Heresy: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery

by Newman, Sharan

  “I always said that Eon wouldn’t have lasted so long or gathered so many people to him if the bishop of Dol hadn’t ignored the problem,” Astrolabe said again. “I can tell Archbishop Engebaud that much in all honesty.”

  “Very well.” Thomas carefully folded the clothes that Astrolabe had chosen and gave them to him. “I must attend my archbishop for now. I’ve told my servant that you will be sharing the room. He’ll bring both of you something to eat.”

  “And drink?” John asked with a grin.

  Thomas grinned back. “Of course, old friend. Where you are concerned that goes without saying.”

  When Godfrey brought Astrolabe to the house where the English were staying, he hadn’t expected to be offered a bed with the clerks of Canterbury, and he was right. Not even Astrolabe had bothered to ask where he was staying.

  He left Catherine at the convent gate and went to see if he could find shelter with Countess Sybil’s men, even though he wasn’t officially one of them. It might be only a place on the floor, but at least he could sleep rather than keeping one eye open all night to guard his possessions the way he would if he went to an inn. Lacking that, there were always the churches.

  What he really wanted was to get Gwenael in a nice dark corner. Perhaps some physical proof of his interest would finally convince her to renounce Eon. He went by the kitchens at Saint-Pierre, just in case she were free.

  The laundress growled when he asked for her.

  “That one’s a troublemaker,” she said. “Thinks she’s better than the rest of us. Hmmph! She can’t even scrub a floor properly. Of course, the only thing she’s likely any good at is what you no doubt want her for. Well, it makes no matter to me. I put her to work out by the midden, cleaning fish. That should make her appealing. You can have her when she’s done.”

  With a nasty laugh, she shut the door in his face.

  Godfrey went around to the back. He found a basket of cleaned fish and a pile of offal on some sacking, but Gwenael had gone.

  “Thomas and I are going out with some of the other Englishmen,” John told Astrolabe. “He has suggested that we leave you at the bathhouse and pick you up on our way back. Do you mind?”

  “Mind? I haven’t had a bath since Paris,” Astrolabe said. “You can leave me there for days if you like.”

  “Sorry, we have to be back by Compline,” John said. “Think you can scrape off all the grime by then?”

  “I’ll make a start on it.”

  The bathhouse was busy but not overly crowded. Astrolabe spent the last of the silver coins of Troyes that his mother had given him and got a tub to himself curtained off from the world. The water was steaming. He climbed in and leaned back in ecstasy. Soon he would dredge up the energy to soap himself, maybe even find a barber. He rubbed his beard. It was time to get rid of it. He couldn’t spend his life fearing to show his father in his face. He wasn’t ashamed of being Abelard’s son. It was far too easy to hide behind the growth and become someone else. Perhaps that was why clerics were supposed to stay clean shaven. And why hermits weren’t.

  Tomorrow he would come before the leaders of the Church. For that, he should appear as himself, whatever the cost.

  That was the highest level of theological speculation that he aspired to. It was too much for tonight. Now all he wanted was to lean back and let the warmth penetrate his skin. Until this moment he hadn’t realized how chilled he was, body and soul. Astrolabe closed his eyes and let himself drift.

  “We don’t need to mention this to Annora, do we?” Margaret said in a small voice. “I know I shouldn’t have given away her property, but Gui was so miserable.”

  Catherine thought he couldn’t have looked any more pathetic than Margaret did now. There had been no point in scolding her; she had punished herself quite adequately.

  “But I don’t understand.” She took both Margaret’s hands and looked into her eyes, searching for sense. “If you were already sure that he faked the attack, why did you believe him about the brooch?”

  “I don’t know,” Margaret admitted. “I just did. It was the way he looked at it. The way his face softened when he spoke of his grandmother. I never met either of mine. I don’t know! I’m sorry, Catherine.”

  He face was flushed, the scar a jagged furrow in her face. Catherine wondered if it would ever fade completely. It had been more than two years since the attack.

