“Take care, cousin.” Catherine put her hand on his arm. “Thank you.”
“If I don’t return by morning,” Solomon said, “follow that tunnel. It will bring you up in the bakehouse of Baruch ben Judah.”
“How will we know when it’s morning?” Catherine asked.
“You’ll hear it,” Solomon answered.
“Thank you, Solomon.” Edgar shook his hand. “I’ll see that Catherine gets to safety.”
“The candle doesn’t have much power down here, does it?” Catherine said after Solomon had gone. “The dark is so thick.”
“There’s nothing to see, anyway,” Edgar said.
He spread out the blankets on one of the wooden boxes.
“I wonder where we are,” he said.
“Solomon said we’d hear the morning, but all I can hear is the river and that humming.” Catherine rubbed her ears with her bandages.
Edgar listened. “That sounds like chanting to me.”
Suddenly, he began to laugh. “That’s brilliant! The safest possible place!”
“What is it?” Catherine asked. “Where are we?”
“At a guess, I’d say we’re just about directly under the choir of the church of Saint-Christophe.”
“Then that must be …” Catherine couldn’t make out words, but the pattern was imprinted in her memory. “Goodness, I didn’t realize it was Vespers already.”
“It comes earlier in the winter,” Edgar said. “Do you feel better now, knowing you’ve a church over your head?”
Catherine sat on the blanket and curled her feet under her.
“No,” she said. “I feel better knowing you’re here with me.”
He carefully balanced the candle in a dish and then came and sat beside her. The boxes were stacked close together, forming an area about the size of a narrow bed. Edgar swallowed and tried to think of something neutral to say.
Catherine watched the candle flicker. It seemed so small and brave in the dark cavern.
“Are you warm enough?” she asked Edgar.
“At the moment, even a bit too warm,” he answered. “Are you all right? You’ve been through so much. I can’t help but feel responsible.”
“Then I should feel the same. It was because of me that you had to stay in the prisoner’s hole. It was my duty to release you.”
“Are we then responsible for each other?” he asked.
She nodded.
The air about them was alive. Catherine felt sparks in it. Her skin tingled and her heart beat faster. One of her braids fell across her shoulder. The tie had fallen off and the end of it was unraveling.
“Do you mind,” she asked, “that Solomon is my cousin?”
“No,” Edgar said.
It didn’t matter to him. His father might be somewhat chagrined and his sainted great-aunt Margaret would probably stop interceding for him in heaven, but Edgar was too far gone to let mere infidel relatives change his feelings about Catherine.
He stroked the curls at the end of the braid. They bent around his fingers. Slowly, very slowly, Edgar began unweaving Catherine’s hair. She watched as his fingers slid between the plaits, loosening and freeing them. Her hair fell past her waist and it took a long time as he carefully worked his way up. As it came undone, the curls spread and flowed, catching at his sleeve, covering her gown.
His hands brushed her ear as he finished the left side. She didn’t move. He kept his eyes on his work. She turned her head so that the right braid curved over her shoulder. With deliberate care, he drew it from behind her back, slipped off the tie and, starting from her lap, released it, too.
Catherine remained motionless, her breathing shallow. When he had finished with both braids, Edgar placed his hands on either side of her face and drew his fingers through her liberated curls. He stopped at her shoulders, his hands trapped among the thick tangles.
He looked into her eyes. The candlelight sent shadows across their faces. His hands still full of her hair, he drew his thumbs along the curve of her chin. She felt his breath in short gusts against her lips. He moved an inch forward and kissed her.
In her lap, her hands spread wide, her mind resisting her need to touch him.
He moved away a fraction, still cupping her face in his hands.
“Before God and all the angels, Catherine LeVendeur, I love you,” he said.
Now was the time for logic, for reason, for sanity.
“Before God and all the angels, Edgar, I love you,” she answered and released her hands to go where they would.
When Solomon came down to fetch them, hours later, the candle had gone out. He found them, fast asleep, Edgar’s head on Catherine’s breast, the two of them blanketed in her hair.
Twenty
Paris, the catacombs under the city, just after Lauds, Wednesday, December 27, 1139, the feast of Saint John the Evangelist
For nothing is less under control than the heart—having no power to command it, we are forced to obey.
—Héloïse to Abelard
“We weren’t able to get out last night to get the message to your father,” Solomon told them. “It was almost dawn before the streets were finally clear. Do you need some help, cousin?”
“No,” Catherine said quickly. She was trying to braid her hair and it refused to lie still. She didn’t look at Edgar. It was morning now. Perhaps he was already regretting what he had said in the night.
Edgar stood to one side, feeling out of place. All the things he had been feeling—he should have known they would come out eventually. It had been apparent to anyone who had seen them together. And now what? Her family expected her to return to the convent and pray for their souls. His family expected him to become abbot at the family monastery or, failing that, Bishop of Edinburgh. Bringing home a French bride was not among the orders his father had given.
But he couldn’t imagine going home—or anywhere else——without her.
Solomon gathered up the rumpled blankets. He made no comment on their state.
“I’ll go to your father this morning, Catherine,” he said. “We’ll take care of everything.”
