Heresy: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (27 page)

“But we mustn’t be too confident,” John warned. “Many of the bishops have had to deal with heretics in their own lands. They’re predisposed to be severe with people like Eon who disrupt order in the villages. I don’t know which way the pope will go. Eugenius respected Abelard, but he is in exile from Rome because of the heretic Arnold. He might see Eon as a similar threat.”

“I know,” Astrolabe sighed. “Arnold was also a friend of my father. Eugenius knows that.”

“You chose to come here rather than run,” John reminded him. “You must have known there was danger.”

“I came because I thought that there was a chance of discovering who killed my…friend, Cecile,” Astrolabe said. “I wanted to be sure that, if Eon were punished, then Henri of Tréguier would be, too. Both of them committed sacrilege, but Henri did it on a much grander scale. Eon took food and clothes from hermits and parishes because he and his people needed them. Henri has desecrated a monastery and violated nuns. Yet he still wallows in his sins. I thought that he would be brought to justice if I could lay this murder on one of his followers.”

He paused. “To be honest, I didn’t really understand how great the danger might be. And now I’m no longer sure that Henri had anything to do with Cecile’s death, for all his other crimes. There’s been no sign of him in Reims.”

“He might be the one who set this phantom monk on you,” Thomas said. “And if you bring Henri into the matter, we might get the support of Engebaud of Tours. He wanted Eon caught, but he is furious about Henri’s actions as well. He doesn’t care about you particularly, I believe. What he wants most is the submission of the bishop of Dol. If you can help Engebaud prove that all these irregularities happened because Dol has allowed anarchy, then he’ll take your side without question.”

“I always said that Eon wouldn’t have lasted so long or gathered so many people to him if the bishop of Dol hadn’t ignored the problem,” Astrolabe said again. “I can tell Archbishop Engebaud that much in all honesty.”

“Very well.” Thomas carefully folded the clothes that Astrolabe had chosen and gave them to him. “I must attend my archbishop for now. I’ve told my servant that you will be sharing the room. He’ll bring both of you something to eat.”

“And drink?” John asked with a grin.

Thomas grinned back. “Of course, old friend. Where you are concerned that goes without saying.”

When Godfrey brought Astrolabe to the house where the English were staying, he hadn’t expected to be offered a bed with the clerks of Canterbury, and he was right. Not even Astrolabe had bothered to ask where he was staying.

He left Catherine at the convent gate and went to see if he could find shelter with Countess Sybil’s men, even though he wasn’t officially one of them. It might be only a place on the floor, but at least he could sleep rather than keeping one eye open all night to guard his possessions the way he would if he went to an inn. Lacking that, there were always the churches.

What he really wanted was to get Gwenael in a nice dark corner. Perhaps some physical proof of his interest would finally convince her to renounce Eon. He went by the kitchens at Saint-Pierre, just in case she were free.

The laundress growled when he asked for her.

“That one’s a troublemaker,” she said. “Thinks she’s better than the rest of us. Hmmph! She can’t even scrub a floor properly. Of course, the only thing she’s likely any good at is what you no doubt want her for. Well, it makes no matter to me. I put her to work out by the midden, cleaning fish. That should make her appealing. You can have her when she’s done.”

With a nasty laugh, she shut the door in his face.

Godfrey went around to the back. He found a basket of cleaned fish and a pile of offal on some sacking, but Gwenael had gone.

“Thomas and I are going out with some of the other Englishmen,” John told Astrolabe. “He has suggested that we leave you at the bathhouse and pick you up on our way back. Do you mind?”

“Mind? I haven’t had a bath since Paris,” Astrolabe said. “You can leave me there for days if you like.”

“Sorry, we have to be back by Compline,” John said. “Think you can scrape off all the grime by then?”

“I’ll make a start on it.”

The bathhouse was busy but not overly crowded. Astrolabe spent the last of the silver coins of Troyes that his mother had given him and got a tub to himself curtained off from the world. The water was steaming. He climbed in and leaned back in ecstasy. Soon he would dredge up the energy to soap himself, maybe even find a barber. He rubbed his beard. It was time to get rid of it. He couldn’t spend his life fearing to show his father in his face. He wasn’t ashamed of being Abelard’s son. It was far too easy to hide behind the growth and become someone else. Perhaps that was why clerics were supposed to stay clean shaven. And why hermits weren’t.

