Heresy: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  “Who was Saint Gwenoc?” Catherine asked.

  “An ancestor of ours,” Annora said proudly. “He was a very holy hermit ages and ages ago. He performed miracles. They say he had a tame bear that would sleep at the entrance to his cave to protect him from the night spirits and keep him warm in the winter.”

  “And this land you’re fighting over was his hermitage?” Catherine asked.

  Annora nodded, then winced as the maid yanked the braid tight.

  “There’s a little chapel there still, where the bear slept, but it’s in ruins,” she said. “We have no priest to maintain it, but I’m hoping that Countess Sybil will donate the funds to support one.”

  “And what does Gui want to do with it?”

  “He says that he’ll give it to the white monks for a priory, but I don’t believe him,” Annora said. “More likely he’ll use it as Henri of Tréguier did, as a place to keep his mistresses.”

  “I must admit that he didn’t strike me as a spiritual person,” Catherine said. “But in these uncertain times many people are thinking of the fate of their souls. He might well be sincere.”

  “Not Gui!” Annora insisted. “If anything, he’s hoping to collect the revenues from the pilgrims who will come.”

  “I doubt the monks would be such bad bargainers as to give up revenues to him,” Catherine said. “But why would there be pilgrims?”

  “Because there are still miracles, of course,” Annora said. “There’s a spring inside the cave. The water is known to cure the choking sickness that babies get.”

  “It does?” Catherine’s voice shook.

  “So they say.” Annora wiggled impatiently on her stool. “My father let the local people get some whenever they wished, but he didn’t want strangers wandering over our land. So he discouraged stories about it.”

  “But if it could save a child’s life,” Catherine protested. “Then what would a little inconvenience matter? I lost a baby to the winter fever. I would have gone anywhere to save her.”

  The maid finished the long braid and looped it up over Annora’s shoulder.

  “My Alexander was taken by the coughing sickness,” she said. “I vowed to walk barefoot to Rome if only God would spare him. But he died anyway. Will that do, my lady?”

  She held up a mirror with an unsteady hand. Over Annora’s head Catherine met the maid’s eyes. She never spoke to the woman or saw her after the council, but Catherine always remembered her as a sister.

  Annora took the mirror from the maid and held it steady. “It’s fine, thank you. You may go now. The water doesn’t always work, you know,” she added to Catherine. “That’s another reason my father wouldn’t have it exploited.”

  Catherine felt again her helplessness during the illness of baby Heloisa, having to watch her burning with fever, coughing and gasping for air until she finally fell silent. Nothing in Catherine’s life had ever hurt so much.

  Fiercely, she forced the image from her mind and concentrated on the problem before her.

  “Annora,” she asked, “if you were to die without children, who would get your property?”

  “Well, the castellany is held from the duke of Normandy and the bishop of Rouen so they might give it to one of their men.” Annora was undisturbed by the question. “But Gwenoc’s cave belongs to the family and there aren’t many of us left, just Gui and some other cousin who’s been in a monastery for years. So I suppose that it would come to Gui. Of course I could give it to the church now.” She smiled at the thought. “That would really infuriate him.”

  “I see,” said Catherine.

  Annora looked up at her.

  “You don’t think Gui had anything to do with Cecile’s death, do you?” she asked. “That is nonsense, I assure you. After all, he was the one attacked by the demon.”

  “What if it weren’t a demon?” Catherine suggested. “What if Gui were on his way to strike at you and was stopped through divine or perhaps human aid?”

  Annora stood up proudly, suddenly annoyed. “You overstep yourself, Catherine. Whoever killed Cecile, it was not a member of the family. Gui may be dissolute, but my cousin is not a murderer and it is not your place to imply that he is.”

  Chin high and braids swinging, Annora swept from the room.

  Catherine finished combing out her own tangled black curls, thankful that as a married woman, she could cover the result with a long scarf. She sighed. She should have expected Annora’s reaction.

