“Until then,” Hubert said as he got up to go, “keep a sharp eye out. This John, who came from Abelard, said some other odd things, about heresy infesting the abbey. No evidence, mind you. Suger laughed and told him not to imagine heresy and persecution in every corner or he’d end up like his master. But my thumbs have been itching lately and my dreams have been full of smoke.”
“I’ve always trusted your thumbs, Uncle,” Solomon said. “I’ll be watchful. By the way, I know you can’t remember me to Catherine, but I was glad to learn she’s recovering.”
“A certifiable miracle, if Father Anselm is to be believed,” Hubert said. “Why not? Maybe the Lord knows his own. She asked after you, I forgot to tell you.”
“Dear little Catherine,” Solomon sighed. “I miss her sometimes. I don’t have many cousins. Father says she looks like Grandmother.”
“She does.”
Hubert let himself out and trudged back to the guesthouse. There he fell into bed, fully dressed, and slept without dreams.
It had astonished everyone but Roger when Catherine got better instead of dying. By the fourth time he poured the foul-smelling medicine into her, it was obvious that the swelling was going down. Soon the redness had faded and the terrifying threads of poison receded and vanished.
Roger watched over her with fierce possessiveness. He would let no one else administer the medicine and refused to let even Agnes watch alone. It was only when Catherine’s eyes opened and she knew him that he finally gave in and slept.
Catherine wasn’t fully aware until the first week of Advent. She awoke to the sight of her gallant uncle sprawled on the floor next to her bed, snoring. It made her feel quite certain that she was back in the real world. Soon Agnes came in and confirmed her belief by crying all over the blankets.
“I thought you’d die before we could make up,” she sniffed. “Then I’d go to Hell.”
This theology was too much for Catherine’s weakened state. She just lay back on the pillows and returned to sleep.
Everyone came up to see her during the next few days, even some of the workmen who normally would never be on the upper floors of the keep. They all marveled at the miraculous healing and wanted to see the hand for themselves. To Catherine the miracle wasn’t as complete as it seemed. Her fingers were still stiff and slightly numb. She feared she might never again be able to hold a pen. It was a minor cavil, after all. As everyone told her, she was lucky to be alive.
Even Héloïse heard of her cure and sent her a letter of thanksgiving.
“It was kind of her to remember you, in spite of your behavior,” Hubert commented. “You should think about asking if you might return.”
“I have considered it, Father,” Catherine answered as she reread Héloïse’s letter.
We have arranged a Deo Gratias to be sung for you. And I sing one in my heart every day. They speak of miracles and, I suspect, may try to treat you as a saint. You have been especially blessed. And, for some, closeness to death brings an epiphany which alters their lives forever. But I believe that you are one such as I, for whom God may only be reached through the pathways of the intellect. For this reason, I will not beg you to turn back, only to take care. May He guide you safely in those dark ways, my dear daughter.
She read part of the letter to Roger.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why shouldn’t we treat you as a saint? You are closer to God than anyone I know. He must love you very much to have spared you.”
“I’m sure God helped, but it was you who saved me.” Catherine kissed him. “Anyway, I thought we were taught that God takes the ones he loves best. So I must have been spared for other reasons.”
“Now I know you’re better.” Hubert had overheard her last remark. “When you start applying rhetoric to your own salvation, you obviously need to have your mind less perilously occupied.”
Catherine smiled. “Does that mean you have more accounts for me to add up?”
“She’s not to use her hand yet,” Roger warned.
“I could do the computations and you could write them down for me,” Catherine suggested.
Roger shook his head. “I’m no clerk, Catte, you know that well.”
“The letters you sent me at the Paraclete were in a beautiful hand.”
“Indeed they should have been,” Roger answered. “Considering what I paid the priest at Troyes to write them for me. I can just barely make my name. When would I have had time to learn such things? I’ve been fighting since I was fourteen.”
There was a touch of anger in his voice that shamed Catherine. She took his rough strong hands in both of hers.
“There are those who work and those who pray,” she reminded him. “And there are those who protect. Without you bellatores the rest of us would have no time for learning, either.”
“I wish there were more who thought as you do, Catte.” Roger traced her hand with one finger. “But earthly rewards for knights are almost as rare as spiritual ones, these days.”
He laid his head against the blankets and she ran her hand through his hair, noticing with surprise that it was going gray. What was wrong with the world, that someone like Roger should have no home or family of his own?
Perhaps it was the sheer relief of being alive, but Catherine found the castle keep not the place of nerve-grating chaos she had expected. Instead the noise of the humanity assembled around her was indescribably comforting. With few outdoor chores, the whole of the estate was most often found at one level or other of the keep, depending upon sex, rank and duties. Although her chamber was a little one upstairs from the upper hall, most of the family managed to find their way to her each day. They brought food and news and gossip, with very little rhetoric.
Shut in as she was by her illness and by winter, Garnulf and the psalter seemed remote. By keeping them at a distance her mind was healing along with her body. The hermit stopped haunting her sleep.
