Heresy Page 4

  Canon Rolland nodded. “A heinous crime indeed. Are you sure the man in the cart with her is the one who killed her?”

  The soldier shrugged. “Who else could have done it? We have a body and an escaped prisoner. What would you assume?”

  “The same as you, I suppose,” the canon said. “Wasn’t he searched for a weapon at the time of his capture?”

  “I don’t know,” the soldier said. “None of the heretics seemed to have much more than a rusty meat knife. But it’s strange about the murdered woman. This Eon says that she was a saint, sent to them by God. He’s mourning her as a martyr. So if she was so holy to them, why should one of Eon’s followers want to kill her?”

  “You believe the rantings of a mad heretic?”

  Canon Rolland was a large man. He leaned over the table where the soldier sat, causing the soldier to reach for his knife without thinking. Although he was well trained in fighting, the soldier had the sense that this cleric was dangerous. He wished he had more than this short knife with him. He stood to face his questioner.

  “The others all give the same story,” he said firmly. “She appeared during the eclipse last year. They say that she was being pursued by demons but God and Eon saved her. She was special to them. They also say that her speech was Norman and that of a lady. They believe we killed her. If their curses had any merit, I’d have a tail, no nose and several horrible diseases by now.”

  The canon pursed his lips, nodding. “A ruse to put you off, I’d guess. She may have been a captive of these outlaws, whatever they say. This man who escaped could well have been ordered to kill her to prevent her from telling the bishop the truth about them. Would you know this prisoner again?”

  “Perhaps,” the soldier said. “I don’t know. They all looked so preposterous in their stolen robes.”

  Rolland sighed at that. “The murderer must be found,” he said. “This woman died a Christian martyr, I’m sure. Her killer must be brought to justice. But that job is for others to perform. My greatest concern is not crimes against the body, but against the soul. This man may have taken one life, but he threatens the eternal life of many more now that he is free to corrupt others with his poisonous beliefs. The tongue of a heretic is much more dangerous than his knife.”

  This brought an image to the soldier that he tried vainly to ignore. In his experience, a sharp blade was always to be preferred as a weapon. After all, it is hard to preach after the tongue has been removed.

  The canon was pacing now. “Heresy. I foresaw this. King Louis went off fighting distant heathens and left France open to the real Enemy. As the devil lurks in the darkness, so heretics mask themselves as true Christians. How can decent people recognize them?”

  The soldier thought of suggesting that the canon go to Brittany where there seemed to be heretics preaching at every crossroads. They were easy to spot. The Eonites were barely a whisper in the roar of unorthodox beliefs. But he kept silent. Increasingly all he wanted was to get out of the presence of this man whose steady gaze from bulging blue eyes was unnerving him. He did venture one suggestion.

  “Perhaps you could take the matter up with the archbishop of Paris?”

  The canon nodded very slowly, looking him up and down. “Perhaps I shall.”

  The soldier felt as if the man were measuring him for his coffin. It was with great relief that he left the chapter house and fled into the night.

  When he had left, another man came out from where he had been hiding in the shadows. He was much smaller than the canon, with weepy grey eyes and a drooping nose. He was wearing the robes of a monk.

  “I told you how it was with the heretics,” he said. “Do you believe me now?”

  “I’m more inclined to,” the canon said, “but I need proof. Do you think you can get it, Brother Arnulf? You have only a month before Eon is taken before the pope.”

  “That will be enough time, with your help,” Arnulf answered. “If that soldier can identify the heretic who killed the woman, then we shall see that he has the opportunity to do so.”

  “Do you really think this murderer is the son of Peter Abelard?”

  Brother Arnulf nodded. “The description fits. The other heretics say his name was Peter and that he wasn’t from the villages from which Eon drew most of his followers. My informant said that he had been seen in the area of Broceliande last summer. Those heretics couldn’t have survived without the help of someone of intelligence. Eon hasn’t the sense of a suckling pig.”

  “So you think it was Abelard’s son who murdered the woman?” the canon asked.

  “Why not? Perhaps she knew who he was and threatened to betray him.”

  The canon smiled. “That’s more than I could have hoped for. If I couldn’t be revenged on that bastard Peter Abelard, I can at least have the joy of seeing his son hang.”

  “Astrolabe, I don’t understand,” Solomon said a few hours later. “You say this woman arrived in the midst of the eclipse last year and it wasn’t until a week ago that you found out who she was?”

  “It was like that there,” Astrolabe explained. “Eon’s followers believed that they had become new people. He changed their names. They left the past behind. No one asked anyone, including me, where they had come from or who they were.”

  “And this woman, you say she finally told you that she had been a nun at Saint-Georges-de-Rennes?” Solomon was puzzled. “Did she say where she had come from before that, who her family was?”

  “Normandy, I think. She was an orphan and had been placed in the convent by her guardian, Thierry of Flanders,” Astrolabe said. “I think she had a sister who is now the heiress of the family land.”

