“Very well,” he muttered. “But you must share what you receive. They’ll give me less with you here.”
“Thank you, kind good man,” Gwenael answered before Catherine could offer to give him all their alms. “We only need enough for bread.”
“You’d do better at the convent, then,” the man told them. “They give bread away each morning. The coins you get won’t go far. Prices are doubling every day the pope and his troop remain in Reims.”
Gwenael and the man settled down for a chat about the vagaries of the nobles. With him, she wasn’t at all tongue-tied, and soon they were both laughing over a story the man told about a miller in his village, the blacksmith’s daughter and a hot horseshoe.
Catherine minded her orders to not look around, so she smiled at the boy who was sitting on the ground digging holes in the soft earth with his fingers. He smiled back.
“What are you doing?” she ventured.
The boy smiled again.
“You’ll get nothing from him,” the man told her. “He can’t speak, nor understand much. But he’s a good boy. We get on well together.”
Catherine nodded with discomfiture and left the boy to his amusement. Other beggars had arrived at the church, and they too seemed to have their own places and pecking orders. There was some conversation, then they settled into position at their own stations.
“No talking among ourselves, now,” the man warned Catherine and Gwenael. “You’ll get nothing if you don’t pay attention to the grand folks alone. They see us whispering and such and they’ll start thinking we’re plotting something.”
“Oh, surely not!” Catherine said.
Gwenael hushed her with a look.
“Remember, you’ll have to do the talking to the lords, my lady,” she hissed in Catherine’s ear. “Hunch over more, hide your face. If you can’t do it, now’s the time to say. People are coming for Mass. Those who attend on Saturday are good pickings.”
Catherine swallowed. “I can do it.”
She held out her hand as a woman and her retinue approached the church portico.
“Alms, good lady,” she quavered. “For the love of Christ, help us, please.”
The other beggars added their chants to the litany: “Food for my child.” “Mercy, please. Enough for an ointment to ease my pain.” “For the love of God, the Blessed Virgin, the holy saints, help me!”
It was easy to keep her head down. Catherine had never been so mortified in her life. Every few moments a coin was placed in her hand. She mumbled thanks and handed it to Gwenael. So far she had heard very little Latin. That wasn’t surprising. The clergy would all hear Mass in the abbey churches or their rented homes. This was merely a test. She did catch a number of other interesting snatches of conversation. People talked over her head as if she were one of the stone carvings on the tympanum.
“With your coloring, a pale green would be nice for the wedding, don’t you think?” the voice was familiar but Catherine couldn’t place it. “Here, child, one should never forget the poor at our gates.”
A coin was placed in her hand.
“May the saints bless you,” Catherine began.
Then she heard a gasp. Catherine ventured a peek around her hair.
Margaret was looking down on her in horror.
“Go. Say nothing,” Catherine mouthed, pulling her scarf farther down over her face.
“Margaret?” The countess sounded worried. “Did that woman say something improper to you?”
“Oh, no, my lady,” Margaret answered. “I was only startled by her face.”
“Not a leper is she?” the countess asked quickly. “They know they aren’t allowed here.”
“No,” Margaret said. “A fire, I think. Horrible.”
Their voices were lost as they entered the church.
For the next few moments Catherine didn’t have to pretend palsy. Her hands were shaking and her heart thumping. She should have told Margaret what they were planning, but there hadn’t been time. Thank the saints that Margaret had been so quick-witted.
As the Mass began, the crowds thinned so Catherine and Gwenael made their way back to where Astrolabe and Godfrey were waiting for them.
“I need to wash,” Catherine said shortly.
Astrolabe took off his helmet and hurried to the nearest well.
“We did very well.” Gwenael showed Godfrey that handful of silver pieces they had received.
Godfrey looked at them wistfully. “I don’t suppose we could take a few for some wine and real meat?”
Catherine had slumped onto a bench set into the wall. She looked so pitiful that a passing monk started to come over to her and ask if he could help. She sat up straight at once.
“Absolutely not!” she said.
The monk, startled, backed away, then turned and hurried down the street.
Godfrey grimaced. “It was only a jest, my lady. I know it would be theft.”
“It is theft,” Catherine said. “I’ll not feel clean until we see that it goes to those who really need it.”
Astrolabe soon returned with cold water. Catherine pulled a rag out of her sleeve and tried to rub off the dirt.
“It’s just smearing,” Astrolabe said. “We should find a bathhouse.”
“It’s Saturday,” Catherine said. “The bathhouses will be full. Even the pope wouldn’t get in unless he’d reserved a tub. No, let me change back into my own clothes. I’ll return to the convent. They’ll have soap and hot water. I can tell them I fell down. They won’t find that hard to believe.”
“So you don’t want to try doing this again?” Astrolabe asked.
“I didn’t say that,” Catherine snapped. “Tomorrow afternoon, the council will open. All the bishops and their retinues will be present. I’ll do better this time, and that will be our chance to catch careless talk. Gwenael, will you accompany me to the convent?”
“I’ll take you,” Astrolabe offered.
“No, I need to find a place to change on the way and I’ll need help.”
“Catherine…” Astrolabe began.
