The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  She closed her eyes but the tears spilled out anyway.

  “Edgar, what shall we do if he doesn’t wake?”

  Edgar held her close. “For now, why don’t we just pray that he does.”

  The Cistercian monastery of Clairvaux was unadorned—no bell tower, no elaborate paintings or carving. Everything in it was for utility only and not for the edification or comfort of the inhabitants. But, looking out over the fields that the monks and lay brothers had cleared, where grain and vines ripened and wild flowers bloomed, Astrolabe was struck by the beauty of the place.

  He had been kept waiting some time in the porter’s lodge. This didn’t surprise him. There were far more important people here to see the abbot. Also, since he had refused to tell Bernard’s protective secretary, Nicholas, the reason for his visit, there was no way for anyone to gauge its importance. And somehow Astrolabe suspected that Nicholas had no interest in letting him approach his master.

  He tried not to be bothered by this. Ever since he’d been old enough to understand who his parents were, he’d had to live with the fact that his father’s enemies and even some of his friends could not forgive Astrolabe for existing. The son of Abelard and Heloise took on the weight of their transgression simply by continuing to live. To their credit, neither of his parents had ever shown him anything but love, the few times he had seen them. His mother still seemed to treasure his visits. It was the rest of the world that made the situation difficult.

  The monk who had just entered the room, Geoffrey, was one of the difficulties. A former student of Abelard’s, he was now a staunch supporter of Bernard of Clairvaux. And, in castigating his former teacher, he had also conceived a strong dislike for Astrolabe as well.

  So, when Geoffrey beckoned him to follow, Astrolabe half suspected that he was being shown the door.

  Instead he was conducted into the abbot’s refectory in the guest house where Abbot Bernard, himself, soon joined him for the meal of bread and soup. No one spoke to him or to each other, although the abbot nodded his greeting. The only sound was that of the lector reading a passage from a life of Saint Anthony. As he listened, Astrolabe reflected that compared to what that hermit saint had eaten, bread and thin soup was a feast.

  After the meal the abbot rose and beckoned Astrolabe to follow him. They went to a room in the guest quarters where Bernard motioned for Astrolabe to seat himself.

  Astrolabe handed Bernard the letter his mother had entrusted him with. The abbot broke the seal and read it quickly then gave Astrolabe a wry smile.

  “I would have known you, even without the letter from your mother,” he said. “You have her eyes, but in all other respects, the features are your father’s.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Astrolabe squirmed uncomfortably under the abbot’s gaze.

  “And inside?” Bernard regarded him with curiosity.

  “I’m not the scholar my father was,” Astrolabe answered. “Nor do I have his need to understand the mind of the Creator. But I loved and admired him very much and am not ashamed to be thought like him.”

  “As is only proper,” Bernard answered. “Now, what is the message your mother sent you to tell me? Her letter only says the matter is urgent.”

  “Others may have already told you of this,” Astrolabe began uneasily, “but she wanted to be certain you were aware of the growing menace in Lotharingia and the Rhineland.”

  “Menace?” Bernard seemed surprised. “What sort? Heretics again?”

  “No, my lord abbot.” Astrolabe shifted from foot to foot. “It has come to my mother’s attention that a man claiming to be a monk has been preaching the upcoming expedition to the Holy Land and, in the course of his preaching, has been inciting the people to attack the Jews living among them.”

  Bernard was instantly attentive. “That’s impossible!” he said. “I sent a letter to all the bishops forbidding anyone to molest the Jews. We want no repetition of the shameful episodes of 1096.”

  “I am aware of that,” Astrolabe said. “But it seems that this brother Radulf is not. They say he is preaching in your name.”

  “No!”

  The abbot stood suddenly, his right hand in a fist. Astrolabe took a step back.

  “Mother had it from witnesses,” he told Bernard. “Merchants coming back from Metz. They had heard Radulf and feared the damage he might do.”

  The abbot forced himself to be calm.

  “My missives may not have reached the bishops of Lotharingia and Germany, yet,” he said. “But, in any case, I’m sure that the lords of the land will remember that they owe protection to their Jews.”

