Death Comes As Epiphany: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  “Good. Help me tie the rope,” she said. “And quietly! Father Anselm is asleep just down that passage.”

  She raised her arms so he could loop the rope twice about her waist and knot it firmly. At the other end of it, he made a smaller loop for his arm. Then he moved a bench under the window. He measured with his eyes.

  “Can you make it?” she asked.

  “I have to,” he answered.

  He put one foot up, then turned back.

  “Catherine? Why are you doing this?”

  She hadn’t realized before how vulnerable he looked, thin and pale and ragged.

  “I’ve gone mad, I think,” she answered. “Oh, please go, Edgar, before someone comes!”

  He nodded, took a deep breath and climbed up to the window.

  It was so narrow that he had to go through it head first, then one arm, shoulder, chest, other arm, hand gripping the rope, sliding down slowly, hips, legs. As his feet left the bench, Catherine pushed it aside, cringing at the scrape of wood on stone. Then she positioned herself as firmly as she could and gradually let the rope out.

  His feet disappeared and there was a sudden jolt that slammed Catherine against the wall. Her arms were strained above her head but she held on.

  The rope was still taut. He must be hanging now, feet downward. Catherine leaned back, braced her feet against the wall and continued to ease the rope through her fingers.

  “Aie … !” The fibers dug into her palms like thorns. She had forgotten how sensitive her right hand still was. He was so heavy! Oh, God, what if the rope isn’t long enough? What if I let him fall?

  Her hands, her arms ached so. Her toes in the soft slippers were crushed into the stone. She mustn’t let go, but it hurt so much!

  “Oh, Lord, dear Lord!” she began, the words pouring from her memory. “If Thou art not here, where shall I seek Thee? Surely Thou dwellest in light inaccessible. When wilt Thou enlighten my eyes?”

  It was Saint Anselm’s prayer, the one which began his argument to prove the existence of God. But Anselm already believed and only begged God to give him understanding.

  “Dear God,” Catherine prayed as the length of rope shortened and the weight pulling on her grew. “Send me understanding in order that I may believe. Make the darkness light. Don’t let me let go. Please, let me be right about Edgar. He wouldn’t murder. I won’t believe that. He must be saved. Please save us both, Lord. Please.”

  The rope was getting slippery. Was it sweat or blood?

  “Send me strength, Lord, to save him as you were once saved from Herod. Don’t let Edgar be slaughtered as were the poor babies of Israel. I know. I trust. He is as innocent as they. Please, put courage into me. I am holding his life, Lord. He gave it to me. Don’t let me fail!”

  Over and over she pleaded as the coarse rope inched through her hands, taking her skin with it. Then she came to the end. The last bit of slack curled up from the floor and out the window. The length around her waist began to tighten, cutting off her breath. Her feet started to slip.

  When, all at once, the tension was broken and she fell in a heap.

  Scrambling up, she pulled the rope back in. The other end slid through the window, the loop still in place. Catherine pushed the bench back and stood on it, trying to see straight down outside, but it was impossible. Had he fallen or dropped safely? There had been no cry. She must believe him safe.

  A clank of metal, boots thumping on the stair. The watch was changing. The guards would go down to the pit now and find him gone. They couldn’t. He needed more time to get away. She had to stop them. But how?

  Quickly, Catherine stepped out of the noose and bundled the rope out of sight behind the altar. Then she moved to the center of the room and began to scream.

  The result was all she could have desired. The clatter on the steps changed direction at once and headed for her. From both halls came the frightened, confused calls of people wakened suddenly.

  As they rushed into the chapel, she threw herself to the floor and began thrashing about, never ceasing her piercing wail.

  “Baruch atta elohenu haolam!” she shrieked. “Ma nishtanah halayla hazeh mikol halayot!”

  She wished Solomon had taught her more words.

  “Catherine!” “Lady Catherine!” “What is it?” “Do something, someone!” “More light, bring more torches!” “What’s wrong with her?”

  Father Anselm hurried in, wearing only his braies, trying to slip his chainse over his head. He shoved his way into the crowd that had gathered around Catherine.

