There was only one man there at the moment. Astrolabe went over and tapped his shoulder. There was a strangled yelp.
“Saint Oswald’s severed head, man!” the Englishman cried. “Don’t ever do that! You couldn’t find your own corner?”
Astrolabe laughed, “Sorry, John. I wanted to get to you before someone else showed up.”
John turned and looked up at him, his face changing from anger to bewildered recognition.
“Astrolabe! What are you doing in all that metal?” he asked.
“It’s a long story that I don’t want to tell you here,” Astrolabe said. “And don’t use that name. Call me ‘Peter,’ please. Can you meet me outside the front of the convent of Saint-Pierre tomorrow morning?”
John looked him up and down. “Peter, hein? Are you planning on abducting a nun?” he asked. “If so, you’ll have to find someone else to help.”
Astrolabe’s face showed horror. “I’d never do such a thing!”
“Don’t be so fierce.” John backed away from him, unfortunately into the wall. “I was only joking.”
“I know, old friend,” Astrolabe answered, moving aside to let him out. “But the question hit me in a sore spot. You’ll understand when you know the whole story. No, we need go to Saint-Pierre to collect Catherine, who is staying with the nuns.”
“What? Why? Where’s Edgar?” John was becoming more agitated.
“Tomorrow I’ll explain it all,” Astrolabe promised. “Will you be there?”
“With all these unanswered questions? Of course I will.”
“Good. Now, when we return, pretend you don’t know me at all,” Astrolabe cautioned.
“I’m beginning to think I don’t,” John answered as they once more entered the smoky tavern.
At the Paraclete, Heloise had little time to worry about those she had sent to Reims. Beyond the day-to-day management of her convent and its lands, she had a stream of visitors to attend to. Everyone who was going to the council seemed to be using her guest house as a way station.
Sister Emily came to her early one morning with a problem that was unprecedented.
“We have two bishops and an abbot each of whom says that he has the duty to say Mass for us,” she said. “They are arguing now about which of them is most important.”
Her usually calm demeanor was gone. Her lovely face was flushed and her wimple askew. She was also currently wondering whether to tell the abbess that one of the unruly abbots was her own uncle, Humbert.
Heloise set her jaw. Emily sighed in relief. No one could defeat Mother Heloise when she got that expression. The matter would soon be taken care of without alienating anyone. She followed Heloise out to watch.
The abbess had arranged her face to show nothing but smiling gratitude as she approached the three men. All immediately turned to her with cries of welcome and simultaneous offers to give the service.
“My lords,” she said, bowing her head with humility. “I am overwhelmed by your graciousness. We are not used to such exalted personages serving us. I fear that my nuns would be quite undone by your presence. Therefore, I believe that our chaplain, Father Gerard, should be allowed to proceed as usual. Otherwise it will be days before we would be able to settle back into our quiet life.”
Emily also bent her head, but to hide her smile. Heloise had said nothing untrue. But she had heard something very different than the clerics had. The nuns were not at all used to receiving communion from someone who thought more of himself than the miracle of transubstantiation. The debate over the relative importance of the three men might well keep the convent in an uproar for days. Emily was not the only one of the nuns with bishops and abbots in the family.
When she had managed to placate the prelates, Heloise went to the chapel for Nones, then to the refectory, the dining hall that doubled as the scriptorium. There she found Margaret among the students sitting, as usual, so that there was shadow on her face to hide the scar.
Shaking her head, the abbess motioned for Margaret to join her.
“There was a courier from your grandfather,” she told the girl. “He should be here by evening and has requested that you join him and the countess for dinner.”
“Should I change my bliaut?” Margaret asked, looking down at her ink-stained overtunic.
“I think that would be appropriate,” Heloise said. “Margaret, don’t you want to impress Count Thibaut with how lovely and accomplished you’ve become?”
Margaret knew Heloise was poking fun at her, but she still answered earnestly.
