“Mother?” she asked Héloïse . “I know we promised, but Paciana may die because someone wanted to keep her secret.”
“You have my permission,” Héloïse agreed. “You are released from your oath.”
“Paciana is the elder sister of Alys,” Catherine told Walter. “She didn’t die of the fever; she came here. I don’t know why or how. She wanted everyone to believe she was dead. But Count Raynald saw her when he was here at Easter. He knew she was alive.”
“Saint Genesius’s tombstone! Poor old Raynald,” Walter said. “I never thought I could pity that questre, but I’m honestly sorry for him.”
“He wanted to marry her,” Catherine explained to the abbess.
“I know, dear,” Héloïse said. “She told me so when she came to me. That was one reason she wished her presence here not to be known. She wanted the world to believe she was dead since she wished to be dead to the world. I saw no reason not to respect that wish, until now.”
“I agree, it’s not a time for secrets,” Lord Anseau said. “This has not been only an attack on one person but an attack on God and the honor of the Church. These men must be captured. Can you remember anything else about them?”
“The one who was wounded was slight,” Edgar spoke up. “Not only short, but thin. His legs were flopping because the stirrups were set too long for them.”
“That’s right,” Walter said. “I remember that, too.”
“The other one was taller and broad in the shoulder,” Catherine said slowly. “There were rings under his gloves. One had ripped a seam. What does that remind me of?”
“The men who killed Lisiard,” Edgar said. “You were right, Catherine. His death must be connected with this.”
“Poor foolish man.” Catherine blessed herself. “He told me nothing and yet they murdered him. It does sound like the men the dung collector described. My lord, these same men may have also horribly slaughtered Lisiard of Troyes, just a few nights ago.”
“Can any of you give names to these monsters?” Anseau asked.
“I would know them again,” Walter said, “if I saw them on horseback. But I think they were strangers to me.”
“If Paciana awakes, might she name them?”
“I don’t know,” Héloïse answered. “She may not have known them. Also, she has taken a vow of silence. They tell me that, when the men rode toward her, she didn’t even scream. If her conscience says not to speak, I will not force her.”
“Even if it means letting murderers go free?” Anseau asked.
“In this life, yes,” Héloïse told him.
Anseau stood.
“As you wish,” he said. “I will leave several of my men here to keep watch in case there is any further trouble.”
Héloïse rose to walk him to the gatehouse entrance.
“Thank you,” she said. “You have always been our friend in times of need.”
“And always will be,” he promised. “I have the greatest respect for you and for Master Abelard. Is there any word from Paris?”
“They say Abbot Bernard doesn’t want to debate him, but Abelard and his sudents want the matter settled and Bernard’s friends are encouraging him to accept the challenge,” Héloïse told him. “I have also heard that the abbot will preach to the students later this month.”
“That may rid Paris of its infestation of scholars,” Anseau laughed. “His preaching could convince the devil, himself, to become a white monk.”
“Yes, I know,” Héloïse smiled. “But Peter Abelard is not the devil, no matter what some people think.”
“I will be at Sens, if the debate takes place, to stand by him,” Anseau said. “Actually, I will be there in any case. The archbishop has made it clear that he expects everyone to aid in the building of the cathedral.”
“I am grateful for your help, now and in the past,” Héloïse said.
“It is my honor to do what I can to aid those who protect and intercede for me with their prayers,” Anseau answered. “My men will stay as long as necessary.”
Héloïse thanked him again. But as she walked back to the cloister, her heart was troubled to think that the world had come to such a state that women of God had to rely on knights to protect them from other Christians.
In the guesthouse, later that afternoon, Catherine was hunting through her pack for her comb. She tossed out other bits of clothing, ribbons, pins, her spoon and knife. Edgar watched her with amusement.
“I can carve you a new comb,” he offered.
“It’s in here; I know it,” Catherine insisted. “I did my hair yesterday. I’m sure I put the comb back.”
“Can’t you borrow one?”
“I want mine!”
Edgar took a step back. “Is something bothering you?” he asked.
Catherine rocked back on her heels.
“Of course,” she snapped. “Everywhere I go people are stabbed or beaten or having their gullets slit. And I can’t do one thing to help them or catch the men responsible. Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Yes, but …”
“And now I can’t find my comb!” she finished, starting to cry.
A piece of advice his father had given him surfaced in Edgar’s mind. Sometimes, he had said, it’s better just to keep quiet and think with your heart. Edgar looked at Catherine sitting on the floor, her things in a pile next to her, sobbing. One hand was clutching the cross he had given her. Edgar knelt next to her and put his arms around her. She leaned against him and, gradually, the crying stopped.
“I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “It’s only that it’s happened here, where nothing wicked should be. This is supposed to be a refuge from the evils of this world.”
She smiled up at him, then wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
“Until I met you, it was my refuge,” she added. “Do you think Jehan was right? Do I curse the people I love?”
“Jehan is a flearde œsul!” Edgar said firmly.
“What does that mean?” Catherine asked.
“It means he doesn’t know anything,” Edgar told her.
