Edgar and Catherine looked at each other. If they weren’t, they would have to find another party to travel with, which might take days. But what if Walter could help them sort out all of this?
“If we could convince him to come with us, we would need no other protection,” Catherine said.
“Yes, and we can’t keep Solomon waiting for us,” Edgar agreed.
“We’ll meet you in Paris,” he promised. “By the kalends of May. Tell Catherine’s family we’ll go first to your uncle’s home and wait for instructions from them.”
“That’s over two weeks!” Solomon said. “You could be there in four days!”
“We may arrive sooner,” Edgar said. “But I think we may need to return to the Paraclete first. It depends on what the lord of Grancy, here, has to say.”
“Very well,” Solomon agreed. “Is there any message for your father, Catherine?”
“Only that I’m happy,” Catherine said. “And that I love him.”
The two men left, hurrying down the path before they were overtaken by the night.
Gaufridus regarded Catherine, Edgar and Walter gloomily.
“I suppose this means you will be staying the night?” he asked.
“We have blankets in our packs,” Edgar assured him, lowering his to the ground. They had left their horse for the night in Lailly.
“We can decide the arrangements later,” Gaufridus told them. “For now, I must attend to my evening prayers.”
He disappeared into the oratory.
Walter of Grancy had been standing impatiently through this. Now he turned and continued into the darkening forest. Catherine and Edgar followed closely. They weren’t sure if there were already a trail or if Walter were simply creating one as he stepped. Both of them felt, however, that wherever he took them, they would be in no danger.
They soon arrived at a place where the trees grew so sheltering that the floor of the forest was clear of undergrowth. Walter vanished beneath a curtain of branches and, taking a breath as if about to dive into unknown waters, Catherine and Edgar followed.
They surfaced inside a natural tent. Although the darkness was now almost complete, they knew by sound and smell that Walter had brought his horse with him into his self-imposed retreat.
“I dare not light a fire here,” Walter’s voice boomed in the enclosure. “But sit where you are. I have a jug of beer we can share.”
Catherine and Edgar did as they were told. The ground was soft with centuries of fallen leaves. There was room for them to place their packs behind their backs and stretch their legs without bumping into their host.
“May we also share what we know about Alys of Tonnerre and Raynald?” Catherine asked.
There was a sigh and then a gurgle from Walter as he drank from the jug, then held it out until it touched Edgar’s hand.
“Raynald and I have been fighting for years; generations, really,” Walter said. “Our land is too close and our families have wed each other too many times. The Church is right to prohibit marriage even between distant kin. No fights as bitter as that between cousins. Look at Matilda of Anjou and Stephen of Blois.”
Catherine took a sip of the beer. It was sour, probably made from rye. She edged the jug back toward Walter’s voice.
“So you believe Raynald blamed you for the attack on his wife simply because you were old enemies?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Walter said. “It doesn’t make sense, now that I consider it. We’ve always both followed the rules; only fought each other’s serjanz no peasants slaughtered for fun, no burning of churches and no attacking unarmed parties, especially of our families.”
“You don’t believe Raynald might have beat her, himself?” Edgar said. “And then accused you to cover his deed, when he saw how badly he had hurt her?”
“Raynald?” Walter gave a humorless laugh. “He may have hit her now and again, but not repeatedly or to punish her. His anger is the cold kind that waits for perfect vengeance. And he had a hundred better ways of hurting her.”
His voice had dropped almost to a whisper.
“He didn’t love her, then?” That wasn’t the question Catherine wanted answered, but she could think of no way to ask the one she did.
“Of course not, why should he?” Walter said. “She irritated him. Poor Alys didn’t know how to handle a man like Raynald. She always looked as though she were expecting a blow, probably was, poor girl. She didn’t have the presence to be a countess and manage the land while Raynald was gone. But I don’t believe he killed her or that he would naturally blame me. Someone must have denounced me to him.”
“Do you know who?” Catherine asked.
“No,” Walter said, after a pause to drink. “It would have to be someone he trusted, though.”
“Alys’s mother, perhaps?” Catherine had not warmed to the countess Constanza. She seemed a perfect instigator.
“Hardly,” Walter snorted. “Raynald doesn’t trust her. He never forgave her for taking Alys to Paris and leaving Paciana behind to die of the fever. He did love Paciana. I think he would have married her even without her father’s land. Only sign the questre ever showed of being human.”
“So he married Alys for the land she inherited because of her sister’s death?” Edgar turned Walter away from speculation about the fate of Alys’s sister. He had already figured out who Paciana was and didn’t want Catherine tempted to break her promise.
“His father, Count William, arranged it,” Walter said. “What was it, five, six years ago? My mother had tried to get Alys for me, but Raynald has Tonnerre and is heir to Auxerre and Nevers if his brother dies and I have all the property I’m ever likely to. There was never much of a chance.”
Now Catherine had her answer.
“When did you last see Alys?” she asked softly.
There was a long sigh.
“A year ago. Holy Week. Troyes,” he said. “She was on her way from Mass and stopped to speak to me. She had that avoutre monkey on her arm.”
“I suppose it was kind of Raynald to get such an expensive pet for her,” Catherine said uncertainly.
