Death Comes As Epiphany: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  “Then I must ask Our Lady to watch over me,” Catherine said.

  “Of course. And tonight we will both ask an extra petition of Saint Thecla as we celebrate her feast day.” Heloïse went to her breviary and opened it to the day’s reading. “She is not a saint often celebrated in the west. Do you know her story?”

  “Oh yes. She was a Greek who heard Saint Paul preaching from her window one day and was converted. She ran away from her family and her betrothed and dressed as a man to follow Our Lord’s apostle. She preached herself, and converted many people even though the devil sent wild animals and depraved men to torment her.” Catherine paused.

  “She might be a fit guardian for you as you reenter a world where there are still many wild beasts,” Héloïse said.

  “Not in Paris, Mother.”

  “Especially in Paris. I lived there once, you know.”

  “Very well,” Catherine agreed. “I will make a special devotion to Saint Thecla.”

  “I will write to your parents tonight,” Héloïse said. “I will tell them only that you have found yourself unable to submit to authority with proper humility but that, perhaps, if you show sincere repentance, you may return. I will suggest that you might benefit from a few months of parental discipline and the guidance of mature minds.”

  She took out her writing materials. “They won’t beat you, will they?” she asked.

  At the door, Catherine stopped and considered. “I don’t think so, Reverend Mother.” Suddenly she grinned. “Father said he couldn’t stand my forgiving him so fulsomely every time he punished me. Mother … I don’t know. She was pleased when I decided to enter the convent. I think she may be very angry.”

  “I see. If you should decide in the next few days that the shame and deception are too much for you to bear, I will not reproach you,” Héloïse said.

  “I won’t. I am honored you chose me,” Catherine answered. “After all, it is all too believable that I should be sent home for the sin of pride. It will be good for me to have to hold my tongue for once.”

  “You must, Catherine,” Heloïse said firmly. “Better that than be silenced forever.”

  Catherine felt suddenly chilled.

  “I understand, Mother Héloïse,” she said. “I won’t forget.”

  Two

  The Paraclete, Sunday, October 1, 1139, Feast of Saint Remi, Bishop of Reims

  The tongue … is an intractable evil … it does not tire when moving and finds inactivity a burden.

  —Peter Abelard The Letters of Direction

  The hissings followed Catherine through the days as she prepared to depart the convent. They sounded like leaves rustling under dozens of shuffling feet, pausing when she appeared and then surging again after she had passed. She couldn’t brush them away but felt continually pursued by an angry buzz of disembodied voices. For none of the women would say aloud the words whispered behind cupped palms.

  “Whshhhhhshhhhh … always so proud … hsssss … . always questioning … ssssh … serves her right … . arrogant nobody.”

  Then the hands would drop and the faces become smooth and sympathetic. Perhaps some of them were honestly sorry for her, but Catherine could no longer be sure. Christian charity was so easy to counterfeit. Only Sister Emilie, who came from a family so exalted that she could do whatever she liked, openly grieved for Catherine.

  “Don’t let them try to shove you into another convent,” she counseled. “If they do, send word to me and I’ll have my father find you a nice, rich, ancient husband who will leave you alone with your studies. I promise.” She hugged Catherine. “Whatever happens,” she said, “always remember I am your true friend.”

  This kindness upset Catherine more than the vicious gossiping. In the heat of self-sacrifice, she hadn’t considered that the deception would hurt anyone but herself. Now, seeing Emilie’s honest tears, she wished she could tell her everything. And if she were tempted to confess now, how much harder it would be to face her family with the news! Her father would want to know every detail of her offenses. She dreaded the tight-jawed anger he would visibly try to control. It might be easier if they did whip her. At least then she could feel the rapture of martyrdom instead of this undeserved shame.

  Shame, indeed! her conscience scolded. A small sacrifice to make. And who said it was undeserved? Have you never done anything in your virtuous life to be ashamed of? You haven’t even begun your task and you falter already? Perhaps you should go back to hoeing cabbages.

