“Neither. I …” But she was troubled. Since she had left the Paraclete, she had felt as if she were trying to dance on quicksand.
“Well, then you have had a long walk for no reason,” he said. “I was just going to fetch some water. Would you like to rest a moment before you leave?”
He lifted the blanket that served as a door and ushered Catherine in. Then he picked up a bucket and left.
It took a few minutes for Catherine’s eyes to adjust to the dark. Slowly she made out a tiny room hung with herbs and lined with boxes of various sizes. Some were rough wood, some clay, some even ivory and silver. Silver? Aleran must have some very grateful patrons. Catherine picked up one of them, almost black with tarnish. The catch flew open and the contents fell out.
“Oh, no, not again!” She hurriedly put back the chains and beads that had spilled on the floor and felt around for anything else. She thought something had rolled toward the pile of bracken that was the hermit’s bed. Yes, she recognized the hard shape of a ring beneath her fingers.
She picked it up. Was that a step outside? She held her breath. No one entered. She exhaled. Now, just put the ring back in and set the box where she had found it. As she lifted the lid, a ray of sun fell across her hand and reflected on the stone in the ring.
The flash of red surprised her. She held the ring up and squinted at it in the light. Gold, finely wrought. A ruby and a tourmaline. The sort of ring a fine lady would wear, or give to a lover. A ring identical to the one Agnes had snatched from Uncle Roger and thrown into the cement at Saint-Denis.
It can’t be the same one! she thought. But it must be; there were even a few crumbling bits of mortar still stuck to the inside.
She turned suddenly. That really was a step. The hermit pushed the blanket aside. Instinctively, Catherine pushed the ring onto the first finger of her right hand. She fell back onto the bracken and smiled at the hermit.
He came in and sat next to her. There was, she noted, nowhere else to sit. He didn’t smell like an ascetic, either. Disdaining the needs of the body, ascetics generally, well, stank. But not Aleran. He smelled of herbs and incense and musk. He took her hand and smiled into her eyes. Catherine inhaled deeply. A halo seemed to radiate around him, warming her from the inside out.
“Tell me,” he said.
“Tell you what?” The hut was small and windowless. She was becoming dizzy again.
“How I can help you?” he answered. “All who come to me are suffering in some why. Would you like some water?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. That should help clear her mind.
She drained the cup he gave her. Lovely water, cold and tasting of earth. She handed it back. He was still waiting.
Of course. She had come because Garnulf’s map led her here. But now she wasn’t sure if she should ask about him. Aleran seemed to radiate warmth and comfort. She longed to tell him every fear and doubt in her heart. But there was that ring. How did it get here? Who had removed it from the mortar? She had to say something.
“I am about to take the veil,” she explained. “I am unsure of the sincerity of my profession.”
His eyes lit. “I’m so pleased that you came to me before making your final vows. Too often women think they are finding a haven from the world in the convent, but that is not what God desires of you.”
“It isn’t?”
“No,” he replied. “There is nothing in God’s word about renouncing the world by hiding behind walls. It’s true that the world is an evil place, full of hypocrisy and greed. No one serving Mammon can find unity with the eternal. All that is hoarded selfishly becomes shriveled and dry, a wicked waste. All that is treasured on earth is anathema in the eyes of heaven. And what is it these women and men who run to the monastery value most?”
Catherine didn’t answer. She was trying to see where the argument was leading. It wasn’t from Plotinus.
“Purity!” he said. “They hoard their bodies the way a miser hoards gold. They abuse and deny the very gift God gave them, their own flesh. What could be more of a sacrilege than denying the needs of God’s temple? What could be less pure than the unnatural life of pompous self-denial?”
“I don’t understand,” she said. This was a mistake. His counsel had nothing to do with her doubts about her fitness to serve God. Denial of the flesh was fine with her; it was denial of the intellect that bothered her. Aleran hadn’t mentioned that.
He continued. His voice was warm honey, pouring over her.
