“I’ll do as you ask, my lady,” Godfrey said. “I promise to return before Nones with Master John if I have to drag him from under the nose of the pope himself.”
“Thank you. Also,” Catherine called after him, “find out where the body is now. Examine it if you can.”
Godfrey gave her an incredulous stare and then vanished into the crowd.
Catherine went back upstairs to find the windows wide open. The women were leaning out of them, trying to see everything that was happening. The convent overlooked a square only a short walk from the cathedral and across from the church of Saint-Etienne. They could see the people heading toward the bishop’s palace next to the cathedral, and hear the shouts.
“I’m not going to wait here any longer,” one woman announced. “I’m not cloistered. No one has the right to keep me here. I don’t see Countess Sybil hiding. She left this morning to consult with the Flemish bishops.”
“Aren’t you afraid of the mob?” another woman asked.
“I’m calling for my horse and a guard,” the first one said. She took riding boots and gloves from her box. “I may not be able to go hawking, but at least I can ride outside the city. Anyone who tries to stop me will regret it.”
“I’ll come with you,” someone said from the window. “The commotion seems to be moving west to the cathedral. My lady doesn’t need me today, and I can’t bear this noise and enforced seclusion.”
Once the suggestion had been made, others admitted that they also needed a day in the countryside. Catherine and Margaret watched them in amazement.
“Don’t they understand what’s happening out there?” Margaret whispered.
“I don’t think they care,” Catherine whispered back. “This isn’t their city. They aren’t credulous enough to fear a demon army. Why shouldn’t they go riding? It will harm no one.”
And, she thought, it will make it easier for me to slip out later.
As the room slowly cleared, Catherine noticed a bedraggled figure come out from behind the curtain in the corner.
“Annora!” she cried. “When did you return? Where have you been? I’ve been worried about you. The countess’s servants said you were ill.”
“How silly of them,” Annora said. “The countess knew where I was.”
“What happened to your clothes?” Margaret asked.
“I went out to dine at the table of Archbishop Hugh of Rouen,” Annora said. “I hold part of my castellany from him. He is staying outside the city gates, and by the time the dinner ended, it was too late for me to return.”
Catherine raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Margaret was not so circumspect.
“Was there no bed at the archbishop’s?” she asked. “You have grass stains on the back of your bliaut.”
Annora checked her skirts and saw that Margaret was right.
“I have no idea how that happened,” she said. “I slept very badly at the archbishop’s and then had to force my way through the rabble in the streets to get back. Isn’t it today that Eon is to appear before the council? I want to be there to speak for Cecile, but I must have some rest and a wash first.”
She said this as if accusing Catherine and Margaret of keeping her from both.
“We were just leaving.” Catherine nudged Margaret. “A walk in the garden, don’t you think, Margaret? Until Godfrey returns?”
“Oh, yes.” Margaret got up at once. “I would love to walk in the garden. Of course most of the plants are still sleeping, but one can imagine the flowers.”
“That will be a fine mental exercise,” Catherine said, trying not to laugh.
Annora paid no attention. She was obviously exhausted. She removed her belt, shoes and bliaut and crawled into the bed in her chainse.
“We’ll be going, then,” Catherine said.
Annora pulled the blanket over her head.
“I hope Countess Sybil never finds out where she really was last night,” Catherine commented as they reached the garden.
“Why? Where was she?” Margaret asked.
“I have no idea,” Catherine answered. “But it wasn’t dining with the archbishop of Rouen.”
“Even to me the story sounded thin,” Margaret said. “But I can’t think of any other place she could have gone. Who else does she know?”
Catherine kicked at the earth in frustration. “Just when I thought all the pieces were fitting, she has to jumble them again. I hope Godfrey was able to get the information I wanted.”
“Will that make everything clear?” Margaret asked.
“Probably not,” Catherine said. “Unless it turns out that Rolland did indeed have his entrails pulled out through his mouth. Then we can confidently blame a demon.”
They walked in silence for a while, each occupied with thoughts that had nothing to do with immediate problems.
“I forgot to tell Sister Melisande about that rash Edana had on her bottom,” Catherine said.
“She noticed,” Margaret told her. “She had a salve that worked very well.”
“Oh, good,” Catherine said without enthusiasm. She thought she should have been the one to take care of her daughter’s rash.
They started another circle of the garden.
“I haven’t spoken to Countess Mahaut yet,” Margaret blurted. “Won’t you please do it for me? I can’t go to Carinthia. She doesn’t want to wait until Edgar returns but to send me as soon as she can have my clothes ready. Grandfather said he’d provide the dowry so Edgar needn’t worry. It’s all happening so quickly! I don’t know how to stop it.”
“Margaret, you must speak out,” Catherine said. “I can protest, if you like, but yours is the only voice they’ll listen to.”
“I can’t!” Margaret said in despair. “Every time I try, Countess Mahaut says something about how lovely the country is and how much I’ll enjoy it. Or Bishop Henry asks me to say something in German. Catherine, I can’t even remember the name of the man they want me to marry. They only mentioned it once. The rest has been about what a wonderful alliance it will be.”