  Luckily for Catherine, a new distraction appeared to draw the interest of the women from her problems.

  She entered the refectory one day to see all the younger nuns clustered around one of the narrow windows.

  “Move over, Hedwig, you’ve gaped enough,” one said as she shoved her way to the front.

  “But what are they doing?” Hedwig asked.

  “It’s a respite stop for a tourney,” Emilie explained as she eased herself into the place with the best view. “They’d better extend the flags into the river or the knights won’t be able to water the horses safely. I wonder who’s fighting?”

  “Do you mean they’re going to hold a tournament right next to the convent?” Hedwig gasped.

  “It appears so.” Emilie gave up her place and moved to the rear.

  “Do you think Mother Heloïse knows about this?” she asked Catherine.

  Catherine shook her head. “I don’t think they normally tell anyone in authority when they decide to tourney. Officially, it’s forbidden … eight years ago, at the Council of Clermont,” she added as Emilie looked doubtful.

  “Well, if you say so, but no clerics in my diocese ever enforced a ban on jousting. It would be worth their benefices to even try.”

  There was the scrape of a door opening and the nuns scattered as Sister Bertrada entered.

  “What are you doing here!” the novice mistress thundered. “Every one of you should be at your duties. You will all remain in the chapel tonight for one hour after Compline, on your knees, while I read our Rule to you. Obviously you need to be reminded of your vows.”

  She saw Catherine and sniffed.

  “I might have known you would be here,” she said. “Tonight you may sleep without your quilt and pillow. No doubt you will be led to damnation through soft luxury soon enough. But not while you are under my supervision.”

  Emilie started to speak, but Catherine stopped her.

  “Yes, Sister,” she said and left the room.

  Emilie followed.

  “How could you let her do that?” she asked Catherine. “No one else was given extra punishment.”

  “I’m practicing cheerful obedience,” Catherine answered.

  “Very proper,” Emilie observed. “I was just surprised. I never saw you practice it before.”

  The next afternoon the nuns all were gathered in the chapel for Vespers. The chantress beat the time with her stick as the sisters intoned, “Adventum sancti spiritus, nostri cordis altaria, ornans … .”

  “Over here, you stinking bastard! Christ’s beard! You couldn’t find your ass with an eight-foot lance!”

  Sister Hermaline screamed and dropped her hymnal. The chantress lost her place in the music. Sister Emilie started coughing as Catherine pounded her back and begged her in a desperate whisper not to laugh. The abbess continued on alone, apparently oblivious to the raucous shouts and clanks just outside the wall.

  Sister Bertrada genuflected quickly and left. Catherine felt great pity for the poor knights who were about to encounter her.

  But instead of diminishing, the noises grew louder. There was a pounding at the convent gates overlaid by the jingling of harness and the laughter of several men.

  Only the example of Abbess Heloïse kept the nuns in their places. They finished the hymn woefully off key and then filed back to the refectory in excruciating silence. The portress went to respond to the knocking, which by now had increased to a throbbing tempo and was accompanied by what sounded like hammers
beating against metal.

  They couldn’t hear the soft feminine voice asking what their business was with a house of God, but everyone heard the answer.

  “I’ve come to save my poor niece from your clutches, old woman! Catherine! Catherine LeVendeur! We’re your rescue party!”

  Everyone turned in unison and gaped at Catherine, who was wishing heartily that the ground would open up and swallow her, or, better yet, swallow her uncle Roger.

  Sister Bertrada and the prioress soon returned. The novice mistress was smirking in satisfaction. She glared at Catherine with righteous smugness while the prioress spoke quietly with the abbess.

  Héloïse nodded and beckoned to Catherine.

  “It appears that your uncle was taking part in a tournament between Nogent-sur-Seine and Troyes when a message came from your mother that he was to bring you home.” She rose. “Come with me.”

  Catherine followed. In spite of the embarrassment, she couldn’t help smiling. It was just like her uncle to treat her disgrace as an episode from a chanson de geste with himself, of course, as the hero. Well, it would be pleasant to have a champion. She would need someone to defend her in the difficult days to come.