“I don’t want him to think that I ask anything from him other than his affection,” she said. “I know that my mother was only a bastard child and I have no rights.”
“Poot!” said Heloise with feeling. “You are of his blood and acknowledged. That’s all that matters. And I happen to know that the countess is also fond of you. So dress yourself to honor them and don’t worry so much about what they will think. It’s not likely to be anything you might imagine.”
So Margaret dressed herself carefully, with many offers of advice from the other students and even some of the sisters. They all assumed the one thing Margaret really feared and were very excited about it.
“Perhaps the count has found an English lord for you,” Hevida suggested. “Wouldn’t you like to go back home?”
Margaret shuddered at the thought.
“He wouldn’t send her there now that the Angevins are going to be the next kings,” Emeline sneered. “It’s probably someone local, a castellan or someone like that. No one of any real importance.”
There was a pause as they all tried to think who in Champagne might be eligible at the moment. With many of the younger men in the army with Count Thibault’s son, Henry, there weren’t many to choose from.
“Gautier was just widowed,” Hevida said thoughtfully. “He has no son. But his daughters do.”
“Girls! Stop that chatter at once!” The usually gentle voice of Sister Emily cut through the conversation like a whip. “You are scholars, not peasant women gossiping at the well. Have none of you any work to do?”
The group dispersed at once, leaving Margaret alone, with her belt not hung and her hair half braided. Emily considered her thoughtfully.
“I know they say that red hair is a sign of the devil,” she said, “but you make it look holy. Let’s make the plaits loose and let a few curls twist like ivy along your cheeks. There. That’s better.”
Margaret looked at her in adoration. Sister Emily could have married anyone. She was beautiful, with thick blond hair and huge hazel eyes. Her family was related to half the nobility of France. But she chose to spend her life in prayer and study. Only, Margaret reflected sadly, that wasn’t what she wanted for herself. The future she longed for was impossible. She knew it. She tried to resign herself to it. Just the same, the speculations of the other students filled her with dread.
Emily finished adjusting her hair and helped her to hang the belt on the loops of her bliaut. She knew Margaret’s sad history and didn’t blame her for wanting to stay with her family rather than be sent away to marry a stranger.
“I’m sure that your grandfather only wishes to see how you are doing,” she assured Margaret. “It’s unlikely that he would want to arrange a marriage until the king’s return with the army. Who knows how many families will lose an heir in this war? No point in setting up an alliance until we know how a man’s prospects may change.”
Margaret sighed deeply. “It’s terrible to be grateful that nothing can be decided until we know who has died or decided to join the church. But I’m not ready for any more changes. I’d rather stay here for a while.”
“My dear,” Emily laughed. “Even here we are not immune to change. I’m being sent to our new priory at Pommery soon.”
“Oh, no!” Margaret cried. “I’ll miss you so.”
“I’ll miss you and the Paraclete,” Emily said. “But part of being a bride of Christ is that one must learn to cleave to Him an
d not to temporal attachments, even to someone as dear as you. Now, hurry along. The count and countess are waiting.”
When Astrolabe and John appeared at Saint-Pierre-les-Nonnains that afternoon, Catherine greeted them with delight. She had spent the previous day worrying about what trouble James and Edana were causing and if they were calling for her. Since she had committed herself to this task, it was essential that she not let her longing for her family interfere.
“I need to concentrate on the work at hand,” she told them. “John, we haven’t seen you in ages! Where have you been hiding?”
“At Celle, near Troyes,” John said as he hugged her gingerly. “I haven’t been able to find a position yet, so my old friend Peter, who is abbot there, took me in.” He looked at her stomach. “I can tell what you’ve been doing. Where’s Edgar?”
“Gone to Spain,” Catherine told him. “This expedition of the king has caused trade to be bad everywhere. He and Solomon need to find a way to feed the family.”
She turned away to watch a sedan chair going by, its curtains drawn. Astrolabe and John speculated as to who was inside until Catherine could wipe her eyes and blow her nose. Once she had stuffed her handkerchief back in her sleeve, she faced them again with a smile.
