Heresy: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (15 page)

“I don’t know,” Astrolabe said ruefully. “I was unconscious most of the time.”

“She may have seen the one who struck you, though,” Catherine said. “Of course, the word of a peasant heretic probably won’t count for much in a court, but she could help us find him, at least.”

“Will she?” John asked.

“I can’t say,” Astrolabe answered. “Perhaps if Catherine can win her confidence. Like most of Eon’s followers, her life has not been marked by good fortune or kindness from those above her.”

“Even so, she doesn’t seem a fool,” Catherine commented. “So how could she have believed that he was the son of God?”

Astrolabe scratched at a flea in his beard. Gwenael wasn’t the only one who needed a bath.

“Perhaps,” he said after some thought, “Eon made her believe that she had a soul and that it mattered to him that it was saved.”

Catherine started to answer, but her words were drowned by the cacophony of the city bells as they tolled None.

“Midday already!” John said in surprise. “And we’ve not yet broken our fast. Didn’t we start out in search of bread and beer? Cabbage pie would be good, too. I for one can’t think at all for the roaring of my empty stomach.”

“I confess to feeling the need for something as well,” Catherine said. “Peter?”

Astrolabe sighed. “Very well. You two find a soft, dry patch of ground over there by the apple trees and I’ll see what I can do about food.”

“Good,” said John, giving him a push toward the marketplace. “Then we can decide how best to save you from joining your friend Eon in chains.”

As the bells rang at the Paraclete, Margaret filed into the chapel behind the nuns. She began reciting the psalms, but her heart needed more guidance than they could give her.

The dinner the night before had not been as awkward as she had feared. Her grandfather and his wife had been very kind to her. They seemed pleased with her deportment and proud when Heloise had mentioned her dedication to her Hebrew studies.

“Hebrew!” Thibault had exclaimed. “Do you intend to be an abbess-scholar, like Heloise?”

“Oh, no, my lord!” Margaret had answered too emphatically. “I mean, I have no calling. The contemplative life is not one I am suited for.”

“If you become an abbess, my dear,” Heloise sighed, “you’ll find little time to contemplate anything.”

She smiled. “Margaret is a fine student, but she may feel that Hebrew would be useful in her associations with the Jewish merchants her brother deals with.”

“Oh, yes.” Thibault’s forehead creased as he remembered. “Your brother married Hubert LeVendeur’s daughter and then took over when Hubert left on pilgrimage, didn’t he? Odd thing for a nobleman to do, even if he is English.”

“Catherine’s mother comes from a good family,” Margaret said. “And my brother is the youngest son. He had no prospects at home.”

“Ah, that brings us around to another topic.” Countess Mahaut gave Margaret a motherly smile. “Your prospects, my child. Your grandfather and I have been discussing them. We have decided to take you with us to Reims and see what you think of our decision.”

And that was why Margaret prayed the next morning as she never had before, as her boxes were being packed for the trip to Reims and her fate.

Despite the number of clerics in town, or perhaps because of them, the traditional drinking and carousing for Saint Joseph’s Day had started earlier than usual. Countess Sybil had made it clear that no ward of hers would dare leave the safety of the convent on the feast of the patron saint of cuckolds.

“You’d think men would have more respect for poor Saint Joseph,” she said. “He was a holy man and a good husband. Why should his feast be an occasion for such debauchery?”

Catherine had often wondered that herself. “Edgar always said that men felt a kind of pity for him. After all, what recourse did he have when his wife had been made pregnant by the Holy Spirit?”

“I think that they just are glad for any excuse to get drunk and beat their own wives.” Sybil turned from the window with a sniff.

“Really?” Annora’s eyes grew large.

Catherine hurried to reassure her. “Some men do, of course,” she said. “Especially when addled by wine. But my husband has never struck me. Count Thierry is also a good man. I’m sure that the countess would never give you to someone cruel.”

She looked at Sybil, hoping she hadn’t misspoken.

Sybil smiled at them. “Of course not, Annora. I would not allow you to marry anyone who wasn’t pious and of good character. You needn’t fear on that score.”

Annora bowed her head. “Thank you, my lady. I trust you to know what is best for me and for my people.”

“Such a good child.” Sybil patted the girl’s cheek before she left the room. “Stay in with your sewing today. Tonight we shall dine with the count of Vermandois. Despite the difficulty about his marriage, I think you will find him a most worthy man. He has connections with all the great families of France and, of course, the king has entrusted him with the secular management of his demesne while he is in the Holy Land.”

She sounded as if she were reassuring herself more than Annora and Catherine.

Once she had left, Annora ran to the window.

“I’m sure she’s right about staying in,” she told Catherine. “But it’s so exciting down there. I wish I could see it all. In my village it’s usually quiet, even on Saint Joseph’s Day.”

