“You are too kind to me, my lady,” Margaret pleaded.
“Of course not!” Countess Mahaut smiled at her fondly. “You’re a dear child who deserves a secure future. And, of course, this will help cement the alliance between Champagne and Carinthia for another generation. Consider how pleased your grandfather is.”
“Of course.” Margaret bent her head humbly and fought back tears. “But don’t you think I should wait until my brother returns from Spain?”
“Oh, no,” Mahaut replied. “That could be months! You want to be settled in before the winter.”
The winter! Margaret’s heart froze at the thought. Oh, why wasn’t she strong enough to let the countess know how she felt?
“Now, my dear,” Mahaut continued, “I am going to Mass at Saint-Symphorian. Would you care to come with me? After that I shall introduce you to some of our friends.”
“Thank you; I would be honored,” Margaret answered faintly.
She trailed after the countess and her court, feeling totally furious with herself. Catherine would be so ashamed of her!
‘Avail Yes, you two jaels,“ the man at the church shouted. ”Get away. This’s our spot. You want to beg, go somewhere else.“
The man’s legs were withered and his back twisted. His friend, a boy of about fifteen with a vacant smile, pulled him from one spot to another in a small plank, fitted with crude wooden wheels. Catherine’s first impulse was to leave a coin. The second was to slap the man for referring to her as a whore.
Gwenael did neither. She sat on the step next to him and took his land.
“Good friend,” she said gently. “We are not women of the streets but wives of men taken for the king’s army. We were left with no way to earn our food but dishonor, and my friend is in no state even to do that. Please let us stay near you, for we are alone and frightened in this city. We are ere only because our need is desperate.”
“No more than anyone else’s,” the man grunted. “And what are you doing so far from Brittany, woman? Can’t you find alms in the city of Nantes?”
“We’ve come here to throw ourselves on the mercy of the bishop,” Gwenael improvised. “He wouldn’t see us at home, but how could he refuse to help us with all his fellow clerics watching?”
Catherine gave a moan that was not entirely faked. Her legs were aching again. She sat on the other side of the man.
“Please?” she asked.
For the first time in her life, she looked straight into the eyes of a beggar.
He blinked first. Perhaps it was the contrast of her deep blue eyes in her thin, pale face and the black hair against her cheeks. Catherine had early learned that her eyes were more eloquent than she was.
“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 bishops 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.”
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