  “I ought to have kept my speculations to myself,” she sighed. “Mother would be so ashamed of me. No one wants to hear evil of their family, even if they say it often enough themselves, and they certainly don’t want to hear it from someone who is beneath their station.”

  There was a sound at the doorway. Catherine turned and saw a woman peering in at her. She looked around the room to see whom Catherine was talking to, then retreated when she realized Catherine was alone.

  Catherine decided it was time to go find Astrolabe before someone else came in and discovered her having a conversation with herself. The other women were already starting to avoid her, having marked her predisposition for accidents. Only Margaret’s exalted status and the patronage of Countess Sybil kept them from suggesting that she sleep elsewhere.

  Although the air was brisk, it felt good to be out again. Catherine wrapped her fur-lined cloak warmly about her. The wind blew it open again. In her haste to be gone, she had forgotten to bring something to pin it with. As she pulled it tighter, something thumped in her sleeve.

  Carefully, she untied it and the brooch fell into her hand. She turned it over. The gold was rich and soft, the topazes carefully matched. The pin was bent and the catch torn. Edgar could have repaired it easily. She examined it more carefully. The materials were good but the workmanship mediocre. She should have asked Annora if it were Gui’s. That was twice she had forgotten. Perhaps the events of the past few days had affected her more than she had thought. This time she must find out if it belonged to Gui. If it didn’t, then it was the only real clue they had to his assailant. She carefully tied it back in the sleeve.

  She finally found Astrolabe among the crowd in the parvis in front of the cathedral. He had found a spot out of the wind and was sitting on the ground, his sword laid across his knees in a manner that implied it could be used at any minute. Catherine sank down next to him gratefully.

  Astrolabe was delighted to see her. “We were worried about you,” he told her. “You must think you’re Saint Margaret, chasing demons all on your own.”

  “It wasn’t a very big demon,” Catherine assured him.

  “Well, I’ve been busy while you were recovering.” Astrolabe handed her a piece of cheese from the recesses of his cloak. “Settle back and hear the news.”

  “I want you to tell me everything you’ve found out,” she said, taking the cheese. “I feel as if I’ve been gone for a month.”

  She nibbled on it as he told of his interview with Gui and John’s discovery of the name of the canon of Paris who had been following them.

  “Rolland?” She shook her head. “I don’t think I ever heard his name. I wonder if Edgar knew him. He was Abelard’s student long before I met him. I can’t imagine why he’s involved in all this. Certainly not to hurt you. Why would he care?”

  “It really doesn’t matter,” Astrolabe said wearily. “He is involved. But I’m sure someone is directing him.”

  “The unknown monk?” Catherine asked, licking cheese from her fingers.

  “Perhaps. We won’t know until we find him.” Astrolabe stood. He gave Catherine his hand to help her rise. “We had another incident last night.” He explained about the slip with his name. “We aren’t sure that the monk who overheard was the one who has been following me, but we must assume he is. Godfrey has offered to watch Rolland until the two make contact.”

  “Ah, that explains why Gwenael was scrubbing the convent kitchen floor with such angry energy this morning,” Catherine said. “I looked in
on her and she was muttering about having to earn her keep since no one had time for her.”

  “Godfrey should have explained that he was helping in the defense of her dear master Eon,” Astrolabe said. “But Godfrey doesn’t like her devotion to him.”

  “Nor do I,” Catherine said. “No matter how innocuous you feel this Eon is, if he can inspire such heretical passion in his people, then he’s dangerous.”

  “Perhaps, but I can’t see him as a threat to Christendom,” Astrolabe said as they headed toward the cathedral. “I suppose I have a weakness for those persecuted for their beliefs.”

  He gave Catherine a wry grin. She took his arm.

  “Well, I have a weakness for people who are persecuted for no reason at all,” she said. “You mustn’t worry. No matter what your enemies say, we know you’re innocent. The accusations of these little men will have no effect.”

  “I’m not really that worried for myself,” Astrolabe told her. “It’s poor Cecile. I don’t want her death to be ignored.”

