“Father, you don’t mean to cross the Alps at this time of year?”
“It can’t be helped. Shall I bring you back oranges?”
She tightened her hold on him. “Just come back safely. Is Roger going with you?”
“No, I’m traveling with a party of merchants. They have their own guards.”
They were passing the pathway leading to Aleran’s hermitage. Catherine couldn’t keep from looking in that direction. There was a movement in the trees, someone nearly sliding toward the road. Hubert didn’t notice, but Catherine was sure that the figure that caught itself in time and ducked behind the bushes was Marie.
Marie wasn’t in the keep when they got back. Agnes told them she was visiting a sick woman in the village. Tired from her day out, Catherine went to bed.
The next morning, she hunted for Marie. She finally found her in one of the storehouses, taking inventory.
“Can you help me, Catherine?” she asked. “I have to tally up how much grain we have. You’re good with figures. The winter has been hard and we’ve given more than usual to the poor. There may not be enough to last until spring.”
“Marie, I have to speak to you.” Catherine reached for the abacus Marie was holding. “What were you doing at the hermit’s hut yesterday?”
Marie yanked her arm away. “That is none of your business,” she said. “Lots of women go up there. He has charms and potions which are hard to come by. He gives … counsel.”
“Marie, please, don’t have anything more to do with him. He’s evil.”
“I know that,” Marie said. “But he’s also powerful, as you must know.”
“Me?”
Marie leaned against the sacks of grain. The abacus slipped from her fingers and fell to the stone floor.
“You don’t need to tell me,” she said. “No one ever speaks of what goes on up there. Just promise that you won’t tell Guillaume. For love, for pity, for charity, don’t let him find out. If he does, then everything I’ve paid will be worthless.”
“Marie, I won’t say a word, only promise you’ll never go there again.”
Marie laughed. There was a quality to it that frightened Catherine.
“Very well, I promise,” she said. “You may have him all to yourself.”
“What?” Catherine couldn’t make sense out of that.
“Nothing,” Marie said tonelessly. “Please, let me get on with my work. No, it’s all right. I don’t need your help after all.”
Two days later, one of the villeins of the town came to the keep. After hearing his news, the porter called for Guillaume.
“This here is Bauduc,” he explained. “He’s pigman for the village. In the winter, we let the pigs into the woods to live off the acorns. Bauduc was out this morning, hunting for them, when he saw a stranger lurking up around Aleran’s hut. When he called to him, the man vanished.”
“That’s right,” Bauduc interrupted, clutching his hood and wringing it as he spoke. “Ran like he was chased by demons, he did, ‘and,’ thought I, ‘might be he is.’ There’s tales about that hermit and his ways. A black cock vanished from the village once and they say someone found its feathers, half-burnt, in the hermit’s oven. You know what that means; someone was calling for the Evil One. And then there’s whispers of things women go up there for. Things to change the ways of nature. Heriut’s wife had a son with one arm and she swore it was the hermit’s doing. Said he took it ’cause she couldn’t pay.”
“I’m not interested in old granny stories,” Guillaume said. “My responsibility is to protect you from human danger. This stranger, what did he look like?”
“Pale, washed out, like milk after skimming,” Bauduc answered. “Never saw anyone that white. Might be he was robbed of color by the lamia. My wife says she saw a snow-colored raven light on the town gate last week.”
The porter shushed him. “Lord Guillaume isn’t interested in your wife. Tell him what you found.”
“Please,” Guillaume said. “Many strangers come to see this hermit. So far, I’ve heard nothing that I should concern myself with.”
“We were coming to that,” the porter said. “Bauduc thought he’d stop by the hut and just ask Aleran about this stranger.”
“But he couldn’t tell me, you see,” Bauduc went on. “Because he was dead. Icy cold, staring at me with no eyes.” He crossed himself. “I didn’t think he could die, but the Evil One must have come for him. There was a knife sticking right through his wicked heart.”
