The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  “Edgar,” Catherine said. “I’ve never seen anything interest you the way that mill does. You should see your face when you describe it.”

  Edgar shrugged. “I appreciate the ingenuity of it,” he said. “It’s beautiful, in its own way, like the sculptures Garnulf did.”

  Catherine leaned over and wiped the gravy from his chin. Her ivory cross swung over the bread and thumped back against her chest. She touched it, letting her fingers trace the intricate pattern.

  “You made this,” she charged. “Didn’t you?”

  Edgar examined a backbone from the stew.

  “It’s just something I do with my hands,” he muttered. “It helps me think.”

  Catherine studied the cross. “What were you thinking about while you were carving this?”

  He looked up and grinned. “You, of course. What do you imagine?”

  “I imagine you would be a terrible lawyer,” she said. “I think you are a brilliant artisan.”

  Astrolabe suddenly felt very much the intruder at the table.

  “I can’t carve wood for a living,” Edgar said. “Or build machines. I was born in the wrong rank. It’s impossible.”

  Catherine nodded. “That’s true. But, Edgar, you and I are together and that was impossible, too.”

  Astrolabe felt that the evening was becoming a bit tedious. He finished the last of his stew and put the bread on the tray to be given to the beggars.

  “I think I’ll go see if Father needs anything,” he said.

  Catherine and Edgar looked away from each other guiltily.

  “I’m sorry,” Edgar said. “It’s early yet. Please don’t go.”

  “I’m not offended,” Astrolabe said. “But both of you are more tired than you realize. You’ll need to arrive at the cathedral early tomorrow if you want to get in for Mass.”

  “Are they going to carry the relics in a procession through town or put them on display in the cathedral, itself?” Catherine asked. “I’m curious about this new acquisition. It seems odd that the name of the saint wasn’t announced well in advance.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Astrolabe didn’t really care, he was more concerned with the following event. “Well, Henry Sanglier has never been a typical archbishop. Abbot Bernard almost had him excommunicated a few years ago. To answer your question, I believe the relics will be displayed before the altar so that the faithful may pass by and view them from a respectful distance.”

  “We may not be able to find you in the crowd,” Edgar told him. “Shall we meet here again tomorrow evening? Unless you’d rather stay with the students or eat with Master Abelard and the canons.”

  “I’ll be here,” Astrolabe said. “The enthusiasm of the students for constant argument wears me out and Father is being well attended to. You two are occasionally obviously and embarrassingly besotted with each other, but in general I enjoy your company.”

  “Thank you, Astrolabe. We like you, too.”

  As they got up to leave, Catherine kissed him lightly on the cheek. Edgar did the same.

  “Peace to you, Astrolabe,” he said.

  “Peace to you both,” he responded, although they all knew it was a forlorn hope. “Good night.”

  Sunday, the octave of Pentecost, was brilliantly clear, the sun summer bright in an azure sky. The area around the cathedral was already crowded when Catherine and Edgar arrived, shortly after dawn.

  “We’ll never find anyone in this,” Catherine complained as she was jostled by the shoulders and elbows of pilgrims trying to be first in line when the relics were unveiled. “Edgar, I know I need the comfort of the Mass more than ever today, but I can’t face being crushed in with all those people. Look, even the poor cripples who’ve come to be healed are being shoved aside.”

  Edgar gripped her arm tightly to avoid being separated in the throng. It seemed that they were being sucked toward the cathedral. He set himself against the tide and began pushing their way out.

  “There are other churches in Sens,” he said. “I imagine they will be nearly empty today. Do you need your Host consecrated by the bishop of Chartres for the sacrament to be valid?”

  “Of course not.” Catherine grabbed hold of his tunic to keep from being dragged away. “I do want to come back this afternoon to see the relics.”

  “It won’t be any better,” Edgar shouted over his shoulder.

  “I know,” Catherine said. “But I just overheard someone say that the new relic was acquired through a trader from Troyes.”

  Edgar stopped short. Catherine slammed into him.

  “You don’t think … ?” he said.

