“Garnulf was a good man and a fine sculptor,” he said. “‘Many might weep at the death of a good man.’ From Horace,” he added and bowed his head.
Catherine and Hubert did likewise, Catherine amending silently that it was a rather loose translation from the Odes.
Suger went to a small table and picked up a silver dish, which he offered to Catherine. “Sugared almonds,” he said. “A gift from a returned crusader. Please, have some. Now, about this sad business. You do realize, child, that the reason for this tragedy may be something only God and Garnulf will ever know.”
Catherine stopped with her arm outstretched. What was he saying? Was he speaking of the rumors of demons? Or did he guess that she suspected something else? Perhaps he knew. Was he warning her? In her confusion, she dropped the almond she had taken onto the floor. She reached for another and upset the dish.
“Oh dear! I’m so sorry!” She scrambled to pick them up but they were covered with straw and dust.
“Never mind,” the abbot said. “Leave them for the mice.”
Hubert sighed. “She was always so, my lord.”
Catherine returned to her seat. Her hands were still trembling. This was insane. Edgar’s warning was making her see conspiracies everywhere. Abbot Suger was the prelate of France, friend to Louis VI and now mentor to his son, Louis VII. He was a saintly man who had given his life to the glory of God and the Church. And Hubert was, well, he was her father. They could have nothing to do with murder! Surely it was her duty to turn her problem over to riper minds such as theirs. They would know what to do.
No doubt, her voices said. And how will you explain your certainty that it was murder without implicating Héloïse?
I have no idea, Catherine answered. But it would be the sin of superbia to assume I can uncover the reasons for this better than those in charge here. All I want is to go home to the Paraclete.
Of course, the voices mocked. Abbess Héloïse will understand your inability to fulfill your pledge to her. Poor little Catherine doesn’t like the wicked uncertainties of the world. She doesn’t like real problems. She can only cope with metaphorical fear.
I’m not afraid, Catherine thought. How ridiculous! Now she was even lying to herself. I mean, my fear is not important.
And, as she thought it, she knew it was true. Heloïse had sent her because she was the one most likely to succeed. She was the clearest thinker, the one who always followed a syllogism to the final proof. She must apply those talents now. Perhaps her father and Suger already knew that Garnulf had been pushed from the tower. They would have no reason to tell her. If she confessed her suspicions to them it was likely that they would immediately bundle her off somewhere to keep her safe, or out of their way. If they didn’t know and she kept her own counsel, she might be allowed to stay. Yes, it was the vice of intellectual pride. But she could not fulfill her duty if she allowed herself to be sent away.
Obviously, if she were going to discover anything, her only course was to keep silent.
She sighed. What a relief it was to think things out logically instead of taking action based solely on one’s response to a pair of Saxon eyes. Much better.
Suddenly she realized that Abbot Suger was speaking. He seemed to be finishing a conversation begun without her.
“I believe, Hubert,” he said, “that Catherine has been through a difficult experience, both last night and during her time at the Paraclete. She needs quiet and to be under the direction of mature, orthodox tutors. I would be happy to invite her to stay on for a week or two at the abbey. Our precentor is a most competent man, who will be able to give her instruction and select appropriate reading for her.”
Catherine’s face lit. A means into the library, unasked! It was a sign. She had made the right decision. Héloïse’s prayers for her must have been well received.
Please say yes, Father, she thought. Saint Melanie, make him say yes.
She needn’t have bothered Saint Melanie about it. Hubert had no choice but to obey.
“But she must be back in Paris by the end of the month,” he said. “To help her mother prepare for our move to the country.”
“I think that will be enough time, don’t you?” Suger asked.
Hubert nodded, but without conviction.
“Do you think your work in town will be finished before Advent?” he asked. “I could arrange for her to go straight to Vielleteneuse, instead. We often see your son at Saint-Denis. He could take her back with him.”
