Death Comes As Epiphany: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  Outside, the bells began, calling the monks to Nones. There was a scrape from below as Prior Herveus came to waken the abbot. Edgar moved closer to Catherine and lowered his voice.

  “I don’t understand. These are just scribbles. Why would anyone have wanted to save them or hide them in a—” Edgar glanced at the open book “—a psalter?”

  Catherine closed the book, keeping her hand on it.

  “How do you know what it is?” she asked, ignoring his question. “Where would an apprentice stone carver learn Latin? Just what are you?”

  She glared at him with all the aristocratic authority she could muster. Edgar opened his mouth angrily, then closed it again, one corner twitching in a half-smile.

  “Catherine LeVendeur,” he said at last, “you have the most amazing eyes!”

  Catherine blinked and looked down, furious at her own pleased response. She quenched it firmly.

  “An interesting observation,” she said. “How does that pertain to the subject at hand? Especially to your reason for being in the library.”

  “I came here to look for a reason for someone to murder an old man who had done nothing more in his life than spend it making blocks of stone into objects of beauty.”

  He took the paper again, turning it over. There were lines and more drawings on the back.

  “Perhaps this is it,” he continued. “What do you know about this book?”

  “Everything,” she answered. “I supervised its writing.”

  “Did you?” he asked. “That brings us back to my original question. Did your work include the edifying bit you were just copying? Or were you correcting a ‘mistake’?”

  Catherine turned her back and started gathering up the material. She slipped the page she had used to copy the slanders into her sleeve, hoping Edgar wouldn’t notice. If only it hadn’t been ruined by the ink. That would mean another day enduring the imprecations of the precentor.

  “The psalter has nothing to do with you or Garnulf,” she said. “He must have discarded the sheet and someone picked it up, intending to erase it and use it again.”

  “Or,” he suggested, “this page may have been left here to mark a place. By whom?”

  She stopped. “Of course! And you grabbed it away so now we’ll never know what it was marking.”

  “Me?” he answered. “You would have ruined it forever with spilt ink!”

  “Lower your voice!” she warned. “Let me see those drawings again. Maybe the clue is in them.”

  She held out her hand. Slowly, he folded the page and stuck it in a wallet hanging from his belt.

  “If you want to see it, meet me tomorrow morning in the apple orchard, in the corner by the ruins of the pagan shrine.”

  Catherine hesitated, then nodded.

  “Yes, but you must be gone before the precentor returns,” she said. “First you can help me put these things away and get the book back above the window where I found it.”

  “What was it doing up there?” he asked.

  “We aren’t the only ones with secrets,” she answered.

  When Brother Leitbert came back, Catherine was sitting docilely, apparently still engrossed in the first page of St. Anthony’s life. He shook his head at her slowness.

  “Perhaps you need an easier text,” he taunted.

  “No, this will be fine. I’ll finish tomorrow.” Catherine smiled. “Thank you, Brother Leitbert.”

  His only response was a sniff. But she could feel the heat of his glare following her down the stairs and out into the courtyard.

  The only place she could be sure of being alone for more than a few minutes was the privy. She latched the door and took out the paper she had just copied. Just as she had feared, Edgar had caused her to spill ink over most of it. The thought of the licentious blasphemy that her work had been twisted into made her queasy. Or perhaps it was just the smell. When had this place last been limed? As Catherine sat and thought her conscience pricked her.

  Now, about this stone carver who reads Latin, Catherine.

  Oh, not now, she thought. I’m confused enough.

  Are you going to meet him, alone, tomorrow?

  Yes, she decided, squelching any more argument from her conscience. It’s obvious he is more than he pretends. I’ve got to find out what his business is in all this.

  What if he were sent by one of Abelard’s enemies to find more evidence to use against him? Perhaps Qarnulf knew it and tried to stop him.

  But he was with me when Garnulf fell, Catherine insisted.

  The voices intruded once more. She was beginning to wish she had never been educated. What if Edgar had a confederate? He betrayed Qarnulf and someone else killed him. After all, isn’t it rather odd that he was right there underneath when Garnulf fell? What was he doing in the courtyard? He would hardly be on his way to Vespers.

  She couldn’t reason her way out of that one.

  Nevertheless, she replied, he has information and I should try to get it. It’s my duty. If I don’t have the courage to go, I will let down Héloïse and perhaps Abelard, as well. Weren’t you just chastising me for being so timid?

  Finally, that silenced them.

  Satisfied with her decision, Catherine tucked the paper back into her sleeve and opened the privy door.

  “Oh, Lady Catherine,” the wardress said. “You were there so long, I thought you might be ill. I was just coming to see to you.”

  “Thank you for your concern,” Catherine said. “But I’m quite well.”

  As the woman bustled off, Catherine wondered if that had been the real reason the wardress had been waiting for her, then cursed herself for doing so. Would she never be able to trust anybody again?

  There were fewer women staying now as Abbot Suger’s guests. The faire was still going on, but the women who attended that were not of a class to receive accommodations from the abbey. Since Agnes had left, Catherine agreed to share the bed with Mathilde, a noblewoman from Blois and distant cousin of her mother.

