The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  Astane nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. Nevertheless, Catherine, Sister Bertrada has instructed me that you will stay with Sister Melisande in the infirmary until you leave us. She has felt all along that you shouldn’t be allowed to remain in the dormitory with those who have dedicated their lives and chastity to Our Lord.”

  Catherine’s heart sank, but she nodded acquiescence. Edgar started to protest.

  “No, Sister Bertrada is right,” Catherine said. “I was only allowed to stay with the other sisters because of Mother Héloïse’s kindness and because there was nowhere else for me. It’s not an expulsion, Edgar. I’ve made my choice. I don’t mind.”

  Edgar gave in. “I’ll go find Astrolabe. And tomorrow, you can stand next to me in the transept and not hide from the world in the choir anymore.”

  He turned to go, then stopped and took a small leather bag from around his neck.

  “I almost forgot,” he said. “I brought you a present. It’s not much but I thought you might like it because the old one that Garnulf made for you was lost. Take it now, as a talisman.”

  He tossed the bag to her as Sister Astane opened the gate and led her in.

  “We’re not really angry with you, you know,” she whispered to Catherine. “He seems a nice boy. Master Abelard speaks very highly of him. But you must think of our reputation.”

  “I know, Sister. I am sorry,” Catherine told her.

  Sister Melisande was at Compline when Catherine arrived at her small room above the infirmary. A pallet had been made up on the floor and Catherine took possession of it at once, knowing that the infirmarian would otherwise insist on giving up her own bed.

  So, her voices began. You’ve finally crossed the Rubicon. About time, too. Aren’t you ashamed?

  We didn’t do anything, yet! Catherine protested.

  Only because you couldn’t find a dry place to throw yourselves! they taunted. But that’s what you wanted to do, Catherine, and intention is what matters. At feast be honest. Somehow you thought you could be a part of the convent without obeying the Rule. That’s the worst hypocrisy. Admit that the door to the cloister is now closed to you and start living a decent secular life, if that’s possible for you!

  Catherine put her hands over her ears. It was true. The sin was not in her desire of the body as much as in the dishonesty of believing she could continue to enjoy the benefits of the convent without trying to control that desire.

  No more.

  The bag Edgar had given her was still in her hand. A talisman, not a love token. That was like him. She reached in and felt something hard. Not a ring. That was a relief. She wasn’t fond of rings; they got in the way of the pen when writing. She took it out.

  It was a cross, about two inches long, made of bone or ivory. There was a delicate tracing across it, patterns and swirls, with occasional eyes and hands appearing and vanishing in the design. It was beautiful. In the center of the crosspiece there was a clear space. She squinted. In the center of that was an ornate , blending into an . A hole had been bored in the top and the silver chain passed through it.

  “A talisman, truly. Oh, Edgar, wherever did you find it?” she whispered, and she slipped it around her neck and tucked it inside her chainse. She lay down and, despite the hardness of the bed, fell asleep at once.

  She was wakened in the night by the bells calling the sisters to the night office. She had gotten up and was out the door before she realized that there was no longer a place for her in the choir. Slowly, she returned to her bed. She lay awake a long time, clutching the ivory cross until the pattern of it was etched into her hand.

  Edgar and Astrolabe were quite happy to stay in the guesthouse. The comfort there was no worse than a monastery hostel and better than many inns. The guesthouse, like the hostel for pilgrims and paupers, was managed by the lay brothers. These were the men who tilled the fields, repaired the buildings and did the other manual labor that was too difficult for the sisters. They were from all classes; all had promised the abbess obedience unto death.

  Brother Baldwin came to see that they had everything they needed. The old man fascinated Edgar. Despite his gnarled hands and rough clothing, he still carried the aura of the warrior he had been for so many years.

  “We’re fine,” he told the brother. “We noticed Count Raynald at the service. Are he and his men in the hostel tonight?”

  “Not they,” Baldwin snorted. “Nothing we could offer would be good enough for them. No, the count has gone to Quincy, to stay with the family of his poor countess. Weaklings, all of them. Need feather cushions or they can’t sleep. They wouldn’t have lasted long at the siege of Antioch.”

