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Authors: Sharan Newman

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BOOK: The Devil's Door
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Catherine frowned. “He couldn’t keep her dower if he had murdered her, could he? I don’t know the law; would it be decided at the court of Count Thibault? He would never make a judgement against Mother Héloïse.”
“I don’t think so,” Edgar said. “Isn’t Tonnerre a fief of the king’s?”
“But Raynald only holds it from his father, William of Nevers, so it would be … no, the property couldn’t be decided in his own father’s court, could it?” Catherine shook her head. “I can never remember who holds what from whom. It may be that the whole matter should be decided by Archbishop Henry. I think we should first find out what really happened to Alys and let the law sort itself out.”
“But how?” Astrolabe asked.
The three of them stared in deep concentration at the empty soup bowls until Brother Baldwin made a pointed comment about getting ready for the afternoon service, which was already later than usual, due to the interruptions. But none of them had formed a brilliant plan. With a guilty start, Catherine got up quickly to go and then swayed dizzily.
“Catherine? Are you ill?” Edgar was glad of an excuse to hold her.
Astrolabe gently pulled her away and set her on her feet.
“When did you last eat?” he asked.
“Eat? I don’t remember.” She tried to think. “I couldn’t face the bread last night. I kept imagining maggots. I drank my water. I suppose I ate Wednesday.”
“Catherine! And you let me sit here gorging on turnip soup!” Edgar said. “Brother Baldwin, Catherine is starving, give her some bread, at least.”
“No, Brother Baldwin,” Catherine said firmly. “I am still a member of this community and I wish to abide by the Rule. After the service we will have bread and water. I doubt I’ll die of hunger before then.”
“You won’t stand with me in the church transept, then?” Edgar asked. “You intend to stay with the nuns?”
Catherine took his hands.
“I have made my choice to marry you, Edgar, and I do not regret it,” she smiled and lowered her eyes. “In fact, I’d like to begin at once.”
“Well, then …” He began to pull her to him.
“But,” she added, “I would like to share the service with my sisters one last time, as far as I am permitted. I will see you tomorrow and then, after Easter, I never want to be apart from you again. Can you understand that?”
“The last part, very easily.” His arms went around her waist.
Astrolabe spent a moment studying the design of a water pitcher while Catherine became further convinced that there were many compensations for giving up the convent.
“You’re going to be late for the service,” Brother Baldwin warned her again, when it began to appear that Catherine was more in danger of suffocation than starvation. He placed a hand heavily on Edgar’s shoulder.
Reluctantly, Edgar let her go.
Catherine reached the cloister just in time to get in line at the end, behind the lay sisters. Silently, they all filed into the choir. The consecrated virgins came in first, with the other
moniales
behind them and then the lay sisters. Héloïse and Prioress Astane stood in front, one on each side. Hersende, the chantress, faced them. The choir screen running across the nave, just behind the transept, hid them from the view of the people of the town of Saint-Aubin who had come to the service and stood in the left side of the transept.
There was a rustle of whispers from the other side of the screen and Catherine wished she could see what was happening. She strained to hear what the voices were saying, but she was too far away.
On the other side of the screen, Astrolabe and Edgar stood with the townspeople. In their worn woolen cloaks, they blended in easily. The convent church was really only an oratory, too small to hold large numbers of worshippers. It reminded Edgar of the local church at home, with children sitting on the floor at their parents’ feet, thumbs in their mouths, quieted with threats or promises. These weren’t querulous, sophisticated Parisians who demanded entertainment with their devotions, but peasants and craftsmen for whom the plain ritual of Holy Week was enough to comfort and refresh.
Astrolabe nudged him from his reflections.
“Isn’t that Count Raynald?” he asked, pointing to the man leaning against the transept wall, looking bored. “I thought he was leaving.”
“Apparently not,” Edgar said. “I’ve never seen him before, but he fits Catherine’s description. He doesn’t look as though he’s here to make peace with the abbess.”
“If he tries to interrupt the service, I’ll …” Astrolabe stopped. The door to the sacristy had opened and the clergy entered the sanctuary.
The people around them began whispering in pleased excitement. They had not known that Abelard was visiting.
Father Guiberc chanted the opening collect. Then, giving his arm to Abelard, he helped the master to the lectern. Abelard bowed his head a second, then began:
“Haec dicit Dominus: In tribulatione sua
mane consurgent ad me: Venite, et revertamur ad Dominum, quia ipse cepit, et sanabit nos; percutiet, et curabit nos, …
”
Catherine listened to the melodic voice and realized it was Master Abelard. She couldn’t believe he had recovered so quickly. The world was full of small miracles. “Come, let us return to the Lord, for it is he who has wounded and he will heal us, he has struck us down and he will bind us up, …” God healed Abelard so that he could perform the service for his daughters in Christ once more. But, Catherine remembered at once, no one had healed Alys; she had been struck down and no one had lifted her up.
