That was undeniable. The Norman duke, William the Bastard, had conquered England, and his descendents, Thibault among them, were doing their best to control the rest of the Christian world. Mahaut thought of Thibault’s older brother William, the one child who had not lived up to his name. She had never been quite sure what had been wrong with him, only that he had been sent off to Sully with a caretaker wife and banned from inheriting any real power. Most of the family were indeed strong; weaklings weren’t given a chance.
That mustn’t happen to Margaret.
Looking at the mass of people invading the city, Catherine was grateful that she had a bed. How in the world would enough space be found for them all? And what about food? The last of the winter stores would have to be opened up, if there was anything left in them in this famine year.
“How many will starve because Reims had to provide for the leaders of the church?” she wondered aloud.
“How many have starved already?” came a voice from behind her.
Catherine turned around.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I was alone.”
The woman facing her was a nun, but not one of the sisters of Saint-Pierre. She was tall, nearly Catherine’s height, and about her age, with a pale face and strong jaw. She seemed vaguely familiar. Catherine noted her long, fine hands unstained by hard work or ink and decided that she must at least be a prioress.
“I apologize for disturbing you,” the woman said. “My name is Marie. I am the abbess of Saint-Sulpice, in Brittany.”
“Oh, my lady,” Catherine bowed. “It is I who apologize. I knew that Mother Heloise of the Paraclete had written to you concerning the situation at Rennes, but I was unaware that you would be here. Do you wish me to move out of this room for you?”
She made as if to do so at once. Marie was not only an abbess but also the daughter of King Stephen of England. That would make her…Catherine tried to work it out, the niece of Count Thibault and therefore some sort of cousin to Margaret. The position of Edgar’s half sister was becoming more and more intimidating to her. It wasn’t until she had been thrust among all these members of the high nobility that Catherine realized how inappropriate it might be for Margaret to continue to live with her and Edgar.
She must have been staring, for the abbess regarded her with surprise.
“Do I have mud on my nose?” she asked.
“Oh. No,” Catherine said. “I’ll just pack up my things.”
“There’s no need for that,” Marie told her. “I was only looking for the lady Annora. I understand that she has information on the fate of the women who were taken from Saint-Georges by the count of Tréguier.”
“Yes, she does, my lady,” Catherine said. “At least, she knows about the death of her sister, Cecile. I’m not sure how much more Countess Sybil has told her about the circumstances.”
“I see,” the abbess said. “I shall ask Sybil, then. And you are?”
“My name is Catherine,” she answered. “I’m just the wife of a merchant. No one, really.”
Marie’s eyebrows rose. “And yet you are well enough acquainted with Abbess Heloise to know that she has sent me a letter, which I have not yet received. And you are also here under the protection of the countess of Flanders and sharing a room with her ward. Interesting.”
Catherine smiled nervously, but the abbess seemed not to be interested enough to pursue the matter.
“Please tell the lady Annora that I grieve for her loss and am here to do what I can to see that Henri of Tréguier is brought to justice.”
“Thank you, my lady abbess.” Catherine bowed again, overbalanced and fell against the bed. “Oh, dear! I mean, I’ll convey your message to her.”
Abbess Marie pursed her lips, but Catherine couldn’t tell if it was in disapproval or amusement. She nodded to Catherine and left.
Catherine sat on the bed for a moment, unnerved by the encounter.
“Well,” she said, patting her stomach, “won’t we have a story to tell Papa when he gets home? That is, if he isn’t so angry with me for leaving your brother and sister at the Paraclete that he refuses to listen.”
Then she started to consider the import of the abbess’s presence now in Reims. It appeared that several people intended to force the count of Tréguier to release the nuns of Saint-Georges and to return the monastery of Sainte-Croix to Abbot Moses and the canons. Perhaps that would make it easier to convince everyone that Cecile was murdered by one of the knights of the count.
But Astrolabe wouldn’t be completely safe until they found out which one.
The bishop’s guards were trying to clear the square outside the cathedral. The beggars were told to go to the abbey church of Saint-Rémi, and most departed without complaint. There was much more trouble from the hundreds of people trying to get an audience before the council.
“Nothing has begun yet!” one shouted at a particularly insistent man. “Sunday after Mass. Come back then!”
“I happen to know that debates have been going on for almost a week now,” the man shouted back. “I must get to the council before they decide.”
The guard looked at the man. He wasn’t a cleric.
“What could they be doing that would matter to you?” he asked. “Your daughter run off with the parish priest?”
“Fur!” the man answered, waving a fox tail collar in the guard’s face. “They want to keep the clerics from wearing it. That will ruin me!”
The guard laughed. “Don’t worry. The bishops aren’t about to give up their fancy dyed-fur cloaks. Now, move along or be trampled by their hunting stallions, another thing they’ll never surrender, no matter what the pope demands.”
He turned to face another man trying to get to the church. This one was different from the furrier. He was a plainly dressed cleric, not well nourished. The guard felt more sympathetic to him but not enough to let him through.
“There’s nothing happening now,” he said. “The bishops and abbots are encamped all over the countryside, wherever a room can be found. The one you’re looking for could be anywhere.”
