“Perhaps.” Margaret was doubtful. “But is it worth the risk? I don’t mind going to observe the proceedings for you. I’d like to see this madman. I want to understand how he could inspire such devotion when his theology is so obviously preposterous. Even if he’s condemned, you could plead for him privately later.”
“Could you get me inside the cathedral?” Godfrey asked her. “It seems to me that we might begin there anyway. If Gwenael hasn’t regained her senses and fled the city, then I’d bet she couldn’t resist seeing her master again.”
“I’m sure I could,” Margaret said. “Astrolabe? Will you wait for us here?”
“No.” Astrolabe got up. He squared his shoulders for battle, his hand automatically reaching for the sword that he no longer wore.
“I can’t abandon Eon now,” he said. “I’m sure he’s frightened and confused. Someone must be his advocate. If I’m permitted, I’ll speak for him. Compared to the bandits that roam the forest and the wandering preachers who incite riots, he’s harmless. I’ve got to try to make the council understand that.”
“And what if Arnulf takes the opportunity to bring his charges against you before the full council?” Godfrey asked.
“Archbishop Samson will see that he doesn’t,” Margaret said. “At least, I think he will. Anyway, Arnulf seems to be convinced that he’s won. Why accuse him among so many of Abelard’s old students and take the chance of swaying opinion in Astrolabe’s favor?”
“Who knows what Arnulf might do? In his own way, that monk seems as mad as Eon,” Astrolabe said. “Does anyone remember what monastery he said he was from? I’d like to know the abbot who would send him out on a mission like this alone.”
“Good, they haven’t left yet.” John pointed at the sedan chair outside the house, ready for the bishop. “Now, to find Subdeacon Felix. Why don’t you let me go to the porter first and ask for him?”
“Why can’t I come with you?” Catherine asked.
John looked down at her. Catherine followed his gaze.
“Oh, yes,” she chuckled softly. “Clerics do tend to panic when pregnant women show up at their door. Very well. I’ll sit on the bench over there. Bring him out, though, if you can.”
She sat down to wait. After a few moments the morning sun made her drowsy and she closed her eyes, leaning back against the rough wall in front of the house.
She was vaguely aware of people passing, but no one bothered her. Two men were conversing nearby in low tones. They must have moved closer to her for she caught a sentence that brought her suddenly alert. She forced herself to relax, keeping her eyes shut.
“Rolland never went to whores,” one voice said. “Everyone knows that. And even if he did, he’d never go off to meet one in a remote place at night. He was slow but not stupid.”
“I wonder if his death might have something to do with those questions he’d been asking,” the other said. “Wanting to know about some priory in Brittany. Did he come to you? He seemed awfully agitated when I saw him.”
“No,” the first one said. “Why would he be interested in a Breton house? Do you think he finally realized that he had no hope for advancement? Even his family couldn’t get him a better position in Paris.”
“And so he decided to retire to the wilds of Brittany? Seems drastic.”
“Oh, well.” The men started to move away. “It doesn’t matter anymore. The only position he has now is recumbent.”
Catherine opened her eyes a slit. The men were walking away from her, toward the cathedral. She sat up. Interesting. Without any effort, she had overheard something useful. Assuming that she had no Latin, the canons had spoken without caution. After her wasted day as a beggar, she had decided that the plan had been foolish. She was astonished that it had worked after all.
John came out soon after with a boy who looked too young to be a student, much less a subdeacon.
“Felix?” she asked.
“Master John said you know my sister?” he asked in some puzzlement. “I’m not clear why she sent you to me. Canon Rolland and I weren’t close.”
“But you saw him just before he died,” Catherine said. “Didn’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” the boy answered. “His appetite was the wonder of the table. He was in very high spirits.”
“Did he say why?”
“No. He kept hinting that he had uncovered some serious malefactors who were threatening the body of the Church,” Felix shrugged. “But none of us wanted to give him the satisfaction of asking about it. He was always boasting about something.”
“Did he say anything about a Breton priory?” Catherine asked.
John gave her a look but didn’t interrupt.
Felix scratched his head. “I don’t think so. I know he’d been chasing some Breton heretic, a follower of this Eon, but I think that came to nothing.”
“Did you see him leave the dinner?” Catherine asked.
Felix looked around to be sure none of his colleagues were nearby.
“As a matter of fact, I did,” he said. “I’m afraid I also overindulged that evening. I needed to go out rather quickly. Rolland was talking with the porter when I came through. He was asking about a message. That’s all I heard. I was in a great hurry.”
“Of course,” Catherine said. “But that’s very helpful. And he was gone when you returned?”
Felix nodded. “You won’t mention my gluttony to the bishop, will you? I’ll confess it myself in Chapter, but I’d rather be the one to tell him.”
“We understand completely,” John told him. “Don’t we, Catherine?”
“I won’t say a word,” she promised. “Especially to your sister.”
The boy grinned at them. “I’m in your debt. Felicia would taunt me about it for years.”
They gave him a coin for the poor and bid him good day.
“What was all that about a priory?” John asked after Felix had left.