  “Of course not,” Catherine said. “We won’t forget her. I promise.”

  “What about this sacred cave that Gui and Annora are fighting over?” Astrolabe asked after a pause.

  They had to maneuver around a group of four lepers, sounding their clappers and calling loudly for alms before Catherine could answer.

  “I’d never heard of it, or the saint, before,” she said, looking back at the little cluster of the unclean. There was something odd about them.

  “Do you think it’s important?” Astrolabe persisted. He turned to see what so intrigued her. The lepers were moving away from them now.

  “I don’t know,” Catherine answered. “Annora says that if she dies, the cave will come to Gui. Could he have killed Cecile to clear the way for himself?”

  “If I wanted to inherit property, I’d start by doing away with the ones not in religious life,” Astrolabe said. “He wouldn’t have had to worry about Cecile leaving descendents.”

  “That’s true.” Catherine stopped again to examine some pilgrim badges being sold by a man who carried them on a strip of felt tied to a pole.

  “You can wear it next to your shell of Saint James,” the man said. “Even the hardest rogue might think twice before stealing from one who is protected by Saint Remigius and the apostle James.”

  Catherine shook her head. She wore her Compostelle proudly, for the journey to the shrine of Saint James had been a true pilgrimage. It would be shameful to pretend she was in Reims for the same reason.

  The badges reminded her of the brooch. When they reached the pie stand on the other side of the parvis, she took it out while Astrolabe was getting them some fish in pastry. When he returned, she showed it to him.

  “Could you take it to Gui and see if he recognizes it?” she asked.

  “You should have shown this to someone before,” Astrolabe said. “It would have put an end to the stories about demons in the convent.”

  “I know,” Catherine agreed. “I don’t seem to be thinking very clearly lately.”

  Astrolabe took the brooch from her and put it in the pouch around his neck. He tucked the pouch back inside his chainse and tied the neck strings so that the pouch couldn’t be seen.

  “You have too much to worry over,” he said. “My mother owes you a great deal, as do I, for making this journey on my behalf.”

  Catherine shook her head. “I only wish I were being more useful. There must be something more I can do to help.”

  Catherine chewed on her fish pasty, occasionally stopping to take the fine bones out of her mouth. It was nearly Tierce. She wondered if the council would adjourn soon to allow the delegates to take some food and rest before beginning again in the afternoon. Some of the bishops and abbots were elderly, like Gilbert of Poitiers, and others weren’t in good health. She had heard that one of the two English bishops who had come had fallen ill on the first day. Between the rigors of travel and the draftiness of the cathedral, she imagined that more would succumb before the end of the council.

  “Margaret must be wishing now that she were less important,” Catherine said. “She could be with us filling our stomachs instead of listening to a roll of church officials being anathematized.”

  “I’ve never noticed that Margaret felt herself to be of particular importance,” Astrolabe observed. “Edgar seems to have gotten all the haughtiness in the family.”

  “You’ve never met his father and brothers,” Catherine said. “And pray you never do. Yes, Margaret is not at all proud. That’s why, when we’ve settled your problems, I must find a way to keep her with us. She needs to be with people who love her. She had so little affection when she lived in Scotland.”

  Astrolabe took his handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped Catherine’s mouth.

  “I would think that with Edgar, Solomon and your children, you would have enough family to worry about.” He smiled. “Instead you took Margaret in. And, while I know you came to Reims because my mother asked it, you have already risked far too much for my sake. You shame me, Catherine.”

  Catherine shrugged and looked away.

  “There seems to be some commotion at the cathedral door,” she said. “What could it be?”

  Three men had just ridden up. Two of them dismounted and placed a block for the third to climb down more slowly from the saddle. Then one of the men took a long staff from a sling at the side of his horse. Catherine thought at first that it was a spear, but then she realized that it was a bishop’s crosier.

  “How strange,” she said. “Who could that be arriving so late?”

  The bishop took a moment to let his men arrange his robes. Then he signaled them to open the door.

