The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

Walter of Grancy thought that escorting Catherine and Edgar to the Paraclete was a wonderful idea. Gaufridus wasn’t so sure.

  “Raynald’s men will spot you as soon as you’re on the main road,” he argued.

  “That’s nothing to me,” Walter answered. “I only promised not to spill their blood during the Lenten season. I’m tired of living in the woods; my back is tortured from sleeping on leaves and roots and, not to put too fine a point on it, I need meat!”

  “You’ll not get that from the nuns,” Gaufridus said.

  “Of course not,” Walter said. “But I should be able to find something between here and there, or never dare to show my face in my own castle again.”

  He patted his bow.

  “That’s not to say I’m not grateful to you,” he added quickly. “But a man my size simply can’t live on greens and cheese.”

  Gaufridus waved off his explanations. He vanished into his hut and shut the door. Walter nodded.

  “I think we should be on our way,” he said.

  Just then the door opened again and Gaufridus came out with a parcel wrapped in waxed cloth.

  “I thought the sisters might like some candles,” he said. “The children and I make them.”

  He handed the package to Catherine.

  “May the Lord keep you safe,” he said. “Now I really must get back to contemplating heaven!”

  The door shut again. This time they all heard the thunk as the bar dropped across.

  “A very odd hermit,” Catherine commented as she stowed the candles in her pack. “But I like him.”

  Solomon had left their horse in the village with Ermogene, the hermit’s sister, before he and Yehiel went on to Sens. He had also left word that he would meet them in Paris according to their agreement.

  “And he added,” Ermogene told them, “that if you weren’t there when you said, he’d come looking for you.”

  They thanked her and set out.

  “Our road takes us through the property of Vauluisant,” Catherine said. “Will we be given free passage through?”

  She spoke to Edgar, but nodded toward Walter. Vauluisant seemed to have sided with Raynald in this conflict. What would happen if one of the dependents of the monastery saw their companion and notified the abbot? Since Constanza’s brother was prior, he might want to have Walter detained.

  “Perhaps instead of taking the road north that passes by the abbey, we should start west, following the river, and turn north at the border of Champagne.” Walter suggested. “I don’t want trouble from the monks. My quarrel isn’t with them and I don’t like to risk offending those whose prayers I may one day need.”

  They agreed.

  The path that went along the Vanne twisted with the river. In some places the spring floods had overcome the banks and made the way treacherous. They had to dismount and lead the horses through the muddy pools. Sometimes it was necessary to leave what had once been the road and make a trail through the woods, above the bog. By the end of the day, they had only gone about seven miles.

  “Is there no village nearby?” Edgar asked Walter.

  “No.” Walter thought a moment. “No, not even a monastery. I thought we’d be farther along by now.”

  “There’s someone nearby,” Catherine said. “I can smell smoke.”

  Walter looked at Edgar.

  “Do you know how to use a crossbow?” he asked.

  “We have nothing that modern where I come from,” Edgar replied. “But I can use a knife and I can stay alert through the night.”

  Walter still looked worried.

  “We’ll both need to stay alert,” he said. “I think it’s better if we find shelter in the forest and light no fire. Those charcoal burners would kill us for our horses alone. And I had so set my heart on fresh meat tonight.”

  They followed a deer trail a little way from the river until they came to a clearing. They stopped in surprise.

  “What happened here?” Catherine asked. “I’ve never heard of charcoal burners cutting down a whole stand of trees. And what’s that grey mound over there?”

  “A slag heap,” Edgar told her, but he was equally puzzled. “And that pile of clay seems to be the remains of a bloomery. It looks as though someone’s been smelting iron.”

  “For what?” Catherine asked.

  “I have no idea,” Edgar said. “Lord Walter, do you?”

  “Not a clue,” Walter answered. He walked over to the broken pile of clay and put a hand to it.

  “It’s still warm,” he said. “That would be the smoke you smelled. But the fire has been put out now. They seem to have abandoned the place. We’ll stay the night here.”