  “She’s possessed!” someone cried and the people moved back a bit.

  “No!” someone else shouted. “An angel is speaking through her. Listen, the tongue of heaven, I’m sure of it. And look, look at her hands!”

  One of the guards caught hold of Catherine’s wrist and held it still. In the erratic torch flicker all could see the deep red gashes across her palm. There was a collective gasp and then a hush.

  “Sweet Jesus!” Roger entered just in time to have impressed upon his mind forever an image of the chapel full of half-clad people kneeling in reverence before his niece.

  “Stigmata,” Father Anselm announced. “Our dear Lady Catherine, so recently spared by Our Lord’s mercy, has been given a further sign of her sanctity.”

  Catherine went limp, partly from exhaustion but mostly from shame. Her plan was working far better than she had hoped. This was not a diversion; it was rank blasphemy! She expected any moment to be shriveled to a cinder for her crime.

  Madeleine wafted in, not quite awake. “What is it now? You’re all desecrating the chapel, half dressed, screeching like chickens. For shame! What is the matter with you?”

  She was answered by a hysterical babble. Everyone pointed at Catherine.

  Madeleine approached her with distaste. Father Anselm lifted Catherine’s limp hands and showed her the wounds. She gaped a second, then fell to her knees and crossed herself, sobbing.

  “It’s a sign,” she breathed. “I’ve finally been forgiven. Oh, Holy Mother! Now I can die in grace. Look, everyone. God has accepted my offering at last.”

  Roger eased her away from Catherine, who felt uncomfortably like a lamb laid upon the altar. Others were still kneeling on the cold stone, waiting for a pronouncement.

  Catherine fluttered her eyelids. She opened her eyes and slowly sat up. This must have bought Edgar enough time. The guards could hardly go down and take him from the prison hole with everyone awake. She sighed and moaned lightly as she leaned on Marie’s shoulder.

  “What’s happening?” she asked sleepily. “I came down to recite Matins. Have you all come to join me? Why are you all awake?”

  “A miracle,” Marie told her flatly. “You’ve been visited by a divine spirit. Are you back with us now, Catherine dear?”

  “Back? Yes, of course. A spirit? I don’t remember a thing,” Catherine said faintly. “I must rest a moment. I feel so dizzy.”

  “Let me carry you back to your room,” Roger offered, holding out his arms to her.

  Catherine shook her head, smiling wanly. “No, please don’t bother. Just give me a few minutes alone. I’m overcome with all these people.”

  “I’ll stay with you,” Marie said. “I’ll help you back up.”

  “Thank you.” Catherine pressed Marie’s hand and winced.

  Since nothing more seemed about to happen, the inhabitants of the castle returned to their beds, except for the kitchen workers, who realized with chagrin that it was nearly time to start the fires for the day. Marie and Catherine waited in silence until the last one had gone.

  “Shall I order your halo and crown tomorrow, or will Saint Michael the Archangel deliver them in person?” Marie asked.

  Catherine jumped up.

  “Help me wash and bind my hands,” she said. “For the things I’ve done tonight, I ought to walk barefoot from here to Jerusalem and back.”

  “Isn’t it strange that we do such things for love and God all
ows it?” Marie commented, adding, “When these burns are cleaned, you go back up to your room. I’ll return the rope on my way down to supervise the morning’s work. Where did you hide it?”

  Catherine gaped at her sister-in-law. Marie shrugged.

  “I know what rope burns look like, Catherine,” she said. “I won’t ask how you got them or act less than surprised when it’s found the prisoner has escaped. I’m not about to judge you, as long as you give me the same respect.”

  “You would have my respect in any case, Marie,” Catherine said. “Are you sure you never studied Plato?”

  Marie helped Catherine over to the sink next to the altar where the instruments of the Mass were washed. There was still some water in it, mixed with vinegar.

  “This will hurt,” Marie said.

  It did.

  Catherine clenched her teeth against the pain. Marie wiped the wounds as gently as she could to get out the blood and bits of hemp, but it was a long, hideous process. Some of the fiber had been ground in far beneath the skin. Finally, she bound up Catherine’s hands with soft linen.