“He heard the queen had one and thought his wife should, too,” Walter said. “She was terrified of it. The thing bit and pulled her hair out to tease her. But that’s the way she was. She’d endure almost anything for the sake of peace. So she carried that damn animal everywhere she went. I believe it was the devil, himself.”
“So, you don’t think,”—Catherine hesitated—“you don’t think she would have tried to run away from her husband, or defy him?”
“Never,” Walter said. “She knew her duty. And, so do I. Don’t be surprised. I could tell from your tone that you wanted to ask it. The answer is no, the child she lost wasn’t mine. It was Raynald’s or no man’s. Alys was a saint, you know, but not the kind that goes about preaching or fighting the infidel. She was the kind who suffers and prays and endures to the end. She is in heaven now, isn’t she?”
“She must be,” Catherine said. “I know we can do nothing more for her, besides pray, but don’t you want to help us find out why she had to die?”
“No, I don’t. But if you do catch the one who killed her,” Walter said, “I’ll be happy to slit his throat for you.”
He drained the jug.
“It’s late,” he announced. “I’m going to sleep. Do you have enough quilts with you? The nights are still cold.”
“We’ll be fine,” Edgar said.
He heard the intake of breath as Catherine began another question and quickly put his fingers over her lips.
“In the morning,” he whispered. “Trust me?”
A second’s hesitation, then she closed her mouth and kissed his fingers.
“May Our Lady protect you until the morning,” she said to Walter.
“And you,” he answered.
There was a certain amount of rustling as they arranged their beds. Then silence. But questions still darted like fireflies in Catherine’s head.<
br />
If Walter didn’t kill Alys and Raynald didn’t, then who? And what about Paciana? Remembering his voice when he saw her at the Paraclete, Catherine could well believe that Raynald had loved her, but had she loved him? If she hadn’t, that would be a reason to pretend to be dead and run away to the convent rather than face a forced marriage. But hadn’t someone said that Constanza had forbidden the match? She had apparently wanted Raynald for her own child. And yet, the property only came to Alys through Paciana. As the elder, she was her father’s heir. That would have been a good reason to kill Paciana, not Alys.
Catherine sat straight up, causing Edgar to gasp as the cold air hit him.
“Edgar!” she whispered. “We must get back to the Paraclete, as soon as possible.”
“I know,” he whispered back, pulling the quilts back over them. “Now that it’s known she’s alive, Paciana is in terrible danger.”
As she drifted to sleep, Catherine realized, with some annoyance, that Edgar had understood the situation even before they had heard Walter’s story. He had told Solomon that afternoon that they would be going to the Paraclete. She had been so involved in the hermit and his charges that she had paid no attention.
She wondered if she would like being married to someone who analyzed events more quickly than she did. She supposed it would depend on how often he did so and how smug he was about it. And, she thought, as she snuggled closer to him, on how cold the nights were.
Sixteen
The Paraclete, Commemoration of Saint George, dragon slayer
and martyr,
Tuesday, April 23, 1140
Ut enim insertum clavum alius expellit, sic cogitatio nova priorem excludit. Cum alias intentus animus priorum memoriam dimittere cogitur aut intermitere.
As driving in one nail forces out another, so a new thought drives away the old. When the mind is intent on other things, it is forced to lessen or interrupt the memory of prior things.
—Héloïse to Abelard,
Letter VI
Héloïse was praying. She prayed most of every day, not only when reciting the office, but also when teaching the nuns, supervising the work of the convent and dealing with the outside world. Especially when dealing with the outside world. She prayed for compassion and forbearance and to be free of envy, that they could come and go as they wished while she was left imprisoned in this cage of her own making.
“My lady abbess?” The voice was soft with concern.
“Yes, Astane? What is it?” Héloïse raised her face from her hands. Her eyes were dry. One day, she thought. One day I will be able to shed the tears of true repentance. Then I’ll know I’ve finally been forgiven.
“Is there something you need?” she asked the prioress again.
“I’ve been talking with Brother Baldwin, about the late planting,” Astane began. “It’s nothing urgent. He wants to try a second season of vegetable marrow. He thinks we can harvest it well into the autumn if it’s set out in the shelter of the apple trees.”
“That’s up to you to decide, Astane,” Héloïse said. “I trust your judgement and that of Brother Baldwin. Was there something else?”
“There has been a messenger from Lady Constanza,” Astane continued. “She would like to visit her daughter’s grave and make a donation for the repose of her soul.”
“As is proper,” Héloïse conceded. “How many retainers do you think she’ll bring?”
“At least two maids, I should imagine.” Astane counted on her fingers. “Four or five men-at-arms. Perhaps her chaplain, who’ll probably want to say Mass for us. I do hope he won’t insist on preaching. The man can’t construct a sentence in French, much less Latin. His style is fit only for calling cows.”
Héloïse hid a smile. She quite agreed with the evaluation.
“Charity, humility, patience,” she murmured.
The prioress blushed. “I know, Héloïse . But either of us could produce a more elegant sermon than Father Deol. You give better instruction in chapter each week and you don’t get it all from a manual!”
