It seemed forever before Agnes and the maids came up to bed. Agnes brought Catherine some spiced ale, which finally sent her off to sleep.
Early the next morning, there was shouting from the kitchen.
“Blanche,” Agnes mumbled to one of the women, “go see what all that’s about.”
Blanche muttered under her breath as she put on her slippers and wrapped herself in a fur blanket. She was gone a long time. When she returned, it was with an air of importance and fear.
“It’s little Adulf,” she told them all.
Catherine felt her stomach constrict.
“Don’t say it,” she pleaded silently.
But Blanche went on.
“They found him in his bed, dead as a trout,” she said. “His face was all blue and there were claw marks on his throat. Cook says the devil came for him.”
She paused.
“There’s others say he was poisoned.”
Catherine saw the happy child devouring her soup. She closed her eyes, but he was still there, looking at her with gratitude and trust. She began to cry.
Madness had left the cold world and come into her warm home.
Sixteen
The castle, 4th Sunday of Advent, Christmas Eve, 1139
It is most fitting to the mysterious passages of scripture that the sacred and hidden truth about the celestial intelligences be concealed … . Not everyone is sacred and, as scripture says, knowledge is not for everyone.
—Saint Denis the Areopagite
Catherine would not speak of Adulf. She wouldn’t help with the lamentations or the prayers. She sat in the window with a box of beads in her lap and counted them, over and over. The number never varied. The child was still dead.
“You must eat something,” Marie urged, holding the bowl under her nose.
The smell made Catherine retch. She pushed it away.
“Twenty-seven, twenty-eight,” she counted. “I’m not hungry.”
“Catte, precious,” Roger said. “You must stop this. Children die every day. You can’t take on so.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Catherine answered. “Thirty-four, thirty-five.”
Her intense stillness frightened Hubert. He caught her by the shoulders.
“Catherine!” he yelled, shaking her. “Come back! Come back here now!”
Catherine looked down. “You’ve spilled my beads,” she said. “Now I’ll have to start again.”
She began picking them up. “One, two, three …”
Finally, they let her alone.
Hubert left her to the women and went to talk with Roger, who was working in the stables.
“None of the boys here has any idea how a horse should be taken care of,” Roger moaned. “This animal hasn’t been brushed in days.”
“Tell Guillaume; he’ll attend to it,” Hubert said. “Did you have any trouble with the cart?”
“No, I took it to the usual place,” Roger answered.
“We should have left it where you found it,” Hubert fumed. “Certainly not taken the risk of bringing it here. What if we have the wrong man? Aleran might have been working with someone else from Saint-Denis. There’s no proof that the stone carver stole the things and hid them there.”
“Who else?” Roger said. “He had the opportunity to get to the offerings and we know he had business with the hermit. They had some sort of falling out; he killed the hermit and made off with the jewels. It’s obvious.”
“Catherine still thinks he’s innocent,” Hubert said.
“Catherine has a soft heart,” Roger answered. “Look at how she’s been affected by the loss of a little boy.”
“Agnes says she was particularly fond of Adulf.”
“Catherine weeps when we slaughter the pigs each fall,” Roger said. “She wants to believe everyone innocent.”
Sadly, Hubert nodded. “I wish it could be true.”
Roger laughed. “Not in this world, brother.”
As they entered the keep, Marie rushed up to them.
“Have you seen Catherine? She’s not in her room.”
“Did you look in the chapel?” Hubert asked.
“Madeleine has been there all morning. She says we needn’t look for Catherine. She has ascended to heaven.”
Hubert sighed. “Did she actually witness the assumption?”
“Of course not. I’m sorry.” Marie wiped her face with her kerchief. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. No, Catherine wasn’t in the chapel, or the hall or the latrine. She hasn’t risen from the watchtower, either. The guard would have noticed, I think.”
“How could you have left her alone in her state?” Roger shouted.
“I have other work to do, you know,” Marie answered. “She was in the most inaccessible room in the keep. She should have been safe there.”
“No one has seen her?” Hubert asked.
“Agnes says she was still counting when the women went down to eat this morning,” Marie said. “An hour ago, I sent Blanche up to see if she needed anything and she was gone. We’ve been looking ever since. She’s not in the keep.”
“She must be,” Hubert said.
Marie shook her head. “She must have gotten out, but how and why, I can’t imagine.”
“Catherine wouldn’t just wander away, with no reason,” Hubert said.
“‘With no reason,’” Marie repeated. “She might have. The child’s death, on top of her own sufferings, has clearly unhinged her mind. Oh, I should have left a guard on her!”
“Nonsense!” Hubert insisted. “Catherine is not unstable.”
“Hubert, Marie is making sense,” Roger said. “You saw Catherine this morning. She’s wandered off, not in her right mind. Lord knows she’s had a number of shocks lately.”
“I won’t believe it,” Hubert said.
“Why not?” Roger asked. “It’s in the family. Look at my sister! Madeleine’s been mad for years. We all know it. And we both know what drove her there,” he added softly. “Recent happenings could have affected Catherine in the same way.”