  “I don’t feel comfortable turning you over to these men, Catherine,” Heloïse said as they went to the dorter to pack Catherine’s few personal belongings. “Sister Felice says they’ve been drinking.”

  “Please don’t worry,” Catherine assured her. “Roger is my mother’s youngest brother. He is a knight in the service of the count of Champagne. He’s always been a bit flamboyant, but he’s trustworthy. I’ve known him all my life. He likes to startle people. And where could 1 be safer than in a party of armed soldiers? Who would dare attack us?”

  “Your logic is sound as far as it goes,” Héloïse admitted. “Just be sure they don’t continue the tourney after you join them. I don’t want to hear of your being one of the prizes in these games. A rich merchant’s daughter would be considered quite a trophy.”

  Catherine blushed. “I didn’t think of that.”

  “You must start thinking of ‘that,’ and worse. Out there you will not find many who live by Rule.” Heloïse pushed a curl back under Catherine’s wimple. “Perhaps when your hair is cut for your final vows, it will stop doing that.”

  She blinked as if avoiding tears and hugged Catherine quickly.

  “All my prayers go with you, my dear daughter,” she said. “Write me as often as you need to, but be discreet in your phrasing. If you need immediate advice, don’t be afraid to contact Abelard. He’s in Paris now. And remember, whether or not you succeed, you will always have a home with me.”

  “I will find out who is trying to slander us, Mother,” Catherine answered. “No. No more warnings. I will be careful, but I must try. For all of us.”

  Heloïse started to speak, then shrugged and nodded. Catherine was grateful there would be no argument. She would have enough of that when she returned home.

  They walked together to the gate. It seemed a lifetime to Catherine since she had come through that door. In here was reason and order. On the other side lay the World. Through the door she could hear the impatient stamping of horses. Someone was telling a joke.” … his wife found them hanging outside the window and him not in them and so she’s worn the braies ever since!” Derisive laughter. The gate swung open.

  A half-dozen knights and their servants turned to stare. One muttered something and was rewarded with a cuff across his helmet as the leader dismounted and strode through, his arms opened to embrace her. Catherine ran to him.

  “Catte! Little Catte!” he cried. “What have these dried-up women done to you! My pretty niece in rough wool and not even a brooch for your mantle. It’s high time you came back to us!”

  “I’m so glad to see you, Uncle.” Catherine gently pushed away from his embrace. “Thank you for coming to get me.”

  She extricated herself and went back to where Heloïse waited with her bundle.

  “Reverend Mother,” she whispered. “I had forgotten how strongly men smell!”

  “It is pungent, but not always unpleasing,” the abbess answered. “These seem to have added to the natural odor with strong ale and heavy exercise. I’m still not sure they’re a suitable escort.”

  “Roger won’t let anyone hurt me,” Catherine said firmly.

  “Very well.” Heloïse held her close. “I am placing a great burden on you. Our survival may depend on what you do. But that is no reason to be foolhardy. There are so many dangers out there; be very careful, child.”

  “I’m eighteen, no longer a child,” Catherine reminded her. “And I’m not afraid.”

  “But I’m forty,” Heloïse said. “And I have learned to be. Hurry back home to us.”

  The gate closed and Catherine stood outside, hugging her parcel in both arms.

  “Here, Sigebert,” Roger ordered. “Help my niece up behind me. Jehan, put her things on the packhorse.”

  “With pleasure,” Sigebert said.

  He grabbed Catherine about the waist to lift her. His right hand strayed somewhat lower, searching for a firm grip.

  “Sigebert, don’t you dare!” Catherine said.

  Roger looked down. “She’s a nun, damn it! Cup your hands so she can step up. Try that again and I’ll slice your fingers off!”

  Muttering under his breath, Sigebert knelt and cupped his hands for Catherine. When she put her foot in, he hoisted her so quickly that her skirts flew up. Sigebert grinned.

