The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  “Sorry,” he said, backing off quickly. What if she had felt the gold?

  “You should be,” she answered. “A night with me is worth a day of penance, cleric.”

  Edgar doubted it. The skin he had touched had been greasy and her hair had smelled of a hundred unwashed men.

  Catherine’s hair smelled like summer rain.

  He made his way through the detritus to the door of the house of Hubert LeVendeur, merchant.

  Catherine’s father was just finishing the evening meal and was thinking seriously about taking a cup of mulled wine and going to bed when Edgar was announced.

  “By the vats of Saint Vincent!” he exclaimed. “You’ve come back!”

  “Yes, sir,” Edgar said. He wasn’t sure if this greeting were a welcome or a curse.

  The room was empty, except for a small trestle table near the fire, where Hubert was seated. An oil lamp, hanging from the ceiling, gave the only light.

  “Where is everyone?” Edgar asked.

  Hubert shrugged. “I sent my men-at-arms to spend Holy Week with their families. The rest of the household is at my son’s home at Vielleteneuse. I have business that keeps me here. And you?”

  He didn’t ask Edgar to sit, or offer him wine. Common manners should have required that much. Edgar’s nervousness suddenly turned to anger. Who was this man to glare at him and treat him like a serf? He lifted his chin and glared back.

  “I have business here, too,” he answered. “Four months ago you agreed to my betrothal to your daughter, Catherine. The desponsatio having been approved by both you and the lady in question, I returned to my father’s home to acquire his permission and to obtain a dower. Since you did not wish her to be burdened with land in a foreign country, I have brought her dower in gold.”

  He reached beneath his shift and untied the belt he had worn for so many miles. He then laid it on the table in front of Hubert.

  Catherine’s father didn’t even glance at it. He poured another cup of wine from the pitcher.

  “And what did your father say when you told him you were returning to France to marry a woman who was meant to marry Our Lord?”

  Until that moment, Edgar was unaware of the generations of aristocratic arrogance hidden deep in his being.

  “My father was not at all concerned by that,” he said. “He was much more appalled that I would forfeit my right to become abbot of the family monastery and then bishop of Edinburgh. It was only to that end that I was sent to study in Paris.”

  Hubert nodded slowly and drained the cup. He looked at Edgar again, this time with deep sadness.

  “It’s not too late to fulfill your father’s wishes,” he said.

  Edgar blinked. His stomach lurched. Hubert had not touched the gold.

  “What are you trying to tell me?” he asked, his voice faltering slightly. “What has happened while I was gone? Has Catherine …”

  “No,” Hubert said. Finally he stood.

  “Come over here, son. Sit. Drink. Catherine is well. Her letters speak mostly of her concerns for you. I have spent many wakeful nights reviewing my decision to grant her to you. I truly expected your father to forbid you to return. I thought, Well, she will be unhappy a while and then realize that the Paraclete is the best place for her.”

  Edgar’s hand froze as he reached for the pitcher.

  “And now?” he asked.

  Hubert poured wine for them both. He gestured to the half-finished bread and meat, then gazed into the shadows lurking beyond the small circle of lamplight.

  “I came to Paris from Rouen thirty-five years ago. The Christian merchant who raised me had given me the job of providing the Norman lords of the area with wine from Francia and Burgundy. In executing this commission, I acquired wealth and connections of my own. One was with a knight of Blois, Raoul de Boisvert. The family had little money but they were distantly related to the counts of Blois and could trace their line back to Richard le Justicier. Raoul had a daughter. He was amenable; she was obedient. I married her.”

  Edgar remembered the only time he had seen Madeleine, daughter of Raoul. Catherine had been so ill, she had fallen from her horse outside the castle keep. He had rushed up to catch her but Madeleine had pushed him away and started raving about the sickness being a punishment or a penance. Catherine had already told him how her mother spent most of every day praying and visiting the local shrines.

