Heresy: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  The archbishop must have realized this, too. After a few moments, he dismissed them. Margaret felt a rush of envy as she watched the clerks leave.

  The Latin of the debates was far beyond her. This left Margaret nothing to do but worry.

  Countess Mahaut spent much of their time together regaling Margaret with stories of her childhood home. She was so certain that Margaret was as excited as she that she didn’t appear to notice that the girl’s enthusiasm was at best polite. Margaret hated herself for the cowardice that prevented her from protesting against this upheaval in her life. Carinthia loomed in her nightmares like the gateway to Hell.

  As she waited for the proceedings to end, she imagined herself standing proudly, vowing that she would marry no man except by her own choice. In her daydream, everyone bowed to her decision, awed by the nobility of her presence.

  The problem was that even in this imaginary scene, Solomon insisted on standing in the doorway, half hidden by the curtain, watching her with that mocking yet tender smile of his.

  Margaret blinked back tears and tried to force her mind back to the endless wrangling of the lords of the church. Some dreams were too impossible even for fantasy.

  It was some time before they could get any sense out of John. Finally Astrolabe sat him down at a table by the beer stand, filled a bowl and waited until he had drained it.

  “Now, what has happened?” he asked. “Who is here?”

  John took a deep breath and grinned at them all.

  “My friend, Thomas, has arrived from Canterbury with Archbishop Theobald,” he said. “I ran into him this morning as they were preparing the archbishop to present himself before the council.”

  “But how?” Catherine asked. “I thought King Stephen had placed guards all around the archbishop’s palace.”

  “I don’t know the whole story,” John said. “Thomas and I only had a few moments. From what he said, it sounds as though Theobald disguised himself and sneaked out of Canterbury with only Thomas and one other cleric. Nobody guessed that he would leave without his retinue.”

  “That seems incredibly dense, even for the English,” Catherine said.

  “The guards were probably Flemish,” John commented.

  “Ah, well, that explains it,” Catherine laughed.

  “Wait!” John said, standing and pointing across the square. “Here he is. You can have him tell the story.”

  The man approaching them was tall and light complexioned, with indeterminate brown hair. He greeted John with a hug and a broad smile. John brought him to the others.

  “This is my friend, Thomas of London,” he said to them.

  Thomas bowed. Catherine rose to be introduced.

  “You remember Edgar of Wedderlie, don’t you?” John asked his friend. “This is his wife.”

  “I’m glad to know it,” Thomas said. He bowed again. “I remember your husband well. He and I often went with Master Abelard to dine and discuss philosophy. I’m sorry not to see him. Has he gone on the king’s expedition?”

  Catherine shook her head. “Only on one for the family,” she explained.

  Thomas smiled with a polite lack of interest and turned to Astrolabe. “Have we met? You seem familiar, but…”

  “Don’t worry, you don’t know me,” Astrolabe smiled. “It’s my father you see in my face.”

  Thomas squinted at him. “Saint Brice’s babbling bastard!” he exclaimed. “You can’t be Abelard’s son!”

  “My mother assures me that I am.” Astrolabe shrugged. He looked around. They were a good distance from anyone else. “But please, my name here is Peter, and I’d rather you didn’t mention my presence here to anyone else.”

  “If you wish.” Thomas looked puzzled. “I am curious as to what you are doing here in that outfit. I thought you were in minor orders.”

  “We’ll tell you all about it, Thomas,” John said, “later. Peter has good reason for his appearance. But first you must tell us how you got here.”

  Thomas took a seat next to them and got out his bowl.

  “It was exciting,” he said, “and nothing I’d care to do again. The wrath of kings reaches far. We managed to elude the guard in Canterbury and raced for the coast, certain that Stephen’s army was right behind us. When we got there, we learned that all the ports had been blocked. I was sure we’d have to return. But Lord Theobald was so determined that I feared he might try to swim to France. We almost did.”

  He took a drink.

  “The archbishop finally rented a fishing boat, crude and leaky,” he continued. “There was no shelter on it and barely room for us and the crew. I vow I never prayed so fervently in my life as I did during that voyage.”

