The Devil's Door (7 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

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

BOOK: The Devil's Door
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Catherine nodded. There was no point in going into her theories here. Somehow, now that Alys was dead, it seemed even more improper to discuss the cruelty she had endured. Emilie smiled and hugged her.
“Don’t let this distress you any longer,” she told Catherine. “Alys is free now. And Sunday is Easter; we can all rejoice in that.”
“That’s true,” Catherine sighed. “And it
will
be nice to be given two meals a day again.”
Emilie laughed and agreed. “I need to finish some work in the infirmary this afternoon. Our supply of compound for fever is very low. What will you be doing?”
“What?” With difficulty, Catherine pulled herself back from her thoughts. Why had Emilie called Alys free? Of the earth, life, temptations? Or was there something more Emilie knew and refused to tell?
“Daily labor?” Emilie prompted.
“Oh, yes,” Catherine said firmly. “I’m to go to the hostel and help with the distribution of alms.”
“That will be good for you,” said Emilie. “I always liked that, especially when there are children. You see, that’s something else a good cloistered
sanctimonialis
can no longer do.”
It did cheer Catherine to be part of the almsgiving. Bread and leftover vegetables were usually all they had to give, since the Paraclete was not a rich establishment like Cluny or Fontevraud. But today a local peasant had made a gift from the last of the winter roots and so they could also give each recipient a few fresh turnips. The sick were sent to Sister Melisande.
“The coughing sickness must be very bad this spring,” Catherine said to the doorkeeper, Sister Thecla, whom she was helping with the food distribution. “That’s the fifth person I’ve sent to Sister Melisande.”
Sister Thecla pursed her lips. “Perhaps,” she said. “It has been a hard winter. But it is odd that almost no one came to us for coughing until Melisande concocted her new remedy of honey and red wine.”
The thought of a spoonful of such medicine almost made Caterine want to start coughing. It had been months since she had tasted anything sweet. And it had been a hard winter. The convent survived on tithes from mills and fishponds and the harvest from the eighth parts of fields. A bit of land, a strip of wood, a few denarii given by one of the local castellans; these were uncertain sources to feed thirty people and still allow for charity.
“The fog’s finally lifting,” the doorkeeper said. “I can see a bit down the road now, even make out some shapes. Men on horseback, knights, I’d guess. No carts; they’re not with a merchant party. They’re riding hard, and … well armed.”
She put down the basket of bread.
“Catherine, dear,” she said carefully. “Go ask the prioress if we can spare a few more turnips. Have Brother Baldwin carry them out to me. You go back to the cloister.”
“But …” Catherine started. Then she saw the doorkeeper’s face. “Yes, Sister.”
She found Brother Baldwin in the vegetable garden just outside the convent walls.
“There is a group of knights approaching,” she told him. “Sister Thecla sent me to ask the prioress to give you more turnips for the poor, but I don’t think that’s why she wants you out there with her.”
The lay brother shouldered his hoe. “Don’t worry. I’ll go see to her. You’d better go on in to the prioress.”
He squared his shoulders and strode toward the main gate. Catherine felt reassured. Before renouncing the world, Brother Baldwin had been in the service of the last king, Louis the Alert, and his father, Philippe the Bigamist. He had survived the Great Crusade and, on his return, had fought on through the interminable sieges and squabbles of the nobility. Although nearly seventy now, he could still swing a hoe with deadly skill.
“Breaking the peace during Holy Week,” he muttered as he left. “What is this world coming to?”
She found Prioress Astane checking on the preparations for the Good Friday offices. Her jaw tightened as Catherine told her of the knights.
“Don’t worry, I think I know who it is,” she told Catherine. “But Sister Thecla is quite right. With those men about, you and all the other young girls should be somewhere safe. Tell Sister Bertrada to gather up the students and the
sanctimoniales
and take them to the chapter house. Bar the door, if necessary.”
