Death Comes As Epiphany: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery Page 7

  Catherine was busy examining her skirt, but she heard the stiffness in his voice.

  “I don’t believe you’re a mere anything, Edgar. That’s not the point. I’m from the Paraclete. We have to be twice as careful as other women of our reputations.”

  “The Paraclete? Sweet St. Illtud!” He gave a low, surprised whistle. “So you’ve been taught by Héloïse. Master Abelard, too?”

  “Of course,” she replied proudly.

  Just in time, she remembered that she was supposed to be an outcast from the convent.

  “For all the good it did me,” she added. “The Abbess Heloïse is much stricter on others than on herself.” Forgive me, Mother!

  “That’s not what I’ve heard,” Edgar answered.

  “And what would you know about it?” she asked.

  He seemed about to answer, but then he checked himself. His face closed back to the blandness of a serf’s. But he wasn’t quick enough to hide the flash of anger.

  “Excuse me, my lady, I forgot my place again. If you’ve quite recovered?”

  “Edgar?”

  “Yes, Lady?” That mocking tone.

  Catherine lifted her chin. Nothing was worse than the arrogance of a freeman with a skill.

  “I’m fine, thank you. I’m sure my father will wish to give you something for your exertions on my behalf.”

  They stood a moment, glaring at each other, the bond between them stretching, thinning, fraying.

  “Garnulf!” Catherine cried. Edgar whipped about, half expecting a ghost. “Edgar, you saw his face.”

  “Don’t think of it, Lady,” he said.

  “Damn you, stop that!” Her temper was a match for any man’s. “His head. The front was crushed, wasn’t it?”

  His voice was soothing. “Yes, I know. You shouldn’t have had to see it.” He stopped suddenly and, for the first time, really looked at her. “You understand.”

  “Yes. He wasn’t alone up there.”

  Edgar looked away. “The abbot must have seen also. He’s the one who covered Garnulf’s face.”

  “That’s what I thought. I just wanted to be sure. The abbot must know. That’s probably why he wants to see me.”

  Roughly, Edgar grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “You mustn’t speak of this. Not even to Suger. Do you understand? Forget it!”

  She held his eyes and moved her head, no. “Someone hit him from the front. Then he fell backwards. He was murdered. He was my friend. I have to find out who did it and why. I will tell the abbot anything which might help.”

  He was silent a long time. “Perhaps the gossip is true and he was struck down by demons.”

  Catherine considered this. “Is that what you believe?”

  Edgar tried to gauge her attitude. How credulous was she? How devout? Most of all, how perceptive? He tried to think of a safe equivocation and gave up. Catherine expected the truth. Well, she should have as much as was his to give.

  “No,” he answered. “Garnulf was a good man. He’d have no traffic with demons. Someone killed him, someone human.”

  “But why?” she said. “What could he have done so terrible that someone would want him dead? And why not speak of it to Suger?”

  “A good man needs only to exist for the wicked to fear him,” Edgar reminded her.

  “Wickedness? At Saint-Denis?” Catherine tried to imagine it amidst the splendor of the new abbey: the rich hangings, the relics of the saints, the tombs of the kings, the gold-and jewel-embellished ornaments. Slowly, she nodded. “Yes. There is great wealth here, and great power. Abbot Suger wishes it all to honor God, I’m sure of that. But such earthly things can also attract those whose thoughts are only of the earth.”

  And, she added to herself, those whose hearts seek only their own glory. Perhaps the sort of person who would do anything to bring down an enemy. One who would desecrate a holy book, even kill a harmless old man, if he stood in the way. She shivered. Edgar moved as if to wrap her cloak more tightly, then stepped back. Catherine pretended not to notice. She continued.

  “We cannot allow this sacred place to be fouled with evil. We must discover the one who has done this.”

  “Why ‘we’?” Edgar said. “This has nothing to do with you. Garnulf was my teacher. It is my duty to see his murderer discovered. But you have no ties to him. You mustn’t meddle in such things. Go back to your convent and forget it. Or remember him in your prayers. That’s all the good you can do for him now.”

