The Devil's Door (30 page)
“Do you think the accident was an encounter with Brother Baldwin’s hoe?” Héloïse asked. “But that doesn’t make sense. He was the only one who always knew Paciana was here.”
“What?”
“As her stepfather, he gave the permission for her entry,” Héloïse explained. “I couldn’t let her in without the consent of her legal guardian.”
“But I’m sure Constanza didn’t know,” Catherine said. “Why did he tell her Paciana had died?”
“To protect Paciana from Constanza, perhaps? Or to be sure her property came to Alys without questions?” Edgar guessed. “He may have believed he would have more control over his wife’s daughter than Paciana. But if he knew she was here all along, why harm her now?”
They all sat in frustrated silence. Finally Héloïse rose.
“Somehow,” she said, “we have to find that final piece. Three people have been killed. I don’t think it was merely for a piece of forest land, no matter how valuable it might be. There is a deeper secret. When we know that, everything else will come clear.”
Walter had come in while she was speaking.
“I’m ready now to return to Quincy and make them tell me,” he offered. “It would be a great pleasure to reduce the place to rubble.”
“I couldn’t countenance that,” Héloïse told him. “And I don’t think it would help, in any case. The fact that no one from the keep has come here to protest the abduction of one of their guests makes it clear that they are mired in guilt and, perhaps, fear of what we may know.”
“Edgar and I won’t give up the search,” Catherine said. “Where should we go from here?”
“First, we’re going to Paris,” Edgar said firmly. “We certainly will have no luck returning to Troyes and we’ve discovered all we can in the forest. I want to find Astrolabe and see if Master Abelard’s health has improved. I want to find Solomon and be sure Eliazar is mending and learn if the attack on him has anything to do with this.”
“As do I,” Catherine said.
“And,” Edgar added, “I want to visit your father and give him the opportunity to laugh at my expense for not having listened to his warnings about marriage.”
“You may do that, too,” Catherine said coolly. “If you give me the chance one day of letting your parents do the same.”
Edgar was dumbfounded.
“But they’re in Scotland!” he argued. “No one wants to go to Scotland. Why do you think King David keeps invading England?”
“We don’t need to go today,” Catherine said. “Just sometime.”
Edgar shelved this idea in the back of his mind and hoped it would stay there.
“I agree,” Héloïse said. “You should go to Paris. As soon as Catherine is strong enough.”
She paused.
“If you can,” she added, “send me word. Master Abelard is determined to face Abbot Bernard and debate him in Sens. If he does, I would be grateful if you would go with him and report to me everything … everything that happens.”
“Of course,” Edgar promised. “Walter? Will you come with us?”
“I have no interest in Paris or debates,” Walter said. “I’m going home to see if my land and my horses are being properly cared for. I’m going to bring that family of charcoal burners back with me and see that they are given a house and a plot of land again. Then I’m going to let Raynald of Tonnerre find me.”
“Walter,” Héloïse cautioned. “What about the Peace of God?”
“Easter’s over,” Walter said bluntly. “I’ve done all that should be asked of a Christian knight. My duty on this earth is to maintain order and justice. Running a lance through the gut of Raynald of Tonnerre will be a most fitting way to ensure both those things.”
“That’s not justice, Walter.” Héloïse fixed him with her glare. “That’s vengeance, and vengeance belongs to God.”
Walter was unmoved. “True enough, but there’s nothing in the Bible that keeps me from being His instrument. Thank you for your hospitality. When I get home, I’ll send a dozen laying hens to repay you.”
He forestalled any further argument by picking up his pack and his crossbow, bowing and leaving.
“And now, my lady abbess, do you have any wisdom for me?”
Héloïse had not forgotten Samonie, but she had not had time to think of a solution to her problem.
“You are welcome to stay here as long as you wish,” she told the maid. “You may even become a
conversa.”
conversa.”
Samonie chuckled. “Thank you, no. Hair shirts give me a rash. Anyway, I have three children and what I want most is to be able to have them with me again.”
“Come with us to Paris,” Catherine told her. “My father knows many people there, even more than he does in Troyes. You saved my life, in spite of the consequences. I will find an honest way for you to live and keep your children. I promise.”
“It frightens me to go even farther away from home, but I have no choice but to believe you,” Samonie said. “I will come. I would be grateful, should the abbess be sending a message to Countess Mahaut soon, if she would include one for my sister in the kitchen there, telling her where I am.”
She appeared neither grateful nor hopeful, but that made Catherine even more determined that this, at least, was one person she could do something for.
Four days later, the barge they had boarded at Nogent arrived at the Grève, the unloading dock on the right bank of the Seine, upstream from the bridges and tolls of Paris proper. Catherine was still a bit wobbly but the river trip and several good meals had improved her health almost to normal. Edgar was relieved. He seemed to have a habit of returning Catherine to her family in less than perfect condition. Last time she had nearly had her throat slit. This time Catherine simply resembled a blue-eyed wraith. He smiled at her.
She smiled back, wondering what her father would say when he heard what she had been doing. She hoped he had taken the time to have a room set up for them above the counting house. She hadn’t brought up the subject with Edgar but they hadn’t had a real bed to themselves alone since Troyes and she, at least, was getting impatient to find one.
Samonie sat and watched them with a sadness that bordered on resentment. Did they have any idea how rare and fortunate they were? She looked across the river to the left bank, where the houses weren’t so thick. They had passed the abbey of Saint-Victor a while ago, with its dependent village cuddled against its walls and the fields of grain and vines spreading out around it. That wasn’t as foreign as this city of Paris, much larger than Troyes, that spilled through old fortifications and stretched itself out fearlessly through the countryside. New faces, new customs, strange accents, men who would think her pretty and alluring for a night or two and then remember they had something else to do; Samonie was sorry she had agreed to come so far from her family.
