The Difficult Saint: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  Edgar understood and respected his friend for it. But Solomon’s pride could lead to destruction. He didn’t relax his watchfulness until they were all back at Eliazar’s, with the door barred.

  It wasn’t until he had downed half of a pitcher of beer that he noticed Margaret, still in her finest clothes.

  “Is it a feast day?” he asked.

  “No, Brother,” Margaret said, coming to sit by him. “Catherine and I went to visit with Countess Mahaut today.”

  Edgar stopped with his bowl halfway to his lips.

  “Where’s Catherine?”

  Margaret caught the tone of anger and was puzzled.

  “I think she took James to the kitchen to be washed. Why?”

  Edgar stood and went to the kitchen without answering her.

  “Catherine,” he started.

  “Yes, I did,” she answered, as she peeled James’s muddy tunic and brais off him. “And I didn’t tell you because you would have tried to forbid it.”

  “Of course I would!” Edgar raised his voice. “Margaret is my sister and my ward. You have no right making plans for her without consulting me!”

  “I know,” Catherine admitted. “Now, step in the tub, James. But I did mention it once and you refused to discuss the matter. I don’t think you’re being rational in this. Margaret has a right to any help her grandfather might be willing to give. It’s more than we can do for her.”

  “So you also told her who he is?” Edgar remembered at the last minute that his sister might be listening and spoke more softly.

  “No, I didn’t,” Catherine said. “Yes, James, I have to wash you everywhere; you have dirt everywhere. But the countess knew at once when I told her who Margaret’s mother was. No one had told Thibault that Adalisa had been killed, poor man. She thinks he’ll want to meet Margaret. It’s not just your decision now, Edgar. The count has a say in it, too.”

  She was on her knees next to the shallow wooden tub. She looked up at Edgar, half in defiance, but half in fear. He was angry. He had some right to be. She knew what she risked.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he ordered. “I’m not a monster like my father. I’m not going to beat you.”

  She bit her lip. “I know that. I’m not afraid of that kind of pain.”

  Catherine hid her face as she scrubbed her son, who was protesting all through the conversation. She knew she was starting to cry and it was a weapon she despised.

  But Edgar wasn’t ready to give up his anger. He turned without speaking to go back to the hall. As he did, the door to the kitchen swung open and, to their astonishment, Walter burst in.

  “Edgar, Catherine,” he said without preamble. “You must come back with me at once. Lord Gerhardt is dead and they’re saying that Agnes killed him!”

  Nine

  Troyes, the home of Eliazar. Tuesday, 14 kalends July (June 18), 1146; 5 Tammuz, 4906. Feast of Saint Marina the Disguised, who lived as a monk until her death, without anyone guessing she was a woman.

  Sic inclusa … sola sedet et taceat ore, ut spiritu loquantur, et credat se non esse solam, quando sola est. Tunc enim cum Christo est, qui non dignatur in turbis esse cum ea.

  Let the recluse … sit alone and say nothing aloud, but speak with her soul and believe herself not to be alone when she is alone. It is then that she is with Christ, who does not deign to be with her in a crowd.

  —Aelred of Rievaux

  The Life of a Recluse

  “I went to Paris first,” Walter explained.”They told me where you had gone and so I rushed here. But it’s still more than a week since I left Trier. You’ve got to come back with me. Agnes has no one to speak for her.”

  Everyone had gathered around him, all shouting questions at once. Finally Hubert ordered silence.

  “Johanna, could you bring Walter something to eat and drink?” he asked. “He’s clearly traveled without rest. Now, everyone keep still and let the man tell us what happened.”

  Walter drank deeply from the bowl that Johanna gave him, the beer running down the edges of his beard. He gave it back to her for refilling and began his tale.

  “Everything seemed to be fine,” he started. “Agnes charmed everyone, even Gerhardt’s son. I had taught her a few phrases of German and she pronounced them well. She was eager to learn more and that endeared her to them. There were no clouds at all. She was married Acension Sunday. I thought it all went well. Gerhardt ordered casks of wine brought from his own cellar and the celebration lasted two days. The whole town participated. Agnes was beautiful and charming to everyone. I heard nothing against her the whole time.”