He began fiddling with the things in the pile, holding up a pair of linen pants, about knee length, tied with a drawstring.
“What are these for?” he asked. “Do you intend to wear the braies in the family?”
She snatched them from him and stuffed them back in the pack, blushing.
“Unless you fulfill my father’s expectations of you, I will,” she said. “At least for five days a month.”
It took him a minute to work that out.
“Oh,” he said at last. “Do you think you’ll need them soon?”
“If my emotions are any indication, imminently,” she said. “It’s hard to tell, though. What with Lenten fasting and then all that’s happened in the last two weeks, I’m not in my usual pattern. Normally, I’d ask Sister Melisande for an herb tisane to help things along, but it wouldn’t be a good idea now, just in case.”
“In case I have fulfilled your father’s expectations?” he grinned.
“So many women have trouble conceiving,” she said. “I don’t want to risk it. The herbs to start the purgation are very strong.”
She started to moved away, but he stopped her, his fingers slowly tracing the line of her jaw and down her throat.
“Catherine,” Edgar said, “I know this isn’t logical, but I suddenly have a terrible need to take you to bed.”
“Now?”
He nodded.
“It’s the middle of the day.”
“I know.”
She was very still for a moment. Then she kissed him.
“You’d better bar the door,” she said.
Walter of Grancy had been granted permission to visit Paciana, but only in the company of Abbess Héloïse. He knelt next to the bed and took her limp hand in his paw.
“She hasn’t changed that much, even in ten years,” he said. “It must have been horrible for Raynald to see her again, after marrying her sister, and all. I
hope she lives. It’s not right that she and Alys should both be gone.”
“She’s resting more comfortably now,” Héloïse told him. “We’ve begun to hope.”
Walter left, shaking his head.
“I don’t understand why she was attacked,” he muttered. “It can’t be the land. She gave up all right to it when she entered the convent, didn’t she?”
“Of course,” Héloïse told him. “As far as the inheritance goes, she may as well have died of the fever ten years ago.”
“Then why couldn’t they leave her here in peace?”
“I don’t know,” the abbess said. Her face was as sad as his, but there was also anger. “However, it seems to me that it’s time we found out.”
Walter went out to make sure the men left by the lord of Trainel were doing their duty. Assuring himself that they all had their eyes fixed on the road and woods and not on the windows of the dorter, he began a circuit of the buildings, himself, pacing around and around the walls of the convent, thinking. And the more he thought, the faster he walked, and the faster he walked, the angrier he became. Finally, he stopped in his circumambulations and veered purposefully toward the guesthouse.
“Avoi! You in there!” he pounded on the door. “Someone’s locked me out!”
There was a scuffling from the other side, a sound like a stool tipping over, whispers turning to laughter. At last the bar was lifted and Edgar’s face peered out. He held his chainse in one hand and his pants up with the other.
“Back already, are you Walter?” he said. “How is Sister Paciana?”
Walter looked past him, to Catherine, whose bliaut was rumpled and who still hadn’t found her comb. He grinned.
“Glad to see you’ve learned le ju françois,” he said. “Good work, lad!”
“We have it in Scotland, too,” Edgar said mildly. “We just use other words for it.”
“I’d like to learn them, someday,” Walter said. “But not now. If you’ve got your belt tied, come out for a minute.”
Edgar finished dressing and followed Walter outside, leaving Catherine to continue her search.
“I want to see what’s so important about this piece of forest,” Walter told him, when they were out of earshot of any building. “After all, it seems my honor depends on finding the truth of this. I’m going back there, the first thing tomorrow. Do you want to come with me?”
“I would,” Edgar said, “but I don’t know how much help I’d be if we run into Raynald’s men. I’m not trained to fight.”
“It doesn’t matter, I am,” Walter said. “But I’m not trained to read or to understand things the way you do. Where did you learn about the workings of a forge?”
Edgar looked away from him, at the knights keeping watch around the convent.
“I’m interested in how things are made,” he said. “That’s all. Is it important?”
Walter shook his head. “I guess not. It just seems strange for a nobleman to care about such things. I only learned the bit I do know from watching while my horse is shod. Will you come with me?”
“What about Catherine?”
“We’d only be gone a week, perhaps less,” Walter said. “Leave her here.”
Edgar leaned back to look Walter in the eye.
“You haven’t known Catherine very long, have you?” he said.
“Look, I’d sooner go through wolf-infested forests with fresh meat hanging from my boots than travel with a woman,” Walter said. “On the main roads, with other people about, it’s safe enough, but there are ribaux who wander the forest paths. You and I might fight them off, or scare them, but we couldn’t protect her, too.”
Edgar sighed. “Yes, you’re right. Catherine will understand … perhaps. I will go with you.”
With that he squared his shoulders and went back to the guest, house, marshalling every argument he could think of just in case she didn’t understand.
Catherine didn’t look up when he entered. She had found the comb at last and her hair was unplaited, hanging like a cloud of midnight across her face and to the floor.
“What did Walter want?” she asked.
He explained.
“You will be careful, won’t you?” she said, starting to braid one side.