  Hubert sighed. “Pay attention, boy. I’m telling you the story for a purpose. I want you to understand why I’m doing this, so you know what to expect from me. I bought Madeleine from her father. I was fond enough of her, but mostly I cared for her family. Her ties to nobility would improve my social position and increase my wealth. It was a perfectly normal arrangement.

  “Then there were the stillbirths, the children taken by fever their first winter, our second son crushed by the cart. She began to suspect that my conversion to Christianity had not been genuine, that I still adhered to the faith of my ancestors. She withdrew from me and replaced me with the saints. Finally, the saints alone mattered, even more than our remaining children. But nothing she does for them brings her peace. Look what these fears have done to her. What I did. I keep thinking that, if I had loved her, I would have noticed sooner that her piety was beyond the normal. I could have reassured her as to my faith. Perhaps it would have made a difference.”

  From what Edgar knew of Madeleine’s family, he doubted that her madness could have been prevented. Her brother Roger had certainly been insane. Was Hubert warning him against marrying into a family of lunatics? It could work both ways. Edgar hoped they never had a visit from his uncle Ethelraed.

  Hubert refilled his cup. “I’m almost finished,” he promised. “They say that physical lust is the worst possible reason for a marriage and I can see, as can everyone else, by the way, how you and my daughter lust after each others’ bodies. All I can hope is that you also share a love encompassing the mind and heart that will see you through to the end of your days. If you don’t, if one day you regret not making a career in the Church, then release her. Let her go back to the nuns and be happy. Don’t make her stay with you for pride’s sake or honor.

  “I love Catherine the most of all my children,” he added. “I would rather see her happy than countess of Champagne. That’s all.”

  Edgar picked up the gold and laid it in Hubert’s lap.

  “I will not buy your daughter,” he said. “This is my promise that, with or without me, she will be taken care of. Catherine is more a part of me than any friend I have ever had. And I think I would make a most unholy abbot.”

  Hubert untied the cloth and counted out the bezants. He held one up to the light.

  “I’ll have Ullo make up a bed for you when he’s cleared the table. You can sleep here by the fire tonight. Later, when you have been properly wed, I’ll have the room above the counting house made up for you and Catherine. She’ll want to be near the books.”

  Then he called for another pitcher of wine.

  Edgar was standing next to the Devil’s Fart the next morning at first light. He leaned against it as he waited, rubbing his back against the scratches on the ancient megalith. No one knew who had built it or why it had been so named. It had been done by pagans, of course, long before the Romans, long before Christ. But the people of Paris seemed happy enough to leave it standing, once its evil influence had been countered by the church of Saint-Jean, built next to it. Large and easy to spot, it was a convenient gathering place. Many a pilgrim had etched his mark on the old Fart before setting out for Jerusalem or Compostela.

  The sun touched the spire of Saint-Jean and the bells of the town began ringing Prime. Edgar felt his mended chainse and was reassured by the crackle of vellum. It was worth as much to him as the gold that had been there before. Hubert LeVendeur had written a letter in his own hand, authorizing the abbess of the Paraclete to release his daughter, Catherine, if she agreed, to Edgar of Wedderlie for the purpose of honorable matrimony. Hubert
had also noted that she was to be under the care of Abbot Peter Abelard until she was returned to Paris for the nuptials. It was as clear a contract as they needed. Permission had been granted. The bride-gift had been paid. All that remained was to collect the bride.

  The sun climbed higher above Paris. The bells he heard ringing now were from the street, not the churches. Vendors, lepers and pigs all made noise to warn or attract passersby. The road to the Porte Baudoyer was thick with people these days. Ever since the artisans and merchants had started spilling from the Île into Monceau-Saint-Gervais on the right bank to avoid the high tariffs and expensive housing, the streets around the Fart had begun to resemble the faires at Troyes and Lendit. Edgar fidgeted as he was pushed farther from a clear view of the road.

  Finally, he saw them, Astrolabe leading his father, who was riding a white palfrey with easy skill. Edgar smiled. Despite all his adversities, Abelard never quite forgot that he was the son of a knight. He would never sit a horse like a mealbag scholar.

