She tried to smile. “You did just what you should. You’ll make a valiant knight someday.”
She gave him a hug of reassurance. Poor little thing, sent away from his mother to serve a strange family in an alien city and he only eight. She hugged him again, on general principles, and tried to let loose of her fear. It wasn’t Edgar, but some other English student. Edgar was still at Saint-Denis, keeping watch. One had to take some things on faith. But the man had looked so much like him! But … Catherine’s faith was always eroded by buts. Why had he sent no word?
They were soaked and frozen by the time they reached home. Adulf was wrapped in blankets and sent to the cook for an herb posset. Catherine’s drink was brought to her room as Agnes fussed over the changing of her clothes and the drying of her hair.
“I can’t imagine any old philosophy talk is worth this,” she scolded. “And look, you must have reopened that cut!”
She examined Catherine’s hand. “Odd, it looks fresh to me.”
Catherine explained about the cutpurse. Agnes shook her head.
“Vicious, rowdy boys,” she muttered. “Clerics, indeed. You should hear the things they call me on the street! Spend half their time in the inns and the rest at the brothels. The bishop should gather them all up someplace and keep them under guard, like in the monasteries. I don’t like this cut. It’s jagged. You never know what foul things those boys stick their knives into. I wish we could ask Mother. She used to know about such things.”
“No,” Catherine said. “You know how she gets, especially about me.”
Agnes sighed. “Sometimes I think all those brothers and sisters who died were the lucky ones. At least Mother prays for them.”
“I know,” Catherine said. “We should be grateful she’s so pious, but I wish she’d stop pretending I’m not here.”
“Well, I’ll do what I can,” Agnes said.
She got the medicine box and took out a small vial and a strip of linen. Then she sent to the cook for a beaten egg white, soaked the linen in it and sprinkled a few grains from the vial onto the strip. Then she wrapped it around Catherine’s hand and tied it firmly. Finally, she dipped a finger in the remaining egg white and drew a cross over the bandage.
“That’s the best I can do,” she said. “We’ll just have to watch it and hope it doesn’t suppurate.”
“Thank you, Agnes,” Catherine said. “You’ve grown up so much since I left. You know so much.”
Agnes turned away. “More than I want to,” she said. “I wish you hadn’t gone.”
She took the medicine box and hurried from the room.
“Delicious!” Hubert exclaimed, as he ate the last of the mutton-stew-soaked trencher bread. “Just the thing to warm the bowels on a raw night.”
The meat had been boiled, then shredded, then boiled again with lentils, currants, wine, dried citron and nutmeg. Its native flavor and texture had vanished under the sauce. Normally Hubert loathed mutton.
Madeleine inclined her head, acknowledging the compliment, and signaled Adulf and the other boy, Ullo, to bring in the savories.
“The night is raw,” she commented. “Paris is no place to celebrate the birth of Our Lord. We should leave next Monday for Vielleteneuse.”
Catherine and Agnes shared a grimace. They knew what it would be like. The single day’s journey would stretch to several as they were forced to stop at every church and shrine within a mile of the road. They would have to light a candle at every stop for each of their poor brothers and sisters who were now in a better world.
More than usual, Catherine resented the delay. She had been given a task and she must get it done. How wonderful it would be to bring the psalter back to the convent and hand it to Mother Heloïse, to be reinstated with honor. Even, she thought wildly, force some respect from Sister Bertrada. Perhaps she could even discover who had committed such an outrage on her book. She thought again of the tortured damned souls Garnulf had drawn. She owed it to them to discover what Aleran was doing as well.
You might remember, Catherine, the voices of the convent intruded. Your first duty is to God.
But, Catherine implored, How can I be sure what form my duty should take?
Have you considered prayer? You have a lot to repent of in the past few weeks. Secrecy, disobedience, disrespect, desire. How many times have you gotten up to recite Matins since you left us, child?
I didn’t want to wake Agnes.
Worse things could happen to your sister than getting up early to pray, they replied. If you followed your mother’s example and kept your mind on spiritual matters, you might not be haunted by naked heretics or dusty stone carvers. You might even be granted divine guidance in your perplexity, instead of chasing unanswerable questions around your mind like a dog after its own tail.
“You’re very quiet, Catherine,” Hubert said. “Have I worn you out with all the accounts I’ve given you?”
Catherine started.
Hubert laughed. “Ah, dreaming again. Make up your mind, daughter, the world or the cloister. For you, Catherine, I’d suggest the cloister. The world has little patience for those who equivocate.” He grew serious. “For your sake, child, take my advice, and soon.”
“Yes, Father,” Catherine whispered. She tried to hold back the fear. But the feeling grew stronger that, in leaving the safety of the Paraclete for the world, she had opened something in herself that would not let her be completely happy in either place.
Ten
Paris, Friday, November 3, 1139, the feast of Saint Hubert
Sors immanis et inanis, rota tu volubilis, status malus, vana salus semper dissolubilis, adumbrata et velata …
Inhuman and hollow Fate, you are a whirling wheel. If you stop at the bottom, even health is useless. It is ruined, overshadowed and veiled.
