The Devil's Door (37 page)
As they turned to go, she noticed Count Thibault, who was watching the crowd, not the relic. Countess Mahaut had placed one hand on his shoulder and Catherine was sure that it was only her influence that kept the count from bursting into laughter.
“He knew,” she said. “Even before he came here, Edgar. He knew what the relic was!”
“Shh!” Edgar warned. “Not here.”
Catherine held her peace until they were out of sight of the cathedral, in a narrow lane in the Juiverie.
“How could they do such a thing!” she gasped. “It was Deacon Peter who arranged the sale, wasn’t it? Relics ought not to be bought. It isn’t proper. No saint would allow such a thing. I wonder what the archbishop paid.”
“Twenty marks of silver, perhaps,” Edgar said.
Catherine suddenly felt wobbly. She sank down onto a mounting stone in front of an inn.
“We can’t let people venerate the head of a minor knight of Troyes who loved gossip and good food,” she said. “I thought Count Thibault was supposed to have reformed.”
Edgar patted her head. “Well, it does have its humorous aspects,” he said.
Catherine glared up at him.
“Don’t worry,” he told her. “Countess Mahaut was looking at her husband just as you are at me. My guess is that in a few days, Thibault will tell Henry privately how he’s been duped and, at the next display of relics, the head of Saint Marcellinus will not appear.”
Catherine sighed. “Well, I suppose it’s for the best. This must be the crime that Count Thibault knew he could lay on Rupert, and it’s wrong, I know, but I really will sleep better knowing where that head is.”
Edgar did laugh then and, after a second, Catherine joined him.
Astrolabe was waiting for them at the inn. He had saved the end of a table.
“Did you enjoy the display of relics?” he asked innocently.
Catherine made a sudden noise at the back of her throat. Astrolabe looked at her in concern.
“Swallowed the wrong way,” she explained. “We didn’t stay long. The heat was too much. Were there any cures?”
“Not that I saw,” Astrolabe said. “But there were a number of donations to the new cathedral. I dropped in a coin, myself, after being trapped against the wall for an hour, unable to move.”
“Was your father there?” Edgar asked.
“He thought he should go and help carry the relics, to show his orthodoxy,” Astrolabe said. “He has the right. But we convinced him it would be better if he rested. His illness is getting worse.”
“Astrolabe,”—Catherine put her hand over his—“would you rather be with him now?”
“We discussed this last night,” he smiled. “Father hates the way I fuss over him. He’d rather be with people who think he’s invincible. Tonight, that’s probably the best thing. He doesn’t need my doubts.”
“Do you think he’ll be well enough to face the abbot tomorrow morning?” Catherine asked.
Astrolabe shrugged. “He’ll do it in any case. He feels himself as much a martyr as any Christian in the time of Diocletian. He’s been called to preach the truth and he is prepared to face death to do it.”
He took a bite of his dinner.
“Do you think this is the same stew they served last night?” he asked with deep suspicion.
“Astrolabe! I’m so glad I found you!”
The water pitcher rocked as the new arrival fell against the table, panting. He seemed familiar to Catherine. Oh, yes, Berengar, the young disciple of Abelard’s from Poitiers. He didn’t waste time on greetings.
“They’re holding a secret meeting tonight, at this very moment!” he announced.
“Who is?”
Catherine had visions of Rupert and Deacon Peter plotting with faceless minions to take revenge on her.
“The bishops, of course,” Berengar said. “That flatulent abbot is trying to make them swear to decide in his favor tomorrow.”
“Berengar! That’s no way to speak of him,” Astrolabe cautioned. “Especially in public. Now, how do you know this?”
“They’re all together, at the archbishop’s palace, having a feast,” Berengar sniffed. “Henry’s wine cellar will be empty by midnight with that group.”
“Of course they’re dining together,” Astrolabe said. “They rarely meet and have many matters to discuss. I’m sure they enjoy the chance to exchange views over a meal.”
Berengar poured himself a cup of their wine.
