Heresy: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (30 page)

“No, I don’t,” Catherine said. “This week has taught me that. I don’t have time for manners. Godfrey, did you see Rolland’s corpse?”

Godfrey winced. “I did. It wasn’t well guarded. Do you want to tell me how he died? You said you had a guess.”

“His throat was cut,” Catherine said. “From behind, likely, unless he was unconscious.”

“You have it,” Godfrey said. “How did you know?”

“That was how Cecile died.” Catherine rubbed her hands together as if trying to remove a spot of grime. “People tend to stick with what works, even in murder. Now why would the person who killed Cecile want to get rid of Rolland, too?”

The streets had been cleared by the archbishop’s guards. Archbishop Samson was not going to let his fellow prelates think that he couldn’t control his own town. He had accomplished this control in two stages. First, with the aid of Raoul of Vermandois and his men, soldiers on horseback herded the citizens back into their homes. Then the archbishop announced that he was opening his granary north of the city. Every resident of Reims was to receive one
sestier
of barley as a gift in gratitude for their tolerance of the inconveniences the council had caused.

The town emptied almost at once. Heretics and demons were ephemeral terrors. Famine was real.

At the houses where the attendees were staying, servants began putting the hastily packed valuables out again. The council resumed.

Thomas dressed hurriedly but with great care, making sure that his gauffered sleeves hung just so and that there were no smudges on his soft leather shoes. John and Astrolabe watched in amusement.

“You’d be right at home in a king’s court,” John told him. “I know many noblemen who don’t dress as well as you.”

“I need to make a good impression,” Thomas said amiably. “I don’t want to dishonor my master.”

“Well, since you’re doing it on my behalf, I shouldn’t mock you for it,” John answered.

Thomas turned around, his sleeves making an elegant swirl.

“On your behalf? I don’t understand,” he said.

“You were going to introduce me to the archbishop, weren’t you?”

John’s voice ended on a nervous high note. Astrolabe looked from one to the other, wondering if he should leave. Thomas gave John an embarrassed glance and then spent a moment earnestly examining a loose thread on his belt loop before he spoke.

“John, you are welcome to a bed here,” he explained, “and I will do whatever I can to help Astrolabe defeat these slanderers, but I can’t put you forward for a position in Theobald’s household. I thought you understood that.”

John sat up straight, his hands clenched at his sides. “I had assumed, because of our friendship…” His voice trailed off.

Thomas sighed. “I have many friends, John, who want something from the archbishop. Part of my duty is to protect him from office seekers. More important, it wouldn’t do any good even if I did present you to him. He won’t take anyone without a recommendation from someone of high rank. I just run his errands and write his letters.”

John’s stricken expression told Thomas how much he had counted on this.

“I’m truly sorry,” he said. “I thought you knew what my position was.”

“No.” John shook himself. “I should have realized. It was stupid of me. I beg your pardon for putting you in such an uncomfortable situation.”

Thomas took a step toward him, hand out.

“I wish you luck, John,” he said. “And if you do find a way to join us at Canterbury, there’s no one who will welcome you more heartily than I.”

John took his hand and tried to smile.

“Now, I must hurry.” Thomas nodded to Astrolabe, glad to change the subject. “I will ask what’s being done about this murdered canon of Paris. Since he died here, it may be the jurisdiction of Samson Mauvoisin, but the bishop of Paris may feel he has a say, and then there are the local lords. Do you know who has the high justice for Reims?”

“It might be Count Thibault,” Astrolabe answered.

“Perhaps you should go to him,” Thomas suggested. “Hugh of Rouen should be consulted, too, since you say the woman who died in Brittany held land of him. They are both reasonable men. I feel certain we can clear you of all suspicion in both cases.”

“Thank you,” Astrolabe said, aware that he was being dismissed. “John, we should be going, don’t you think?”

“What?” John came out of his trance. “Oh, yes, of course. We have much to do now that the populace has stopped crying for your blood.”

Astrolabe stood. Taking John by the arm, he headed for the door. “And I’d like to get my work done before they start up again. My thanks to you, Thomas of London, for your hospitality.”