The cleric smiled. “I’m not looking for a bishop today, thank you.”
His smile turned to a grin as he waved at another man who was having more luck making his way through the crowd.
“Over here!” he called. “I’ve had some luck! Buy me a beer?”
The guard sighed, sympathy ebbing. It would be a long day’s work before he could hope for a beer.
“Get on with you, then!” He shoved the cleric toward his friend. He regretted the movement when he saw the size of the cleric’s friend and the long knife at his belt.
“Peter!” John greeted him. “I’m glad I found you. A few days in this place and a hermitage will look positively welcoming.”
“It already does,” Astrolabe answered. “I have a flask right here. Let’s find a quiet corner and you can tell me what you’ve discovered.”
They walked down to the city gates. Outside, elaborate tents were going up in the fields. Men were pounding stakes into the ground and roping off areas for horses. Several enterprising meat pie sellers were already setting up a communal stall next to some trestle tables of freshly cut wood. John and Astrolabe sat down at one. Astrolabe brought out the flask, a clay bottle in a leather pouch with a long strap to hang it from.
“That will do for a start,” John said, pouring some into his bowl. “But I’ve enough news for at least another. You didn’t bring Gwenael?”
“More beer is always possible,” Astrolabe answered, trying to hide his impatience. “Gwenael is with the nuns. She is becoming more nervous about being seen in the streets, she says. What have you learned?”
“Well, the archbishop of Tours is the one who insisted on bringing your heretic here,” John began. “He has a plan of his own that Eon is only part of, I suspect. I haven’t heard anything about Henri of Tréguier. It may be that people are afraid to accuse him because his mother, the dowager countess, gives so gen
erously to the church. However, I think it more likely that the story simply hasn’t spread very far. But Moses, abbot of Sainte-Croix, is here in Reims. He’s not only the one Henri threw out of the monastery, he’s also the countess’s confessor. Therefore, she may have given him permission to have her son excommunicated.”
“She must be furious with Henri!” Astrolabe commented.
“She may hope that an excommunication will bring him to his senses,” John continued. “Anyway, all of these things are tied up with the archbishop’s determination to make the bishop of Dol submit to his authority. Engelbaud of Tours wants to prove that Olivier of Dol is not a good shepherd to the people.”
“Perhaps in all of these wranglings, my role will be forgotten,” Astrolabe said. “With so many other heretics and rebels to attend to, who would care about one more man?”
John poured another bowl. He shook the bottle.
“Not much left,” he said, then returned to the subject. “I don’t know. With Gilbert of Poitiers being brought to trial, a lot of people are remembering how your father was condemned at Sens. Some are saying, as I am, that we can’t let Gilbert be judged as Abelard was by men with not enough understanding of philosophy. Others feel that this is another example of how dangerous it is to apply learning to faith. They say that scholars are more to be feared than wandering preachers like Eon. You are connected to both kinds of heresy. The murder is simply an added gift.”
“How much time do we have?” Astrolabe asked him, signaling for a pitcher to refill the bottle.
“Until Wednesday at least,” John answered. “First they’ll have to go through all the wrangling about primacy and repeating that priests mustn’t marry and nuns should stay in the convent, as if those were new ideas. Then there are divorces to be decided. After that they’ll bring out Eon. I haven’t heard when Abbot Moses will be allowed to speak. He may even do it in one of the private meetings rather than before the whole council.”
“What about Master Gilbert?” Astrolabe asked.
John snorted. “He has to wait until the council is over. Pope Eugenius has ordered some of the bishops to stay behind another week to examine his works for heresy.”
Astrolabe grimaced. “Why? They’ve had almost a year to do that.”
“I have no idea,” John said. “I wasn’t consulted.”
“So, if I’m to be dragged into this, when do you think it will be?” Astrolabe asked.
“I’d say with Eon,” John answered. “It will give Gilbert’s enemies more arrows to shoot. Of course, if they can’t condemn you for your association with Eon, they may try to connect you with Gilbert when he comes before the council.”
“No, Master Gilbert wishes to dispute my father’s work as well,” Astrolabe said. “Accusing me in association with him would do little.”
“Let’s assume that we have four days, then, to find out who wants to see you condemned for heresy or murder.” John looked at the assortment of people around them. “It would help if we knew which, or if it will be both. Where shall we start?”
Astrolabe thought about it.
“First we have to find the men who brought Eon and his followers to Reims,” he decided. “Then see if Gwenael recognizes any of them. Then we need to find out which of them are also in the service of the count of Tréguier. Then we need to get the man to confess to killing Cecile.”
“That all?” John asked. “Then we ought to have a couple of meat pies first.”
“And more beer?” Astrolabe suggested.
“Definitely more beer,” John agreed.
Catherine was growing restless indoors. She wanted to know what was happening to Astrolabe. What if he had been discovered? If it hadn’t been for the baby she would be down in the streets now, finding things out on her own. It was amazing what kinds of information one could pick up with a shopping basket and a willing ear. But she knew she couldn’t risk being crushed in the mob. She had miscarried too many times.
“I’ll take care of you,” she told the baby as it shifted inside her. “I asked Mother Heloise to pray for us every day and I promised your papa that I would do nothing dangerous.”