  Walter, Edgar and Catherine unloaded their packs and saw that the horses were rubbed down and tethered where they could reach a good supply of grass. Then the three of them sat on the fresh tree stumps and tried to puzzle out what had been going on.

  “I’ve never heard of poachers mining iron,” Edgar said. “Is it a common occurrence in France?”

  “Of course not,” Walter answered. “The smoke, the smell, the weeks of work to build the bloomery and smelt the iron, all of these would be impossible to do in secret. Are we still on lands belonging to the monks?”

  “I’m not sure,” Catherine admitted. “Where are we?”

  “The Nosle joins the Vanne a mile or so west of here,” Walter told her. “My lands, such as they are, are on the other side of the forest.”

  Catherine thought, trying to remember charters she had copied. She knew the places where the land of the Paraclete touched that of the monks. There were even a few spots where a piece given to the convent was totally surrounded by Cistercian land. If they were at the joining of the Vanne and the Nosle, the Paraclete was north, Vauluisant west, and south lay the forest of Aix-en-Othe. But the actual donation had been in an area just north of here, near the town of Planty.

  “You know,” she said slowly, “I think we may be just on the edge of the property that Alys gave us.”

  “This donation that everyone is trying to claim?” Walter asked. “Well, there must be gold on it, then. No one would cut throats over a bit of iron. People have been digging it out of this area for centuries. It takes days to get a few pounds of the stuff to release itself from the rocks, I’m told.”

  “And half the time it’s mostly cast iron and is useless,” Edgar added.

  “Where did you read that?” Catherine wanted to know. Edgar had such a strange variety of learning.

  Edgar shrugged. “I heard it somewhere. Not everything of value is in Boethius. Anyway, I don’t see how this could have been done without the monks knowing about it.”

  “I don’t understand how it works,” Catherine said, studying the remains of the oven. “What were these clay pieces for?”

  “The chimney, most likely,” Edgar said. “See, come here and I’ll show you. First they dug a hole and lined it with rocks and clay. Then they built up the chimney with more rocks and clay. There’d have been a hole at the bottom for the tuyere; that’s the pipe that lets the air in. Then they drop in charcoal from the top, light it and then drop in more charcoal and the iron ore, little by little. It takes at least two people, one to put in the ore and another to step on the bellows.”

  “I see, and the bellows are set next to the, what was it? The tuyere—to keep the fire going.” Catherine tried to construct it in her mind. “But how do they get the metal out?”

  “They pull out the tuyere and the ash and clay wedged around it and scrape out the iron. Then they have to pound out the excess slag at once. And then you have a bloom of iron.”

  “We call it a luppa,” Walter said unexpectedly.

  “What is it in Latin?” Catherine asked.

  “I don’t know,” Edgar told her.

  “Then how did you learn all this?” she demanded.

  “I watched and asked questions,” he said.

  “Oh.” Catherine subsided. It seemed an odd thing for a nobleman to do. Or a scholar
. Vulgar somehow. And who would have told him? All craftsmen held the techniques of their art to be secret. And yet, when she had met him, Edgar was doing a credible job of pretending to be a sculptor’s apprentice.

  He was examining the rubble left of the smelting oven in the dwindling light, clearly intrigued. He was pale in the twilight, like some moon spirit. He seemed as remote. Catherine shivered, realizing again how little she knew of this person she had promised her life to.

  “Look!” he called to them. “See here, where it’s all cracked? I think that happened first. These people didn’t know how to build the kiln properly. It must have split open under the heat. That’s why they abandoned it.”

  Satisfied with the answer, he rejoined Catherine on the stump.

  “What is there to eat?” he asked, putting one arm around her and rooting in the pack with the other.

  “Hard bread, cheese and green onions,” Catherine said.

  She rubbed her cheek on his shoulder. Solid and warm. She sighed in relief.

  Walter sighed, too. “And water,” he muttered. “I knew a man once who died from drinking water. I’ve fasted long enough. Tomorrow we will eat!”