Below them there were lines of men snaking through the street, each holding on by one hand to the shoulder of the one in front. The other hand held a drinking bowl. Some of the men were dressed as women, with exaggerated breasts and false braids swinging over their hips. Catherine wasn’t sure how that custom had begun, but it was part of the fun. She remembered watching the men in Paris do the same when she was a child. Her parents had not let her out, either.

“Annora,” she tried to catch the girl’s attention. “Do you think Countess Sybil means for me to dine with Count Raoul this evening? I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to attend.”

“Why?” Annora reluctantly turned her gaze from the street performance. “I thought Abbess Heloise agreed that his marriage was probably canonical.”

“No, she didn’t,” Catherine answered. “Just that it was a fact. But I meant that I am only the wife of a merchant. I don’t belong at the table with the high nobility.”

Annora gave her a long stare. She had only known Catherine a few days but had learned a great deal about her in that time.

“That isn’t the sort of thing that you would worry about,” she said. “You don’t want to go, do you?”

Catherine sat down. Her feet were hurting again. “No, I don’t,” she admitted. “These are people who are close to the king. My husband and my…his partner depend on the goodwill of the king and his advisers. I don’t want to risk making a bad impression on them.”

“But why should you? You might be able to help your husband.”

Catherine shook her head. “No, I tend to forget my place. Or I’ll upset the salt on someone. It’s better if I remain here. In any case, I’m not sure if I was included in the invitation.”

“Well, I’ll find out for you,” Annora said. “But if Countess Sybil intended you to be present, I think it would be more damaging to refuse.”

Sadly, Catherine agreed. She spent a moment feeling sorry for herself, then remembered the Breton woman that Astrolabe had brought to the convent the day before. Even if Gwenael decided to reject Eon and his belief, what had she to look forward to but penury and eventual starvation?

It made her own worry about knocking over the saltcellar appear ridiculous.

It didn’t ease the heartache she felt, longing for her husband and children. In that, she and the heretic woman were sisters.

Astrolabe and Godfrey were enjoying the festival with the rest of the men. They were sprawled on a bench watching the lines go by and saluting them with a drink as they passed. Astrolabe was amused at how many of the men wore the tonsure of minor clerics. He wondered if any of them would be bishops one day and if they would look back on this celebration with shame or regret for good times gone.

Gwenael was sitting between them, holding her bowl of beer but rarely sipping from it. She tried to shrink as much as she could against the wall, hiding behind the two guards. Peter was not what she had thought him to be when they had all been living in the forest. She still wasn’t sure if he meant to help her or turn her in to be put in chains with Eon and his followers Wisdom, Knowledge and Judgment.

Astrolabe saw her huddling and thought she was cold.

“Do you need another cloak?” he asked. “Is Catherine’s too thin?”

Gwenael gaped at him.

“No, my lord,” she said. “I am warmer than I’ve ever been. It was most kind of the lady to let me borrow this. But I must go to my master soon. He needs my help.”

“Are you that eager for the flames?” Astrolabe asked her. “After the pope hears the story he may simply send Eon home for his family to guard, but the court won’t be as understanding with the rest of you if you persist in your beliefs.”

“But this court of bishops and cardinals cannot be respected,” Gwenael answered. “Or trusted. They are the Pharisees, the Pilates of our time. How can those men in gold and silk recognize the Son of God? The glitter of their jewels blinds them to the truth. Should I deny my conscience to save my body?”

Astrolabe had no answer to that, although he wanted to tell her yes. He knew that in some cases her evaluation was true. The modern world had as many Pharisees and hypocrites now as in the time of Christ. But he also felt certain the Eon was not the answer. He had to convince Gwenael of that before her master came to trial.

He shifted uncomfortably on the bench. He also was very much aware that his interest in this woman was not as much the need to save her soul but in what she might know that could save his own life.

“You may be right,” he told her. “But for now you are of more use to Eon if you are free.”

“And I would not like to see you in chains,” Godfrey added to her. “Your life has been hard enough.”

Gwenael looked at him. He smiled at her. She bent her head again. Every few moments, though, she stole a glance at his face. This man was not like Peter. He spoke slowly so that she could understand. He looked at her as if she were a person and not an object of charity. She found herself wondering how old he was and if he had a wife somewhere.

Immediately she scolded herself. Such speculation was nonsense. She had pledged her heart and soul to Eon. It wouldn’t do to trade eternal bliss for a few years of earthly happiness. Of course, unlike many other preachers, Eon had never suggested that the way to heaven was only for the chaste.

The two men on the bench were completely unaware of the spiritual struggle happening in the woman sitting between them. Godfrey took another swill of beer, stomping his feet to the rhythm of the song as the chain of men passed.

