Death Comes As Epiphany: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  “What?” Catherine’s head was starting to swim again. “Are you sure he was dead?”

  “Catherine, of course I’m sure,” Marie cried. “I have seen death many times. Even you would have recognized it here. His robes were open and the blood ran all down his body. But he was still glaring at me. I thought he might reach out from Hell and snatch me. That’s why I ran.

  “Find the paper,” she continued. “Do that and I’ll give you anything you like. But if you betray me, I’ll see that lowborn lover of yours left hanging for the crows.”

  “Marie?” Catherine didn’t know this woman. “I promised. I don’t break faith.”

  Marie’s hands slowly unclenched.

  “I’m sorry. I believe you. Go on. Your father said to hurry.” She fumbled with her keys, becoming once more the chatelaine of a castle. “I must see to dinner. The bread has been too sour the past few nights.”

  Catherine went, marveling at the hidden side of her sister-in-law. She never would have imagined it. How many other people had she underestimated?

  The biting cold of the wind in the courtyard restored her somewhat, but she was still rattled by Marie’s confession. Roger noticed her trembling as he lifted her up behind Hubert.

  “You really aren’t well yet,” he said. “You should stay here.”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted. “I’m sorry I took so long, Father. If I can be of any use in this, I want to help. Let’s go.”

  During the short ride, she clung to her father and tried to keep her mind empty. She did not want to remember Marie or anticipate what she would find. But like a rat gnawing at the woodwork, the question remained: if Marie had given her ring to Aleran, how did Roger get it?

  They had to climb to the hut on foot, Roger muttering all the way about the folly of inflicting Catherine with this ordeal. The path was icy and nearly impossible to negotiate. Long before they reached the top, Catherine had begun to agree with him.

  The blanket doorway was gone and the opening to the hut gaped dark as the mouth of Leviathan. It was only her worry for Edgar and Marie that forced Catherine to enter.

  Hubert looked in. “Not enough room in there for more than two,” he said. “Roger, go back and keep watch.”

  “Watch! For what?” Roger said.

  “Brigands, bears, behemoths … I don’t know,” Hubert snapped. “Just keep your eyes open.”

  He entered the dark hole and Catherine followed. She moved away from the opening to let in the light and her leg brushed against the pile of bracken. She wondered if that was where the body had fallen. She tried not to think of it but then an even worse picture came to her—one of the hermit, very much alive, and Marie. There was still a faint scent of incense in the air that made her face flush and her heart race. He had been evil and so beautiful. She wondered what it had been like and hated herself for wondering.

  Hubert sniffed the air.

  “There is a flavor of spiritus malignus in here, daughter.” He crushed some of the hanging branches in his hands. “I know these herbs. Some cure, but others … Look here, dittany and sandalwood. Those are burnt to call up demons and there is devil’s string, to give power to the weak.”

  “Father,” Catherine said, “how do you know what these are for?”

  He stopped in the middle of examining a box full of bags of powders.

  “I’ve seen many strange things in my life, Catherine,” he said. “In my business, I meet and deal with people I would not want near you. This is horrible! Caraway, deer’s-tongue, witchgrass, nettle; all of these brewed to promote lust and fornication.”

  He put the box down and rummaged through the rest of the things scattered about the hut. Catherine watched him uneasily.

  “Father,” she asked finally, “what are you looking for?”

  He opened another box. “I knew it. Mistletoe. Pagan rites. There’s no doubt about it. Whoever he was, the man trafficked in the most pernicious magic.”

  “Was this what you expected to find?” she asked again.

  “I wasn’t sure.” He looked at her piercingly. “There were only rumors. What did you expect us to find, Catherine? What was the prisoner really looking for? What have you to do with this?”

  “Father! Was that why you brought me here?”

  “Answer me, daughter.”

  Catherine looked around. There was no psalter here, no papers. Except for the boxes of herbs and a few cups and clay bowls, the hut was empty.