  “So who do you think killed her, and why?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure it was one of the men in the raiding party,” Astrolabe said. “She recognized one of them. I suspect that he was one of the followers of the Count Henri who abducted and raped the nuns.”

  “But why did you run when you found her body? Surely once you explained who you were and told your story to the bishop, you would have been released,” Solomon said. “Eon’s family could confirm that you were with Eon on their behalf.”

  “Solomon, I thought you of all people would understand,” Astrolabe said. “First of all, the real murderer was among my captors. Second, I am the son of a condemned heretic, caught with a group of heretics. What chance did I have to get the truth to anyone who would believe me?”

  Solomon nodded. He had once been accused of murder simply because he was a Jew and nearby. Edgar had convinced the authorities to release him. Without his help, Solomon might now be no more than bones and ash.

  Astrolabe swallowed and leaned closer to Solomon.

  “I must find the one who killed her,” he said, his voice shaking. “Cecile was so kind, so beautiful. She had been abducted from her convent and raped. I said I would keep her safe. But the monster found her. I was useless, Solomon. I tried to stop them with words. Why did I think that would work? When has it ever?”

  Solomon gripped Astrolabe’s arm in pity and surprise. Astrolabe had been in love with the woman, a professed nun! It was the last thing he would have expected. But Solomon knew well the futility of trying to govern the heart.

  “Even with a sword, you could have done nothing against so many,” he told Astrolabe.

  Astrolabe shook his head. “I should have tried. Now all I can protect is her memory. I will find the one who killed her.”

  Looking around, Solomon noted that there was no food in the room and wondered if Astrolabe had enough money for soup. He should have got some when he had gone down for the beer.

  Astrolabe continued. “The worst of it is that poor Cecile’s death is so involved with Eon that the real killer may never be found,” he said in disgust. “I don’t know exactly what’s behind his capture, but I believe that it has little to do with orthodox teaching and a lot more with power. Poor Eon isn’t a heretic; he’s a fool. No intelligent person could believe a word
of his nonsense. Someone is using him, as that person wants to use me.”

  “Well, that may be, but I still don’t know why you’re sitting here freezing when you could be sleeping by a warm fire at Edgar and Catherine’s,” Solomon told him. “Do you think they would turn you out now? Astrolabe, now of all times, you need friends. Christian friends.”

  Astrolabe shivered. “I couldn’t. Catherine and Edgar would do everything they could to help me, regardless of the cost. I didn’t want to risk exposing them.”

  “What?” Solomon stared at Astrolabe. The cold in the pit of his stomach was not caused by the icy room, but sudden fear. “What do you mean?”

  “Solomon, how long have we known each other?” Astrolabe asked. “It’s true that I haven’t the learning of my parents, but I’m not blind or stupid. I am aware that Catherine’s father is also your uncle. Hubert was born a Jew, wasn’t he? He either pretended to be a Christian or truly converted. Now they say he’s gone away on a pilgrimage, but if he has, I don’t think it’s a Christian one.”

  Solomon stood upright with a jolt, hitting his head on the roof beam.

  “Dame! Have we been that careless?” he asked.

  “With me you have,” Astrolabe admitted. “You and Catherine look too much alike, and she favors her father as much as I do mine. That alone is suspicious, but you’ve all slipped in your conversation when I’ve been there. I’m not the only one who has wondered. I know that you’ve all been in danger more than once because of rumors that Hubert was too involved with his Jewish partners, even that he was a convert who had returned to Judaism. I learned enough Hebrew from my mother to understand when you called Hubert ‘uncle’. This is not the time to bring more trouble upon you.”

  “Catherine and Edgar are good Christians,” Solomon insisted. “Hubert left Paris partly to protect their reputations. They aren’t judaizers.”

  “That’s obvious,” Astrolabe said soothingly. “I’ve seen how hard they both try to convert you. And, no, I’m not horrified that you and Catherine are cousins. My father and mother both taught me that Jews must be led to the True Faith, not pushed.”

  “People of that mind seem to be fewer every year,” Solomon grunted.

  “Exactly. And that’s why I can’t draw Catherine and Edgar into this.” Astrolabe seemed to feel he had made his point, but Solomon was still doubtful.

  “I don’t think they would see it that way,” he said. “And it seems to me that you’ll need to get word to your mother at the Paraclete, if only to tell her that you’re safe. Since Edgar’s sister is a student there, it would be natural for them to send a message.”

  Astrolabe was quiet a moment. Solomon presumed it was because he was about to agree.

  “There’s something more,” Astrolabe finally said. “Calot, the man who found you for me, escaped shortly after I did, in the confusion after finding Cecile’s body. He told me that there had been a man the evening before who had particularly studied my face and searched my clothes while I was unconscious in the cart.”

  “Are you sure?” Solomon asked. “Do you think he knew you? Then why didn’t he identify you?”

