Solomon sat on the steps of the church of Saint-Frobert, growing more and more impatient. Joseph and his wife had given him the minimum the law required, both of hospitality and information. They had made it clear that his habit of consorting with Christians would only lead to grief, and he was inclined to agree. But he feared that their custom of avoiding all contact with them outside of business would lead them to worse. His uncle Eliazar had taught him that the only way to survive was to treat everyone with respect. Even though it hadn’t saved Eliazar’s mother and sisters from the crusaders, he still believed in this. If nothing else, a man who lived so could face his maker with a clear heart.
Of course, that didn’t mean Solomon intended to trust anyone.
He wondered why his uncles had really wanted him and Catherine away from Paris. They had to be involved in something dangerous. What could it be this time? The two of them were still sending him all over Christendom to gather material for Abbot Suger’s church, even more so since the abbot wasn’t as close to the king as he once had been. Louis doted on his queen, Eleanor, and she was doing her best to wean him from his monkish friends. With fewer reasons to be at the court, Suger could spend even more time on his building project. One would think that would be enough business for Hubert and Eliazar.
Solomon leaned back and arched over the stone steps. His back was full of kinks from the pallet he had been grudgingly given the night before. A sharp toe nudged his ribs. Instantly, he went for his knife.
“Avoi! Solomon! It’s just me.”
He looked up. Edgar was standing over him, grinning.
“And how was your night?” Solomon leered.
“Typical; Catherine got up to use the latrine and found a dead body.” Edgar sat down next to him.
“Probably the meat sauce,” Solomon said. “Anyone we know?”
“I have no idea,” Edgar said. “His head was missing.”
“I see,” Solomon nodded. “Where is Catherine now?”
“Gone to tell Countess Mahaut about it.”
“That should take some time. Shall we go have a beer?”
Edgar thought a moment. Catherine couldn’t be ready in less than an hour. Men weren’t allowed in the women’s rooms, except for Count Thibault, of course. They could either wait here or find a stall with some bread and beer. His stomach growled.
“Just one,” he told Solomon.
“Of course,” Solomon agreed.
For such a small person, Constanza of Quincy had a great presence. She moved through the crowds oblivious of obstacles. And, for her at least, they didn’t exist. Catherine followed in her wake, marvelling. Constanza managed the same air of being above the common world as Raynald of Tonnerre, and she did it without chain mail or a sword. There was a man walking half a step behind her. He bent to speak to her and she brushed him away. When she turned, Catherine saw the glint of tears on her cheek. The man dropped back to walk beside Catherine.
“Alys’s death has upset her greatly,” he said. “Especially since she lost not only a child, but a grandchild. Walter of Grancy has much to answer for.”
Catherine wondered why everyone was so sure Walter was responsible. Certainly Alys’s own family would have known how her husband treated her.
“Has Walter been found?” she asked.
The man shook his head. “Gone to earth somewhere,” he said. “Not been seen since Alys was attacked. Raynald will find him. If he doesn’t show up soon, we’ll take his family hostage. That should bring him out.”
“We? Are you one of the count’s men?” Catherine asked.
The man seemed too mild to be a bacelor, fighting for hire. He was about the same age as Constanza, and not much taller, stooped as a scholar, with thinning grey hair. He had been freshly shaved by a clumsy barber; his chin and neck had nicks in them. Catherine’s question had the effect of making him stoop a little more, hunching his shoulders about his neck for all the world like a turtle retreating into his shell.
“Ah, no,” he said, aiming his words at the dust beneath his feet. “I’m … ah … Rupert of Troyes, Constanza’s husband.”
“Oh, excuse me, my lord.” Catherine bobbed belated respect. “Then you are the countess Alys’s stepfather?”
“Ah … yes.” He seemed to need time to study the matter before he answered. “I raised her as if she were my own, of course. Constanza and I have not been blessed with children.”
