The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  “Stop making that dreadful noise, you horrid jael!”

  Constanza stood over her, poised to strike again. Catherine only stared in dull confusion.

  “I sang that to Alys,” Constanza said in a more normal voice. “I won’t have her mocked.”

  Catherine could feel the marks of each of Constanza’s fingers reddening on her cheek. Why should a song have upset her so? The woman had beat and tormented her child, forced her into an unwanted marriage, perhaps killed her. What did a lullaby matter?

  Nevertheless, Catherine sang no more.

  She could feel the day ending. The light in the room grew dim. Unless, she thought, I’m going blind. They say that happens when you starve.

  She was reassured when Samonie came in, bearing the oil lamp.

  “There was a peddler here today,” she said casually. “I got a comb from him. Do you want to see it?”

  “Not really,” Catherine answered, thinking of the last time she had braided her hair and how Edgar had held it for her so that it didn’t tangle.

  “He was an odd-looking fellow,” Samonie went on. “Looked as if he’d fallen into a pot of lye and bleached himself.”

  Catherine turned her head and reached out to the maid for the comb.

  “Don’t tease me with hope, Samonie,” she said. “Hope can break the heart.”

  “I don’t know how much hope I can give you,” Samonie told her softly, looking over her shoulder to check for listeners. “His plan is chancy at best. But I would try to stay awake tonight.

  “My lady!” she said, quickly tucking the comb under Catherine’s head and then turning to face her mistress. “Do you wish me to help you prepare for dinner?”

  Constanza swept in, looking unusually pale and tired herself. She snapped orders at Samonie and the other maids and found fault with everything they did.

  “I have no idea why I’m bothering,” she complained. “Rupert just lies in bed, moaning on about his pain. Really, he was hardly scratched. No one except dreadful people like Marcella ever comes to visit. We haven’t had decent entertainment here in months. I swear, as soon as this business is over”—she nodded toward Catherine—“I’m going to spend a month in Paris. I’m going to see what the queen is wearing and hear some new stories and talk with people who don’t snivel.

  “There, leave me alone!” Constanza pushed the maid away as she tried to adjust her robes. “Are you sure there’s been no word from Raynald or his father?”

  “Yes, of course, my lady,” Samonie answered. “There’s been no one at all.”

  “Questres!” Constanza muttered. “They think I don’t know what they’re up to. Just wait. Well, hurry up! Do you want to eat or not?”

  She swept out again, shooing the maids before her.

  Catherine felt the comb under her cheek. She twisted until she could see it, tracing the pattern with her eyes, birds, leaves, twisting vines and, yes, here in one corner, or was it just fancy? No, she would believe it. The vines twisted into two letters, a and an

  He hadn’t believed her lost or dead. He had forgiven her for leaving the convent where he had thought her safe. He wasn’t going to let her die abandoned here in the tower. But how could he get up here? There was no safe way. She had to do what she could. Once again she began working at the rope.

  Hours passed. The noises from below were more raucous now. Someone must have ordered another cask of wine opened. That might help Edgar or it might make things worse if he were found above the first floor and challenged by a drunken guard. It was almost full darkness, one star twinkled through the narrow window. There was no one about. She would have to try. It was maddening to think of him so close.

  She slid the ropes over her hands and tried to get out of bed. That didn’t work. Her head spun so that she couldn’t find her footing. She sat on the floor with a thump.

  Sister Bertrada always said you had no fortitude, the voices taunted.

  Catherine gritted her teeth and began crawling across the floor to the staircase. The rushes crackled under her hands and knees. Her head was hanging. She didn’t hear the person enter, didn’t realize anyone was there until she ran into the skirts.

  She looked up. Looming above her was a tall dark figure with a hood. It held a large bundle in its arms. As her arms gave way and she fell to her elbows, the form bent. She had a glimpse of a face streaked with black. Death had come for her.

  “Catherine.”

  Odd, Death spoke to her in Edgar’s voice. Maybe it wasn’t so fearsome after all.