  With them was Edgar’s English friend John, who had gone to study at Chartres that winter, and another man, a cleric, whom Edgar thought he should recognize.

  “I apologize,” Astrolabe said as soon as he was within hearing range. “We left early, but it seemed that half of Paris needed to have ‘just one word’ with my father. You’d have thought his purse was laden with benefices, the way the clerks trailed him.”

  “I presume you are referring to me, young Astrolabe?”

  The man who spoke was grey, well past sixty, Edgar judged, but still vigorous. He was not tonsured and wore the robes of a priest, but had an air of authority and humor that wasn’t often found among parish clergy.

  Astrolabe flushed. “Of course not, sir,” he said. “Not at all! Edgar, perhaps you already know Master Gilbert, late chancellor of Chartres?”

  “Only by reputation.” Edgar now knew why Astrolabe was so embarrassed. “I have not had the fortune to attend one of your lectures but hope to do so now that I have returned to Paris.”

  Master Gilbert laughed. “You know my repute and still you wish to hear me speak? Brave man! I have as many crows circling me these days as Master Abelard.”

  Edgar glanced toward Abelard, who was speaking with John and another student. He lowered his voice.

  “Are there still so many who would pick his bones?”

  Master Gilbert grew serious. “Too many. They can’t forgive him for wanting to apply the rules of logic to theology.”

  They were jostled and sworn at by a milk vendor on his way to the Pierre au Lait to set up his stall. The canon drew Edgar out of the path.

  “What worries me most,” Gilbert continued, “is this insane plan to have Henry Sanglier arrange for Abelard to debate Abbot Bernard.”

  “You think he would lose?” Edgar asked. “No one can outargue Master Abelard.”

  “Don’t be so loyal,” Gilbert told him. “Astrolabe told me you have already discussed it. This debate would serve no purpose and might do great harm. When they condemned Abelard’s work at Soissons nineteen years ago, it nearly killed him to have to put his own books into the flames. What do you think it would do to him now, in his state of health?”

  “But he has many powerful friends,” Edgar protested.

  “Many of whom also owe favors to the abbot of Clairvaux,” Gilbert answered. “I wouldn’t want to count on them to protect Abelard from him. Please, ask Héloïse to make him see reason.”

  Edgar sighed. “I will ask, Master Gilbert, but from what I have heard of her, she will do what she decides, and no one’s words will sway her.”

  The Paraclete was busy during the last days before Easter. There were extra prayers, fasts and alms. Catherine had always felt it a joyous season, but this year she was no longer truly a part of the convent. Her mind was not fixed on heaven, but on things of the earth, on carnal desire. Her own for Edgar, she admitted it. But her thoughts also gnawed on the other base passions; anger, pride, fear. Living in the world meant facing those, too. Was she strong enough? Watching over the broken body in the infirmary, Catherine wasn’t sure. Despite the rapidly spreading infection, the countess Alys still lived. It was as if she were struggling to accomplish one more thing before she let go. To name her true attacker? Catherine hoped so. But how much longer could she survive?

  It was Holy Thursday after None, and Héloïse knelt with the other sisters in the cloister wing to wash the feet of twelve poor women. After this symbolic ritual, the women would be given new shoes and cloaks and a warm meal.

  “Careful of my corns, Lady Abbess!” one old woman winced. “Scrub any harder, you’ll have them bleeding, and then how will I manage?”

  “Just as you always do, Hrotruda,” Héloïse smiled. “Your feet will get you from your son’s door to ours and we’ll both see that you’re cared for.”

  Hrotruda leaned forward so that her face was even with Héloïse’s. “Do you think Our Lord mocked the poor beggars who came to Him for comfort?”

  Héloïse’s smile wavered. She looked directly at the old women and spoke without a trace of mockery. “Do you imagine for a moment, my honored guest, that I believe myself in any way equal to Our Lord?”

  Suddenly there was a clattering and thumping. Both women looked toward the noise. Sister Ermelina came running down the east wing of the cloister, beating on a wooden board with a mallet, the signal for the sisters to gather at the bedside of the dying.