  “It’s only that I was worried about your safety,” she said. “Gui has admitted that he hates Annora and her family. He could have arranged to be in the party that captured the Eonites. He could have killed Cecile. You mustn’t feel pity for someone who might be a murderer.”

  “But I do, Catherine,” Margaret said, puzzled. “I know he was lying about something to me, but it’s not what we expected. I wonder if he even knew he was lying.”

  “Margaret?” Catherine stared at Margaret’s eyes in shock. While she had been speaking, the color had changed from warm brown to an almost icy blue.

  “What is it, Catherine?” Margaret smiled. The color was back to normal.

  “Nothing.” Catherine rubbed her eyes. “It must be the fumes from the brazier. This room is very close.”

  Margaret was instantly solicitous. “You shouldn’t have stayed out in the wind all day,” she said. “You need some spiced wine and a thick soup. I’ll see you down to the hall before I go to dine with Grandfather. Then, when I get back, I’ll rub your feet with rosemary oil. That will warm you. And tomorrow I’ll confess everything to Annora if you want me to.”

  “Thank you, ma doux.” Catherine hugged her. “You’re a good sister to me. And, no, perhaps we won’t say anything to Annora for now. If the brooch is hers, then she must have dropped it in the garden that evening. In that case, it won’t help us learn more about who killed Cecile. If you are quite sure that Gui faked the attack, then we have to figure out why he contrived such an elaborate ruse. I don’t suppose you have a feeling about that, do you?”

  “Sorry,” Margaret said, “but I think it has more to do with Annora than anything else. Gui doesn’t seem interested in Astrolabe at all.”

  While the promised spiced wine and soup helped Catherine’s body, she was out of sorts all evening. She knew that all of these elaborate dinners were important. This was where the real business of the council was conducted. Now that their marriage had been declared canonical, Raoul of Vermandois and Petronilla were celebrating the betrothal of their children to Sybil’s. Sybil would now expect military help from Raoul, and he would count on her to smooth the path for any relations with Sybil’s nephew, Henry, especially if he eventually became the next king of England.

  The nets spread far. In return for withdrawing his objections to Raoul and Petronilla’s marriage, Count Thibault knew that they would support the next nephew of his who needed a bishopric. Or Sybil might be asked to give property to one of the count’s favorite monastic houses. It was how the world worked.

  Catherine had no objection to that. It was a good system that bound families to each other and helped prevent warfare. But she wished it didn’t involve long, elaborate dinners, at least not ones she had to attend. Her only hope was that the entertainment would be lively. If not, she’d commit the social blunder of falling asleep right in her trencher bread.

  Or soaking the bread with tears. Sitting at the table, surrounded by loud strangers, she longed horribly for her own home, for the warmth of Edgar beside her and the noise of the children.

  She looked around for Annora, the only person at the dinner whom she knew at all. She wasn’t there. When the page came by to refill her wine cup, she asked if he knew where she was.

  “Not well, I think,” the boy said. “She didn’t come down. Someone else was asking earlier, and the countess said she was resting in her room.”

  “Thank you,” Catherine said.

  She ate some more of the potage, feeling terribly out of place. The page must be mistaken. Annora wasn’t in her room. It was the same as Catherine’s.<
br />
  So where was she?

  Margaret was having a better time than Catherine. The dinner at her grandfather’s was much more informal. No one had said anything this evening about how much she would like Carinthia. All attention was going to Elenora, who had stood before the prelates and nobility of Christendom that afternoon and announced that she really didn’t want to be reconciled to a husband who had abandoned her for a woman less than half his age.

  “You were very dignified,” Mahaut told her for the tenth time. “Everyone in the room felt sympathy for you.”

  Elenora, sitting between Mahaut and Margaret, thanked her.

  “But I didn’t want their sympathy, Aunt,” she said. “I wanted their respect. And I wanted them to at least set Raoul a penance for his treatment of me.”

  Her voice had risen slightly. She signaled for another serving of turnips.

