Heresy Page 3

  “Thank you, Mother.” Margaret got up. “I apologize for disturbing you. I’ll confess it in Chapter and take whatever penance you set.”

  “That won’t be necessary, my dear.” Heloise kissed her and led her out. “You came to me with a spiritual crisis. It’s my duty to help you, even in the middle of the night. Now, try not to wake anyone else on your way back.”

  Heloise returned to her letter to Mahaut. It was made even harder now. Margaret’s face kept interfering. The countess had taken an interest in Margaret, who was the count’s granddaughter, her mother having been the product of a youthful affair between Count Thibault and a noblewoman of Ponthien. Countess Mahaut was tolerant of something that had happened well before her marriage to the count and had become fond of her husband’s granddaughter.

  Heloise guessed that she and the count had an eye out for an alliance that would be beneficial to Margaret and the county of Champagne as well. It shouldn’t be difficult to find a good husband for the child. Her father was a lord in Scotland, far enough away to be ignored, but still noble, and Margaret was becoming more beautiful every day. Her skin was so pale that the scar across her cheek was hardly noticeable and her eyes were large and of a deep brown. Her hair was the color of red gold much fancied by poets.

  And unlike her brother’s wife, Catherine, Margaret was mild and dutiful. Heloise had no doubt that she would obey her family’s wishes as was Draper.

  So why did Heloise’s heart sink at the prospect?

  She looked down at the letter. There was no way she could concentrate on it any further. Finally she went and stood before the crucifix on the wall, praying fervently for wisdom and a peaceful mind. But behind that prayer was an even deeper one.

  Astrolabe, my son, are you safe? Why is there no word from you?

  Two

  The forest of Broceliande, Brittany. Friday, 4 ides February

  (February 12), 1148. Feast of Saint Rioc, a Breton boy who was good to his mother.

  Haeresis Eunitarum intra Britannias pullulat. Horam Princeps erat

  quidam perversi mentis, Eunus nomine: qui cum esset idiota…

  Hie nefario ausu, absque sacris ordinibus Missas cekbrabat indigne,

  ad errorem et subversionem perditorum hominum.

  The heresy of the Eonists increased among the Bretons. At this time, the leader was a certain man of wayward thinking, named Eon. With wicked audacity, he unworthily celebrated Mass, although he was not in holy orders, leading to error and subversion among the ruined people.

  Continuatio Gemblacensis

  “Peter?” Cecile shook him awake. “Something’s happening in the forest. We need to get away now, before anyone comes.”

  Peter looked at her blearily. The sky was barely grey. It must lack an hour until dawn. The man next to him had snored all night and he had just managed to get to sleep at last. “What is it?” he asked her.

  “Gwenael was out gathering wood. She came running back because she saw a huge troop of men on horseback below in the forest.”

  “A hunting party?” he guessed. “They won’t come this way. It’s too steep and rocky.”

  “They might if they are hunting us.” Cecile pulled him to get up. “Gwenael says they carried swords, not bows. Please! We can’t be found here.”

  Around them others were stirring. There was a growing sense of panic among the Eonites as the news spread. Eon emerged from his hut and, helped by his acolytes, climbed to the rickety roof where he stood and faced the people.

  “Fear not!” he cried, raising his arms. “My father shall protect you. The minions of the devil have no power here!”

  His followers surged toward him in the hope that the closer they came to Eon, the safer they would be.

  “They have no weapons,” Peter said. “They’ll be slaughtered.”

  “So will we be, if we stay.” Cecile pulled at his arm. “Please, come with me. We must leave now!”

  The man hesitated.

  “I have to stop this,” he said at last. “I can explain to these men that Eon is harmless.”

  “Peter, you can’t explain anything to men with swords,” Cecile pleaded.

  “I have to try,” he answered. “Which way are they coming from?”

  Mutely, Cecile pointed south. By now they all could hear the jingle of harness and the shouting of the men.

  “Cecile, hide yourself,” he begged her. “When it’s over you can tell them that you were a prisoner. Forgive me.”

  Peter ran toward the break in the woods through which the riders were pouring.

  “Stop!” he cried. “These people aren’t dangerous! They have nothing worth stealing. Who is your commander? Bring me to him!”

  Cecile ran after him, grabbing at his cloak to drag him back.

  “Are you mad?” she cried. “They’ll trample you!”

  “Cecile! Go back!” Peter pleaded with her.

  “I can’t let you be killed!” she shouted.

  Then she looked up at the approaching riders.

  “Oh, sweet Virgin, it’s him!” she screamed. “Peter! It’s me they want, not Eon! Don’t let him take me! If he does I’ll never escape again!”

  The horses bore down on them. Peter put his arms around Cecile to shield her. Then something struck his head and he fell.

  When he awoke, he was on the floor of a cart, his arms tied. His head ached horribly and his tongue was swollen with thirst.

