The Devil's Door (27 page)

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Authors: Sharan Newman

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General

BOOK: The Devil's Door
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The keep at Quincy, Saturday,
Feast of Saint Monica, widow and mother, May 4, 1140
Steadfast is she who resembles a flower in the wind: if she sways, she does not fade away; if she is confounded, still she does not fall.
—Peter of Celle,
On Conscience
C
atherine stared listlessly at the ceiling. A diet of water and verbal abuse for nearly a week had brought her to unwonted lassitude. She was beginning to wonder if there were a world outside the room she lay in. She was on the verge of believing it didn’t matter, because she would never see it again, in any case. Her fingers found the ivory cross Edgar had given her. She held it tightly and pressed it to her cheek.
“‘Ego dormivi et soporatus sum; et exsurrexi, quia Dominus suscepit me, non timebo
… ,’” she recited softly. “‘I lay down and slept and woke again, for the Lord sustains me, I will not fear …’”
Catherine smiled to herself. It was strange, but the most useful thing she had learned in her years at the Paraclete wasn’t to question and analyze, although she was grateful for the training. It was the hours and hours of reciting the psalms, so that now, when she needed comfort more than logic, they came to her as gifts.
She knew what Constanza planned now. It horrified her that the other women all either agreed with her or were too afraid of her to rebel. They spoke in front of Catherine now, believing she was past listening. Her body would be found in the forest, starved, and they would weep and do penance for their lack of care of her. Or possibly she would never be found at all and Edgar would have to wait years before he could marry again. Poor Edgar! They might have had such interesting children.
Catherine!
her voices were shouting at her.
For shame! Did we raise you to surrender? Think of all the saints who fasted years and remained steadfast. Where’s your resolve? Where’s your faith? Where’s your blasted stubborn perversity?
“Go away,” she murmured, waving at them as at flies.
As she did, a small spark lit in her mind. The ropes, not untied since Samonie had given her fresh clothing, were looser than before. Even though she hadn’t been able to undo the knots, the cords themselves had stretched. Perhaps, in the night, if they let her live another night, she could slip out of them and creep past the guards.
Very good, my dear,
the voices cheered.
It’s one thing to die, and we all must, someday. But one should do it in God’s time, not Lady Constanza’s.
So Catherine took a little hope. She tried not to think of the difficulty of getting past the women guarding her and a keep full of people. She ignored the fact that she was now too weak to raise her head without dizziness. She would make the attempt to escape and at least die trying, rather than passively submitting to their plans.
She tucked the cross back into her
chainse
. The cool ivory warmed to the touch of her skin. She still lived and so she decided to hope.
Héloïse was more than disturbed at the message from Constanza. She was outraged.
“That woman must think my intelligence as weak as her own,” she fumed. “Ran off into the woods, indeed! With a houseful of people to stop her! If she ran anywhere, it would be to us.”
Walter reached for his crossbow, then remembered he had left it in the portress’s lodge. He looked incomplete without it.
“I will ride for Anseau of Trainel,” he offered. “Between us, we can get enough men together to take the keep or certainly frighten them into giving her up.”
Héloïse looked at him sadly.
“That is not acceptable, not yet, anyway,” she said. “There has been too much violence done already, to Alys and to Paciana, and, of course, poor Brother Baldwin. I won’t risk Catherine, also. There must be a way to get her back without more bloodshed.”
“God forgive me,” Edgar said. “I had forgotten Paciana. Does she still live?”
“Yes,
Deo gratia,”
Héloïse said. “Sister Melisande believes she’ll recover fully.”
“Has she named those who attacked her?”
Héloïse shook her head. “No, she refuses to, but I am sure she knows who they were. Perhaps, for Catherine’s sake, she might.”
“If she wouldn’t for her own sister, why for Catherine?” Walter asked. “Paciana cares more for her damned silence than the lives of those she loves.”
“Walter,” Héloïse said gently. “It’s not your place to judge her.”
Edgar was losing patience.
“That doesn’t matter now,” he said. “We have to find Catherine before they kill her.”
If they haven’t already,
everyone added silently. But no one dared say it aloud.
“My lady abbess,” Edgar said. “May I have the loan of one of your mules? Or, better, a horse in its declining years? Something humble, befitting a poor trader with few wares.”
“Most of our animals are in that condition,” Héloïse told him. “You may take your choice.”
“They won’t allow a peddler as far as the women’s rooms,” Walter said. “And, if you try to sneak up there, they’re sure to slit your throat, if not worse.”
“I know that,” Edgar said. “I only want to get an idea of where everything is, how secure the watch, and how many people are there. I’ll go at first light tomorrow, then come back and report.
“And if I am discovered,” he added, “the rest doesn’t matter. If Catherine is … dead, then I might as well be, too.”
He closed his eyes. In France they might leap into tears for any reason, but his father thought this showed weakness. “Only weep before God, son,” he had told Edgar. “Never in front of mere men.” Edgar swallowed hard and then exhaled. He rose and put on his cloak.
“Where are you going?” Walter asked.
“To the woodpile,” he said. “I need a few blocks of pine or other soft wood. May I take what I need?”
“You may have every piece of it, if it will help to find Catherine,” Héloïse said.
Curious, Walter followed Edgar out.
“Not enough to construct a siege engine,” he said. “Do you intend to burn down the keep?”
Edgar was busy examining the logs, peeling away the bark with his knife, testing them for insects. The wood had to be dry, but not decaying. The work would be crude, he knew, but, if he could keep at it all night, he would have two or three pieces of sufficient quality.
At last he found two pieces that satisfied him. He took them over to the guesthouse and, planting himself on the stool outside the door, started carving.