  “Yes, my lord abbot,” Astrolabe answered. “Shall I then return to the Paraclete and tell my mother that her worries are groundless? That you assure her no one will dare to attack the Jews against your instructions?”

  Bernard regarded him sharply. “Perhaps there is something of your father in you, after all. I can tell from your tone that you doubt the ability of the bishops.”

  “No, Lord Abbot,” Astrolabe said quickly. “But there is nothing so dangerous or deadly as evil rumor, and Mother and I fear that this is what this monk is spreading.”

  Bernard considered this for a moment, then nodded agreement.

  “I’ll have the matter looked into,” he promised. “And, now, there was something more in your mother’s letter.”

  Astrolabe looked at the floor and sighed deeply. He loved his mother and knew she wanted the best for him, but to ask this man of all people to help him! What was she thinking of?

  The abbot smiled. “I presume that you know what she has asked of me?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Astrolabe answered. “She’s worried because she has nothing to leave me. She wants to see that I have a living. She already asked the abbot of Cluny about it, but he had nothing. I’ve tried to tell her that I survive quite well. I teach a little and write letters and documents for those who need them. I have no real need of a benefice.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, my son.” Bernard held up his hand to give a farewell benediction. “For I’m afraid I have none to give. But I shall keep you in mind, should something appear.”

  Astrolabe tried to make his grimace a grateful smile.

  “Thank you, my lord abbot.” He bowed and left.

  Alone, Bernard carefully folded the letter from Heloise. A beautiful woman, he recalled, filled with a passion that was now being put to the service of God. Perhaps he could find a way to help her son. And as for this renegade self-proclaimed monk …

  “Porter!” he called. “Run fetch brother Nicholas. I need him to send another letter to the bishops of Germany! At once!”

  “I think he’s waking.”

  “Hush! don’t startle him!”

  Hubert heard the voices but couldn’t seem to wake up enough to answer. He felt cold. With a great effort, he made a noise.

  “Ghharrr.”

  “Father?” Catherine leaned over him. “Father, what happened? Are you all right?”

  “Give him some wine; his throat’s parched,” Edgar said.

  “Broth.” Catherine was firm.

  Hubert wished they’d stop arguing and give him something. The feeling was coming back to his limbs now. Nothing hurt. He was just tired, as if he’d been running for hours without a rest. He felt a spoon between his lips. He opened and swallowed.

  “More,” he grunted.

  Soon he felt able to sit up enough to drink without spilling half the broth down his jaw and into his shift.

  “We could find no wound,” Edgar told him. “Were you hit?”

  Hubert tried to remember. “No, I don’t think so. I just felt suddenly dizzy and cold and too weak to stand. Then I woke up here.”

  Catherine bit her lip. “We’ll have the doctor back,” she told him. “He thinks your humors just became imbalanced. You need to remember to be bled once a month.”

  “Nonsense!” Hubert said. “That’s only for clerks and monks who pray and fast all day. I�
�m fine. Probably just something I ate. I feel better already.”

  He moved to get up but three pairs of arms stopped him.

  “Rest for now, Hubert,” Edgar entreated over Hubert’s protest. “You fightened us. We want you to regain your strength. I won’t let you up unless you can promise that this won’t happen again. Can you?”

  Grudgingly, Hubert admitted that he couldn’t, since he had no idea why he had collapsed like that. It frightened him, too, all the more because he had been having odd feelings for some time: a tingling in his hands and feet, slight dizziness and the sensation that his heart was slowing down, even as he urged it on. He had told no one and, looking at the worried faces around him, vowed not to mention it ever.

  “Very well,” he said. “You may baby me for tonight but I have work to do tomorrow. When Agnes has left with all her trappings and boxes, then I promise to take a long rest, perhaps go see Eliazar for the rest of the summer. Is that agreeable to you?”

  Catherine scowled but nodded.

  “You’d think we were trying to punish you,” she complained.