  “Mother Heloise! Come quickly! Everyone, hurry!”

  Heloise rose with a startled gasp. She swayed and Hrotruda reached out a hand to steady her.

  “Careful, my lady,” she said. “I expect you to be here to do better next year.”

  Héloïse caught her balance. “Thank you,” she said. “Agate, will you explain what is happening to the women and see that they are served before you join us? This takes precedence. Emilie, tell one of the lay sisters to run for Father Guiberc. Tell him the countess is dying. We need to prepare for the Last Rites.”

  The nuns gathered quickly in the oratory. Father Guiberc, carrying the Host in a chalice, and the sacristan with the holy oils were waiting to begin the procession to the infirmary. Catherine took her place near the end.

  They all filed in through the open door. As she entered, Catherine was hit with a stench that almost drove her back outside. With an effort, she controlled her stomach and forced herself to keep her place.

  The infirmarian had hung bunches of rosemary and valerian at the windows and over the bed. She had also put scented oil in the lamps, but nothing could overcome the odor of putrefaction and approaching death. As each woman entered, a lay sister handed her a scarf that had been dipped in wine vinegar. Catherine tied it at once over her nose and mouth and found she could at least breath without gagging. She looked across at the countess Alys.

  A pair of terrified blue eyes stared back at her.

  For a moment, Catherine thought the countess was already dead, then the eyes blinked. They searched the room until finding Paciana, standing in the shadows. Alys tried to lift her hand.

  “Bele suer, duce amie,” she whispered. “’Ciana!”

  Paciana stumbled through the crush of people and knelt at the bedside as Father Guiberc began the rite.

  “She’s conscious!” he exclaimed. “Miraculous!”

  Sister Melisande shook her head. “Not enough of a miracle, Father. She will not last the night, I fear, but at least she can have the comfort of the sacrament.”

  Sadly, Father Guiberc continued with the anointing. Paciana helped support Alys so that she could sit up enough to receive and swallow the Viaticum. Then she sank back into the pillow. The priest stepped away.

  Alys tried feebly to reach out to him. “No!” she rasped. “More. Mother! You promised!”

  The effort started her choking. Paciana wrung a few drops of wine from a cloth into her mouth and she lay back again, breathing shallowly.

  The priest looked at Héloïse in bewilderment. What more could
there be?

  “The countess Alys wants to be admitted to our order,” Héloïse answered. “When she donated to us, the countess made it a condition of her gift that she be allowed to take the veil here before she died.”

  “But we can’t; we need the bishop to consecrate her!” Father Guiberc protested. “There isn’t time to summon him, even if Hatto would come.”

  “She’s not asking to be a sanctimonialis, Father,” Héloïse said. “The bishop is necessary only for the consecration of virgins. You are permitted to witness her profession and give her the veil.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “On whose authority?”

  “Bishop Ivo of Chartres,” Catherine answered angrily.

  “Catherine!” Héloïse said sharply. “It is not your place to speak. Did you think I might not know?”

  “I’m so sorry, Mother.” Catherine was horrified at herself. “Please, forgive me.”

  Héloïse nodded. “I will speak with you later. She is quite right, Father. Ivo, following the decretals of Pope Gelasius, permits a priest to veil and give the benediction to a widow or wife. Bishop Hatto has simply always been here to do so before.”

  Alys’s eyes had closed again. Her ragged breath was the only sound in the crowded room.

  The priest was still doubtful. “I believe you, of course. But I don’t wish to imperil her soul now or my own by doing the wrong thing. She is a married woman. We must have the approval of her husband before the marriage bond can be broken.”

  This time Catherine bit her tongue. The bond would be broken by death soon enough, while the old priest, whom she had liked up until now, dithered about procedure.

  Héloïse considered. Then she looked at Catherine again.

  “The charter,” she said. “Catherine, here, run to my room and open the chest where we keep the records. Here is the key. Count Raynald’s consent must be in the charter.”

  Alys stirred again. “My veil …”