  “You were there, on the Great Crusade, then?” Edgar asked, his eye as wide as a child’s.

  The old man nodded. “More than forty years ago, it was. Funny, the stories I hear about the crusade all tell of the glory of Jerusalem, the towers and the holy places. But all I remember now is the dust and the blood and what I would have given for a mug of cold ale.”

  “You fought with King Louis, afterwards, didn’t you?” Astrolabe asked.

  “And his father, King Philippe, before,” Baldwin said. “Against the English king and the count of Meulan. I was in the Auvergne and at the siege of Clermont. We burnt most of the town at Mont-ferrand in that campaign, as I recall. Smoke and ashes everywhere. I was as thirsty as Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in the fiery furnace!”

  “I never realized that war dried the throat so,” Edgar commented.

  “More important than food,” Baldwin told him. He was about to elaborate on other parched battles when Astrolabe interrupted.

  “You don’t happen to remember who was lord to Count William of Nevers, do you?” he asked.

  “Duke of Burgundy,” Baldwin answered without hesitation.

  So that’s who would decide the crimes of Raynald. Edgar tried to remember what he had heard of Duke Hugh.

  “Of course, sometimes Nevers fought for Louis,” Baldwin added. “Burgundy aids the crown if it’s in their interest to. And Nevers is part of the archdiocese of Sens, of course, which contains Paris.” He scratched at a louse in his beard. “It changed all the time, really. Look at Count Thibault. One minute he was against Louis and with Henry of England. Then the next he was with Louis against Meulan. And, of course, now he’s not happy about the affair between his cousin’s husband and the queen’s sister. He refused to help young Louis put down the commune at Poitiers. I’m not sure liege loyalties matter much to Thibault. Now his father, and even more, his mother … ah, well, that’s another story.”

  He got up reluctantly.

  “You boys have everything you need?” he asked them. “I have duties to perform yet tonight. I’ll look in on you again before I go to bed.”

  He took his lantern. Edgar leaned from his bed and blew out the candle.

  “Not much help there,” Astrolabe said.

  “What do you think he has to do?” Edgar wanted to know. Compline was over. Everyone should be in bed by now.

  “Check the locks, perhaps.” Astrolabe wasn’t interested. “Why? Do you think we should follow him? He’s been here for years. Mother and Prioress Astane trust him.”

  “Sorry. I seem to have become less trusting lately,” Edgar answered. “I shouldn’t be so suspicious of everyone.”

  “Yes, you should,” Astrolabe said. “You’ll live longer. But I think we can assume Brother Baldwin has genuine work to perform.”

  “Very well.” Edgar sat a moment as his eyes slowly adjusted to the night. “So, what should we do?”

  “Sleep?”

  Edgar ignored that.

  “What about Master Abelard?” he said. “Do you think your mother can convince him to abandon his debate with Bernard of Clairvaux?”

  “She seems to think it would be wrong to try to stop him.” Astrolabe’s voice was tired. “I don’t think she realizes how ill he is.”

  “Could this problem with the count of Tonnerre affect him?” Edgar
asked. “If we try to accuse someone other than Walter of Grancy of attacking Countess Alys, could it anger someone who might revenge himself on Master Abelard?”

  Astrolabe was silent a long time. “I’m not sure,” he said at last. “It would be bishops and abbots who judged the debate, but they all have families they are loyal to, as well. For instance, if Peter of Cluny came, he might vote in Father’s favor, if only because he feels Abbot Bernard defines orthodoxy too narrowly. And, if we prove that Raynald of Tonnerre was responsible for the death of his wife, Peter might be even more inclined to help because his brother, Ponce, is abbot of Vézeley and Raynald’s father has been fighting with the monks there for years.”

  “And Hugh of Auxerre is not only bishop under Raynald’s brother, the count of Auxerre, he’s also a distant relation of Abbot Bernard and a former monk of Cîteaux,” Edgar added. “Any meddling on our part to discredit Raynald might only make things worse in his opinion.”