  “I just want to be there,” Catherine answered.

  They found a quiet little church south of the center of town, near the river. They never did discover who it was dedicated to. It was ancient, with high, tiny windows. In the wall next to Catherine, the stone head of some Roman god peeked out, indicating the source of the building material. The priest had but one assistant and there were only a few old women and children in attendance. The sermon was read from a book. The priest had trouble making out some of the words. It was cool and quiet there and only intense curiosity coerced Catherine to return to the square of the cathedral.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Catherine?” Edgar asked. “You look a bit pale.”

  “I’m fine,” she told Edgar. “My back hurts a bit, that’s all. It’s about that time again. I think I’ll have to make myself a new pair of braies soon. I left the old ones at Quincy.”

  “Very well, we’ll dive into the sea of pilgrims. Just don’t let go of me,” Edgar said as they plowed back into the mob.

  The common people were being kept behind the altar rail. The bishops and the nobles had vied for the honor of carrying out the relics. King Louis, barefoot, had one corner of the reliquary of Saint Savarin and Count Thibault another. The king’s long blond hair kept catching on the gold leaf and jewels encrusting the coffin. They set it down carefully and joined their wives, seated at one side of the altar. The bishops and abbots had already brought in the relics of other saints, which were arranged before the altar. Finally Archbishop Henry appeared, carrying a box of wood, adorned with silver filigree. He set it reverently on a table, tilting it so that the lid would open downward, allowing the faithful to see.

  “The city of Sens and the cathedral of Saint-Étienne have been exalted by the knowledge that many of the saints have chosen to bless us by their presence and protection,” the archbishop said. “Recently, we have been honored by the acquisition of an ancient and holy relic, a victim of the persecution of Diocletian, who before he achieved his crown of martyrdom was put into a cell without food or water and made to lie naked on broken glass.”

  “And I thought I suffered,” Catherine whispered to Edgar, who was standing behind her.

  “You did,” Edgar said.

  He circled her with his arms and rested his chin on the top of her head. She was torn between a feeling of security and the desire to stand on tiptoe to see better.

  Archbishop Henry signaled to a deacon, who stood next to the box, his hand on the latch.

  “It is proper that this relic be unveiled today,” he continued. “We will commemorate his feast tomorrow at High Mass.”

  Catherine was trying to remember whose feast was June second and who had been made to lie on broken glass. She was beginning to feel back in the classroom. The archbishop was still speaking.

  “May we all be inspired by the example of this brave priest, beheaded for the faith, whose miraculously preserved remains have come to bless the city of Sens, Saint Marcellinus.”

  The lid dropped open. All through the cathedral, people fell to their knees in devotion. As the group in front of her knelt, Catherine leaned foreword and saw the relic of the Roman saint.

  The head was well preserved. The brown hair and beard looked soft still. The skin was darkened as if by great age, but still intact as one would expect of a saint.

  “I’m not going to scr
eam,” she told herself. “He looks very peaceful there. And, after all, he was a martyr, of a sort.”

  “We were right. Can we leave now,” Edgar said.

  Catherine nodded. In front of them she heard a man in deacon’s robes say to another, “But I thought Saint Marcellinus was in an abbey in Germany.”

  “A fake,” the other answered. “Those Germans are all too gullible.”

  She couldn’t help taking one more look at the head in the reliquary. She hoped Rupert would live long enough to hang for such blasphemy. Poor Lisiard! She couldn’t stand to see him there.

  As they turned to go, she noticed Count Thibault, who was watching the crowd, not the relic. Countess Mahaut had placed one hand on his shoulder and Catherine was sure that it was only her influence that kept the count from bursting into laughter.

  “He knew,” she said. “Even before he came here, Edgar. He knew what the relic was!”

  “Shh!” Edgar warned. “Not here.”

  Catherine held her peace until they were out of sight of the cathedral, in a narrow lane in the Juiverie.

  “How could they do such a thing!” she gasped. “It was Deacon Peter who arranged the sale, wasn’t it? Relics ought not to be bought. It isn’t proper. No saint would allow such a thing. I wonder what the archbishop paid.”