“Thank you,” Héloïse said. “But, if he offers to preach, we will accept with humble gratitude.”
Astane sighed. “And will attempt to truly feel grateful.”
“With success, I’m sure,” Héloïse said.
There was a sudden clamor outside, shouts and the neighing of horses. Astane ran to the window.
“Where is it coming from?” Héloïse asked.
“Not this side. I see nothing,” Astane answered.
The noise was compounded by the slap of running feet and the startled cries of women. There was a sharp tap on the door, which was opened without pause for permission. Sister Thecla appeared in the doorway.
“There are armed men in the vegetable garden!” she cried. “They’re trying to abduct one of the lay sisters. Brother Baldwin is doing his best to fend them off and I’ve sent for help, but I don’t know …”
She broke off, panting.
Héloïse jumped to her feet, her lips set in fury.
“How dare they commit such an offense!” she cried as she began running toward the garden, followed by Prioress Astane. “They risk the wrath of the Holy Spirit, the Holy Father, and me!”
Of the three, Thecla thought the last was the one whose wrath they should fear most.
“Lady Abbess!” she shouted. “Héloïse! You mustn’t! You could be killed!”
As they raced across the field, they were greeted by the horrifying sight of two mail-clad knights on horseback and the body of a woman on the ground. Brother Baldwin was standing over her, thrashing with his hoe at one of the marauders. There was a yell of pain and anger as the hoe bit into the horseman’s leg. He raised his sword and slashed deeply into the old man’s shoulder. Baldwin dropped the hoe and fell to his knees.
Seeing that the people of the convent were converging on him, the knight wheeled about and raced through the garden. He nearly lost his seat, leaping the low spot in the hedge, but landed in one piece on the path to the road, his companion close behind. Héloïse, calling for someone to fetch Sister Melisande and bring litters, fell to her knees next to Brother Baldwin.
He leaned against her a second, then fell forward into the mud. Héloïse bent and rolled him gently to her lap. Blood was streaming from the wound in his neck and onto her skirts. He opened his eyes.
“Montjoie et Saint Denis,” he whispered. “We’ll take Jerusalem today. I see the gates!”
His head lolled sideways in her arms. Prioress Astane knelt beside Héloïse. She crossed herself, murmured a blessing, then reached out and gently closed the old man’s eyes.
“Requiescat in pace,” she said.
“Amen.” Héloïse had found her tears.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and eased the old man’s body to the ground. Then she turned to the woman Baldwin had died to protect, who was lying on her stomach. The back of her tunic was soaked in blood. Héloïse felt the side of her throat.
“She’s still alive!” she called to the lay sisters who were coming with the litters. “Hurry!”
They lifted her as gently as they could. Astane took her sleeve to clean the mud from the woman’s face.
“It’s Paciana!” she said.
“I feared as much,” Héloïse replied, her fury now turned on herself. “I should have been more watchful of her. I guessed there was danger, but I couldn’t believe anyone would have so little fear of God. This is a place of safety! A haven from the wickedness of the world.”
Melisande arrived as the women were carrying Paciana to the infirmary. She took rags and pressed them against the wound.
“Keep her face down,” she told them. “Unless she starts choking on the blood. You! Put pressure on the wound with this. We’ve got to stop the flow.”
She paused and looked beyond to the body of the lay brother, then to Astane, who shook her head. Melisande crossed herself and then took over for the woman holding the rags.
“Wil
l she live?” Héloïse asked.
“I can’t tell,” Melisande answered. “It’s flowing, not spurting, so we might have a chance to save her. I will use all the skill Our Lord has granted me.”
“What can we do?” Héloïse asked.
“You know,” Melisande answered as she let up on the pressure a moment, then changed hands.
Héloïse and Astane followed behind.
“Pray,” Héloïse said, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Entreat, supplicate, beg. God knows how far my prayers rise. If only I could cry!”
“You are crying, my lady abbess,” Astane said gently. “Forgive my presumption, but only God knows how far our prayers rise, so perhaps we should make them as best we can in our ignorance and have faith that they will be heard.”
Héloïse walked a little faster, leaving the prioress a step behind. Then she took a deep breath and faced Astane, her head bowed.
“I stand rebuked,” she said. “You’re right. Where faith is concerned, you are my superior. Thank you.
“Anyway,” she added, “there is more I can do. Send a messenger at once to Anseau of Trainel and to Bishop Hatto, informing them of this outrage. Then find out if anyone recognized these men, these beasts. The Paraclete must not be allowed to suffer such injury without receiving justice.”
“Even if no one saw their faces,” Astane said, “one of them should be limping for quite a while from the bite of that hoe, if he doesn’t lose his leg altogether. Brother Baldwin may have wanted to end his days in tranquillity, but he had not forgotten how to fight. I must confess I feel proud that we had such a defender.”
“I agree,” Héloïse answered. “I will petition the bishop to let us bury him in a place of honor, as his deed deserves. Now, we have much work to do.”
They had reached the gate and were about to enter the cloister when Prioress Astane happened to glance down the road.
“Saint Thecla and the bears!” she cried. “Abbess Héloïse, our Catherine has returned and I believe she’s brought us a new protector!”
The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 21