—Carmina Burana
“I thought I saw you the other day, Uncle, coming out of the synagogue,” Catherine told him the next time they met.
“What were you doing in the Juiverie?” he asked.
“Abelard was speaking,” she said. “Was it you I saw? I called but you didn’t answer.”
“Yes, I was taking a message for your father to Solomon Tam,” Roger answered. He grinned. “Were you afraid I was thinking of converting?”
“Hardly,” she laughed. “When did Solomon get home? I thought he was trading in Germany with his uncle?”
“I have no idea, Catte,” he said. “I don’t keep track of wandering Jews.”
He was getting ready to leave, pulling on his riding boots. Catherine watched him. It was strange how such a simple movement could express him so well. There was a wonderful, feline grace to everything he did, the sliding of leather over his legs, the determined pull at the end to be sure of the fit. There was something so comforting about it. He felt her eyes on him and looked up. Without knowing why, she blushed.
He looked down again, but couldn’t hide his smile.
“So,” he said. “You still want to study philosophy. I thought you had gotten over that nonsense when you were walled up with all those women.”
“I’m afraid not, Uncle,” she answered. “My studies at the Paraclete were the most enjoyable hours of my time there. I miss that part of the convent very much. I am eager to return to it.”
Roger stopped in the act of buckling on his sword. “Oh, Catte, you don’t really mean to leave me again, do you?”
“But … you know I have always intended to renounce the world,” Catherine said. “I have never pretended otherwise.”
“No, but lately … I had … never mind,” he replied. “You promised to keep Christmas with the family, though. You won’t leave before then?”
“Not if it means that much to you,” she answered.
“It means everything to me.” He put his arms around her and held her so close that she could feel the cold metal of the sword through her robes. She lifted her face from his chest to remonstrate with him.
“Roger …” she began, and he kis
sed her, full on the mouth. “Uncle!” she gasped.
“God can have your mind, Catte,” he whispered. “Only give me your heart.” He stepped back. “Or any other parts He doesn’t need.” He grinned once more, and left.
Catherine could hear the thud of his boots down the stairs. Teasing again—of course he was. He loved to rock her off balance. He knew there was no possibility. They were related in the second degree. That was more than consanguinity, it was plain incest.
“Dear Saint Thecla,” she breathed. “Did any man you cared for ever look at you like that? How did you answer him? Oh, pray for me, Thecla. I’m so frightened.”
The house was a shambles already, half-full of boxes and dismantled furniture to take to Veilleteneuse for the winter. Madeleine had Agnes working like a horse, but still refused to acknowledge that her elder daughter existed. Catherine tried to help during the hours her mother was out at her devotions. The problem with physical labor, she noted, was that the mind still kept worrying. However, it was the best she could do for the time being. She only hoped nothing else horrible happened at Saint-Denis before she could return.
“I’ve put all the bedclothes from our room in the chests,” Catherine told Agnes, who was supervising the packing of the kitchen. “All our clothes are in the wardrobes. Is there something else I can do?”
Agnes sighed and wiped soot from her nose. “Stay out of Mother’s way, that’s all I can think of. Seeing you only makes her worse.”
“But you can’t do this all alone,” Catherine protested.
“I have before, don’t worry. Yes? What is it, Ullo?” Agnes said when she saw the page waiting at the door.
“There’s a man here, asking for Lady Catherine,” Ullo said. “He looks like a student and talks funny, not proper French like us.”
Catherine’s heart lurched. He hadn’t abandoned her! She ran to the hall.
“I thought you were going to send word …” she began.
The man looked up in surprise. Catherine stopped. It wasn’t Edgar. This man was taller and lean with dark hair and eyes as blue as her own.
“I’m sorry, I …” she said. “What do you want?”
“My name is John,” he said, and his accent was unmistakably Norman. “I’ve come from Master Abelard. He would like very much to see you again. Could you come with me now?”
“Now?” she repeated.
Agnes, ever curious, had followed her.
“Catherine, you can’t go out with some strange man,” she whispered.
John nodded agreement. “It wouldn’t be seemly. Perhaps you could bring the escort who defended you so well before.”
“You’re the man who tried to make Adulf let go of the Master’s cloak,” Catherine remembered.
“Yes.” He almost smiled. “I still bear the scars of your tongue-lashing.”
“He is one of Abelard’s students,” Catherine told Agnes. “I really should go. Perhaps Mother Héloïse has sent a message for me.”
Agnes wasn’t convinced. “Why would she? And why not send it here? Go if you must, Catherine, but I know something is going on and I’m tired of everyone keeping secrets from me!”
Her voice rose on the last words and she ended with a stamp of the foot as she ran from the room. Catherine hesitated.
“I should go after her,” she said.
“Master Abelard is waiting,” John said.
“Very well. Let me get my shoes and cloak.”
She had to run to keep up with the student’s long stride.
“Do you know why he wants to see me?” she panted.
“It’s not my place to ask questions,” John answered. He moved faster. Catherine decided it was to prevent her saying anything more.
He led her back to the guesthouse near Saint-Pierre-le-Buef. Abelard was holding court with a few students when she came in, but at a gesture, they all left. He motioned for her to sit.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “After you left, my agent at Saint-Denis finally reported to me. You didn’t tell me all that happened when you saw this hermit.”
