The Devil's Door: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Sharan Newman

  “I will not answer these preordained indictments. You are not qualified to judge me in this manner. I will take my case to the pope himself!”

  With that he turned on his heel and marched out through the west transept, his startled acolytes at his heels.

  The shock within the cathedral lasted a full minute. Then, as if nothing had happened, Abbot Bernard continued reading the charges and asked the bishops to decide if Abelard should be condemned for the stated beliefs.

  One by one, the bishops nodded, yes.

  Catherine and Edgar couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Would no one speak for Abelard? And what difference would the condemnation make if the case were appealed to Rome?

  At the first possible moment, King Louis rose, looking bewildered, and, giving his arm to Queen Eleanor, left the cathedral, followed by the people of the court. Thibault and Mahaut went with them, looking equally nonplussed. The bishops finally stood and left through the door to the chapter house.

  Catherine and Edgar found themselves outside in the hot afternoon sun, wondering what had just happened. They were not alone. The general opinion was that it had been a poor show. But people seemed to be divided as to its significance.

  “Is he a heretic or not?” one woman asked. “I brought eggs to hurl at him if he was.”

  “Why didn’t Bernard let him speak?” someone else whined.

  “Why didn’t they talk French, like normal people?” another voice complained. “I could tell if it was heresy if they’d just use words I knew.”

  For most people the matter was best settled sitting down with a mug in one’s hand. Slowly, the crowd drifted away, to the open spaces where there were freshly tapped kegs and travelling minstrels. Edgar and Catherine sat on the edge of the water trough wondering what to do.

  “Mother Héloïse told us to stay with him,” Catherine said at last. “We should go find him.”

  “I only wish I knew what to say when we do,” Edgar said.

  “Maybe it will be enough that we’re there.”

  When they entered the house where Abelard was staying, they found themselves swept up in a whirlwind of which the accused, himself, was the calm center. He sat by the window, eyes closed. Berengar screamed hysterically to a circle of believers that it was all a plot and the pope would make them pay; every one of those bishops would be forced to give up his see, and as for Bernard, no humiliation was deep enough.

  Canon Arnold was sitting with Master Gilbert. Edgar went up to him and bowed.

  “I saw you go,” he told the canon. “Perhaps you haven’t heard that the council also condemned you today, although I can’t understand why.”

  “To tar poor Master Abelard with a blacker brush,” Arnold chuckled. “Don’t worry, boy. I deem it an honor to be condemned by the like of those bishops with their fine jewels and furs.”

  Astrolabe was sitting next to Abelard. When he saw Catherine and Edgar, he came to them and led them back out onto the portico. His eyes were red and he wept without awareness.

  “He saw it, that it would happen just like before,” Astrolabe told them. “He told me it was as if a dark curtain had been dropped around him. His mind went blank of all but the terror of his words being repudiated once again by those who could see that they were suppressed and forgotten.”

  His jaw tightened in fury. “I only pray that that man is ignorant of what he’s doing. Why can’t he see that Father’s faith is as deep and orthodox as his own?”

  They could give him no answers.

  “What will the master do now?” Edgar asked.

  “What he said,” Astrolabe answered. “He’ll go to Rome and put his case before the pope. He has friends in the curia who have read his work with more care than the abbot of Clairvaux. I plan to go with him.”

  Catherine could tell from his face that Astrolabe knew his father was unlikely to survive the journey.

  “What about your mother?” she asked.

  Astrolabe looked at her pleadingly. “I’ll be back,” he said. “She’ll agree that it’s best I stay with him.”

  Catherine’s lip trembled. “Why can’t you take him back to the Paraclete?” she begged. “They’ll care for him there.”

  “That’s the last thing he wants, Catherine,” Astrolabe said. “He has to fight this; if he doesn’t, he’ll die. But you can go, you and Edgar. He wants to write her, to explain. Take our letters to her. Tell her everything that’s happened. Take her our love.”