Hubert squeezed his eyes shut. The past could not be repaired. He wouldn’t think about what he couldn’t change.
“There’s no point in arguing,” he said. “Whatever her condition, Catherine must be found. Roger, go to Saint-Denis and see if she’s there. Marie, ask Guillaume to send a man into the village and find out if anyone’s seen her there.”
“And you?” Roger asked.
“I have to go to Paris, anyway. It’s possible she’s trying to get home.”
“What about the Paraclete?” Marie suggested.
“But that’s so far!” Roger said. “And why would she want to go back to the nuns?”
“Perhaps because she’d had enough of the world,” Marie said.
“Yes, you’re right,” Hubert agreed. “Send a message there telling them to watch for her. And Marie, get us some food to eat on the way. I can’t wait through another meal not knowing where she is.”
It had been absurdly easy. She had waited until everyone was occupied with their tasks, then dressed herself in the warmest things she could find, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders to cover the clothing and slipped down to the latrine next to the lower kitchen. She had stayed there until she heard the scullery workers go out, then made her way to the hall wearing an old hooded cloak left for the maids to use and, carrying a basket of scraps, walked out the front gate and down to the midden. Once there, she emptied the basket and continued down the road with it, through the village and away. No one noticed her at all.
She had left the beads in the castle and was counting steps now, each one taking her farther from everyone she had loved and trusted, from those she could trust no more. But Catherine was not out of her mind. She was using it more quickly than she had ever needed to before.
“I must get to Paris. I must find Abelard and tell him everything. But first, I must find the psalter. That was my job and I failed. Nothing will come right until I return to my proper
duty.”
She had formulated her plan during those long hours when she had watched the colored beads pass through her fingers, each one signifying a tear she couldn’t shed for little Adulf. Her body had ceased to function so that all her energy could be directed to her mind.
The road was icy, the ruts filled with slush and the jagged Roman stones hard to see in the mud. Catherine slipped more than once. There were few people out on this Sunday. All were indoors either for the good of their souls or the comfort of their bodies. She could make the two miles to Saint-Denis in less than an hour, perhaps before her disappearance from the castle had even been discovered.
What you’re planning to do is immoral, Catherine. Her voices broke into the order of her thoughts. It’s unnatural and revolting.
Catherine wondered how Sister Bertrada’s voice had become part of her conscience.
It is necessary, she countered. Saint Thecla did the same thing when she ran away.
Times were different then, the voices said. And you will never be a saint.
Catherine was so busy arguing with herself that she failed to hear the horseman until he was nearly upon her. She pulled her hood down over her face and hoped it wasn’t someone from Vielleteneuse already out in search of her. As he came even with her, she shrank away. To her surprise, the rider also moved away, guiding the horse in a wide arc around her. As he passed, he drew his knife and pointed it at her.
“Don’t come near me, you filth!” he cried. “I’ll kill you if you take one step closer.”
He then urged the horse faster down the road. Catherine lifted the hood and stared at his retreating back.
“What in the world?” she said. “By Saint Martha’s distaff, what was that about?”
She started on again, trudging through the mire, still puzzled. Absently, she scratched at the bandages. They were stained now, with grime from her falls and blood where one of the cuts had reopened. Her skirts were also covered with mud and the cloak had several tears. Catherine stopped and looked at the ragged bandages. She tried to imagine how she had appeared to the rider.
It came to her in a horrifying flash.
“Sweet baby Jesus, he thought I was a leper!”
Her first reaction was to laugh. It was such a contrast to the reverence she’d been receiving the past few days.
But then she realized it could ruin her plan.
They’ll never let me pass the gates in this condition, she thought. But where can I go to clean up?
A little later, she came to the place where the path forked. To the left was the steep trail to Aleran’s hut, to the right, the road to Saint-Denis. She looked at the trail and shivered, then grit her teeth and started to climb.
There’s water there, and shelter, she reasoned. I can’t risk anyone seeing me now. it’s the only place I can go.
Still, it took every bit of determination she had to enter that dark hut once more. It was only marginally warmer inside, but the water pail was still there. Catherine unwound the bandages and dipped them in the icy water. She wished she could start a fire, but she had no flint, nor could she risk someone seeing the smoke. She rinsed the cloths until they were a uniform gray and then wrapped her hands up again as best she could. She turned the cloak inside out to cover the mud. There. It wasn’t elegant, but at least she didn’t appear quite so contagious.
Her hands were numb now. If only she had thought to bring gloves. She sat in the hut, not wanting to get up again. Perhaps if she just rested here a while, she could still reach Saint-Denis in time. She put her head down on the now-crumbling bracken bed.
You idiot! You’ll freeze to death!
Catherine opened her eyes. The voices were right, of course. Anyway, the bed was uncomfortable, full of sharp bits and hard edges. Her head had landed on one. She brushed aside the bracken and there was another of those boxes. This one was rough wood with a leather hinge.
Part of her didn’t want to touch it. Part had to know what was inside.
Curiosity won. Catherine stood up and opened the box slowly, ready to drop it and run if anything unearthly leapt out.