  “I won’t be treated like a sick old man,” Hubert responded mildly. “When I am one, I’ll tell you. I promise.”

  All the same, he allowed Ullo and Hugh to help him up to his bed and, after drinking a bowl of hot wine and herbs, fell back to sleep for the night.

  Edgar could tell how shaken Catherine was by the incident.

  “Don’t worry, leoffest,” he murmured as he held her that night. “He’s not that old. It may have just been the shock of seeing the anger of the crowd added to the memory of what happened to him as a child.”

  “Perhaps.” Catherine’s voice was distant. “But his symptoms are so strange. It’s not like any sickness I know. It’s more as if he had been struck down.”

  “Catherine,” Edgar reminded her. “The day was clear. Are you saying God sent a bolt of lightning to punish him for protecting the Jews?”

  “No, God wouldn’t do that,” Catherine said. “At least, I don’t think so. I was thinking of a person. We never found out who denounced him to the bishop two years ago.”

  Edgar didn’t like the direction this was taking.

  “You think someone cursed him?” he asked. “That’s nonsense.”

  “Why?” Catherine asked. She shivered in his arms. “There are those who use evil forces to do evil. You know that.”

  “Well, I’ve heard that,” Edgar said cautiously. “But I’ve never seen it. I don’t think anyone does such things anymore. Not seriously. Remember our friend John’s story about the old priest who tried to do magic. None of the charms worked. This is the twelfth century, Catherine. We study the world with logic. The time of curses actually working is over.”

  Catherine was doubtful. “What about miracles?”

  “Well, you know that most scholars say that the time when God manifests himself in miracles is also over,” Edgar hedged. “But then, there’s James. I believe he lives only because of our pilgrimage. So I think that there are still minor miracles.”

  “Then it’s possible that there are still minor curses, too,” Catherine stated and rolled over, pressing her back against Edgar’s stomach. “Good night, carissime.”

  Edgar lay awake for a long time, wondering just who Catherine had in mind as the perpetrator and, if she were right, what they could do to defeat him.

  Agnes finished going through the jewelry and laid the pieces she had rejected back in the casket, each wrapped in felt to keep it from chipping or tarnishing. She had left more than she had originally intended. Perhaps Catherine’s daughter would need them one day. With a cripple for a father, she couldn’t expect much.

  Agnes had never trusted Edgar. If he hadn’t made Catherine fall in love with him she would have gone back to the convent. Then she could have spent her life in prayer as their mother had desired. Father and Mother should have forced Catherine to return, Agnes thought angrily. Everything started going wrong when she left the Paraclete. It had to be a punishment.

  She sniffed and wiped the tears on her sleeve. But if the sin were Catherine’s, why was it that the doom fell on the other members of the family? Uncle Roger, dead. Mother, lost in her own delusions, so far gone that she needed constant watching. Thank God the nuns had been willing to take her in. Even Edgar’s mutilation was part of it, although Agnes felt he deserved that. Why did nothing horrible ever happen to Catherine?

  Wearily, Agnes knelt before the cross on the wall over her bed, praying for comprehension.

  “If I just understood, Lord,” she begged. “Then I could accept. It can’t be that she’s right. She abandoned You for a mere man, and a foreigner, at that. She consorts with Jews. You can’t condone such behavior!”

  The room was silent. Agnes gazed at the cross, almost hoping to see the answer written on the wood.

  “Lord?” she asked. “Please, tell me why. Or at least send a sign that I’m doing right in going so far away. Let me know that my new life will be a happy one. Sweet Jesus, Blessed Virgin, I’m so afraid.”

  Silence.

  So. Even God was angry with her. Agnes hurt too much for tears but there was a hot lump in her throat that made her lips tremble and her jaw tighten. She pulled off her bliaut and dropped it on the floor. Something clanked. She picked the overdress up again and unknotted the sleeve. As she fumbled with the material, she felt a sharp pain in her finger. She pulled it out, bleeding.

  Sucking the cut clean, she felt more carefully with the other hand until she found the bit of metal Edana had uncovered amid the rushes.