“Many of your sisters have come to me, seeking comfort. They have been so trapped by dogma and rules that they have lost their way to the Truth. They are so closeted by false doctrine that they are too frightened to worship God freely, with all their senses. I give them counsel. I teach them how to become one with the Divine plan.”
“How?” Catherine asked, curious in spite of herself.
Aleran took her other hand. “Sometimes it is difficult to break from old, archaic customs. We must spend days together, constantly wrestling with the basilisks which have trapped and imprisoned their true natures. But finally, we vanquish them and they find release and fulfillment. I can lead you also to this joy, this union with the divine.”
He stood up. Catherine nearly fell over. His speech was penetrating, alluring, even more so than that of the scholars who debated in Paris. Somewhere she had heard another man speak this way, in rich, many-hued words, which seemed so right at the time. He too had explained how entangled modern man was in meaningless dogma and laws, how man must cast away the things of the earth, including selfishness. Hundreds came to hear him. Many believed and followed him.
“Here, my child,” Aleran said gently. “I will instruct you on how to free yourself from the artificial chains of the world and the Church. I will allow you to partake of my holiness.”
He opened his robes. Catherine’s eyes widened. There was no doubt that Aleran was a magnificent example of God’s image. Her heart beat faster. All at once, she remembered what had been so extraordinary about the other preacher.
He had been insane.
Catherine closed her eyes and leaned away. She took deep breaths to clear her head and tried to think what to do. It was no use wondering what Aristotle would have done in this situation. Aristotle would never have been so stupid as to come here at all. Saint Catherine would have demanded death before shame. Her namesake hoped there was a less drastic solution.
The hermit leaned over her, his hands against the wall of the hut.
“You long to join with me,” he soothed. “You mustn’t fight your own needs. This is what I am here for, what they all desire. To worship through my sanctity. I am but the instrument of your freedom, my child. But partake of me once and you will be saved.”
Catherine tried to get herself as far from his instrument of freedom as she could, but he had her pinned on the bed. She pushed back against the wall and looked up into his face. Her fear turned to blind terror. This was not madness or lust but cold evil. He didn’t want to save her, he wanted to obliterate her, to reduce her to something less than human. Once she had read that Satan was nothing, the total absence of light or warmth, all devouring and inexorable. It had made no sense at the time. Now she understood.
She squirmed from one side to the other, trying to find a way out.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I don’t think I’m worthy yet. Perhaps I could come back.”
He laughed. “Of course you’ll come back. Once you’ve tasted ecstasy, you will beg to return to it.”
No matter which way she moved, he was still around her, forcing her closer. She tried to push him away. He caught her hand.
“That won’t do, girl. I’m tired of playing. What’s this?” He held up her hand and saw the ring. His face grew cold. He squeezed her fingers so that she cried out in pain.
“Viper! Did you think you could fool me? It is clear that you are one of those who must be forcibly converted,” he grunted as he grabbed the back of her head and forced her
face down. “It’s for the good of your soul.”
Instead of resisting, Catherine bent her head down further and then rammed it up against him.
Aleran screamed. So did Catherine. As the hermit staggered back, clutching himself in agony, she jerked free and threw herself at the doorway. As she did, the blanket was pushed aside and an arm reached in, grabbed her hand and dragged her out.
They raced down the slippery trail. Catherine’s wrapped headdress caught on a branch and twisted half off. She tripped and scraped her hand but her rescuer yanked her up and pulled her onward, all the way down until they reached the main path to the abbey. Only then did he let go.
Catherine sat on a log, rubbing her sore fingers, and looked up at Edgar.
“You. Of course,” she said. “Who else?”
Then she began to laugh. At first Edgar flushed with anger. Then he realized she was hysterical. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook.
“Stop it! Stop now!” he shouted. “Catherine, if you don’t stop, I swear, I’ll hit you again. Catherine!”
She threw her head back and closed her eyes, then suddenly fell against him, crying.