With no philosophers to study, Catherine unconsciously began to apply herself to understand the meaning in the texture, the weave of daily life. For the first time, she realized that the management of a group of people as diverse as that gathered here was much harder than maintaining order in a convent, where all were bound by the same rule and the same goal. She gained new respect for Guillaume’s wife, Marie, who seemed able to cope with any situation.
One day, Catherine was wakened by an unearthly sound, like the flapping of a million angry birds. It seemed to be coming from within the very walls of the castle. As she started to get out of bed, the noise faded. She had just settled back when it began again. This time she was almost to the chamber door when the sound was replaced by howls of pain. She started down the stairs with some vague idea of helping or at least finding out what in the world was going on.
“Catherine!” Hubert’s voice stopped her. “What are you doing out of bed? And bare feet! Are you mad, girl?”
“But Father,” Catherine protested. “Someone’s hurt!”
“And well deserved, too,” Hubert answered. “Now you get back in that bed.”
“But what was it?”
Hubert wouldn’t answer; he just snorted. But he seemed more amused than angry. Marie had followed him up, bringing Catherine’s soup. Catherine turned to her for explanation.
“Don’t you remember?” Marie was trying to remain stern. “Every winter it’s the same. The older boys tell the little ones and then they all have to try.”
“What were they doing?” Catherine started to smile. She was beginning to guess.
“It was partly my fault,” Marie admitted. “This time of year there’s not much else, you know. I would have to give them cabbage and bean soup last night.”
“Oh, no!” Catherine began to laugh.
“Yes, the pages were having farting contests in the double latrine. The echo goes through the pipes to practically every part of the keep. I hope you weren’t too startled.”
Catherine was doubled over with laughter. When she rem
embered how ridiculously frightened she’d been, she couldn’t help but feel the absurdity. She’d been imagining horrors from the Æneid! Sometimes education was totally useless.
Marie stayed to take the bowl back down. She was not much older than Catherine and had often wished they could know each other better. But her sister-in-law’s reputation for piety and learning had always intimidated her. In her illness, Catherine had seemed more human and she and Marie had finally become friends.
“It’s not so bad when the little ones do it,” she confided to Catherine. “But when your mother’s not here, the older boys, even the knights go at it. They lay bets on how long the echo will last. Don’t laugh! You can’t imagine the noise, let alone the reek!”
“I’m sorry.” Catherine muffled her giggles in her pillow. “It’s just that it’s so very different from the convent.”
Marie nodded, a little sadly. “I suppose it is.”
As she left, she added, “You must feel in need of a wash. With Roger hovering over you like a mother sparrow, we could only rinse your hands and face. Shall I have one of the maids bring up a bucket of hot water so you can get clean all over?”
“Marie, that would be marvelous,” Catherine sighed. “At the Paraclete we washed almost every day in summer and did our hair every Saturday. I hadn’t wanted to trouble you, but it would be nice to feel clean again.”
When the steaming water arrived, she stripped to her shift, poured the hot water into a shallow wooden trough and stood in it, carefully holding the cloth out of the way with one hand as she scooped a handful of soap in the other, worked it up her legs, rinsed and then started on her arms and chest. She was just finishing when Marie came back.
“I thought you would want a clean shift,” she said. Then she stopped and stared at Catherine’s neck, the color draining from her face.
“Marie? What is it?” Catherine said, looking down. She saw nothing but the open neck of the shift and her crucifix. Something glinted. The ring. She had almost forgotten about it. As she had tried to forget where she found it. She covered it with her hand.
“I know it’s not proper for me to wear jewelry,” she said. “I … uh … came across it and was going to try to find the owner but then I …”
Marie was still staring.
“How could he have given it to you?” she asked. “And why? Oh, God! And I trusted him!”
She threw the linen on the bed and ran back down the stairs.
Catherine hastily finished rinsing and slipped on the clean clothing. She tucked the ring back out of sight. So Marie was the lady who had given Roger the love token! How awful! No wonder he had seemed relieved when it had vanished into the mortar. Was this why he had never married? She knew that the troubadors made much out of the hopeless love of a knight for his lord’s wife, but it wasn’t as pleasant in reality. And Guillaume wasn’t Roger’s lord; they were related. That made everything even worse. She hoped that all Marie had given him was the ring. That it was only an idle game to pass the dull winter. Poor Roger! The best thing to do was get the awful thing back to Saint-Denis where it could be purified as an offering for love of God. She would tell Marie what she meant to do and beg her to seek absolution for what she hoped was a venial sin.
And now, her voices croaked rustily, it’s time for you to face the task you have been sent to do.
Catherine sighed. She thought they had vanished with her fever.
you’re right, she answered. I am ready, Father is taking me to Saint-Denis next week, to give thanks in the abbey for my restoration. I will get the psalter then.
Two weeks before Christmas and the ground crackled with frost as Catherine and her father walked slowly across the courtyard to hear Mass in the abbey church. They huddled in the end which had not yet been renovated. Outside the stone ramparts stood like a giant’s skeleton, ribs curving over emptiness, waiting for the glass that would give them life.
After Mass, she was again invited to Suger’s apartments. The abbot received her kindly.
“You have been most blessed, my child,” he said. “I have never heard of anyone who survived such an illness without losing the afflicted limb.”