  “How awful!” Catherine exclaimed. “And how brave!”

  “Catherine isn’t fond of boats,” Astrolabe explained. “She’d prefer martyrdom to crossing the sea again.”

  Thomas grinned. “At the moment, I’m inclined to agree, although at the time I was eager enough to jump into the boat rather than face the soldiers.”

  He leaned back against the wooden wall of the beer stand.

  “Now, tell me your story.”

  With many digressions and corrections, they did.

  As he listened, the clerk’s face grew serious. He looked from one to the other of them, as if trying to decide how much of the theories and speculations to believe.

  “A demon?” he asked.

  “Well, probably not,” Catherine said. “We’re going to find out who owns the brooch I found. I expect him to be human.”

  Thomas shook his head, as if to clear it. “I suppose that will help,” he said. “There seem to be a number of things going on here, but I don’t see how they all connect with each other.”

  There was a collective sigh.

  “We don’t either,” Astrolabe admitted. “These men seem to be waiting until the heretic Eon is brought before the council. We think they mean to denounce me when I speak for him.”

  “You intend to defend this Eon?” Thomas asked in astonishment.

  “Not his beliefs,” Astrolabe said. “They are ludicrous. But the man himself is harmless. I’d hate to see him burn. It’s my duty to speak on his behalf whatever the risk.”

  “And who is this canon from Paris?” Thomas asked. “I don’t remember any Rolland among the students in our day.”

  “He’s Breton,” John said. “A big man, blond, with bulging eyes. In our student days, he couldn’t tell qua from quae from quicuid.”

  “A harsh thing to say of any man,” Thomas said. “No, he’s not familiar. Nor do I see where he fits in to your problem.”

  “The murdered woman, Cecile, was in a convent in Brittany,” Catherine said. “And it was her cousin who was attacked the other night.”

  “That’s rather a reach, suspecting him because he’s also Breton, unless you can prove it was the canon who attacked the cousin.”

  That was a new thought.

  “Annora said the demon shape was very large,” Catherine said. “It might have been he. Perhaps one of us could find out if Rolland is missing a brooch.”

  “It would be a place to start.” Astrolabe wasn’t enthusiastic. “But we have no evidence that Rolland was in Brittany last winter or ever knew Cecile.”

  Gloom settled on the group.

  Thomas cleared his throat. “I know that your situation is serious, but I’m also interested in finding out what is happening concerning the debate on the work of Master…that is, Bishop Gilbert.”

  “Now that is a fascinating story!” John began. “It seems the trouble was started by two of his own archdeacons.”

  Catherine joined in the conversation, although she felt guilty about ignoring Astrolabe’s worries, even for a moment. The trial of Gilbert was to her the most important part of the council. Was he really mistaken in his theology, or was he the victim of envy? John believed the latter.

  “His work is so dense that it’s easy for an untutored mind to misinterpret it,” he insist
ed. “But there’s nothing heretical in it. I don’t believe the matter would have come this far if Bernard of Clairvaux hadn’t been brought into the debate.”

  “But no one would consider Abbot Bernard a scholar,” Thomas said. “He doesn’t pretend to be one.”

  “He is suspicious of the use of philosophy to explain doctrine,” Catherine said. “And he is easily influenced by the opinions of his friends. He won’t be the one to debate Bishop Gilbert, but he will be the one organizing the trial. Wait and see.”

  Astrolabe tried to pay attention for the sake of manners, but he didn’t understand the arguments. The name of the abbot of Clairvaux brought back bitter memories of the condemnation of his father’s work. Astrolabe believed that the trial Bernard chaired at Sens had hastened Abelard’s death. Bishop Gilbert was an old man already. Could he endure the humiliation of public rebuke? Would they take away his see? He feared that, like Abelard, Gilbert would come to the court already condemned.

  He wondered if the same thing was about to happen to him. His plea on behalf of Eon could well lead to his own condemnation. He had considered the possibility before coming to Reims but hadn’t really believed it. He was beginning to understand now.