  He shook his head, still bewildered.

  “I went on to Köln to see a friend who had sent word that he wanted to come with me to the Holy Land. When I passed through Trier on my return, I was told that Lord Gerhardt’s new bride had poisoned him and that she was being held at the keep until her execution.”

  “This can’t be!” Hubert cried.

  “They mean to kill her?” Catherine couldn’t believe it either.

  Walter took another long drink.

  “The feeling among the people is that she must have used sorcery or poison, or both, to kill Gerhardt and they’re demanding that she be hanged,” he told them.

  “How dare they!” Hubert was as outraged about this as the accusation itself. “She’s not some peasant to be publicly humiliated and left dangling at the crossroads! Solomon, fetch the horses. Johanna, Catherine, pack me some food and clothes. I’m leaving at once. What sort of people has she gone among?”

  “Father, wait,” Catherine said. “Of course we’re going to get her, but we have to know more. What else, Walter? What does Gerhardt’s family say? Why do they believe Agnes is guilty?”

  Walter noted Edgar’s reaction to Catherine’s use of “we” but continued his tale.

  “I talked with Hermann, Gerhardt’s brother. He says that Gerhardt woke in the night, shrieking in agony and died horribly, with convulsions and choking. However, Hermann’s not as certain as the townspeople that Agnes is responsible for the death. I don’t understand his forbearance. Most men would leap to assume that the alien bride had killed him. But I felt the first day I met them that there was a hidden problem in the family. I should have heeded it. In any case, he’s kept her locked up at their castle rather than turn her over to the bishop for trial.”

  “Couldn’t this man have died of illness or eating a bad mushroom accidentally, instead?” Edgar asked. “Poison is a difficult thing to prove, sorcercy even harder.”

  “Perhaps that’s why they’re hesitant at the castle to accuse her formally,” Walter answered. “I didn’t ask why the local people were so certain. All I could think of was reaching you as quickly as possible. Hermann told me that Agnes is the logical person to suspect since she was physically closest to Gerhardt but he won’t have her tried until she has an advocate. I think he fears what she might say, but I couldn’t begin to guess what that would be. You’re the ones to ferret out the truth behind this.”

  “Could he have poisoned Gerhardt himself?” Catherine asked. “To prevent the possibility of any other heir to the land?”

  Walter shook his head. “Gerhardt already has a son who’s nearly of age. Peter is now the lord, although Hermann might be able to lay claim to the title on the grounds that he’s better able to defend it. But it was Hermann who arranged the marriage. Why would he have done that if he wanted the land for himself? I don’t understand this at all. I tried to get him to release Agnes to me, but the best I could do was to make him agree not to let anyone harm her until there was someone there to speak for her.”

  “She isn’t locked in a dungeon, is she?” Catherine couldn’t stand the thought of golden Agnes shut up in the dark, no matter how nasty she had been.

  “Of course not,” Walter said. “They’re not barbarians. She’s in a small tower room with her maids. The door is barred but I was allowed to see her a moment and she hasn’t been hurt. She’s only confu
sed and … actually—” Walter stopped. He’d only just realized it. “She appeared more angry than frightened.”

  “That sounds like Agnes,” Solomon murmured.

  “Mama, what’s wrong?” Catherine had almost forgotten James, who had climbed from the bath and stood next to her naked and wet.

  “Jesus’s sacred milk teeth, James!” she exclaimed. “You’ll freeze like that. Margaret, run get his tunic, please. It’s on the table next to the tub.”

  In the meantime she wrapped him in her own tunic, pulled up from the hem like a basket.

  “Mama!” James was indignant. “What is it? Where are we going?”

  There was silence as everyone stared at him. Finally Hubert cleared his throat.

  “I am going to Trier, James, to see to something,” he said carefully. “You and your parents are staying here.”

