Death Comes As Epiphany: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  “Sigebert!” She laughed. “He hasn’t changed at all. When I was eleven and Agnes eight, we went swimming one day in the duck pond at Vielleteneuse. Sigebert stole our clothes and tried to make us redeem them.”

  “Really? And did you?”

  “Agnes started throwing mud at him and I prayed loudly to St. Stephen to put warts on his face if he didn’t leave us alone.”

  “And that worked?”

  “No, Father came and beat him for tormenting us and then Agnes and I had to spend our evenings for a week listening to Mother lecture on what happened to girls who took off their clothes to swim in duck ponds.”

  “Not Sigebert, then.” Roger sounded pleased. “How about Jehan?”

  “You forget, Uncle,” Catherine said quietly. “I have never desired to be the bride of anyone but Our Lord.”

  Roger said no more.

  The next afternoon they were dawdling along the river path when they were overtaken by another party of knights from the tourney.

  “Going the wrong way, aren’t you?” the leader yelled to them. “Or has Roger de Boisvert turned coward? What’s that you have with you, Roger, your soignant? Rather plain for you, isn’t she?”

  Roger started to draw his sword and rammed the hilt into Catherine’s ribs.

  “Catherine, get down,” he ordered. “Jehan, Rohart, guard her. The rest come with me. Gautier! For that I will have your nache fried in oil for my dinner.”

  “First you have to remove it!” Gautier grinned, raising himself up in the saddle.

  Catherine was unceremoniously hustled away from what ensued. Jehan and Rohart were not at all pleased to have her on their hands.

  “Your father had better make good our losses,” Rohart told her. “We could unseat that lot with rusty spoons for weapons, but no, we’re stuck here as nursemaids to a damn nun.”

  Catherine sat on a log and tried to look pious and dignified. It was hard when she was contemplating a bit of surgery on her guards herself.

  “Arrogant mesels,” she muttered. “I hope you both …”

  Dignity! Forgiveness! The voice in her head sounded like Sister Bertrada. Catherine retreated into Latin. Jehan and Rohart stepped away from her.

  “Do you think she’s cursing us?” Jehan whispered.

  “What if she is?” Rohart answered. “You afraid of a woman’s curse?”

  “No, but I am of Roger’s fist,” Jehan answered.

  They seemed content to guard her from a distance but, just in case, Catherine slowly put her hand in her left sleeve and unsheathed her meat knife.

  The men returned a few hours later, highly pleased with themselves.

  “Did you vanquish Sir Gautier?” Catherine asked, quietly replacing the knife.

  Roger pointed to a new sword hanging from his saddle.

  “I didn’t get the part of him I wanted,” he said, “but I made him regret what he said about you.”

  “Thank you, Uncle.” Catherine’s conscience was struck. “You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

  “No point in doing that,” he assured her. “This isn’t war.”

  It was close enough for Catherine’s taste.

  That night, she took a hard look at what she had gotten into. Somehow, she was going to have to hide her longing for the convent and accomplish the task Heloïse had set her. It had seemed so clear in the abbess’s tiny room. But now she began to remember why she had run so determinedly to hide behind high walls. Roger’s men were no worse than most of their kind. They had no particular dislike for her. What would happen when she came up against someone who was possessed already by hate?

  Catherine clasped her hands together under the covers.

  “Dear Lord, most Holy Virgin, brave Saints Thecla and Catherine, protect me in this and bring me safely back to the Paraclete. I place my fate in your hands.”

  Having done all she could, Catherine went to sleep.

  They followed the river the last day, downstream to Paris. Boats and barges loaded with wood, grain and hay to supply the city passed by them, lazily letting the current carry them to their destination. There was a barge loaded with wine from Auxerre. Catherine glanced at it, then looked more closely. The barrels had her father’s seal burnt into the wood.

  “Are we importing wine now, too?” she asked Roger.

  “I think it’s a special order from Abbot Suger,” he answered. “Your father doesn’t usually take on such bulky goods.”