Tomorrow he would come before the leaders of the Church. For that, he should appear as himself, whatever the cost.

That was the highest level of theological speculation that he aspired to. It was too much for tonight. Now all he wanted was to lean back and let the warmth penetrate his skin. Until this moment he hadn’t realized how chilled he was, body and soul. Astrolabe closed his eyes and let himself drift.

“We don’t need to mention this to Annora, do we?” Margaret said in a small voice. “I know I shouldn’t have given away her property, but Gui was so miserable.”

Catherine thought he couldn’t have looked any more pathetic than Margaret did now. There had been no point in scolding her; she had punished herself quite adequately.

“But I don’t understand.” She took both Margaret’s hands and looked into her eyes, searching for sense. “If you were already sure that he faked the attack, why did you believe him about the brooch?”

“I don’t know,” Margaret admitted. “I just did. It was the way he looked at it. The way his face softened when he spoke of his grandmother. I never met either of mine. I don’t know! I’m sorry, Catherine.”

He face was flushed, the scar a jagged furrow in her face. Catherine wondered if it would ever fade completely. It had been more than two years since the attack.

“It’s only that I was worried about your safety,” she said. “Gui has admitted that he hates Annora and her family. He could have arranged to be in the party that captured the Eonites. He could have killed Cecile. You mustn’t feel pity for someone who might be a murderer.”

“But I do, Catherine,” Margaret said, puzzled. “I know he was lying about something to me, but it’s not what we expected. I wonder if he even knew he was lying.”

“Margaret?” Catherine stared at Margaret’s eyes in shock. While she had been speaking, the color had changed from warm brown to an almost icy blue.

“What is it, Catherine?” Margaret smiled. The color was back to normal.

“Nothing.” Catherine rubbed her eyes. “It must be the fumes from the brazier. This room is very close.”

Margaret was instantly solicitous. “You shouldn’t have stayed out in the wind all day,” she said. “You need some spiced wine and a thick soup. I’ll see you down to the hall before I go to dine with Grandfather. Then, when I get back, I’ll rub your feet with rosemary oil. That will warm you. And tomorrow I’ll confess everything to Annora if you want me to.”

“Thank you,
ma doux
.” Catherine hugged her. “You’re a good sister to me. And, no, perhaps we won’t say anything to Annora for now. If the brooch is hers, then she must have dropped it in the garden that evening. In that case, it won’t help us learn more about who killed Cecile. If you are quite sure that Gui faked the attack, then we have to figure out why he contrived such an elaborate ruse. I don’t suppose you have a feeling about that, do you?”

“Sorry,” Margaret said, “but I think it has more to do with Annora than anything else. Gui doesn’t seem interested in Astrolabe at all.”

While the promised spiced wine and soup helped Catherine’s body, she was out of sorts all evening. She knew that all of these elaborate dinners were important. This was where the real business of the council was conducted. Now that their marriage had been declared canonical, Raoul of Vermandois and Petronilla were celebrating the betrothal of their children to Sybil’s. Sybil would now expect military help from Raoul, and he would count on her to smooth the path for any relations with Sybil’s nephew, Henry, especially if he eventually became the next king of England.

The nets spread far. In return for withdrawing his objections to Raoul and Petronilla’s marriage, Count Thibault knew that they would support the next nephew of his who needed a bishopric. Or Sybil might be asked to give property to one of the count’s favorite monastic houses. It was how the world worked.

Catherine had no objection to that. It was a good system that bound families to each other and helped prevent warfare. But she wished it didn’t involve long, elaborate dinners, at least not ones she had to attend. Her only hope was that the entertainment would be lively. If not, she’d commit the social blunder of falling asleep right in her trencher bread.

Or soaking the bread with tears. Sitting at the table, surrounded by loud strangers, she longed horribly for her own home, for the warmth of Edgar beside her and the noise of the children.

She looked around for Annora, the only person at the dinner whom she knew at all. She wasn’t there. When the page came by to refill her wine cup, she asked if he knew where she was.