  “Twenty marks of silver, perhaps,” Edgar said.

  Catherine suddenly felt wobbly. She sank down onto a mounting stone in front of an inn.

  “We can’t let people venerate the head of a minor knight of Troyes who loved gossip and good food,” she said. “I thought Count Thibault was supposed to have reformed.”

  Edgar patted her head. “Well, it does have its humorous aspects,” he said.

  Catherine glared up at him.

  “Don’t worry,” he told her. “Countess Mahaut was looking at her husband just as you are at me. My guess is that in a few days, Thibault will tell Henry privately how he’s been duped and, at the next display of relics, the head of Saint Marcellinus will not appear.”

  Catherine sighed. “Well, I suppose it’s for the best. This must be the crime that Count Thibault knew he could lay on Rupert, and it’s wrong, I know, but I really will sleep better knowing where that head is.”

  Edgar did laugh then and, after a second, Catherine joined him.

  Astrolabe was waiting for them at the inn. He had saved the end of a table.

  “Did you enjoy the display of relics?” he asked innocently.

  Catherine made a sudden noise at the back of her throat. Astrolabe looked at her in concern.

  “Swallowed the wrong way,” she explained. “We didn’t stay long. The heat was too much. Were there any cures?”

  “Not that I saw,” Astrolabe said. “But there were a number of donations to the new cathedral. I dropped in a coin, myself, after being trapped against the wall for an hour, unable to move.”

  “Was your father there?” Edgar asked.

  “He thought he should go and help carry the relics, to show his orthodoxy,” Astrolabe said. “He has the right. But we convinced him it would be better if he rested. His illness is getting worse.”

  “Astrolabe,”—Catherine put her hand over his—“would you rather be with him now?”

  “We discussed this last night,” he smiled. “Father hates the way I fuss over him. He’d rather be with people who think he’s invincible. Tonight, that’s probably the best thing. He doesn’t need my doubts.”

  “Do you think he’ll be well enough to face the abbot tomorrow morning?” Catherine asked.

  Astrolabe shrugged. “He’ll do it in any case. He feels himself as much a martyr as any Christian in the time of Diocletian. He’s been called to preach the truth and he is prepared to face death to do it.”

  He took a bite of his dinner.

  “Do you think this is the same stew they served last night?” he asked with deep suspicion.

  “Astrolabe! I’m so glad I found you!”

  The water pitcher rocked as the new arrival fell against the table, panting. He seemed familiar to Catherine. Oh, yes, Berengar, the young disciple of Abelard’s from Poitiers. He didn’t waste time on greetings.

  “They’re holding a secret meeting tonight, at this very moment!” he announced.

  “Who is?”

  Catherine had visions of Rupert and Deacon Peter plotting with faceless minions to take revenge on her.

  “The bishops, of course,” Berengar said. “That flatulent abbot is trying to make them swear to decide in his favor tomorrow.”

  “Berengar! That’s no way to speak of him,” Astrolabe cautioned. “Especially in public. Now, how do you know this?”

  “They’re all together, at the archbishop’s palace, having a feast,” Berengar sniffed. “Henry’s wine cellar will be empty by midnight with that group.”

  “Of course they’re dining together,” Astrolabe said. “They rarely meet and have many matters to discuss. I’m sure they enjoy the chance to exchange views over a meal.”

  Berengar poured himself a cup of their wine.

  “How can you be so trusting?” he said. “Bernard has admitted he is untrained in dialectical argument. He’s told people that he fears Master Abelard will simply overpower him with intricate wordplay and that the simple people listening will then doubt the faith. Hmph! What he means is that he’s so simple, he can’t follow a syllogism. He’s going to browbeat the bishops with fears of heresy and revolt until they agree to do whatever he says.”

  Catherine thought Berengar was overinflating the danger. She couldn’t imagine anyone intimidating Geoffrey of Chartres, who was not only bishop, but also the papal legate. And the other bishops were men of good conscience, even those who were decidedly loyal to the Cistercian abbot, like Hugh of Auxerre, who had been one of the original monks to come with Bernard to Citeaux. She ran through the careers of the other men in her mind.