Catherine studied him more closely. This was the man Constanza had married after Gerhard of Quincy had died. Sister Bietriz had thought it odd, since he brought little to the marriage. Perhaps it had been purely out of affection. Rupert did not appear the sort who would inspire great devotion, but perhaps his retiring ways would appeal to some.
By the time they reached the house, Constanza seemed to have regained control of her emotions. Her voice was cool and steady as she ordered cakes and wine for them all and sent Catherine with a servant to wash her hands.
When she returned, Catherine found Rupert and Constanza seated in the solar. Realizing that she had not yet eaten that morning, Catherine looked with longing at the cakes, which were almost the same color as Constanza’s hair. But the countess was determined to have information before feeding her guest.
“Who tended to my daughter?” she asked abruptly.
Catherine stood before her, feeling like a novice caught in the dormitory with an extra blanket.
“Sister Melisande is the infirmarian,” she answered. “But we all sat with her. She was never left alone and the whole community was there, praying for her, when she finally died.”
Constanza straightened in her chair. “Finally? I was given to understand that she was near death when Raynald brought her to the convent.”
Catherine remembered the poor battered body. “It seemed so,” she said. “But Sister Alys was very strong. She was determined to survive until she could become one of our community.”
“That is not true.” Constanza’s jaw clamped around the words. “If she did any such thing it is only because she was terrified into it by the closeness of death.”
“Oh, no,” Catherine assured her. “She put it in the charter when she gave us the property in the forest of Othe that she wished to retire to the Paraclete.”
“She gave you what? In the forest? Who wrote this charter?” The countess seemed amazed at this news.
“I … I don’t know, my lady.” Catherine stepped back. She hadn’t expected to have to defend the Paraclete. “But I have seen it. Count Raynald agreed to it. His consent is clear in the charter and it was properly witnessed. I have read it.”
“Well, if so, it makes no difference. She had no right to give it away. That land was part of my dower.”
Rupert seemed startled.
“From my first husband, Alys’s father, of course.” Constanza dismissed her second husband with a wave.
That land again, what was so special about it? Catherine was beginning to believe it must contain unicorns and griffons from the eagerness of all those vying for possession of it.
“I know nothing about such things,” Catherine said. “But I came to care very much about your daughter’s fate. I grieve with you. I wish I could have known her before she was hurt.”
Constanza looked Catherine up and down.
“I doubt you would have enjoyed each other’s company,” she said. “Alys was not interested in spiritual matters.”
A woman who would save her last breath to take the veil had no interest in spiritual matters! Catherine opened her mouth to refute that.
Say nothing, Catherine! The warning was so sharp that she almost thought it came from a human voice. She wants you to tell her all you know and she has given you no information at all.
It was true. Catherine was used to arguing from a fixed point, by successive steps to the next point. Constanza had learned her rhetoric in another school.
“Perhaps we could have found another shared interest,” Catherine replied instead.
“It is not l
ikely,” Constanza repeated. “Alys cared for clothes and dancing and other frivolous matters. She was very lucky to find a husband who would indulge her in such things.”
Catherine didn’t need her voices now. She knew what Alys’s mother was doing. She wanted to know how much the convent knew about Alys’s life. And Paciana? Did Constanza believe her first husband’s daughter was dead or did she know Paciana was also at the Paraclete?
“Raynald even got her a monkey,” Rupert added. “Nasty thing, bit everyone and shit everywhere.”
“Rupert, really,” Constanza said mildly. “It was foolish, but Raynald was so devoted to her.”
Is that why he never came to see her? Catherine thought. And why didn’t you come to her? It’s only a half hour’s ride from Quincy to the Paraclete.
“Perhaps, as you say,” Catherine agreed, “the approach of death caused a change in her. We felt that Alys was very concerned about the fate of her soul and wished to do all she could in the few days that remained to her.”