Catherine explained. “I think Rolland may have become suspicious of Brother Arnulf’s story about being sent by his abbot to chase heretics.”
“I know I am,” John said. “But Arnulf must have had a letter from someone of authority or Bishop Samson never would have given any credit to his accusations.”
“One would think so,” Catherine said. “Let’s find out what the porter has to say.”
The man who had been on duty that night wasn’t there, but the day porter directed them to his home. They went down a damp alleyway behind the cathedral, coming out in a small square. Each building had a shop on the ground floor. The shutters were down to display ribbons, thread, gloves, trimmings, laces and cloth of all kinds.
“Which one did he say?” John asked.
Catherine had been momentarily distracted by the brightly colored patterns on a selection of hose.
“Over there, the ribbon seller’s.”
They asked the woman at the stall where they could find the porter.
“Upstairs asleep,” she told them. “And he doesn’t take kindly to being wakened before his time.”
“It is urgent,” Catherine said. “We need to ask him some questions. We’ll pay for his trouble. It shouldn’t take long.”
The word pay changed the woman’s attitude. She held out her hand.
Catherine dropped in a solidus of Paris. The woman bit it.
“That’s worth him losing a bit of sleep,” she said.
“Lambert!” She pounded on the ceiling with the pole used to open and close the shutter. “Get your ass up. Lady and a priest want to talk to you.”
She gestured for them to go to the main floor. They climbed a narrow ladder in the corner of the shop that went up into the living area. As Catherine emerged, she gasped and looked away. Lambert quickly dropped a tunic over his head.
“Well, what do you expect, barging in on a man in his bed?” he demanded.
“I apologize,” Catherine said. “I was just startled.”
Lambert smirked. “That’s what my wife said the fi
rst time she saw it, too.”
Silently, Catherine climbed the rest of the way into the room, standing aside for John to ascend.
John explained their mission.
“Oh, sure, I remember him,” Lambert said. “Big fellow, rude. I gave him the message and he left.”
“Do you know who sent the message?” Catherine asked.
“No, the woman didn’t say.” Lambert scratched beneath the tunic. Catherine looked at the ceiling.
“Woman?” John asked. “It was a woman who brought the message?”
“Yes, what of it?”
“Did you know her?” John persisted.
Lambert shook his head. “Not local,” he said. “She was foreign, maybe from the south or Germany, maybe Normandy. She talked with an accent, at least.”
“What did she look like?” Catherine asked.
“Couldn’t say,” Lambert answered. “A bit shorter than you. She had on a heavy veil, covered most of her face.”
“Do you remember anything else about her?” Catherine said, handing him a coin.
“No,” he said. “I got the feeling she was a lady, though. She told me what she wanted and left. Didn’t stop to talk or wait a bit in case there was a reply.”
“She might just have been frightened or rushed,” Catherine suggested.
“Don’t know,” Lambert said. “Just telling you what I noticed, like you asked.”
They thanked him and left. John went down the ladder first. As Catherine descended, Lambert pulled off his tunic and got back into bed. She had no doubt that he’d be snoring before she reached the floor.
“A woman?” John said when they were out in the street again.
“Obviously the porter thought she was making the assignation for herself,” Catherine said. “It does support the idea that Baldwin went out d’amer fame vilaine.”
“Except Lambert thought she was a noblewoman,” John reminded her.
“Only because she wouldn’t stay with him. She might just have wanted to get away before he demanded a sample of her wares,” Catherine said. “I don’t place much value on his judgment on that score.”
“The information doesn’t seem to help us,” John commented.
“Not really,” Catherine answered gloomily. “We only know that she didn’t speak the way they do around here. I wish there had been some indication of who had sent her.”
“Do you think she was involved in killing Rolland?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “She might have simply been selected to carry the message without knowing why. I certainly can’t imagine the remnants of the Eonites being organized enough to plan an elaborate murder.”
“But those were the people he was investigating,” John said. “No one else seems to have had a reason to want him dead, except Astrolabe.”
“If someone else killed Cecile, and Rolland stumbled on the truth,” Catherine insisted, “then that person would have a very good reason.”
“Well, I hope Astrolabe is having more luck than we are in finding him,” John sighed.
Archbishop Samson did not believe any of the stories about an army of demons coming to free his prisoner. Neither did he think that there were enough of Eon’s followers in town to attempt a rescue, if any of them had enough wit. But he had seen Eon when he was brought in, and he decided that there was no point in humiliating him once more in front of an angry crowd. He gave orders to bring the man in to the cathedral through a side door to the palace and hold him in the vestry until called for.
He felt it to be a decidedly charitable act on his part, since he was certain that Eon was somehow the catalyst for this distasteful problem of politics and murder, even though he seemed far too simple to be the instigator.
Samson was growing weary of having to spend every day listening to the wrangles of his fellow bishops. His deacons complained that it made the seating charts impossible to make up. With all the traffic, the rushes in the cathedral had to be swept and changed daily instead of weekly. The expense in candles alone was more than he normally spent in the year. There also were not so subtle rumblings from the town that it was time to pay more attention to the concerns of the souls of Reims. Even opening the granary hadn’t alleviated the food shortage. Families who had been forced to cede their houses to the visitors were becoming louder in their demands to return home. Samson didn’t want to end up like Pope Eugenius, thrown out of his own city by its citizens. He had tried to hint as much but without success.