Guillaume sat up straight. “Why didn’t you say so at once? Here, Sigebert, find Sir Roger!”
He turned back to the pigman.
“Demons indeed! The devil has no need for knives. Would you know this pale man again?”
“There can’t be many like him in these parts,” Bauduc answered. “I’d know him.”
Less than an hour later, Roger had his band of soldiers ready to ride through the countryside in search of the stranger. After a long, dull holy season, their enthusiasm for the chase was high.
Guillaume held Roger’s bridle a moment before they left.
“Can you control your men?” he asked. “I don’t want to hear of winter plowing ruined, fences broken or daughters molested.”
Roger laughed. “I’ll keep them to the paths, nephew. Don’t worry. I suspect this ghostly stranger came from old Bauduc’s ale flask. But we can use the exercise. We’ll be back by dusk.”
But they were back much sooner. From the tower window, Agnes saw them returning.
“They’ve caught someone,” she told Catherine. “There’s a man, all trussed up and slung across the front of Sir Meinerd’s saddle. How exciting! Let’s go meet them. I’ve never seen a murderer before. At least, not close up.”
The girls made their way down the circular newel stair, slowed by the fact that everyone else in the keep was headed in the same direction. In the lower hall, Guillaume and Hubert waited for Roger to bring in the prisoner.
The man was pulled from the horse and dragged, still bound, into the hall by two of Roger’s men. They took him to the center of the room and dumped him on the floor.
“We didn’t have to hunt at all,” Roger told the assembly. “We found him in the hut, right beside the body. He was searching the corpse. Robbing the dead. His guilt proclaims itself, but, by your orders, we have not harmed him.”
He pulled the prisoner up and yanked off his hood, exposing his face to the afternoon sunlight.
Catherine leaned over Agnes’s shoulder to see him and, to her everlasting embarrassment, screamed and fainted.
Twelve
The Great Hall, Vielleteneuse, the same day
This man used to explore and reveal Nature’s secret causes. Now he lies here, bound by heavy chains, the light of his mind gone out, his head is bowed down and he is forced to stare at the dull earth …
—Boethius Consolation of Philosophy
Edgar sighed and closed his eyes. He wondered if he would ever see Catherine standing upright. He looked at the swords drawn around him and doubted he would live that long. First he would have to convince Catherine’s bulky male relatives that he was neither a sorcerer nor a murderer. He twisted the ropes at his wrists. Firmly tied. No doubt the henchman who had trussed him had had years of practice. Just as well, he thought. Breaking loose would only assure them of his complicity with the powers of evil. Someone kicked him and laughed. Edgar wasn’t amused.
Catherine awoke to the smell of wet, smoking straw which Agnes was waving under her nose. She gagged, pushed the revolting stuff away and sat up.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“It’s all right, dear,” Agnes answered. “He’s not going to get near us. You’re still weak. You ought to go up and rest. Let me help you.”
“No.” Catherine got up and made her way through the circle of men guarding Edgar.
Edgar prayed to every saint he could remember that Catherine would have the sense to keep her mouth shut.
Agnes d
ucked under Roger’s arm to peer curiously at the captive.
“My, he’s a strange-looking one,” she said. She squinted and moved closer. “Why, Catherine, isn’t this that workman you were kneeling on the floor with at Saint-Denis the night Garnulf died?”
Edgar sank further into the straw on the floor. His stomach lurched. Damn. He never would learn to word his prayers effectively.
Roger turned Edgar so that his face could be seen by everyone. His boot tapped Edgar’s chin.
“You know, Agnes, I think you’re right,” he said at last. “Now what would he be doing here?”
The boot snapped his head back. Edgar winced.
“I work at Saint-Denis,” he answered. “On the stonecutting.”
“I thought all the masons had gone home for the winter,” Roger said.
“Not all,” Edgar said. “There are odd jobs to be done.”
“Like murder?”