  “Calot is sure,” Astrolabe said grimly. “And I don’t know why. Perhaps he was waiting until he could denounce me publicly. My first thought when I escaped was to vanish, go south perhaps, where no one could find me, but that would mean that Cecile’s murderer would go free. Also, if my name were connected with this, even if I were safe, it would cause a scandal that could destroy my poor mother.”

  “It seems to me, you idiot, that so far you’ve worried about everyone except yourself,” Solomon said. “I still don’t know what you want me to do, when you reject any thought of letting your family or other friends know what’s happened to you.”

  He started to put on his cloak. “It’s late and I don’t want to be challenged by the watch, if any are insane enough to be out on a night like this. You can come with me or stay here. Don’t deceive yourself that no one knows about your being found with heretics. If one person recognized you, then word has probably already reached Paris, or the Paraclete.”

  Astrolabe’s face was a mixture of fear and relief.

  “You may be right,” he said after considering this. He gave a twisted smile. “In that case, I would be a fool not to take the help of my friends.” “Sanity at last!” Solomon gave a sigh of relief. “Now put on your boots and let’s go home. What about your friend? Where is he?”

  “Calot? He only came with me as far as Paris,” Astrolabe answered. “He is continuing on. He has friends somewhere east of here.”

  As they left, Solomon told himself that this was a simple matter, though tragic. It would be easily resolved. Heloise had the connections to be sure that Astrolabe was exonerated, even if the real murderer were never found. Yet, as they crossed the bridge and headed to the house on the Greve, he had a feeling between his shoulder blades that there was someone following them. Each time he turned, there was no one. But the streets were full of shadows, and in each one Solomon sensed an evil presence, preparing to attack.

  The day was barely grey when Catherine woke. She lay for a while, listening for sounds of activity in the house. All was quiet and she settled back against Edgar, resting her cheek on his back, enjoying his warmth. But soon she realized that she couldn’t stay in bed any longer. She slid from under the covers, trying to keep the cold from getting in to wake Edgar, felt for her slippers and made her way down to use the latrine next to the kitchen rather than add to the chamber pot.

  She picked up a spare blanket from the chest on the landing and wrapped herself in it. The air was freezing. She thought of going up another flight to check on the children, who were probably both curled up in bed with Samonie, their only real servant. But her primary need won out. She fumbled across the hall and down to the kitchen.

  It was only on her way back that she noticed that the trestle bed had been set up. There was someone in it, snoring lightly. It didn’t sound like Solomon, who normally slept up in the storeroom with the silks and spices.

  She tried to think. Could Samonie have let a friend in after the rest of them had gone to bed? Not likely. Catherine tiptoed over and lifted the covers.

  Her shriek of surprise and delight wakened the rest of the household and caused Astrolabe to leap out of bed, knocking Catherine onto the straw on the floor.

  “Saint Brigid’s sacred girdle! Are you all right?” Astrolabe helped Catherine to her feet.

  “Of course.” She brushed straw from her shift. “I just can’t believe you’re here! How did you get here?”

  “Catherine! What’s wrong? Why did you scream?” The voices came from the stairs as Edgar and Solomon rushed down to her. Edgar’s face lit with relief when he saw she was unhurt and even more when he recognized Astrolabe.

  “You look like you’ve spent the winter in a cave,” he exclaimed. “Have you decided to turn hermit?”

  Solomon came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “I found him and brought him home,” he said. “Can we keep him?”

  “Of course,” Edgar said. He looked out the window. “It’s nearly dawn. We may as well see if there’s something to eat, before we find out what brings Astrolabe to us in such a state.”

  “No need, Master Edgar.” Samonie appeared at the kitchen door carrying a pitcher, followed by her son, Martin, with a tray. “The children are both still sleeping, but I heard the noise and knew I’d be needed. I’ve never known a disturbance in this house so dreadful that, sooner or later, someone didn’t send for food.”

  “With the things that have disturbed us in the past, we always need fortification,” Edgar said. “Thank you, Samonie. Now, first we eat. Then we’ll decide what to do.”

  Astrolabe felt that for the first time in weeks, he was back in the sane world.

  Three

  Paris. Wednesday, 13 kalends March (February 17), 1148. Feast of Saint Silvan, Merovingian bishop, whose biography was ignored due to
bad writing but recovered through the excellent editing of Leutwithe, abbess of Auchy, who corrected the style, saving the sense and details. Such editors should always be canonized.

  Quoniam pro multis, qui increverunt, enormitatibus propellandis, et

  quae Deo placitura sunt confirmandis proxima Dominica qui

  cantatur: “Laetare, Jerrusakm” … in fiducia Spiritus sancti

  concilium celebrare decrevimus, fratres nostros archiepiscopos,

  episcopos et alios ecclesiarum praelatos de diversis mundi partibus

  duximus convocandos.

  Therefore, on account of the many evils that have been cropping up, and so that things can be established in a way pleasing to God, We have decided to hold a council on the next Sunday on which “Laetere Jerusalem” is sung, and we have, trusting in the Holy Spirit, summoned our brother archbishops, bishops and other prelates of the church from many parts of the world.