  Beside him was Cecile. She was still unconscious.

  At least that was what he thought until he saw the blood clotting on the deep gash in her throat.

  “Cecile?” He stared at the blood. Slowly the horror came to him.

  “Cecile!” He reached for her with his bound hands, trying to hold her. The cool blood was sticky on his fingers, on his face as he bent to touch her cheek with his lips. She was stiff as ice.

  Frantically, he began working at his bonds. He was astonished when, with almost no effort, they came apart. Someone had cut the ropes nearly through. Why? There was only one answer: to incriminate him in Cecile’s death. What other reason could there be? There was no one who knew him here, no one who would want to save him.

  It was clear to him that the man Cecile so feared had taken her life. A white rage swept over him. For the first time in his life, he would have joyfully run a sword into a man’s heart. He looked about for a weapon.

  There was nothing. Not even the knife that had cut Cecile’s neck. It didn’t matter. He would charge the guards like a mad bear and kill them all.

  The rational part of his mind asserted itself at once.

  He would be brought down in a matter of minutes and hanged from the nearest tree. And whoever murdered Cecile would never be brought to justice.

  There was only one hope. He had to get away at once and find help, before his captors found out who he really was.

  Peter knelt by the body of Cecile. He made the sign of the cross on her forehead and said a quick but fervent prayer for her soul. Then he kissed her lips.

  Finally, he climbed out of the cart, crept past the sleeping guard and vanished into the misty forest.

  A week later, Solomon was having a relaxing meal at the home of his friend Abraham, the vintner. It was rare that he was able to have food cooked according to the Law, and he was making the most of it.

  “More?” his hostess, Rebecca, asked.

  He nodded, mouth full, and she signaled the servant to offer him the platter.

  Solomon gave a huge sigh of contentment. Even with Catherine and Edgar he always felt slightly on edge, as if at any moment they would try again to convert him. Here they only nagged him to marry one of the lovely pious girls they seemed to know in abundance. It was little enough to pay for being allowed to be himself for an evening.

  Rebecca smiled in a way that told Solomon she knew what he was thinking.

  “You could eat like this every night, you know,” she said.

  “Is that an invitation?” Solomon grinned at her. He c
apitulated. “Who do you have in mind for me now? I thought we’d been through all the girls of Paris.”

  “We have,” Rebecca said. “But I have a wonderful niece, almost eighteen. She lives near Reims. Her father has vineyards that produce the most delicate wine. She’s quite lovely, blond as the English. We can arrange to have her visit this summer, or perhaps you’ll be going that way?”

  Solomon shook his head. “Spain. Edgar and I need to arrange new contacts there. All these Christian wars have destroyed decent trade.”

  “Be careful down there,” Abraham spoke for the first time. “The Saracen parts of Spain are becoming almost as dangerous for us as the Christian ones. The new Saracen leaders aren’t as soft on Jews as the old ones.”

  “I know that well.” Solomon finished the bowl of spiced chicken and leaned back on his cushioned chair, a cup of Abraham’s best wine in his hand. He twirled it, the silver filigree shining in the lamplight. He regarded his friends with sadness.

  “Where is there a place where we don’t have to be wary?” he asked them.

  Abraham refilled his wine cup.

  “At this table, my friend,” he said. “And don’t think we didn’t notice how you turned the conversation away from the possibility of having such a home and table of your own.”

  Solomon laughed at that. “I’ve begged you to stop thrusting these poor women at me. Have you no pity for them? Think what you’re asking them to take on.”

  “The opportunity to turn you back into a good, observant Jew?” Rebecca replied. “Any woman would consider it a worthy challenge. And,” she added considering him in the candlelight, “without meaning to give you cause for pride, you do bring other advantages to a marriage.”

  “Rebecca!” Abraham feigned shock.

  “I suppose you’re referring to my ability to acquire perfume and jewelry for less than the market price?” Solomon teased.

  “That reminds me,” Abraham shifted the talk again. Solomon had made it clear that he still wasn’t interested in a good match. Abraham would respect that, although he knew Rebecca would return to the subject if she saw an opening. “While you’re in the south, keep an eye out for the silks that the Sicilians looted from the Byzantines last fall. You might get a good price for them.”

  “More important”—Rebecca was serious now—“the Sicilians also kidnapped the silk weavers, some of them Jewish. No one has learned where those poor women have been taken.”

  Solomon agreed, grateful that they were no longer discussing his marriage prospects. “I’ll be alert for both silk and information,” he promised.

  Soon after, he took his leave and, carrying a small closed lantern, made his way as quickly as he could from the lie de la Cite to the bridge leading to the Greve. He was walking the narrow passage between the buildings that lined both sides of the bridge when he felt someone come up behind him. He swirled around, shining the lantern into the surprised face of a young man.

  “Who are you?” Solomon demanded.

