Death Comes As Epiphany: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  “What? Oh, yes. Certainly.” Edgar hurriedly wiped his hands and face with a rag that did little more than smear the dust.

  “You don’t need to escort me,” Catherine said. “It’s not far and I know the way.”

  Garnulf shook his head. “It’s gone dark now. You mustn’t be out alone.”

  “Anyway,” Edgar added, “there’s fresh masonry about. It’s been covered but you could easily step in it if you don’t know it’s there.”

  He led her out.

  They walked through the shadowed abbey in silence. To Catherine the unroofed columns with their empty windows loomed menacingly now, like blind giants waiting to reach out and snatch them.

  “Edgar,” she asked, to break the feeling, “what did Garnulf mean, that you don’t come by it naturally?”

  “My father wasn’t a stone carver, that’s all,” he said. “I wanted to learn and a friend in Paris sent me here. Garnulf agreed to let me stay a while.”

  “He seems frailer than he was when I saw him last,” Catherine said. “Is he well?”

  “Yes, of course,” Edgar answered too quickly. “He’s getting old, nothing more. Careful!”

  He pulled Catherine to one side.

  “That’s one of the new floor stones,” he explained. “They poured and smoothed the mortar today and tomorrow all the bishops and lords will gather around it and ‘strengthen’ it.”

  “What?”

  “It started some time ago, when they laid the cornerstone. Abbot Suger pulled off his ring and threw it in the mortar. Not to be outdone, all the others did the same. Now it’s almost a custom.”

  Catherine considered. “Very proper,” she said. “It shows that all earthly vanity is nothing. What we lay up on earth will vanish just as the jewels do into the cement.”

  “You sound Cistercian,” Edgar commented. “I’m not sure that agrees with Suger’s philosophy, but that interpretation is as good as any.”

  “It will take a long time to set, in this weather,” she said.

  “Several weeks, I imagine.” He tried to see her expression, but it was too dark.

  They had reached the guesthouse.

  “Thank you for accompanying me,” Catherine said.

  Edgar bowed. There was something almost mocking in the gesture, but Catherine could imagine no reason why. “Always pleased to serve a lady,” he said and left.

  It was not until the door closed behind her that it occurred to Catherine that, for an apprentice stone carver, Edgar had a very elegant vocabulary.

  The wardress had looked after Agnes and the maids and they were all seated cozily in the narrow women’s alcove, sipping hot cider and eating cakes.

  “Where have you been, Catherine?” Agnes pulled away. “Phew, you’re drenched. Please take that nasty cloak off. You know how wet wool smells.”

  One of the maids jumped up to hang the steaming cloak before the hall fire. Catherine accepted a cup and cradled it gratefully in her cold hands.

  “I went to see Garnulf,” she said.

  “That old man always did dote on you. Where did Uncle Roger go?”

  Catherine moved closer to the little brazier in the center of the alcove. “Business for Father, I suppose. We are all to meet in the abbey for Vespers. Abbot Suger has kindly invited us to dine with him afterwards. We should be able to sample part of Father’s last spice shipment.”

  “I hope they use the cinnamon,” Agnes said. “We never keep enough for ourselves.”

  Catherine’s cloak was not yet dry when it was time to go. The wardress was apologetic.

  “If you will wait just a moment, I can loan you my own,” she suggested. “It’s in my room.”

  “They’re going in now. We’ll be late,” Agnes warned. “And with so many people here for the Saint’s Day, it will be hard to find a spot so that we can see around the altar screen.”

  “Go on without me,” Catherine said. “It’s not far. I can wait for the wardress and run across before they begin. And if I’m late, it’s easier for one to slip in unnoticed than all of us.”

  “Very well,” Agnes said. “We’ll save you a place, but hurry.”

  Catherine could hear them laughing as they made their way to the abbey church. The silver rain of the day had faded in the night to a soft mist that gave halos to the torches set by the door. The wardress took longer than she had planned and the chanting had already begun as Catherine, wrapped in the borrowed cloak, hurried across the empty courtyard.

