The Devil's Door (36 page)
She spat again.
“I married an old man who was going to die and leave me with nothing. I needed a child. You didn’t think I was insane then, William. You were so sympathetic and helpful.”
The doubt in Raynald’s eyes turned to horror.
“Father?” His voice trembled. “She can’t be saying that …”
“Don’t listen to her!” William begged.
But Constanza went on and no one else tried to stop her.
“That’s right, you pompous fool!” she shouted. “Alys was William’s child, your sister! And he knew it! You married your own blood kin and then murdered her. And may you be cursed for the rest of your life for it!”
Constanza collapsed on the floor and Catherine let her go. She had worked the problem out logically, step by step, and she had been proven correct. But she felt no pride in the victory. She only felt sick.
Walter let William down. He moved away from the count, wiping his hands as if he had touched a leper. Raynald stood still, frozen in horror. Slowly he turned from Constanza to his father. He read the truth in William’s face.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her so badly.” Raynald’s voice was numb. “She kept whining that we were horrible sinners and she wouldn’t live with me, but she wouldn’t say why. I thought it was just spite. I thought she’d killed the baby to torment me because she knew how much I wanted a son.”
He faced his father with dead eyes.
“What have you done to me?” he whispered. “How will I ever atone?”
Count Thibault finally roused himself from his stupefaction.
“Count William,” he said. “You and your son will withdraw all claim to any property that once belonged to Alys of Quincy, and certainly any charge against Walter of Grancy. Anything that would have come to Alys, I take into my custody until its proper disposal can be arranged. Constanza of Quincy, I order you to give up all property you received from your late husband, including dower rights. I am expelling you from any land under my jurisdiction. I don’t care where you go. Rupert of Quincy, you I am going to hang.”
The thought seemed to please him very much.
Painfully, Rupert pulled himself up to his feet in outrage.
“You have no proof that I have committed any offense!” he shouted. “Raynald beat my stepdaughter to death. Constanza committed adultery and allowed an incestuous marriage. I have done nothing! But because I’m not wellborn, you think you can punish me for their deeds.”
“Nothing!” Constanza was hoarse from so much screaming. “You manipulated everything! You forced me to marry you as your price for silence. Yet you were the one who agreed with William that Alys marry Raynald, no matter what I said. You have given me twenty years of hell with your unspeakable habits and your disgusting associates. Hang! You should be torn alive with red-hot pincers! You should be ripped apart by mad dogs. You should …”
“That’s enough, Constanza,” Count Thibault said. “Hanging will do. And don’t worry. I already have excellent justification. We have proof that he murdered Lisiard. He was seen and his partner has confessed. I allow no one to commit murder in my house.
“Perhaps,” he continued, rubbing his chin in consideration, “perhaps I should eviscerate him, first.”
Rupert fainted.
Sens, an inn near the cathedral, that evening
Attendite ergo ne lucem sensuum vestrorum propriae sententiae amor obnubilet … . Quid plane refert … si vario tramite ad eandem regionem, … si multicipli itinere ad eandem quae sursum est Iherusalem pervenitur, quae est mater nostra?
Be careful lest the love of your own opinion covers the light of reason … . What does it matter … if by various paths to the same region, … by a number of roads to the same goal, we each continue upward to reach Jerusalem, which is the mother of us all?
—Peter the Venerable, abbot of Cluny,
Letter 111, to Bernard of Clairvaux
Letter 111, to Bernard of Clairvaux
“
D
on’t mix your wine with so much water, Catherine,” Astrolabe suggested. “You haven’t stopped shaking, yet.”
D
on’t mix your wine with so much water, Catherine,” Astrolabe suggested. “You haven’t stopped shaking, yet.”
Catherine put down the water pitcher.
“I know I did what was right,” she said. “The truth had to come out. Rupert would have continued removing anyone who threatened him. Raynald would have become wealthy from trading Alys’s land to the monks. He would even have been honored for his generosity, which angers me more.”
“But … ?” Astrolabe prompted.
“You know very well,” Catherine answered. “All that ugliness. I feel filthier than when I fell into the canal. Even the look on Raynald’s face when he realized what he’d done makes me ill to remember. I never thought I would pity him.”
“I don’t,” Edgar said. “And Walter certainly doesn’t. It was only the authority of the count that kept him from cutting Raynald down right there.”
“So the feud will continue?”
“I don’t know,” Edgar answered. “Raynald doesn’t seem to have the heart for it anymore.”
“And nothing can be done to Count William.” Catherine poured a cup for Edgar. “It’s a family matter. He’s a nobleman. He killed no one. But lowborn Rupert will dangle in the town square.”
“I doubt it,” Edgar said. “Didn’t you smell it as we passed him? That leg is suppurating. He’ll die slowly, as Alys did, before they can hang him. I think that’s fitting.”
“I wonder if we’ll ever know how far his nets were spread?” Catherine said.