There was a rustle as the lid came up. Catherine flinched and drew back, but nothing sprang at her. Finally, she peered in.
The box contained several irregular pieces of vellum, the sort left over when pages are cut. All were written on. Catherine took one out.
Lucifero dyobolo mihi pollicenti hac in vita ego————animam meam in vita futura dyobolo die mortis mee dare ut in eternam habeat polliceor.
Catherine stared in disbelief. It was a blank contract, just like the correspondence manuals which provided the correct wording for any sort of letter, only leaving out the variable information. Or the blank forms her father had her make for recording business transactions.
She wished she hadn’t thought of that.
But how could anyone believe that one could make a contract for a soul? It went against all the teaching of the church. Even the wickedest sinner could sincerely repent at the hour of his death and no piece of paper could prevent it.
Yet Marie believed. How many others had there been?
Catherine went through the rest of the pages. They were all unsigned. Aleran certainly had been efficient, with the contracts all drawn up ready for customers. But where were the completed documents? Catherine put down the box and searched the bracken, but there was nothing else hidden there. The rest of the hut had been thoroughly ransacked. She was surprised that this had been missed.
She put the box back where she found it, keeping one of the forms. She looked at it again. There was something familiar about the handwriting. She had seen it before, recently. The scribe had a unique twist to his g’s. She folded it up and slipped it into her belt at the back.
She tried to get back to the main road without ruining her cleaned hands. It took longer than she intended but she finally arrived at the village of Saint-Denis, clustered in the shelter of the abbey.
The bells were tolling when she entered. The abbey church was open for the people of the town to attend Christmas Eve Mass. She went in with them and then slipped away and hid by the hospice until the monks had passed. She was relieved to see both Abbot Suger and the precentor, Leitbert, among them. She waited until the Introit was over and then headed for the dormitory.
As she had hoped, in the entryway were some extra cloaks for the monks. She took off the one she had taken from the castle and put on the thickest monastic robe she could find.
It’s stealing from the church, Catherine.
“Not now,” she muttered. “Anyway, I’ll pay for it.”
Dressed as much like a monk as she could manage, she tucked her hands inside the sleeves and walked sedately to the abbot’s quarters.
The rooms were still. Everyone should be at Mass on this holy day, which was also a Sunday. Catherine heard every creak in the building as she climbed the stairs to the library. If only the psalter were there this time! Since Edgar hadn’t taken it, it was possible that the one who was mutilating it had returned it to the hiding place.
She stood on the bench by the window and felt for it. Her hand came back covered with dust. No book.
Don’t stop now, girl. Think!
The person who had rewritten the psalter had to be someone with free access to the library. That had to be a monk or, perhaps, one of the builders. At any rate, he would have to keep it somewhere close. He wouldn’t have taken it outside the abbey unless he had already sent it to William or Bernard of Clairvaux as evidence.
She refused to give up.
She pulled the bench over to the next window and checked the upper sill there. More dust, cobwebs, and a book, her book. She took it down and kissed it, she was so relieved. There were more loose papers in it now. She didn’t have time to look at them. She tied the psalter into her sleeve, wrapped the cloak tightly, bent her head to hide her face and left.
She was almost to the bottom of the stairs when the door opened. She stood frozen; there was nowhere to
hide. Brother Leitbert entered. He started upon seeing her.
“Who … who are you?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”
Catherine bent her head further and shook it.
“I don’t care about vows of silence,” Leitbert said, reaching for her. “Tell me why you’re here or I’ll call the watch.”
Catherine went up a step to avoid his grasp. She kept her hands crossed inside the cloak to conceal them, but that made it difficult to keep her balance. She tried moving first one way, then the other. Leitbert matched her.
“Tell your master to give up.” He grinned. “The other one didn’t get it and neither will you. It’s all over. Ask him how he likes playing the fool! You can all say what you like; no one will believe you. Satan will have his own!”
He snatched at the cloak. With a scream, she yanked it away, and shoved him with her elbow. Her arm, heavy with the weight of the psalter, sent him flailing backwards and onto the floor.
Catherine dashed past him. As she did, he caught at the bottom of her skirts and grabbed hold of the dangling end of her belt cord. He tried to pull himself up with it and the cord broke, leaving him sprawling as Catherine ran on, gathering her skirts with one hand to keep from tripping on them.
She ran as if chased by the hounds of hell, round the side of the church, down the lane and out the south gate, the psalter thumping against her side. She went on running until she realized that no one was behind her.
She sat on a fallen log and tried to gather her wits. Had the precentor recognized her? Why had he returned in the middle of the service? Another five minutes and she would have gotten away with no one knowing. And it was just bad luck that he had managed to catch at her belt. Now her skirts hung out the bottom of the cloak. Unless she could hitch them up, she would be instantly known as female, or a very unclerical monk. Either way, it would attract attention. She needed a piece of rope or something.
She got up and searched the brush by the side of the road. Even a strong vine would do. The paper in the psalter crinkled as she moved. Paper, what did that … ?
Death Comes As Epiphany: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 20