“If you mean, do I want to leave so you can tell them how you really got that bruise, the answer is no,” Catherine said.
“You may as well tell us,” Solomon said. “You can see she’s not leaving.”
Briefly, Edgar told them about the man who tried to stick a knife into him and how the gold deflected the blade.
“I was coming from your house at the time,” he ended. “I thought there might be a connection.”
He avoided Catherine’s accusing look.
Eliazar stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“It does sound like the same man,” he admitted. “But why? No one would ever believe you one of us.”
“Uncle,” Catherine said. “Are you and Father doing secret business with Abbot Suger again?”
“Again? Still!” Eliazar threw up his hands. “The man is a whirlwind. You can’t believe how quickly his church is progressing. He has sent for artisans from Rome and Spain and even Constantinople, for all I know. But we are discreet, not clandestine. We are doing nothing wrong. There are those who resent us, always. Just as in Troyes, it amuses some to make trouble for us. I am heartily sorry if you have been caught in this spitefulness.”
A maid appeared at the door, with a tray of covered dishes.
“It’s almost sundown,” she told them. “The mistress would like you to join her for Sabbath prayers. She also said to remind you not to tire the master.”
“Master!” Eliazar laughed. “Not in this house. Go on, tell Johannah I will eat my dinner and sleep like a good boy.”
“There seems to be no connection between this and what happened in Troyes,” Catherine said as they went down.
“Probably not,” Edgar agreed. “But it does seem strange that so much happens when we’re around.”
They entered the dining hall just as the candles were being lit. Johannah, hands over her eyes, was reciting the blessing. As they waited for her to finish, Catherine looked around the room. Standing at the other end of the table, watching her with blurred eyes, was her father.
Unmindful of manners, she ran to him. He held her as if he thought she would fly away should he loosen his grip.
“You’re so thin, child,” he murmured. “Nothing but bones and braids. What have you done to my daughter?” he snarled at Edgar.
“He saved my life, Father,” Catherine defended him. “And he loves me.”
“I see.” Hubert released her and apologized to Johannah for the interruption.
When the prayers had ended and they sat down to eat, Hubert continued. “I understand you have become entangled in the affairs of the Paraclete again.”
“It began there,” Catherine said. “But it’s gone much farther.”
“Well, I think you should leave it for now,” Hubert told them. “Your Master Abelard is in enough trouble, without scandal at the convent rubbing off on him.”
“What’s happened?” Edgar asked. “Has the archbishop of Sens refused to allow him to debate.”
“Much worse,” Hubert said. “He is permitting it and Abbot Bernard has finally been persuaded to attend. All over Paris people are drawing up sides. And it doesn’t help Abelard that one of his strongest supporters is that Italian rabble leader, Arnold.”
Catherine’s heart sank. Arnold of Brescia had been driven out of Rome only a few months ago for his preaching. He encouraged the communes and the guilds to challenge those in power. A dangerous supporter to have. Even those favorably disposed to Abelard, like Count Thibault, might withdraw if it meant protecting Arnold as well.
Edgar was thinking much the same.
“At first light,” he whispered to her as the soup was brought in, “we are going to Sainte-Geneviève. If we can’t help Abbess Héloïse find who killed Alys and why, we can at least fulfill our promise to stand by Master Abelard.”
Catherine took out her spoon.
“I only hope we have more success there,” she said. But her confidence in succeeding in either endeavor was fading quickly.
Twenty-two
Paris, Sainte-Geneviève, Saturday, May 11, 1140
Utique par est sine derogatione personae sententiam impugnare, nihilque turpius quam cum sententia displicet aut opinio, rodere nomen auctoris.
It is proper to disagree with the views of a person without maligning him; nothing is more contemptible than to smear the name of an author only because his ideas are not to our liking.
—John of Salisbury,
Metalogicon
It did seem as if all Paris were taking sides on the forthcoming debate. And it was clear to Catherine and Edgar, as they overheard the students in the street, that most of those of Sainte-Geneviève had landed solidly on whichever side Abelard was on.