“No, she will be needed at home, but thank you,” Hubert replied. “And thank you for your kindness to Guillaume.”
“He is a fine castellan,” Suger said. “I wish all my vassals were so dependable.”
Catherine tried to unravel the underlying meanings in these words. They seemed innocent, but Hubert was far too worried and Suger far too insistent. This was another enigma for which she had no key.
Hubert got up, knelt and kissed the abbot’s ring. Catherine did the same.
When they were outside, Catherine hugged him.
“Oh, thank you, Father!” she said. “You are very good to me.”
“I certainly am,” he answered. “And so is the abbot. I only hope you do nothing while you are here to make him regret his generosity. You can repay my trust by behaving yourself. No debates, now, no questions. You are here to learn obedience.”
“I’ll remember,” Catherine promised.
Hubert had his doubts about that. He sighed. He only hoped his partnership with Saint-Denis was firm enough to withstand Catherine’s tenure here. Discretion was not in her nature. She was likely to try out some of her philosophical theories on the monks. Well, as long as she only debated the Trinity and ignored the rationale behind the rebuilding of the church, perhaps they would be all right.
But was it worth the risk? His business with Suger brought him both profit and prestige. Catherine must be discouraged from prying into anything to do with Garnulf. Poor old man! It was a sad matter, but nothing could help him now. And this was no time for anyone to look too carefully at the workings of the abbey.
Hubert glanced at his daughter. If only she had been a boy, all that intelligence could be of some use to him. He should never have taught her her letters. Now, her body walked beside him, but her mind was someplace he could not follow. He prayed that she would stay in that scholastic country and leave the management of her life to him.
Agnes wasn’t pleased to learn that Catherine was staying behind.
“You must come back to Paris with me,” she said, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m sorry I said all that about the Paraclete. I don’t care if it’s true or not. I miss you. You don’t know what it’s been like. Mother gets worse every day. She spends all her time at the shrines or at Mass. She hardly looks at me. Except when she gives orders, she refuses to talk to anyone but God and Saint Genevieve. I’m so lonely.”
Catherine hugged her little sister. Poor Agnes! She was so pretty, just the way girls were supposed to be pretty—pale and fair. She embroidered and sang and knew how to run a household. She never asked questions of the universe. She deserved better, a kind husband and a home of her own.
“I can’t come back,” Catherine said. “Not yet, anyway. Abbot Suger’s offer was too kind to refuse. Don’t worry. Father will be there, and Uncle Roger.”
Agnes shook her head sadly. “I know, but lately they’ve been different, too. Always busy. Father is either sending Roger off somewhere or he’s gone to a tourney. No one has time for me anymore.”
Catherine tried to ignore the guilt, but she ached for Agnes, even though she would not change her plans.
Roger came in his riding clothes to tell her good-bye. Catherine backed away as he approached, unsure how she should treat him after their last conversation. He saw her expression and laughed.
“Silly Catte,” he said. “What a face! You don’t like being treated like a court lady. Don’t you remember how I love to tease you?”
Catherin
e relaxed. Of course she was silly. Why would Roger, of all people, be interested in her?
“I had forgotten,” she said. “You always enjoyed my discomfiture so much. You haven’t changed at all. Will you be keeping Christmas at Vielleteneuse this year?”
“Where else?” Roger said, pulling on his foxskin gloves. “Your brother has need of my help to maintain order in his territory, especially with all the people coming across his land on their way to the hermit. I’m bringing several other knights—Sigebert, for one.”
Catherine made a face. “I hope not on my account, Uncle.” She grew serious. “Are there really that many pilgrims for this hermit? I don’t understand why I hadn’t heard of him.”
“His following is mostly among the poor,” Roger said. “From what they say, his theology is fairly simple and he has some small healing power. There are men like him in every diocese. But Aleran attracts many of the peasants from Guillaume’sHeloïseland. We can’t have them wandering off when they like, leaving their work undone.”