  On the other hand, perhaps it wasn’t so foolish.

  Astrolabe seemed to agree. He got up from the table, taking his spoon and mug.

  “Perhaps I will go back and worry,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Catherine and Edgar finished the stew. It did taste the same as the previous night. The cook had simply added more water and herbs. Catherine’s stomach felt strange by the time they left.

  “Edgar,” she said. “Do you think I’m malastrue?”

  “What caused that thought?” he asked. “Of course not. If I thought you were cursed, I wouldn’t be walking next to you.”

  “It’s only that while I was at the Paraclete, intending to stay, nothing bad ever happened,” she fretted. “Now we just seem to fall from one catastrophe to another.”

  “Catherine, if you start reasoning like that, you’ll end up like your mother,” Edgar said sternly. “The world is full of disaster. We don’t cause it. Anyway, did you ever consider that God sent us here so that we could put some things right?”

  Catherine was quiet for a moment.

  “No, I never did,” she admitted. “Do you think that’s why we always seem to be in the middle of chaos?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “But I think that, as long as we are, that’s what we should try to do.”

  The High Mass the next morning was the longest Catherine had ever attended. She could barely endure having to stand through the ritual. Her lower back ached intolerably and her legs throbbed as if she’d been running for days.

  I must still be recovering from the ordeal at Quincy, she thought. Or preparing for a terrible purgation.

  But finally the archbishop turned from the altar to bestow the kiss of peace upon his deacon, who then gave it to the subdeacon and he to his subordinate. Henry faced the crowd, then the king, and gave the final blessing. The last gospel was read.

  “Ite,” Henry intoned, “missa est.”

  But no one left. It seemed as if everyone in the cathedral held their breath at the same time. Even the candles were still.

  Then ther
e was a slight motion from among the white-robed monks standing near the altar screen. A man stepped out from the group.

  Catherine had thought he would be taller, at least as tall as Master Abelard. And younger; he looked much older than his fifty years. His was reed-thin, his tonsured circle grey as his robe. Slowly Abbot Bernard mounted the pulpit.

  A black-robed figure stepped from the group on the other side of the room. The circle of his tonsure was not as great and there were still dark streaks in his grey hair. Héloïse had seen the sudden aging, but from where she stood Catherine could only make out the aquiline nose, the straight back. As he stepped to the front, he paused to whisper something to Master Gilbert, who started guiltily. Then, standing before the assembly, outwardly calm, Abelard waited for Bernard to make the first sortie.

  The abbot held up a sheaf of papers, stepping back to focus at arm’s length. He cleared his throat and began.

  “Caput primum: Impia Abelardi de sancta Trinitate dogmata recen-set, et explodit, …”

  Abelard opened his mouth to refute the charge that he misunderstood the nature of the Trinity, but Bernard hadn’t finished.

  “Caput secundum: In Trinitate non esse admittendam ullam dis-paritatem, sed ominimodum aequalitatem.”

  Catherine wanted to shout at him, Wait, allow Abelard to explain. You don’t understand! That’s not what he said. You’re only giving half-lines, unfinished arguments. But the abbot didn’t wait.

  “Absurdum dogma Abelardi … dicit Abelardus … . Arguit Abelardum .” His mellow voice went on and on. Most of the people in the church had no idea what accusations were being made. A man not far from Catherine was leaning against the wall snoring.

  But Abelard understood every word. Even more, he understood that, once again, he had been judged and condemned without recourse, without being given the opportunity to defend his beliefs or his methods. The decision had already been made. He would get no impartial hearing today.

  He strode toward the pulpit. The abbot looked up. Everyone tensed in anticipation.

  Abelard stopped in midstride. He put his hand to his chest as if fending off a blow. He looked down, breathing quickly, then shook his head as if to clear it. At last he straightened and stood proudly before the pulpit like the aristocrat he had been born.