  The new west transept loomed to her right with its jagged, incomplete tower. She couldn’t help pausing to gaze at it again. In the blackness it seem to rise to infinity. She wondered if angels would appear to bless the dedication next spring. How wonderful that would be, a heavenly choir singing a descant to the one in the church.

  But I’ll miss it, she thought. I’ll be back at the Paraclete by then.

  Always so certain, child, the ghosts whispered at the back of her mind. Who are you to know what Fate has decreed?

  Catherine took the reproach. I only hope to be back by then. Still, it would be nice to hear the angels.

  At that moment her thoughts were torn by a most unholy sound from above: a scream of pure terror, inhuman.

  “Saint Genevieve, save me!” Catherine cried, as a huge black form came swooping down from the transept tower. It was a great, flapping messenger from hell, faceless and evil, descending on her, wings outstretched. Its shriek grew higher as it dove, aiming directly at her as she stood, frozen.

  “Awœris thu!” Something hit her from the side, throwing her to the ground as the incubus landed right where she had been standing.

  “Dear God, what is it?” she cried as she tried to lift herself away from the shape, but there was something heavy pinning her down.

  Then there was the sound of boots on stone and shouts of alarm, and torchlight shone in her face and onto the thing that had attacked her.

  It was Garnulf.

  Five

  The courtyard outside the abbey, a moment later

  Death does not swallow up good merits; on the contrary, it brings back forgotten evils. Death gathers up all past deeds, it uncovers all hidden ones, … and it gathers souls, not where they wish to be, but where they deserve to be.

  —Peter of Celle “On the School of the Cloister”

  His face was still distorted in terror, eyes staring into the eternal darkness. The front of his skull was crushed, blood and brain blending with the drizzle and dripping onto the stones. His cloak, which had flapped so horribly as he fell, was thrown open, raven-winged, beneath his broken form. Part of it lay across Catherine’s outstretched arm. She pushed it away and felt the crackle of parchment against her fingers.

  “Catherine!” Roger shouted and she tried again to get up. She grabbed the square of parchment as she did and, without thinking, tucked it into her sleeve.

  “Get off her, you lout!” Roger shouted again, pushing his way to her through the curious monks and pilgrims.

  “Garnulf!” Catherine reached out to touch his icy hand.

  “I said, get away!”

  The weight was finally lifted from her and Roger helped her to her feet. Next to her was Edgar, the apprentice.

  “What were you up there for, old man?” he screamed raggedly. “It was my job! Why didn’t you call me? Damn you!”

  He bent over the body, moaning now. “Idiot. You told me. I should have believed you. I never counted on something like this. I’m sorry, Garnulf. Damn me, too.”

  “With pleasure,” Roger said. “For the last time, get away from my niece!”

  Catherine hardly noticed them. For her the scene was a horrible clarity of lines and colors, the sharpest being the etched pattern of the dent in Garnulf’s skull. Roger bent over him and closed the vacant eyes.

  “Poor old bastard,” he muttered.

  The crowd parted as Abbot Suger arrived, followed by Hubert and the prior, Herveus. Roger got up quickly to let them examine the body.

&
nbsp; The abbot was a tiny man of sixty, strong and determined. The prior tried to keep him from kneeling in the puddle beside Garnulf. Suger waved him off. He made the sign of the cross on the dead man’s forehead and softly intoned a prayer. The onlookers grew silent and bowed their heads.

  “Vade in pacem,” he murmured and all crossed themselves.

  Suger stood again. He signaled two of the monks to remove Garnulf’s body, then turned to Hubert.

  “Horrible,” he said. “A dreadful accident.” He stopped. “Isn’t that one of your daughters?” he asked, nodding to where Catherine and Edgar still stood, rooted beside the body.

  “I told you, boy, to get away from her!” Roger pulled Catherine away from Edgar, who stared at them blankly. “You clod. I’m sorry, Hubert,” he added. “I should have stayed with her. I’ll see her safely back to the women’s rooms.”

  He took her arm.

