The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  “Now, let me think, …”—she was arranging the family on her fingers—“a sister of Constanza married into a family in Flanders that supposedly was involved in the murder of Charles the Good, although they try to keep that quiet. Then, through the marriage of her aunt, she’s related to the …”

  “Wait,” Catherine stopped her. “I can’t remember all of this unless we write it down. Would you do that for me?”

  Bietriz seemed uncomfortable. “I don’t know. It’s terribly worldly. Some might think all this no more than idle gossip. You know that nothing of the world should matter here.”

  “I know that well. And it doesn’t matter here,” Catherine agreed. “But it matters a great deal outside.”

  But Bietriz had already repented her lecture in genealogy. “Then perhaps,” she said, “when you are out there again, you can ask someone who has taken no vow to renounce the world. Family connections no longer exist for me. We are all only one family, equal in the eyes of Our Lord.”

  She strode across the cloister, leaving Catherine and Emilie standing sheepishly at the door to the chapter.

  “Sorry, Catherine,” Emilie said. “I tried. She is right, though. I know you only ask because you were so affected by the countess’s suffering. But she’s dead. You can’t help her. Leave the matter to her family to sort out. I still think Walter of Grancy was responsible.”

  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.

  Six

  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

  Prioress 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 …