“Those peasant bishops couldn’t follow an argument unless it led them to a brothel,” one boy sneered, although he seemed to be heading in that direction, himself.
“Did you ever hear anything as simplistic as those sermons of Abbot Bernard’s?” another laughed. “Nothing but exhortations from the evangelists and the psalms begging us to cease our wicked lives. As if I had the money to live a wicked life. Not a word about understanding God through a better understanding of His words. No, just ‘repent, weep and believe.’”
“That’s what he should tell those damned bishops,” the first muttered.
The second boy paused. “Well, to be fair, I think he has.”
The boys moved out of earshot. Catherine and Edgar hurried on to Abelard’s rooms near the abbey.
They wove their way through the crowd along the route. Other teachers were giving lessons in everything from basic grammar to astronomy. Their shouting created a cacophony that was almost as bad as that of the street vendors and animals.
Abelard’s rooms were, if anything, worse. Men of various ages and habit were crowded around a table, all talking at once. Catherine recognized a few of them. She spotted John, the tall serious Englishman whom she had met the previous autumn. She heard he had gone to study at Chartres, but perhaps he had returned to Paris when Master Gilbert de la Porée had resigned as chancellor there and come to Paris to teach. Yes, Gilbert was also in the room, sitting across from Abelard, pounding the table and looking as though he wished it were Abelard’s head.
“I never said you were a heretic, Peter,” he insisted. “You’re a stubborn ass who won’t admit that I’m right, but you’re no heretic.”
Abelard looked better than he had in months. His skin was free of the red patches and his eyes were alive as he returned to the debate. He and Gilbert were back on their old quarrel about deus and divinitas. Catherine knew she should care deeply about the nature of the Trinity, but at the moment, she could only think of the nature of the person who had killed three other people. What prize could be so great or what secret so dark that one would murder? To her it was more unfathomable than the composition of the universe.
She looked around. There were others she didn’t know, a boy of about sixteen who was clearly one of Abelard’s uncritical disciples. He sat as close to the master as he dared and hung on his every word and gesture. Sitting in the corner was a stranger of about forty, ascetically thin, in the clothes of a priest, a humble priest, Catherine thought, from a poor country parish. She wondered how he could have wandered into this group. His dark hair was shot with grey and his brown eyes seemed to laugh at her as he caught her watching him. He stood and bowed to her. Astrolabe, sitting next to his father, noticed and came over to introduce them.
“Catherine, Edgar,” he said. “This is Canon Arnold, late prior of the Augustinians at Brescia. Master Arnold, Edgar and his wife are students of my father. Catherine also has been a pupil of my mother.”
“A rare honor, lady,” the man smiled. His Latin rolled out like music. “I shall feel tongue-tied in the presence of such erudition.”
Catherine felt a bit tongue-tied, herself. This was the reformer and rabble-rouser who had just been run out of Italy by Pope Innocent? He looked as meek as a newborn kitten.
The man smiled. “I had thought to teach for a while,” he said. “Some consider it a form of preaching. I also wanted to see my old master. It seems he has also had his share of troubles from the authorities. I’m afraid I haven’t helped.”
“Abbot Bernard already knew that you and my father were friends,” Astrolabe assured him. “His seeing you here last week won’t make any difference.”
“Abbot Bernard was in Paris?” Catherine said. “I always seem to miss him. I wasn’t at the Paraclete yet when he visited the sisters and I’ve been very few other places since then.”
“Then you must come to Sens,” Arnold said. “You will have the opportunity to hear him there, since the good abbot wasn’t successful in his attempt to persuade Abelard to cancel this debate of theirs.”
Edgar’s jaw dropped. “Abbot Bernard and Master Abelard met! I would have liked to have heard that conversation.”
Astrolabe laughed ruefully. “I’m afraid most of Paris heard my father’s side of it. I haven’t seen him so angry in years. It only made him more determined to refute Bernard in public.”
