The old woman smiled. Finally, something this paragon from the Paraclete didn’t know.
“His name is Aleran,” she said. “He is a saint on earth. He puts a blessing on a wooden cross and the man who wears it will be safe from accidents. There’s many a poor woman who comes for his help, too. He preaches of the glory of heaven so clearly that you feel he’s been there and only came down to help us suffering mortals. Some even say he’s an angel.”
“An angel! What does Abbot Suger say about this?”
The wardress shrugged. “He hasn’t preached against him and he can’t send him away. The land he’s on doesn’t belong to the abbey, but to the heirs of Amaury de Montfort.”
“Ah.” Suger and Montfort had not been on speaking terms for years. Montfort’s heirs weren’t likely to be speaking to Suger, either.
“So, all I say is, it only shows that one shouldn’t speak out against those who stop work for the sake of their souls. I’ve heard more than once tonight that it was a bolt from God that struck the man down.”
“That’s blasphemy!” Catherine sat up. The soup spilled onto the floor. “He was a good man. You know nothing about it!”
The wardress mopped up the mess. “That may be. I’m only telling you what’s being said. I’m no theologian, like your Abelard’s whore, thank God.”
The look on Catherine’s face told her she had gone too far. She took the bowl and her oil lamp and left.
Horrid old crone! How dare she say those things about Garnulf! And that slur on Héloïse … . vicious, malicious!
Catherine forced herself to calm down. Mother Héloïse knew all the slanders, knew that they were still being repeated. That was why it was so important to find the psalter. But Garnulf, that dear old man, being vilified and not dead three hours!
The rain intensified, beating hard upon the window, muffling the sounds outside. The courtyard was full of people again, coming from their meal, preparing for the ceremonies of the feast day. They splashed over the spot where Garnulf had landed, perhaps stopping to look up and cross themselves, grateful that they were still among the living. But by dawn, all trace of the accident would be washed away. And, after all, whatever that wretched woman had said, he had died in the service of Our Lord. Surely heaven would be glad to make a place for a devout master stone carver.
Catherine knew this, even as she prayed for him. She was certain that such a good man would be welcomed into paradise. She tried to imagine his delight at the wonders he would find, but she couldn’t even picture his face as it had been that afternoon. Between her prayers and the bed curtains there hung the image of his poor, crushed skull and wide open, terrified eyes and mouth. It seemed still to be crying out to her. And in that moment when she had seen the spattered wine, she had realized what he was crying.
“No!” Catherine covered her ears. It wasn’t real. There had been no scream. Perhaps just the scrape of metal on the stone or the squeal of a pig in the wood nearby. She made herself relax. Héloïse would be ashamed of her, giving in to emotion so readily. She was not a silly, credulous child, or a foul-minded ignorant old woman like the wardress. She had been taught to think—and, as she had recently been reminded, by one of Peter Abelard’s greatest students. She must not let noises in the dark shatter her carefully built logic.
If only she hadn’t seen his face.
Garnulf’s poor, distorted, crushed face, as he lay on his back in the rain with the front of his head bashed in. It needed no dialectic to know that he hadn’t slipped and fallen. Someone had hit him and he fell back, over the edge. Perhaps he had even been thrown. But she had heard the scream. He couldn’t have screamed as he fell if he had already been hit.
Think, girl. Remember. Yes. She had heard the scream first and looked up to see him falling.
But who? Why?
It was very late. The abbot must have invited her family back to his rooms. He enjoyed conversing with all sorts of people and entertained them with stories of the famous people he knew or by quoting apt verses from Horace. Catherine picked up her bliaut to fold it. A square of paper fluttered to the floor. She picked it up and smoothed it. There were no words on it, only a number of drawings, half done, sketches for the statues in the church.