  “Catherine,” he said again. “I’m going to wrap you in this blanket and carry you down. Don’t wiggle.”

  It wasn’t as easy as he had planned, making a woman look like a sack of laundry. Edgar threw the blanket over her and tried to lift her to throw over his shoulder. He looked down. Her feet stuck out. He tried to cover them and felt her arm flop loosely down his back. He pulled at one corner and her feet showed again. Edgar sighed. There was nothing for it. He would have to go as fast as he could and pray they met no one.

  He started down the staircase.

  They made it as far as the Great Hall. Edgar could see the passageway out into the courtyard. The door had not yet been barred for the night. He hurried out and started down the outer stairs.

  “You!” someone shouted. “What have you got there? Halt! Stop at once!”

  The voice came from behind him, but now there were stirrings from below. The space from the bottom of the stairs across to the gate seemed a thousand leagues. A man ran up the stairs and faced him.

  “Thief! Put that down at once,” he commanded.

  Catherine was roused by the noise and motion. Still confused as to what was happening, she tried to twist around.

  “Catherine! Hold still!” Edgar yelled.

  But it was too late. Her foot had connected with the man’s chest and he went tumbling backwards into the manure pile next to the keep.

  Edgar kept heading down, tensed for the blow from the guard above them. But instead, he heard a cry of anger and intense pain and, as he reached the bottom of the stairs, slippered footsteps followed him.

  “Here,” Samonie said, reaching for Catherine. “Swing her around, we’ll drag her between us.”

  “What happened to the guard?” Edgar panted as he did as she ordered.

  “Hot poker, well aimed,” Samonie panted back. “Hurry!”

  Each grabbing her about the waist and putting her arms across their shoulders, Edgar and Samonie dragged Catherine through the partially open gate. Behind them, they could hear the cries and rattle of weapons as the keep was aroused to follow them. Once through, Edgar scooped Catherine into his arms and started down the road, staggering a little from his exertions and Catherine’s weight. Samonie followed. There was a scrape and a slam as the gateway opened completely and the men-at-arms poured out. Edgar kept going although he knew there was no way he could outrun them. He didn’t bother to waste energy looking back as the men of Quincy came after them.

  The angry shouts were cut off as the men were suddenly confronted by a huge apparition, a giant in full armor, crossbow in one hand, sword in the other. It loomed out of the night, the river mist curling around its legs. A second Goliath come to challenge them.

  None of the men had thought to bring a slingshot.

  The guard, armed only with lances and swords, none of them magic, and not having taken the time to put on mail, backed slowly through the gate. A moment later the bar dropped with a satisfying thud, putting wood and iron between them and the monster.

  Slowly, the giant backed toward the river, until it was hidden by the darkness.

  The first thing Catherine was aware of as she regained her senses was the sound of deep chuckling from nearby. She raised her head from Edgar’s shoulder and beheld the dark demon of Quincy grinning at her.

  Walter of Grancy had come to rescue the princess.

  Twenty-one

  The Paraclete, very early, Sunday, May 5, 1140


  A mother who kills her child before the fortieth day shall do penance for one year. After the quickening, she shall do penance as a murderess. But it makes a great difference whether a poor woman does it on account of the difficulty of supporting the child or a harlot for the sake of concealing her wickedness.

  —Eighth Century

  Penitential

  Sister Thecla was roused from honest sleep by a pounding at the gate. Hastily throwing a scarf over her head, she leaned out the window to inquire who would disturb the peace of the convent at such an hour.

  “Open the gate quickly, Sister!” Walter called back in what he thought was a whisper. “We’ve brought Catherine; she needs you.”

  A few moments later, Catherine was wrapped up in a bed in the guesthouse with Sister Melisande pouring warm broth into her as quickly as she could be made to swallow.

  “Enough,” she sputtered finally. “I’m better now. I feel fine, except my left hand. It’s numb; I can’t move it.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, swete.” Edgar let go of her hand.