“It frightens me to consider it,” Astrolabe said. “At least Father’s enemies strike at him in public, in daylight. By the way, did the information on Peter of Baschi help?”
“It wasn’t necessary,” Edgar told him, giving back the paper. “The count seems to have already known about a lot of Rupert’s dealings. Bishop Hatto sent a message to him at the same time he wrote Héloïse. If Deacon Peter has to pay back all those he borrowed from, without being able to draw on the purses of Rupert’s victims, he should be suitably humbled.”
“Not enough if he was the one who murdered Lisiard,” Catherine said. “And, if that’s proven against him, he’ll claim the protection of the Church.”
“Somehow I don’t think Bishop Hatto will allow him to escape punishment,” Astrolabe said. “I only wish I knew why they tried to put the blame on the butcher.”
“My father is worried about that, too,” Catherine said. “He thinks there may be a conspiracy to implicate the Jews in these extortions. He even feared the attack on Eliazer was connected to this.”
“Don’t start on that,” Astrolabe warned her. “You’ll be as bad as my father. He says that he’s never been able to hear of a group of bishops meeting together without fearing they were planning to denounce him.”
“But, Astrolabe,” Edgar pointed out, “sometimes he was right.”
He gingerly rubbed his bruised side. He feared that now he would never know why he and Catherine’s uncle had both been stabbed. He sighed. Ignorance was probably just another way God kept him from arrogance.
They were distracted from that line of thought by the bowl of fish stew that had just arrived, and were busy for a time spooning it into the hollows in the bread and eating around the thin bones. Catherine was surprised at how hungry she was. It didn’t seem proper, somehow, to be slurping stew when one had just destroyed the lives of three people.
People who had spent years destroying the lives of others,
her voices reminded her. Odd how mild they were becoming of late. Perhaps they were being softened the longer she was away from Sister Bertrada. And that reminded her.
her voices reminded her. Odd how mild they were becoming of late. Perhaps they were being softened the longer she was away from Sister Bertrada. And that reminded her.
“What do you think will happen to the land Alys gave the Paraclete?” she wondered. “Count Thibault won’t keep it, will he?”
“Of course not,” Edgar said. “I would guess that the bequest will be honored, even if it wasn’t Alys’s by right. I hope that Abbess Héloïse and Abbot Norpald can come to some agreement on it, though. I’d hate it if Brother Ferreolus were forced to dismantle that amazing iron mill.”
“Edgar,” Catherine said. “I’ve never seen anything interest you the way that mill does. You should see your face when you describe it.”
Edgar shrugged. “I appreciate the ingenuity of it,” he said. “It’s beautiful, in its own way, like the sculptures Garnulf did.”
Catherine leaned over and wiped the gravy from his chin. Her ivory cross swung over the bread and thumped back against her chest. She touched it, letting her fingers trace the intricate pattern.
“You made this,” she charged. “Didn’t you?”
Edgar examined a backbone from the stew.
“It’s just something I do with my hands,” he muttered. “It helps me think.”
Catherine studied the cross. “What were you thinking about while you were carving this?”
He looked up and grinned. “You, of course. What do you imagine?”
“I imagine you would be a terrible lawyer,” she said. “I think you are a brilliant artisan.”
Astrolabe suddenly felt very much the intruder at the table.
“I can’t carve wood for a living,” Edgar said. “Or build machines. I was born in the wrong rank. It’s impossible.”
Catherine nodded. “That’s true. But, Edgar, you and I are together and that was impossible, too.”
Astrolabe felt that the evening was becoming a bit tedious. He finished the last of his stew and put the bread on the tray to be given to the beggars.
“I think I’ll go see if Father needs anything,” he said.
Catherine and Edgar looked away from each other guiltily.
“I’m sorry,” Edgar said. “It’s early yet. Please don’t go.”
“I’m not offended,” Astrolabe said. “But both of you are more tired than you realize. You’ll need to arrive at the cathedral early tomorrow if you want to get in for Mass.”
“Are they going to carry the relics in a procession through town or put them on display in the cathedral, itself?” Catherine asked. “I’m curious about this new acquisition. It seems odd that the name of the saint wasn’t announced well in advance.”
“Doesn’t it?” Astrolabe didn’t really care, he was more concerned with the following event. “Well, Henry Sanglier has never been a typical archbishop. Abbot Bernard almost had him excommunicated a few years ago. To answer your question, I believe the relics will be displayed before the altar so that the faithful may pass by and view them from a respectful distance.”
“We may not be able to find you in the crowd,” Edgar told him. “Shall we meet here again tomorrow evening? Unless you’d rather stay with the students or eat with Master Abelard and the canons.”
“I’ll be here,” Astrolabe said. “The enthusiasm of the students for constant argument wears me out and Father is being well attended to. You two are occasionally obviously and embarrassingly besotted with each other, but in general I enjoy your company.”