  The next morning was grey with drizzle. Catherine woke up slowly, trying to understand why her face was wet and her feet freezing. She buried her nose in the back of Edgar’s neck, making him yelp in shock.

  “Catherine, never do that!” he said, when he realized what had happened. “I thought it was one of my brothers, waking me with a frog again. I nearly gave you a black eye.”

  “Sister Bertrada told me you would, one day,” Catherine said. “I would hate to see her justified in any of her predictions for me. But my nose was cold.”

  “Catherine, where’s Walter?” Edgar said, looking around. “His horse is gone.”

  “He wouldn’t have abandoned us here, would he?” Catherine said.

  “Of course not,” Edgar’s voice lacked confidence. “Wait, it’s all right. He left his pack and his crossbow. He wouldn’t go without that.”

  “Perhaps he just got up early to contemplate Nature,” Catherine said.

  Edgar nodded. “No doubt. I feel a bit contemplative myself. I think it’s the onions. But most people don’t take their horses with them at such a time.”

  There was a sudden crashing in the woods and Edgar instinctively picked up the crossbow with one hand and shoved Catherine out of harm’s way with the other.

  It had just occurred to him that he didn’t know how to load the thing when Walter appeared at the edge of the clearing, gleefully holding up a brace of rabbits.

  “Let’s find out if we can get a fire going in all this damp,” he cried. “Marauders be damned. Fresh meat for breakfast!”

  Despite her eagerness to reach the Paraclete and make certain that Paciana was safe, Catherine made no objection to the time it took to build the fire, roast and eat the rabbit.

  “I still wish we knew who had built the forge,” she said as she licked the grease from her fingers. “It seems that instead of finding answers all we ever encounter are more questions.”

  “You found me,” Walter reminded her.

  “That’s true,” she conceded. “And you have at least convinced me that you aren’t responsible for Alys’s death. But, there’s still so much that almost makes sense, but won’t.”

  Edgar nodded. “That was always my problem with theology,” he said. “I would have made a terrible bishop.”

  “Who wanted you to be a bishop?” Walter was skeptical.

  “I’m the fifth son. My uncle is a bishop and my mother’s cousin is abbot of the family monastery. Those were my choices. Then I met Catherine.”

  “I’m so glad you did,” she said.

  They smiled at each other and neither noticed the look of intense pain that swept over Walter of Grancy.

  “Alys,” he whispered.

  They reached the main road, the trade route between Troyes and Provins, later that morning. There the surface was well maintained and they often overtook carts and other travellers. At first Catherine worried that someone would recognize Walter and start a hue and cry. But she soon realized that everyone they met was involved with their own affairs and only concerned with arriving safely at their destinations. No one cared about a feud between lords, especially when one of the lords was as large as Walter.

  As they approached the turning to the convent, two men on horseback came racing down the path. Edgar, who was leading the horse, jumped out of the way. Walter half rose in his stirrups as the riders passed, his bow poised. But, after one glance, both men veered well away from him and continued on their way.

  Catherine nudged Edgar and pointed to the ground.

  “One of those men was leaking,” she said.

  Edgar knelt and rubbed his fingers in the damp dirt. They came away red. He sniffed.

  “Blood,” he said. “We’re too late.”

  Seventeen

  The Paraclete,

  Feast of Saint Mark the Evangelist, Thursday, April 25, 1140

  Item placuit, ut si quis suadente diabolo hujus sacrilegii reatum incurrit, quod in clericum vel monachum violentas manus injecerit, anathematis vinculo sujaceat; et nullus episcoporum illum praesumat absolvere, nisi mortis urgente pericuLo; …

  If anyone, at the Devil’s inspiration, commits the crime of the sacrilege of laying violent hands on a clerk or monastic, let him be subject to the bonds of anathema, and let no bishop presume to absolve him unless he is at the point of death, …

  —Canon 15, Second Lateran Council, 1139

  “I never told them about you, Paciana, I swear. I said nothing.”