Gwenael put her hand on his arm. “Not now, my lord. Perhaps you could come by this afternoon. She’ll be better then.”
She took the bundle that held Catherine’s clothes. Leaving the men, they made their way to a shed near the city walls where Gwenael kept watch while Catherine put on her chainse and then the linen bliaut embroidered in silk. Gwenael helped her lace up the sleeves and adjust the silver ring that kept her scarf in place. Catherine rubbed her face with her sleeve, leaving marks on the linen.
“I suppose I must put on the hose and shoes again,” she said.
“I’m afraid so.” Gwenael helped her into them.
They wrapped up the begging clothes and set out again. This time Gwenael walked a step behind, as befitted a servant.
Catherine was unnaturally silent. The morning’s experience had given her a lot to think about.
Astrolabe turned to Godfrey.
“This was a big mistake,” he said.
Godfrey shrugged. “It may have been more than she expected, but she’s willing to do it for you. Be grateful.”
“For my mother, really,” Astrolabe said. “There must be another way to find out who wants to destroy me.”
“So name it.”
Astrolabe shook his head. “Let’s go find John. He may have learned something.”
Godfrey brightened. “A good idea. I have a terrible thirst.”
Canon Rolland stood in the back of the chapel where the bishop of Paris was saying Mass. It wasn’t fair. He should have been the one to assist. He had been in the service of the bishop longer than any of the men up there at the altar, parading around as if they were the holy apostles!
It had always been so. His life had been one of minor achievements with the grand ones always out of reach. It was Abelard’s fault. He had been the butt of so many of the master’s barbs that the other students had also seen him as a fool. Now those men were bisho
ps themselves. Hell, even Pope Eugenius wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had learned from Peter Abelard. What chance did Rollandus obtusus have?
Look at Maurice there, Rolland continued fuming. A nobody from Sully, with dirt under his toenails. But now he wore fine leather shoes and silk robes and was allowed to carry the paten.
It really wasn’t fair.
Rolland bowed his head and struck his breast as the host was raised. He stayed back, though, as the others went up for communion. He couldn’t receive the sacrament with such hate in his heart. He fervently hoped that Abelard was even now burning in Hell and that his son would soon join him there, via the flames of the heretic’s pyre.
The thought cheered him.
As he left the chapel, he was spotted by the monk Arnulf, who sidled up to him.
“Have you spotted the heretic yet?” he whispered.
“No, and I don’t believe he had the courage to be here,” Rolland answered. “He’s probably halfway to Spain by now.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t accuse him,” Arnulf said.
“A fine fool I’d look if I did,” Rolland snorted, “without anyone to corroborate the story. What happened to your witnesses?”
“You mustn’t lose faith!” Arnulf pleaded. “They’ll be here. I know that once we bring Eon up before the council, Astrolabe will be there to defend him. We must continue to gather information on this band of heretics and those who are even more dangerous. I’m sure that Astrolabe is really a follower of Henry of Lausanne or even a secret Manichee. If we can just get him up for questioning, I know we can make him confess not only his part in keeping the Eonites free for so long but also his involvement in the other heresies that threaten to tear the church apart.”
Rolland envisioned the scene. It warmed him all over.
“Then everyone will have to admit I was right,” he said.
“And give you the preferment you deserve,” Arnulf said. “You’ll be an archdeacon before you know it.”
“Perhaps.” Rolland dragged himself from his cloud of future glory. “But of course that is secondary to preserving orthodoxy.”
“Oh, of course,” Arnulf said. “Now, I was at Saint-Symphorian this morning and I’m sure I saw one of the Eonite women begging on the steps.”
“Never!” Rolland exclaimed. “She wouldn’t have the gall. How did you know her?”
Arnulf rubbed his forehead. The gesture was becoming habitual during his conversations with the canon.
“I saw her before, in Tours,” he explained, “at the edge of the crowd when Eon was brought in. She was wearing the same patched clothes as the rest of them. A wonder no one else noticed. I should have denounced her then. She looked so pitiful that I presumed she was harmless. A grave error, I fear.”
They had left the bishop’s house now and were heading toward the cathedral, where ropes were being strung to keep back those who had no business with the council. No one was quite sure how many bishops and abbots were in attendance, but it was certain that the cathedral would never hold all of the people who wanted in. Rolland knew which side he would be expected to stay on. Places inside were for important laymen and the upper clergy. His hands clenched.
He looked across the parvis at the men who had just emerged from the cathedral.
“Saint Genevieve’s shorn tresses!” he breathed. “It’s Abbot Bernard and the pope!”
He watched them pass through the crowd, envious of those who spoke to them without fear. Arnulf noticed his wistful look.
“If you do your work well,” he told the canon, “you will be the one they honor.”
“Yes.” Rolland returned to his cloud. “I will.”
“Catherine, what were you doing?” Margaret pulled her aside as soon as she entered the room.
“Trying to get information that will save Astrolabe,” Catherine answered. “What was Countess Mahaut saying about a wedding robe? I thought you were going to tell her you wouldn’t go to Carinthia.”
“I couldn’t.” Margaret hung her head. “I needed you there with me instead of taking alms under false pretenses. Catherine, how could you?”
