The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  The only thing that Edgar could think of was that one couldn’t build and destroy the smelter as casually as before. It wasn’t just a clay oven, but a complicated set of instruments. That was a drawback. But, if there were sufficient iron ore in the area and enough wood to build the mill and make the charcoal, it would be possible to produce an enormous amount of metal of high quality with very few laborers. That would increase the value of the forest.

  Edgar had been at the ongoing rebuilding of Abbot Suger’s church at Saint-Denis. He knew how much material was needed for such an endeavor. Iron, wood, stone; it seemed that most of the church was of stone and the worry that there would not be enough in neighboring quarries was constant. But wood was used even more, for a hundred things; beams like those the abbot had miraculously found, huts for the workmen, scaffolding, and, of course, charcoal. And the archbishop of Sens was contemplating building a new cathedral to rival Saint-Denis.

  Yes, Edgar concluded. This forest might be valuable enough to fight over. But to kill someone? That seemed rather drastic. And why Alys? She may have held the rights to the land, but her husband would have had the final say. If Raynald had wanted to make an arrangement with Vauluisant or if he had wanted to use the land, himself, he had plenty of ways to coerce his wife to agree. There had to be something more.

  He wondered if Catherine were right and Raynald had beaten Alys because she wouldn’t renounce her gift to the nuns. He might have gone farther than he had intended and been frightened when he realized what he had done.

  But why then bring her to those same nuns for care? No, there was still something missing. But they had found all they could here. It was time to return to the Paraclete for Catherine. The thought warmed him. And then to Paris, where it seemed that other clouds were forming around Master Abelard.

  Edgar took the last swallow of beer. Beside him, Walter snored peacefully in the afternoon sun. Edgar leaned back against the old chestnut tree and closed his eyes. The slap of the water against the creaking wheel was soothing. Perhaps just a short rest. He wondered what Catherine was doing now. Probably playing happily with the convent accounts. He hoped she wouldn’t have become too content with life there by the time he returned. Despite recent events, he suspected that the normal peace of the convent could be quite alluring.

  His head dropped forward and his hand released the empty cup. Soon his gentle whistling snore gave a counterpoint to Walter’s bray.

  Catherine twisted her hands once again, desperate to work loose from the ropes. There didn’t seem to be much point in trying to escape unnoticed, as they never left her alone, but not having the use of her hands was pushing Catherine close to hysteria and so she continued the effort.

  Constanza’s visitor, who had finally been identified as Marcella, a recent widow making the tour of her less fortunate friends, smiled thinly at Catherine’s struggle.

  “If you can’t endure a few days bound to a bed,” she smirked, “how do you ever propose to survive years of being bound to a man?”

  Catherine didn’t respond. She had learned on the first day of her captivity that neither argument nor protestation had any effect on these women. Apart from slapping her a few times in their first moments of fury and fear, they hadn’t touched her. But their incessant tales of the bitterness of marriage were torture enough. Marcella continued, her voice grinding into Catherine’s ears.

  “How would you like to be lying in that bed, night after night, knowing that someone was coming to torture you, to poke and prod and bite and drool all over you and you with no hope of freedom, no one to save you. A man with his horrid scratchy face and stinking breath, hands like wooden planks, leaving splinters in whatever they touch,” she snorted. “What we’ve done to you is nothing to what you’d experience once you wed. It would be a mercy to let you die now.”

  Catherine kept her eyes turned away. If she gave no sign of hearing, maybe that horrible woman would stop.

  But she didn’t.

  “I remember how I used to watch my husband go off on one of his hunting trips, and the saints only know what he was really hunting.” Her words were still thick with resentment. “Every time I would wave and smile and pray he’d break his ugly neck.”

  She paused. Her voice calmed. “And, one day, my prayers were answered.”