She sighed. Responsibility came with parenthood, but it was galling nonetheless.
To pass the afternoon, Catherine took out her best bliaut, with roses embroidered on the sleeves in silk and gold thread, and shook it out, just in case she would have to dine with the upper nobility.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she muttered as she worked. “Latin is of no use if I’m not near enough to overhear anyone. I can’t be of any help to Astrolabe. I should be with my children.”
She brushed at a spot of what looked like meat sauce, rubbing the thin wool almost through in her effort to erase it.
Absorbed with her thoughts, Catherine didn’t hear the voice calling her until the door opened and Margaret rushed in.
“Catherine!” she exclaimed as she clung to her sister-in-law. “You have to help me. My grandfather wants to send me to be married in Carinthia!”
Nine
The guest room at the convent of Saint-Pierre.
A few moments later.
Ibi quidem coram orthodoxa praedicatione tua plebs
haeretica stare non poterat; eorum haeresiarches pertimuit,
nec apparere praesumpsit. Proinde placuit tibi super
haeresibus insurgentibus non aliquo scribere.
Here the heretics could not stand before your orthodox
preaching. The leader of the heretics was afraid and did not
dare appear. Thus it pleased you to write no further about the
rebellious heretics.
Hugh, archbishop of Rouen, letter to Alberic, cardinal bishop
of Ostia, on their trip to Brittany to root out heresy, 1147
“Margaret!” Catherine cried. “What are you doing here? My children! Something’s happened! What is it?”
“No, no, they’re fine.” Margaret tried to calm her, even though she was in a state herself. “My grandfather brought me here. I thought it was just to meet people, but the countess and her brother want to marry me to one of their relatives in Carinthia! They think it’s wonderful that I already speak German. I wish I’d never learned a word when we lived in Trier! They want me to go back with the Carinthian bishop. Catherine, you must tell them I can’t go so far away from home!”
“Of course you can’t,” Catherine said feebly, trying to take it all in. “Edgar won’t allow it, I’m sure. Now, wipe your eyes and tell me slowly what happened.”
Margaret sniffed, pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and blew her nose. She looked around the room. Although there were a number of boxes and bags around the beds, she and Catherine were alone for now. She sat down on one of the boxes. Catherine sat next to her.
“Now first, tell me how my children are,” she said. “Then I can concentrate on this marriage problem.”
Margaret nodded, still trying to compose herself. “Both the children are fine. The nuns spoil them dreadfully, or would if Mother Heloise would allow it. James has decided he’s in love with Sister Emily. He’s even letting her teach him his letters!”
“Wonderful,” Catherine said with a touch of envy. “I could never get him to sit still long enough.”
“And Edana just plays and lets herself be hugged a lot,” Margaret finished. “It’s good, you know, for Samonie especially. She’s needed a rest. I’m glad you let her stay at the Paraclete.”
“There are plenty here who can help me dress,” Catherine said. “Then I’m not missed at all?”
“Of course you are,” Margaret said. “But James and Edana will survive just fine until you return. It should be soon, don’t you think?”
“It will have to be,” Catherine told her. “The council hasn’t started yet and there are already food shortages. Now, how did you find yourself betrothed?”
“I don’t know,” Margaret sniffed again. “I had a lovely journey here. Bishop Henry was very kind to
me and thought my German was amusing. Then, after we arrived last night, the countess and my grandfather told me that they thought I would be perfect for some relative of hers who is lord of a province or something in Carinthia. They seemed to think I would be thrilled.”
Catherine gave her a look. “Did you tell them that you weren’t?”
Margaret hung her head. “No, I was too stunned. I just thanked them for their thoughtfulness and went to bed. This morning Countess Mahaut greeted me as if it were all settled.”
“Oh, Margaret!” Catherine wailed. “What did you expect? My dearest, you didn’t need to throw a tantrum to let them know that the idea of going so far from home to marry a stranger terrifies you, but you have to at least say something. Count Thibault isn’t a monster. He wouldn’t marry you off against your will.”
“I know, but how can I refuse when they tell me what a wonderful thing they’ve done for me?” Margaret tried to explain. “The count owes me nothing. Countess Mahaut has every reason to resent my existence. Yet they have both been so kind. How can I refuse?”
Catherine saw the problem. “It is generous of them to treat you as if your mother were a legitimate child of Count Thibault. But that doesn’t mean you owe them obedience in this. Anyway, nothing can be decided without Edgar’s approval. He is legally your guardian.”
“I know,” Margaret said. “But I thought that, since the count is so powerful, Edgar wouldn’t have any say in the matter.”
Catherine laughed. Margaret gave her an indignant stare.
“I’m sorry.” Catherine managed to appear serious again. “But you should know your brother better than that. You know that look he gets, as if everyone opposing him is not only wrong but also beneath him?”
“Oh, yes,” Margaret said. “I tell him he looks like a fishwife presented with week-old trout.”
“That’s the one.” Catherine was relieved to feel Margaret relax. “Believe me, it wouldn’t matter if the pope wanted you to marry. Edgar would still give him that look and refuse. He loves you too much and so do I.”
Heresy: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 15