Death Comes As Epiphany: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 4

  “But Catherine hasn’t been to the faire in years!” Agnes countered.

  “Catherine has no business at a faire,” Hubert answered. “Don’t you agree, Madeleine?”

  Madeleine took a sip of wine. The cup was nearly empty.

  “Catherine?” she asked. “I don’t know anyone by that name. I had a child named Catherine once, but she died.”

  “Mother!”

  Catherine stood up, knocking over her stool. Madeleine ignored her and signaled for more wine. Roger held Catherine back.

  “Father, what is she talking about?” Catherine cried, pulling against Roger’s arm.

  Hubert took the cup from his wife. “Madeleine, you mustn’t treat her like this. She has done wrong, but she is still our child.”

  “I gave her to God, Hubert,” his wife said. “If God doesn’t want her, then neither do I.”

  “Oh, Virgin Mother, what shall I do?” Catherine whispered as Roger and Agnes helped her from the room.

  “You come with us,” Agnes said firmly. “Tomorrow to the jousting and then to Saint-Denis. All you can do is stay out of her sight until you are back in a convent. Perhaps Abbot Suger will see about your entering Fontevrault.”

  “But 1 have to explain!” Catherine said. And then she remembered she couldn’t. Had Héloïse known what she was asking?

  Oh, yes, the voices whispered. She knew. You didn’t listen.

  Her father despised her; her mother had disowned her. But it appeared that she was doing what she was meant to. A way had opened to get to Saint-Denis and the library. She thought of Saint Thecla and Saint Catherine. Things could be worse. After all, as yet no one had suggested throwing her to the lions.

  Nevertheless, her mother’s treatment upset Catherine enough that she spent a fitful night, thrashing about so that Agnes threatened to make her sleep on the floor.

  She wore a plain gray bliaut the next day, with no ornamentation, but Madeleine still refused to acknowledge her. Morning prayers were over quickly and Catherine and Agnes went to the gate while Roger and his men brought the horses.

  “I don’t really want to watch men playing at killing each other,” Catherine told her sister. “I had enough of that on the journey here.”

  “Then look at the river or stay in the church,” Agnes answered. “I find it thrilling. If you were in a castle, besieged on all sides by Saracens, wouldn’t you want brave knights to save you? Oh, no, I forgot. You’d wait for a miracle or talk them to death with Aristotle.”

  The best way to cross the Île de la Cite was on horseback. Catherine forgot her worries from this vantage point, well above the muck in the street. The Grand Pont glittered with the stalls of the goldsmiths and moneylenders, and on the île itself the streets were crowded with people from every nation and hawkers competing loudly for their attention. Sir Jehan stopped one and bought a meat-filled gaufre for Agnes.

  “Do you want one, Catherine?” Roger asked. “You haven’t eaten this morning.”

  “No, thank you, but may I have the denier for alms?”

  “Always, dear one.” He smiled. “Just include me in your prayers.”

  “Always, Uncle.”

  They crossed the Petit Pont and soon were at the great open field of the Pré aux Clercs between the fortified abbey of Saint-Germain and the river. There were already dozens of people there, students, jongleurs, acrobats, beggars and, of course, knights. Part of the field had been roped off for tilting and foot combat. Roger deposited his nieces at the abbey gate with orders to one of his men to stay with them. Then he and the rest headed down to the field. They stopped at the edge to leave various pieces of armor on a trestle table guarded by several men.

  “What are they doing?” Catherine asked.

  “Leaving the wagers,” Agnes told her. “This is just a practice so they don’t lose their horses and weapons if they’re defeated but each man puts up something. Oh, I hope Roger does well. He’s lost too often this year.”

  Catherine looked at her. “I thought he was one of the best.”

  Agnes sighed. “Really, Catherine. He was. At strategy, he still is, but, after all, he’s past thirty now. Some of the other men are no older than we are. He’s not as quick as he used to be. And he’s been taking too many chances lately.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Agnes hushed her. “There, look. Roger, Sigebert and Jehan are facing off that group from Blois. Two runs and then a general melée. Watch!”