Catherine’s anger began to burn again. The words of Hosea rolled through her without meaning until the end of the passage.
“
Quia misericordiam volui, et non sacrificium; et scientiam Dei plus quam holocausta
.” “For I desire compassion and not sacrifice; and understanding of God more than burnt offerings.”
As the chantress rose to intone the tract from Habakkuk which followed, Catherine felt properly chastised.
Edgar kept a close watch on Count Raynald throughout the long service. The count took no part in the prayers or responses. He didn’t seem moved by Abelard’s sermon on the Passion or by the unearthly beauty of the singing of the sisters. Why was the man there? What did he want? For a moment Edgar had the wild thought that Raynald was attending on the chance of hearing something heretical to help destroy Abelard and the Paraclete with him. But that was nonsense. Edgar doubted the count could follow the sermon, much less take notes on it. The man must be plotting some revenge. When, at the end of the service, Raynald left the church, Edgar resolved to follow him.
After the service, the nuns went to the refectory for their one meal of the day. Catherine ate her bread slowly, afraid her stomach would reject it. The stench of the sickroom still lurked in her nose. While the bread was deciding what it would do, Catherine noticed Paciana leave the lay sisters’ side of the room. She signaled a request to go also, indicating that she was not feeling well, and hurried after her.
Paciana was not returning to the building where the lay sisters slept. She had gathered up her skirts and was heading outside the convent to the tiny graveyard.
When Catherine saw where she was going, it occurred to her that perhaps she shouldn’t follow. It was a private grief. It was not her right to intrude.
She slowed her steps and hid behind a tree. Watching wasn’t as bad as intruding, she told herself.
Her voices were too outraged to comment.
Paciana knelt by the new grave. The ground was lumpy with clods left behind by the diggers. She threw herself forward, lying on her face across the mound of earth. She made no sound although her face was streaked with tears and dirt. She pushed herself up and, ripping open her tunic, she dug her fingernails into her chest, clawing across her breasts until there were deep streaks of blood.
“We have to stop her!” a voice hissed in her ear.
Catherine nearly cried out. Edgar put his fingers to her lips.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she hissed back.
“Neither of us should,” he answered. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Paciana,” Catherine said. “You’re right. We must keep her from hurting herself. But she will be furious if she knows we’ve been watching. Why did you follow me?”
“I didn’t,” Edgar said. “I followed him.”
Catherine looked where he was pointing. At the edge of the cemetery stood Count Raynald.
“You! Woman!” he shouted. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
Stunned, Paciana quickly covered herself before she looked up.
Count Raynald moved closer to her in the twilight.
“Don’t think you can fool me with some fake show of grief,” he sneered. “All you want from Alys is her property. That abbess of yours has no business …”
His voice stopped as if snuffed out. He had seen her face.
“‘Ciana!” he said. “Oh, Paciana!”
Catherine listened in astonishment. She had never heard the count speak with a trace of emotion before, and now …
He was almost crying. “Dear God, ’Ciana, they told me you were dead!”
Paciana remained kneeling in the soft earth, one hand holding her ripped tunic against her chest. Her face showed no emotion and she rose to her feet and backed away from Raynald.
For the last time in her life, Paciana spoke.
“I am dead,” she said.
The cemetery of the Paraclete,
twilight, Good Friday, April 5, 1140
Habet effrenis elatio hoc amplius surperbia ut, cum hec superioritatem, illa nichilominus dedignetur paritem …
He who has unbridled conceit is worse than one who is proud, for the latter thinks no one is his superior, while the former believes no one is his equal …
—Abbot Suger,
Vita Ludovici Grossi Regis
P
aciana turned and walked slowly back toward the convent. Raynald moved as if to follow her, then shook his head and stumbled in the opposite direction, toward the town. In their hiding place, Catherine and Edgar watched in astonishment.
“What just happened?” Edgar asked.
“I’m not sure,” Catherine said. “In all the time I’ve been here, Paciana has never made a sound. She must have been terribly upset to break her vow. I swore I would say nothing about her, Edgar. I promised, so I can’t explain why I believe this. But I’m sure she knows what happened to Raynald’s wife.”
“Her grief was not that of a stranger,” Edgar said.