  As the others talked, Astrolabe lost the thread. He found himself wondering where Godfrey was and if he’d discovered the name of the monk who had traveled with Rolland.

  The conversation was becoming heated and some German clerics passing by had stopped to join in. Catherine was having a wonderful time. Astrolabe noted her eyes shining in a way he hadn’t seen in many years. The language had now switched to Latin to accommodate both the foreign clerics and the difficulty of the subject. Catherine was leaning across the table tapping on it with a finger to make her point. A few of the men had looked askance at her when they entered the talk, but all had soon been swept away by their mutual interest.

  A spasm of pain crossed Catherine’s face. She bent in her seat. Astrolabe was by her side at once.

  “It’s nothing,” she whispered to him. “A false labor, I think. But I’d be grateful if you’d take me back to Saint-Pierre.”

  They made their apologies to John and Thomas, but it wasn’t necessary. Catherine’s place was taken at once and the discussion went on without a break.

  Catherine walked slowly at first, leaning on Astrolabe, but she soon straightened.

  “There,” she smiled at him. “I’m better now. I think it was the excitement. I forget that I’m an old married woman, no longer a scholar.”

  “Well, I didn’t notice anyone of those men treating you as anything but an equal,” Astrolabe soothed her. “You silenced that one across the table quite effectively.”

  “Yes, I did, didn’t I?” she sighed in contentment. “Now, you can leave me at the gate. I’ll see if Margaret has returned. Thank you for allowing me a few moments of dissipation. Now I shall give my constant attention to our real mission here.”

  “I’m going to find out if Godfrey has learned anything,” Astrolabe said. “Are you sure you’re recovered?”

  “Completely,” she said. “I expect a full report from you tomorrow.”

  She made her way slowly up the stairs to the sleeping room. Halfway up, she stopped to catch her breath. The cramp that had stopped her intellectual holiday was returning.

  “Don’t you dare try to appear now!” she ordered the baby. “You need another four months yet. Your father promised he’d be here for your birth. I won’t disappoint him.”

  “Catherine?”

  Annora was standing at the top of the stairs. “Are you ill?”

  “No,” Catherine replied frostily. “I’m quite well, thank you.”

  “Oh, good.” Annora didn’t move as Catherine continued up the steps. “Um, I must beg your forgiveness for my outburst this morning. I know that it is your job to find the one who killed my sister. You can’t ignore any possibility.”

  She moved aside to let Catherine enter the room. Too tired to set up one of the beds, Catherine collapsed on the pile of mattresses in the corner.

  “You aren’t well!” Annora rushed over to her. “Shall I call the midwife?”

  Catherine shook her head. “I know what to do. If you could just help me get these pillows under my feet, I’ll rest awhile and wait for Margaret.”

  “Of course.” Annora got all the pillows she could find and started stuffing them under Catherine’s feet.

  “Enough, enough!” Catherine laughed. “Now there is no need for me to forgive you. You were right. It’s not my place to criticize your family. At least not to your face.”

  “I gave you reason to think I would welcome Gui as a suspect.” Annora sat down on the leftover pillows. “He is greedy and debauched. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew Henri of Tréguier and had visited him in his brothel. But he wouldn’t have ever hurt Cecile. I’m sure of it.”

  “Astrolabe says he was very insistent that he would take the saint’s cave back from you and Cecile,” Catherine objected.

  “Exactly,” Annora answered. “You see, he doesn’t even know what happened to her. He means to get it by bribing the judges again, not through violence. You can’t kill to get something holy.”

  An image flashed in Catherine’s mind of the soldiers of King Louis slaughtering Saracens to reach the Holy Sepulcher. She shook it away. That was completely different. The infidel wanted to desecrate the sacred sites. Annora and Gui would both revere their saint’s shrine.

  But then, she thought, what if there were another person trying to lay claim to Saint Gwenoc’s cave? Who would get it if Gui died without heirs? If someone else wanted it, that would explain why he was attacked. She looked at Annora. If that were so, then she was in terrible danger. Perhaps she should be warned.