She gulped and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I know that Astrolabe’s fate is much more important than mine. I try not to bother you with this, but I need you, Catherine. I’m so afraid.”
“Oh, my poor sister!” Catherine took Margaret in her arms and let her cry. “You are just as important as Astrolabe and much more dear to me. I won’t let you go. We’ll find a way through this, I promise.”
But Catherine wished heartily that Edgar were with her. This was one dilemma too many for her to cope with.
Margaret was still sniffling when the portress came to tell them that Godfrey had returned with a priest.
“That must be John,” Catherine said. “At last we’ve brought someone to the door that she approves of.”
They hurried to greet them.
“Is our friend Peter safe?” Catherine asked first.
“Under the protection of Archbishop Theobald,” John said. “And,” he added with pride, “I think I may soon be as well.”
“John, that’s wonderful!” Catherine said. “It will be a great thing for you. I know you’ll serve him well. Now, about the body.”
“Catherine, you would never survive the ceremony at court,” John said. “You never bother with the polite preludes to important discussion.”
“No, I don’t,” Catherine said. “This week has taught me that. I don’t have time for manners. Godfrey, did you see Rolland’s corpse?”
Godfrey winced. “I did. It wasn’t well guarded. Do you want to tell me how he died? You said you had a guess.”
“His throat was cut,” Catherine said. “From behind, likely, unless he was unconscious.”
“You have it,” Godfrey said. “How did you know?”
“That was how Cecile died.” Catherine rubbed her hands together as if trying to remove a spot of grime. “People tend to stick with what works, even in murder. Now why would the person who killed Cecile want to get rid of Rolland, too?”<
br />
Seventeen
The same day, a little later.
Juventute equidam exigente, quondam nobilem mulierem
mihi concubinam adamavi, & peccato instigante Moyse
predicti lici Abbate inde a me ejecto, predictam concubinam
peccatis exigentibus intrusive posui…. Refellatur itaque,…
omnis calumnia & Monialum Redonensium questio falsa
omnino supplodatur.
In the passion of my youth, I fell in love with a certain
noblewoman and made her my concubine. Instigated by my
sin, I evicted Moses, abbot of the aforesaid place, and
installed my concubine to satisfy the desires of my sin….
Therefore, let every rumor and false doubt about the nuns of
Rennes be stamped out.
Henri of Tréguier, count of Penthievre, letter to Pope
Alexander III, written when Henri was in his eighties and
concerned about finally making amends
The streets had been cleared by the archbishop’s guards. Archbishop Samson was not going to let his fellow prelates think that he couldn’t control his own town. He had accomplished this control in two stages. First, with the aid of Raoul of Vermandois and his men, soldiers on horseback herded the citizens back into their homes. Then the archbishop announced that he was opening his granary north of the city. Every resident of Reims was to receive one sestier of barley as a gift in gratitude for their tolerance of the inconveniences the council had caused.
The town emptied almost at once. Heretics and demons were ephemeral terrors. Famine was real.
At the houses where the attendees were staying, servants began putting the hastily packed valuables out again. The council resumed.
Thomas dressed hurriedly but with great care, making sure that his gauffered sleeves hung just so and that there were no smudges on his soft leather shoes. John and Astrolabe watched in amusement.
“You’d be right at home in a king’s court,” John told him. “I know many noblemen who don’t dress as well as you.”
“I need to make a good impression,” Thomas said amiably. “I don’t want to dishonor my master.”
“Well, since you’re doing it on my behalf, I shouldn’t mock you for it,” John answered.
Thomas turned around, his sleeves making an elegant swirl.
“On your behalf? I don’t understand,” he said.
“You were going to introduce me to the archbishop, weren’t you?”
John’s voice ended on a nervous high note. Astrolabe looked from one to the other, wondering if he should leave. Thomas gave John an embarrassed glance and then spent a moment earnestly examining a loose thread on his belt loop before he spoke.
“John, you are welcome to a bed here,” he explained, “and I will do whatever I can to help Astrolabe defeat these slanderers, but I can’t put you forward for a position in Theobald’s household. I thought you understood that.”
John sat up straight, his hands clenched at his sides. “I had assumed, because of our friendship…” His voice trailed off.
Thomas sighed. “I have many friends, John, who want something from the archbishop. Part of my duty is to protect him from office seekers. More important, it wouldn’t do any good even if I did present you to him. He won’t take anyone without a recommendation from someone of high rank. I just run his errands and write his letters.”
John’s stricken expression told Thomas how much he had counted on this.
“I’m truly sorry,” he said. “I thought you knew what my position was.”
“No.” John shook himself. “I should have realized. It was stupid of me. I beg your pardon for putting you in such an uncomfortable situation.”
Thomas took a step toward him, hand out.
“I wish you luck, John,” he said. “And if you do find a way to join us at Canterbury, there’s no one who will welcome you more heartily than I.”
John took his hand and tried to smile.