  “Héloïse is coming to speak with you,” Melisande said. “If you feel up to it.”

  “Yes, of course.” Catherine tried to sit up, but the room swam around her and she let her head fall back on the pillow.

  Héloïse entered then. Upon seeing Catherine, her welcoming expression changed to one of firmly controlled fury. She said nothing for a moment, only looked down at Catherine with terrifying eyes as Catherine tried to smile a reassurance.

  “I’m fine, Mother,” she said. “I wasn’t very clever, I’m afraid.”

  Héloïse bent down and kissed her forehead. When she stood again, the anger was conquered.

  “To have you back and safe is quite enough,” she told Catherine. “Perhaps we weren’t meant to know the secrets of the house of Quincy.”

  “But I did learn something.” Catherine tried to rise once more. “Oh, I hate being dizzy like that! Alys didn’t miscarry as a result of a beating. She aborted the child on purpose.”

  “Are you certain of this?” Héloïse asked.

  “I can confirm it,” a soft voice interrupted.

  Heloise turned and for the first time noticed the woman standing quietly outside the ring of lamplight.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “What do you know of the matter?”

  “I am … was the servant of Lady Constanza, my lady abbess,” Samonie told her. “I was there when Countess Alys miscarried. I mopped up the blood and found the pessary and the bag of herbs. I was the one who hid them,” she added to Catherine.

  “Do you know why she did this?” Héloïse asked.

  Samonie shook her head.

  “Had the child quickened?”

  Samonie shook her head more decidedly.

  “Oh, no, of course not!” she assured the abbess. “Alys would never have done anything after the quickening, no matter what. It was far too early, I’m certain. She wasn’t showing at all.”

  Héloïse nodded, reassured. It was still a terrible thing to be driven to, but at least not a mortal sin.

  “Catherine,” she said gently. “Do you think Alys died because someone else discovered what she had done?”

  “I’m afraid it’s possible,” Catherine admitted.

  Behind her, Walter groaned. His fist thumped the wall. “That bastard! To do that to her and then accuse me. It had to have been Raynald’s. She would never have killed a child of mine.”

  He slumped down onto a bench and buried his face in his hands.

  Catherine waited until his weeping subsided. She looked up at Edgar and took his hand again.

  “And I fear that Paciana was attacked not only because someone discovered she was still alive, but because she knows who murdered Alys and why.”

  Héloïse was silent a moment. In the lamplight, Catherine was suddenly aware of the lines around the abbess’s eyes and mouth. Lines of worry and responsibility. Catherine felt a wave of guilt. Héloïse had so many cares already and she had only brought her more. It seemed a poor recompense for all the Paraclete had given her.

  Finally, Héloïse sighed and straightened.

  “I will speak to Paciana in the morning,” she said. “No secret is so dark that one should die or let others die to protect it. For now, Sister Thecla, can you find sleeping places for these people?”

  “Of course, Lady Abbess,” Thecla assured her. “You go on back to sleep. Everything will be fine.”

  Héloïse half laughed at that likelihood. But she started back to her room. At the door, she stopped and looked at Samonie.

  “You’ve run away from the lady Constanza?” she asked the woman. “Are you a serf?”

  “No,” Samonie answered indignantly. “I’m freeborn, as was my father and his.”

  “Good,” Héloïse said. “Very good. Then we needn’t fear she’ll demand your return. Sister Thecla, should anyone else desire admittance tonight, for any reason, call me at once, but don’t unbar the gate.”

  She left. Samonie sat on the bench next to Walter, who had recovered somewhat.

  “I wouldn’t have gone back anyway,” she muttered.

  Sister Melisande had been watching Catherine.

  “I think you should all go find your places for the night,” she told Walter, Samonie and Edgar. “Yes, even you, young man. Catherine needs rest now, not the sort of solicitude you’d provide. I’ll give her more broth each time she wakes. You can see her in the morning.”