“What did he say to your father?”
“The abbot explained,” Astrolabe said, “in a gentle, kind, fatherly manner, that Father had made of number of errors in his study of theology. The abbot offered to teach him the orthodox interpretations and assured him that, if he desisted in his heretical teaching and repented, all would be forgiven.”
“He didn’t!” Catherine and Edgar were stupefied. Catherine shook her head.
“I’m surprised Master Abelard’s reaction wasn’t heard as far as Rome,” she said. “For a man ten years his junior, of the same rank both in society and the Church and far less educated than he, to say anything so condescending …”
Catherine stopped. She couldn’t imagine an equally insulting event to compare it to.
“You would think the abbot wanted a public debate,” Edgar said. “Such condescension would only incense Master Abelard more.”
“In my opinion,” Arnold said, “Abbot Bernard was astonished by Abelard’s response. He’s so accustomed to being listened to and obeyed that he finds difference of opinion incomprehensible, and, therefore, heretical.”
“That’s what I don’t understand.” Astrolabe rubbed his forehead as if it ached. “Bernard admits that he doesn’t understand the subtlety of many of Father’s propositions. He’s not trained in this sort of disputation. He knows it would be an unequal debate. I’m sure he’s only doing this because his friends have convinced him that Father is wrong and only he can refute him.”
“But how?” Edgar asked.
“I suspect,” Arnold said. “That he intends to stand up and let God speak through him.”
“That sounds heretical to me,” Edgar commented.
“At the very least, somewhat arrogant,” Catherine amended.
“This debate will take place the day after the octave of the Pentecost?” Edgar asked.
“Yes, along with the showing of the relics,” Astrolabe said. “There’s a rumor that the archbishop has received a donation of a piece of another saint and plans to unveil it then, but I don’t know which one or from where.”
“If it wasn’t named it may be nothing special,” Edgar said. “No more than a finger or tooth of some local saint to excite curiosity and bring in more donations.”
“Personally, I hope it’s someone important,” Astrolabe said. “I can’t imagine anyone coming to Sens just in the hope of being cured by the relics of Saint Saverin and the little they have of Saint Stephen.”
Catherine disagreed. “I think that’s exactly why most people will be there. I fear that the debate between Master Abelard and Abbot Bernard will be nothing more than an extra entertainment.”
“You don’t think the master will be given serious consideration?” Edgar asked.
“I don’t see how,” Catherine said. “If someone with more training, William of Saint-Thierry perhaps, were to debate him, then something might be resolved.”
“William has become a white monk at Signy and won’t be budged,” Astrolabe said. “Also, I think that he fears Father would spin verbal webs around him that he could never cut through.”
“But at least they would use the same language, the same rules,” Catherine said. “A debate between Master Abelard and Abbot Bernard makes as much sense as one between me and Lady Constanza. There is no point for their thoughts to intersect.”
The room was beginning to empty now. Canon Gilbert got up, followed by John.
“Peter,” Gilbert pleaded. “You are out of your mind. You can’t dispute theology with someone who simply smiles and forgives you for your temerity or tells you to stop analyzing words and look for answers in flowers and rocks.”
Abelard stood also.
“I can’t let these slanders go unanswered,” he replied. “My work is meant to instruct and enlighten, to lead young minds to the questioning that results in wisdom. I won’t let all that I’ve done be lost. Not without fighting for it.”
“I wish you well, Peter,” the canon sighed. “But I fear you may only bring more disaster on yourself by forcing the issue.”
“So you’ve said,” Abelard answered. “Will you be there, all the same?”
“Assuredly,” Gilbert said. “I wouldn’t miss it. If you like, you may practice on me. Monday afternoon, at my schola?”
“Agreed.” They shook hands and Gilbert left with John and two of his other students.
Abelard finally became aware of Catherine and Edgar. He greeted them with enthusiasm, hugging them both.
“Let me see, married a month now,” he said. “Are you starting to regret leaving the contemplative life, yet?”