At least the pope had arranged to have the inquest into the work of Gilbert of Poitiers saved until after the main council. Most of the bishops, abbots and their followers would leave before that. Only a few of them professed to be able to follow the arguments in any case. He certainly didn’t pretend to.
Samson splashed cold water on his face. Time to pass another day in playing the gracious host. How did innkeepers stand it?
The crowd at the cathedral was the largest yet.
“There aren’t usually so many people here,” Margaret said as she, Godfrey and Astrolabe pushed their way up to the cathedral door. “Maybe you should each hold on to one of my braids so we don’t get separated.”
“Don’t worry. We won’t lose you,” Astrolabe promised.
It was only because of the size of both men, one on either side, that Margaret managed to reach the portal. The guard barred the way.
“I’m Margaret of Wedderlie,” she reminded him, “Count Thibault’s granddaughter. Please conduct me and my men to his place.”
The guard raised his staff. “Can’t leave my post,” he said. “But the count went in just a moment ago. You can catch up to him.”
Margaret nodded and ducked under his arm. Godfrey and Astrolabe followed.
The crush was less severe inside, but it took them several minutes to work their way to the transept, where the count and countess were seated.
“Perhaps I should stand somewhere else,” Astrolabe suggested. “Your grandfather may not want to be seen so close to me.”
“I say the closer you are to someone powerful, the better,” Godfrey declared.
“I’ll ask him,” Margaret said over Astrolabe’s objection.
She wormed her way through to where Count Thibault was standing with Abbot Bernard. She waited until the count noticed her. He gave a wide smile and beckoned her forward. She bowed to him and then knelt to the abbot for his blessing.
“A lovely child,” Abbot Bernard said as she rose. His eyes flickered over the scar and his smile became more gentle.
“I’m surprised to see you here again, my dear,” Thibault told her. “I thought the debates had grown wearisome to you.”
“I grieve that I haven’t the learning to understand the arguments properly, my lord,” Margaret spoke formally. “I must confess to you that I have come today to witness the questioning of the Breton, Eon.”
“I trust your faith is not in jeopardy, my lady,” the abbot said.
Margaret wasn’t sure if he were teasing her or not.
“I pray not,” she answered. “But my friend wished to attend and I agreed to bring him. I believe you know the abbess of the convent where I am a student, my lord abbot. Heloise of the Paraclete?”
“Yes, of course,” he answered. “I have preached to the nuns there.”
“My friend is her son, Astrolabe.”
The smile grew more puzzled.
“He wishes to see a heretic tried?” the abbot asked.
“So he has told me, my lord.”
Abbot Bernard looked to Count Thibault for clarification.
“He is his mother’s son, more than his father’s,” Thibault said. “Eager to expand his knowledge rather than disseminate it. And he was raised among the Bretons. He may wish to familiarize himself with the forms their divergence from orthodoxy can take.”
Bernard nodded. A moment later he excused himself to speak with the pope.
Margaret kissed her grandfather’s cheek.
“Thank you, m
y lord,” she whispered. “Hasn’t the abbot heard the rumors in the town? I was certain he would say something.”
“I would not repeat what was said in the meeting last night,” Thibault told her sternly. “The abbot would have learned about Astrolabe’s difficulty in no other way. He does not encourage those who gossip.
“I don’t believe Heloise’s son is a criminal,” he added. “But that doesn’t mean I can save him if the others judge him to be guilty. Nevertheless, he may stand with our party. No one will dare to attack him here.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Margaret said. “I’ll fetch him.”
“After you do, go over to stand by the countess,” Thibault commanded. “She has missed your company.”
Margaret went reluctantly, although she returned Mahaut’s warm greeting. She felt guilty for avoiding the countess. The constant talk of her new life in Carinthia was too painful to face.
Mass was said. The business of the council resumed.
Engebaud of Tours intended to present Eon as but one more example of the disorder rampant in the land of northern Brittany under the care of Olivier of Dol. To this end he first gave a long explanation of the history of the conflict between Dol and Tours, a battle for supremacy that had been going on for more than fifty years.
Margaret felt her eyes drooping by the time that the archbishop asked Moses, abbot of Sainte-Croix, to relate the story of Henri of Tréguier. The old man gave a good account of how he and his monks had been driven from their monastery by Henri and his men.
“They have turned a place of chastity and prayer into a brothel!” he cried. “I begged the other lords in the region to help us. I pleaded with Bishop Olivier to anathematize these monsters. Nothing has been done.”
There was a murmur of shock throughout the cathedral. Pope Eugenius addressed the abbot.
“I find it difficult to believe that any bishop could be so unmindful of his responsibility as to ignore such a clear affront. Are you certain there were no irregularities in your order that might have caused Bishop Olivier to ignore your plea?”
Heresy: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 33