“Now, has Peter, here, explained our situation?” she asked, indicating Astrolabe.
John nodded. “I can’t believe the Count of Tréguier could get away with such a thing, even in the wilds of Brittany. Kidnapping nuns! Evicting monks! Why has no one sent an army to rout him out? The bishop of Saint-Malo used to be abbot there; you’d think he’d do something.”
“I don’t know,” Astrolabe said. “Perhaps it’s too far away for anyone to care.”
“If it’s that far away, then why is a harmless lunatic like Eon being brought here for trial?” Catherine countered.
John interrupted. “The street is hardly a place to discuss all this. Could we go somewhere else?”
“If we can push through this mob to a baker’s, we can get bread,” Astrolabe said. “I have some cheese that Mother packed for me. Then we can find a quieter place.”
The street was again filling up. There were again too many people on horseback, pushing those on foot aside. Peddlers’ cries punctuated the noise, along with the clanking of their packs. Every now and then there was a squawking as an unwary chicken found itself trapped in a sea of feet. The drainage ditch that ran down the middle of the street was clogged with refuse of every kind. The dung collectors couldn’t keep up with the supply. Every few moments an unlucky pedestrian would slip and land in the damp waste. Catherine was grateful that Astrolabe and John were on either side of her to keep her upright.
As they came to the square before the cathedral, the crowd opened up suddenly and Catherine found herself nose to nose with a horse at the end of its patience. It curled back its lip and raised its head for all the world as if it were going into battle.
“Saint Vincent, defend me!” Catherine slid backwards to avoid the horse and the cart it was pulling.
John and Astrolabe pulled her in opposite directions to get her out of the pathway. For a moment, she thought she’d be trampled. Suddenly, Astrolabe dropped her arm and vanished into the crowd.
John got her to the side of the square, both of them panting.
“The deofolcund deor!” John exclaimed. “Are you unharmed?”
“Yes, thank you,” she answered. “Although my bladder seems a bit overexcited. What was it and where did Astrolabe go?”
“Some sort of prisoner’s cart,” John said, looking after the crowd as it followed behind, shouting and pelting the cart with rotten apples and horse droppings.
Catherine tried to see, but the crush around the cart was too thick. All she could make out were the outlines of three or four men and the shape of the long chains that held them.
John grabbed a passerby armed with a moldy loaf.
“Who are those people?” he asked. “What have they done?”
“Heretics,” the man spat. “They say one of them thinks he’s the Savior himself, come again.”
Catherine looked thoughtful.
“Times have been bad enough, I’d say, for the Second Coming,” she commented. “How can we be sure he isn’t?”
The man started to swear at her, then stopped, fixed by the earnestness in her deep blue eyes.
“Lady,” he said more gently, “even Jesus wouldn’t lower himself so far as to come back as a Breton.”
Nevertheless, he dropped his bread, wiped his hand on his tunic and went the other way.
“That must be Astrolabe’s Eon,” John said.
“I wish we could get closer,” Catherine fretted. “I want to see what kind of man this is who could fool so many people.”
John chuckled. “So you don’t think it’s possible that he’s Christ come again?”
“Of course not. Everyone knows that it won’t happen until the last Jew is converted,” Catherine reminded him. “And when I left Paris, they were still adamantly going about their business.”
“Even if a miracle changed all their hearts, Solomon would still be left,” John laughed. “It’s almost impossible to convert someone who doesn’t care about theology. Solomon only insists on remaining as he is. No one can change him.”
Catherine sighed. “I know. Believe me, I’ve tried. Now, what about Eon? Do you think that Astrolabe’s enemy will wait until the trial to denounce him?”
“No idea,” John answered, distracted.