  Catherine did. But she couldn’t tell the difference between the ordered, one-to-one charges and the mock battle where the knights fought together. From where she sat they were just shadow puppets, images dancing across the field. She knew they were real men, but they seemed like puppets. Did the queen and her ladies, watching from across the river, see them as people at all? There was a clash of men and horses and then the men were all on foot, swinging away at each other.

  It went on all afternoon. Agnes watched every blow intently, commenting on the skills of the various combatants. It was clear to Catherine that she had studied the art of jousting as well as Catherine had studied Saint Jerome.

  “But why, Agnes?” she asked.

  “I want to marry a man who knows how to keep what he has,” she answered. “Including me. Oh, he’s won! Roger’s man has just signaled surrender!”

  Catherine stepped back to look at Agnes better. She had taken off her scarf and was waving it in jubilation. Their guard was standing next to her with an expression of complete adoration. She paid no attention, handing him her gloves and cloak to hold as she ran down to congratulate her uncle.

  Oh, dear, Catherine thought. Agnes, I’m afraid, was not meant for the convent. I hope Father finds that husband for her soon. It may take a knight of great prowess to hold Agnes long.

  Behind her, two students were cracking almonds with their teeth and talking around them.

  “I hear they’re tightening the noose around old Abelard,” one said. “Do you think he’ll still lecture here this winter?”

  Catherine tensed. She turned her head to hear better and pretended to examine the horizon.

  “The Master is no coward. Even if he does have Bernard of Clairvaux against him now. They say the abbot has sent letters to the pope and everything.”

  “It’s William of Saint-Thierry who’s behind it all,” the first one said. “And he used to be Peter’s student! Jealousy, that’s what it is. Everyone knows he’s the greatest mind in Christendom.”

  “I don’t know,” the other said. “Some of his ideas are a bit on the edge. That whole thing about the sacraments being invalid if the priest is corrupt … now, that can’t be right. You can’t check to see what a priest does with little boys when you’re waiting for him to give you Last Rites, now can you?”

  There was no answer, only the sound of shells falling on the steps as the boys got up to go. They passed Catherine without a glance and she could see their hands waving in further discussion as they went down to the field. Agnes was still down there, talking with Roger and Jehan. She seemed quite at home.

  Catherine followed the students down, trying to catch more gossip. If the theories of Abelard were being argued in the street, if mere students knew of the charges against him, then the matter was more serious than she had thought. She wondered if what the students said was true. Had Bernard written to the pope about condemning Abelard’s works? If it had come to that, the psalter might be enough to have Abelard brought for trial before a council of bishops. And if even some of the iconoclastic students of Paris doubted Abelard’s orthodoxy, what hope did he have of convincing those in authority?

  Please, Saint Thecla, she prayed as she followed Agnes, let me get to Saint-Denis soon. Whatever I must do, hefp me to succeed. I will not fail Mother Héloïse. I don’t care what it costs.

  Four

  The Abbey of Saint-Denis, Sunday, October 8, 1139

  Nobile claret opus, sed opus quod nobile claret Clarificet mentes, ut eant per lumina vera, Ad
verum lumen …

  Bright is the noble work, but, being nobly bright, the work should brighten the minds, so that they may travel, through the true lights, to the True Light … .

  —Abbot Adam Suger Inscribed on the doors of the transept at Saint-Denis.

  The rain was making the cracked stones of the old Roman road slick and dangerous. Agnes had pulled her hood over her face and was asleep against her father’s back. Catherine hunched over her horse and wished she had a back to lean on. But Roger and the knights were riding guard on the cart carrying the barrels of wine and the small chest of spices for the abbey.

  The weather had suddenly turned from warm autumn to the edge of winter. The crowds who came each year for the saint’s feast day and the accompanying faire would be hard put to find shelter tonight. Catherine’s arms and legs were soaked and numb with cold, but her heart burned with ardor for her mission. In a few hours she would be at Saint-Denis. God and Saint Thecla would help her gain access to the library. She could be back at the Paraclete before the first Sunday of Advent. She tried to wrap the cloak more tightly. Could nothing keep out the rain?

