To Wear The White Cloak: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  “I’ll look out for myself, Mina,” Solomon told her. “You have enough of hardship taking care of your fatherless children.”

  This time she met his gaze.

  “Exactly,” she said. “And after what the Christians did to my Simon, you still want to go live with them. Why are you so eager to spend your life among people who despise you?”

  Solomon took a long time to answer. He turned from the secure contentment of the people within the fortress to the view below. He saw rivers cutting through dark forest and villages full of people who wished him and all like him swept from the earth. Then he thought of Catherine, who had risked so much for him and even more, of Margaret, the child he had promised to protect.

  “Everything you say is true, Mina,” His voice was soft. “But out there, amidst all those who hate me are also the people I love most. I leave for Paris tomorrow.”

  In Paris, Catherine could only spare a few minutes a day to be anxious about Solomon, although she did it then with great intensity. Margaret worried enough for her. Every time they heard someone at the door, her face would turn in expectation and then fall when she saw that it wasn’t he.

  “She loves him as a daughter,” Catherine told herself, watching the disappointed slump of the girl’s shoulders. “Or a favorite niece. Nothing more.”

  But the sadness in Margaret’s eyes when no word came and Solomon failed to appear made Catherine extremely uneasy.

  It was almost a relief to be forced to study the problem of the body in the counting room.

  “How can we be expected to find out who killed him if we don’t even know who he was?” Catherine said in exasperation. “I’ve spoken to all the neighbors and no one will admit to having seen or heard anything. They probably didn’t. Carts come and go all the time on the Grève. I don’t know where to go from here!”

  Edgar blew a strand of hair from his face. His hand was occupied with trying to set up his vises again so that he could resume work. He might now be a merchant by trade, but if he couldn’t turn the images in his mind into carved toys, boxes and inlaid jewelry, he would go mad. In Scotland, his family had been ashamed of his fascination with crafting objects. It was unworthy of his birth. But so was trading. If he had given up his place for Catherine’s sake, it also freed him to enjoy the work he loved best.

  “As soon as I’m finished here, I’ll go to the Île,” he promised. “There should be someone around Nôtre Dame from the old days who can tell me the news.”

  “But only about who is debating whom on the nature of the Trinity and which of the Masters is most popular now,” Catherine reminded him. “No one there will care about the death of a Knight of the Temple. Half the scholars we know don’t think they should even have been given permission to form an Order in the first place. Only Abbot Bernard’s support could give them respectability.”

  “Well, the idea of a monk who wields a sword does seem a contradiction,” Edgar answered. “But there are worldly men among the secular clerics. The canons of Nôtre Dame, for instance, keep abreast of events in town. I wish I knew if John were in Paris. He usually knows everything that’s happening.”

  “The pope is still here in Paris,” Catherine said. “Isn’t John attached in some way to the papal court?”

  “No, the last I heard, he was at Celle acting as secretary to the abbot, but he’s applying for a place in the curia of the Archbishop of Canterbury.” Edgar grunted as he tried to tighten the vise to the table. “I never could see him as a monk. I suppose Master Adam might know where he is or …”

  “Edgar, we could speculate all day.” Catherine was becoming testy. It was hard to watch him struggle with the tools. She longed to help him, but he hated that. He let the children hold things for him, but not her.

  He finally managed to attach the vise.

  “You want me to go now?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she urged. “Tomorrow the house will be full with Marie and Guillaume bringing their four and our two. Tonight is our best chance to have a quiet discussion with a guest.”

  “Ah, you want me to find an informant and bring him home to dine with us,” Edgar said.

  “Well, of course!” Catherine nearly pushed him out the door. “Don’t come home alone!”

  After he had gone, Catherine went over to the worktable. The different vises were lined up, scrapes in the wood showing how often they’d been attached and with what effort. On a cloth on the bench the tools were laid out: hammers, pincers, organarium, drawplates, chisels, rasps, scorpers and files. Once he had also had a small anvil to beat out the heat-softened metal. But there were some things even Edgar had to admit one needed two good hands for.