Catherine gave Sister Bertrada the message and even helped shepherd the younger girls into the chapter. But she had no intention of staying cooped up in there, ignorant and helpless. By now, she too had a good idea of whose knights were at the gate and she wanted to know why Raynald of Tonnerre needed an armed escort to come and mourn his wife.
The five men who had accompanied Count Raynald were still mounted when Catherine returned to the gate. The count had apparently been admitted to the gatehouse, but either Brother Baldwin’s hoe or Sister Thecla’s tongue had kept the others from forcing their way in. They brightened when they saw Catherine.
“Eh!
Bele!”
one leered.
“Folez o me le vendange?”
“Leceres!”
Brother Baldwin raised his hoe and stepped in front of Catherine. “What the hell are you doing here?” he fumed at her. “Everything was fine until you came out.”
“I’m sorry.” Catherine tried to see around him. “I only wanted to … Brother Baldwin, there are more of them coming down the road, look! Oh, no, it’s not, it’s … Master!”
Everyone turned to look where Catherine was pointing. Out of the fog rode a man sitting straight as a lord on a white horse. At either side walked a servant, but no one noticed them.
“Abelard?” the knight who had propositioned Catherine asked. Another man nodded.
“The eunuch?” the same man whispered.
“Yes.”
They all fell silent, twitching nervously in their saddles. Philosophy could not intimidate them, but the sight of a man who had paid the ultimate price for stolen passion was terrifying.
Abelard took in the situation and bent down to say something to one of his servants. The man nodded and hurried on ahead, his hood falling back as he did.
“Astrolabe!” Catherine cried in delight, stepping out from behind Brother Baldwin. She held out her hands to her old friend.
“Catherine!”
The voice came not from Astrolabe, but from the other servant. Catherine swayed and her hands dropped. Only one person in the world said her name like that, with the “th” soft as a lisp.
“Catherine?”
I’m crying!
she thought.
What a stupid thing to do!
Go to him,
her voices chided.
you know that’s what you most desire. You have no argument for that.
“I can’t move,” she whispered. “I’m afraid.”
Astrolabe had reached the group. He bowed formally to the knights.
“My father wishes to know why you are waiting at the gate of the Paraclete,” he said. “You must have mistaken this door for the one leading to the church. You’ve come for evening services, haven’t you? You will stay through Easter? I’m sure his sermon will be most edifying for you.”
With one hand, he pulled Catherine into motion.
“I’ve brought someone to see you,” he laughed. “I knew him at once from your description, but I haven’t told him yet that we’ve been friends for years.”
Edgar kept walking forward only because he was holding the bridle of the horse. She wasn’t dressed the way she had been when he last saw her. Her hair was completely covered now, not a tendril showing. Why did Astrolabe have to drag her? Had she changed her mind? Edgar knew that he cut a poor figure next to the Almighty. He had hoped she wouldn’t notice.
As she came closer, he saw that the hem of her robe was muddy and she had a bruise on the back of her left hand. She would wave them about when arguing. Why, by all the saints, should he find such things so incredibly compelling? Edgar didn’t need disputatious voices to answer him. It was because mud and bruises were a part of what Catherine was and she was what he loved.
Abelard waited patiently as Astrolabe brought Catherine to her betrothed. She looked nothing like Héloïse but, even after twenty-five years and a host of disasters, he remembered how he had felt. Poor Edgar!
Catherine tried to match the man standing before her with the Edgar of her memory. Had he always been so pale? His flaxen hair was straight and almost to his shoulders. Well, at least he hadn’t decided to be tonsured and come only to say good-bye.
“Diex te saut,”
Catherine greeted him. “How was your journey?”
“Diex te saut,”
he answered. “I encountered no trouble. I’ve seen your father in Paris. He sends you his love.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Are you here to celebrate Easter with Master Abelard?”
Abelard started laughing. He couldn’t help it. They were so young and so absurd. The other three stared at him.
“I apologize,” he said. “Edgar, answer the question.”