He put his arms around her and gingerly patted her back.
“Go on, it’s all right,” he murmured. “More natural, anyway. What ever possessed you to go alone? Why didn’t you wait for me?”
Catherine’s sobs quieted and he released her. She unknotted a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her face.
“I did wait,” she said. “I thought you weren’t coming. I thought you … I wasn’t sure … never mind.”
“Weren’t sure about me,” Edgar finished. “No, why should you be?”
“Why not?” she said. “It seems perfectly logical that the Almighty would assign me a grubby, opinionated, overbearing Englishman for a guardian angel. It makes as much sense as anything else in my life.” She gave him a rueful smile. “I ought to say thank you.”
He knelt beside her. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“No, just my pride,” she said. “It was a foolish thing to do. But he has something to do with the abbey, I’m sure of it. He has boxes of jewels in his hut.”
Her hair blew across her face. She reached up to rewrap the headdress. The dark curls, usually hidden, had tumbled loosely across her forehead. Edgar gently brushed them back up. Catherine looked at him. He moved away as she gathered them back into a braid. It took a few minutes.
“Mother Heloïse always said my hair was as unmanageable as my spirit. No matter how tightly I bind it, the curls just escape,” she babbled. She pushed the last errant lock under the cloth. As she did so, something caught.
“The ring!” She showed it to him. “I found it in the hut. Edgar, I saw this very ring thrown in with the offerings to Saint Denis. Someone must have scooped it out again and given it to Aleran.”
“You’re sure it’s the same one?” Edgar asked.
She looked at him.
“Very well,” Edgar continued. “And there were other jewels and chains in the hut?”
“Yes. I didn’t have time to examine them carefully, but I would swear they were part of what was thrown into the mortar.”
“And that is where Garnulf’s map led. Yes. If he suspected someone was stealing the offerings to the abbey, that would be reason enough for his murder. But what has that to do with your psalter?”
Catherine shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. It depends on who put the map in it.”
“Yes.” Edgar nodded. “But I don’t see how the changes in the book could be connected to the hermit.”
“Garnulf didn’t like the hermit. The wardress told me. He must have suspected something.”
“Then why didn’t he tell me!” Edgar said.
“Why should he?” Catherine asked.
He wouldn’t answer.
“Your ‘oath,’ right?” she said. “Never mind. Do you think Aleran killed him or does your oath forbid you to speculate?”
Edgar ignored her. He wouldn’t be baited. “Aleran might have been there. With so many pilgrims about, anyone could have gotten into the tower.”
Catherine wasn’t satisfied. “I don’t see how he could have stolen the ring, though. They have guards on the offerings.”
“No, he must have had a partner, one of the guards, perhaps. Do you still suspect me?”
Catherine hesitated, then shook her head. “I’m fed up to the teeth with your damn oath, though. All right, it must be someone at the abbey. One of the other workmen, perhaps, or even a monk. That’s why Garnulf was afraid to go to the abbot. Accusations against churchmen have a way of returning to the accuser. But why did he make that map and what was it doing in my psalter?”
“I don’t know that, either,” Edgar said. “But I will find out. Now, give me that ring, and I’ll see that it gets back where it belongs.”
“No, I’ll take it to Abbot Suger. This is proof that he’s being robbed. He should know.”
“And you’ll tell him how you found it?”
Catherine paused. That could cause a number of other problems. “All right, you take it to him.”
She pulled it. Then she twisted. She tried to wiggle it upwards on her finger.
“Edgar, I can’t get it off. My finger’s swollen and it’s jammed on tight.”
She looked at him in desperation. Her dark lashes were still wet with tears.
He tried getting the ring off, too, but both could see that it was wedged and all their efforts only increased the swelling.
“Now what am I to do?” Catherine said.
Edgar threw up his hands. “For now, all I can suggest is that you cover up that hand and get as far away from Saint-Denis as possible.”