  “Poor Jehan,” she whispered. “I hope this didn’t come from the space over your heart. You must stay safe. I wish I could care for you as you want me to. After all, no one else loves me. Not even God.”

  Five

  The castle of Lord Gerhardt, near Trier. Saturday, 12 kalends May (April 20), 1146; 5 Iyyar, 4906. Feast of Saint Marcellin, bishop of Embrun, protector of his people. The oil from the lamp by his grave cures any malady.

  Audivimus et gaudemus, ut in vobis ferveat zealus Dei: sed opor- tet omnino temperamentum sceintæ non deesse. Non sunt perse- quendi Judæi, non sunt trucidandi sed nec effugandi quidem.

  We have heard and rejoiced that the zeal for God burns within you: but one ought in no way to wander from the moderate path of wisdom. The Jews are not to be persecuted, nor are they to be killed nor even driven out.

  —Bernard of Clairvaux

  Letter 363

  To the people of Eastern

  Francia, both clerical and lay

  Gerhardt was kneeling next to a row of budding vines. The day was misty and his clothes and face already had a thin coating of mud. For the first time since he had agreed to go through with the marriage the Frenchwoman, Gerhardt was at peace.

  “Look here, son.” He lifted the new leaves to show Peter the minute green globes just starting to grow beneath them. “This is our treasure as fine as gold. And it’s our duty to see that it continues to thrive. No overseer or steward will ever care for our vines as we can.”

  Peter put a finger out and brushed it against the baby grapes. “I understand, Father,” he said. “You don’t need to worry. I love our land as much as you do. I won’t let anyone take it from us, nor will I trade it for wealth or power.”

  Gerhardt leaned back on his heels and clapped his son on the back in hearty approval.

  “Excellent mîn Liebelin!” he cried. “Then I have no fear for the future any more.”

  Peter stood, brushing at the mud on his knees, but he only succeeded in smearing it more deeply into his woolen pants. He looked at his father with some concern.

  “Why should you fear the future?” he asked. “It will be a long time before I become lord here, and now that you’re marrying, I may have many brothers to take over if I should fail.”

  “You won’t fail,” Gerhardt said firmly. “And I wouldn’t count on brothers to take the burden from you. I’m not all that young anymore. Why, I have to rub a
salve on my joints every night just to keep them from creaking. You’d better make up your mind that this will be in your keeping one day.”

  Peter seemed confused. “If you say so, Father. I just wanted you to know that what we have is more important to me than the idea that I should have it all. As long as someone of our blood is lord, I don’t care if it’s a younger brother.”

  Gerhardt laughed at this, causing the boy to blush. “Peter, I haven’t even seen the lady yet, and you have us already parents many times over! One should prepare for the future but not to that extreme. Come now. Let’s check on the progress of last year’s harvest.”

  As he watched Peter walking in front of him, so confident and trusting, Gerhardt cursed himself again for the weakness that had made him give in to the family. There had to be a way, somehow, for him to escape the consequences of his promise to marry.

  The two of them headed for the barn housing the great oaken barrels of new wine. As they headed up the path they were stopped by a shout from Hermann.

  “Gerhardt! Come quickly! Something terrible has happened!”

  Gerhardt broke into a run, his mind full of unnamed fears. He reached the porter’s hut outside the castle, where Hermann was kneeling next to a body. Two of the field workers stood uneasily at one side.

  “What is it?” Gerhardt panted. “Who’s been hurt?”

  “More than hurt,” Hermann said. “Dead. These two men found him caught in the river among some roots along the bank. I think he was a messenger. He was carrying this wrapped in oilcloth and tied by a cord around his thigh.”

  He rose from the body, holding a piece of folded vellum in his hand. There was a red ribbon and a grey wax seal attached to it.

  Gerhardt looked from the man to the seal, not sure which to examine first.

  “There’s nothing on the outside to tell who the message is for,” Hermann told him. “And nothing on the body to identify him. I don’t recognize the seal. Should we open it? Perhaps that will explain who he was and where he was going.”