Walter watched in amusement.
“I’ve seen you doing that before,” he said. “All that whittling, does it help you think better?”
“No,” Edgar answered, his eyes on the wood. “Well, yes, it does. But that’s not why I’m doing it. If I’m going to be a peddler, I need something to peddle.”
Walter crouched to get a better look.
“I don’t think a few bits of scraped pine will get you admitted to the keep,” he began.
Then his jaw dropped in amazement. The block in Edgar’s hands was transforming under the action of his knife. Shapes were appearing in the grain, a leaf, a snake, the head of a swan. Quickly, he crossed himself.
“Love does work miracles,” he breathed. “You shouldn’t be able to do that.”
Edgar scowled. “I know it; I’ve been told so often enough. It’s not fit work for a descendent of the kings of England. But I can’t see a bit of wood or bone or a block of stone without wanting to release the beauty hidden inside. And I feel the same way about a well-crafted machine, like that iron mill. Are you going to laugh at me now, refuse to be seen with me?”
Walter shook his head, looking at Edgar’s fingers move so swiftly and carefully over the pine. He held up his own huge hands, wrists and arms distorted with muscles developed during a lifetime of training in battle. He could no more carve a design than he could hold a pen.
“You are a strange man,” he conceded. “And this is craftsman’s work, not fit for a lord. But it is marvelous, indeed, to watch you. I’m not inclined to laugh.”
“Thank you,” Edgar said. “Now would you mind moving out of the light? I have much to do.”
The horse they found him was perfect, swaybacked and spavined. It had been donated to the convent by a knight who had overloaded it with armor and other gear for too many years. The poor thing was so patient and pathetic that Prioress Astane hadn’t had the heart to refuse the gift, although the animal ate far more than it could produce by its labor.
“Will he take my weight?” Edgar asked.
“Assuredly,” Walter said. “But you might get there faster if you led him.”
“Right.” Edgar tied the pack onto its back. It was light enough not to burden the horse unduly; a change of clothes, a warm cloak with a few holes, borrowed from one of the brothers, his cup, bowl and spoon and knife and the trinkets he had made. He had tried a cross like the one he had given Catherine, but that took too long, so he decided to settle for hair combs and a couple of long stirring spoons. They wouldn’t get him past the kitchen, maybe not even past the courtyard, but that should be enough.
“If you don’t return by this evening,” Héloïse warned him, “I shall go myself to Quincy and search every corner, whatever protestations Rupert and Constanza make. We must have both you and Catherine back.”
“Don’t worry,” Edgar told her. “I will find her.”
Despite his fears, as he set off Edgar couldn’t help feeling a bit like one of those knights in disguise that the travelling minstrels told about. Off to rescue the princess locked in the tower. The feeling lasted until the first bend in the road. After all, the knights always had a magic talisman, a sword or shield or a horn to summon help. They could slash their way up staircases and leap from tower windows, the lady in their arms.
He would have been happy to do all those things for Catherine, but he was too logical not to realize that such adventures belonged only in winter tales. In real life, the knight rarely got his lady and the rescuer was skewered before he reached the tower.
So he and the horse plodded the three miles to Quincy, nervously fording the river Ardusson, now high with spring rains, arriving an hour later at the keep of Rupert and Constanza.
There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary there. A few people lounged in the courtyard, others came and went about their duties. Edgar saw no sign of a frantic search for a delirious woman, or of any alarm at the idea of possibly infectious illness about.
“I’m not too late,” he told himself. “She’s in there. She’s alive. She must be.”
There was a maid crossing the courtyard with a basket of
maslin,
mixed wheat and rye for feeding the geese. Edgar approached her.
“
Diex te saut
,” he greeted her. “Would there be any in this place needing a lovely new comb, or a fine spoon, the handle smooth and polished?”
The woman stopped. Edgar held up one of the combs. She took it from him with her free hand and turned it over.
“It’s good workmanship,” she said. “And the pattern one I’ve never seen. Wait here until I’ve given the geese their meal and I’ll have a look. That is, if your price is not too dear.”
“Half a penny of Provins,” Edgar said, then seeing her hesitate, “or a hot meal and some oats for my horse.”
The maid regarded the horse and laughed.
“He’s not worth feeding oats to,” she said. “But we can argue it later.”
She looked over his shoulder. Edgar turned. There were some other women, taking baskets of linen down to the river.
“You might show them your wares,” she suggested. “When they’ve finished spreading out the clothes.”
Edgar followed the women down to the bank, where they rinsed the soapy clothes in the river and then spread them out on the grass to dry. He waited, watching idly until he noticed a pair of short grey
braies
being shaken out. Next to them was laid a
chainse
in light wool, a large brown stain not wholly removed, and finally a
bliaut
of convent grey. Stumbling, he walked toward them.
“I’m too late,” he whispered. “They’ve killed her.”
There was a tap on his shoulder. He swung around, ready to strike whoever it was with all his might.
A woman stared up at him, pretty, blonde, with dimples and sad eyes.
“What do you want here?” she asked.
Numbly Edgar handed her a comb. The woman examined it.
“A beautiful design,” she said. “And unusual. I’ve only seen it once before. A guest of the lady here wears a cross with leaves and birds twined on it just like this. How much?”
“What?” Edgar said. He felt his body jerked from despair to hope so quickly that his thoughts couldn’t maintain the transition.
“How much for the comb with the design like the one my lady’s guest is wearing now,” the woman spoke very slowly. “Keep your face still, and for heaven’s sake don’t hug me. You’re her husband, aren’t you? My sister told me he was the palest man she had ever seen.”

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