  Catherine had enough to think about and the woman also seemed disinclined to conversation, but after an hour of lying stiffly side by side, she turned to Catherine.

  “You’re a nun, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” Catherine replied. “I haven’t yet taken my vows.”

  “Take them soon, child,” Mathilde whispered. “Before you find yourself married, instead.”

  “Both are honorable choices,” Catherine said.

  “No. That can’t be true,” Matilde said. “God listens to the prayers of nuns. He pays no attention to mine.”

  “That isn’t so!” The woman’s toneless voice frightened Catherine. Despair was an abyss in which many had lost their souls.

  “For ten years, I’ve asked God for a son. I’ve given alms, prayed at every shrine, built a chapel to Saint Perpetua. But each time I become pregnant, the child dies, sometimes even before the quickening.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Catherine said. “My sister-in-law also had trouble carrying a baby. But she never lost faith and now she has a fine son.”

  “I have no more time for faith,” Mathilde said in the same empty voice. “My husband needs an heir. His mistress has borne him three boys, one after the other. What was God thinking of, to let them live, when they are products of sin? Mattheus has tried to get our marriage annulled. Our godparents were brother and sister. But he doesn’t have the necessary influence with the bishop. So, he has only one choice.”

  “No!” Catherine put her arm around Mathilde. “I’m sure he wouldn’t.”

  “His sons will never be legitimized unless I am dead. This is my last chance.”

  “You’ve come to ask Saint Denis to intercede for you?”

  “No, I’ve come to visit the hermit, Aleran. Other women have succeeded in conceiving after being counseled by him. He has special powers and potions which are miraculous.”

  “I’ve heard of this man,” Catherine said. “It may be he is a saint and great healer. But he may
be only another charlatan, taking your offerings and giving you worthless powders in return.”

  “Perhaps, but I have heard wondrous things of him from women I trust and seen their healthy children. I am going to see him at dawn tomorrow. He is expecting me.”

  “Very well,” Catherine said. “I pray he will be able to help you. But remember, all miracles come from God. Do not confuse Him with His servants.”

  “I don’t think I care anymore, but I appreciate your kindness.”

  Mathilde turned on her side and spoke no more. Finally, Catherine slept. When she woke up, the woman had already left.

  That morning Catherine chanted the Office by rote, her prayers not rising beyond the sound of her voice. As soon as she was finished, she slipped out of the church and headed for the orchard.

  He was waiting. He led her to the spot where the naked branches had not yet been pruned and they could hide in the tangle.

  “You know what they’ll do if we’re caught here,” he warned.

  “Quite well,” she answered. “Do you have Garnulf’s drawings? Let me see them again. Have you deciphered anything?”

  “First of all, I don’t think these are designs for stonework. This is too fine even for window tracery,” he began. “It’s jewelry, I’m sure.”

  “Of course it is,” Catherine said, taking the paper. “I could tell that yesterday. It’s not at all like the other.”

  “What other?”

  “I mean, the pictures in the psalter,” she stammered.

  “No, you don’t. You picked something up from Garnulf’s body. I saw you.”

  Catherine swallowed. “Is that why you lured me out here? To take back something incriminating?”

  Edgar stared. “Incriminating? To me? Saint Swithin’s Heloïsestorm clouds, woman, what are you talking about?”

  Catherine didn’t answer. She examined the paper again. Edgar watched her as she tried to make something out of the patterns. He wished he knew what she was doing here. She wasn’t in the plan at all. He needed to make her leave Saint-Denis. He couldn’t risk her interference. He needed … Catherine looked at him. Oh, blessed Saint Margaret! Damn her eyes!

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “What? Twenty-three,” he answered, startled.

  “You look younger,” she said and went back to studying the page.

  “Well, I’m not!” He grabbed her and shook. “And I’m not some runny-nosed page, either, to stand here being accused and then ignored. What do you think I have to do with Garnulf?”

  “I don’t know!” she shouted back. “You won’t tell me!”

  “Quiet,” he said. They both looked around, but no one seemed to have heard. He let her go.

  “I can’t tell you. I took an oath,” he explained grudgingly. “But I didn’t have anything to do with killing Garnulf. I loved that old man.”

  He swallowed and tried to stare her down. Finally, she nodded and returned to the paper.

  “This part looks as though it might be a map of some sort,” she said at last.

  “Let me see,” he said.

  She pointed out the lines to him, how they seemed to be paths crossing, starting from a group of squares which might represent the abbey.

  “Yes,” he said. “I think you’re right. This could be the Valley of Chevreuse.” He pointed to a plantlike squiggle. “And this the path into the forest of Iveline. What do you think?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Look, another trail leads off, out of abbey lands, to … something. I don’t know what it could be.”

  Edgar shook his head. “The only way to find out, I suppose, is to go there.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Catherine said. “It doesn’t look too far. When shall we go?”

  “You are, of course, either joking or insane,” he answered. “If you think of what would happen if we were found together here, only imagine the consequences if we were caught out in the woods somewhere.”