  “Now Elenora,” Thibault said from his wife’s other side. “You know how long it took to make even this arrangement. Believe me, the lands, tithes and tolls that Raoul and Petronilla have turned over to you will make you one of the richest women in Champagne. You’ll be able to travel from Arras to Aquitaine and be lodged every night by someone who owes you fealty. What more could you want?”

  “Honor, Uncle,” Elenora said so softly that only Margaret heard. “And perhaps a little love.”

  The conversation continued on without them. Next to Thibault was his friend, the abbot of Clairvaux. How he had been convinced to keep silent about the divorce was something Margaret would have given a great deal to know.

  She leaned back on her stool to see him better. Bernard was a thin man, of middle height. He didn’t appear very imposing. But Margaret had seen him preach. There was a passion in him that could only be divinely inspired. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him, though. It was his words that had sent the armies to the Holy Land and, indirectly, caused the murder of Jews. But he had dropped everything and rushed to stop the persecution. On the other hand, he had been the chief persecutor of Abelard. Was he a saint, as some said, or only a man too easily guided by his friends? She had heard that he was gathering a faction together to assure the condemnation of Bishop Gilbert of Poitiers. But that struggle had nothing to do with her. What Margaret feared was that this terribly powerful man would speak out against Astrolabe.

  The abbot turned and caught her staring at him. Margaret gasped and nearly fell from the stool. She managed to steady herself, looking back up to see if he had turned away. Obviously amused by her awe, the saintly abbot of Clairvaux smiled and winked at her.

  Margaret kept her eyes on her food for the rest of the meal.

  The bishop of Paris had lodging rights at a very fine house just outside the walls of Reims. Along with the rest of the party, Rolland had been given excellent hospitality, perhaps a bit too much for the Lenten season. His stomach was rumbling alarmingly. It was with great effort that he managed to suppress a mighty belch during the after-dinner prayer.

  As the canons filed from the hall, the doorkeeper stopped him.

  “There was a messenger here for you,” he said. “I told him you were eating and I’d give you the message when you’d finished. He said that was fine, but he wasn’t going to wait until then. He’d only been given a penny for the task.”

  “Did he say who had sent him?” Rolland asked.

  “No.” The doorkeeper rubbed his palm suggestively.

  Rolland grunted and put a penny in his hand.

  “Did he leave the message?” he asked.

  “He did.” The doorkeeper tucked the penny in a pouch at his belt. “It’s ‘the toll hut by the river; come as soon as possible.’ Found a friend in Reims, did you?”

  He chuckled. “Better hurry. They check for empty beds in the dorter after Compline.”

  Rolland didn’t bother correcting the man’s misapprehension. It must be important news to send a messenger so late. He signaled to one of the other canons that he was going outside, holding his stomach and grimacing in explanation.

  The cool evening air energized him. He took a deep breath and released all the gas that had been tormenting him. The sound shattered the still night. From the courtyard next door a dog began to bark, soon joined by all the others in the neighborhood.

  Rolland smiled. In all respects, he was a satisfied man. Abelard’s son was soon going to receive the punishment he deserved. An old wound could now begin to heal.

  It was a dark walk to the river. The road had a line of houses and sheds along it and then nothing but fields beyond. There was no sound from any of the buildings; everyone was either asleep or in the taverns. Rolland walked with the confidence of someone protected by clerical garb and a strong right arm. He could hear the river not far away. The toll hut must be nearby.

  There it was, a crude wooden construction, one room with a window that could be opened to make a table for collecting the money from travelers and tradesmen arriving by water. Now the board was up and barred. But the door wasn’t locked. There was nothing inside to steal. Takings were brought into town each night to be counted and assigned.

  Rolland thought it was an odd place to meet. But in the battle against evil one had to do some unusual things.

  He pushed open the door. The hinges were rusty in the moist air and gave a high-pitched squeal. Rolland stepped in. Something caught at his ankles, and he fell full length on the dirt floor.