  “Father!” Catherine wasn’t about to let it rest there. “Agnes will need me, whether she’ll admit it or not. She must have asked for me, didn’t she, Walter?”

  “Well,” Walter said. “Actually, she didn’t ask for any of you by name. She told me to go to her grandfather and have him send an advocate to argue for her.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Hubert said. “What good would that do? This isn’t a dispute about a piece of land! She needs family members who will vouch for her. It may well be that this Hermann fears the revenge we might take if Agnes were unjustly condemned.”

  “That’s right,” Catherine added as she struggled to get James’s arms into his tunic. “That’s why I should be there, too. All the family must defend her.”

  “Not without me,” Edgar said.

  Catherine gaped at him. “Edgar, Agnes is my sister. I must stand with her. You needn’t be involved. It’s nothing to do with you.”

  She regretted the words as soon as they were spoken.

  Edgar raised his eyebrows and tightened his lips.

  “Really?” he said. “And Margaret is my sister. What has her fate to do with you?”

  Catherine looked at him, then lifted James and handed him to Hubert.

  “Father, will you mind him for a few moments?” she asked. “I think Edgar and I need to talk alone.”

  Edgar nodded agreement and the two of them left the room.

  Walter used the pause to pour another bowl of beer. The others went for bowls of their own.

  “Do they throw things at each other?” Walter asked nervously.

  “They haven’t so far,” Solomon answered. “But I’ve never seen either one of them look at the other like that before. It’s best to leave them to it. Now, Hubert, what do you want me to do in aid of this troublesome daughter of yours?”

  Edgar led Catherine out to a bench in the back garden. Neither said a word until they were seated next to each other, not touching or looking at each other. The silence became thick around them. At last Catherine could endure it no longer.

  “I’m sorry I took Margaret to Countess Mahaut without telling you,” she said.

  He didn’t answer at once and she could feel him struggling with his anger. She knew that it wasn’t like hers, a flare and then over, but something slow to kindle and hard to extinguish. But she also knew that he was fair and judged himself as severely as he did others. She waited, holding herself motionless with an effort more tiring than action would have been.

  “It was unfair not to give me the chance to decide the matter,” he said at last, as if analyzing the argument with each word. “But perhaps, when I refused to discuss it, I wasn’t thinking of Margaret’s interests as much as my own anger at my father. I left all of that world behind and,” he smiled and she closed her eyes in relief, “I didn’t want my sister to return to it. But, you’re right. The choice should be hers, not ours.”

  Now Catherine turned to face him, putting a hand to his cheek.

  “And so you understand why I must go to Agnes?” she said. “Whatever she has done, she’s my sister and I can’t abandon her. We know what happens when families turn against themselves.”

  “I do,” he answered. “And that’s why we must go.”

  He took her hand in his and kissed the palm.

  “Your father will have a great deal to say about it, but he should know by now that he can’t defeat the both of us.” He put both arms around her and pulled her close.

  “What about the children?” Catherine hated to mention it. “It’s not a difficult journey, but we don’t know what enmity we’ll face at the end of it.”

  Edgar thought a while.

  “We can be home by the end of summer,” he said. “So the weather shouldn’t be a problem. They won’t be hurt by the travel. And, perhaps the sight of her poor little niece and nephew will soften the hearts of those judging Agnes.”

  “Father will certainly object to that,” Catherine warned him.

  “But we can overcome his objections together.” Edgar kissed her. “Can’t we?”

  They became so involved in their reconciliation that they were unaware of anything else until a suppressed cough brought them back to the present.

  Solomon stood at the gateway, shaking his head at them.

  “I was sent to see if you had come to blows,” he told them. “Now I find you just wanted an excuse to embrace. I’m shocked.”

  “Not as much as you will be,” Edgar rose. “We need to pack up everyone and set out at once.”

  “All of you?” Solomon was doubtful. “Is that wise?”

  “No,” Catherine answered. “But that’s what we’ve decided.”

  “You’re mad, you know,” he observed.