  Annora sat next to her, looking repentant and concerned. Her eyes were a grey-green in the afternoon light, almost the color of the ocean. She gave Catherine a tired smile.

  Catherine made her decision. She couldn’t make life harder for the poor thing. Annora had lost her parents and now her only sister. She was far from home and dependent on the benevolence of Countess Sybil to protect her. Any day now she might be asked to wed a stranger. Why alarm her on a rather far-fetched theory? They would just have to keep her under careful guard. Perhaps a word with the countess would help narrow down suspects as well as increase the protection of her ward. Sybil would know who was in line after Gui.

  Catherine knew she was grasping at this because she wanted Cecile’s death to have nothing to do with her association with the Eonites. If attention could be diverted to the attack on Gui, then it would help to ease the danger of Astrolabe being brought into the matter.

  She wished she could have another look at the wounds Gui had received. His face had been badly scratched, she assumed by the laurel bush. Why had his assailant dragged him into the bush at all? To finish him off away from intrusion? If so, then why was Gui still alive?

  There was a piece missing. It annoyed her no end. The brief excursion back into the world of logic and syllogisms had left her with the feeling that everything could be understood if only one arranged the facts in the proper order and formed the inevitable conclusions. Abelard had believed that even the mind of God could be approached in this way. Why couldn’t she figure out a much lesser human design?

  As the other women came back to the room, retrieved articles or changed their bliauts, not one of them suspected that the woman lying on the floor with her feet propped up so high that her skirts had slipped above her knees was engaged in serious philosophical rumination.

  Godfrey had found Canon Rolland with ease. First he had asked for the contingent from Paris. When he found where they were staying, he simply waited until the man appeared. He recognized him immediately from the encounter on the road.

  There was no trouble in following Rolland. The man was big enough to be seen even if there were others in between. The streets were too busy for him to notice anyone keeping pace with him at a safe distance.
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br />   But Rolland never even looked back. He apparently had a number of errands to perform. Godfrey trailed him first to a feltmakers, then a dyers. The canon stopped for a moment to talk with an egg peddler but bought nothing. Next he went to the draper, then a candlemaker. What was he doing, Godfrey wondered. Weren’t there servants for this sort of job?

  When Rolland finally entered a tavern, Godfrey was grateful to go in after him. This must be where he would meet the elusive monk.

  But Rolland only ordered a cup of pinot, the sour wine that peasants drank. He stood awhile, chatting with the tavern keeper, finished his drink and went on.

  Godfrey trailed along, becoming increasingly puzzled. Could Rolland know he was being followed? Was he amusing himself at Godfrey’s expense? With increasing annoyance, Godfrey plodded on.

  Still Rolland continued his peregrinations. He went past the cathedral and out the city gates at the Porte Bazée and down the road toward the abbey of Saint-Rémi. It was harder now to follow inconspicuously. The houses were farther apart. Fewer people were on the road. There were vineyards and fields of sprouting grain. Godfrey dropped farther back, still keeping the blond head in view.

  Suddenly, the head vanished. Godfrey started running, then stopped short. He knew that trick. If Rolland had noticed that he had a shadow, then nothing would be simpler than to step into an alcove or behind some bushes and wait, either for the follower to go by or, more likely, to pounce on him.

  With effort, Godfrey forced himself back to a stroll. As he reached the spot where Rolland had disappeared, his body tensed and his right hand went to his knife. He made a quick turn, ready to fend off attack.

  A narrow path led toward a monastery not far away. Godfrey was just in time to see Rolland go by the gate and into a garden outside the walls.

  More carefully this time, Godfrey went down the path. The garden was enclosed by a woven withy fence. There was no place from which to observe without being spotted. Godfrey decided to walk by as if heading down to the river. As he passed, he saw Rolland go up to a man in monk’s robes who was sitting on a fallen tree trunk. The man rose, as if he had been waiting. Godfrey cursed the hood the monk wore. It was impossible to make out his face.