  “I must do a Gratia before I go,” Catherine said.

  Marie nodded. “And an Act of Contrition.”

  They knelt before the altar.

  “My Lord, Lady Mother, Saint Catherine, thank you,” Catherine prayed.

  As she did, she began to cry, the tears flowing with no effort or restraint. Pain, relief, exhaustion; it was natural, she told herself as the drops ran down her cheeks and fell from her chin. Marie knelt next to her and, leaning over, wiped Catherine’s face with the sleeve of her robe.

  “It’s all right now, Catherine,” she said. “He’s got away safe and you kept your promise to me. You’ve done all you can. It’s all over.”

  But Catherine knew better. It would never be over. She felt it, stronger than the agony in her hands or her worry about the psalter. She realized with horror the real reason for her tears. Edgar had trusted her with his life and she had accepted the trust. Whatever he was, wherever he was, she knew that she held his life still and was terribly afraid that she always would.

  Fifteen

  The fields outside the castle, sometime near dawn

  The demons shouted, ‘ … Here is the fire, enkindled by your sins and it is ready now to consume you. Look how the portals of Erebus gape open for you, spewing fire from yawning fissures. See how the bowels of Styx churn with desire to devour you, and how the swirling gulfs of Acheron stretch wide their dreadful jaws’ … . But the hero of God despised them all.

  —Felix Life of Saint Guthlac

  When the length of rope ran out, it took Edgar a hen the length of rope ran out, it took Edgar a moment to realize it. He tugged, but there was no response. He felt about with his feet but found nothing but smooth wall and air. He tried to twist around to see how far he had to fall, but his position, with both arms over his head, facing the wall, made it difficult.

  He ought to have been grateful that his choices were limited. But, like Catherine, Edgar was discovering that clear-cut solutions were not as pleasant in life as they were in philosophy. It was something his father had often pointed out to him. He had not been receptive at the time. He was sorry that the old man wasn’t there to apologize to. Now, he might never know. Edgar took the only choice. He closed his eyes, commended his soul to God, and let go the rope.

  And dropped gently three feet into a pile of hay.

  As he rolled down to the ground and set off at a run across the courtyard, Edgar piously compiled a list of saints to whom he must light candles of thanksgiving as soon as he had a minute.

  He had instinctively headed for the woods, a hunted animal seeking cover. All at once he realized that, in the snowy field, his trail would be spotted at once. He stopped, then veered to the right, trying to step in places already disturbed. The road was the safest way to keep from being tracked, even though he felt terribly exposed on it. But there his footprints would blend in with hundreds of others and be lost.

  He looked over his shoulder at the castle as he went and noticed with alarm that there already seemed to be some commotion there. Torches flared and moved from window to window; he could hear shouting. Had his escape been discovered so soon?

  No. The lights were meeting at the chapel. They would find Catherine! He took a step back. What would they do to her? He had to … had to … do what? Had he a sword? No. Did he know how to use one? Not really. He didn’t even have a way to get back into the keep. What he had to do was get away as quickly as he could so that whatever brilliant diversion Catherine had managed wouldn’t be wasted.

  “Oh, please, Catherine, be safe,” he whispered and set off down the road away from the castle and the sleeping village.

  His body kept up a steady pace but his mind was still on Catherine. She was the strangest, most confusing person he had ever met. She could converse with him logically, in carefully phrased Latin, with quotes, if necessary. She followed an argument to the conclusion and faced it without flinching. She seemed able to trip over anything, even her own feet. Her fingers were always ink-stained, as were her clothes. If she had been a boy, she would have been no different from a hundred other students in Paris. Such attributes were unnatural and unpleasant in a woman.

  So why wasn’t he repelled by her? Why did he feel so desperately that she needed his protection? And why, when they had stood together in the chapel, had he felt such desire for her? He suspected that, if he had stayed another minute, he would have defied common sense and survival and committed sacrilege with her right there in front of the altar.