  “Yes, we know.” Edgar was complacent.

  Solomon shrugged. “It’s no worry of mine. I doubt that Agnes will want me to stand up for her. And someone has to stay here for the fair and see that the Edomites don’t try anything more. But I’ll keep a horse ready, just in case you fall into misfortune and need rescuing yourselves. I’ll see to it that your children get home.”

  “If they’re with us,” Edgar told him, “they are home.”

  Peter sat on the slopes of the vineyard, sobbing for his lost father. It still seemed impossible to him that between sunset and dawn his life could have reversed so completely. People were calling him Lord Peter now, expecting him to make decisions. Uncle Hermann tried to keep them from bothering him, but Peter knew he wouldn’t be allowed much time to mourn. He was almost fourteen; boys his age fought alongside their kin. Some even led them into the battle.

  Peter felt as though he’d already been through a war. If only there had been some warning. Why would Agnes have wanted to kill his father? She seemed happy with him. But Aunt Maria said that she had heard crying on the wedding night. Had his father done something terrible to her? Peter knew what men and women did together; he’d been contemplating trying it himself. Agnes would have been prepared for that, he assumed. So what had gone wrong?

  In the town people were calling her a sorceress or worse, saying that she was some river spirit who had enchanted Gerhardt only to destroy him. Peter had heard about that sort of being, too. But he also knew that one could always find them out by the fact that they never stayed to the Elevation of the Host at Mass. Now, Agnes went to Mass every day, if she could. Peter had even seen her take communion. A sorceress’s tongue would shrivel and burn at the touch of the body of Our Lord. So Agnes couldn’t be a demon. She must have a reason other than pure evil to wish his father dead. But what?

  The bells were ringing for Vespers. Peter wiped his eyes and nose and trudged back up to the keep. He wished there were someplace else to go.

  His aunt Maria and uncle Folmar were waiting for him, their faces taut with grief.

  “Oh, Peter,” Maria moaned. “Look at yourself! Covered in mud and the archdeacon coming to dinner tonight.”

  “I’ll wash and change at once, Aunt,” Peter replied listlessly. “But why must we feed the archdeacon? Doesn’t he know we’re a house in mourning?”

  “Of course, my dear,” his aunt said
. “He hopes to bring consolation.”

  Peter continued on to the room that had been his father’s and was now his. Absently, he sent for wash water. Despite the numbness of desolation, he started to wonder about the archdeacon’s visit. Aunt Maria’s explanation had been too facile. Was it something to do with Agnes? Perhaps Uncle Hermann wanted the man to use his authority to make Agnes confess. They had tried that once before with a French-speaking priest from Saint Maximin’s who had been sent for when Agnes complained that her bodily needs and those of her maid’s were being met but their spiritual ones ignored.

  Apparently there had been no sudden admission that one of them had slipped poison in Gerhardt’s wine cup, for Father Otto had seemed disappointed when he came down from seeing the women.

  Peter would have liked to question Agnes himself, but his new position didn’t seem to include being allowed to do so. He would have to wait for Walter of Grancy to return with Agnes’s family so that the trial could begin.

  He finished dressing, carefully smoothing the pressed linen tunic with his damp hands before leaving the room. Aunt Maria was so exacting about his appearance. It was trying. He wondered how much longer he’d have to pay attention to her.

  As he went down the stairs the clink of platters and the murmur of polite voices rose to meet him. Even the dogs were behaving. The contrast to the raucus meals with his father was almost more than he could bear.

  Peter clenched his teeth and lifted his chin, determined to see this through as Gerhardt would have wished. But all the time his heart cried out for his father to come back.

  Even though they had tried to hurry, it was another week before Catherine and Edgar arrived in Metz, where they hoped to buy space on a boat going downriver to Trier. Hubert chafed at each delay, threatening to take a pair of horses and ride off on his own.

  “Father, you can’t do that,” Catherine told him. “I won’t let you risk yourself. It will be of no use to Agnes if you fall dead by the roadside in your haste to reach her.”