“How can you be so trusting?” he said. “Bernard has admitted he is untrained in dialectical argument. He’s told people that he fears Master Abelard will simply overpower him with intricate wordplay and that the simple people listening will then doubt the faith. Hmph! What he means is that he’s so simple, he can’t follow a syllogism. He’s going to browbeat the bishops with fears of heresy and revolt until they agree to do whatever he says.”
Catherine thought Berengar was overinflating the danger. She couldn’t imagine anyone intimidating Geoffrey of Chartres, who was not only bishop, but also the papal legate. And the other bishops were men of good conscience, even those who were decidedly loyal to the Cistercian abbot, like Hugh of Auxerre, who had been one of the original monks to come with Bernard to Citeaux. She ran through the careers of the other men in her mind.
On the other hand, perhaps it wasn’t so foolish.
Astrolabe seemed to agree. He got up from the table, taking his spoon and mug.
“Perhaps I will go back and worry,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Catherine and Edgar finished the stew. It did taste the same as the previous night. The cook had simply added more water and herbs. Catherine’s stomach felt strange by the time they left.
“Edgar,” she said. “Do you think I’m
malastrue?
”
malastrue?
”
“What caused that thought?” he asked. “Of course not. If I thought you were cursed, I wouldn’t be walking next to you.”
“It’s only that while I was at the Paraclete, intending to stay, nothing bad ever happened,” she fretted. “Now we just seem to fall from one catastrophe to another.”
“Catherine, if you start reasoning like that, you’ll end up like your mother,” Edgar said sternly. “The world is full of disaster. We don’t cause it. Anyway, did you ever consider that God sent us here so that we could put some things right?”
Catherine was quiet for a moment.
“No, I never did,” she admitted. “Do you think that’s why we always seem to be in the middle of chaos?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “But I think that, as long as we are, that’s what we should try to do.”
The High Mass the next morning was the longest Catherine had ever attended. She could barely endure having to stand through the ritual. Her lower back ached intolerably and her legs throbbed as if she’d been running for days.
I must still be recovering from the ordeal at Quincy,
she thought.
Or preparing for a terrible purgation.
she thought.
Or preparing for a terrible purgation.
But finally the archbishop turned from the altar to bestow the kiss of peace upon his deacon, who then gave it to the subdeacon and he to his subordinate. Henry faced the crowd, then the king, and gave the final blessing. The last gospel was read.
“Ite,”
Henry intoned,
“missa est.”
Henry intoned,
“missa est.”
But no one left. It seemed as if everyone in the cathedral held their breath at the same time. Even the candles were still.
Then there was a slight motion from among the white-robed monks standing near the altar screen. A man stepped out from the group.
Catherine had thought he would be taller, at least as tall as Master Abelard. And younger; he looked much older than his fifty years. His was reed-thin, his tonsured circle grey as his robe. Slowly Abbot Bernard mounted the pulpit.
A black-robed figure stepped from the group on the other side of the room. The circle of his tonsure was not as great and there were still dark streaks in his grey hair. Héloïse had seen the sudden aging, but from where she stood Catherine could only make out the aquiline nose, the straight back. As he stepped to the front, he paused to whisper something to Master Gilbert, who started guiltily. Then, standing before the assembly, outwardly calm, Abelard waited for Bernard to make the first sortie.
The abbot held up a sheaf of papers, stepping back to focus at arm’s length. He cleared his throat and began.
“
Caput primum: Impia Abelardi de sancta Trinitate dogmata recen
-
set, et explodit,
…”
Caput primum: Impia Abelardi de sancta Trinitate dogmata recen
-
set, et explodit,
…”
Abelard opened his mouth to refute the charge that he misunderstood the nature of the Trinity, but Bernard hadn’t finished.
“
Caput secundum: In Trinitate non esse admittendam ullam dis-paritatem, sed ominimodum aequalitatem
.”
Caput secundum: In Trinitate non esse admittendam ullam dis-paritatem, sed ominimodum aequalitatem
.”