  “Saint Alban’s bloody scourge!” he cried. “What the hell was that?”

  It was the last thing he ever said.

  Sixteen

  The convent of Saint-Pierre-les-Nonnains. Wednesday, 9

  kalends April (March 24), 1148. Feast of thirty-six people

  martyred in Palestine during the time of Julian the Apostate.

  They’re not prayed to very much

  because no one knows their names.

  Hirena: Non perducent.

  Sisnius: Quis prohibere poterit?

  Hirena: Qui mundum sui providentia regit…

  Sisnius: Ne terreamini, milites, fallacibus huius blasphemae praesagiis.

  Milites: Non terremur, sed tuis praeceptis parere nitimur

  Irene: They will not take me.

  Sisnius: What could stop them?

  Irene: The divine providence that rules the world!…

  Sisnius: Soldiers, don’t be fearful of this heretical woman’s false prophecies!

  Soldiers: We aren’t afraid but strive to complete your commands!

  Hroswitha of Gandersheim

  Dulcitia

  “Lady Catherine, wake up at once!” Gwenael was shaking her.

  Catherine tried to open her eyes. Around the room there were moans and sharp commands for quiet.

  “Gwenael?” she asked, staring at her blearily. “How did you get in here?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the woman said. “You’ve got to come with me right now!”

  “But it’s not dawn yet.” Catherine tried to roll over, but Gwenael gripped her shoulder tightly and shook her again.

  “Get that woman out or I’ll send for the guard!” someone ordered from under a blanket.

  “Please!” Gwenael’s voice was shrill with fear.

  With a groan, Catherine swung her feet to the floor, sorry for once that she had been sleeping on the outside. She felt around for her shoes.

  “I have them.” Gwenael took her by the hand and dragged her out to the landing. “And your bliaut.”

  Catherine took her shoes. “My hose!” she complained. “And my belt. I’ll trip.”

  “Here, take this.” The woman untied the rope from her own waist and gave it to Catherine. “Though I can’t see that you need it, the way your belly is swollen.”

  Catherine pulled the bliaut over her head and gathered the material up over the rope, tying it above the offending stomach.

  “Very well,” she said. “I’m dressed; I’m almost awake. What is so important that you must rouse me and aggravate a roomful of women? Has someone died?”
>
  “Not yet.” Gwenael’s eyes moved left to right and back again, as if trying to see behind her own back. “But I might be dead unless you can hide me.”

  “What do you mean?” Catherine asked. “What have you been doing?”

  Gwenael lifted her chin proudly, but she remembered to keep her voice low.

  “I grew tired of waiting for Master Astrolabe to free Lord Eon,” she said. “So I went to the palace of the bishop to do it myself.”

  Catherine’s jaw dropped. She looked around the narrow landing, lit by a small oil lamp. There was nothing to sit on. She leaned against the wall. Some news shouldn’t be given to sleepy people when they are standing.

  “However did you propose to do that?” she asked.

  “A woman can always get into a place where there are men sleeping alone”—Gwenael shrugged—“or having to watch through the night.”

  Catherine accepted this. “But how did you mean to get Eon out?”

  Gwenael sagged. “That’s where I didn’t think it out carefully. I supposed I could steal some keys and open his cell.”

  “What happened instead?” The fact that Gwenael was here with her instead of in chains meant that she had succeeded in part.

  “The guards were smarter than I expected,” Gwenael said. “Or better provided for than most. They guessed what I was doing.”

  “And so you left.” Catherine yawned. “Well, it was very stupid of you, but it doesn’t sound as if you’re in any danger. Why don’t you go back to bed?”

  “I can’t.” Gwenael swallowed, looking so guilty that Catherine was finally alarmed. “They’re outside the convent now. Oh, please forgive me, my lady! I was afraid and a coward. I don’t want to burn.”

  “If you renounce this insane heresy, you won’t,” Catherine said sharply. “Simply keeping your mouth shut would save you, for that matter. Now, what did you promise them?”