  Catherine gently brushed her fingers over the neat row of implements. She sniffed to hold back tears. Perhaps it was just because she loved him so much, but Catherine believed Edgar to be the bravest man she knew.

  Samonie had prepared a pot of barley soup with early carrots and sent one of her boys to the baker’s for trencher loaves. Catherine went down to the storeroom and found a small cask of Gascon wine. She sniffed the bung and decided that it was still drinkable.

  The bells had rung for the end of Vespers before Edgar returned. With him was a thin man with a clerical tonsure wearing plain woolen robes. It took a moment for Catherine to recognize him.

  “Maurice?” she said. “How good to see you again! You look wonderful. Are you still at Nôtre Dame?”

  “Yes, I’m a subdeacon now.” Maurice smiled shyly. “The food is more adequate than when I was just a student. But I shall always be grateful for the number of times you fed me in those days.”

  “Your conversation alone was payment enough,” Catherine said. “As I’m sure it will be tonight. We’ve been away so long. I’m eager for a report on what’s going on in Paris.”

  She led them into the hall and poured cups of the wine from a pitcher, then let them mix it as they wished from the water jug.

  “As for news.” Maurice sat and sipped his wine. “Certainly the greatest bustle involves having the pope in France and the preparations for King Louis’s expedition to free Edessa. But you must know all about that.”

  “The world seems to be crowded with people wearing the pilgrim’s cross,” Edgar said. “Does Paris have time to think about anything else?”

  “Well.” Maurice laughed. “We have a new dean, Clement, and a new precenter, Albert, at Nôtre Dame who don’t seem aware of it at all. Clement and Albert have entered into a war over the shape and tone of the music for the liturgy. They haven’t come to blows, yet, but the shouting can be heard all the way to Saint Genevieve.”

  “I can understand fighting over the wording of the liturgy,” Catherine said. “But the music?”

  Maurice shrugged. “No one but those two takes it seriously. It’s a change, though, from arguing over whether or not the bishop of Poitiers is a heretic.”

  Catherine was so astounded that she nearly dropped her cup.

  “Master Gilbert!” she exclaimed. “But he’s one of the most brilliant theological expositors in France, especially since Master Abelard died.”

  “And wasn’t Abelard judged a heretic, as well?” Maurice reminded her.

  “I can’t believe anyone would accuse Bishop Gilbert, though,” Edgar said. “Master Abelard was always offending people with his sharp tongue, but who could old Stoneface have bothered?”

  “Master Peter of Lombardy, for one,” Maurice answered. “And Bernard of Clairvaux.”

  “Oh, not again!” Catherine cried. “I was just beginning to like Abbot Bernard.”

  “Bishop Gilbert was at the council at Sens that condemned Master Abelard,” Edgar said thoughtfully. “Abelard warned him then that accusations of heresy leap like flame from one scholar to another.”

  “I remember.” Catherine started to say more but was interrupted by a knocking at the door.

  It had barely ceased when Margaret flew out of the kitchen, where she had been helping Samonie.

 
“Margaret!” Catherine called after her. “What are you thinking of? Let Martin see who it is.”

  The girl paid no attention. They could hear her fumbling with the bar as Martin reached the door. Then there was a small sound of disappointment, and Margaret returned, followed by Martin and the new arrival.

  Edgar and Catherine both leaped to their feet and ran to hug the man.

  “Astrolabe!” Catherine kissed him. “How wonderful to see you. We were just talking about your father.”

  “Margaret!” Edgar called her back sharply. “You haven’t met our guest. Astrolabe is an old friend. He’s the son of Master Peter Abelard and Abbess Heloise of the Paraclete.”

  “I was born before she entered the convent.” Astrolabe smiled at the girl.

  “Astrolabe,” Edgar went on, “this ill-mannered young lady is my sister, Margaret.”