  They reached Saint-Denis early in the afternoon.

  Even the rough, gray day couldn’t diminish the splendor of the new abbey church, rising phoenixlike from the shell of the old. Catherine looked upon the enormous west façade of the cathedral and felt her own insignificance. The building soared above her, poised lightly on the ground, seeming ready at any moment to rise into heaven. The enormous window spaces were empty still, waiting for the glaziers and painters to finish their work. But even so, Catherine could feel the power of this place of light.

  “When the sun shines into the church, it will seem as though we’ve wandered into paradise!” she exclaimed.

  “If you don’t keep your eyes on where you’re going, dear niece,” Roger cautioned, “you’ll wander right into that pile of dung.”

  Catherine was too lost in awe to notice, so Roger gently took her arm and guided her back to the path.

  “It’s just so amazing. The work had barely begun the last time I was here,” she said. “Oh, look! Garnulf finished the statues in the façade. You remember him, don’t you? He worked for Grandfather on the corbels for the castle. These are much better. The royal ancestors of Our Lord.”

  She slipped and fell to her knees.

  “You needn’t kneel to them, child,” Roger said. “They aren’t consecrated.”

  He was freezing. The metal of his hauberk was rubbing under one arm where a link had broken and dug through the cloth; he had a strong need for a mug of warm ale by a blazing fire. But first he had several duties to perform. He sighed and helped Catherine up.

  “Do you think he’ll know me?” she asked.

  “Our Lord? He knows everyone. Didn’t the nuns teach you that?”

  “No, silly. Garnulf.” She grinned. “I’m sorry. You must be eager to get inside.”

  “Not at all,” he answered. “A chilling rain and cutting wind must be a proper penance for something.” He finally got her into the building. “Are you sure you don’t want to join Agnes and the maids at the abbey guesthouse? You can see the atelier after you’ve changed. You may not have noticed it in your rapture, but you’re very wet.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am. Never mind. I don’t feel it. If I don’t see Garnulf now, I may not have a chance before we leave.”

  With a stifled sigh, he acquiesced and gave her his arm.

  They walked in silence through the half-finished building. Bits of the old Merovingian church still showed. It had been built at the time of King Dagobert, and the consecration, it was said, had been presided over by Christ personally, standing on a cloud and surrounded by angels and Frankish saints. With such a beginning, there had been no question of tearing down the old building, even though it had become woefully inadequate, so Suger had designed the new church to ornament the old. It was his life’s work and now, after years of prayer, planning and skillful conniving, it was finally becoming a reality. An earthly reflection of the city of God.

  Catherine shivered as they walked through the transept to the artisans’ workroom. This was not the simple piety and gentle human love of the Paraclete. There was something almost wild in this place, a fierce striving. She recognized in it the burning need of Man to reach, straining, to the heavens, just once, to touch the mind of God. The passion of it frightened her even as it lured. Heloïse trained her charges to reject strong emotion as destructive of clear thought. Poor woman! No one knew the truth of that better than she. But Catherine had never been tempted by earthly love. What she desired above all was reflected in the work here. She wanted to see the truth with a perfect clarity which would be a beacon of logic to light the way through the imperfections of earth to the unity and order of the divine plan.

  It was her inability to find this that kept her from making her final vows. But those who had built these arches had felt no such uncertainty.

  “How could they not be terrified to climb so high!” she marveled.

  “Some are,” Roger told her, thinking she meant a human measurement. “I don’t know how many fell during the construction. But, of course, to die in the service of God is what we all hope for.”

  “Of course,” Catherine agreed. It occurred to her that, unless he went on crusade, Roger had little chance of attaining that hope. His occupation allowed for few saints. She moved closer to him as they reached the workroom door.