John managed to get as far as the street with no loss of dignity. But as soon as they were out of view of the windows, he collapsed against Astrolabe, tears flowing.

“I was so sure,” he gulped. “I thought he…”

With an effort, he stood on his own. He rubbed his eyes angrily, forcing the tears to stop.

“It doesn’t matter what I thought,” he said. “I was wrong. Oh, Astrolabe, Thomas was my best chance. Now I have no idea how I’m going to earn my bread.”

Astrolabe took him by the shoulders, pulling him up straight.

“That makes two of us.” He grinned. “Of course, in my case, the question may soon be resolved. Unless I’m cleared in Rolland’s death, my need for food will be abruptly terminated.”

Samson Mauvoisin, archbishop of Reims, was becoming increasingly annoyed by the disturbances to the council. It was Pope Eugenius who had fixed the place for the meeting. Reims was one of the oldest bishoprics in France. The cathedral had been built in the time of the Carolingian emperors and was the site of the anointing of the kings. It was only appropriate that the church convene here. It was almost a tradition.

But Eugenius might have chosen a better time.

The burghers were still smarting from the breakup of their commune the previous autumn. They were threatening to move the expanding cloth-making industry to a friendlier city. Food was dear. The news from the Holy Land was uniformly bad. And now some canon from Paris had tried to incite a riot and then been murdered. The last was the only good news Samson had received in weeks.

But the bishop of Paris was agitating for the capture of the killer. The countess of Flanders had sent word that the interests of one of her wards was involved, God knew how. The archbishop of Tours insisted that the matter was somehow tied up with this heretic now languishing in Samson’s prison. He also hinted darkly that Bishop Olivier of Dol was ultimately responsible since the canon was Breton and, no doubt, in the bishop’s pay.

Samson had no interest in the state of affairs in Brittany. Therefore he was extremely irritated to have it left at his doorstep. The only thing he was curious about was why the name of this phantom demon king was Astrolabe. He wondered if the people knew that it was a computational device for measuring the height of the sun and stars in the sky. Useful for astrologers and physicians, but hardly demonic. However had the street gossips got hold of the word?

Nevertheless, it was up to him to see that the issue of the canon’s death was resolved.

“Ermon,” he called his servant. “Have messages sent to the archbishops of Tours and Rouen, the bishop of Paris, Countess Sybil of Flanders and, for good measure, Count Thibault. Ask if they will join me this evening. No doubt this canon was set upon by thieves and killed for his purse. What could he expect, alone outside the gates at night? Nevertheless, I shall have to hold an inquiry, and I want all of those people here so that they can’t say later that I impeded justice.”

“Yes, my lord.” Ermon bowed.

“Ermon?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Just send the invitations. The rest of my speech you will forget.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Catherine met John and Astrolabe at the entry to the convent. Margaret was with her, having begged off spending another day at the council.

“Godfrey said you needed us,” Astrolabe began. “You’ve heard about Rolland, then?”

“I have,” Catherine said, staring at him, “but not about your metamorphosis!”

She reached up and felt his smooth chin. “I don’t know, I was getting rather fond of the beard.”

“Sorry,” Astrolabe said. “I thought it best to remind people of my clerical status, just in case I’m arrested.”

“Do you think it will come to that?” Catherine asked, alarmed. She turned to John.

“It’s possible,” he admitted. “Archbishop Samson has now become involved, and he isn’t going to let the murder of one of the men attending the council go unpunished, even if Rolland wasn’t very important.”

“I’m sure that whoever killed Cecile also murdered Rolland,” Catherine announced. “The method was the same. So now we can be certain that the person we seek is in Reims. We have to find the monk Rolland was traveling with. If he didn’t commit the murder, I suspect he knows who did.”

“We saw his face, but too briefly,” Astrolabe said. “I’ve been looking at every monk I pass, but the fact is, I’m not sure I’d know him. He had one of those faces that you see and forget.”

“I know,” Catherine agreed. “Rolland was the one we all remembered.”