  Catherine still refused to look. She heard the clink of the pitcher against a cup and the sound of liquid pouring. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. She wouldn’t acknowledge her tormentor, not even to ask for water. They had allowed her a cup a day, but no food. Why? What did they want from her? They had asked her no questions, not what she was doing or who had sent her, nor why she was there. They had only kept her prisoner and tried to drive her insane with stories of the horrors done to them by men. She couldn’t understand it. What was their reason? Did they plan to convince her to stay with them rather than marry? Or that whatever they had done was justified by the treatment they had endured? They couldn’t hope to keep her incarcerated forever; Héloïse knew where she was.

  “At least your husband was young and good for something.” Constanza had returned to add her recital of hardship. “He gave you sons who have to take care of you now. I was sold off to an old man who could barely dribble and already had a daughter he doted on. I had to wipe up after him and listen to his maunderings about his first wife and kiss his spongy lips and know that, when he finally died, I would have nothing but a pitiful bit of dower land that couldn’t support a mouse.”

  It was beginning to make Catherine’s stomach turn.

  “But finally you had Alys,” Marcella reminded her.

  “And what I went through for that isn’t fit for Christian ears,” Constanza said.

  Catherine wondered what could be more unsuitable than what they had been drilling into her for the past several days. She felt confident that they couldn’t surpass her mother for gruesome childbirth stories. Those had been Catherine’s final incentive to enter the convent. It was proof of Edgar’s charisma that he had made her forget them all for him. Now she only hoped these harpies would let her live long enough to find out for herself how awful it was.

  Her thoughts drifted as the drone continued. She wondered what kind of children she and Edgar would have, if she ever got out of this place. Would they look like Saxons? She had a vision of a row of pale, blond infants with grey eyes, staring mournfully at her, accusing her for being their dark foreign mother, locking her in a dark dower house with no windows.

  Catherine forced her mind back in focus. It was the lack of food. Her empty stomach was too light to keep her brain anchored. Hermits always fasted in order to allow their minds to ascend to spiritual realms. But she didn’t want her mind to go anywhere if her body couldn’t come, too.

  Catherine?

  Oh, no. She refused to believe those voices were anything divine. Nothing could be more annoying.

  Lie quietly, child, they whispered. Why, she didn’t know. No one else seemed able to hear them. Let them think you’re sleeping. Then listen. They’ve not been pouring water but undiluted wine.

  Marcella was speaking again, her voice overly loud.

  “I still don’t know why you married Rupert,” she said, “after your first experience. He’s hardly better than a dodderer, to my mind, and owns hardly anything of his own.”

  “He has his uses,” Constanza answered.

  Catherine heard the pitcher clanking again.

  “He must keep them all in his braies then,” Marcella laughed. “The man can’t even ride his own fields without mishap. Takes to his bed after a little fall. Personally, I think you should have tried to get Raynald for yourself. You’re not that much older than he; you haven’t dried up yet. Once Paciana died, there was no reason to make him wait for Alys.”

  “Yes, there was,” Constanza said.

  “Oh?”

  “You don’t have to know everything,” Constanza snapped.

  There was a pause.

  “I know mor
e than you think,” Marcella said softly. “For instance, I know where you were the afternoon Alys was conceived and who was visiting.”

  There was a crash as the table was knocked over. The pitcher smashed on the stone floor.

  “Don’t try your tricks with me, Marcella!” Constanza shouted. “You have no more than the suspicions of your foul mind.”

  She made an effort to gather her dignity.

  “Obviously,” she began again more carefully, “I’ve kept you too long in my company. You must be fatigued with our chatter. I’m sure you have duties at your own home to attend to.”

  “Really?” Marcella sounded overconfident. “Of course, I’ll leave at once, if you wish it. I may stop by the Paraclete on my way and tell the nuns how your guest is doing.”

  “You should,” Constanza agreed, unfazed. “I was about to send a messenger there. They will have to know that she isn’t well at all. I’m afraid she might have a quartan fever. I should have sent word when she collapsed but it’s very contagious, I fear. We don’t dare risk sending her back to infect the dear sisters. As a matter of fact, Marcella, you seem a bit flushed to me. I do hope you haven’t contracted it also.”