  Catherine went completely still. Anyone who knew her would have backed away quickly. Edgar simply waited, expecting her to submit to reason with sweet docility.

  She raised both fists. “Who do you think you are!” she shouted. “You … you … . English, you! What right have you to say where I go or what I do? I’ll go back to the convent when I wish to go, not when some filthy peasant orders me to. Garnulf was my friend and I saw him die. I’m not going to forget it. I’m not going to run from it. You may do as you like!”

  She was trembling, she was so angry, and she knew her face had turned an unbecoming red. Edgar stepped closer. She lowered her hands but didn’t step back.

  “Very well,” he said quietly. She blinked. “You are quite correct. I have no rights at all, especially where you are concerned. But please, Lady Catherine, for the love of God, for now, be silent. Say nothing to anyone of what we know.”

  “But surely you can’t imagine …”

  “I can imagine almost anything,” he answered. “We don’t know why Garnulf died. We don’t know who is involved. If you speak to someone in authority, and they tell someone else, the one who did it may learn of your suspicions. Do you think they would consider your life more sacred than Garnulf’s?”

  And Catherine, the scholar, the contemplative nun, the single-minded seeker after truth, looked into storm-gray Saxon eyes and asked, “Would that concern you?”

  He looked back and sighed sharply. “By God’s teeth, eyeballs, bones and private parts! Yes, you annoying woman, it would.”

  And despite her sorrow, Catherine smiled.

  Seven

  Saint-Denis, Afternoon, October 9, 1139

  The church is refulgent in its walls and the poor suffer lack … And what of those ridiculous monstrosities of deformed beauty and beautiful deformity? Vile monkeys, fierce lions, monstrous centaurs, half men? … One could spend a whole day gaping instead of meditating on God. What ineptitude! What expense!

  —Bernard of Clairvaux

  Apologia ad Guillelmum

  Sancti-Theodori Abbatum

  Catherine hurried up to the women’s room, grateful to find it empty. Outside people shouted, argued, prayed, hawked food and charms. Here at least it was still. She went to the basin and splashed her face with cool water. She tried to compose herself, make her hands stop shaking. She forced them together and bowed her head against her fingers, pressing hard. The wardress came in.

  “Oh! Excuse me, Lady Catherine,” she stammered. “1 didn’t mean to interrupt your prayers.”

  She backed out.

  Catherine looked at her hands and laughed. Prayers! Right now she couldn’t remember two words beyond “Ave Maria.” Her mind was jumbled past coherence. What was she to do next? Despite her fine words to Edgar, she had no idea how to go about finding Garnulf’s murderer. Murderer. There. She had said it. She was forced to give it a name. Now she had to find the one who did it, to give him a face, to know why.

  You have other business here, you know, her conscience reminded her. Which you are much more capable of performing. You should leave the old man’s death to those at the abbey who are responsible for such things.

  Who at the abbey is responsible for discovering a murderer?

  Abbot Suger. Prior Herveus. Those who belong here.

  Yes, but … But what? No, not what, why? That was what was making her hesitate. What if Garnulf’s death were tied somehow to the psalter, to the webs forming around Peter Abelard and all those who supported him? She sud
denly remembered that Garnulf came from Le Pallet, where Abelard’s family still lived. It might just be a chance connection, but … how could she tell Suger anything without betraying Mother Héloïse? And yet, wasn’t it her duty to tell?

  She scooped the water over her face again and then dried it energetically with a rough cloth, trying to rub the answer into her mind. But nothing was that easy.

  She sighed and glanced out the narrow window.

  Uncle Roger was heading for the guesthouse, towing Agnes in his wake. Catherine smiled. He was so strong and sure. As Agnes had once sighed, “He really is perfect. It’s a pity he’s such close kin.” But Catherine was glad he was family. She needed someone like Roger, straightforward, dependable; someone who knew what he wanted and how to get it. When he saw a course of action, he would never stand and dither, tormented by dialectical possibilities.

  They passed out of sight. A moment later, Catherine heard their feet on the stairs.