Catherine stood up. Her knees buckled and he caught her. For a second, she let herself lean on him, then she pushed away.
“If you’re suggesting that I run away and pretend nothing has happened, that is an unacceptable course,” she told him. “Whatever is going on at Saint-Denis involves the death of my friend and the desecration of my work. I am not turning my back on it.”
With a sinking heart Edgar realized that she meant it. This had sounded so easy last spring, when he had agreed to come to Saint-Denis. An adventure. A crusader’s oath. A just cause to fight for. And then Catherine had walked into the workroom and, suddenly, the whole world was turned inside-out. Oh, Sweet Virgin! What had he gotten himself into?
Nine
Paris, the home of Hubert LeVendeur, Tuesday, October 31, 1139, The Vigil of All Saints
And whatsoever I touch by the sense of the body as this air and this earth, … I know not how long they will endure. But seven and three are ten, not now only, but forever, … this inviolable truth of number, therefore I have declared to be common to me and to anyone at all who reasons.
—Saint Augustine of Hippo On the Free Choice of the Will
Catherine bent over the great accounts book in her father’s tiny office. The room contained only the table, two stools and a shelf holding the records, accounts which went back to her grandfather’s day, the time of the Great Crusade. She felt the responsibility and listed each entry with meticulous care.
She had a gift for figures. If she had been a son, she would have been sharing her father’s journeys now, figuring the profits and percentages, learning the business. A better occupation for her mind, she thought bitterly, than trying to find order in a morally chaotic world.
Catherine smoothed the scraped vellum page, set the ruler, dipped the quill and made a fine, straight line on which to set the totals, one in Roman numerals with only the market prices asked and the amount sold, and the other, the true profit, in Hebrew letters as her father had taught her. She gave her whole mind to the job. Despite the cramped position, she was relaxed. She had always found peace in accounts. So much paid, so much received. A portion for tolls and tithes, a bit more for candles for Mother and a necklace for Agnes. Wool from England sold in Flanders, the profit earmarked for Guillaume�
��s castle. Spices bought in Marseilles, fresh from the Holy Land and beyond.
She set out the numbers: Saffron—iii denarii pd.—xii denarii rcd. She squinted to make out her father’s scrawl. After travel expenses, it appeared that all that Hubert netted was gimel. Not much, considering the danger. But it was unequivocal. Clean. No rhetoric, no speculation. No debate. Lovely, lovely numbers.
She set the quill into the inkwell. It stood up. The ink was congealing again in the cold. She rubbed her hands together and felt for the tip of her nose. The bandage on her fingers got in the way. Underneath, the ring was still wedged, just past the knuckle. In the last day or two, she thought it had seemed looser, but it wouldn’t come off.
She fidgeted with it, feeling the wiggle beneath the cloth. It had become a symbol to her of all the other things she must hide and lie about.
“Just a scratch, Agnes,” she had said on her return home.
“It should be cleaned and rebound,” Agnes insisted. “Let me see.”
“No! It’s fine. Don’t fuss over me!” Catherine yanked her hand away, but the hurt in her sister’s eyes stayed with her.
It was getting dark. Hubert allowed no candle here, for fear of fire. She didn’t want to go back to the hall yet, even though she was freezing. The cold had a purity, too, like the numbers. No emotion looming over her, no madness, no death. The memory of her encounter with the hermit haunted her. Almost every night she had dreams in which Aleran swooped down on her as Garnulf had, only naked and laughing and, no matter how she twisted or tried to run, he was always there waiting to destroy her. Would she never be free?
Not until you find the truth, Catherine.
She covered her ears. Even here, her voices chased her.
But where can I go for the truth? Whom can I trust? Héloïse is so far away! Edgar has sent no word from Saint-Denis. When Father came for me, he promised he would get a message to Paris soon. But there has been nothing.
And the longer the silence, the more her fragile trust in him eroded.
Death Comes As Epiphany: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 10