  “He’ll never get through the crowd,” Astrolabe said.

  But as he approached, the people around the doorway stepped aside. Many bowed to him. Followed by his clerks, the bishop entered the cathedral.

  “Now I really hope they recess soon,” Catherine said. “I must know what that was all about.”

  There was no sign of people starting to leave. Catherine looked into her pasty and saw a fish eye staring back.

  “Look, there’s John,” Astrolabe said. “Maybe he can tell us.”

  John was running toward them from the same direction in which the three riders had come. In his haste he bumped into people going the other way. Catherine and Astrolabe could see his excitement. Even a particularly irate man who refused to be mollified for his spilt beer couldn’t keep the grin from John’s face.

  “He’s here!” John shouted as soon as he was close enough. “He’s made it after all. You won’t believe the story. And he promised to introduce me to the archbishop. Thank God and all the angels, I may get a place at last.”

  Thirteen

  The cathedral. Monday, 11 kalends April (March 22), 1148.

  Feast of Saint Lia, one of the widows who mortified her flesh

  for the sake of God and Saint Jerome.

  Ecclesia Dei vobis commissa est, et dicimini pastores, cum

  sitis raptores. Et paucos habemus, hue! pastores; multos

  autem exommunicatores. Et utinam sufficeret vobis lana et

  lac! sititis enim sanguinem.

  The church of God was entrusted to you,

  and you are called shepherds, although you are really

  predators. And we have, alas, few shepherds; but many

  excommunicators. Oh would that it be enough for you to

  have wool and milk rather than thirsting for blood!

  Bernard of Clairvaux, sermon preached at the Council

  of Reims

  Margaret felt the ripple of surprise run through the cathedral before she saw the man who caused it. First there was a rustling at the door, just at the most solemn part of the ceremony. The pope looked up, annoyed, and signaled for someone to attend to the disturbance. But it didn’t lessen. Instead the noise grew and became gasps of amazement and then cheers. Eugenius opened his mouth to order silence. Then he saw
the man approaching. He put down the silver cone with which he had been about to extinguish the candle before him, the action symbolic of the darkness into which the recalcitrant bishops were about to fall. Instead he stretched out his arms in greeting.

  “My son!” he cried.

  The bishop knelt before him, his head bowed and his hands held out, clasped together in a gesture of supplication.

  “My lord pope,” he said. “I come at your command and beg forgiveness for my tardiness.”

  “Rise, my lord archbishop.” Eugenius bent to help him. “Your presence is welcome, all the more because we know that you have defied your earthly lord to be here.”

  Margaret leaned over the chair and whispered to Mahaut.

  “Who is he?”

  “Theobald,” the countess answered, her voice rich with curiosity and surprise. “The archbishop of Canterbury. I’d give half my jewel case to know how he managed to evade the soldiers Stephen sent to keep him from leaving the country.”

  Margaret was surprised at the amusement in the countess’s face. After all, King Stephen was her brother-in-law.

  Although everyone was burning to know the circumstances of the archbishop’s last-moment arrival, the ceremony continued. There were still many who had willfully disobeyed the summons of the pope. The candles were lit and extinguished. Bishops and abbots all over Christendom were cast out, forbidden to say Mass or give any of the other sacraments. Margaret had lived in a land under anathema; she didn’t want to do it again. She was glad that the bishop of Paris had not ignored the summons.

  But soon she wished again that she could be somewhere else. The excitement over, it was time for the pleas and debates to begin once more. Margaret forced down a yawn. She stood on tiptoe, trying to see what had happened to the archbishop. After a few moments, she found him among the others to the right of the altar. Someone had provided him with a chair. His clerks were standing behind him. Theobald looked amazingly fresh for one who had rushed from London to Reims, presumably pursued by soldiers. However, the same could not be said of his clerks. Their robes were stained, the material limp with many days of wear. She couldn’t make out the faces, but their stance indicated that the two men were much more tired than she.