  “Oh, Catherine!” Agnes exclaimed, sitting down and trying to adjust her crumpled headdress. “You were so lucky not to get in. It was horrible. I couldn’t see anything. And then I had to make my way out by crawling over the shoulders of I don’t know how many men. Goodness knows what they saw. It was terribly undignified.”

  Roger laughed. “It’s always like that on feast days, Agnes. Why do you think Suger is building the new church? Catherine? You still look very pale. Did you have any trouble getting back here?”

  “No, of course not,” Catherine said. “No one even noticed me.”

  “Why should they?” Agnes asked. “You’re still dressed like a nun. Oh, yes, Father said to remind you that you’re to go see the abbot.”

  “I know. He wanted to console me about Garnulf,” Catherine prevaricated. “It’s very kind of him, in the midst of all these important visitors, to remember me.”

  “Maybe.” Agnes shrugged and began fixing a braid. “I think he wants to know what’s going on at the Paraclete and why Heloïse really sent you home.”

  Catherine froze. Roger frowned. “What are you talking about, Agnes!” he said.

  “After all, everybody knows about them,” Agnes said. “That’s the last convent in Christendom to worry about discipline. I think Catherine found out something. Maybe that old Abelard isn’t as incapacitated as people think. I’ve seen him. He doesn’t look like a eunuch to me. Or maybe,” she added over Catherine’s outrage, “maybe Heloïse found another ‘protector’ for the nuns. Hasn’t Count Thibault made several donations lately?”

  “Agnes!” Roger shouted. “You’ve gone too far.”

  “It’s not logical, anyway,” Catherine added. “If I had discovered some awful secret about the Paraclete, they would hardly turn me out to spread the information.”

  Agnes considered that. “Well, maybe,” she said. “But I’m only telling you what everyone says. You ought to know. In Paris, I have to find out a person’s politics before I even dare tell them I have a sister there. Excuse me. I need to find one of the maids to help me replait my hair.”

  “She didn’t mean it,” Roger told Catherine when she’d gone. “She’s just repeating street gossip.”

  “I know,” Catherine said. “Do you think that makes me feel any better?”

  Roger put his arm around her. “What difference does it make, Catte, sweet? No one who knew you would accuse you of such activities. You’re better away from there.”

  He kissed her forehead. Yes, Catherine thought, he smells of sandalwood incense.

  “You’re very kind to me, Uncle,” she said. “And to Agnes. It was wrong of her to take your ring today.”

  “Ah, well. She did it for a good cause. And it came from no one special.”

  Their faces were very close now. He smiled, but there was something in his eyes that made Catherine’s heart constrict in pity.

  “You will find someone soon, I’m sure,” she said. “You’ve been doing so well at the last few tournaments. There may be a girl, right now, begging her father to open negotiations with you for her hand.”

  “Perhaps.” She could feel his breath warm against her cheek. “But I’m afraid that the only woman I would wish to enter into negotiations with prefers to be the bride of Christ.”

  He let go of her abruptly and walked out, leaving her flushed and open-mouthed, for once at a loss for a reply.

  “By Saint Thomas the Unbeliever!” she said at last. “I must get back to the convent. I have no training for this world.”

  As a result of Roger’s astounding statement, Catherine was so preoccupied walking across the courtyard that she collided with Edgar.

  “Can’t we ever just meet?” he asked, rubbing his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. I’m on my way to see the abbot,” Catherine said.

  “You said you wouldn’t tell him about Garnulf!” Edgar caught her arm.

  “It might be better if I did,” Catherine began. His grip tightened. “He is best equipped to find out who killed him. And let go of me,” she added. “You don’t make my decisions.”

  He let go her arm, but his eyes still held her. Catherine felt drained. Sweet baby Jesus! Had there always been such intense emotions in the world? How did people survive the constant pounding of other people’s feelings?

  “I am not letting the matter rest,” she told him.

  “You must be careful. You have no idea what’s going on here. It’s my job to find out who did this,” he said.

  “And then? Shall I expect to see you flung from the tower, too?” she answered. “And who made it your job?”