“Not well, I think,” the boy said. “She didn’t come down. Someone else was asking earlier, and the countess said she was resting in her room.”

“Thank you,” Catherine said.

She ate some more of the potage, feeling terribly out of place. The page must be mistaken. Annora wasn’t in her room. It was the same as Catherine’s.

So where was she?

Margaret was having a better time than Catherine. The dinner at her grandfather’s was much more informal. No one had said anything this evening about how much she would like Carinthia. All attention was going to Elenora, who had stood before the prelates and nobility of Christendom that afternoon and announced that she really didn’t want to be reconciled to a husband who had abandoned her for a woman less than half his age.

“You were very dignified,” Mahaut told her for the tenth time. “Everyone in the room felt sympathy for you.”

Elenora, sitting between Mahaut and Margaret, thanked her.

“But I didn’t want their sympathy, Aunt,” she said. “I wanted their respect. And I wanted them to at least set Raoul a penance for his treatment of me.”

Her voice had risen slightly. She signaled for another serving of turnips.

“Now Elenora,” Thibault said from his wife’s other side. “You know how long it took to make even this arrangement. Believe me, the lands, tithes and tolls that Raoul and Petronilla have turned over to you will make you one of the richest women in Champagne. You’ll be able to travel from Arras to Aquitaine and be lodged every night by someone who owes you fealty. What more could you want?”

“Honor, Uncle,” Elenora said so softly that only Margaret heard. “And perhaps a little love.”

The conversation continued on without them. Next to Thibault was his friend, the abbot of Clairvaux. How he had been convinced to keep silent about the divorce was something Margaret would have given a great deal to know.

She leaned back on her stool to see him better. Bernard was a thin man, of middle height. He didn’t appear very imposing. But Margaret had seen him preach. There was a passion in him that could only be divinely inspired. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him, though. It was his words that had sent the armies to the Holy Land and, indirectly, caused the murder of Jews. But he had dropped everything and rushed to stop the persecution. On the other hand, he had been the chief persecutor of Abelard. Was he a saint, as some said, or only a man too easily guided by his friends? She had heard that he was gathering a faction together to assure the condemnation of Bishop Gilbert of Poitiers. But that struggle had nothing to do with her. What Margaret feared was that this terribly powerful man would speak out against Astrolabe.

The abbot turned and caught her staring at him. Margaret gasped and nearly fell from the stool. She managed to steady herself, looking back up to see if he had turned away. Obviously amused by her awe, the saintly abbot of Clairvaux smiled and winked at her.

Margaret kept her eyes on her food for the rest of the meal.

The bishop of Paris had lodging rights at a very fine house just outside the walls of Reims. Along with the rest of the party, Rolland had been given excellent hospitality, perhaps a bit too much for the Lenten season. His stomach was rumbling alarmingly. It was with great effort that he managed to suppress a mighty belch during the after-dinner prayer.

As the canons filed from the hall, the doorkeeper stopped him.

“There was a messenger here for you,” he said. “I told him you were eating and I’d give you the message when you’d finished. He said that was fine, but he wasn’t going to wait until then. He’d only been given a penny for the task.”

“Did he say who had sent him?” Rolland asked.

“No.” The doorkeeper rubbed his palm suggestively.

Rolland grunted and put a penny in his hand.

“Did he leave the message?” he asked.

“He did.” The doorkeeper tucked the penny in a pouch at his belt. “It’s ‘the toll hut by the river; come as soon as possible.’ Found a friend in Reims, did you?”

He chuckled. “Better hurry. They check for empty beds in the dorter after Compline.”

Rolland didn’t bother correcting the man’s misapprehension. It must be important news to send a messenger so late. He signaled to one of the other canons that he was going outside, holding his stomach and grimacing in explanation.

The cool evening air energized him. He took a deep breath and released all the gas that had been tormenting him. The sound shattered the still night. From the courtyard next door a dog began to bark, soon joined by all the others in the neighborhood.

Rolland smiled. In all respects, he was a satisfied man. Abelard’s son was soon going to receive the punishment he deserved. An old wound could now begin to heal.