“Not at all, Master,” Edgar said. “Although I’m not sure that our honeymoon has been typical.”
Abelard grew serious again. “Héloïse wrote me about the death of Brother Baldwin. It was a hideous deed, which shows no fear of God or man. Have you discovered the perpetrators?”
“We think so,” Catherine said. “But we have no proof as yet and the men we suspect have powerful friends.”
“That is always dangerous,” Abelard said. “But it shouldn’t keep you from pursuing the truth.”
“You’ve taught us that, if nothing else,” Edgar told him warmly.
Abelard suddenly seemed exhausted. The color drained from his face and he swayed, as if dizzy, and sat down again. Astrolabe knelt beside the bench.
“Let me get you some wine, Father,” he said. “And your medicine.”
“No, I need nothing,” Abelard grumbled. “That concoction doesn’t work anyway, probably made from cat liver and pigeon droppings; it certainly tastes like it. I’m only tired. Trying to make a hardhead like Gilbert see reason would wear anyone out.”
“Yes, of course.” Astrolabe was unconvinced. “Why don’t we let you rest. Berengar?”
The boy Catherine had noted earlier got up at once. He looked like a puppy being trained to fetch. Catherine half expected him to yip excitedly.
“How may I help?” he asked eagerly.
“Come with us and let my father sleep,” Astrolabe told him. “If you like, you can go to the baker’s and the wine shop and do some other errands.”
“Anything!” Berengar’s expression implied he was ready to wade rivers of fire to procure the master’s sausage rolls.
Astrolabe gave him some coins and the boy shot off in the direction of the shops. That left only Catherine, Edgar, Astrolabe and Arnold. The Italian also rose to go.
“My support may not be of much use, Master,” he told Abelard. “But, if you wish it, I, too, will be at Sens.”
“Are you certain, old friend?” Abelard asked him. “At the moment, you are only charged with sedition. Would you add heresy to the arrows your enemies shoot at you?”
Arnold shrugged. “Like you, Master, I am shielded with the armor of truth
.”
“May it protect us both,” Abelard answered.
They left him stretched out on his cot, one arm over his eyes. Astrolabe closed the door softly.
“I don’t know if this business is killing him or keeping him alive,” he told Catherine and Edgar as they walked back toward the Île. “I think he’s having nightmares about the council at Soissons, where they made him burn his own work and recite the creed in public. He’ll never let anyone shame him so again.”
“That council was the year I was born,” Catherine said. “Why are they still pursuing him after so long? All his writing has been done to uphold orthodoxy, not destroy it. The monks of Saint-Gildas tried to poison him in return for his efforts at reform. One would think he’d receive praise instead of censure.”
The spring day was clouding over and the wind picking up. There would be rain by nightfall. Edgar put up the hood of his cloak. He decided he was not meant for the life of a gyrovagus, wandering from one place to another. He wanted his own table and fire and bed. Abelard had never really known that. Edgar wished he had the courage his master showed, but he was coming to the sad conclusion that he was not a brilliant philosopher, but someone much more ordinary. He put an arm around Catherine to guide her around the obstacles in the road. She never would look where she was going. Her mind was always somewhere else. Would she be happy with an ordinary man?
Catherine fell against him as she stumbled on a brick, fallen from a wall into the street. She smiled at him gratefully.
After that she tried to watch her step, but her thoughts kept chasing down other streets, the crooked streets of Troyes, for instance. A slight man and a larger one, carrying a body. A slight man and a larger one attacking Paciana. Rupert, who hunched over and looked away when one spoke to him and let other men command in his household, could he be brave enough to murder? But why? What did he gain? Or, what did he have to lose?
She tripped again. Thank goodness for Edgar. What he must think of her, clumsy, always stained with mud or ink, or worse. Dragging him into situations that could get them both killed. She was sure that wasn’t the life his family had had in mind for him. Could he be happy with someone so maladroit?
The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 30