  Even as he rubbed at the worsening stitch in his side, Edgar gave a short laugh. Perhaps it was a test. Catherine might well be a clumsy, blue-eyed temptation set on him by Satan. If so, he thought it likely that he was well on his way to damnation.

  In that case, it was even more essential to delay the final reckoning. Edgar hunted for a trail, any path that would lead him safely to the river and then upstream to Paris. Once more an anonymous student, he could hide forever. They would be looking for a workman. Even if someone saw him, it was unlikely they would associate him with the apprentice stone carver at Saint-Denis.

  Or perhaps he should just head north and go home. There he’d be so far from the civilized world that even the devil would have a hard time finding him.

  But that journey seemed even bleaker now. At home there were no black-haired, blue-eyed paradoxes to confuse him. He went south. But, on his way, he had a stop to make.

  It was nearly dawn when he arrived at Saint-Denis. The choir monks had already begun singing Lauds. Edgar listened with a lump in his throat. Whatever else one said about Abbot Suger, he knew how to make every aspect of worship beautiful. There wasn’t a ragged voice among them. Edgar hoped that the more unmusical of the monks were at least in the church engaged in silent prayer.

  He slipped into the abbot’s rooms and up the stairs to the library. Catherine had said the book was gone, but he had to make sure. He pushed open the door.

  “Boy! What are you doing here?”

  Edgar jumped, his skin a fraction behind. “S-s-sorry, s-s-sir,” he said. “Prior Herveus sent me up for … for …”

  The precentor closed the book he was reading and picked it up, holding his place with his finger. Carrying it shieldlike before him, he advanced upon Edgar.

  “Prior Herveus is in bed with ague. He hasn’t been lucid for the past two days.” He peered closer. “I don’t know you. You’re not a monk. You’re a thief. THIEF!” he cried, shoving the book inside his robe. “He sent you, didn’t he! Servant of hell! It’s too late! THIEF!” he shrieked again.

  Edgar didn’t think he had any energy left to run. He was wrong. Through the sleeping streets of Saint-Denis he raced. No one followed him, but he still ran. He had to get to Paris at once.

  For the book Brother Leitbert had been reading was Catherine’s psalter.

  When Hubert arrived at Vielleteneuse the next day, he immediately wished he
had stayed at Saint-Denis. The confusion in the keep was nothing short of pandemonium. From the moment he entered the courtyard he was besieged by people wanting to be the first to tell him the news.

  “Horrible dark beasts there were, Lord, roaming up and down the halls all night!” the stable boy announced. “Thumps and hangings from all over.”

  He was pushed away by the porter, who insisted he had never shut his eyes the whole night. “But what could I do against the servants of the Evil One, sir? I’m only a man, after all.”

  Hubert was more than willing to concede that, when one of the guards chimed in.

  “Swords are no use against them. We tried. Sir Sigebert attacked one all on his own and the blade passed right through, with a hissing sound, like hot fat. There was no opposing them.”

  Adulf rushed up to take his master’s cloak and gloves.

  “I was asleep, sir, and no one told me. I meant to protect her better. I’m sorry!” he pleaded.

  “She’s the only one who could’ve gone against the aversier, though,” the guard added. “But they took her prisoner all the same, even with all that power of God pouring through her.”

  “Who knows what might have happened if she hadn’t been here?” The porter shivered and blessed himself. “No one but Lady Catherine …”

  “Catherine! Christ’s Blood! What’s she done now?”

  That brought a further tumult. It was some time before Hubert was able to piece together enough to realize what had happened.

  “Where is my son?” he asked. “I want to speak to him at once.”

  “Lord Guillaume has gone with Sir Roger and his men to search the woods for some trace of the prisoner,” the porter answered. “They won’t be able to find him, though.”

  “What the devil hides, the eyes of man can’t see,” the guard intoned. “If it had been otherwise, he never would’ve got past us.”

  Hubert had to endure many more such tales and protestations before he finally pushed through the crowd and made his way up to the women’s room, where Catherine was ungraciously holding court. She reached out her arms to Hubert, shaking off the maid who was trying to snip a piece of the bandage from her hand for a souvenir.