  “I can’t tell you,” she answered. “I swore not to. But I promise you I have done nothing to endanger my immortal soul.”

  Hubert picked up one of the clay cups and smashed it against the wall. “And what about your mortal body, girl! Have you thought of that? Saint Lawrence’s gridiron, Catherine! What do you think you’re playing at? The world is not a cloister, where everyone sits and worries about what God will think. It’s full of traps and snares and people who wear a different face every day. Let the priest bother about your soul. Go back to where that is the only fear. You don’t belong out here! You’ve been to this hut before, haven’t you?”

  Stunned, Catherine could only nod.

  “I don’t know what you and that scholastic abbess of yours are up to, Catherine, but I won’t have you risking your life. I’m taking this evidence to Abbot Suger. He may want to investigate. You are going back to the castle with Roger. And as soon as Christmas is over, you’re going back to the convent.”

  This finally galvanized her. She grabbed Hubert’s hands and made him look at her.

  “I’ve done nothing but seek the truth, Father. You must tell it to me. What did you expect to find here? You aren’t just upset by these herbs, you’re surprised. What did you think Aleran was doing? What has he to do with you?”

  He broke out of her grip with a snap that twisted her injured hand. She cried out and lifted it to shield her face. Furious, Hubert raised his fist. Catherine tensed herself, her eyes wide with fear.

  “Adonail” he cried and gathered her into his arms. “My mother looked just so, when they killed her. Oh, Catherine! I won’t have you destroyed, too.”

  She let him hold her, but she was more afraid now than ever. What she had thought was a simple adventure, a brief respite from the discipline of the convent, had become a labyrinthine journey through a land where nothing was familiar. She had thought she knew her father, Marie, Agnes, Roger. But they all had secrets, lives she had never imagined. In all of this, where could she find certainty?

  Numbly, Catherine slid down the path and let Roger lift her onto his horse. She felt the solid warmth of his body and clung to it as if she might be suddenly blown away. She had to know, before even this solid hold was broken. She had to ask him.

  “Take her home, Roger,” Hubert ordered. “I own you were right. This is not a place for Catherine. I’ll stay at the abbey tonight. A bad business. A very bad piece of business.”

  As they rode back Roger asked, “What was in there, Catte? I’ve never seen your father so upset.”

  Catherine shook her head. “I don’t know, Uncle. Everything was broken and tossed about. Roger, do you remember when Agnes took your ring and threw it into the mortar at the abbey?”

  “Are you still bothering about that?” He laughed.

  “Just tell me, please, who was the lady who gave it to you?” Catherine asked.

  Roger grinned and spurred the horse to a trot that made Catherine’s teeth chatter. “An odd question from a woman who wants to marry God,” he said. “Are you jealous, ma douce? You needn’t be. No woman gave it to me.”

  “What! Roger, where did you get it?”

  “All right. You needn’t worry so. I didn’t steal it, either. If you must know, I won it at dice.”

  “From whom?”

  “Why? Are you going to name the poor sinner in your prayers?” He sounded annoyed. “I don’t remember. It was in the pile and I collected. I know gambling offends you, but it was a harmless game to pass the time; that’s all. Are you sat
isfied?”

  “Yes, Uncle,” she answered and said no more.

  He’s lying, her voices announced.

  She knew and it frightened her more than anything yet.

  Fourteen

  The castle, that night

  They [the nuns] must rise at midnight for the Night Office … and so they must retire to bed early, so that their weak nature can sustain these vigils … .

  —Peter Abelard The Letters of Direction

  Catherine lay staring into the dark. Except for the guards, everyone else in the castle should have been sleeping. Next to her, Agnes gave a buzzing snore and rolled over, flopping one arm across Catherine’s chest. From the other beds came equally somnolent sounds. But Catherine was sure that Marie, at least, was still awake.

  “Not there?” she had repeated. “Are you certain? What could have happened to it?”