Edgar looked at Catherine and grinned.
“I am always honored to spend time with Master Abelard,” he said. “But no, you know the reason very well. I came to the Paraclete for you.”
For the first time in her life, Catherine had no words. She held out her hands and Edgar took them.
A few minutes later, in the guesthouse
Hic ingenio … phylosophus construxit cenobium … quod Paraclitum nominavit. Quibus sanctimonialis cluandam uxorem suam, religiosam feminam et literis tam Hebraicus quam Latinis adprime eruditam, prefecit abbatissam.
This philosopher [Abelard] cleverly constructed a cell, which he named the Paraclete. One of the nuns, who was once his wife, he made abbess, a devout woman, exceedingly learned, literate in both Hebrew and Latin [Héloïse].
—Robert of Auxerre,
Chronicles of Saint Mariani
P
rioress Astane was busy folding up blankets and sheets.
“We are putting Father Abelard in his old room, next to the oratory. We need to make up a new bed for Father Guiberc. You boys dismantle that and take it around the outside of the convent for me, please. The lay sisters all have too much to do, what with their ordinary duties and cleaning the infirmary.”
She glared at them as if she believed they would argue the matter. But Astrolabe immediately set to work taking the bed apart.
“And you need to help him,” Astane continued, fixing her disapproval on Edgar. “Let go of that girl’s hand. I don’t care if you are betrothed. I’ll have none of that sort of thing here. Catherine!”
“Yes, Sister?” Catherine’s voices were making a fearful racket in her head. Or perhaps it was just her heart beating so loudly. She had not heard a word.
“Go to the gatehouse and tell the abbess that Abbot Peter is here. No, young man, you will
not
go with her!”
“Yes, Sister.”
Héloïse wanted desperately to close her eyes and rub her aching temples, but this was not a time for weakness.
“Don’t think you can get away with this trick,” Count Raynald said icily. “I’ve told you that I’ll leave money for you to pray for her soul, but you only had the
usufruct
of that property, not full possession!”
“Unless she became a member of our community before her death,” Héloïse said softly. “The wording of the charter is clear, my lord. But this isn’t something we should be discussing now, while you are still overcome by your sudden loss.”
The count’s jaw tightened. Whatever his inner grief, only anger showed. Before he could make more accusations, Héloïse stood and moved toward the door.
“Because of the season, we will not be able to have a funeral Mass for Sister Alys until next week. But I’m sure you will want to join us for the Easter Vigil, at which we will remember her.”
“I’ll be damned first!” Raynald nearly spit the words in her face. “You were supposed to care for her, instead you chopped off her hair and wrapped her in one of your filthy robes and let her die so you could get her donation. Don’t think you’ll profit from your greed, Lady Abbess. I will see to that!”
He wheeled about and stomped out of the room. Héloïse watched him go, stunned. It would be all right, she told herself. He would calm down and realize they had done nothing except follow the countess Alys’s wishes. She covered her eyes with her hands and pressed her thumbs against the pain in her head. She couldn’t even remember which of the donations he was so angry about losing. Land? A tithe from a bridge? Two-thirds of a mill? Nothing they had been given was enough to be greedy about. Not for a man like Raynald. But to the convent, every vine, every egg, every arpent of land mattered. There was never enough to keep all their dependents.
“Mother, are you ill?”
Héloïse looked up. “It’s nothing, Catherine. The count and his men will not be staying, I think. But I want you to remain inside the cloister until they go. Catherine, do you understand me?”
What was the matter with the girl now? She looked radiant, almost beatified.
“Oh, Mother, Edgar’s come back for me!” Catherine said.
Héloïse nearly laughed, despite her pounding headache and sense of disquiet. Catherine’s exaltation was so obvious. The only other time Héloïse had ever seen the girl that thrilled was the first Latin lesson in which she had correctly identified an ablative absolute.
“I’m glad for you, my child,” she said. “You do seem to be certain that this is the correct choice.”