It was hard to make out the pictures by lamplight. It looked like a design for the tympanum, a Last Judgment for the central arch over the door of the church. Damned souls writhed in torment under the pitiless hand of the Judge. But this wasn’t like the tympanum on the new western door. What was it intended for? Why had Garnulf had this with him? Sketches and plans were all kept in the library. There was no reason for him to have it, up on the tower in the darkness. He couldn’t have been working on it. It made no sense. Nothing made sense. Catherine tried. Finally she folded the paper and tucked it back among her clothes. Her feet were freezing. She tried to warm them at the brazier but finally gave up and got into bed. She lay awake until she heard the chanting of Lauds in the abbey. The familiar tones soothed her confusion and sent her to sleep. But her dreams were chaotic and frightening; huge birds swooping down to peck out her eyes, enormous hands reaching out to grab her, and worst of all, laughter, faces of those she loved twisted into evil mocking. Even the Abbess Heloïse seemed displeased with her. There was a rush of cold air and someone shoving her, pushing her into the depths. She awoke with a cry.
“I’m sorry, Catherine,” Agnes whispered. “I was trying not to wake you.”
“It’s all right,” Catherine said. “I’m glad you’re back.”
Agnes snuggled closer in the darkness. Catherine turned on her side and let her warmth spread to her sister. “You’re freezing. You stood out in the cold, talking to Uncle Roger, didn’t you?”
“Only a minute. Go back to sleep, Catherine, it’s almost Matins. Listen.”
From far down the road came the sound of men chanting in unison.
“It’s the canons of Saint-Paul, come to say the vigil with the monks, to honor Saint Denis on his feast day.”
They listened together a moment, as the voices sang the Office. Agnes put her arm over Catherine’s back.
“I’m sorry I spoke so sharply to you,” she whispered. “And I’m sorry about Garnulf.”
“Thank you. And I ask your forgiveness. I shouldn’t have become angry, either. Good night, Agnes.”
“Good night.”
Yes, it was good to settle things. Life was so unsure. What if she had died with anger for her sister on her soul? Dear Garnulf. What kind of monster would send you to judgment unshriven?
Catherine couldn’t face any more questions this night. Only prayers could help Garnulf now and she’d say them willingly. She began reciting Pater Nosters in her head but Agnes’s soft breathing soon lulled her back to sleep. This time she had no dreams to remember, save an impression of a rough hand on her cheek, which gave her the oddest sense of comfort.
Six
The Abbey, Monday, October 9, 1139, the feast of Saint Denis
… and they were beheaded with the sword before the statue of Mercury … . And at once the body of Dionysius (Denis) stood erect, and with his head in its hands; and with an angel guiding it and a great light going before, it walked two miles, from the place called Montmartre [Mount of the Martyrs] to the place where, by its own choice … it now reposes.
—The Golden Legend
It was just past dawn and already the churchyard was filled with pilgrims come to honor the saint. They ranged from poor peasants and workmen, carrying the products of their labor as offering to Saint Denis, to great prelates and aristocrats. Their offerings were, indirectly, also from poor peasants and workmen, but much improved in the transmutation.
In the yard and along the road, hundreds of people pushed together, shoving each other to be first into the old church, to stand closest to the relics. The half-free villeins, minor knights, artisans and traders, beggars and students all jostled together, equal in the eyes of God. The nobility were already settled in their places through
another door.
Hubert and Roger came early to fetch Catherine, Agnes and the maids.
“The crowds are thicker than ever this year,” Hubert said. He looked at Catherine, shaking his head at her drawn face and the rings under her eyes. “Are you you sure you want to attend the services today? After last night, perhaps you should stay in and rest.”
Catherine shook her head. She was tired, but she couldn’t bear sitting in her room with no company but her own thoughts. There was the knowledge of murder racing around in her mind, jeering at her, daring her to respond. If she had to spend the whole day chasing it, feeling it taunt her, she knew she’d go mad. She longed to tell her father all about it, but something held her back. Later. After Mass. She couldn’t say the words aloud yet.
“It will do me good to hear Mass this morning,” she said. “I’m much better today, truly, Father. Shouldn’t we be going?”
Hubert was still doubtful. However, he was too worn out himself to argue with her.