  “It seems as if we’ll be damned whichever way we go.” Astrolabe didn’t sound very concerned.

  “Then we may as well continue as we planned,” Edgar yawned.

  There was the sound of scratching from Astrolabe’s side of the room.

  “I think,” he said mildly, “I’ll mention to Mother that, now that Lent is over, Brother Baldwin should be encouraged to change the straw in this bed.”

  “I remember a bathhouse in Paris where the estuveresses sing as they wash your hair,” Edgar said, half asleep. “I’ll take you there when we get back.”

  “Do you think Catherine would approve?” Astrolabe laughed.

  The image came to Edgar of a huge wooden tub filled with steaming water and Catherine sitting next to him, clothed only in the dark disorder of her curls, soapy and smiling.

  “Edgar?”

  Edgar was grateful for the darkness. His imagination was affecting his body strongly. Suddenly, he was wide awake.

  “Approve?” he said. “Why not? They’d just wash our hair. But what about this business here? We can’t ignore it. Catherine definitely wouldn’t approve of that.”

  “But where could we start?” Astrolabe asked. “We can’t simply accuse Raynald of murder and demand trial by combat.”

  Edgar shuddered at the thought. He’d seen enough of those at home.

  “We could try to eliminate Walter of Grancy as a suspect,” he suggested. “Or prove his guilt. He probably has a group of friends and tenants all willing to swear to his innocence, but we could ask locally about where he was when the countess was attacked. People are more likely to tell the truth when they’re not asked to swear to it in public.”

  “Yes, that would be a good start,” Astrolabe said. “First we take my father and Catherine back to Paris and then we’ll set out on our own private crusade. C’est tes acors?”

  “Ç’est mes acors,” Edgar agreed. He wondered how Catherine would feel about being left behind in Paris. He wondered how he would feel about leaving her. Both speculations were unsettling.

  “How many locks does the Paraclete have?” he asked suddenly. “Brother Baldwin has been gone a long time.”

  “Maybe we should go see if he needs any help,” Astrolabe said.

  Edgar agreed. They stopped at the hostel to see if Brother Baldwin was there, but there was no sign of him. Growing worried, Edgar picked up a stout iron-tipped hoe from the toolroom, just in case.

  Catherine heard the whispers for some time before she woke enough to realize what they were. There were men hissing in the herb garden under the infirmary window. Yes, men, of course, not the snakes and dragons of her dream. Sister Melisande slept the sleep of the hard-working and pure of thought. She didn’t stir when Catherine crept closer to the window to make out the words.

  “It’s your duty, old man,” someone said. “There’s a traitor in there.”

  “Whom did they betray?” The voice was Brother Baldwin’s. “One of your lords? That’s nothing to me. I have no earthly allegiance now. I only serve God and his daughters here.”

  “And what if one of them broke the laws of God?” the man insisted.

  “Then I would leave her to his justice,” Baldwin answered. “Now go from this place. You have no business prowling about here like the soldiers at Christ’s tomb. The night is for grave robbers and heretics.”

  “We’ll have her,” the other man said, “if we have to burn this place down to do it.”

  “God won’t let you.” Baldwin’s voice rose. “And neither will I.”

  Through the shutter, Catherine saw the glint of a dagger being raised and pointed at Brother Baldwin. She reached for the first heavy object she could lay her hands on. A solid earthenware pot.

  “I hope there’s nothing expensive in this,” she thought as she pushed the shutter open and dropped it on the head of Baldwin’s attacker.

  There was a thump and a cry. The knife dropped. Baldwin picked it up with a swiftness that belied his new profession.

  “What did I tell you?” he said calmly. “God has spoken. If I slit your throats right here, I’ve no doubt I’ll be doing his will. I cut enough of them at Antioch and Jerusalem and the pope himself blessed me for it. Are you ready to meet your creator?”

  Catherine couldn’t make out the faces in the dark, but she could tell that there were two men facing Baldwin. Their ages combined were probably half his, but the charisma of the crusader was on him and they were uncertain as to their next move.

  “Brother Baldwin!” someone called.