  “You could always demand clerical privilege,” she countered.

  “I suppose, but …”

  “I knew it!” Catherine shouted. “You’re in minor orders, aren’t you?”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “What would I be doing working here if I were a cleric?”

  “You could have been thrown out of your order for theft or even murder,” she said. “You could have been caught in bed with a bishop’s daughter. Since you won’t tell me, I can guess anything. But I can’t trust you. That’s why I’m not letting you go alone. If you leave me behind, I’ll tell the abbot everything. And if you try to hurt me, my family will hunt you down and kill you.”

  “Hurt you?” How odd, it hadn’t occurred to him that she might consider him a danger. “No, I won’t hurt you,” he said. “And if you must go, I’ll accompany you. But we can’t be seen leaving together. Meet me tomorrow at the rest hour, at the fork in the path to Vielleteneuse.”

  Then he and the map were gone.

  Catherine sat amid the brambles until her feet were frozen. That idiot seemed to think that telling her he’d taken an oath made everything fine. An oath to whom? For what? He acted as if he were playing a game, just like the knights at the tourney.

  And you aren’t? her voices intruded. A game, or a story, isn’t it? Your own holy chanson de geste. Which saint are you today? And is Edgar your tormentor or savior?

  These voices were getting entirely too personal. Catherine got up, brushed off her skirts and went briskly back to the guesthouse. She wasn’t going to answer such remarks, even to herself.

  That night, Mathilde, the woman from Blois, was back, very subdued.

  “Did you see the hermit?” Catherine asked.

  “Oh, yes,” she breathed. “We prayed together. It was like nothing I have ever known. God will listen now. It’s worth everything I gave; it must be. I have been anointed just as Saint Elizabeth was. My son will be strong and healthy.”

  She said no more, but left the next morning. Catherine forgot about her almost at once. There were more serious matters at hand. She was about to embark on a quest.

  It was one of those indefinite autumn days, when the wind blew clouds back and forth, splashing sunlight haphazardly upon the earth. Catherine had some trouble keeping her cloak and headdress in place as she hurried through the gates and into the woods. She came to the fork soon enough. The main road led north to Vielleteneuse and her brother’s keep. The other led off toward the river. It was from this that Garnulf’s map showed the path.

  The way was narrow and marked by the broken stones of the ancient Roman road. Trees had been cut back on either side and a hollow worn in the center by the thousands of travelers who had passed by over the centuries. Catherine waited for several minutes, enjoying the solitude and the smell of late-blooming plants basking in the waning sun.

  The shadows grew longer. What had happened to Edgar? Had he lost courage, changed his mind? Or, she thought as the darkness spread across the road, had he let her go out here on purpose? Why had she believed him? He had probably followed the map already and found whatever there was. He might have even simply taken it and run away, so that she could never find what Garnulf was pointing to.

  In that case, he was mistaken. She remembered the map well enough. She had known these woods all her life. It wasn’t that far. She would go alone.

  There was a third alternative. What if it were a trap? What if he were waiting to make her give him the other paper? At least she’d had sense enough today to leave it behind in her jewel case.

  Catherine steadied herself. Héloïse always said that in the search for truth there are many snares but, if one proceeds with Faith, then Truth will present itself. Héloïse was not naive enough to suggest there would never be danger. Catherine closed her eyes and asked her special, last-ditch saint to protect her, her own name saint, Catherine of Aix. Before she could listen to fear, or common sense, Catherine started up the path.

  The trail was steep. The fallen leaves were slippery with mud. Occasion
ally she had to grab on to branches to keep her balance. What could be at the end of this? She hoped she hadn’t taken the wrong turning.

  The path ended abruptly. She nearly ran into the hut. There was only a small clearing around the crude building, which leaned against a giant oak for support. It was an inexpert job of daub and wattle. Around the outside walls hung branches of herbs: feverfew, masterwort, knotweed, meadowsweet, others she didn’t know. There was an acrid scent, like smoke, but she saw no fire. It was dreadfully quiet.

  It occurred to Catherine that coming here alone was not an act of sapientia. Saint Catherine had, after all, been a martyr. She hadn’t planned on letting the quest go that far. She was just about to go back down the hill when a man came around from behind the oak. Catherine opened her mouth and forgot to close it.

  He was beautiful. Wild tangles of golden curls hung to his shoulders and blended into his beard. He might have walked out of Ovid or the tales of Charlemagne. He was well over six feet tall and, far from being the lean ascetic hermit Catherine had imagined, looked as though he could fell an ox.

  He saw her and smiled.

  Oh, dear Lord, Catherine thought. Even his teeth are beautiful.

  “Good day, my child,” he said. His voice carried the nasal vowels of the Occitan. “Have you come for guidance?”

  “I … I …” Goodness, why was she here? “Are you Aleran?”

  “I am.”

  He waited for her to reply. She felt he could wait forever, until he rooted and become one with the oak.

  “I have heard you heal and give counsel.”

  He opened his hands deprecatingly. “I have some small skill, but only my Master can work miracles. Are you ill, or troubled?”