  It swung open and they walked back into the real world, bright with candles and the noise of men, each occupied at his own trade. In one corner a young man was gently chipping a hand from a block of stone. An older one watched intently.

  “The finger must be longer,” he told the apprentice.

  The young man looked at his own hand. “But that’s not the way a real hand is. The second finger is longer, not the first.”

  “You’re not making a real hand. You’re making a saint, pointing the way to heaven. He can’t very well do it with his middle finger, now, can he?”

  “No, Master Garnulf, I suppose not.” The young man suppressed a grin and went back to his work.

  “Garnulf!”

  The old man turned and his creased eyes opened in delight.

  “Catherine! St. Martin’s dust! Little Lady Catherine! I thought they’d walled you up from men’s eyes forever.”

  “Not yet.” Catherine smiled as she kissed him on the cheek. “Peace to you.”

  “And to you, child. I’m heartglad to see you once more before you renounce the things of earth.”

  “I am happy, too, that I could see your beautiful kings and queens on the façade, Garnulf. They’re magnificent!”

  “It’s a weight from my mind now they’re done.” Garnulf gestured to the apprentice. “I took on Edgar, here, to oblige a friend. But he shows such promise that I’m thinking of letting him do one of the Frankish kings. What do you think?”

  The apprentice put down his tools and bowed to her. His face, hands and hair were covered with dust from the statue, but Catherine got the impression of more permanent paleness, white-blond hair and lashes. Edgar looked up. His eyes were dark gray as the rain-soaked stone. Catherine stepped back, daunted.

  “It’s fine work,” she said. “But I would expect that of anyone you trained.”

  “Thank you, Lady,” both men said. The apprentice had an accent Catherine couldn’t place.

  “I can’t tell where your work leaves off and Edgar’s begins,” she added.

  “He’s a fair enough stone carver,” the old man admitted. “Considering he doesn’t come by it naturally.”

  The apprentice gave a warning cough. Garnulf stuttered, “That is, he hasn’t been, I mean, his father doesn’t …”

  “Are you here for the Saint’s Day. tomorrow?” Edgar asked quickly.

  “In part,” Catherine answered, puzzled at the old man’s discomfort. “I would like to use the abbey library, if the abbot will allow me. And, of course, I wanted to see
Garnulf again. I don’t forget how many times you let me hide among the stones when you were working for Grandfather and they wanted me to come in and practice my embroidery. I still wear the little lindenwood cross you carved for me.”

  Garnulf smiled, then sobered. “May it always protect you, child. All the same, I’m surprised your father let you come here. I should say, come here now. With the crowds come for the Saint’s Day and to visit the hermit, …”

  “What hermit?” Catherine asked.

  The apprentice turned his back and started working again. Garnulf swirled a design with the chisel in the dust on the table.

  “Oh, just another one of these holy men, comes from nowhere, builds a hut and gets people to thinking he’s some kind of saint on earth. He’s out in the forest somewhere; I haven’t seen him myself.”

  “The woods are full of hermits,” Catherine said. “Why do people come to this one? What does he preach?”

  “I couldn’t say, Lady,” Garnulf answered. “But the crowds are terrible thick this year. Your father should have known it’s not a place for an innocent child like you.”

  “Dear Garnulf.” Catherine hugged him. “You worry too much. This is Saint-Denis. What better place for me than here? Walking through the church, even only partially done, I felt as if I were surrounded by angels.”

  Garnulf dropped the chisel. He bent to get it and winced at a pain in his back. “It’s not angels I feel here,” he said. “I fear that the saints don’t always do their jobs. Even in the cloister, evil can seep in. It’s the same as the stone. I’ve handled many a block that seemed perfectly proportioned. Yet, when I started to carve it, one little chip and it would break, showing the deep faults running through it, right to the heart.”

  Both Catherine and the apprentice stared at the old man. He saw their confusion, shrugged and relaxed.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Edgar, Lady Catherine is tired, I’m sure. Her uncle seems to have been delayed. Will you show her back to the guesthouse?”