“And well she should, the …” Constanza stopped herself in horror. “That is, her life had not been all I might have desired in my concern for her soul. I’m glad if she repented and received your prayers and those of other sisters. But I’m sure you gave them without thought of earthly reward. Abbess Héloïse would not want anyone to conclude that she had taken in my daughter for her own profit, especially now, with Peter Abelard once again being tried for heresy.”
“He’s not!” Catherine insisted. “He has merely requested a debate with Abbot Bernard. He will prove his orthodoxy before everyone.”
“No doubt,” Constanza shrugged. “Still, I’m sure you’ll remind the abbess that Master Peter needs no more scandal associated with him.”
Scandal! Héloïse knew all about that. She needed no reminder. Catherine suddenly realized that Constanza didn’t know she had left the convent permanently. Perhaps it was just as well that she didn’t.
“I will be happy to convey any message you like to Mother Heloise,” she said, trying to be meek and nunlike. “Perhaps you would care to speak with her yourself. Now that Easter is past, we will have a proper funeral service for your daughter.”
“That will be very nice,” Rupert said, before Constanza could reply. “We would be happy to make a donation for her soul, and our own. Would you like a cake?”
Catherine practically leaped at the tray.
As she was taking the first bite, there was a clanking in the hall and Raynald of Tonnerre burst in, unannounced. Ignoring Catherine and Rupert, he strode over to Constanza’s chair and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her up like a cloth doll.
“You bitch!” he shouted, his face almost touching hers. “You said she was dead! You lied to me so you could get me to take your own whelp.”
He began shaking her, as Rupert and Catherine vainly tried to loose his hands. Constanza’s head bobbed back and forth, at one point hitting Raynald so hard that his lip bled. He paid them no mind. His whole being was focused on his rage against Constanza.
“Raynald, I warned you!”
The voice was firm and seemed to pierce through Raynald’s fury. He stopped shaking Constanza and dropped her, still bobbing, to the floor. Catherine, who had been pulling on Raynald’s arm with no effect, was as suddenly thrown off balance. She stumbled back several steps and stopped, leaning against the wall. From this angle, she was able to take a long look at the man who had followed Raynald into the room.
He was taller than Raynald and older by twenty years, but much like him. He had the same look of the fighting man, or more, of one used to sending others to fight and expecting them to prefer death to disobedience.
Only Rupert seemed unperturbed by the incident. He righted his wife, brushed straw from her gown and bowed to his guests.
“Count William,” he said. “We were having some wine and cake. Would you care to join us?”
“Father,” Raynald said, “she has deceived us both. I tell you, I saw Paciana, alive, at the Paraclete. I was not mistaken.”
William, count of Nevers, nodded to Rupert and took a chair.
“Wine,” he said.
Rupert clapped his hands. Catherine looked around, but there was no servant. William raised an eyebrow in her direction. He didn’t actually look at her, but the intent was plain. Catherine took the ewer and tried to pour without spilling. She handed him the cup and backed into the corner, for once not indignant at being too unimportant to be visible.
Constanza moved her head slowly, rubbing her neck in pain.
“How dare you touch me, mesel,” she said, but the insult lacked force. “Wait. What did you say? Paciana? You saw her? You must be mad. She’s dead. She’s been dead ten years.”
Raynald moved as if to strike her again, but his father stopped him.
“How do you know this, Constanza?” William asked. “Did you see her die?”
“No, of course not,” Constanza answered. “It was a tertian fever. I had no desire to take it, myself. I went to Paris with Alys, to keep her safe. Paciana died at Quincy. She’s buried there. We have a Mass every year on the anniversary. I tell you, she’s dead.”
“So she told me, not a week ago,” Raynald answered. “I don’t believe her, either.”
“Rupert, you were there when she died,”—Constanza was still checking to be sure her head was attached—“tell Raynald he’s raving.”
“Paciana had a tertian fever,” Rupert said quietly. “She died in the middle of the night. She received the Final Rites. We buried her two days later. You’ve seen the grave.”