  They had been standing in the passage outside the upper kitchen. Servants carrying the dinner trays had been forced to edge around them. Marie leaned against the wall. Catherine had feared she would faint.

  “All I know,” she said, “is that the only boxes left in the hut contained nothing but dried herbs and powders. All the others were gone.”

  Marie had cradled her arm protectively across her stomach. “The one who killed Aleran has the contract now,” she had said. “So someone else knows. There is no hope left.”

  Slowly, Marie had come to herself and her duties, but Catherine could feel the despair that lay underneath the calm. She only hoped that her sister-in-law could maintain that calm and keep silent. A hysterical confession would help no one.

  Especially your scholarly stonecutter spy, her conscience mocked. He has lots of secrets. But you seem more concerned about him than about Marie, or about finding the truth. Are you sure he didn’t kill Aleran? yes, Catherine told herself firmly.

  Of course, the voices replied. And by what clear syntagma did you arrive at that conclusion? He’s lied to you ever since you met him. He might have lied to Garnulf, to Abelard as well.

  Catherine put her hand to her forehead, pushing against the thoughts which continued their insinuations.

  Do you know what you’ve done, Catherine Le Vendeur? they said. You’ve made a judgment based on belief alone. Interesting, isn’t it? God must prove He exists, but Edgar you take on faith. Think about it, Catherine. Think. What kind of scholar are you?

  She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to answer demons in her head. There seemed to be more than enough of them wandering her world as it was. She pressed her face against the space where the wall hangings did not quite meet and the cool air blew in from the stones.

  “ … addled them all with his spells,” someone said against her ear.

  She pulled her head back with a gasp. She had gotten used to voices in her mind a long time ago, but voices coming out of the wall … no, that was too much. It was unfair. She buried her head in the pillow, but soon curiosity made her uncover her face and lean again toward the thick stones.

  “ … convince them … free to work his evil again … must take action …” It was a man’s voice, she thought, muffled, then clearer, then gone and back again. Whom was he talking about, Aleran? But he was no longer a danger to anyone. She strained to catch more. The bits she heard were tantalizing. “ … at the end of … watch … down there … get Sigebert. You two get … I’ll be waiting at … Understand?”

  NO! Catherine wanted to shout. The temptation was so strong that she nearly did but was stopped by the realization that she would then have to explain to the rest of the women in the room why she was talking to the wall. She moved aside the hanging and pressed her face against the icy stone.

  “ … do with the body.” Whose body? What body?

  “ … in the woods, idiot!” There were definitely at least two people speaking. Catherine made the sign of the cross. She hoped they were people. There was another mumbled question, fading, then growing again as the other man answered.

  “Don’t be fancy. Just drag him out of the hole, gut him and dump the body.”

  “But what if he …”

  The voices faded again. But now Catherine realized where they were coming from. Among the drainage pipes in the castle were several placed in niches of the guard tower so that no one might plead that an enemy had arrived unseen while the watchman was answering a call of nature. The pipes ran all through the walls and emptied into a culvert leading to the river. Like the noise of the boys in the latrines, the sound of the guards was being carried down through the pipes, growing and receding as the men paced the circuit of the tower.

  They were human voices. There were no demons. Except, Catherine amended, in their hearts.

  Someone was plotting with the guards to kill Edgar.

  The meeting seemed to be over. Catherine heard no more. She dropped the thick fabric back into place. When would they do it? How far were they into the watch? There was no way of knowing. The rest of the castle went to bed soon after dark, as soon as Vespers ended in cold midwinter. It could be midnight or nearly dawn. She eased out from under the covers and crawled to the foot of the bed. The time didn’t matter. If she did nothing, Edgar would be dead by morning. She leaned over the edge and groped for her slippers. Agnes stirred as Catherine climbed over her.

  “Catherine?” she mumbled. “What are you doing?”

  “Matins,” she answered. Holy Mother, forgive me, she thought.

