The Devil's Door (34 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General

BOOK: The Devil's Door
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“It was a most energetic night,” she said.
“Oh, I see.” He reached over her shoulder, took one of her braids and began tickling her with the end of it. “What you mean is,
tu defututa es.”
“Not at all.” Strange, she’d had braids all her life and never thought to do that with them.
“Prove it.”
She took the braid from his hand and tossed it over his shoulder, looping it behind his neck so that his face was drawn to hers.
“Libenter,”
she said. “As often as you like.”
The bells had stopped. There were clanks and thumps through the rest of the house that assured them everyone else was up and working. Catherine wasn’t inclined to join them. She had never felt so completely relaxed in her life. But, even as she tried to push them away, thoughts of the previous evening and Agnes kept intruding.
“Father should have told us,” she muttered. “Keeping secrets like that only makes the pain greater when they’re discovered.”
“Mmmph?” Edgar said.
“Agnes should have been told about our grandparents,” Catherine went on. “There are many converts who are good Christians, even priests. It needn’t have made that much difference. And now she’s so terribly hurt. She feels betrayed.”
“She was,” Edgar was awake now. “What could be worse than denying someone the truth of their own ancestry? Didn’t you feel so when you found out?”
Catherine searched her feelings. “I think, somehow, a part of me always knew. Solomon and I are so alike. It was upsetting, at first. I didn’t know who I was, anymore. But I understood why Father had hidden it from us. And, the day I found out, you were with me.”
“That made a difference?”
“Yes.”
Edgar had so many possible responses that he made none at all.
“We’re back at the old questions,” he said finally. “We assume it all began with Alys, because that’s where you came in. What if her death were really the end of something much older?”
Catherine thought about it, reordering the known facts in her mind.
“Secrets?” she asked. “It would be logical. Constanza and Rupert seemed very sure Father would do anything to keep his secret from being revealed. Perhaps they thought that he would react as they would.”
“Or have,” Edgar said.
“It was my finding the abortifacients that frightened Constanza into trying to kill me,” Catherine went on. “Everyone says that Alys was docile, obedient. She’d been beaten into submission. Why would she risk so much to rid herself of a child that was presumably her husband’s?”
“Perhaps it wasn’t,” Edgar said. “Maybe she’d been seduced, or even raped.”
“But there was no way Raynald could know that, unless he’d been away during the time of conception and no one has suggested that he was. She could have passed the child off as his.”
“It’s certainly been done before,” Edgar agreed.
“I can see why Rupert and Constanza would be furious,” Catherine went on. “The property all belonged to Alys, through her father. If she had no children, it would pass to Raynald. They would have no say in it at all.”
“Then why would they kill her?” Edgar asked. “I can understand that they would want Paciana out of the way, especially if they think they can profit from using the land. One could become wealthy if this new method of producing iron works. And Paciana had a better claim to that land than Alys. As for Lisiard’s death, I suppose he simply found out one piece of gossip too many and Rupert felt he had to silence him. It’s the ritual horror of it that I can’t comprehend. And I can’t understand how the death of Alys would benefit her mother and stepfather. Nor can I fit Deacon Peter into it all.”
The sun was shining directly onto the bed. Catherine threw off the quilt and reached for her
chainse.
“I think you’re right,” she said. “Alys wasn’t the beginning. But she’s the center around which all of this turns. I’m sure of that.”
“Are we getting up?” Edgar asked sadly.
“We don’t want to be accused of the sin of
luxuria,”
Catherine said. “We have much work to do. Apart from the problem of Alys and the donation to the Paraclete, apart from Agnes, there are still the accusations against Master Abelard. We promised Mother Héloïse we’d stand by him.”
Reluctantly Edgar got out of bed and pulled his
chainse
over his head. He picked his
braies
off the floor.
“Those are all good reasons,” he admitted. “But I’m only leaving this bed for one.”
“What’s that?”
His stomach rumbled, answering for him.
“I’m starving,” he said.
Hubert appeared that evening. He slumped into the chair Johannah offered him and took the mug without thanking her. He drained it before speaking.
“Agnes won’t listen to me,” he said. “She spent all day in the churches with Madeleine. I don’t know what to do.”
“Will she see me?” Catherine asked.
“I don’t know.” Hubert poured more wine into his mug. “Not yet, I’m afraid. She’s terribly confused and angry. I’ve never seen her like this. She was my tranquil child.”
Catherine winced. Hubert noticed and reached for her hand.
“I never wanted you to be different, Catherine,” he told her. “Only more careful.”
He sighed. “She told me she wishes I weren’t her father. I think she would be relieved if she could believe I weren’t.”
“She doesn’t mean it, Father.” Catherine knelt by the chair. “She’s only angry. She loves you. She would be devastated if she thought you weren’t really her …”
Catherine broke off, a sudden light flooding her mind.