  “Does that mean he’ll be home when we arrive?” She squeaked the last words.

  “Very likely,” Roger answered. “Wouldn’t you rather run away with me, cut your hair and be my squire like in the stories?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” she said. “And don’t leave, either. I need a champion now.”

  “Always, Catte,” he promised.

  They entered Paris on the Right Bank, through the stockade at the Porte Baudoyer. The horses slid in the black mud on the Ruga Sancti Germani until they turned into the narrow street leading to the town home of Hubert LeVendeur, dealer in spices and rare items and friend to the Abbot of Saint-Denis. Roger rode under the eaves of the houses, away from the open sewer running down the center of the street to the river. The street ended at the Greve, an open field in which the weekly markets were held. The knights skirted it, heading for the enclosed houses of the wealthy, each with its own long garden in back leading to a private quay where goods could be unloaded away from the tollbooth at the Grand Chastelet, only another mile downriver.

  Roger rode up to the gate and pounded on it with all the authority he had shown at the Paraclete.

  The gate swung open.

  Catherine LeVendeur was back home.

  Three

  Paris, Friday, October 6, 1139, Feast of Saint Foy, Virgin/Martyr

  That day they rode until they saw Paris, the awesome city, with many a church and abbeys of great nobility. They saw the Seine with its deep fords and many mills; they saw the ships which bring wheat, wine, salt and great wealth …

  —Les Narbonnais vv. 1870 ff.

  Hubert LeVendeur had taken a small inheritance, a keen mind and a reputation for honesty, connections and discretion and built a fortune from trade, mainly in spices, but sometimes in other rare goods. He had married well, to Madeleine de Boisvert, the daughter of an impoverished lord, which gave him an air of respectability other merchants lacked. His son was now a castellan, maintaining order for the Abbot of Saint-Denis. He had planned to marry both his daughters into the nobility, but had acceded to the wishes of the elder and let her enter the convent. The Church could also be a useful place to have a family member. He had imagined a day when Catherine might be prioress and in charge of buying and selling for the nuns, perhaps even in a position to recommend him to the bishop. And, of course, having given a daughter to God only enhanced his relationship with Abbot Suger.

  Therefore, to come home from a long, frustrating, and not completely successful trip to find this daughter once again on his hands did not sit well with Hubert. The veins in his neck tightened and bulged as he read the brief note Héloïse had sent. He glared at Catherine, standing before him, her eyes staring fixedly at the floor.

  “‘Insolence’? ‘Willfulness and pride’?” he quoted. “In need of further direction.’ God’s teeth, Catherine!” She cringed. “Just what is all this? You whined for a year to make me send you to that damn convent. You promised anything if only you could go. The only place you could be happy, you said. I should never have listened. And I don’t believe a word of this letter, either. What did you really do, daughter, get too friendly with your confessor?”

  Catherine gasped. “Father! Of course not! I would never do such a thing!”

  “You’d better not have, Catherine,” Hubert said grimly. “But one hears many tales about the cloister. Most often about how loose the cloistering actually is.”

  “Not at the Paraclete,” Catherine said.

  “I only hope for your sake that it’s true, girl. Because i
f the women there couldn’t ‘direct’ you well enough, I intend to find you a husband who will. And I have an unblemished reputation for not delivering damaged goods.”

  “Father, please, listen to me.” Catherine knelt before him, looking up.

  Hubert blinked. Even in his anger, he was amazed to note how striking she had become. Not beautiful, not with that dark hair and strong chin, but such eyes! Norman blue. All the more startling under the black brows. They seemed to stare right through him.

  “I’m truly sorry, Father,” she begged. “I didn’t try hard enough. But I’m not suited for marriage. I know I can prepare myself to go back and take my vows. Perhaps if I could have further instruction …”

  “Perhaps you could have some sense beat into you!” Hubert shouted: “Any other man would whip you soundly for this!”

  “I know, Father. I’m sorry.”

  “And what about your mother? What does she say to all this?