“No, she knew the countess,” Catherine admitted. “But I don’t understand this at all. What is she to the count? I thought she had been here since long before his marriage to Alys. Oh, Edgar, why are people’s lives so tangled? Things should move in straight lines, nice and clear, from birth to heaven, without all this pain.”
Edgar held her more tightly, his cheek against the curls that had once again tumbled loose onto her forehead.
“So they should,” he said. “So ours should. But I have no power to make it happen. I wish I did,
min leoffœst
.”
Catherine sighed and then smiled as she felt the roughness of his jaw against her face. She ran her fingers across the stubble on his chin.
“I’m glad you don’t,” she said. “You’d be insufferable if you were omnipotent.”
“Catherine.” He kissed her again, thoroughly enough that she began to wonder whether the ground were very uncomfortable and whether a bit more mud on her robes would be that obvious. With an effort, she broke away.
“Edgar, it’s Easter Vigil,” she reminded them both.
“Yes, yes.” He inhaled deeply to clear his head. “You are quite right, and the rain seems to have started again. We should return at once.”
They hurried back to the guesthouse, but not quickly enough. Prioress Astane stood at the door, arms crossed.
“Catherine,” she said. “I saw you leave the cloister. And now you return alone with this man! I cannot allow such flouting of the rules of proper behavior. You gave no thought to the reputation of your community. I’m ashamed of you.”
Edgar stepped in front of Catherine.
“She is not a member of your community any longer, Sister,” he said. “She is my betrothed and we have done nothing dishonorable.”
Astane nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. Nevertheless, Catherine, Sister Bertrada has instructed me that you will stay with Sister Melisande in the infirmary until you leave us. She has felt all along that you shouldn’t be allowed to remain in the dormitory with those who have dedicated their lives and chastity to Our Lord.”
Catherine’s heart sank, but she nodded acquiescence. Edgar started to protest.
“No, Sister Bertrada is right,” Catherine said. “I was only allowed to stay with the other sisters because of Mother Héloïse’s kindness and because there was nowhere else for me. It’s not an expulsion, Edgar. I’ve made my choice. I don’t mind.”
Edgar gave in. “I’ll go find Astrolabe. And tomorrow, you can stand next to me in the transept and not hide from the world in the choir anymore.”
He turned to go, then stopped and took a small leather bag from around his neck.
“I almost forgot,” he said. “I brought you a present. It’s not much but I thought you might like it because the old one that Garnulf made for you was lost. Take it now, as a talisman.”
He tossed the bag to her as Sister Astane opened the gate and led her in.
“We’re not really angry with you, you know,” she whispered to Catherine. “He seems a nice boy. Master Abelard speaks very highly of him. But you must think of our reputation.”
“I know, Sister. I am sorry,” Catherine told her.
Sister Melisande was at Compline when Catherine arrived at her small room above the infirmary. A pallet had been made up on the floor and Catherine took possession of it at once, knowing that the infirmarian would otherwise insist on giving up her own bed.
So,
her voices began.
You’ve finally crossed the Rubicon. About time, too. Aren’t you ashamed?
We didn’t do anything, yet!
Catherine protested.
Only because you couldn’t find a dry place to throw yourselves!
they taunted.
But that’s what you wanted to do, Catherine, and intention is what matters. At feast be honest. Somehow you thought you could be a part of the convent without obeying the Rule. That’s the worst hypocrisy. Admit that the door to the cloister is now closed to you and start living a decent secular life, if that’s possible for you!
Catherine put her hands over her ears. It was true. The sin was not in her desire of the body as much as in the dishonesty of believing she could continue to enjoy the benefits of the convent without trying to control that desire.
No more.
The bag Edgar had given her was still in her hand. A talisman, not a love token. That was like him. She reached in and felt something hard. Not a ring. That was a relief. She wasn’t fond of rings; they got in the way of the pen when writing. She took it out.
It was a cross, about two inches long, made of bone or ivory. There was a delicate tracing across it, patterns and swirls, with occasional eyes and hands appearing and vanishing in the design. It was beautiful. In the center of the crosspiece there was a clear space. She squinted. In the center of that was an ornate
, blending into an
. A hole had been bored in the top and the silver chain passed through it.
“A talisman, truly. Oh, Edgar, wherever did you find it?” she whispered, and she slipped it around her neck and tucked it inside her
chainse.
She lay down and, despite the hardness of the bed, fell asleep at once.
She was wakened in the night by the bells calling the sisters to the night office. She had gotten up and was out the door before she realized that there was no longer a place for her in the choir. Slowly, she returned to her bed. She lay awake a long time, clutching the ivory cross until the pattern of it was etched into her hand.