  Reluctantly, they agreed. There seemed to be nothing else for them to do there. Astrolabe started to go back in.

  “Wait.” Edgar stopped him. “Before Master Abelard went before the council, he said something to Master Gilbert. Did you hear it?”

  “Yes,” Astrolabe said. “And I hope Gilbert de la Porree took heed. Father told him, ‘Nam tua res agitur paries cum proximus ardet.’”

  “‘It is your business, too, when your neighbor’s house is in flames,’” Catherine translated. “Horace.”

  They walked away, the bright afternoon grating on their eyes.

  “What shall we do?” Edgar asked Catherine.

  “Go where we’re needed,” she answered.

  Epilogue

  The Paraclete,

  Feast of the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist, Monday, June 24, 1140

  Soror mea Heloissa quondom mihi in saeculo chara; nunc in Christo carissima, odiosum me mundo reddidit logica … . Quia ut mihi videtur, opinione potius traducuntur ad judicium, quam experientiae magistratu … . Si irruat turbo, non quatior; si venti perflent, non moveor. Fundatus enim sum supra firmam petram.

  My sister, Héloïse, once dear to me in the world, now dearest

  to me in Christ; logic has made me hated by the world … .

  But it seems to me that they have come to their judgement by

  supposition, not by weighing the evidence … . Though the

  storm rages, I am unshaken, though the winds may blow, I

  am unmoved; for I stand fast on an immovable rock.

  —Abelard to Héloïse,

  Confession of Faith, the last letter

  Héloïse took the letter from them and went to her room to read it alone. There was no point in crying, she told herself. She should take comfort from the fact that his first thought was for her, knowing how worried she would be. Astrolabe’s message was briefer, not as polished, smudged with tears. She tied that one carefully in her sleeve. Abelard’s she smoothed and left on the desk. She would see a copy was made so that, if things went badly in Rome, future generations would know of the propriety of his beliefs.

  Sister Thecla took Edgar and Catherine to the guesthouse. She hugged Catherine and gave Edgar a severe stare.

  “Are you treating her well, young man?” she demanded.

  “He takes good care of me,” Catherine assured her.

  “At least I try to,” Edgar added. It was his private belief that half of heaven needed to be fully occupied with watching out for Catherine.

  “How is Paciana?” Catherine asked. “Can I see her?”

  Thecla’s face grew grave. “Her body has healed, but not her spirit. The news that those who caused Alys’s death are to be punished only grieved her further. Mother Héloïse and Sister Melisande have spent many hours with her, but nothing brings her comfort. She has consented to the sin of despair. I’ll ask Sister Melisande, but I don’t know if she will see you.”

  “Do you think I might be allowed a few moments with Emilie?” Catherine ventured.

  “Possibly,” Sister Thecla smiled. “In Sister Bertrada’s presence, of course. Now, why don’t you two go for a nice walk. It’s a lovely day. I know the abbess wishes to see you both when her duties allow. Before Vespers, I’m sure.”

  Catherine and Edgar took her suggestion, walking down the hill to the town of Saint-Aubin.

  “It still seems vaguely immoral to be outside the convent,” Catherine said. “I don’t notice it when I’m far away, but within sight of it, I can’t
escape the feeling that my place is on the other side of the walls.”

  “Regrets?” Edgar asked.

  “No. Mother Héloïse was right. It’s better to follow one’s heart. Insincere prayers don’t rise. When I’m with you, my gratitude is real. God was very kind to let me find you.”

  They passed by the infirmary garden on their way back and saw a lone figure pulling weeds. She ripped them out of the earth savagely, clumps of mud clinging to the roots, and threw them in a pile with angry force. Catherine watched her with pity and fear.

  “Edgar,” she said. “Wait for me here. I have to try to speak to her.”

  Paciana didn’t look up as Catherine approached, even when a clod of dirt bounced against her shoe. She continued her work in single-minded intensity.

  “Paciana,” Catherine said.