“Now, I must hurry.” Thomas nodded to Astrolabe, glad to change the subject. “I will ask what’s being done about this murdered canon of Paris. Since he died here, it may be the jurisdiction of Samson Mauvoisin, but the bishop of Paris may feel he has a say, and then there are the local lords. Do you know who has the high justice for Reims?”
“It might be Count Thibault,” Astrolabe answered.
“Perhaps you should go to him,” Thomas suggested. “Hugh of Rouen should be consulted, too, since you say the woman who died in Brittany held land of him. They are both reasonable men. I feel certain we can clear you of all suspicion in both cases.”
“Thank you,” Astrolabe said, aware that he was being dismissed. “John, we should be going, don’t you think?”
“What?” John came out of his trance. “Oh, yes, of course. We have much to do now that the populace has stopped crying for your blood.”
Astrolabe stood. Taking John by the arm, he headed for the door. “And I’d like to get my work done before they start up again. My thanks to you, Thomas of London, for your hospitality.”
John managed to get as far as the street with no loss of dignity. But as soon as they were out of view of the windows, he collapsed against Astrolabe, tears flowing.
“I was so sure,” he gulped. “I thought he…”
With an effort, he stood on his own. He rubbed his eyes angrily, forcing the tears to stop.
“It doesn’t matter what I thought,” he said. “I was wrong. Oh, Astrolabe, Thomas was my best chance. Now I have no idea how I’m going to earn my bread.”
Astrolabe took him by the shoulders, pulling him up straight.
“That makes two of us.” He grinned. “Of course, in my case, the question may soon be resolved. Unless I’m cleared in Rolland’s death, my need for food will be abruptly terminated.”
Samson Mauvoisin, archbishop of Reims, was becoming increasingly annoyed by the disturbances to the council. It was Pope Eugenius who had fixed the place for the meeting. Reims was one of the oldest bishoprics in France. The cathedral had been built in the time of the Carolingian emperors and was the site of the anointing of the kings. It was only appropriate that the church convene here. It was almost a tradition.
But Eugenius might have chosen a better time.
The burghers were still smarting from the breakup of their commune the previous autumn. They were threatening to move the expanding cloth-making industry to a friendlier city. Food was dear. The news from the Holy Land was uniformly bad. And now some canon from Paris had tried to incite a riot and then been murdered. The last was the only good news Samson had received in weeks.
But the bishop of Paris was agitating for the capture of the killer. The countess of Flanders had sent word that the interests of one of her wards was involved, God knew how. The archbishop of Tours insisted that the matter was somehow tied up with this heretic now languishing in Samson’s prison. He also hinted darkly that Bishop Olivier of Dol was ultimately responsible since the canon was Breton and, no doubt, in the bishop’s pay.
Samson had no interest in the state of affairs in Brittany. Therefore he was extremely irritated to have it left at his doorstep. The only thing he was curious about was why the name of this phantom demon king was Astrolabe. He wondered if the people knew that it was a computational device for measuring the height of the sun and stars in the sky. Useful for astrologers and physicians, but hardly demonic. However had the street gossips got hold of the word?
Nevertheless, it was up to him to see that the issue of the canon’s death was resolved.
“Ermon,” he called his servant. “Have messages sent to the archbishops of Tours and Rouen, the bishop of Paris, Countess Sybil of Flanders and, for good measure, Count Thibault. Ask if they will join me this evening. No doubt this canon was set upon by thieves and killed for his purse. What could he expect, alone outside the gates at night? Nevertheless, I shall have to hold an inquiry, and I want all of those people here so that they can�
��t say later that I impeded justice.”
“Yes, my lord.” Ermon bowed.
“Ermon?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Just send the invitations. The rest of my speech you will forget.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Catherine met John and Astrolabe at the entry to the convent. Margaret was with her, having begged off spending another day at the council.
“Godfrey said you needed us,” Astrolabe began. “You’ve heard about Rolland, then?”
“I have,” Catherine said, staring at him, “but not about your metamorphosis!”
She reached up and felt his smooth chin. “I don’t know, I was getting rather fond of the beard.”
“Sorry,” Astrolabe said. “I thought it best to remind people of my clerical status, just in case I’m arrested.”
“Do you think it will come to that?” Catherine asked, alarmed. She turned to John.
“It’s possible,” he admitted. “Archbishop Samson has now become involved, and he isn’t going to let the murder of one of the men attending the council go unpunished, even if Rolland wasn’t very important.”
“I’m sure that whoever killed Cecile also murdered Rolland,” Catherine announced. “The method was the same. So now we can be certain that the person we seek is in Reims. We have to find the monk Rolland was traveling with. If he didn’t commit the murder, I suspect he knows who did.”
“We saw his face, but too briefly,” Astrolabe said. “I’ve been looking at every monk I pass, but the fact is, I’m not sure I’d know him. He had one of those faces that you see and forget.”
“I know,” Catherine agreed. “Rolland was the one we all remembered.”
“Perhaps that’s what he was there for,” Margaret suggested.
They looked at her.
“Well, it was only a thought,” she said nervously.
Heresy: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 29