The boot jabbed Edgar’s neck. He gave a choked cry, “No!”
“Roger!” Catherine spoke sharply. “If you’re going to question the man, at least let him stand up and face you. Anyway, I thought that interrogation was my brother’s job.”
“Quite right,” Guillaume said. He had almost forgotten. “Here, you. Help the man up; wipe that muck from his face.”
Edgar didn’t look at her as he was set roughly on his feet. Catherine was thinking faster than she ever had before. What should she say? Did he want her to defend him or would that only make things worse? Should she tell them he was from Abelard and under clerical protection? But if he wanted them to know that, wouldn’t he have said so already? If he’d just give her some sign!
“Now then,” Guillaume began. “You say you work at Saint-Denis. You’ve been seen there. Fair enough. That gives no reason for your being at the hermit’s hut.”
Catherine bit her lip. Edgar turned sullen. “I was looking for something,” he muttered. “Aleran said he’d have it for me today. When I got there, he was already dead. I was frightened. I’m a stranger here with few friends. So I ran. But then I came back, hoping he had finished his work for me before he was killed.”
“A clumsy lie!” someone shouted. There were murmurs of agreement. Guillaume gestured silence.
“And what was this thing that was so important that you would brave the face of death to get it?” he asked.
Edgar seemed more embarrassed than afraid. “Just a charm. Probably wouldn’t have worked anyway.”
“I see,” Guillaume said. “What sort of charm?”
Edgar studied the ground. One of the guards nudged him. For a long moment, he didn’t look up. When he did, it wasn’t to face Guillaume, but Catherine. Staring at her pleadingly, he answered.
“I wanted a charm to make a lady fall in love with me.”
“You disgusting bastard,” Roger said calmly and knocked him out.
Agnes climbed into bed next to Catherine, putting her cold feet against her sister’s legs.
“Well, you really can’t blame us all for laughing,” she said again. “It was just so ridiculous, you and that … that man!”
Catherine lay in silence, and finally Agnes gave up. She snuggled down into the quilts, still amused.
“I wonder what he really went there for?” she murmured, but Catherine wouldn’t answer.
Logic, girl, think! Catherine was stiff with the effort. Rhetoric worked beautifully when applied to simple things like the nature of God, but how was one to use it in the chaos of human actions? She took a deep breath.
She had clung to the belief that somehow Aleran had killed Garnulf. Finding that ring in the hut was fair proof that the hermit had something to do with the thefts from the abbey. Garnulf had discovered his complicity and was killed. Of course, it was just possible that the thief had been a follower of the hermit and had given him the ring as payment for some supernatural aid.
But then, who was it? Why had Aleran been killed? Had he found out too much, as Garnulf had? Had he grown too arrogant in his power and tried to threaten an already desperate person? Or perhaps his death had nothing to do with the abbey. Someone’s husband might have discovered the nature of his rituals and decided to find out if Aleran were truly inhuman. And what had happened to the psalter?
Logical arrangement? Faulty. Conclusions? None.
Catherine’s head was aching. She was ashamed to discover that she couldn’t make reasoned hypotheses without drawing on examples from philosophers or the fathers of the Church. And she couldn’t remember anything in Augustine or Jerome that would apply here. They had preferred to deal in abstracts. Now she could see why. Oh, why did nothing make sense? Perhaps she was just too tired.
She rolled to her side. In her sleep, Agnes adjusted, fitting her knees spoon fashion against her sister. Catherine tried to relax, but her mind wouldn’t be still.
Question: “Who is Edgar?
Answer: More than he says. Not just a scholar, wandering from place to place, looking for a good teacher. Where did he learn to chip stone into saints? Garnulf couldn’t have taught him enough. What if he were lying to Abelard, too? What had he been doing in the hermit’s hut, really? Searching for evidence of theft? That wasn’t necessary. She already, had that. Had he taken the psalter? If so, why was he still here? Had she really seen him at Vielleteneuse the day she arrived or had he been part of the nightmare? And why had he told that foolish lie about the love charm? Did he really think anyone would believe that?