“Well,” Catherine answered wearily, “they told me I wouldn’t have to wear shoes.”
Margaret gave her a look of disgust. “You can’t get away with an answer like that. What do you think my brother would say?”
Catherine grabbed Margaret’s arm. “If you don’t promise now that he’ll never learn of this, I swear I’ll let you go off into the wilds of Carinthia.”
“Catherine?” Margaret wilted before her anger.
“Oh, Margaret, I’m sorry.” Catherine took the girl in her arms. “You don’t know what a morning I’ve had. I’m so ashamed. I would die if anyone knew about this, especially Edgar.”
“I would think so,” Margaret said. “You still have mud on your face, you know. Let me help you get it off.”
“I told the sisters that I’d slipped in the street,” Catherine said as Margaret wiped. “They were most concerned.”
“As they should be,” Margaret said. “There’s another dinner tonight, by the way. Countess Sybil is entertaining my grandfather. I believe that you and Annora are expected to attend.”
“Sweet Virgin’s milk!” Catherine exclaimed. “This is worse than Paris. I thought that at a council everyone would be praying or something.”
“Even I know that this is where the fate of whole countries is determined,” Margaret said. “I never learned much from my own father, except to stay out of his way, but one thing I’m clear on is that everything in life, religious or lay, comes down to power, and this is where it’s decided who wields it.”
Catherine looked at her in astonishment. “You have grown up, haven’t you? Perhaps you should consider this marriage. You’d make a good countess or whatever it is they have there.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Margaret answered decidedly. “Now, will you promise to dress decently and be at the dinner tonight to support me in my decision?”
“I will, if you’ll help me set up one of these beds so that I can have a nap first,” Catherine answered.
She lay down but didn’t get any sleep. Between her own thoughts and the women coming in and out of the room, there wasn’t much chance of repose. But at least she had her feet up and the baby only kicked now and then to reassure her that it was still alive.
She closed her eyes. There was just too much to worry about. Catherine knew that her first responsibility was to help Astrolabe. She agreed that the clerics would be more likely to talk unguardedly around her, but there must be a better way to find them. The idea of pretending to be a beggar had sounded exciting. Now she knew better.
And try as she might, the concerns of her own family worried her more than those of Astrolabe and Annora. Were James and Edana really doing well at the Paraclete? And if so, why? She missed them horribly. How could they be happy without her? Then there was Margaret. Poor dear. Was nothing in her life ever to be easy? Of course she wasn’t going to be packed off to a foreign country like a shipment of spices. But how could they prevent it without alienating the count and countess of Champagne? Their patronage was essential to continued trade. Her family had always received privileges and freedom from tolls within the county and at the fairs. The loss would be devastating for the family finances.
These thoughts tumbled about in her mind as she dozed, becoming blended and confused. She finally awoke with the vague feeling that Annora was to be married in Carinthia, Astrolabe lose his trading privileges and she and Edgar about to be burnt as heretics.
It was not a restful afternoon. But, in that space between sleep and reality, Catherine had an idea.
John had been easy to locate. The tavern had been staked out by the few English clerics whom King Stephen had permitted to attend the council. Astrolabe and Godfrey found him at a round table in the corner chattering away happily in his native language. He broke off the conversation when he saw them.
“How did she do?�
� he asked, sliding into French effortlessly. “I thought that I should leave when I saw them start back to you.”
“A total of six silver pennies,” Godfrey said. “I didn’t know how well beggars were done by.”
“I didn’t mean that,” John said. “Did she learn anything?”
“Only that a lot of people have been driven from their villages by the famine and that abandoned wives are common,” Astrolabe answered, giving him the money. “Can you see that this gets to those in need?”
“Of course.” John put the coins in his purse. “So it’s no use to try again?”
“Lady Catherine is willing,” Godfrey forestalled Astrolabe’s objection.
“So she says,” Astrolabe admitted. “I wish there were another way. Have you learned anything?”
John shook his head. “That in itself is strange. There’s a great deal of discussion about the heretic the archbishop of Tours has brought in but nothing about a woman being murdered. That doesn’t make sense. You’re quite certain she was dead?”
“John, no one survives a slit throat like that,” Astrolabe said with a shudder. “She was cold and drained of blood. I know. Half of it was on me.”
He closed his eyes, trying to remember Cecile as she had been in life, not when he had last touched her.
John pretended not to notice Astrolabe’s emotion.
“I wonder why you weren’t killed, too,” he commented.
“I don’t know,” Astrolabe said, forcing himself to remember less sharply. “I presume the murderer was interrupted or felt that only Cecile was a danger to him.”
“It only takes a second to cut the throat of a man already unconscious,” Godfrey observed. “And he couldn’t be sure that you hadn’t seen him as well when Cecile recognized him.”
Astrolabe felt his neck. It seemed undamaged. The talk had given him a frisson as if cold steel were tickling him just below his ear.
“Do you think I should worry about being attacked?” he asked.
“Always,” Godfrey answered. “But especially now. Someone killed your friend to protect himself. If you are seen as a threat, then what would stop him doing it again?”
Heresy: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 18