“What do you mean?” Catherine asked, shaken. “I told you I followed Garnulf’s map to his hut and found the ring there.”
“You didn’t tell me he tried to rape you.” Abelard was stern.
“How do you know that?” Catherine demanded. “Just who is this agent of yours? Did he swear an oath to you not to speak of his work?”
Abelard grimaced. “He always was a bit melodramatic,” he said. “However, that does not affect the matter at hand. You let me approve your return to Saint-Denis without giving me complete information. Héloïse would have my head on a platter if she knew I’d put you in such danger.
“No, I’m not interested in your protestations,” he continued. “What I want to know is the nature of this man’s heresy. I had assumed he was only a thief. Clearly the situation is much worse. Does Suger know what he’s doing?”
“I don’t think so,” Catherine said. “Aleran preaches only to small groups, or in private. Those who go to him don’t divulge his lessons.”
“Just what did he say to you?”
Catherine tried to remember. It was all fuzzy, a blur of shadows and images, the only clear one being the naked hermit advancing on her. But the words … ?
“He said something about how it was a sin to deny the flesh and that one should worship through all the senses—no, that’s not right. Worship through him, he said.” Catherine gave up. “I’m not sure. He said a lot, but it didn’t really fit together and there was that odd smell, herbs burning or something. I’m sorry.”
Abelard didn’t seem to be paying attention. “Heresy, of course, even apostasy, or worse. He must be stopped.”
Catherine leaned forward. “Master,” she said, “forgive me if I seem disrespectful, but Aleran does not preach some strange, heretical theology. He’s not a Pelagian or a Manichee or any such belief. He’s evil. Simply that. Something lives in him that has no human soul. He isn’t damned, Master Abelard. He’s damnation.”
She thought of the face of the noblewoman who had gone to see him, the combination of fear and rapture, and of the Christ-face made pitiless. She continued. “He can’t simply be taken by the bishop and questioned about his beliefs. He would lie and swear to his orthodoxy with no reservation. And I believe that if you challenged him, he might counter by attacking you. It’s possible that whoever made the changes in the psalter is under his influence.”
“That is no matter, child,” Abelard said. “I can defend myself.”
“Yes, sir, I know,” Catherine said. “But please, let me help. I know I can get the book with no danger to myself. I am expected at my brother’s at Vielleteneuse, anyway.”
Abelard shook his head. “My agent was also very concerned about your safety. He felt you should be sent back to the Paraclete at once.”
“Oh, did he!” Catherine wasn’t surprised. “Well, you tell your ‘agent’ …” Oh, Edgar! You can be so provoking! And yet … “Just tell him to watch out for himself,” she finished. “I have my family to take care of me. He has no one.”
She got up. “I must get back home. Is there anything else you need?”
He opened the door for her. “I like you, Catherine Le Vendeur,” he said. “I understand why Heloïse chose you. But, oddly enough, I rather hope you decide not to take the veil.”
And he shut the door behind her, leaving Catherine to construe his last statement for herself.
Her escort, John, was nowhere about, so Catherine started home on her own. Although the rain clouds had blown away, the wind continued, howling down the narrow street and cutting through her cloak. She pulled the hood down over her face as she trudged down the muddy road. Hearing the jingle of harness, she moved aside to let the rider pass. But the horse stopped.
Catherine looked up. There, in the middle of the road, gaping at her in unmistakable fury, was her father.
“What, by the three million splinters of the True Cross,
are you doing here?”
Catherine thought quickly. “Shopping for meat pies?”
“A mile in the opposite direction from the bakehouses?” He reached down. “Get up behind me. You can explain on the way home.”
“Could we just say I had set myself a penance?” Catherine suggested when she was seated behind Hubert, clutching him tightly. His saddle wasn’t intended for a second rider.
“A penance. No doubt well deserved,” Hubert grunted. “Next time, ask the priest for an appropriate punishment.”
“Yes, Father,” she said. It appeared he wasn’t going to pursue the matter. Why not? Where had he been?
“Father,” she said, “Roger told me that Solomon is back in Paris. I haven’t seen him since we were children. Will he be here long?”
“That’s not your concern,” he answered. “You won’t be seeing him, in any case. It’s no longer proper at your age. I don’t want people thinking the family has social relations with him.”
“But …”
“No.”
Hubert stopped before the bakehouse.
“Get the pies and hurry back,” he told her. “I will overlook your behavior this time, since we leave tomorrow. But I won’t have you roaming the streets of Paris alone, consorting with God knows what sorts of people.”
In spite of the warmth rising from the hot pies, Catherine felt frozen. Solomon had been her friend. She remembered their fathers laughing at them, squabbling over some game, years ago. Solomon’s father had patted her head and said something in Hebrew. Hubert had answered haltingly in the same language. On the way home he had explained how useful it was in trade to know the speech of the Jews, who were often partners or competitors. Soon after, he had started teaching her the aleph-bet, though she never learned much more than the letters needed for computation. Why would he now insist she have nothing more to do with them? What had happened while she was gone?
Death Comes As Epiphany: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 12