Catherine wanted to shout at him,
Wait, allow Abelard to explain. You don’t understand! That’s not what he said. You’re only giving half-lines, unfinished arguments.
But the abbot didn’t wait.
Wait, allow Abelard to explain. You don’t understand! That’s not what he said. You’re only giving half-lines, unfinished arguments.
But the abbot didn’t wait.
“
Absurdum dogma Abelardi
…
dicit Abelardus … . Arguit Abelardum
.” His mellow voice went on and on. Most of the people in the church had no idea what accusations were being made. A man not far from Catherine was leaning against the wall snoring.
Absurdum dogma Abelardi
…
dicit Abelardus … . Arguit Abelardum
.” His mellow voice went on and on. Most of the people in the church had no idea what accusations were being made. A man not far from Catherine was leaning against the wall snoring.
But Abelard understood every word. Even more, he understood that, once again, he had been judged and condemned without recourse, without being given the opportunity to defend his beliefs or his methods. The decision had already been made. He would get no impartial hearing today.
He strode toward the pulpit. The abbot looked up. Everyone tensed in anticipation.
Abelard stopped in midstride. He put his hand to his chest as if fending off a blow. He looked down, breathing quickly, then shook his head as if to clear it. At last he straightened and stood proudly before the pulpit like the aristocrat he had been born.
“I will not answer these preordained indictments. You are not qualified to judge me in this manner. I will take my case to the pope himself!”
With that he turned on his heel and marched out through the west transept, his startled acolytes at his heels.
The shock within the cathedral lasted a full minute. Then, as if nothing had happened, Abbot Bernard continued reading the charges and asked the bishops to decide if Abelard should be condemned for the stated beliefs.
One by one, the bishops nodded, yes.
Catherine and Edgar couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Would no one speak for Abelard? And what difference would the condemnation make if the case were appealed to Rome?
At the first possible moment, King Louis rose, looking bewildered, and, giving his arm to Queen Eleanor, left the cathedral, followed by the people of the court. Thibault and Mahaut went with them, looking equally nonplussed. The bishops finally stood and left through the door to the chapter house.
Catherine and Edgar found themselves outside in the hot afternoon sun, wondering what had just happened. They were not alone. The general opinion was that it had been a poor show. But people seemed to be divided as to its significance.
“Is he a heretic or not?” one woman asked. “I brought eggs to hurl at him if he was.”
“Why didn’t Bernard let him speak?” someone else whined.
“Why didn’t they talk French, like normal people?” another voice complained. “I could tell if it was heresy if they’d just use words I knew.”
For most people the matter was best settled sitting down with a mug in one’s hand. Slowly, the crowd drifted away, to the open spaces where there were freshly tapped kegs and travelling minstrels. Edgar and Catherine sat on the edge of the water trough wondering what to do.
“Mother Héloïse told us to stay with him,” Catherine said at last. “We should go find him.”
“I only wish I knew what to say when we do,” Edgar said.
“Maybe it will be enough that we’re there.”
When they entered the house where Abelard was staying, they found themselves swept up in a whirlwind of which the accused, himself, was the calm center. He sat by the window, eyes closed. Berengar screamed hysterically to a circle of believers that it was all a plot and the pope would make them pay; every one of those bishops would be forced to give up his see, and as for Bernard, no humiliation was deep enough.
Canon Arnold was sitting with Master Gilbert. Edgar went up to him and bowed.
“I saw you go,” he told the canon. “Perhaps you haven’t heard that the council also condemned you today, although I can’t understand why.”
“To tar poor Master Abelard with a blacker brush,” Arnold chuckled. “Don’t worry, boy. I deem it an honor to be condemned by the like of those bishops with their fine jewels and furs.”
Astrolabe was sitting next to Abelard. When he saw Catherine and Edgar, he came to them and led them back out onto the portico. His eyes were red and he wept without awareness.
“He saw it, that it would happen just like before,” Astrolabe told them. “He told me it was as if a dark curtain had been dropped around him. His mind went blank of all but the terror of his words being repudiated once again by those who could see that they were suppressed and forgotten.”
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