The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  “It was for my safety,” Catherine said. “She worries that, if anything should go wrong, I might need the protection of the Paraclete.”

  “But you could also cause the convent great embarrassment,” Emilie reminded her. “Please be circumspect in your actions.”

  Catherine smiled ruefully.

  “I think that is another reason the abbess wished me to seem a member of the community,” she said. “Concern for your reputation might keep me from acting rashly.”

  “She is taking a great risk,” Emilie said, shaking her head.

  “I don’t need reminding of that,” Catherine sighed.

  Despite, or because of, her overwhelming anguish, Constanza only remained at the Paraclete overnight. The next morning, she met with Héloïse , Prioress Astane and Emilie and decided she would be pleased to have the boarder, Catherine, come to her for a week or two of instruction in the art of maintaining a secular household, as she was about to be married to a lord in Ponthieu and needed the sort of advice the convent was ill-equipped to give.

  “It would be my honor,” Constanza told them. “I will be happy to impart to her what little I know.”

  And so, that afternoon, Catherine joined the entourage as a temporary attendant of Constanza of Quincy.

  “I will try to return before Edgar does,” she told the abbess. “If I don’t, you’ll explain, won’t you?”

  Heloise gave her a look Catherine knew only too well.

  “You will return before he does,” she said.

  Catherine bowed her head.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  After Catherine had left, Héloïse returned to her duties. It was not until just after Vespers that she suddenly realized that Constanza had said nothing about the presence of extra guards at the convent and had never asked about Paciana, despite the scene with Raynald that Catherine had witnessed in Troyes. Perhaps grief had driven all other thoughts from her mind.

  Perhaps.

  Or, perhaps Constanza had always known that Paciana was at the Paraclete and was well aware that she had been recently attacked. Perhaps she believed that this time her stepdaughter was really, finally, dead.

  Héloïse bowed her head over clasped hands.

  “Forgive me, Lord,” she murmured. “I never should have let Catherine go. It was my own curiosity I wished to satisfy, not hers. Twice now, I’ve sent her in to danger. If they harm her, I will …”

  What? What possible penance could she set herself for allowing Catherine to be put in jeopardy?

  “I will leave it to you, Lord,” she continued. “I beseech you, keep her safe.”

  Eighteen

  The forest of Othe,

  Monday, April 29, 1140

  Ce que n’i est, ce ne pouet on trover.

  One cannot find that which is not there.

  —Old French Proverb

  “Walter, I know you’re skilled in woodcraft,” Edgar said. “And I have followed you without question so far. But any human being who would make this trail has to have been deranged. We’ve doubled back on ourselves a dozen times in the last two miles. I don’t think we’re more than a few yards from where we started.”

  He swatted at a low-hanging branch and winced as he realized he had also hit a clump of stinging nettles. Their first day in the forest had convinced him that there was nothing wondrous about it. It was identical to every other forest in France, except it seemed to be even more full of thorny bushes and quagmires.

  Walter swore as his horse’s mane was caught in a bush thick with burrs.

  “You’re right,” he said. “It’s an animal trail, deer most likely. At first it seemed to me that men had used it recently, but not this far in. Perhaps they were deceived by it also. It’s getting late; we may as well make camp.”

  “I hear the river,” Edgar said. “Shall we try to find a clearing near the water?”

  “Yes, but not too near, the insects are starting to hatch,” Walter said. He raised his head and sniffed the air. “Charcoal burners again. I wonder how many and how well armed.”

  “Do you think it would be wise for just the two of us to approach them?” Edgar asked.

  “No,” Walter said. “I’ll go alone. You wait here.”

  Edgar boiled over.

  “Do you think I’m a coward!” he demanded.

  Walter seemed puzzled. “Of course not. You asked me a question. No, I don’t think it would be wise for the two of us to go. If there’s a band of them, with weapons, then one of us should be ready to create a diversion.”

  “I see,” Edgar said. “In that case, I should go. I’m not as formidable as you.”

  They argued back and forth for a few more minutes before finally agreeing that Edgar should approach the charcoal burners and Walter should stay back in the woods, his crossbow armed.

  They crept carefully toward the scent of the smoke. As they drew closer, they also heard the sound of voices. Edgar motioned for Walter to stay back as he stepped out of the cover of the trees.

  There were two men standing next to the charcoal pit. A felled oak lay on the ground, a worn crosscut saw leaning on it. One of the men had an axe in his belt. Beyond them, on the other edge of the clearing, a woman sat on the ground, a baby at her breast. She was stirring something in a pot as two other children hung over it eagerly. Edgar took another step. The branch under his foot cracked like thunder. Everyone in the clearing froze. Then the man with the axe pulled it out.

  “Wha … ,” he began, then saw Edgar with his pale hair and skin. “Saint Eloi save us! What are you?”

  “A demon, father!” one of the children cried, hiding its face in its mother’s skirts.

  “No,” Edgar said quietly. He raised his hands, palms open. “I am a man, a traveller, lost in the forest. I only ask your hospitality.”

  “He’s lying,” the other man said. “He’s been sent to drive us out.”