“That’s it,” she said. “I’ve been so stupid.”
“What are you talking about?” Hubert asked.
Catherine stood. “Edgar, we have to get a message to Walter and be sure he’s coming to the display at Sens. I think I know why Paciana came to the Paraclete and why Alys risked her life to avoid having Raynald’s child. It’s so simple. Any kitchen maid with an ear to the door would have figured it out ages ago.”
“Catherine, you’re babbling again.”
“Yes, Father, I know.” She kissed him. “I must see Samonie at once. If Rupert killed Lisiard and tried to kill Paciana for what they knew, then her life may be in danger as well. Sometimes gossip isn’t as idle as it seems.”
Samonie was startled by Catherine’s question.
“It’s possible,” she said. “It never occurred to me. But yes, Lord Rupert was his clerk at the time the lord of Quincy died. I never understood why Lady Constanza married him, a man in minor orders, with no land and no prospects. It makes sense now.”
“Might Lisiard have known about it?” Catherine asked.
Samonie shrugged. “Who knows? He loved collecting information. I don’t think he put it together, though. If he had discovered something this dangerous, even he would have had the sense to stay quiet. Unless, …” She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, you poor stupid man!”
“Unless what?” Catherine prompted.
“Lisiard wanted to run away with my sister,” Samonie said. “They had no money. He might have been foolish enough to try to sell his silence, or his knowledge. Either way, his death would warn anyone else who might think of revealing what they know. Like my sister.”
“Would you be willing to stay here until after the council?” Catherine said. “After that, I believe we can depend on Countess Mahaut to find a place for you in Troyes, so you can be with your children. I hope that by then there will no longer be any danger to either you or your sister.”
Samonie nodded. “If Dame Johannah is willing, I would be happy to stay here. It’s the children I’m worried about. If Rupert and Constanza can’t find me, I’m afraid they’ll try to harm them.”
Catherine hadn’t thought of that. The lord and lady of Quincy were quite capable of such infamy.
“They won’t have time,” she decided. “The display of relics is in less than two weeks. They are in the entourage of the countess and so obligated to be in attendance, especially after Count Thibault arrives. And afterwards, if everything works, they won’t be in a position to harm anyone, ever again.”
She went to find Edgar.
“Have you found someone who will go to Grancy for Walter?” she asked.
“Your father is sending Solomon,” Edgar said.
“That’s good, Walter already knows him,” Catherine sighed. “Poor Solomon! He does seem to be everyone’s errand boy.”
“This errand is worth it,” Edgar reminded her.
“Yes, if Walter isn’t there, to force them all to meet together, I don’t see how we’ll ever get Constanza to admit the truth.”
Edgar took her arm. “Are you sure it is the truth?”
“Yes,” Catherine said. “It’s the only thing I can think of that would explain everyone’s actions. The only thing that hurts me is that the one person most to blame for everything that’s happened is the one least likely to suffer.”
The city of Sens,
Feast of Saint Petronilla, virgin and martyr, Friday, May 31, 1140
Tu es diaboli janua; tu es divinae legis prima desertrix tu es quae eum persuasisti, quem diabolus aggredi non valuit.
[Woman,] you are the devil’s door, you are the first deserter of divine law, you are the one who persuaded [Adam] whom the devil was not strong enough to overcome.
—Tertullian
O nimis infide! Cur sic mentire super me? Exemplaris Adam qui culpam vertit in Evam!
Oh, wicked betrayer, why do you lie so about me? You are the same as Adam who put all the guilt on Eve!
—Poem of Ruodlieb
Part VIII 11. 35–36
“
T
his place is insane, I tell you,” Astrolabe repeated.”There isn’t a bed to be had in the entire town. The bishops, the nobles, the king and queen and their party have taken everything. Father, Canon Arnold and Master Gilbert are staying with the canons of the cathedral. The students and I have put up tents by the river and even finding a space there was difficult. The place is full of traders, minstrels, beggars, dancing bears, whores and souvenir hawkers. It’s worse than the faires of Lendit!”
Edgar patted Astrolabe’s back in sympathy as he and Abelard’s son sat in the court of the cathedral, watching the motley assortment of people who had come to view the relics.
“I know Abbot Bernard has warned the bishops that my father’s theories on the Trinity and the nature of sin are being discussed on the street corners,” Astrolabe continued. “But I can’t say I’ve heard anyone doing so. I can’t believe anyone here gives a damn about his theories, even if they had the wit to understand them.”
“You do them an injustice,” Edgar laughed. “Why, I’m sure that man over there and that woman are currently discussing the possibility of the Holy Spirit having been perceived by Plato as the
anima mundi.
”
“Ah, yes,” Astrolabe said. “That must be what he’s looking for under her skirts. With such serious-minded people in the audience, the meeting on Monday won’t be a debate; it will be a debacle.”