Just what the wardress had said about the stonemasons. Aleran must be more than a simple hermit to make people risk punishment for abandoning their work. How odd.
“Also, Roger,” she added as he turned to leave, “Agnes is very unhappy. Will you promise to watch out for her, help her, until I come home?”
“Of course, and I’ll be by here to watch out for you, as well,” he answered. “Don’t worry about Agnes. Sixteen is a hard time. Hubert should have married her off by now. And my sister doesn’t make it any easier for Agnes with all her overblown piety. But I’ll try to cheer her.”
“Thank you,” Catherine said. She kissed his cheek. “And please don’t tease me anymore.”
Hubert also had some parting words for his daughter.
“Keep to yourself, child. Obey your teachers. And don’t interest yourself with things which don’t concern you. I’ve left a donation for Garnulf’s soul. They’ll say a Mass for him tomorrow and every day next week.”
“Yes, Father.” Catherine knelt for his blessing. “Thank you, Father.”
Hubert rested his hand on her head and rubbed it, fondly. She leaned against him.
“I just want you safe, my precious child,” he said gently. “You know so much and understand so little.”
Catherine watched as he mounted his horse and signaled the party to leave. She waved until they were gone.
Suger had spoken to the precentor who had charge of the books owned by the abbey and also supervised the creation of new ones. Catherine was to be allowed access to the library for an hour every day.
The first day she fairly ran up the steps and into the room. She stopped with a gasp of chagrin. There stood the monk who had caught her before listening to his lecture.
Leitbert regarded Catherine sourly, but he was duty-bound to follow the orders of the abbot.
“I won’t have the distraction of a woman in here when the monks are working. Whatever the abbot says, I know what wickedness your very presence can do,” he told her. “You may use this table, and this table only. You will come to the library immediately after the midday meal, when the brothers are resting. You may stay until they have finished chanting Nones. After that you must leave at once, before the scribes arrive. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Brother Leitbert.” Catherine’s eyes were already searching the shelves for the psalter from the Paraclete.
“Look at me when I speak to you! You young people have no respect.”
“Yes, Brother Leitbert. I mean, I’m sorry.”
Catherine knew she would have to placate him somehow if she was to continue using the library. As the precentor continued his injunctions, she stared at him so steadily that he became rattled, repeating himself.
“You are to start with the Life of St. Anthony, paying special attention to the establishment of cells for women and their … their … obligations … to … to obey … the rule of … of the order and live in holiness and chastity.”
Finally, he took down the book and set it with a thump on the table before her. Then he rushed out as if chased by imps and devils.
Catherine opened the book and glanced down a page. She knew it well enough already to answer any questions Leitbert might set her. He didn’t appear to have any great expectations as to her erudition. She looked around the room. The psalter must be here someplace. If it had been taken by one of the monks for daily use, any irregularities in it would have been noticed long ago. But where was it?
She got up. What system of classification could they be using? Heloïse had told her that the English were using something to do with the order of the letters of the alphabet. But that innovation didn’t seem to have been adopted here. Each shelf was stacked with codices. She went to the nearest pile: a gospel, a life of Saint Denis, two commentaries on the book of Job, a gynacea, well-thumbed, by the looks of it. No pattern that she could discern, no psalter.
She went to the next. It was the same mix of subjects, sacred and profane: saint’s lives, Gregory’s Pastoral Care, the complete Odes of Horace, Suger’s favorite poet. Catherine was beginning to suspect that the books were shelved according to size.
There was no way of knowing when Leitbert would come back to check on her. She had to hurry. Perhaps it was in one of the wooden chests lining the walls. She opened one—copying materials, pens, inkwells, wiping cloth, stones to smooth the vellum and erase stray marks. The next chest held robes, the next uncut rolls of vellum.
What could they have done with it? The man who had told Sister Ursula’s father of the psalter swore he had seen it here, merely on a casual visit. It must be in this room! But where?