  The lay sister shuddered, but made no other response.

  “Paciana!” Catherine repeated. “Stop. You have to look at me!”

  The grimy hands faltered and Paciana straightened. She stared at Catherine. Her face was gaunt and her eyes empty. Catherine stepped back a pace.

  “I forgive you,” she whispered. “You believed silence was the only way to protect the secret. You couldn’t have known it would lead to such horrible consequences. Can’t you forgive yourself?”

  For a long moment, Paciana was still. Then she shook her head once sharply and bent again to her task.

  Shaken, Catherine walked slowly back to the path where Edgar stood waiting.

  When they returned, Sister Thecla informed them that Héloïse had a few moments to spare and wished to see them.

  Héloïse rose and hugged them both as they entered. She questioned them first about the council and its outcome, although she had heard most of it from other sources.

  “I will pray for the abbot of Clairvaux,” she said. “That his devotion to the faith will be tempered by charity and forbearance. Now, Bishop Hatto and Countess Mahaut have both informed me that we may keep the bequest Alys left us. That is welcome news, of course, but I grieve deeply over the manner in which it has come to us. It’s odd, Catherine, that you were right all along about Raynald.”

  “I wasn’t, Mother,” Catherine admitted. “I was completely mistaken. I thought he had no heart or soul. Now, I think he’s the only one who feels any remorse for these crimes. He has made peace with Walter and established alms in Alys’s name. He has decided to go on a pilgrimage of expiation. Do you think that knowledge would help Paciana at all?”

  “I don’t know what will help Paciana.” Héloïse sighed. “In some ways, her crime was the worst. She discovered that William was Alys’s father. She knew what Rupert was doing. But she ran away from it. When Rupert threatened to kill her, she begged him to let her come here instead. She could have told Raynald the truth of Alys’s birth; he would have believed her. Then he never would have married Alys. But Paciana was a coward. She abandoned her sister to her fate. A word would have saved her. Now she believes only eternal silence and mortification will atone. I cannot convince her of her error.”

  Catherine had never known the abbess to be so hard. Her anger was evident, despite the attempt to control it.

  “So Paciana knew that she and Alys weren’t really sisters,” she said.

  Héloïse stood. “Of course they were sisters. Just as much as you and Agnes, or you and Emilie. We are all sisters. If you take nothing else away from your years here, remember that.”

  She stopped, abashed, then smiled.

  “I don’t need to tell either of you that,” she said. “You both have shown true friendship and loyalty to me and mine. I am very proud of you both, and grateful. You’ve expended the first weeks of your marriage in helping us. It’s time you returned to your own lives. What will you do now?”

  “Go back to Paris,” Edgar said. “Catherine’s sister has taken their mother back to Vielleteneuse. Hubert wants us to live with him. He needs Catherine’s help with his accounts. I’m not sure yet what I’ll be needed for.”

  “I thought you would continue with your studies,” Héloïse said. “There are many fine teachers in Paris now.”

  “Yes, of course.” Edgar didn’t look enthusiastic. “I told Hubert I would study law. I can’t disappoint him.”

  Catherine was unnaturally quiet. Suddenly, she jumped up and ran from the room. Edgar apologized and ran after her.

  Catherine was bent over, throwing up in a laundry bucket.

  “What is the matter with me?” she moaned. “Convent food never did that before.”

  Héloïse had followed them out.

  “Catherine,” she said. “I suspect you did not spend every moment of the last few weeks exclusively on convent business. Has your back been hurting, legs aching? Have you been tired and easily annoyed?”

  “That last I can attest to,” Edgar answered. “Is there something wrong?”

  “If she were still in the convent there would be,” Héloïse answered. “One more question; when did you last need your braies?”

  “Six, seven weeks ago,” Catherine said. “Mother, do you think … ?”

  “All evidence points to that as the logical deduction,” Héloïse told her. “Edgar, if you wish to make some radical request of your father-in-law, I think now would be the time to do it. He will probably refuse you nothing when you tell him he’s about to have a new grandchild.”