  The man stepped back, trying to get out of the light.

  “Sorry, sorry…” He waved his hands, showing they were empty. “Are you Solomon the Jew?”

  “I repeat,” Solomon said firmly, “who wants to know?”

  “I was told to look for a tall, dark man with a beard and curls who walked through Paris as if he owned it,” the man replied. “I’m supposed to be careful not to make you angry.”

  “That much is correct,” Solomon admitted. “Who sent you, then?”

  The man looked sharply right and left, then up to the overhanging balconies.

  “Could we go back to the He?” he asked. “I don’t know who’s listening here.”

  “So that your friends can attack me?” Solomon said.

  “No, no, no!” The man stepped back another pace. “I told him I wouldn’t be able to get you to come. But he begged me to try. A friend of yours is in trouble. He told me you were his best hope.”

  Solomon rolled his eyes. “You can’t expect me to be taken in by that one.”

  The man bit his lip. “He told me, what was it? He told me, ”It makes sense that the son of a heretic should feel safest in the home of a halfhearted Jew.“ ”

  “Edondu!” Solomon’s face changed at once. “Why didn’t you tell me straight out? Where is he? What’s wrong?”

  “I escaped with him.” The man turned, assuming Solomon would follow him. “They came for us, saying that we were heretics. My master had told me that Peter wasn’t one of us. He tried to explain to the soldiers, but they didn’t believe him. So my master told me to free him and see that he got safely away. I had a small knife in my shoe. First I cut my ropes and then his, but someone saw me. I had to run a long time before I could look for Peter. At least he got away before they discovered that Cecile was dead.”

  “Whom did you escape from? Where? Why?” Solomon lowered the lantern to light the uneven ground. “Who is Cecile?”

  “He’ll explain,” the man said over his shoulder. “It’s not far. The owner of the Blue Boar gave us a room to hide in.”

  Solomon followed cautiously. It sounded as if the person in trouble was his old friend Astrolabe. But if so, why hadn’t he gone directly to Catherine and Edgar? Even more, what kind of trouble could someone like Astrolabe get into? Heresy? Murder? That was ridiculous! Unlike his argumentative father, Peter Abelard, Astrolabe was the most inoffensive man imaginable. He had once lamented to Solomon that all his father had given him was his looks, and the resemblance made it all the harder to convince people that he was neither a philosopher nor a theologian.

  Despite his confusion, his natural wariness made Solomon take notice of the man seated near the doorway of the Blue Boar. He was hunched in his cloak like a beggar, but Solomon saw no sign of infirmity or starvation. As soon as they entered, the man leapt up and left.

  Perhaps it was just someone who suddenly remembered that his wife had told him to be home by compline, Solomon thought. But he took note of it, just the same. No action could be considered totally innocent in these days.

  The tavern was low-ceilinged and dark with only a couple of oil lamps on the table that served as a bar. The air was pungent with smoke from the charcoal brazier and the odor of the bodies of the drinkers. Solomon sniffed and regretted it at once. Someone had been sick in the corner by the stairs.

  The man led him up two flights to the alcove under the roof. As they entered, the sliver of candlelight was extinguished. In the brief moment before the light had vanished, Solomon saw a man with tangled hair and a several weeks’ growth of brown beard.

  “Astrolabe?” he asked in astonishment. “What’s happened to you?”

  There was a rustle as a spill was lit from the brazier and taken to the candle.

  Astrolabe looked up at him. He was dirty and gaunt. His clothes were stained. His tunic had been ripped and the tear closed by a pin. “Solomon, you have to help me. If this gets out, the truth won’t matter. The scandal alone could ruin my mother’s life.”

  Solomon had to bend almost to his hands and knees to reach the pallet where Astrolabe sat. With some difficulty, he managed to make himself comfortable. He could tell that this would be a long story.

  “From the look of it, your life is in more danger of ruin than hers,” he said. “Very well, I’m ready. Start from the beginning.”

  Astrolabe sighed and began. “I never should have told Eon’s cousin I would help him—”

  “Wait,” Solomon interrupted. “This sounds like a story that will need beer.”

  Not far away, in the chapter house of the cathedral of Notre-Dame, another man was listening to the opposite side of the story.

  “Our orders were to capture the heretics who had been pillaging the area between Rennes and Nantes,” the soldier said. “It wasn’t hard to find the group and bring most of them in. The archbishop of Tours was pleased, but I can’t believe they’re the right ones. Oh, there were a couple of rough characters, but most were peasants, runaway serfs,
a few tradesmen. They put up almost no resistance. And their clothes! I felt like an idiot treating them like dangerous criminals. But then, on the second day out, we found the dead woman. She had been knocked out in the raid so we had put her and another wounded man in a cart. The next morning when I came to check on her, I discovered that her throat had been cut from ear to ear. The man had escaped.”