Both Catherine and Edgar opened their mouths in protest. Solomon covered his ears.
“I have my orders,” he said. “Catherine stays here. Edgar, your friend, John, was by at first light. He says he’s glad you’re all right, and that Master Abelard wishes to see you.”
“What about me?” Catherine asked.
“He said nothing about you,” Solomon said. “Perhaps, like us, he thinks you’ve already been through enough.”
Catherine pressed her lips together firmly and gave a hard tug on the braid she had just finished. Edgar took her hands.
“I will go and find out what the Master wants and return at once,” he said. “I promise.”
Reluctantly, she agreed to wait.
“I didn’t intend to start a riot, Hubert!” Roger insisted. “I only wanted help in finding Catherine. The fires were an accident.”
“You didn’t find her anyway, did you?” Hubert said. “I’ll bet she’s on the road to the Paraclete, after all.”
“No,” Roger said. “That murderer was seen here in Paris. Evard du Cochon Bleu recognized him in the student quarter two days ago, still wearing the clothes we captured him in. Catherine is here, too. I’m sure of it.”
“Well, I’m not relying on your judgment to find her!” Hubert exploded. “If she were there, she could have been killed in that mess. Did you stop to think about her safety? You’re just lucky the bishop hasn’t traced this to you. Now, get out of the city before he finds out! Go back to the castle and see if Guillaume has found her. Then meet me at Saint-Denis.”
Roger stiffened. “I’m not a serf, Hubert. No man has the right to order me in that way.”
Hubert glared at him a moment, then reconsidered.
“You’re right,” he said. “Forgive me. I am half-sick with worry.”
Roger slumped onto the bench before the kitchen fire. �
�Yes, so am I,” he said. “She must be found soon, or I’ll go mad, too. Don’t ask me to go back to Vielleteneuse. I must keep searching here.”
“Very well,” Hubert sighed. “But please use more discretion this time!”
He sat for a while before the fire after Roger had gone. He had done what he could. His messengers were scouring the area. He was in the house in case she returned. He had to force his thoughts from her. No matter what had happened to his daughter, there was still business which must be attended to. He rubbed his cheek. It had been a week since he last shaved. A pity beards weren’t fashionable in Paris anymore. He pulled himself up. He was exhausted. He wished he could expend his energy racing around like Roger in futile searching. Waiting was infinitely harder.
There was a knock at the door. Slowly, Hubert went to open it.
“Shalom, Hubert,” Eliazar said.
Hubert pulled him in and shut the door, then hugged him.
“Shalom, brother,” he said. “Any news?”
“She came to me.” Eliazar’s voice choked. “When she needed help most, she came to me. And, Hubert, she knew me and did not deny our connection. Catherine knows and she isn’t ashamed.”
Hubert reached for his cloak.
“Take me to her,” he said, with tears in his eyes.
John let Edgar in through the back entry.
“The Master was wonderful!” he said. “Those oafs couldn’t fit two words together to refute him. He had them offering to sweep up the mud they had tracked in before they left.”
Edgar was doubtful. John was known for embellishing his stories. Edgar suspected he was more Celt than Norman.
“They didn’t find the psalter, did they?” he asked.
“Why should they?” John said. “They were looking for a girl, not a book. Ah, yes, but that’s what Master Abelard wanted to show you. Come along.”
He led the way upstairs, all the while describing the verbal battle they had fought the day before.
“You’re lucky they were still sober enough to listen,” Edgar said.
John waved that away. “Nonsense. An agile mind can win over brute force in any case.”
Edgar hoped John would never have reason to change his belief.
Abelard was reading a letter when they entered. From the number of creases, it was clear he had read it many times before. He tucked it inside his robe.
“Edgar! I’m glad to see you in one piece,” he said.
“I’m glad to still be in that condition,” Edgar replied. “John said you had discovered something about the psalter?”
“Yes,” Abelard said. He reached for the book with the contracts and laid one next to a page that had been defaced.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately,” he went on. “I used to have the best memory in Paris. I was sure I had seen that handwriting before. A student of mine, oh, fifteen, twenty years ago. Came up from Chartres, followed me around for a few months, then decided he had learned enough and proceeded to challenge me to a debate.”
Abelard leaned back and smiled arrogantly at the memory. “I demolished him in three propositions. He was a complete fool. He left that day. I don’t believe he ever dared show his face among scholars again.”
“You’re sure he was the one who wrote these?” John asked.
“Oh, undoubtedly,” Abelard answered. “The odd formation of the g is unmistakable, but also the florid in ‘Lucifer.’ And, now that I remember him, I can see that his warped idea of logic could lead to something as preposterous as formulating a legal contract with Satan. Those poor, sad people who were convinced. They couldn’t have had much learning.”
“But who is it, Master?” Edgar tried to keep from shouting. “What is the man’s name?”
“Oh, didn’t I say? It was Leitbert. A thin boy, with a long nose and protruding eyes. Does that sound like the same man?”
Edgar sighed. “Yes, except he’s fatter now. That’s the precentor at Saint-Denis.”