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank all the scholars who helped me with their expertise, especially Dr. Mary M. McLaughlin, who took time from her work Héloïse at the Paraclete: Ductrix et Magistra (now available from Peregrina Press, Toronto) to send me several chapters in manuscript, along with answers to a number of questions; Fr. Chrysogonus Waddell who supplied me with information on the Paraclete and monastic life as well as reading the manuscript in its roughest form and offering excellent suggestions for improvements. I owe both these people more than I can hope to repay.

  I am also grateful to Dr. John Riddle, of North Carolina State, who provided me with copies of his work on the efficacy of herbal remedies in the Middle Ages; Dr. Barbara Newman, Northwestern University, who shared her insights on Héloïse with me; Dr. Brian McGuire, for help with St. Bernard; Rabbi Gelman of Santa Barbara for advice on Jews in the twelfth century; Dr. Richard Hecht, both for providing me with the Hebrew translation and for teaching a great class on Jews in the Middle Ages. Prof. Michel Bur of Nancy for information on Champagne; Dr. Bert Hall of Toronto and Gavin Faulkner (as well as an unsung graduate student) for hunting up information on medieval mining practices. Dr. Harold A. Drake for Catullus, among other things; Dr. Georgia Wright for being on call to explain architecture, and for being charitable about mistakes in the first book. Jennifer Russell for reading the manuscript and telling me what she liked as well as noting errors. And, of course, Dr. Jeffrey Russell for whom no question was too obscure. They all did their best to keep me honest. Any errors are my own perversity.

  I would also like to thank Fran Halpern, Louise Ramsey and Brenda Loree, for emotional support and for keeping me from taking myself too seriously. (Also because they said that if I didn’t thank them, they wouldn’t ask me out to lunch any more.)

  Also by Sharan Newman from Tom Doherty Associates

  CATHERINE LEVENDEUR MYSTERIES

  Death Comes As Epiphany

  The Devil’s Door

  The Wandering Arm

  Strong As Death

  Cursed in the Blood

  The Difficult Saint

  To Wear the White Cloak

  Heresy

  The Outcast Dove

  GUINEVERE

  Guinevere

  The Chessboard Queen

  Guinevere Evermore

  The Witch in the Well (forthcoming)

  A Note on Sources

  Of course, The Devil’s Door is a work of fiction. Catherine, Edgar and their families are pure invention. But the time they live in is not. I have done my best to make it as accurate as possible. This includ
es not only costume and customs but also attitudes and beliefs.

  The story is woven around real events. The Council of Sens did take place, probably on the date I gave. This meeting, so crucial to the life of Peter Abelard, is not well understood. I found little agreement on who was there, why Henry Sanglier was displaying the relics (I guessed it was to raise money for the Cathedral, which was begun the following summer) or even the exact wording of the list of accusations read by Bernard. I have done my best to recreate it according to surviving accounts.

  Many of the minor characters in the book also really existed. However, I have created their personalities from little or no information. William of Nevers and his son, Raynald, were never accused of anything worse than trying to keep tithes from the monks of Vézelay. I have no proof that Raynald was even married. And all I know of Peter of Baschi is that he borrowed money from Héloïse and the pope made him repay it. I apologize to anyone writing dissertations on these men.

  I am particularly interested in writing about the diversity of medieval society, which is only beginning to be studied. There are a number of excellent books and articles now available on Jewish life in Europe, on women, both in and out of the convent, on the poor, on monastic life in general, and many other previously neglected aspects of medieval life. I have assembled a partial bibliography that I will send to anyone interested. Just send me a self-addressed, stamped envelope, in care of the publisher.

  My work is intended to entertain first and foremost. But I also truly love this time and these people. My research is ongoing and I would be happy to hear from anyone who has made a special study of any aspect of twelfth century society I may have touched on. Please cite your sources so that I might enjoy them, too.