Discouraged, she sat back down at her table. The light from the window on her left slanted across the page. Catherine read a bit more. She had never found much inspiration from St. Anthony. She leaned back on her stool, stretching out her arms. And stopped, her mouth still open, halfway through a yawn.
There, on the ledge above the window, lay her psalter.
“Saint Anthony, forgive me! I will never doubt you again!” Catherine cried as she climbed onto the stool and grasped the book. “I promise to light a candle to you each year on your feast day, whenever that may be.”
Quickly, she opened the book and began to turn the pages. She knew every one of them intimately, having lived with the book through each phase of its creation. At first, they appeared just as she had last seen them, on the day the psalter was wrapped and sent to Saint-Denis. Then her fingers moved more slowly. What were these marks in the margins? Symbols of some kind. And here, clearly something had been erased and rewritten. Only a word had been changed, but it altered the whole meaning of the passage. She turned another page and gasped in fascinated horror.
The marginalia here was crude but unmistakable, a devil with long tail and goat’s horns copulating with a nun. How odd that such an unskilled artist could make it so clear that the woman was enjoying herself. But no one would think something like that had been done under Héloïse’s guidance. Monks were always putting notes and drawings in the margins of their books.
Then she looked at the text. And looked again. She felt suddenly sick.
Words had been removed, reversed, underlined. This was clearly a work in progress, but what had been finished twisted the sense of the passage almost beyond comprehension. But not quite. Her first impulse was to rip out the offending pages and burn them, but she controlled herself. Héloïse must know what form this slander took. Catherine got out copying tools, arranged them and set about writing down the worst of the passages as quickly as she could. She squinted to make out the crabbed writing.
As she worked, she wondered how many more pages had been vandalized. Should she try to copy them all or would this be enough? How much time did she have left?
The voice came from directly behind her, loud and amused.
“My, my! Lady Catherine. I never would have guessed your taste in reading from your behavior.”
Catherine turned aro
und with a guilty start. Her arm hit the ink bottle and oak-gall ink flooded the table. Edgar leaped to save the book.
“What are you doing here?” Catherine remembered just in time to keep her voice down. Abbot Suger was taking his afternoon rest in the room below them. “Are you the one who did this?”
“I? A poor, ignorant artisan?” He opened the psalter, looked at the pictures and raised his eyebrows. “I draw much better than this.”
He examined the book, noting the dedication especially. “From the Paraclete. Doesn’t look like the work of decent, pious nuns. I’d say it seems more the sort of thing someone with a grudge would do. Someone like a novice who’d been expelled, perhaps?”
“Avoutre! How dare you accuse me!” Catherine cried. “Give that back!”
She snatched it from him. As she did, a loose page fell to the floor. Edgar picked it up. He examined it, puzzled.
“These drawings are in Garnulf’s hand,” he said at last. “What are they doing here?”
Eight
The library at Saint-Denis, a moment later
In solitude pride creeps in, and when a man has fasted a little while and has seen no one, he thinks himself a person of some account.
—St. Jerome “Letter to Rusticus”
Catherine took the page from Edgar. It was full of tiny sketches, filigree patterns, jewelry, people. The style was a match to the paper folded up in her sleeve.
“It looks like designs for his work.” She turned the page around, trying to find some clue in the patterns. “Decorative bits for the statues?”
In one corner, there was a crudely done sketch of a face. As she examined it, the bland, bearded features seemed to change, as if from underneath the skin a different being were trying to come through. It seemed the personification of her nightmares, where the safe and familiar suddenly turned evil. It was nasty, but she was relieved to see that it wasn’t drawn by the same hand that had desecrated the psalter. So, Garnulf knew about the book. But why had he left his drawings in it, or had he? What if the one who killed him had taken it from him and hidden it here? If it were true that would unite the two crimes indisputably. And Edgar, what was his place in it?
Death Comes As Epiphany: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 8