  Sister Thecla put Edgar and Walter in the other guest room, Walter promising to be ready to help her keep anyone coming from Quincy from forcing their way in. Thecla took Samonie up to her room over the gate.

  “What will you do now?” she asked the maid.

  Samonie shrugged, too tired to think.

  “I have to feed my children somehow,” she said dully. “I suppose I’ll have to go stand outside the mill and grind for the men waiting there with their grain.”

  If she had thought to shock the old woman, she was disappointed.

  “You can’t trust those men to pay enough,” Thecla said. “It’s not like the young lords, who’ll give you a brooch you can sell.”

  It was Samonie’s turn to be shocked.

  “How would you know of such things?” she demanded. “What were you before you came here?”

  Sister Thecla smiled. “I’m convent bred, my dear. My parents gave me to Argentueil when I was eight years old. But I have listened and heard the tales of many sad lives. Enough to be grateful my mother and father loved me enough to give me to God.”

  She patted Samonie on the shoulder.

  “Come along,” she said. “The middle of the Great Silence is no time for such worries. Say your prayers, child. A way will be found for you.”

  Samonie was too tired to argue. She did as she was told and fell asleep in the middle of a mumbled nostre pere.

  In the room below, Walter was equally dormant. His snores soon resounded through the building. But Edgar lay awake until the bells for Vigils cut through Walter’s blasts. He was beginning to realize the ordeal he had taken on in valuing another person’s life more than his own. In the moment when he had thought Catherine dead, he had felt the loss of all hope, all reason. It was something his rational mind loathed and feared. What had he done to himself? How could humans survive such pain?

  The bells ended and the lilt of chanting floated from the chapel. Edgar reminded himself that Catherine was fine, sound asleep in the next room. He didn’t need to answer those questions tonight. With a long sigh, he closed his eyes and, pulling the blanket over his head, slept.

  The next day Héloïse went to see Paciana.

  The lay sister was better now, allowed out of bed for short intervals. When she saw the abbess, Paciana signed a request to be allowed to return to work.

  “Not yet,” Héloïse said. “Sister Melisande will tell you when it’s time.”

  She motioned for Paciana to sit and then stood over her.

  Reading the intent in
Héloïse eyes, Paciana set her jaw and folded her hands tightly in her lap.

  “Paciana,” Héloïse said. “There are many forms of silence. There is the quiet we maintain so that we may better hear the message of Our Lord. There is the silence of good manners, that we might not disturb others. There is the silence of expiation, that we might be constantly forced to recognize our sins.”

  Paciana’s head bowed. Her hands loosened.

  “But there is also a silence of fear,” Héloïse went on, her voice becoming harsher. “And of selfish cowardice. There is no virtue in that. You came to us for protection. We have given you that. When you had told me of your plight and your fear, I asked nothing more of you. But, because of you, the security of this refuge has been breached and, in trying to discover the reason for the attack on you, Catherine has put her own life in danger.”

  Paciana looked up again. Her hands moved furiously.

  “Yes, I know you didn’t ask her to,” Héloïse said. “But she cares about you and the other women here, enough to try to find the truth. She cares about your sister, too. Apparently more than you did, when you ran away and left her to her fate.”

  Paciana’s expression at that moment chilled Héloïse. She was smiling. It was the coldest, most bitter, despairing look Héloïse had ever seen outside of a mirror. The woman’s hands shook as she explained.

  “I didn’t think they would make her marry him,” Paciana signed. “I was stupid. Now it’s too late. If you wish, I will leave. But I will say nothing more.”

  Héloïse stared at her for a long moment.

  “When you have recovered, the question of your continuation here will have to be decided in chapter. I am very disappointed in you.”

  She left the room. Paciana sat on her bed, staring at her fingers until Sister Melisande came to change the dressing on her wound.

  Héloïse went back to the guesthouse and was relieved to find Catherine sitting up at last, with a bit more color in her cheeks.

  “Paciana refuses to help?” Catherine asked.