Edgar came over and held the unbraided hair away from her fingers.
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s always gets in the way. Maybe I should cut it.”
“Not while I’m alive,” Edgar said.
She smiled. “Then I repeat, don’t try to be a hero. That’s Walter’s place. Defend your life, if you have to, but I’d rather you didn’t have to.”
“Then you don’t mind waiting here for me?” He was suspicious.
“Of course not,” she said. “Walter is quite right; I’d only be a hindrance.”
He thought about asking when that had ever bothered her before but decided that was unfair. She had never meant to be a hindrance and, at least once, she had saved his life. All the same, it wasn’t like her to acquiesce so easily.
Catherine sensed his skepticism.
“You’re just lucky it’s almost my phase of the moon,” she explained. “I don’t want to spend the next week on a horse, wandering about in the woods, wondering if I have enough clean rags to last the day out. By the time you return, it should all be over and we can return to Paris together.”
Edgar was fascinated. “It never occurred to me that such a thing would be a problem.”
Catherine laughed. “Of course it didn’t. It’s not your problem.”
Edgar and Walter left the next morning, Catherine having been granted permission to be a guest of the Paraclete until his return. When she saw him astride his horse, he looked so frail next to the ursine lord of Grancy that Catherine almost regretted letting him go.
“Remember,” she told him, “you promise to be prudent and cautious and not risk your life.”
“I’m not going on a crusade,” he reminded her. “Just a little hunting trip.”
“Just see that nothing catches you,” she finished.
Catherine waved until they were out of sight, then asked if she could speak with Abbess Héloïse.
When she was admitted, she paused for a moment, looking around the room. It was strange. Somehow, it seemed different. How could it have changed in only two weeks?
Nothing has changed, Catherine, her voices said. you are Looking at us differently now.
She nodded sadly. She had made the only choice she could make in good conscience, but she knew that she would never again be part of the Paraclete in the way she had once planned.
Héloïse came over and patted her cheek.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “He’ll be back soon.”
“I know,” Catherine said. “It was you I was missing, Mother.”
The abbess turned suddenly and went to the window. She took a deep breath.
“Thank you, Catherine,” she said. “What was it you wanted of me?”
“The lady Constanza is coming here soon, isn’t she?” Catherine asked.
“In the next day or two, I believe,” Héloïse answered. “Why?”
“Edgar and Walter are doing what they can to try to unravel this mystery,” she began. “I truly meant it when I said I would only delay them. But there are things that I can find out, where Edgar’s presence would hinder me. But I need your help, and Sister Emilie’s. Will you give it?”
Héloïse sat down and motioned for Catherine to do the same.
“Perhaps you had better explain,” she said. “I make no promises in the dark.”
The next day, the lady Constanza arrived to mourn her only child.
She travelled in her own sedan chair, slung between two mules. Around her rode her men-at-arms and serving maids, as well as other ladies for companionship. Her chaplain, Deol, was with her, and her cook. She had also brought her own bed, dishes, footstool and pillows, which were packed into a cart followed by three other guards. Since the pace was set by the cart
and the sedan chair, the journey from Troyes had taken her over a week, instead of the normal two days.
Since Constanza presumed without question that she would have total use of the guesthouse and any other lodging she might need, Catherine was once again sent to sleep on the infirmary floor.
When Constanza and her party had settled in, she asked for a private audience with the abbess. After that, she wished to be taken to Alys’s burial place.
From the door looking out from the infirmary to the garden, Catherine watched the procession to the cemetery. Emilie peeked from behind her shoulder.
“One would think she’d refrain from dying her hair when going to her daughter’s grave,” she whispered to Catherine.
“That’s five paternosters for spiteful thoughts,” Catherine teased her. “We’re all supposed to believe that she was born that shade of blond.”
“My belief doesn’t stretch that far,” Emilie said. “No one in all the world was ever born with that color. It’s unbefitting to her present state as well as unbecoming generally.”
It did look odd, Catherine admitted. The countess was dressed somberly, her bliaut rent in several places. She wore no jewelry and her unnatural hair was down and dishevelled. Father Deol supported her as she walked. Constanza was the image of grief. Why did Catherine feel so strongly that it was only an image?
They could hear her cries and shrieks of anguish from where they stood. Despite her reservations, Catherine had to admit the sorrow sounded genuine. But then why hadn’t her mother come the short distance from Quincy to see Alys during the week she lay dying? Why had she said that Alys was flighty and not terribly pious? It was an awful thing to say of the dead. And why had she hinted that Alys had some grave sin to repent of? From Walter’s description, Alys didn’t have the backbone to sin.
There were too many questions. And there was only one way Catherine could think of to find the answers. She still wasn’t sure she had convinced Mother Héloïse of it, though.
“Emilie,” she said. “Do you think Countess Constanza can be persuaded to take me back to Quincy with her?”
“Do you mean, will I help you persuade her?” Emilie asked. “Yes, to both. But I don’t agree with Mother Héloïse. It would be better simply to recommend you to her without any deception about your position here.”
The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 23