The light in Catherine dimmed. “I am not certain that I am correct, Mother. But I know it is the choice my heart has made and I must follow it.”
Héloïse closed her eyes, seeing back more than twenty years.
“Yes, Catherine, you must,” she said. “Has your Edgar come alone, or did your father send a suitable guardian?”
“Oh, Mother Héloïse!” Catherine’s hand flew to her mouth. “I’m so sorry. Yes, he did. Prioress Astane sent me to tell you that Master Abelard had arrived. He is resting in his old room.”
Héloïse’s face showed no radiance, no sudden aberration of the pulse. She had learned her lessons in twenty years.
“Thank you, Catherine,” she said. “You may go to the oratory now to prepare for Vespers.”
Héloïse didn’t run. At one time she had, disregarding custom and propriety. At one time the most famous philosopher in Paris had written love songs for her and raced though his lectures in his haste to return to her bed. It was a long time ago. But, as she walked, it seemed there was a man in the twilight running toward her. For a moment she felt dizzy, thrust back in time, then she recognized him. The same, but not the same, and yet loved with the same tenderness. Forgetting her age and position, she ran to him.
“Astrolabe!” She hugged him tightly.
“Hello, Mother,” Astrolabe said.
“My dearest son,” Héloïse kissed him. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
His face lit. “Are you? I have often thought that with so many daughters, you might not miss me … .” He trailed off. He had always believed that it was his shameful birth that had set in motion all her sorrows.
She hugged him tightly. “Astrolabe, you will always be beloved to me. Never forget that.”
“I brought Father, as I promised,” Astrolabe paused. “He’s not well, Mother. A slight fever, perhaps nothing more. It seems to come and go without warning. But I fear that these renewed attacks on his philosophy have weakened him.”
“He has survived worse,” Héloïse answered. “I’m sure he only needs rest.”
Astrolabe didn’t answer. She would know when she saw him.
“And how are my cousins?” he asked as they resumed walking.
“Sisters Agate and Agnes are well. They’ll be delighted to see you again. I understand you brought Catherine’s Edgar with you. What’s he like?”
“He suits her,” Astrolabe answered.
“Oh, dear,” Héloïse laughed as she opened the door.
Edgar sat on a stool next to the bed, watching Abelard as he slept. The cool spring light illuminated him and he had turned away from its harshness. But each line across his face was deeply etched. Héloïse froze in the doorway. It was as if someone with a mailed fist had hit her in the stomach as hard as he could.
“Oh, my dear,” Héloïse whispered. “Astrolabe, you and Edgar must be tired and hungry from your journey. If you go to the guesthouse, Sister Ermelina will have something sent to you.”
She barely noticed them go. She sat down on the stool and hesitantly touched the hand lying on the blanket.
It was still his hand, twice the size of hers, with long supple fingers, strong enough to pound rhetoric into the dullest head. It had always been a marvel to her how incredibly gentle his hands could be. But his face was so thin and his hair had gone almost white, only a few streaks stayed stubbornly black. When had that happened? He had never changed before, not even during those first long years when he had refused to see her. Somehow she had believed he would remain thirty-five until she caught up with him. But she had long since passed that year and he had entered his sixties. He had survived physical attacks and the battering of disputation. He had been driven from one place to another. It was not surprising that he should be ill and worn. But …
“Peter,” she breathed. “You promised me you would be immortal. I’m holding you to that. It’s hard enough to live each day, knowing you’re somewhere else, that you can never stay with me. But if I lose even the hope of seeing you again, I will die.”
Slowly his eyes opened and he smiled at her.
“
Dilectissima,
” he said, “I
will
be immortal. Do you think an intellect such as mine can be extinguished so easily? Are you now becoming like those grey vultures who expect me to humbly bow before their superior faith? Ridiculous! I intend to outlive them all.”
Héloïse’s eyes filled but her voice remained steady.
“That’s better,” she said.