  Catherine wondered if Paciana heard her or, if she did, cared. She was pale as death already, but Catherine could see the slow rise and fall of her chest. For the present, she still lived.

  “The wound is deep, but not poisoned,” Sister Melisande had announced. “However, the loss of blood has upset her humors profoundly. I have cauterized the wound and bound it with a poultice of wheat and turnips. We’re rubbing her hands and feet with a compound of olive and almond oils. All these things are hot and moist and may help restore her, but if the imbalance is too great, she will die.”

  So they sat in rotation, watching, changing the poultice as it dried, keeping her hands and feet warm with oil. Father Guiberc brought holy oil and anointed her in the presence of the community. Sister Beatriz said that for hours afterwards she could see the lines glowing golden on Paciana’s white skin.

  Héloïse was as concerned with the insult to the convent as the assault on the woman and the slaying of Brother Baldwin. No word had been received from the bishop, but Anseau, lord of Trainel, six miles away, whose land bordered that of the convent, came himself, at once. He brought a dozen men from the area, all armed.

  “Do you know who did this?” he asked. “Did you recognize either of them?”

  Héloïse shook her head. “They were mounted and wore helms. I was too far away to see their faces, in any case. I have some visitors whom the men passed on the road as they made their escape. They might have more information. Shall I call them in?”

  Anseau nodded and Héloïse motioned to Sister Thecla to admit Catherine, Edgar and Walter of Grancy. Upon seeing Walter, Anseau jumped to his feet, his hand grasping for the sword he had left at the door.

  “My lady abbess,” he exclaimed. “Do you know who this is?”

  “Of course,” Héloïse said.

  “Don’t make an ass of yourself, Anseau,” Walter said mildly. “You know I would never have hurt Alys. You don’t trust Raynald and his family any more than I do.”

  “Is that why you’ve been hiding?” Anseau asked. “More than one person thought you were guilty when you didn’t challenge Raynald’s accusation.”

  Walter sank onto a bench, which creaked in protest.

  “That’s what happens when you try to preserve the Peace of God,” he muttered. “Now I have to fight everyone who said I was a coward.”

&nb
sp; “I withdraw my comment,” Anseau said quickly. “And I will be happy to proclaim your piety to any who should ask. Now, the abbess says that you and your companions saw the men who attacked Sister Paciana?”

  “Who?” Walter straightened suddenly, which caused the bench to bend.

  “I promise to explain later, Lord Walter,” Héloïse said. “For the moment, can we please concentrate on these men who have no fear of God’s judgement? Did you recognize them? Was one of them Raynald?”

  “No, I’m sorry to say,” Walter told her. “I’ve fought him often enough to know his gear and the way he sits his horse. Neither of these men were trained for true combat.”

  Anseau accepted the judgement without comment but Héloïse wasn’t sure. The men had certainly appeared warlike to her.

  “How could you tell?” she asked.

  “The way they rode, of course,” Walter said shortly, then remembered who he was speaking to, “my lady abbess. It would have been clear to the lord of Trainel, here, if he’d seen them, but, of course, it’s not the sort of thing you should have to know. It’s not proper.”

  “It wasn’t in my education,” Héloïse admitted. “But I would like instruction now. We need all the information we can obtain to identify these men and bring them to justice.”

  “Of course.” Walter closed his eyes, the better to remember. “Their shields were dangling from their arms, like pilgrim’s scrips, giving no protection, and neither one of them could have spared a hand to slash at an enemy. Even in retreat, a real warrior would never leave himself so open to attack.”

  “Is that all?” Héloïse asked.

  Walter scrunched his eyes shut more tightly.

  “No,” he said, opening them. “They didn’t grip their horses with their knees. Their legs flopped all over. Looked absolutely sotoart. I’ll wager my best saddle that neither of them was used to riding at more than a priest’s trot. Now, what is this about Paciana? You didn’t give the name before. It’s not the same woman, is it?”

  Catherine went and sat next to Walter.