  The room was very still. Catherine’s heart was pounding so loudly that she was afraid she would miss something. Finally.

  “I understand, dear friend,” Marcella said quietly. “Perhaps I should go to my own lands at once and not risk catching this dreadful illness.”

  “Especially since you’ve seen how dreadful it is, with the poor girl delirious, shouting wild accusations and forcing us to tie her down to prevent her harming herself,” Constanza said. “I only hope we can save her.”

  “I shall pray constantly for her deliverance,” Marcella said.

  “As do we all,” Constanza replied.

  There was a rustle of skirts and then quiet. For the first time in days, Catherine was alone.

  But not for long. There was another step on the stairs. Catherine turned and opened her eyes in fear.

  It was the servant Samonie, carrying a pail of water.

  “I was sent to wash you,” she announced. “And give you clean clothes.”

  “Why?” Catherine asked. “They’ve let me lie here bleeding all over the blankets since Monday. Has Constanza suddenly become a gracious hostess again?”

  Samonie put down the pail and began untying Catherine.

  “I have no idea,” she said wearily. “Can’t you just be grateful that you don’t have to lie in this mess anymore?”

  “I suppose,” Catherine said, “I could, if I wasn’t afraid it meant I was being cleaned to be put in my winding sheet.”

  “Oh, why did you have to do something so stupid as rummage through Alys’s things?” Samonie moaned. “Didn’t they teach you anything useful in that convent?”

  “Prying into the affairs of others wasn’t in any of the lectures,” Catherine said tartly. “Neither was escaping from tower rooms. Why won’t you help me get out of here? You must know that Constanza is planning to tell Mother Héloïse that I died here of a fever. How does she plan to do it, poison? Or perhaps a fevered slip on the staircase?”

  “And what do you think she’ll do to me if I help you?” Samonie replied, helping Catherine out of her filthy clothes. “Who will feed my children if I’m dead, you?

  “Anyway,” she added less angrily, “I don’t think she has decided yet to kill you. She seems to be planning it so that when you return, gaunt and clearly just over a terrible illness, no one will believe anything you say about her.”

  “The truth is, I haven’t heard enough to say anything incriminating about her at all,” Catherine admitted. “Only to guess. But I’m sure now that the monkey died before Alys did. That’s what you wanted me to discover, wasn’t it? It drank the potion she prepared for herself. Did Constanza find out?”

  “Yes, she was furious,” Samonie told her. “She took Alys up here. If you think you are being treated badly, you can’t imagine what they did to her.”

  “Constanza killed her own daughter?” Catherine wanted to believe anything of this evil woman, but that seemed too much.

  “No, at least not here,” Samonie said. “Alys was alive when she left and not seriously harmed, at least not that one could see. No more than a few new bruises. Constanza knows how to hurt in other ways, as well. I wasn’t there that last day, but I think Alys told her mother something that frightened her and caused her to stop the punishment and send Alys back to her husband.”

  “But what?” Catherine asked. “Do you know why Alys took the potion in the first place? Why wouldn’t she want to bear Raynald’s child? It would have guaranteed her security.”

  “I don’t know,” Samonie answered. “Here, put this on. I don’t think she hated Raynald the way Marcella did her husband. She was afraid of his scorn. A child could only have improved her position in any case. William of Nevers would have been delighted to have another grandchild. The family is dwindling, at least the part that’s legitimate. I’ve heard William has enough bastards to create a new town just for them. But that may be no more than male bragging.”

  Catherine was losing interest in the family as a whole. Nothing she had learned made any difference to the bequest to the Paraclete. Even if Alys’s baby had lived, it would not have inherited land already donated. Of course, if Raynald had murdered her in a rage for aborting his child, that would diminish his prospects for recovering anything from the convent.