“Very well,” he said. “If you’re sure. But you must return here immediately afterwards. And I meant to tell you, the abbot would like to see you this afternoon for a few minutes. He was most upset about what happened last night, especially that you should have been so frightened.”
“Yes, Father,” she said, surprised. Why did Suger want to see her? He was a busy man and she had no importance. Was he really just concerned with her well-being or had he also realized that Garnulf had been killed? Perhaps he wanted to question her privately on what she had seen as part of his investigation.
Absently, she took the arm Roger offered. Agnes held on to his other arm. Something glinted on his left hand. With a giggle, Agnes snatched at it.
“What’s this, Uncle?” she asked. “I don’t remember seeing it before. Ruby and tourmaline set in gold. It’s so delicate! A lady’s ring, I’d say.”
Roger tried to cover it. Agnes still had a grip on his arm.
“It’s nothing,” he told her firmly. “Just another prize of the tournaments.”
Agnes laughed. “And what were you wearing when you jousted for it, Roger?”
“Agnes!” Hubert glared at her. “Remember where you are!”
“I’m sorry, Father,” she answered, her eyes downcast. But when Hubert led the way into the courtyard, she looked over at Catherine and winked.
People were milling around waiting for the procession to begin. The sun was bright and warm after the rain and there was a pervasive odor of drying wool and humanity. Agnes put a vinegar-soaked cloth to her nose as they joined the steaming throng.
In one corner of the courtyard there was room to breathe, but no one retreated to it. In that space stood a small group of lepers, guarded by one of the monks from the lazar house at Saint-Genevieve. The clicking of the flavels they carried could just be heard over the voices of the pilgrims. Catherine and Agnes averted their faces as they passed as far from them as possible.
They found places in the crowd as the doors to the monastery opened, and, preceded by the bishops of Senlis and Meaux and the archbishop of Rouen, the monks came out, two by two, leading the procession of both clerical and lay nobility. Diminutive Abbot Suger was lost amidst the splendor of the assemblage. They passed in through the central door and gathered around the uncovered fresh mortar which was to be the cornerstone of the new nave.
Suger stepped forward.
“Like to the walls of the New Jerusalem, the French people have adorned their holy Church. Even the very walls contain what were once the symbols of earthly vanity and now serve to strengthen the Faith.”
He took off one of his rings and tossed it into the mortar.
“All Thy walls are precious stones,” he cried.
There was a moment’s hesitation, then Archbishop Hugues also removed his ring and threw it in.
“All Thy walls are precious stones,” he repeated.
Then the other bishops took off their chains of office and threw them in, too, and suddenly everyone was pulling off rings, brooches, hair fillets, any piece of jewelry and adding them to what was already sinking into the soft gray cement.
“We will build to the glory of the Lord!” they shouted.
Agnes pushed forward, enthralled. “I can’t get my lapis ring off,” she said as she jerked it.
“That’s because you’ve worn it since you were ten,” Roger said.
“But I must add something, too,” she answered. “Oh, Roger, let me have your ring.”
“What?” He resisted as she tugged at it.
“It’s for the good of your soul,” she insisted as she got it off. “Get her to give you another!”
Before he could stop her, she threw the ring over the heads of the bishops. It landed next to a heavy gold chain and was sucked down in its wake.
“Oh, Agnes!” Catherine said. “You should have let Roger decide what to donate.”
Agnes seemed slightly abashed.
“It was just some love token,” she muttered. “She couldn’t have meant much to him, anyway.”
“But Agnes …” Catherine started.
Roger interrupted. “Never mind. Agnes is quite right. It’s better where it is. My soul needs all the prayers it can get.”
Then they were all crushed as the populace was let into the church. Catherine tried to breathe normally but found the atmosphere of religious fervor, mixed with garlic and sweat, was too much for her. She lost hold of Roger’s arm at the doorway. He and Agnes were carried on in while she was thrust back and wedged between the crowd and the outer wall. Roger saw her and tried to push against the flood of people to reach her.
“Catherine!” he yelled as he was swept back into the church. “Get out! You’ll be trampled!”