  “Hurry back; I’m cold.” Agnes burrowed under the blanket and vanished.

  The passageways were full of shadows as she slunk through. At any moment one might uncoil and become human or worse. Catherine averted her eyes from them and entered the upper hall, stepping carefully around the assortment of beds, out to the landing, then felt her way down the stair, past the chapel, down to the lower hall. The single torch burning there glared at her in accusation. Anyone looking up from their pallet in the hall would see her. And what excuse could she give for being down here? She bent her head and rushed through it and on down to the cell.

  She tripped on the last step and landed stumbling across the stones, almost to the dark opening in the floor. As she frantically sought to right herself, she bumped against the ladder, sending it over with a crash that rattled her bones and froze her heart.

  In the terrified silence that followed Catherine heard a weary voice from the pit.

  “Now what?” it asked.

  “It’s Catherine,” she whispered.

  “Somehow, I guessed that,” Edgar answered.

  “I found the ladder,” she told him.

  “So that’s what you were doing,” he said. “I was wondering.”

  “I’ve got to get you out of here.” She began dragging the ladder toward the hole. “I’ll lower this down so that you can climb out.”

  It was heavy wood. She reached the edge of the hole and tried to tip the ladder in.

  “Watch out!” Edgar hissed. “You nearly put my eye out. All right. I’ve got it. Now, why am I escaping in the middle of the night?”

  “They’re coming to kill you as soon as the watch is over,” Catherine said.

  “Judas’s blazing balls, woman! Why didn’t you say so at once?” The next thing she knew, he was sitting next to her, pulling the ladder up behind him. “How do I get out of here?”

  “We’ve got to try to get upstairs to the chapel,” she answered. “The portcullis is down for the night and the windows in all the other rooms are shuttered and barred, except for the one in the chapel. If you can fit through it, I can lower you down with a rope.”

  “Do we have a rope?”

  “Well …” Catherine got up on her hands and knees and began feeling her way across the floor. “There should be one on a hook by the well here.”

  “Ah, yes.” Edgar placed one hand on the hem of her skirts and followed. “A kind but very nervous woman lowered a bucket down to me for washing and so forth this afternoon. The rope she used must be around here somewhere.”

&n
bsp; “I thought you smelled better,” Catherine said. “That was Marie, Guillaume’s wife.”

  “And she helped me, a murderer?”

  “I’ll explain later. I’ve found it. Now, let go of my skirt; I’m going to stand. Follow me closely and keep quiet.”

  “I live to serve, my lady,” Edgar said, hoping he would continue to do so.

  Catherine gave him a contemptuous glance, which was wasted in the darkness.

  They crept back up the stairs, every rustle they made sounding in their ears like an alarm. But no one challenged them. The porter slept at his post, the watch still kept vigil in the turrets. Both Catherine and Edgar were shaking by the time they arrived at the chapel, a room on its own level between the lower and upper halls. The eternal lamp shed a soft, red glow from the alcove containing the altar.

  Edgar surveyed the room. He frowned.

  “There’s nothing to tie the rope to,” he said.

  “Yes, there is,” Catherine said. “Me. We’ll wrap one end around my waist and I’ll brace my feet against the wall below the window.”

  “You’re not strong enough,” he insisted. “You’ll drop me.”

  “Saint Catherine will give me the strength I need,” she assured him. “Please, we must hurry.”

  “Put your arms around me,” Edgar said.

  He held his out to her. Without hesitation, Catherine went to them, holding him as tightly as she could. She felt crushed by the force that was drawing them together, greater than any they could individually create.

  “You’ll get away, I know it,” she whispered into his ear. “I’ll pray for you every moment.”

  He loosed her a little, without letting go, and smiled.

  “I remember now, how strong you are. I will let you hold my life,” he said.

  Catherine felt her mouth go dry. She could feel his heart hammering against her breast. His breathing was quick, too. He must be even more afraid than she.