  The men turned. Edgar and Astrolabe had followed the intruders over the garden hedge and were running toward them. Catherine heard the sound of steel being unsheathed. She knew neither Edgar nor Astrolabe were trained to fight and she feared neither one had a weapon. She felt around. What else was there to throw?

  “Montjoie et Saint Denis!” Brother Baldwin gave the old battle cry as he leaped at the men who were now advancing upon Astrolabe and Edgar.

  “Hâlig Cuthbert ond Ædward Cyning!” Edgar shouted back as he charged the knights with the hoe.

  Catherine added to the confusion by throwing as many small objects as she could reach from the shelf next to the window.

  Caught by sudden attacks from two sides and above, the knights veered suddenly and made for their horses, tethered to a tree outside the hedge.

  Edgar and Astrolabe reached Brother Baldwin as the knights rode off.

  “Did they hurt you?” Edgar asked.

  “Hardly,” Baldwin responded, tucking the knife in his rope belt. “I had them well in hand and only spared them for Our Lord’s sake, of course. That was some advance you made, young man. I wouldn’t have thought one of you scholars would have enough pendans to fight.”

  “My father would have been surprised, too,” Edgar said.

  “I wasn’t,” Catherine announced.

  They all looked up.

  “Was that you showering rocks at us?” Baldwin said. “I haven’t been so pelted since the siege of Antioch.”

  “Have we wakened the whole convent?” Astrolabe asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Catherine said, remembering to lower her voice again. “The dorter is on the other side of the cloister. Even Sister Melisande hasn’t stirred. What did those men want, Brother Baldwin?”

  “Robbery and rape, most likely,” Baldwin said.

  “I heard more than that,” Catherine told him. “They were looking for a particular woman.”

  “Catherine, we can’t discuss this here, shouting up at you,” Astrolabe reminded her.

  “You’re right, I’ll come down,” Catherine answered. “It’s not far. If I hang from the window, will one of you catch me?”

  “Catherine! You can’t do any such thing!” Edgar was as horrified as Sister Bertrada would have been. “It’s the middle of the night!”

  “I know that,” she said as she climbed over the sill. “And all the gates are locked and barred. But I really must get out somehow and not just to talk to you. I have a definite problem. I j
ust discovered that the first thing I threw at those men was the infirmary chamberpot.”

  With that, she dropped into Edgar’s waiting arms.

  “Now,” said Catherine when she had returned after taking care of immediate business, “it sounds to me as if the count sent someone back to see that Paciana never revealed what she knew about the countess Alys.”

  Edgar agreed. “The abbess should be warned. What if they come back and bring a larger troop?”

  Brother Baldwin seemed more perturbed by the troop standing around him.

  “The other brothers and I can fight off such men,” he insisted. “Or we’ll send to Anseau of Trainel for aid. But there really can’t be any danger. Think of what you’re saying, son. No one would attempt to attack a convent, at least not openly. Especially not this one. Not a house in Christendom would be open to such a man.”

  That was true. Not since the days of the heathen invaders, hundreds of years ago, had a convent been destroyed by force. Even in tales like Raoul de Cambrai, such an act was done only by the greatest villain and was punished most horribly by God and man. The walls of the convent were not for defense. They were a symbol of the division between the worlds of the sacred and the profane. As Catherine had proved, it was not difficult to leave and anyone determined to enter could, welcome or not.

  “Still, my mother and father must be told,” Astrolabe said. “The protection of the Paraclete is their duty.”

  “Of course,” Catherine said. “But I don’t think Count Raynald will lay siege to the Paraclete. He only wanted to remove one woman, and quietly, by night, it seems.”

  “Then this is not the place to look for the answers,” Astrolabe said.

  “No, we have to find out what happened some other way,” Catherine agreed. “Edgar, do you think we could wait until after Ascension to be married? I want to see Alys’s mother, Constanza, and it would be easier to go alone.”

  “Forty days more!” Edgar forgot to keep his voice down. “Why not wait until Pentecost or Michaelmas or Christmas? Perhaps you’d like to forget the whole idea?”