“I don’t know what the lady abbess was thinking of,” the lay brother Baldwin said as he ladled the last of the turnip soup out for Edgar and Astrolabe. “It’s Good Friday; you boys should be fasting. Bad enough that those men of the count’s demanded the last of the wheat bread and then wanted fish, as if we had any.”
“There’s nothing in the vivarium?” Astrolabe looked out the window to the spot in the river netted on three sides so that fish coming downstream would be trapped.
“There haven’t been many yet this spring; what we salted from the gift of Felix of Bossenay is almost gone. Those mesels wouldn’t have wanted it anyway. They prefer the taste of blood.”
“Just so it isn’t ours,” Edgar said as he ate his soup. “Why are they here, in any case?”
“It’s convent business, I shouldn’t tell outsiders,” Baldwin said. He took out some barley bread and began cutting it. They waited. “Of course, you aren’t really outsiders … .”
Edgar smiled; Astrolabe kicked him under the table.
“Of course not,” he said. “What’s been happening here? When I mentioned that Father was ill, Prioress Astane told me the infirmary was not yet fully cleansed. What has happened?”
“Oh, the smell is something dreadful! It was horrible; there were maggots in her living flesh! I haven’t seen an infection that bad since I left the Holy Land. I don’t believe her people did anything to help her until they brought her here.”
“The poor woman!” Astrolabe crossed himself. “Who was she?”
“The wife of the count of Tonnerre. And now Count Raynald is trying to cause scandal in the convent, shouting that we forced his wife to take the veil just to steal her property. As if the lady Héloïse would stoop to such a thing! He’s just like his father! No respect for the Church!”
Brother Baldwin rose, jabbing with his bread knife as if the count were there to be sliced.
Edgar and Astrolabe looked at each other gloomily. Edgar shook his head.
“Is there nothing concerned with your family that doesn’t involve scandal?” he asked.
“My parents do seem to attract it,” Astrolabe admitted. “But our notoriety needn’t bother you. You are simply here to retrieve your bride.”
Edgar was glad he wasn’t holding a breadknife.
“Do you imagine that either Catherine or I could return to Paris with the Paraclete threatened and Master Abelard sick and beset by enemies?” Edgar’s voice rose. “We have already proved our loyalty, how dare you doubt it!”
“We?” Astrolabe’s eyebrows rose. “Not even married and already you speak for her. What would Catherine say to that?”
“That he was right, Astrolabe.”
Both men started.
“Catherine! How long have you been here?” Astrolabe recovered first.
“Only a moment. I’m supposed to be hiding in the chapter until the count has left,” she said as she came and sat down next to Edgar.
Brother Baldwin looked at her askance and stood behind them as chaperon. Under the table, Edgar took Catherine’s hand. She sighed happily. He had spoken just as she would have. Her fears were ridiculous. No one who understood her that well would ever hurt her.
Those are the ones Who can hurt you the most,
the voices taunted. She clenched her teeth and ignored them.
“There must be something we can do,” she said. “I believe Count Raynald is afraid we’ll discover that he caused his wife’s death.”
“Did he?” Astrolabe asked.
“He must have,” Catherine said. “In one way or another. He’s cruel and proud. He didn’t care if she died. He only wanted a reason to attack Walter of Grancy.”
“Catherine,”—Edgar removed his hand—“I can’t see that it would be worth killing one’s wife just to provoke a blood feud. Laming a horse is excuse enough.”
“He probably cared too much for his horse,” Catherine sniffed.
“And he didn’t have to bring Alys to the Paraclete,” Astrolabe added. “He could have let her die at her own home.”
“Yes, but there might have been more questions then,” Catherine countered. “It would seem a pious act, bringing her here. How could he know she would awaken? That was a kind of miracle.”
“Yes, there is reason in that,” Edgar said. “But not enough for an accusation. How can we prove it?”
“And what difference would it make to the countess’s bequest?” Astrolabe added.

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