  Catherine held her tongue. Dignity became her better than the tongue-lashing she so wanted to give. Sigebert would have to learn she wasn’t a little girl anymore.

  They started off, Catherine perched behind her uncle on his palfrey, holding on tightly and trying not to inhale. He was wearing his chain mail under his surcoat and the links bit into her cheek. They followed the river as it bent toward the Seine and the convent vanished behind the trees. All at once Catherine found herself crying. She tried to work an arm out from under Roger’s elbow to wipe her face. He twisted round to check on her.

  “Catherine, sweetest, don’t cry!” he exclaimed. “It’s over now. You’re free. You’ll have no more need for tears. I’ll see to that. Anyway,” he added, “all that water will make the armor rust.”

  Catherine sniffed and laughed.

  Roger smiled. “That’s better. Now what did those harridans do to my Catte?”

  She stiffened to defend her convent, even Sister Bertrada, then remembered her part.

  “It wasn’t what I thought,” she told him, making her voice resentful. “Stupid, mindless servant’s work, scrubbing and grubbing all day when we weren’t at prayers. They punished me for every little thing. Sister Bertrada”—here she could easily sound sincere—“she was never satisfied. Everything had to be done twice. The pots had to be clean enough for angels, she said. I only reminded her that there was no evidence that angels ate and she made me kneel for three hours on dried peas for the sin of levity.”

  Roger laughed. “My poor Catte! For that sort of treatment, you might as well have been fostered at Count Thibault’s as I was. By now, you’d be a lady with a chateau, fine dresses and servants of your own to abuse.”

  “That was never what I wanted, Uncle.”

  He turned round again, facing the road. He was silent a moment. Behind them, the other men had begun singing. It was a fine drinking song, a parody of a hymn for Easter. Roger cut them off with a quick command.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her. “It’s been so long. I had forgotten how little you are like most women. You always had your mind on higher matters.”

  They rode in silence for a while. Catherine was grateful for the time to think, although her proximity to her uncle made it difficult. She gripped him more tightly, despite the metal, and he responded by putting his free hand over both of hers. She felt so safe with him. It was strange that he was still a bachelor, still fighting for Thibault of Champagne. A man with his looks and skill should have w
on himself an heiress years ago. When she got home, she would ask her little sister, Agnes, about it. Agnes would know everything about the family doings.

  She had lied so easily to him, though. It unnerved her. She was accustomed to being curious, argumentative, stubborn, and yes, somewhat proud of her intellect. Those faults had tripped her up all too often, even more than her own clumsy feet. But she had never before deliberately lied. She had never needed to. Could it be she was a natural dissembler? The thought did not sit comfortably.

  She wiggled nervously. Roger stopped.

  “Tired already?” he asked.

  “Oh, no,” she said quickly. “I’m fine. How long will it take us to reach Paris?”

  “Are you in a great hurry to face my sister?” he teased. “Her message did not sound as if you would be welcomed with a fatted calf.”

  “More likely black bread and water,” Catherine sighed. “Is she very angry?”

  Roger shrugged. “You know how devout she is. She was overjoyed when you entered the convent. Well, don’t worry about it yet. It will be another four or five days. We will only reach Nogent this afternoon. It’s already late. There’s a convent there where you can stay the night. I thought it would be better than making you sleep in the ladies’ rooms at Lord Mondron’s keep. Was that right?”

  “It was very thoughtful, Uncle.” She kissed the back of his neck. “I don’t wish to be questioned by a roomful of strange women. I need some time to get used to the world again.”

  Roger patted her hand. “You needn’t fear it so. I won’t let your parents be too harsh with you. I know! Perhaps we could use the journey to select a nice, aristocratic husband for you. Then, when you see your father, you can overwhelm him with the good news, so that he forgets all about the Paraclete.”

  The idea made Catherine cringe. Aloud she said, “And where could we find a candidate so quickly?”

  Roger thought. “What about Sigebert, there? Not bad looking, if a bit crude, good with horses and heir to his brother’s land.”