Looking at the devout or dissolute crowd—actually, everyone he saw seemed a bit of both—Edgar was inclined to agree with Astrolabe. These people couldn’t recognize dialectic if it appeared in flames over their heads and weren’t likely to be convinced even if it did. On the other hand, Abbot Bernard’s clear, emotional exhortations could convert anyone from that legless beggar, dragging himself by on his cart, to the king, himself. Edgar had heard that Queen Eleanor was not yet under the abbot’s spell, but she was certainly one of a very few remaining.
Edgar tried to keep his mind on the debate. That, after all, was the larger, more important issue. This business with the Paraclete, the ownership of a stretch of forest and the reason why three people died, these didn’t matter when placed beside the eternal issues of faith, reason and truth.
But in reality, he was much more concerned about the meeting with Count Thibault that had been arranged for Saturday morning. Walter of Grancy had arrived the night before with his men, all fully armed and ready to defend his innocence. Raynald was already in Sens with his father, who, as count of Nevers, was required to attend the council. With some badgering from Thibault, the men had agreed to put their differences before his comitial court for judgement. Of course, if the matter weren’t settled to their satisfaction, they reserved the right to lay waste each other’s land until their need for vengeance had been sated.
“I wouldn’t worry, Astrolabe,” Edgar said finally, pulling his mind back to Abelard. “The master has spoken under worse circumstances. He’s been challenging others in open debate since long before either of us was born. He knows how to lecture hecklers better than anyone. I’ve watched him.”
Astrolabe picked up a handful of pebbles from the road and began pitching them at a stone water trough nearby. They bounced against it with a sharp
ping!
and then fell back, leaving no mark. He threw them one after another until his hand was empty. Then he stood, wiping the dust off on his tunic.
“My father used to be like that,” Astrolabe said wearily. “Nothing they did to him could stop him or change him. Even castration didn’t affect who he was. I think Mother was the one who suffered most from that. But they’ve been throwing stones at him for his entire life. It seems to me that he’s covered with chips and cracks. The rash on his skin is a symbol of what’s happening inside. If one more thing hits him, even a pebble, he’s going to shatter.”
Edgar had no comfort to offer for that. He feared it was true. While in Paris, Abelard had seemed his old self. He had enjoyed a spirited argument with Master Gilbert and had taken on the questions of the students in the crowd with enthusiasm and humor. But the atmosphere of Sens, or the weather, which had turned warm and humid, seemed to be sapping his energy. His skin problem had returned and the heat on his wool robes made it worse. The prospect of defending his writings before an indifferent audience may have become less attractive than when he had first proposed it.
“Well, Catherine and I will be there.” Edgar stood also. “And the students as well as Master Gilbert and Canon Arnold. And he has other friends; Count Thibault, for instance, has given generously to the Paraclete.”
“The count also gave land for the expansion of Clairvaux,” Astrolabe said. “There are many who feel kindly disposed to Father, but they also respect the abbot, and some, I think, even fear the censure that might come from opposing him. Bernard is more trusted and honored than the pope.”
He took a deep breath. “Never mind. The course is set. And you have your own worries. Will you and Catherine eat supper with me tomorrow? I want to know how everything turns out. I don’t care about the bequest to the Paraclete. I do care when the sanctity of my mother’s convent is invaded. Can you bring this home to Rupert of Quincy?”
“We are certainly going to try,” Edgar said.
He and Catherine had found a place with one of the Jewish families of Sens. Word of the threats against Hubert as well as the attack on Eliazar had spread through all the communities and they were more than willing to help combat this danger to their own.
Although they shared the room with their host and his family, Edgar was not about to complain, knowing how many people were crammed three and four to a bed in the inns. But, even though he tried to ignore it, he did feel out-of-place with these people, even more than with the other French. Perhaps it was because Catherine seemed to fit in with them so well.
When he arrived, the women were laughing at her attempts to pronounce Hebrew.
“Reach farther back in your throat,” their hostess, Sarah, teased. “Pretend you’re choking and cough the word.”
Catherine shook her head. “I fear I might spray it across the room. Edgar! I’m glad you’re back. We’ve been preparing for the Sabbath. Did you see Master Abelard?”
“No, he’s resting.” Edgar kissed her chastely, aware of all the feminine eyes. “Astrolabe would like us to dine with him tomorrow.”
“If we survive the morning,” Catherine said lightly. But her eyes were worried. “I hope I haven’t made a terrible error in deduction.”
“We can’t think about that now,” Edgar said. “I saw no errors when you explained it to me.”
“But this isn’t a schoolroom. People’s lives are at stake,” Catherine fussed.
“If we don’t speak, Brother Baldwin and Lisiard and Alys will have died for nothing,” Edgar reminded her. “Their killers will be allowed to enjoy the profits of their iniquity. Perhaps they will pay in hell, but, since I don’t plan to be there to see it, I find that little comfort.”