  “Why would I do that?” Edgar asked, taking another step forward. “Do I look like a bailiff? It’s nothing to me what you do here. My friend and I only want company for the night. These woods are dark and forbidding. We have fresh meat, if you will share your fire.”

  The two men conferred. Edgar could see that, beneath the filth, all of them were starving. Axes and broken-toothed saws don’t bring down game. The children wore only torn cloaks. He could see their naked skin showing underneath, their legs spindly and bowed. Their shoes were made of strips of bark, tied with twisted vines. He wondered how these people had survived the winter and where they had found the strength to cut down the tree they were burning.

  It was the woman who made the decision.

  “I don’t care if he’s a poacher or the Devil himself,” she said. “If he has meat, welcome him.”

  “Where’s your friend?” the man with the axe asked. He still held it poised to throw. “What kind of meat?”

  “Walter!” Edgar called without moving. “We’ve been invited to dinner.”

  As Walter came into their view, the woman screamed and gathered the children closer. The man dropped his axe from nerveless fingers and crossed himself.

  “Saint Salvian, protect us!” he cried. “They are monsters!”

  Then he saw what Walter carried.

  “May the Virgin bless and keep you in health, my lord,” he said. “Look, Eva! He’s shot a boar!”

  Walter leaned back and belched in long and melodic resonance. The others responded with respectful silence.

  “I’d sell my Aunt Matilda to the Saracens for a mug of beer just now,” he continued. “Nothing washes down fresh boar like beer.”

  “I’m sorry, gracious lord,” the charcoal burner said nervously. “We have only water. Really, we have nothing to repay you for such a meal, unless you want to sleep with my wife.”

  Walter regarded the woman. To the dirt had been added a layer of boar grease. The children lay in a heap at her feet, the baby balanced on her lap.

  “I would not dishonor you so,” he smiled.


  “Have you been living in these woods long?” Edgar asked.

  “Since the beginning of Lent,” the man told him. “My wife, my brother and I had a plot of land near Tonnerre, but we were overrun by the lords of Tonnerre and Grancy during one of their disputes.”

  Walter started. The man didn’t notice. He was staring into the past.

  “In their fighting,” he went on, “they set fire to the house and killed the pigs. Their horses trampled our fields. We had nothing left. I thought I could find work in Sens, but the winter was hard. There was nothing there for a man without a trade or a relative in town. The chapter house of Saint-Stephen fed us a while, and after that, the monks of Saint-Pierre-le-Vif, but there was never enough. Then we heard that we could live in the forest, make charcoal and sell it for a good price.”

  “And it wasn’t true?” Edgar asked. Their poverty was obvious.

  “Oh, no, it was,” the man said. “We made enough the first week to fill two barrels. We took it to the river to wait for the buyer, but the ribaux came and stole it from us. This happened twice. Now we only make enough to keep ourselves warm. We search the forest for food. Next winter, we’ll have to live by the charity of the monks again, or starve.”

  The man stared at the glowing coals.

  “I always wanted to give alms, not receive them,” he said.

  Walter shifted his position. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Let Edgar finish with his questions first.

  “Are there many people like you in the forest?” Edgar asked.

  “Too many,” the man said. “We thought we could survive here and make enough to rebuild the house, at least. There are others who were also lured by the same false promises. But most either died or joined the ribaux.”

  “But who does this land belong to?” Edgar said. “Does no one patrol the forest for poachers?”

  “I’ve seen no knights or soldiers, except you,” the charcoal burner said. “We heard that this forest belongs to the countess of Tonnerre, but she’s dead now, they say, and the count is going to give it to the monks.”

  “Which monks?” Walter said sharply.

  “The ones over by Lailly, white monks, they are.”

  He began to smother the coals with damp earth, lest they burn to nothing. Edgar moved out of the way. He wondered where the rumor started that Vauluisant would be the new owner of the forest. He had one last question.

  “Do you know who it is that’s been buying the charcoal, and what they want it for?”

  The man shook his head.

  “I saw the man who does the buying,” he said. “I don’t know whose service he’s in. Didn’t look like a cleric. The barge was loaded with rocks, too, reddish ones. Rocks and charcoal, it means nothing to me.”

  “And they send it down the river?” Walter asked. “Where?”

  “Who knows? Someone said once it was all for the mill, but I ask you, what sort of mill is it that grinds stones?”

  “I don’t know,” Edgar said. “But it’s a wonder I must see.”

  “Good journey to you then,” the man said. “The earth over the coals stays warm through the night. We’ve learned to sleep circled close. We’ll show you.”

  “No.” Walter got up. He went over to his pack and pulled out his spare cloak. It was English wool, lined with catskin. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he also took out his other tunic and chainse.

  “Here,” he said. “Cover your wife and children. Come to Grancy. I’ll see your property is restored to you.”

  He forced the clothing into the man’s arms, then went back to the edge of the clearing. He sank down under an oak tree and leaned against it.

  “Sleep,” he told them. “I’ll keep watch.”

  The charcoal burner stood looking in stupefaction at the bundle in his arms.

  “Is he mad?” he asked.

  “Most probably,” Edgar said. “But you can believe he will do as he says. He’s also the lord of Grancy.”