  Blushing, Margaret bowed. “Dex te saut, Master Astrolabe. I apologize for not greeting you properly. Catherine has often spoken of her love for your parents and the time she spent under your mother’s care at the Paraclete. Welcome.”

  She went into the kitchen but returned a moment later with a wine cup for Astrolabe and a plate of dried meat and cheese.

  “Samonie says the soup is ready whenever you want it,” she told Catherine. “Would you mind if I ate with her and then went up to bed? I’m very tired.”

  The tension in her frightened Catherine.

  “Of course, ma douz,” she said. “You need to rest. Tomorrow you’ll be surrounded by small children.”

  Margaret gave her a wan smile and left. Catherine resolved to have a serious talk with Edgar soon about his sister’s future.

  “Now, Astrolabe,” Edgar said when they were settled and Maurice had been introduced. “You’ve been traveling more than Pope Eugenius lately. I thought you were in Metz. What brings you to Paris?”

  “Heresy,” Astrolabe answered. He drained his cup and held it out to be refilled.

  The other three gaped at him. Catherine was the first to recover.

  “Endondu! Whose heresy? Master Gilbert?”

  It was Astrolabe’s turn to gape. “The bishop? Of course not! Who’d be fool enough to accuse him? No, it’s these Eonists. I saw them when I was home at Le Pallet visiting my aunt. They’re taking over the countryside in Brittany, and no one seems to be able to control them.”

  Edgar crossed himself. “It seems like a madness lately, almost as if people believe the Last Days have come. There are these dualists in Germany and the Occitan, Arnoldists in Rome. Madmen roaming the fields only need to wave their arms to attract disciples, I swear. What do these Eonists preach?”

  Astrolabe reached for the cheese. “As far as I can tell, their leader says that he’s the son of God and so his followers can do anything he wants them to. He’s clearly mad.”

  “He thinks he’s Jesus?” Maurice couldn’t take this in.

  “No,” Astrolabe shook his head. “He thinks he’s ‘eum’ as in ‘per eum.’ ‘Through him’ shall be judged the living and the dead. He seems to believe that ‘eum’ and ‘eon’ are the same word.”

  Catherine blinked. “And he’s built a sect on this?”

  “Quite a large one; I’ve seen it,” Astrolabe said. “There’s a charisma about him. His words are empty, senseless, and yet the poor adore him. He leads them to pillage their own churches, even rob small priories of their altar cloths and candlesticks. He makes a mockery of the Mass. It is even said that they conduct orgies as a part of their services.”

  “Really?” The other three leaned toward him.

  “But I didn’t witness any,” Astrolabe finished.

  They leaned back.

  “Where are the lords, the advocates for the monks?” Edgar wanted to know.

  “That’s what I don’t understand.” Astrolabe tapped his cup, reminding Catherine that it was empty again. “It’s true that there’s been confusion in the land since the death of the count, but the local lords should be concerned enough to capture this man and disperse his followers. It wouldn’t take many to do it. Eon is connected to a very minor noble family, but even they are trying to convince him to stop this insanity and return to them. And yet, they do no more than that.”

  “But these people have destroyed property!” Catherine exclaimed. “Despoiled churches! Are they so dangerous that the knights of Brittany fear to attack them?”

  “I don’t know,” Astrolabe nearly shouted his frustration. “It makes no sense to me. I saw no warriors among the throng that follow this man, only poor, half-starved peasants. But, since no one seems able to stop them, I’ve come to Paris to ask the pope to send a legate to force the barons of Brittany to do their duty.”

  “Do you think this bizarre heresy might spread?” Maurice asked.

  “If no one counters it, why not?” Astrolabe answered. “The harvest has been bad the past two years, and there’s been too much rain this spring. People are hungry and desperate. Eon gives them a fantasy of some sort, an illusion of prosperity. And, perhaps he is in league with demons who have clouded the minds of those who should speak out against him.”

  They all considered this. It seemed the only plausible answer.

  “I wish we could blame the body in the counting room on demons.” Catherine sighed.

  “You have a body in your house?” Astrolabe and Maurice both blessed themselves hurriedly.

