard. He is in the service of Walter of Grancy.” Lisiard stopped and looked at her.

  “Oh?” she asked, as she tried to rip the meat from the bone without splashing on her borrowed clothes.

  “You have heard how Raynald of Tonnerre is saying that Walter killed the countess Alys?”

  Catherine nodded. She picked up a napkin to wipe off the juice that was ru
nning down her hands to her wrists.

  “Did he?” she asked.

  “Well,”—Lisiard’s voice lowered and Catherine leaned closer to hear—“I’ve heard that there were others closer to her who would have liked to see her dead, especially since she wasn’t able to provide the count with an heir. Or perhaps that wasn’t her fault. They say he has no bastards.”

  “But she …” Catherine caught herself. She hadn’t considered that the baby Alys had miscarried might not have been her husband’s.

  “That is kitchen gossip, of course. The most reliable kind. You wouldn’t believe what they hear in the kitchens.” Lisiard smiled. “I have a friend there, and she tells me such things. She has a sister in the lady Constanza’s service, and between them, I think they know everything that happens from here to Paris.”

  “And they know something about Walter of Grancy?” Catherine said, trying to sound uninterested. “And the countess of Tonnerre?”

  Lisiard smiled and poured more wine. Some spilled on the tablecloth and it occurred to Catherine that he had started drinking before he had come to dinner.

  “Walter is a good man,” Lisiard said. “He was fond of Alys. And Raynald really wanted the other one, you know, Alys’s half sister. But Constanza wouldn’t hear of it. Just as well; the sister died years ago, a fever or something. Anyway,”—he gestured with his meat, leaving spots of grease on Catherine’s arm—“anyway, Walter may loathe Raynald and argue with him over that blasted forest land, but he would never have hurt a woman.”

  Catherine could well believe that. There were rules, after all. But something else Lisiard had said caught her attention. “Forest land? What forest?”

  Lisiard yawned. “You know, west of here. Makes no sense to me. It’s thick with oaks and thieves and werewolves. I wouldn’t kill anyone over it.”

  He yawned again and reached for the pitcher. As he did, he looked at the high table. Nocher of Montbard was frowning at him. When he caught Lisiard’s eye, he motioned for him to leave.