  “I haven’t seen her yet, Father. She was at mass at St. Julien-le-Pauvre when I arrived. She hasn’t returned.”

  “Damn, why did she go all the way over there? We have a perfectly good church only two streets down. Well, you can expect her to have something to say when she sees you. You have disappointed her gravely, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, Father. I’m sure I have.”

  Curse her eyes! Hubert looked into their mournful depths and sighed. He didn’t understand it. She was the most irritating, bewildering, troublesome child. Always too clever for a woman; always wanting to know what and why. Actually, it had been a relief to have God take her and her questions out of his hands. And here she was again, at the worst possible time. This business at Saint-Denis was becoming more difficult every day. He couldn’t seem to convince Abbot Suger of the need for moderation.

  “Father?”

  Hubert reluctantly faced the problem at hand. Blood of Christ! What was he going to do with her?

  “There’s no point in more discussion,” he decided. “For the moment, you’re here. Nothing need be done tonight. All I want to do is wash off six weeks of mud and travel and then have my dinner. Whatever happened to you at the convent, whatever misdeeds you have committed, I expect you to behave properly here. If you want any consideration from me at all, you will be docile, obedient and SILENT. Is that clear?”

  She nodded.

  Hubert grunted. Her head was bowed in submission, but he’d bet a hundred solidi her heart was as adamant as ever. He looked again at Héloïse’s letter. Proud, willful. Yes, that was Catherine. But also dedicated to her learning. And she had been there three years already, too long to suddenly rebel against restrictions. There was something going on here. But not a man. That wasn’t Catherine’s weakness. Now, if it had been Agnes … . So what was Catherine playing at? Hubert rubbed his aching temples. Damn, I never cheated anyone badly enough to deserve deing cursed with such a child.

  He dismissed her with an exasperated wave. He then went with relief to the wooden bathing tub in the garden, there to relax as a servant poured warm water over him and silently scrubbed his back.

  Catherine was still shaking when she reached the upstairs room she shared with Agnes. This wasn’t the final word, she knew. Her father still had too many questions. There must be an easier way of finding out about the psalter. There must be someone more able to handle the matter.

  But it is the task you were set.

  She looked around. She was alone. Her back stiffened. Yes, it was her task and misgiving was pointless. What she had to do now was get to Saint-Denis, gain access to the library, copy the offending pages from the psalter and go home to Mother Héloïse.

  No, she corrected herself. First she had to change from her travel clothes to something appropriate for dinner. As her father had said, there was no point in dealing with things in the wrong order. She knelt next to the chest of clothes she had left behind and pulled out the first thing she saw.

  It wasn’t her fault that the first thing was a radiant blue bliaut with roses embroidered around the hem and sleeves so long and pointed that they had to be knotted so they didn’t drag on the floor. In spite of herself, Catherine felt the plea, sure of wearing something pretty again.

  Vanity is a sin, Catherine, the ghosts of the convent whispered.

  Dampening the spirits of others with dour faces and clothing is bad manners, she countered.

  Too clever by half, child, they murmured sadly. Clever isn’t wise.

  “So Sister Bertrada has told me,” Catherine muttered and hurried down the stairs to the dining hall before she could torment herself further with doubt.

  They were all waiting for her. At the high table sat her parents with Roger. His companions were at the lower tables, eager to begin. Madeleine did not appear happy to see her daughter, nor did she greet her. As Catherine curtsied before her, she took one look at the embroidered gown, set her jaw and looked away.

  Stunned, Catherine went to the side table where Agnes was washing her hands with soft, perfumed soap. Agnes held them out for Catherine to pour the rinse water over.

  “Mother gave me no blessing,” Catherine said, soaping her own hands. It was as if the sun had come up black. “Is she that angry with me?”

  Agnes rinsed Catherine’s hands. “What did you expect?” she asked. “You know what she’s like. When she got the letter from Heloïse, she screamed and cried and then ran out to Saint-Gervaise without even covering her head. She spent two nights there, praying and weeping, and none of us could get her to stop. Finally, one of the canons found her unconscious in front of a statue of the Virgin and had her carried home.”