  “Samonie,” she said. “I refuse to just lie here and wait for Lady Constanza to decide if she’s going to kill me or not. I’m hungry, I’m thirsty and I’ve been abused and degraded by these people. If I ever do get my hands free, just pray Constanza is no where in my reach.”

  The maid picked up the reeking clothes and the pail, its water now pink.

  “Well, don’t ask me to help you any more,” she said. “If they try to kill you, I’ll do what I can, but I can’t risk myself for your discomfort. By the way, I don’t think you should let them know you’re not a virgin.”

  Catherine looked up, too astonished to dissemble.

  “How did you know that?”

  “I told you, my sister works in the kitchens of the count of Champagne. She told me that, when you were there, you were sharing a bed with a man who claimed to be your husband. If Constanza discovers that, she’ll be able to threaten you with exposure and your life will be worth much less to her.”

  “No, she won’t,” Catherine said, reaching to stroke the talisman cross Edgar had given her. “He is my husband, and, despite all the vicious tales of those women, I will do anything necessary to be with him again.”

  She might not have been quite so eager to rejoin him if she had seen Edgar’s face the next afternoon when he arrived at the Paraclete to discover her gone.

  “We didn’t expect you back so soon,” Sister Thecla explained at the gate. “She wished to visit Lady Constanza at Quincy for a few days. We’ll send for her at once.”

  “It’s not that far,” Edgar said. “I’ll go get her now, myself.”

  The portress hesitated.

  “I don’t think that would be wise,” she said, biting her lip. “We felt it would be better to employ a slight subterfuge, for Catherine’s sake. It would be difficult to explain if you came for her.”

  “You’ve not put her back in a habit, have you?” Edgar asked.

  He was trying to keep his temper. It would be unforgivable to yell at the portress. He hadn’t realized until that moment just how strong his anger could be, or how imperious. Catherine had been left in the care of the nuns and they had let her leave, possibly to go into a place of danger. It was inexcusable.

  “It was Catherine’s idea to insinuate herself into the household of the lady of Quincy, wasn’t it?” Edgar already knew the answer. “She thinks she can get them to tell her all the secrets of Alys’s life. She never considers the risks she’s taking. I swear, when she comes back, I’ll kill her for making me worry in this way!”


  He did not know how much, at this moment, he resembled Catherine’s father and his own.

  The portress was not impressed with his histrionics.

  “Catherine is a very sensible person,” she told him. “She will do nothing intentionally to put herself in jeopardy.”

  “I think you should be proud of Catherine, Edgar,” Walter said suddenly. “If Alys had had her courage, she might still be alive. She should have come to me, no matter what they said her duty was. By the time she sent word, it was too late.”

  Edgar sighed and sat on a bench by the convent gate.

  “I wouldn’t have Catherine anything but what she is,” he said. “But I don’t like where she is.”

  “I’m sure she’ll return in a day or two,” Thecla said. “I’m afraid it might spoil her plans to ask her to come back now.”

  Edgar and Walter were still arguing the matter when a rider came to the gate.

  “I have a message from the lady of Quincy for your abbess,” he announced.

  “Tell me what it is and I will see that she gets it,” Thecla answered.

  Edgar’s stomach seemed to invert in the pause that followed.

  “The lady Constanza sends her deep apologies,” the man began. “The guest she brought back from your convent was taken suddenly ill, with a fever. In her delirium, she ran out of the keep and vanished into the forest. We have been hunting for her all day, but have found no trace. My lady wishes to know if you would care to send some of your people to aid in the search.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Edgar said. “I don’t believe a word of it.”

  He got up to confront the messenger but Walter held him back.

  “Wait,” he cautioned. “It sounds as if they are trying to arrange for her to be found as Alys was. If you challenge them now, we may never know the truth.”

  Edgar froze. “You don’t think they’ve killed her already, do you?”

  Walter wanted to say something reassuring but had no store of platitudes to draw on.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But I think we should go find out.”