  “Not anymore,” Edgar hastened to assure them.

  He explained what had happened. Both men were as puzzled as Catherine and Edgar.

  “But if the Knights of the Temple have claimed him, it’s their problem now,” Maurice said.

  “I wish I could believe that,” Edgar answered. “Master Evrard told us that we might be of some help to him. I translate that as meaning he thinks we know more than we do.”

  “Anyway,” Catherine added, “it’s our house that’s been desecrated by this. I want to know who did it and why.”

  “Of course you do, Catherine.” Astrolabe grinned at her. “You never could pass up a puzzle.”

  “I know.” Catherine bit her lip, thinking. Then she got up and went to the kitchen to ask Samonie to have the bread brought out and the soup poured into it.

  It wasn’t just the unwelcome homecoming they had received that bothered her. That was certainly upsetting. She knew she’d be scrubbing that room for months. It was more everything around them. The whole world was unsettled. People were leaving for an expedition to the Holy Land knowing no more than that they should face the east, relying on faith to get them there and back safely. Others were turning completely from all they had been taught, believing instead in new gods invented by deluded fools. Starvation threatened all around them from the barren fields and ignorant preachers were there to addle the minds of those already weakened by hunger. Bands of ruffians were attacking Jews and forcing them to baptism or death. And her own father had turned his back on the true faith, leaving his family behind. The order of the universe had been rearranged.

  Perhaps these are the end times, she thought. The world is preparing to be swept clean for the coming of Christ.

  The idea made her shiver, and she scolded herself for falling prey to melancholia again.

  “A good dose of valerian and chamomile before bed,” she said. “That will do it.”

  “Do what?” Samonie stopped hacking a trough in the bread.

  “Nothing,” Catherine answered. “Here, I’ll take the soup pot. Has Margaret gone up already?”

  “Yes, and she hardly ate anything,” Samonie answered. “Is the poor girl ill?”

  “Just tired, I imagine,” Catherine said absently.

  She wrapped two kitchen cloths around her hands and lifted the pot, then walked carefully back into the hall, where Martin had set up a small table for the four of them.

  The three men were laughing about something when she returned. Martin leaped forward to take the pot from her, and Catherine came and sat beside Edgar.

  Her sense of fore
boding vanished in the comfort of old friends. They told stories of the foibles of the masters of Paris, the debates and the legends of students now grown into bishops. It reminded Catherine of the time she and Edgar had lived in a rickety room near the great market square, just the two of them and whoever came to share their meal. It had been good to know that they could come back to her father’s house to warmth and clean clothes if they needed. It had been better to have a room all to themselves with no servants and no family to overhear.

  That reminded her of her present duty.

  “And where are you staying, Astrolabe?” she asked.

  His handsome face reddened. “Well, I had hoped, that is, Edgar mentioned, you see, all the monastic guest rooms are full with the pope here and …”

  “I had hoped you’d stay with us.” Catherine took his hand. “I swear this by the broken bones of the protomartyr. You may stay as long as you like, or until the noise of the Vikings and Vandals drives you away.”

  “The what?”

  “Our children and my brother’s,” Catherine said. “They’ll arrive tomorrow. But tonight, at least, we can promise you undisturbed rest.”

  The moon had set and the house was dark as deadly sin when something woke Astrolabe.

  He rolled over in his blankets and mumbled, “Wha’?”

  Silence.

  Then a rustling in the reeds on the floor.

  “Rats.” Astrolabe said.

  He groped beneath the cot they had set up for him in the hall. After a few tries he found his boot and threw it forcefully in the direction of the noise. There was a thump, a clank, and a simultaneous high-pitched squeal. The rustling stopped.

  With a satisfied sigh, Astrolabe pulled the blanket over his head and went back to sleep.

  He was awakened the next morning by warm, moist breath on his face. He opened his eyes. Two little girls were standing next to the cot, peering at him curiously.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  They both jumped back quickly, the younger one falling on her bottom.