  Walter was unusually quiet as they made their way downriver the next morning.

  “That was very charitable of you,” Edgar remarked. “Especially since one of your tunics could cover all of them with ease.”

  “It wasn’t charity; it was penance,” Walter muttered.

  “Same thing,” Edgar told him. “Caesarius of Aries says that alms wipe out sin, a belief that is echoed in …”

  “I’m not interested in what your dead priests say!” Walter bel, lowed. “I can’t even remember why Raynald and I were fighting last year. I have always fed the poor. I do not create paupers.”

  “Of course not, Walter,” Edgar said. “Do you want to go back and give them your horse, too?”

  “Do you think I should?” he asked.

  “Saint Walter of Grancy?” Edgar laughed, then realized the man was serious. “You must do what your conscience tells you.”

  They rode on a while longer until they came to a crude quai built on the bank of the river.

  “This must be where they bring the charcoal,” Edgar said. “But I think we should go on to discover where it’s taken. I want to find this miraculous mill that grinds stones into flour and then uses the charcoal to bake it into bread. That would be a way to feed all the beggars in Christendom.”

  Walter didn’t answer.

  “What do you think we should do?” Edgar asked. “I have the feeling that discovering what happens to the material that comes out of the forest is essential to understanding why everyone wants the rights to it.”

  Walter raised his dark shaggy head and shook it, making his resemblance to a bear even more pronounced.

  “I think that when we have completed our mission, I will go back to the forest and bring those people home with me,” he said. “How else can I be sure no one will harm them?”

  Edgar smiled. “Walter, I believe that hermit has converted you. Next you’ll be turning your keep into a leprosarium. Is that a village ahead?”

  They both looked down the river path. It had begun to widen and there were signs of recent cutting. As the trees thinned, they could see a collection of huts climbing up from the river. And, at the place where the river was fed by an inrushing stream, there was another larger building which jutted out over the water. It had a clay chimney from which acrid smoke was pouring. The creak of the turning wheel sounded above the rush of the stream.

  “By all the heads of John the Baptist!” Edgar gave a long whistle. “It is a mill!”

  Meanwhile, Catherine was wishing, for the hundredth time, that she had gone with Edgar and Walter, or even just stayed at the Paraclete. Her prediction had proved accurate and now she was sitting in the women’s room at Quincy with cramps from navel to knees and trying not to scream as Constanza and her ladies lectured her on the upkeep of a castle.

  “Never let men above the second floor, especially if you have rugs,” Constanza was saying. “They don’t look where they step when they’re out and they track in all kinds of dirt.”

  “Of course, you can just insist that they remove their boots at the bottom of the staircase.” The speaker was a relative of Constanza’s but Catherine had already forgotten her name and rank. “The duchess does that and it seems to work, except with her husband, of course.”

  “But then you just have them sneaking about silently, surprising the girls at their work,” Constanza objected. “No, my way is best. Don’t you agree, my dear?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Catherine said faintly. “No boots above the steps.”

  “No, my dear.” Constanza’s voice was a touch impatient. “No men above the second floor, unless you only have two floors, of course, then they don’t … are you quite well, Catherine?”

  “Umm … no, my lady,” Catherine said. “I’m indisposed. I would be grateful for a tisane.”

  “Of course, you poor thing!” Constanza leaned forward and patted her hand. “Like ice! That time again, is it? You should have spoken sooner. I always have my box of herbs with me. Samonie! Get my me
dicine box.”

  The other woman bustled over, feeling Catherine’s forehead and stomach as well as her hands.

  “I always have a warm herbal bath made up for me,” she said. “And I just sit in it until the pain lessens. Does the convent make up bags of herbs for those days? I have a wonderful mixture that I got from a friend who got it from the abbess of Saint-Disibod. It is most soothing. She would be happy, I’m sure, to send your abbess the recipe.”

  The maid had returned, but without the box.

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” she said. “We must have left it at Troyes, or perhaps the Paraclete. I can’t find it anywhere.”

  “You stupid girl!” Constanza shouted. “It’s your duty to keep track of these things. I ought to whip you!”

  “Constanza,” her friend spoke quietly. “I’m sure someone here has the necessary herbs. Your cook can make up a draught of mint, valerian, thyme, spikenard, artemisia, licorice and raisins. Those condiments should all be available.”

  “Yes, that will do for now, but what if there were serious illness?” Constanza replied. “Her incompetence could cost someone’s life.”

  The maid threw herself at Constanza’s feet.

  “Please forgive me, my lady,” she begged. “I am truly filled with remorse for my negligence. I can only implore your mercy!”

  “Very well,” Constanza said grudgingly. “I will pardon your mismanagement, this time. Send messengers out at once. I expect you to see to it that the box is recovered.”

  At that moment another maid rushed in, carrying a wooden box edged in gold leaf. Upon seeing it, Constanza stiffened. Even through her own pain, Catherine could tell that the woman was furious.

  “How dare you touch that!” she said. “That was my daughter’s medicine box and is sacred to her memory. I’ll not have it used by anyone. Samonie, take it and put it in the chest with Alys’s cloth. ing!”