“Perhaps that’s what he was there for,” Margaret suggested.

They looked at her.

“Well, it was only a thought,” she said nervously.

“A good one,” Astrolabe told her. Margaret gave him a shy smile of thanks.

“But it doesn’t help us, I’m afraid,” Catherine said. “Now, let’s go somewhere to sit and discuss what to do next.”

“Do you have enough money for a flask of good wine?” Astrolabe asked.

“I’m sure I do,” Catherine said. “Why? We can’t be celebrating anything.”

“Just the opposite,” Astrolabe said. “John has had a nasty shock this morning. He needs something more potent than beer.”

The two men explained what had happened with Thomas on the way to the wine merchant. After learning the story, Catherine had no qualms about buying four
pintez
of wine, enough to fill a good-size jug. She understood Thomas’s difficulty, but it was still cruel of him to destroy John’s hopes like that.

She did think that the wine should be padded with solid food, so they stopped at a baker’s where they were charged an outrageous amount for bread.

“Didn’t you hear that the archbishop is giving away barley?” she asked the baker.

“Fine, if you want to cook it yourself.” The man made to take the bread back. Catherine held tight to it.

“This is good bread from wheat and rye flour,” he went on. “I’ve been selling over a hundred loaves a day, just to the German bishops. I’m almost at the bottom of my stores. This will have to keep me until I can get more, maybe not until the next harvest.”

Still grumbling, Catherine paid.

At last they found a quiet spot, again by the church of Saint-Hilarius. The orchard ended in a graveyard next to the church. Catherine thought of Rolland and wondered if anyone would pay to have him properly interred. She didn’t think it likely that his body would be sent back to Paris.

Astrolabe fetched water from a nearby well. Catherine had bought a pair of clay cups at a stall by the wine shop. They had been crudely stamped with the papal insignia and the dove of Reims. Souvenirs of the council. She and Margaret shared one, diluting the wine. John and Astrolabe took turns with the other. Catherine didn’t notice much water being added to their cup, but she said nothing.

“Do you think that now that Rolland’s dead, the people will still believe the stories he told about Astrolabe?” Margaret asked.

“Some might.” Astrolabe shrugged. “They could well imagine that he was killed because of his warnings. But now that they’ve seen Raoul’s soldiers again, they may believe that his men can fend off any band of heretics, even one aided by the devil.”

“According to Gwenael, Raoul’s soldiers are the ones the devil favors,” Margaret said.

“Margaret, you mustn’t let Gwenael’s rantings confuse you,” Catherine said. “She’s had a hard life.”

That sounded a feeble excuse, especially to Margaret, whose life had already been tragic.

“But why does she hate them all so much?” she asked. “I’m sure there were lords who hurt her, but she seems angry with almost everyone.”

Catherine started to form an explanation when she was interrupted.

“I think,” John said from the depths of the wine, “the saddest thing about Gwenael is that no one but Eon ever treated her as if she were worthy of love. Of course she believes him to be Christ. Only God loves everyone.”

Margaret thought that over.

“Thank you, John,” she said. “Now I understand.”

Gwenael was at that moment trying to find a way out of Saint-Pierre-les-Nonnains. The servants were keeping a close watch on her, although no one had yet suggested that she was a prisoner. She knew they would have been glad to see the back of her but had to follow Catherine’s orders, supported by those of the abbess. Although they’d been forbidden to abuse her, the people in the laundry and kitchen were unaccountably clumsy when they were near her. Hot drippings spilled; crockery landed on her fingers; her feet were constantly trod on. Gwenael knew they were waiting for her to snap, to lash out at them so that they could hit her and claim they were just defending themselves.

Gwenael hated them, every one.

When Eon came into his kingdom, then they would be punished, she reminded herself. She passed the time inventing torments for them in Hell. On that glorious day she would be among the chosen, despite her sins, for true believers are always forgiven. That’s why she had to go on believing as hard as she could, no matter what anyone said. They would see. Gwenael knew the truth. Judgment was at hand.

And it wasn’t going to find her scrubbing out chamber pots.