“No,” Raynald said, but with less certainty. “I saw her. She’s at the Paraclete.”
“Well, Raynald,” Rupert’s voice was soothing, “we have a visitor here now from the Paraclete, come to tell us of poor Alys’s last breath. Perhaps she’ll convince you that you are mistaken.”
Catherine looked at him in astonishment. All at once, everyone was staring at her, waiting. What was she to say?
She closed her eyes and wished with all her heart that she could be invisible again.
Twelve
The townhouse of Rupert and Constanza of Quincy,
Wednesday, April 10, 1140
… it was an obstinate custom with such people in matters of which they were ignorant, to condemn others, without discussion and without rational inquiry.
—Robert of Melun,
Sentences
Catherine was thinking more rapidly than she ever had in her life. What did these people know? Who was lying? Perhaps Paciana wasn’t the sister of Alys. No, of course she was. Alys had recognized her, called her by name. But, if Paciana were of that family, then some relative must have known she was at the Paraclete. It was required that each entrant be sponsored and approved. The only answer was that someone had known. But who? She remembered the knights who had tried to enter the convent and the murderous look Paciana had given her as she left. Someone had sent them and Paciana knew who. Catherine made up her mind.
“There is no monialis at the Paraclete named Paciana,” she said. That much was true. Paciana was a lay sister, not a nun.
“You’re lying!” Raynald took a step toward her.
“I am not!” Catherine shot back. “I’m disobedient, prideful and clumsy, but I don’t lie. You may ask Abbess Héloïse or Prioress Astane. They will tell you the same.”
“There, you see,” Constanza told him. “You were mistaken. Now you may apologize for your behavior. I’m your mother-in-law, after all, not some fame vilaine to abuse as you wish.”
Raynald didn’t bother to face her.
“Your daughter is dead, woman,” he said. “You are nothing to me now.”
He looked directly at Catherine and she knew that he would remember her the next time they met. She prayed that she would not be alone when it happened.
“I must go now,” she whispered. “The countess Mahaut is expecting me.”
Raynald nodded, his eyes fixed on her face.
> “Go,” he told her. “I will see that you and that abbess of yours are punished for your deceits. Once they learn of your perfidy, you may be sure that none of your powerful patrons will dare intervene.”
“Yes, girl, leave. You have no more business here.” William of Nevers waved her out. Constanza and Rupert said nothing, allowing the two powerful men to usurp the authority of their home.
Catherine backed out of the room and hurried from the house. Whatever else those people were discussing, however important it might be to the Paraclete, she was not prepared to stay another minute. As she struggled to open the door, she realized that she was still holding the squashed remains of the cake she had been given. The gold of the spices had stained her bliaut and, most likely, Raynald’s silk surcoat. Oh, yes, he would definitely remember her if he saw her again.
She hurried down the street, past Saint-Remi, turning right at the alley that led along the swampy bed of the Seine to the gate to the old city. The southern wind carried the stench of the tanneries and the sound of shouting. There must be something happening in the square between the convent of Nôtre-Dame-aux-Nonnains and the church of Saint-Urbain. Catherine paused to listen as she neared the bridge. Perhaps it was some wandering preacher, or a troop of tumblers. If so, they weren’t being well received. The voices were angry.
The shouts were growing louder and closer. Catherine walked more quickly toward the bridge. On the other side was the palace of the count. As she crossed over, she could see the place where the waste of the palace emptied out into the dank weeds and sluggishly flowing water. Remembering her slide down the bank the day before, she was grateful that the bridge was upstream from the deposit.
As she reached the old town on the other side of the bridge, a crowd erupted from the narrow opening between Saint-Urbain and the square and poured down the Grand Rû to the canal. There was a crash as a peddler’s stall was upended into the water. Catherine looked over her shoulder and started running for the palace. One look at the faces of the people pouring onto the bridge was enough to tell her that it wasn’t a crowd; it was a mob.
The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 15