  “NO!” Catherine broke out of his hold and ran to her father’s arms.

  “I thought it was a demon, Father, come to pluck out my soul,” she sobbed. “And no chance to repent. He screamed so; did you hear the scream? It caught me. I couldn’t move.”

  Hubert gathered her close, holding her as he hadn’t since she was small.

  “It’s all right, ma douce. It’s over now. It was just a man, a poor tragic man. There are no demons here. Go on with your uncle. He’ll take care of you.”

  Roger touched her elbow, more gently this time, and guided her back to where the wardress waited in the door. Behind them Catherine could hear the chanting of Vespers begin again. Even death must not stop the recitation of Divine Office. Especially death. Catherine began to shake. The wardress led her in and sat her on a cushioned bench.

  “There now, hot wine, spiced with pepper, clove and woodruff, that’s what you need. Sit here in the anteroom a moment and I’ll bring it.” She bustled away.

  Roger sat next to her and gave a crooked smile.

  “Your face is so pale, Catherine, you look like one of the statues before it’s been painted.”

  Catherine sniffed. “Garnulf said he would make Saint Radegunde to look like me.”

  “Oh, damn! I didn’t mean to remind you.” He got up. “I must go. Hubert will need me and my men in all the confusion out there. You’ll be all right, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” Right now she didn’t really want Roger with her, kind though he was. He hadn’t known Garnulf the way she had. He hadn’t seen him fall.

  She sat alone in the anteroom for several minutes. It was preternaturally quiet. Everyone had returned to the church, reciting their prayers with renewed fervor. In the midst of life, death flings itself at us and there is no escape. No one should leave salvation to chance. Catherine was grateful for the silence as she tried to pray. Even the rain made no noise.

  Slowly, her body relaxed. She leaned back against the musty wall hanging. Her mind also quieted and she made the effort to see dispassionately, to understand what had just happened. She felt there was something wrong.

  Of course there is, simpteton, her voices mocked. you’ve just seen a man die.

  I’ve seen death before, Catherine reminded them. Not this violent, but death all the same. I remember when they brought my brother, little Roger, home, after he had fallen from the cart and been caught under the wheels. That was death in its ugliest form. No. It is not the fact of death, but something in the action.

  She pressed her hands to her temples, but the problem would not be forced out. It was as if her mind were refusing to tell her something she ought to know. She tried to think clearly, to go beyond the horror to the part that didn’t fit. It was no use. Where was that woman with the wine?

  There was a sound close outside, a keening that had started softly but continued to grow. Catherine looked for the wardress or the porter. No one was about. She remained in her place, but the noise sawed into her already frayed nerves. Finally, she got up and opened the door.

  There, mindless of the rain, was Edgar. He sat hunched over, curled and dripping like the gargoyles on the roof, staring at the spot where Garnulf had fallen. He kept repeating the same thing.

  “I should have been the one. It was my place, my job. What was he there for? Nothing to do with him. I’m sorry, old man, sorry. What can I tell my master? Fool! Can’t be trusted. Oh, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.”

  His pain woke Catherine from hers. She went out and put her hands on his shoulders. “Come in here where it’s warm,” she said quietly.

  She sat him next to her on the bench, where he rocked back and forth, eyes closed.

  “My fault, my fault. I should have guessed. What can I tell him?” he repeated.

  He seemed unaware that anyone was with him.

  Finally the wardress returned with the wine. She gave a feeble excuse about making it fresh, but Catherine guessed the gossip in the kitchen had been too provocative to abandon. She accepted the cup and held it to the young workman’s mouth, ignoring the woman’s scandalized expression.

  “Here,” she said. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

  Unexpectedly, the man laughed, splattering her with wine.

  “You sound just like my stepmother,” he said. “‘Eat this, drink that. An empty belly is the only real grief in this world.’”

  He looked at her, finally, then at the mess on her skirts.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Let me help.”

  He tried to wipe off the wine, smearing it more.

  Catherine brushed at the red spots, flecked with crushed spices; bits of woodruff, cinnamon, brain. Bits of … and then she knew.