And what was happening to him now, down in the prisoner’s hole? What were they doing to him?
Answers: There were no answers—only the color of his eyes.
Catherine decided she was going mad. The only thing to do was to try to sleep. But that seemed as impossible as everything else.
The prisoner’s hole was just that, a pit dug into a corner of the cellar, too deep to climb out of and too small to lie down in. There were Things in it, some of which wriggled. Edgar crouched on the earthen floor and tried not to contemplate them. One of the knights had come down earlier and thrown a bowl of slops on his head. Some of the bits were still edible, once he’d raked them from his hair. In similar circumstances, Boethius had taken the opportunity to write a poem. Edgar only sat and swore.
He had been an idiot. His father, stepmother and brothers had all told him that at one time or another, but this was the first time in his life that he agreed with them. What could have possessed him? Just because Garnulf had left a map and some drawings didn’t automatically mean the hermit was the key to his murder. And, even if he were, Edgar’s only job was to learn what he could and report back to Abelard. He wasn’t equipped to hunt down a murderer. He wasn’t a bailiff. He wasn’t even French. It had nothing to do with him. Why had he been so stupid?
He tried not to think of the way Catherine’s curls escaped from her headdress and made little ringlets on her forehead. He tried. For, of course, that had nothing to do with the problem at hand. But in the blackness of the cell and of despair, there was very little else to see.
Judging by the noise from above, it must be morning. Edgar wondered if they would drag him out soon. He was cold and horribly thirsty. They weren’t done with him yet, he knew it. He was thankful that Catherine’s brother had some sense of justice, but he wasn’t sure how far it could go in controlling the knights.
Oh, Saint Anthony, he thought, please send me something warm to drink
Just then he heard the sound of boots on the stone steps along with suppressed laughter. It came closer to the edge of the hole. Suddenly a shower of warm liquid rained down on him. There was no way to avoid it. The laughter grew louder, then faded as the men went back up to the hall. Edgar sat in the stench, furious. He never would have believed Saint Anthony had such a cruel sense of humor.
It seemed hours before he heard footsteps again, but these were softer, slippered. He tensed. Those who come in secret often mean worse harm than those who stomp about openly. The sun had risen enough that a dim light filtered into the cell
ar over the hole. As the sound grew closer, Edgar looked up at the patch of light. A shape appeared.
“Edgar?”
Holy Mother! What was she doing here?
Catherine leaned over the hole, coughed and pulled back. Well, after all, there was no way for him to get to a privy. She leaned over again.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Alive,” he answered.
“They’re all upstairs now, deciding what to do with you,” she told him.
“Ah, and you came down to be sure that it wasn’t a pointless debate.”
“No, I came to try to find out the truth,” she said quietly. “But I don’t know if you will tell me.”
Edgar closed his eyes and swallowed, fighting down tears. What a place to hear sweet reason, sweetly spoken.
“You know I didn’t kill the hermit,” he said. “Master Abelard told you why I was here.”
“Yes, but you might have your own reasons, too. You might be deceiving him.” She didn’t want to believe it. Please give me a reason to be sure of you, she thought.
“Thank God, logic at last!” Edgar cried. “And no demons in sight.”
It was an odd reassurance, but it was good enough for Catherine.
“You’re right,” he continued. “I might be a criminal of epic proportions, worming my way into people’s confidence so that I can steal and murder at will.”
“It’s more believable than that you’re a poor, ignorant workman hunting for a love charm to make me fall into your arms.”
There was no answer from the hole. Catherine tried to see in. The shape that was Edgar was standing very still.
“I’m sorry.”
He sounded so pathetic. Catherine tried not to be swayed by emotion. But the next question she asked was not what she had meant to say.
“Why didn’t you speak to me in Paris?”
Death Comes As Epiphany: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 15