Edgar and Astrolabe were quite happy to stay in the guesthouse. The comfort there was no worse than a monastery hostel and better than many inns. The guesthouse, like the hostel for pilgrims and paupers, was managed by the lay brothers. These were the men who tilled the fields, repaired the buildings and did the other manual labor that was too difficult for the sisters. They were from all classes; all had promised the abbess obedience unto death.
Brother Baldwin came to see that they had everything they needed. The old man fascinated Edgar. Despite his gnarled hands and rough clothing, he still carried the aura of the warrior he had been for so many years.
“We’re fine,” he told the brother. “We noticed Count Raynald at the service. Are he and his men in the hostel tonight?”
“Not they,” Baldwin snorted. “Nothing we could offer would be good enough for them. No, the count has gone to Quincy, to stay with the family of his poor countess. Weaklings, all of them. Need feather cushions or they can’t sleep. They wouldn’t have lasted long at the siege of Antioch.”
“You were there, on the Great Crusade, then?” Edgar asked, his eye as wide as a child’s.
The old man nodded. “More than forty years ago, it was. Funny, the stories I hear about the crusade all tell of the glory of Jerusalem, the towers and the holy places. But all I remember now is the dust and the blood and what I would have given for a mug of cold ale.”
“You fought with King Louis, afterwards, didn’t you?” Astrolabe asked.
“And his father, King Philippe, before,” Baldwin said. “Against the English king and the count of Meulan. I was in the Auvergne and at the siege of Clermont. We burnt most of the town at Mont-ferrand in that campaign, as I recall. Smoke and ashes everywhere. I was as thirsty as Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in the fiery furnace!”
“I never realized that war dried the throat so,” Edgar commented.
“More important than food,” Baldwin told him. He was about to elaborate on other parched battles when Astrolabe interrupted.
“You don’t happen to remember who was lord to Count William of Nevers, do you?” he asked.
“Duke of Burgundy,” Baldwin answered without hesitation.
So that’s who would decide the crimes of Raynald. Edgar tried to remember what he had heard of Duke Hugh.
“Of course, sometimes Nevers fought for Louis,” Baldwin added. “Burgundy aids the crown if it’s in their interest to. And Nevers is part of the archdiocese of Sens, of course, which contains Paris.” He scratched at a louse in his beard. “It changed all the time, really. Look at Count Thibault. One minute he was against Louis and with Henry of England. Then the next he was with Louis against Meulan. And, of course, now he’s not happy about the affair between his cousin’s husband and the queen’s sister. He refused to help young Louis put down the commune at Poitiers. I’m not sure liege loyalties matter much to Thibault. Now his father, and even more, his mother … ah, well, that’s another story.”
He got up reluctantly.
“You boys have everything you need?” he asked them. “I have duties to perform yet tonight. I’ll look in on you again before I go to bed.”
He took his lantern. Edgar leaned from his bed and blew out the candle.
“Not much help there,” Astrolabe said.
“What do you think he has to do?” Edgar wanted to know. Compline was over. Everyone should be in bed by now.
“Check the locks, perhaps.” Astrolabe wasn’t interested. “Why? Do you think we should follow him? He’s been here for years. Mother and Prioress Astane trust him.”
“Sorry. I seem to have become less trusting lately,” Edgar answered. “I shouldn’t be so suspicious of everyone.”
“Yes, you should,” Astrolabe said. “You’ll live longer. But I think we can assume Brother Baldwin has genuine work to perform.”
“Very well.” Edgar sat a moment as his eyes slowly adjusted to the night. “So, what should we do?”
“Sleep?”
Edgar ignored that.
“What about Master Abelard?” he said. “Do you think your mother can convince him to abandon his debate with Bernard of Clairvaux?”
“She seems to think it would be wrong to try to stop him.” Astrolabe’s voice was tired. “I don’t think she realizes how ill he is.”
“Could this problem with the count of Tonnerre affect him?” Edgar asked. “If we try to accuse someone other than Walter of Grancy of attacking Countess Alys, could it anger someone who might revenge himself on Master Abelard?”
Astrolabe was silent a long time. “I’m not sure,” he said at last. “It would be bishops and abbots who judged the debate, but they all have families they are loyal to, as well. For instance, if Peter of Cluny came, he might vote in Father’s favor, if only because he feels Abbot Bernard defines orthodoxy too narrowly. And, if we prove that Raynald of Tonnerre was responsible for the death of his wife, Peter might be even more inclined to help because his brother, Ponce, is abbot of Vézeley and Raynald’s father has been fighting with the monks there for years.”
BOOK: The Devil's Door
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