  “Garnulf!” she screamed. “Garnulf!”

  She bent over, gulping for air to force out the shock and grief that had finally hit her. Nothing came. Her body wouldn’t respond to commands. She flailed her arms out, trying to grab pieces of air to push into her lungs. Something caught her, forcing her upright, shaking her. Panicked, she fought back.

  “No! Let me go! Don’t!”

  She choked, coughed and started breathing again, still struggling.

  “Lady, please. It’s all right. It’s me, Edgar. Here.”

  He held out the cup. Catherine stopped, looked down at it. Most of the wine had already spilled, luckily, for the hand holding it was trembling. She looked into the face of the apprentice. He was crying.

  And then she was crying, too. The pain found its own way out. She was kneeling on the floor, facing a mirror of her grief. She pressed her forehead wearily against his.

  “He was always so kind to me.”

  “Never a cross word, no matter what,” Edgar agreed. “Never hit me once, not even when I chipped the nose off Saint Eleutherius.”

  “He listened to my stories and never laughed at me. He let me hide among the stones when Mother was angry.”

  “When I was sick last summer, he gave me his own bed.”

  “The gentlest of men. He even made the stone look soft.”

  “What was he doing up there, so late?”

  Catherine rested her head on Edgar’s shoulder. “What does it matter now?”

  Edgar bent his head, too. She reached up and patted his hair, still layered with dust and chips of stone. His fingers touched her cheek, leaving a pale smear. They knelt in silence, joined in timeless grief like a frieze on an altar.

  “Catherine!”

  Both heads came up. Through her tears, Catherine saw an array of people, staring at them in shock. In front of them all stood Agnes. She yanked Catherine roughly to her feet.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed. “On the floor with a common workman. What will people think!”

  “Agnes, what are you saying? We were praying for the soul of our friend.”

  “Oh. Well, of course, dear.” Agnes’s voice was more gentle now. “So were we all. Still, this is hardly the place or the company you should choose. I understand. You’ve been away from the world a while; you’ve forgotten how one should behave. Now, please, come to the women’s room
s. Don’t embarrass me any more.”

  Catherine stared at her. Agnes lifted her chin proudly. Catherine felt an enormous temptation to slap her smug, righteous little sister. What right had she to chastise her? She raised her hand. Agnes flinched.

  Catherine stopped and looked in horror at the hand, frozen only a breath from Agnes’s face. Wicked, wicked! Willfulness and pride, would she ever conquer them? She felt her tears begin again. Agnes put her arms around her.

  “Never mind, dear,” she said. “You’ve had a dreadful time tonight. Come with me. What you need is rest.”

  Roger had helped Edgar to his feet.

  “Someone, take this man back to the atelier. Let his own people see to him,” he ordered. “You. Tell the abbot that we will join him shortly. The rest of you, have you no other business?”

  Suddenly, everyone remembered that they did.

  Roger came over to Agnes and Catherine, shaking his head.

  “Poor little Catte! Why don’t you let the wardress give you a quiet dinner in your room. I’m sure the good abbot will excuse you, after what you’ve gone through.”

  “I’ll stay with you,” Agnes offered.

  “No, you should go.” Catherine couldn’t bear the thought of having to make conversation with Agnes now. “I only need rest. There’s nothing you could do. Anyway, I know how you were looking forward to the cinnamon.”

  But even after they left, she had to submit to the ministrations of the wardress, now oversolicitous to make up for her earlier laxity. She fussed over Catherine’s damp shoes and insisted on helping her into a clean chainse for sleeping. When she brought up the soup, she sat while Catherine ate it and scraped at her nerves further with a recounting of the kitchen gossip.

  “I never knew the man myself,” she admitted sadly. “But Guibert, one of the lay brothers, told me that only yesterday he had heard this Garnulf swearing at some of the builders for taking off work to go see the hermit. It’s not good to cross a holy man.”

  “Who is this hermit?” Catherine asked. “Everyone talks of him, but no one says anything.”