  “My master,” Edgar answered, then added, “Garnulf was my master. I owe it to him.”

  She knew that wasn’t the whole truth, but couldn’t think of a way to make him tell it. Not now, anyway. She touched his sleeve and tried not to look arrogant.

  “Edgar, promise me you’ll share whatever you discover, or I tell Suger everything, now, including the amazing amount of learning you have for a poor apprentice stone carver.”

  He frowned, then nodded and stepped out of her way. Catherine tried not to appear in a hurry to get away from him. Edgar was another puzzle she wasn’t sure she wanted to solve. Why was he here? Did he really want to protect her or keep her from saying something which might involve him? He had been with her when Garnulf fell so he couldn’t have pushed him. And his grief had been so real! And yet, there was something strange about him. And he hadn’t offered to explain what he meant when he had cried that Garnulf had warned him. Of what?

  The doorkeeper left her in the anteroom until Suger was ready to see her. It was dimly lit and quiet. Catherine sat on a bench and hoped she would have a few minutes to organize her thoughts. From the hallway, the stairs led up to the library. This time of day, during the feast, it should be empty. Perhaps she could just wander up there. How much time did she have? There were muffled voices from the abbot’s chamber. The conversation did not sound as if it were almost over.

  Holding her skirts carefully to avoid tripping, Catherine tiptoed up the stairs.

  At the top, the door was open a crack. Catherine stopped. Inside someone was lecturing. It seemed a strange time for a lesson, but she had learned to take an increase in her education whenever the chance arose. She sat on the top step and listened.

  “ … as the chain goes ever winding, from the small to the great, from the mundane to the sublime. Look at it, boys!”

  There was a moment’s silence as they looked at whatever it was.

  “See how it ascends, this tiny light, ever on its way to the Light of the World. So can your tiny minds climb out of the muck and rise to join the one superessential Light.” There was a thwack, a noise Catherine knew all too well as the sound of knuckles landing on the skull of an inattentive student. “They can, Theodulf, but I seriously doubt that, in your case, they will. Concentrate, you oaf!”

  Catherine yawned. Basic Neoplatonic theory. Must be a lesson from Saint Denis to honor his day
. The monks did not seem too receptive. Neither was she. She was about to start back down when the door was flung open. She was confronted by a long pale finger with an ink-blackened nail pointed directly at her nose.

  “Spy!” the monk hissed. “Foul evil, unclean demon! Begone, you whirlpool of debauchery!”

  Catherine blinked. The finger was so close that her eyes crossed trying to look at it. She focused on the man’s face instead. Plain and round with somewhat protruding eyes, only the intense disgust of the expression distinguished him.

  “Filthy whore!” he shouted. “How dare you enter this place and listen to holy secrets!”

  That was a bit strong. After all, she’d been invited. And as for secrets …

  “If you think I would take the trouble to sneak in to hear a lecture in elementary philosophy, you’re mad!” she said, trying to get up without getting tangled in her skirts. “I am waiting to see the abbot.”

  “Liar!” The man shook his finger at her again.

  “No, Leitbert,” a quiet voice interrupted. “She was indeed waiting to see me.”

  The finger faltered and drooped.

  “Excuse me, Lord Abbot,” he mumbled. “I caught her here, listening at the door.”

  “I’m sure you were mistaken,” Suger replied. “Lady Catherine has no need to eavesdrop.”

  He held out his hand and Catherine descended the stairs with as much ladylike grace as she could manage. She squelched the temptation to turn and stick out her tongue at the monk. Suger led her into his room, where she found her father waiting. Again, he did not seem pleased, but Suger was gracious.

  “So, my daughter, your visit with us has not been a pleasant one.” The abbot smiled kindly on her and motioned for her to sit. “I am terribly sorry that you had to witness that dreadful accident.”

  “Thank you, my Lord Abbot.” Catherine spoke so softly that her father blinked in astonishment.

  She sat gingerly on the edge of Suger’s bed, which, in the daytime, was covered with bright pillows and draped with a silk cloth to make a couch. She felt out of place amid such brilliance. Suger leaned forward and patted her hand.