Catherine could see the roof of her father’s house on the other side of the Place de la Grève. It was a narrow three stories, backed by a court with a small garden and surrounded by a wall. A stream flowed through the property and down to the Seine, giving them fresh water for washing. She hadn’t realized how much she loved it until now. She wondered if her father would let them use the curtained wooden tub. She had promised to wash Edgar’s hair.
“Catherine, you wait here with Samonie,” Edgar said. “I’ll find out if it’s safe for you to go to the house.”
The two women sat on a couple of barrels that had just been unloaded. Samonie looked around nervously.
“Why shouldn’t it be safe?” she asked.
“Not that sort of safe,” Catherine sighed. “It’s a very long story, but my mother is a bit … confused. She thinks I’m with the saints. It would be very dangerous to her mind if she saw me alive.”
“She thinks you’re dead?” Samonie asked. “Can’t you just explain to her that it’s a mistake?”
Catherine blushed. It was so embarrassing.
“That would be hard,” she sighed again. “Mother thinks I’ve been assumed into heaven. She’s built me a shrine.”
“But that’s blasphemy!” Samonie was horrified.
“No,” Catherine said sadly. “It’s madness.”
She got up and walked along the riverbank. The air was heavy with the smell of blossoms. The fruit trees were in bloom, cherry and apple and almond, planted by the merchants and tradesmen in the long lawns from their houses to the river. She inhaled the scents of her childhood; the brackish, slightly fishy water, the flowers, a faint drift of woodsmoke and pork being turned on an outdoor spit. She heard the cries of the street hawkers, and the slow, dignified chant of the wine caller. As the man came closer, she realized that it was one of her father’s workers.
“Let it be known to all that Hubert LeVendeur has opened a fresh barrel of new wine from Burgundy!” The man’s voice resonated in the afternoon bustle. “Any who would sample this fine wine, made by the monks of Cîteaux themselves come to the Blue-winged Duck this evening.”
The chant began again as the man passed her. It was no one she knew. He father had hired a number of new people in her time at the convent. His business seemed to improve every year. She wondered how many barrels he had bought from the monks and if they were from Vougeot, one of their best wine-producing priories. Oh, it was good to be home!
“Catherine, get down!” Edgar grabbed her elbow and pulled.
“What is it?” she gasped as she sat down with a squish. “Oh, Edgar you’ve put me in the mud again!”
“It’s your mother,” he whispered. “Your father warned me. She’s on her way home from Saint-Gervais. Over there, see? She’s just left the Rue Mariroi and is crossing the Grève now.”
“Where?” Catherine tried to see in the small space Edgar allowed her between the boxes they were hiding behind. “No, that couldn’t be. Oh, Mother!”
She didn’t look mad. Her clothes and hair were all in place. She didn’t scream or foam at the mouth. But Catherine could see the change. Madeleine was wrapped in widow’s purple, a long veil wound about her face that fluttered behind as she walked across the Grève, full of carts and stalls and people. She gave no indication that she saw any of them. Three times she stopped, guided by some internal sign, and fell to her knees in prayer. Each time, her attendant waited a few moments then gently helped her to her feet. No one else paid her any attention. Everyone had their own private rituals of devotion. It was ill-bred to notice.
Catherine turned away, her throat burning with shame and guilt. For a moment Edgar watched the boats pass by on the river, then he put his arm around her.
“Your father suggests that we go to your Uncle Eliazar,” he said. “He’ll try to come by this evening to see you.”
Edgar paused. Was she listening?
“He wants to see you very much,” he continued.
“Yes.” Catherine tried to brush the mud from her cloak. “I wonder if Aunt Johannah has soup tonight.”
Edgar knew better than to pursue a conversation until Catherine had collected herself. He got Samonie and their packs and they walked along the bank, past the walled gardens, to the Grand Pont. Underneath the bridge they could hear the constant creak of the mills. Once across, they headed for the Juiverie.
“I just remembered,” Catherine said suddenly. “It’s Friday afternoon. We have to hurry.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Edgar said as he stepped up his pace. “I’m surprised Hubert didn’t remember.”
“What?” Samonie asked.
Edgar hesitated, then told her. “The household we’re going to is Jewish. Their Sabbath starts on Friday.”
“Is that all?” Samonie asked. “They’ll have the soup and beans in the ovens and the candles lit in plenty of time. What are you worried about? Do you think they’ll have chicken with barley?”
Edgar and Catherine stopped so abruptly that Samonie ran into them.
“What do you know about it?” Catherine demanded.
Samonie rolled her eyes in exasperation. “My family is from Troyes,” she reminded them. “My grandfather tended vines for Rabbi Solomon, himself. My brother does the same for his grandson, Rabbi Jacob. A hundred years ago or more, the market day was changed from Saturday to Sunday afternoon so all the craftsmen and traders would be there, especially the wine merchants and the tanners and makers of vellum. I know about
Shabbos.”
Shabbos.”
She stomped on ahead of them, muttering.
“They’re all the same, think the world begins and ends in Paris and the rest of us are all
bricons de champaigne.”
bricons de champaigne.”
Edgar walked more slowly behind her. He glanced at Catherine, who was trying not to laugh.
“I believe we’ve been put in our place,” she giggled.
“I do hate feeling a fool,” he said.
Catherine patted his arm.
“It’s all right, dear,” she said. “God loves fools, too.”
They reached the home of Johannah and Eliazar in plenty of time. Johannah was still in the kitchen, overseeing preparations. One of the servants was putting out the freshly polished silver candlesticks. Solomon greeted them, eyeing Samonie with curiosity and approval.
“If you’re going to stay to eat,” he told them, “you’ll have to sit through all the prayers.”
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