Abelard shook his head. “Saint Augustine’s mitre! The man was always a pompous fool. What possessed Abbot Suger to appoint him? He must have an uncle in a bishopric to get a job like that with his abilities.”
John nodded. “Leitbert must have harbored a bitterness toward you, and when the psalter arrived, he saw a perfect way to extract revenge.”
“Then Leitbert’s mind was as unsound as his scholarship,” Abelard said. “I can think of no other reason for damaging a book so viciously.”
“But why would he have gotten involved with the hermit?” Edgar asked.
“I can’t imagine,” Abelard answered. “Unless he was as venal as he was vicious.”
“Do you think he killed Garnulf?” John asked Edgar.
“He might have,” Edgar admitted. “But why didn’t Garnulf bring his notes to me? He should never have faced Leitbert alone.”
“Stop blaming yourself. You couldn’t stop him.” Abelard rubbed his head. “Now, how can I tactfully tell Suger that he has a blasphemer and a murderer under his roof?”
His look indicated that this, at least, was a pleasing assignment.
“And what about Aleran?” Edgar wasn’t satisfied. “Did Leitbert kill him, too? What about the jewels stolen from the mortar? Were Aleran and Leitbert responsible for that? How did they sell them, then? How did Aleran and Leitbert even know each other?”
“I do not have enough information to posit an acceptable theory,” Abelard said. “You’ll have to ask the precentor himself.”
“I intend to,” Edgar answered.
Catherine enjoyed having her aunt Johannah spoil her. It was a new experience.
“I wish I could have known you all along,” she sighed as they sat together in the solar, embroidering blue gentians on a new bliaut.
Eliazar’s wife put down her needle and put her arm around Catherine’s shoulders.
“It had to be so, my dear,” she said. “I don’t know of a place in Christendom where we could openly admit to being related.”
“No, I don’t either,” Catherine said. “But I’m glad I found out. I wish poor Agnes could be told. She’s so lonely with just Mother for company and Mother hardly ever off her knees.”
“And you, Catherine,” Johannah asked. “What do you intend to do, return to the Paraclete?”
Catherine bent her head over her needlework.
“I don’t know,” she muttered. “I have taken no formal vows, but that is what my family intends for me to do. I must take the psalter back, whatever else happens. But I’m not the person I was when I left three months ago.”
She held up her bandaged hands with a rueful laugh.
“There’s not even as much of me! I may not be of use to the convent. My one talent was for making books. I don’t know if I still have the dexterity.”
“I’m not conversant on what the needs of a convent are,” Johanna said. “But I was under the impression that a desire to serve God was the main reason for entering.”
Catherine sighed as a cloud passed across the window and dimmed the room.
“Yes,” she said. “And I am not as certain about that as I used to be, either. Isn’t it getting late? Shouldn’t Edgar be back by now?”
Johannah watched her with tender concern. Eliazar liked this Edgar boy and his judgment was usually sound. But that didn’t mean he was the answer to Catherine’s dilemma. They owned a house which was often rented to students and more than once she had held some weeping girl who had been sure a man would give up the clerical life for her. And even if he did, could Catherine be happy as the wife of a minor clerk, with no hope of advancement, always living in someone else’s home?
They heard the front gate open and, a moment later, Eliazar’s booming voice.
“Catherine! Come prove to your father that you’re not yet dead. He won’t believe it until he sees you.”
Catherine got up, but her knees were shaking. How was she to tell him what had happened, what she had done? How was she to explain about Edga
r? And how was she to convince him that she had to see this thing through to the end, that she wasn’t going anywhere until she knew that the person responsible for the deaths of Garnulf and little Adulf would be punished?
With firm resolve but no clear plan, she went down to greet her father.
“I must go back and get Catherine,” Edgar said.
Abelard and John stared at him.
“Isn’t she safe where you left her?” John asked.
“Yes, but I promised I would return for her as soon as I could,” Edgar explained. “She’ll want to know about Leitbert.”
John shook his head and hurried out, muttering something about an errand. Abelard sat, tapping his fingers on the table and fixing Edgar with a look which unnerved him greatly.
“Edgar,” Abelard began, “you know my story.”
“Yes, Master, everyone in France does,” Edgar said. “But it’s not like that with …”
“Of course not,” Abelard said. “But you will believe me when I say that I know what madness our bodies can drive us to.”
Edgar conceded that.
“I once coerced Héloïse to indulge my ravenous lust on the very altar at Argenteuil,” Abelard said. “I am filled with shame at the memory. I have committed all the sins of the flesh you might imagine. So, I can counsel you from bitter experience. You must drive this woman from your mind!”
Edgar began to edge toward the door.
“Thank you, Master. I know you’re right. I know what I’m thinking is sinful and contrary to the duty we owe our families. I’ve told myself all of it, but I am also sure that I would rather be a serf with five arpents of rocky land and Catherine to share it with than Bishop of Rome and not see her again.”
“I have heard this story before,” Abelard sighed. “I can see you are not ready to submit to the voice of wisdom. Go then. I hope your ardor is cooled before you ruin your future incontrovertibly.”
Death Comes As Epiphany: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 24