Catherine nodded and tried to ease her way out of the herd of the faithful.
Then a cry went up. “Look! The king!”
The crowd pressed even more tightly.
“Majesty! Louis! Look this way! Queen Eleanor, see what I have, fine silk! I can work a bliaut for you, a cape, an embroidered headdress. Look! Look at me!” Others pushed through; beggars, cripples. “Touch my hand, Lord. Heal me, for Christ’s sake! Have pity, Lord, touch me!”
Catherine could see nothing. She turned her face to the rough stones, searching for air. She heard the screams as one of the lepers escaped from his keeper and ran at the king’s horse. And the sound of the whip as he was driven back.
Cries of fear, anger, ecstasy, pain. Catherine closed her eyes.
Her cheek against the cool stone, she recited her devotions to shut out the sounds. Somewhere inside, the Mass for Saint Denis was beginning.
The air was so thick. The brown and green and yellow cloaks around her were blending, folding, rippling. The voices rose and rose beyond hearing. How many Pater Nosters had she said? Inside they must be nearly to the Agnus Dei. Bells began to peal. Catherine shook her head. It wasn’t time for the bells. Flowers, such a lovely scent, the blossoms of Champagne. Catherine inhaled deeply. Rose, marjoram, gentian, marguerite … summer flowers.
She was being wafted to heaven on a cloud of petals. The sun shone softly and there was a rhythmic beating in her ears. It was all so gentle and calm. But there was something passing across the sun. Catherine squinted. Something black, growing, growing, coming fast and faster directly for her. Its wings opened and there was the face of Garnulf, desperate, staring, his forehead crushed. Bits of it were falling off, forming a pattern in the air, a mosaic of bone and skin. Despite her terror, Catherine tried to make it out. “Tell me!” she cried. It was too far away. She leaned over the edge of her cloud.
And was jerked back to Saint-Denis. Her throat rasped as she gulped fresh air. Her head ached. Someone was slapping her.
“How dare you!” Catherine sat up straight and hit her attacker, hard, on the jaw.
He reeled back, covering his face. Her vision cleared. She was lying on the ground in the orchard next to the hospice. Kneeling beside her was Edgar.
“What am I do
ing here?” she demanded. “What were you doing?”
He continued rubbing his jaw. “Trying to wake you. You fainted. I thought you’d be crushed. It’s happened before. Last year two people died.”
“Oh, yes.” She looked about groggily. “Why does my head hurt so? Did I hit it?”
“I don’t think so. It’s my theory that, if the air one breathes is too filled with the exhalations and emanations of others, it results in an imbalance of the humors, causing the brain to—”
“—fill with unhealthy fluid,” she finished. “In that case, I need an infusion of millet, fennel and mandragora, with perhaps some citron to relieve the pressure.”
“Not if you can think that clearly.” Edgar smiled slowly. “Garnulf said you had a good mind. He didn’t tell me how strong you were.”
Catherine blushed. “I beg your pardon. Did I hurt you?”
“No, you just woke me up. To my duty. I had no right to touch you at all.”
He started to move away. Catherine stopped him.
“I give you the right. That’s twice you’ve saved my life. Are you human?”
“What?” Suddenly, Edgar laughed. “Don’t I look it?”
His blond hair was still powdered with dust, his clothes torn, patched and torn again. There was a smudge across his nose. Catherine smiled.
“‘Non Angli, sed Angeli,’” she quoted.
“Where did you learn that?” He helped her to her feet. “Yes, I’m English, but hardly angelic. I was watching for you today and … last night … .”
“I don’t want to remember that just now,” she said.
“As you wish.”
“No.” Catherine shook herself. “That’s cowardly. I must … oh, no!”
Edgar jumped and looked around. “What?”
“Leaves on the back of my skirt. Quick. Help me brush them off. Is my wimple straight? I can’t have people thinking we were here together.”
“Of course not. You don’t want anyone to think you would be friendly with a mere workman.”
Death Comes As Epiphany: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 6