“I continually thank God for His mercy,” Catherine answered. She wondered if there were a way to ask him if anyone had mentioned the psalter since she had last been there.
“Your rooms are beautiful,” she commented politely.
Suger beamed with pride. “The people of France have been most generous in their support of Saint-Denis and there are those who feel that the apartment of the abbot should also reflect the honor of the church. While I prefer to stay in this small room, others have seen fit to ornament it, that it honor the high position of the abbey.”
He fingered a jeweled crucifix standing on the table beside him.
“There are those,” he continued sadly, “who feel that these glorious things are too opulent. But I believe nothing is too fine to honor Our Lord. Don’t you agree?”
Catherine supposed so, although there seemed an error in logic, or good taste, somewhere. She smiled and nodded.
The abbot sighed. “Bernard of Clairvaux, who everyone says is a living saint, disagrees with me. Of course, I should be grateful that Cistercians don’t believe in jewels. I’ve bought some wonderful collections from them, at good prices. They even say the Chalice should be of base metal. I can’t understand it. If the Hebrews used gold cups to catch the blood of their sacrificial animals, should we use less for the cup which receives the blood of Christ?”
He looked to her for affirmation. Catherine realized that her opinion was not important. He was simply rehearsing his arguments for Abbot Bernard. It was well known that Suger and his glorious rebuilding of Saint-Denis were targets of Cistercian sermons. It worried the old abbot. What if donations ceased before the building was done, or even worse, he was made to strip the abbey of its splendor?
But for now, she remembered, Bernard was busy with other things, like the “heresy” in the work of Peter Abelard. She wondered if Suger would aid Bernard, if he had the opportunity, by turning the psalter over to him. That might help lessen the taunts about wasteful ornamentation. Even though Abelard was still listed as a monk of Saint-Denis, it might be worth it if Bernard could be made to admit that there was more than one correct way to honor God and that heresy was worse than a few gold chalices or pearl-studded crosses.
She must get that psalter. She had wasted far too much time being ill.
“Lord Abbot,” she said, “my father will return for me in an hour and I know you are very busy. May I spend the time reading in your library? There is a quotation from Augustine I would like to check.”
“Of course, my dear. Brother Leitbert should be along in a few minutes. He’ll be happy to find it for you.”
“How kind,” Catherine said. “May I wait for him there?”
Suger gave her leave to go and, once out of his rooms, she raced up the stairs to the library. She set her lamp down carefully and got up on a stool to reach the psalter. She felt for it on the dark ledge above the window. There was nothing there. She stood on tiptoe and groped around for it. Empty. She held up the lamp. The book was gone.
“Just what are you doing up there!”
Catherine screamed and dropped the lamp. The precentor cried out and dove for it, stamping at the flaming oil that had spilled.
“Are you completely mad!” he shrieked. “Bringing fire up here. Then balancing like an acrobat on that stool. Saint Winnefred’s gallstones, woman!”
Stupid old man! Catherine was frightened and it made her angry.
“You had fire up here,” she said. “All sitting about a candle in broad daylight; a silly way to teach philosophy.”
He looked at her with contempt. “I’m not fooled by you,” he said softly. “I have climbed the ladder of wisdom and your form cannot hide from me what you are. Your master looks out of your eyes. I see the flick of his tongue when you speak. His servant shamed me once but he cannot do it a
gain. My learning ascends from light to light to the very stars. And beyond, to the Light which casts no shadow. I do not fear you, or your master. Tell him that.”
Catherine stared at him, half horrified, half bemused. As before, she had the impulse to stick out her tongue at him, if only to show that it was not forked. Leitbert raised his arms.
“Tell him! Now, get out of here before I wring your neck!”
Catherine considered the problem dispassionately and got out.
She sat at the foot of the stairs, shaken. Did that crazy old man really think she was a servant of the devil or was he just quoting Tertullian? He hadn’t been very enthusiastic at the idea of a woman among his books. Now, how was she to continue the search?
Where was the book? Who had taken it? Edgar? If he were working for Abelard, he might have. Then her job was done and she could go back to the Paraclete.
But what if the one who made the changes still has it? What if he is planning to present it to Abelard’s enemies?
Oh, do be quiet. Catherine wished her mind were better regulated.
But the voices continued. What if your precious dusty scholar is lying to you, and to Master Abelard?
Where did that thought come from?
After all, wasn’t William of Saint-Thierry once a pupil of Abelard’s? And now he leads the struggle to have him declared a heretic. What if Edgar is a spy for him?
Catherine wrestled with that a while. A memory floated by, of monsters and demons and Edgar’s hand, cool on her cheek. And Edgar’s voice, worried and annoyed. And real.
“I have to believe in something,” she whispered.
Or someone? they snickered.
Hubert came in at last and Catherine went with him gladly. There was much to be said for not being left alone too long with only one’s thoughts for company.
“Did you get your business done?” she asked as they rode home.
“What? Oh, yes, as much as I could. I’ll probably leave again, right after the feast of the Holy Innocents. I need to go to Lombardy.”
Death Comes As Epiphany: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 14