Catherine followed his gaze. There was a crush of bishops in the portal of the cathedral. In their midst was a gaunt man dressed in the simple grey robe of a monk. Catherine knew him, Abbot Bernard. She had heard that he was supporting the cause of those who would try Gilbert of Poitiers for heresy. Catherine still believed that it had been Bernard’s influence alone that had condemned Master Abelard six years before. And yet, Bernard had also stopped the people of Lotharingia from killing the Jews last year. She had heard so much about him, had seen him more than once, even heard him preach, but still she didn’t understand him at all. Some called him a saint; others complained that he thought only of power, wishing to be greater than kings or popes. Some believed that he already was. The current pope, Eugenius, had been one of Bernard’s monks before his elevation, abbot of a Cistercian monastery in Italy. Would Bernard’s opinion be the deciding one if Astrolabe were accused?
The party entered the cathedral. Catherine wanted to find Astrolabe, but John still stared at the now empty doorway.
“John?” She broke into his thoughts.
“What? Oh, sorry, Catherine,” he sighed. “If I could only get a letter from Abbot Bernard, my career would be made. Peter can’t keep me at Celle forever, unless I turn monk. If I could just get a position as a secretary to one of the bishops. Any benefice would help. But I need a recommendation.”
“John! I didn’t know.” Catherine was astonished. She was aware that his family had no money or influence, but John was a brilliant scholar. “I’d have thought by now you’d be running the papal curia.”
He shook his head. “If not for Peter giving me a place at Celle, I would have starved,” he said. “I’m ordained now, you know. I took holy orders last year. I could even be chaplain to some lord. But times are bad.”
Catherine couldn’t deny that.
John shook himself. “Where has Astrolabe gone to?”
“Call him Peter,” Catherine reminded him, looking around. “He disappeared into the crowd. Do you think he tried to follow the cart?”
“Not if he has any sense,” John said. “No, there he is, on the other side of the square. What is that he has with him?”
Catherine tried to pick her friend out of the mass of people. Finally she spotted him. He had someone by the arm, a woman, perhaps. The form was clothed in castoff bits of clothing: a man’s tunic over a woman’s chainse and a cloak patched in enough colors to make the person look like one of those who juggled or sang in the streets for their brea
d.
Astrolabe saw them and started across the square, dragging the ragbag with him. As he came closer, they saw that it was a woman, not old but past her first bloom, her light brown hair streaked with grey. Her narrow face bore lines carved by sun and salt wind, but her brown eyes were clear and intelligent.
“This is Gwenael,” Astrolabe said. “She is one of the people I stayed with when I lived in the forest. Gwenael, these are my friends, Catherine and John.”
The woman bobbed her head in a barely civil greeting. To Catherine it looked as if once Astrolabe released his hold on her she would take flight.
“What have you told them?” she asked in heavily accented French.
“Everything,” he answered. “You can trust them.”
Gwenael shook her head. “No one is safe,” she hissed. “Let me go, Peter. I must follow my Lord.”
Catherine stepped forward, blocking Gwenael’s retreat. “They are taking him to the cathedral for trial,” she said. “You’ll be able to see him soon. Forgive me, but you seem not to have eaten or bathed for some time. Will you let me take you to the convent where I am staying? The nuns will care for you.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Lock me up instead, I’ve no doubt,” she said.
Astrolabe gave her arm an impatient shake. “I said my friends were safe,” he insisted. “If you wish to be thrown into prison with Eon, then we’ll take you there. If not, then let Catherine see to you.”
Tears pooled in Gwenael’s eyes and poured down her cheeks.
“I’m not worthy to share his cell,” she wept. “I betrayed him. I deserve no bed but the street.”
Catherine put her arms around Gwenael and let the woman sob against her shoulder until the wool of her cloak was soaked.
“You must have been very afraid,” she said. “Even Saint Peter denied Our Lord when he feared for his own life.”
The sobbing increased and they could get nothing more coherent from her, but she did let Catherine and Astrolabe guide her back to the convent, where Catherine took her to the alms gate and gave her into the charge of one of the sisters.
Heresy: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 13