“Nor do I,” Catherine said. “You’re right. I only needed you to remind me.”
“I promise I’ll always be here to do it,” Edgar said. “Now, tell me again all the rituals for eating here. I can never remember.”
After discussing the matter, separately, with both Hubert and Constanza and conferring with Héloïse by letter, Countess Mahaut had convinced the count that the fewer people to attend this meeting, the better. Justice was paramount, but it should be achieved without unnecessary scandal. So the meeting took place in a private hall, donated by the archbishop. Walter and Raynald had left their men outside with severe threats about disturbing the peace. Raynald’s father, William, came with him. Rupert and Constanza arrived, Rupert having to be carried up the stairs, cursing the men who jolted his leg. Constanza was dressed plainly, in dark colors, as if to remind the count that she was the mother of the victim, not one of the accused.
Catherine and Edgar wore new clothes that had been made for them in Paris. Catherine was in green and gold, with the ivory cross and earrings shaped like gold bells as her only jewelry. Edgar contrived to look vaguely clerical, but wellborn. His gold chain shone richly against his blue tunic.
At the bottom of the steps, Catherine stopped.
“You told my father that you would train for the law,” she said to Edgar. “Do you think you’re ready to begin?”
“Honestly, I only said that so he’d let me marry you.” Edgar looked up the stairs nervously. “I don’t think I’ve the temperament to argue in court.”
“But you will,” Catherine said, “for Alys and the others?”
“But I will,” he answered. “Mostly for you.”
They started up.
They had almost reached the top when they heard someone rushing after them.
“Edgar!” Astrolabe was taking the steps two at a time. He was waving a bit of paper. “Here. Mother sent it. I don’t know if it will help you.”
“What is it?” Edgar took the letter. “‘My beloved son, you and your father are …’”
“No, this part”—Astrolabe pointed—“about Deacon Peter.”
Edgar read the indicated passage. “‘I have just received a letter from Bishop Hatto telling me that Pope Innocent has, in his great benevolence, and as one who takes notice of even the humblest of his flock, issued an order, commanding that Deacon Peter reimburse the Paraclete the twenty marks of silver that he borrowed. I believe the Holy Father included other instructions for the bishop concerning the deacon’s financial activities … .’”
“Does that help you?” Astrolabe asked.
“It might,” Edgar said. “May I keep this until evening?”
“Of course,” Astrolabe said. “May all the saints be with you.”
“Thank you.” Edgar stowed the paper in his sleeve and, taking Catherine’s hand, entered the chamber.
Count Thibault, fresh from dismantling the commune of Reims, was seated on a raised platform. He had no need for advisors. Since André de Baudement had left, he hadn’t even bothered with a seneschal. He was past fifty now and had been governing an area larger than all of the territory of the kings of England and France combined since he was little more than a child. He had so much that he had allowed his younger brother, Stephen, to take the throne of England, even though he could have claimed it. Infamous for his violent temper and rapacious behavior, he had been partially tamed in recent years by the sudden loss of five family members in the wreck of the
White Ship
and the influence of a pious wife.
He still intimidated Catherine. She and Edgar went quietly to a bench against the wall. She sat up straight, her hands folded in her lap, and studied the others.
Raynald and his father were on one side. William of Nevers occasionally glanced at Constanza and Rupert, who sat behind them, ready to give their evidence. On the other side of the room, near where Catherine and Edgar had been put, Walter of Grancy stood in solitary confidence. Despite the lack of a weapon, he seemed completely at ease, even peaceful. He felt Catherine watching him, turned to her and smiled reassuringly.
The count began the proceedings, brushing aside ceremony with a gesture.
“We are here today to seek the truth,” he began. “Heinous acts have been committed, the first being the deadly attack on Alys, the wife of Raynald, count of Tonnerre. For this, Walter of Grancy has been charged and will answer the accusation.”
Walter said nothing. He merely nodded his agreement.
“I have been persuaded that this attack is connected with two others,” Thibault continued, “both of which resulted in murder, but more importantly, which violated the sanctity of a place of God and of my own home. Walter of Grancy has accused Rupert of Quincy and another, unnamed, person in these deeds.”
Rupert’s cane thumped on the floor, but he made no other response.
“Finally,” Thibault said, “Walter has also been accused of aiding in the abduction of a woman who was a guest at Quincy. I understand this charge has been settled by the parties involved, but it was brought to my attention to point out the violent nature of the lord of Grancy.
“Which is rather stupid,” he added, “since I’ve known Walter all his life, as have the rest of you. Now, we have no clerics here today. I don’t want your oaths of innocence or offers of trial by hot iron or combat. I want to know what happened, and then I will personally wring the neck of the man who had the effrontery to use my latrine as an abattoir. Is that clear?”

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