  “I’m sorry, Agnes. I didn’t know she had gotten so much worse. If she’d only let me explain.” Catherine watched Madeleine picking nervously at her dish.

  “No, just find another convent and take your vows. Nothing else will help. Now that our brother has a son, I thought she seemed a little better, but this has set her off again.” Agnes led her to the main table. “Sit at the end, here,” she whispered. “In the shadow where you won’t draw attention to yourself. You can share my bowl.”

  She handed Catherine a chunk of bread to dip in the soup and then spent the rest of the meal flirting with Sir Jehan, seated just below her, all the while chatting with Uncle Roger.

  Catherine watched her in amazement, her mother’s anger forgotten for the moment. What had happened to the little sister she had left? Where had Agnes learned the art of talking with one man and keeping the eye of another? Roger emphasized a point by pounding on the table. Startled, Catherine dropped her spoon. Agnes made a slight gesture.

  Sir Jehan was there in a moment, picking up the spoon and wiping it carefully on his sleeve before handing it to Catherine with a bow and compliment. She stuttered thanks and bent, red-faced, over the bowl. Next to her, Agnes said something and Roger laughed.

  I don’t belong here, Catherine thought. I don’t know how to talk with men anymore.

  No doubt you’ll remember soon, the ghosts of the convent taunted. Look at you, eating red meat! Peppered red meat! And how much water did you mix with your wine? What other vows do you intend to break before you’re through?

  It is the sin of waste not to eat what is put in front of you, Catherine temporized. I have no intention of being distracted from my duty by the lure of the flesh.

  We’ll see, child. We’ll see.

  Her head was bent low over the trencher; her lips moved as she tried to think of more solid arguments. Roger leaned back, reached around Agnes and lifted the side of her wimple.

  “I’m glad to see you so devout, Catte, but don’t you think it insults your mother if you pray over your food all the time you are eating it?”

  “I wasn’t praying. I was going over some advice.”

  “My dearest niece.” He smiled and she smiled back, forgetting the nagging voices. His eyes were the same shade of brown as his hair, but with flashes of gold that dazzled her in the torchlight. He had washed from the journey, too, and n
ow smelled of sandalwood. She blinked. What was he saying?

  “We’re going to have a little practice tomorrow at the Pré aux Clercs. Would you and Agnes like to come and watch?”

  “Practice? You mean jousting?”

  “It’s fun!” Agnes whispered. “We’ll tell Mother we’re going to Saint-Germain-des-Prés for Vespers. Then we go, light a candle and watch the jousts from the fortifications.”

  “But,” Catherine began, “ladies don’t …”

  “Nonsense,” Agnes interrupted. “In Paris they do. Even Queen Eleanor and her ladies sit out on the Roman wall outside the palace and watch. Things have changed since you went away. The queen has brought many new customs from Aquitaine. You should come and see.”

  “Agnes!” Hubert’s voice was sharp. “What are you three whispering about?”

  “I was only asking Uncle Roger if he would escort us to the abbey church at Saint-Germain-des-Prés tomorrow afternoon.” She smiled too innocently.

  “And why can’t you attend Mass at our own church?” Hubert didn’t expect an answer. He knew where they were going. He shrugged. Roger would see they came to no harm. And that reminded him.

  “Roger, I’d like you and a few of your men to come with me to Saint-Denis the day after tomorrow. I’m taking the latest shipment of spices and the wine for the abbot’s table during the feast. I’ll need some sturdy guards.”

  “Of course, Hubert,” Roger answered. “We were going to the faire, anyway.”

  “Oh, Father, can we come, too?” Agnes turned her most bewitching glance on him. “I want an occasion to wear that new russet bliaut with the daisies worked on it. The celebration of the Feast of Saint Denis will be just perfect.”

  Hubert forbore asking what daisies had to do with a decapitated Greek theologian.

  “It’s not the place at all, Agnes,” he said instead. “The weather is terrible and there will be crowds everywhere.”