“Thank you, Astrolabe. We like you, too.”
As they got up to leave, Catherine kissed him lightly on the cheek. Edgar did the same.
“Peace to you, Astrolabe,” he said.
“Peace to you both,” he responded, although they all knew it was a forlorn hope. “Good night.”
Sunday, the octave of Pentecost, was brilliantly clear, the sun summer bright in an azure sky. The area around the cathedral was already crowded when Catherine and Edgar arrived, shortly after dawn.
“We’ll never find anyone in this,” Catherine complained as she was jostled by the shoulders and elbows of pilgrims trying to be first in line when the relics were unveiled. “Edgar, I know I need the comfort of the Mass more than ever today, but I can’t face being crushed in with all those people. Look, even the poor cripples who’ve come to be healed are being shoved aside.”
Edgar gripped her arm tightly to avoid being separated in the throng. It seemed that they were being sucked toward the cathedral. He set himself against the tide and began pushing their way out.
“There are other churches in Sens,” he said. “I imagine they will be nearly empty today. Do you need your Host consecrated by the bishop of Chartres for the sacrament to be valid?”
“Of course not.” Catherine grabbed hold of his tunic to keep from being dragged away. “I do want to come back this afternoon to see the relics.”
“It won’t be any better,” Edgar shouted over his shoulder.
“I know,” Catherine said. “But I just overheard someone say that the new relic was acquired through a trader from Troyes.”
Edgar stopped short. Catherine slammed into him.
“You don’t think … ?” he said.
“I just want to be there,” Catherine answered.
They found a quiet little church south of the center of town, near the river. They never did discover who it was dedicated to. It was ancient, with high, tiny windows. In the wall next to Catherine, the stone head of some Roman god peeked out, indicating the source of the building material. The priest had but one assistant and there were only a few old women and children in attendance. The sermon was read from a book. The priest had trouble making out some of the words. It was cool and quiet there and only intense curiosity coerced Catherine to return to the square of the cathedral.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Catherine?” Edgar asked. “You look a bit pale.”
“I’m fine,” she told Edgar. “My back hurts a bit, that’s all. It’s about that time again. I think I’ll have to make myself a new pair of braies soon. I left the old ones at Quincy.”
“Very well, we’ll dive into the sea of pilgrims. Just don’t let go of me,” Edgar said as they plowed back into the mob.
The common people were being kept behind the altar rail. The bishops and the nobles had vied for the honor of carrying out the relics. King Louis, barefoot, had one corner of the reliquary of Saint Savarin and Count Thibault another. The king’s long blond hair kept catching on the gold leaf and jewels encrusting the coffin. They set it down carefully and joined their wives, seated at one side of the altar. The bishops and abbots had already brought in the relics of other saints, which were arranged before the altar. Finally Archbishop Henry appeared, carrying a box of wood, adorned with silver filigree. He set it reverently on a table, tilting it so that the lid would open downward, allowing the faithful to see.
“The city of Sens and the cathedral of Saint-Étienne have been exalted by the knowledge that many of the saints have chosen to bless us by their presence and protection,” the archbishop said. “Recently, we have been honored by the acquisition of an ancient and holy relic, a victim of the persecution of Diocletian, who before he achieved his crown of martyrdom was put into a cell without food or water and made to lie naked on broken glass.”
“And I thought I suffered,” Catherine whispered to Edgar, who was standing behind her.
“You did,” Edgar said.
He circled her with his arms and rested his chin on the top of her head. She was torn between a feeling of security and the desire to stand on tiptoe to see better.
Archbishop Henry signaled to a deacon, who stood next to the box, his hand on the latch.
“It is proper that this relic be unveiled today,” he continued. “We will commemorate his feast tomorrow at High Mass.”
Catherine was trying to remember whose feast was June second and who had been made to lie on broken glass. She was beginning to feel back in the classroom. The archbishop was still speaking.
“May we all be inspired by the example of this brave priest, beheaded for the faith, whose miraculously preserved remains have come to bless the city of Sens, Saint Marcellinus.”
The lid dropped open. All through the cathedral, people fell to their knees in devotion. As the group in front of her knelt, Catherine leaned foreword and saw the relic of the Roman saint.
The head was well preserved. The brown hair and beard looked soft still. The skin was darkened as if by great age, but still intact as one would expect of a saint.
“I’m not going to scream,” she told herself. “He looks very peaceful there. And, after all, he was a martyr, of a sort.”
“We were right. Can we leave now,” Edgar said.
Catherine nodded. In front of them she heard a man in deacon’s robes say to another, “But I thought Saint Marcellinus was in an abbey in Germany.”
“A fake,” the other answered. “Those Germans are all too gullible.”
She couldn’t help taking one more look at the head in the reliquary. She hoped Rupert would live long enough to hang for such blasphemy. Poor Lisiard! She couldn’t stand to see him there.
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