“Who’s that old goat?” He sat up, causing Gwenael to slide to the ground. “He must be mad to try to pass through with all this going on.”

Astrolabe stood to see over the throng. There was a very old man on horseback, surrounded by clerics and a few guards. He appeared unconcerned by the ribald celebration going on around him. If anything, he regarded the men in the street with wry benevolence.

“Saint Peter in chains!” he breathed. “It’s Master Gilbert, bishop of Poitiers. How he has aged since I last saw him!”

Godfrey looked at him with interest.

“That’s the man all the fuss is about, the heretic bishop?” he asked. “He looks even more harmless than the poor Breton heretic. Hell, he looks about to fall into the grave.”

“He must be close to eighty now,” Astrolabe said. “But I wouldn’t expect him to die any time soon. They say his mind is as sharp as ever, which is much more than most of us can ever hope for. He’s probably the most astute theologian in France.”

Godfrey watched the old man until he turned at the corner of the street.

“Forgive me if I don’t genuflect,” he said finally.

Even though she knew she was traveling under the threat of marriage, Margaret found herself enthralled by the variety of the people they were meeting on the road to Reims. There were bishops and abbots from all over, of course, but also all the attendants that men of importance could not survive without. The bishops especially came with their cooks, ostlers, butlers and even laundresses, although even to Margaret some of the last appeared to be rather overdressed for the job.

She was honored that Henry, the bishop of Troyes and Countess Mahaut’s brother, chose to ride with her. He pointed out the people he knew and gave her bits of information about them.

“Over there, that’s Thierry, the master who teaches at Chartres.” He pointed to a tired-looking man about the same age as her grandfather. “Another Breton, like Peter Abelard. I don’t see Bishop Geoffrey, though. They say he’s been ill. I don’t know who that is.” He gestured at another man in a fur cloak and hat. “He seems important, though, doesn’t he?”

“You were a canon at Reims, weren’t you?” Margaret asked. “You know everyone there, I suppose.”

He smiled at her. “Many. I’m eager to see old friends, even more than to debate the canons we will decide upon. But I must be boring you with all this tittle about old men you’ve barely heard of.”

“Oh, no!” Margaret said quickly. “My brother and his wife are very interested in church politics. I’d like to learn as much as I can. But,” she added shyly, “I was wondering more about what it is like in Carinthia, where you and Countess Mahaut were born. Do you find it as different in France as I do?”

“As you do?” He gave her a puzzled look. “Of course, I forgot. You come from the savage wilds of Scotland, don’t you? Well, my home is more mountainous and we see more Greeks and Russians trading in our cities, but it’s all Christendom just the same and so not that strange. Do you find France so alien? You speak the language very well. Better than I do.”

“Thank you,” Margaret said. “My mother always spoke it with me. She never really felt comfortable speaking English. Perhaps it’s strange only because we lived in a small village. There’s so much more happening in Paris.”

Bishop Henry laughed. “If we are comparing Carinthia to Paris, then I must agree that it is very different.”

He spotted two men riding just ahead of them as they approached the gates of Reims. Moving closer to Margaret, he lowered his voice.

“Now those two might interest you,” he said. “Canons Cato and Arnold, archdeacons of Poitiers. They’re the ones who started this protest against Bishop Gilbert.”

“His own canons!” Margaret was horrified.

“There’s a story there, I’m sure,” Henry said. “I wish I knew what it was.”

Margaret had heard something of them. Canon Arnold was said never to have laughed in his life. From what she had seen of Bishop Gilbert when he lectured in Paris, the canon should have been a good match for him. She shook her head.

“I confess that I don’t understand any of this,” she said. “My sister-in-law Catherine finds it all fascinating.”

Bishop Henry’s face grew stern. “It is that fascination that leads untutored minds to heresy,” he told her. “Be glad that you have a pure and simple faith.”

Margaret smiled to cover her annoyance. She had been at the Paraclete nearly a year now, and while her faith was still pure, she hoped, there was nothing simple about it. Heloise would have been ashamed if a student of hers could not find her way through any theological tract. They were expected to be able to recognize rhetorical errors that were often the basis for accusations of heretical doctrine.

Not that Margaret had any particular talent for doing so.

“Oh, look, my lord!” she cried suddenly. “There are fire jugglers performing by the gate. Oh, please let me get close enough to see them better!”

“In this mob, my dear?” Countess Mahaut had come up behind them. “Just thank the saints that you’re on a horse. Now, Henry, see that she doesn’t get separated from us. Heloise would be furious if anything happened.”

Margaret cringed, her hand instinctively going up to the scar on her face. Mahaut saw the movement and was stricken with remorse.

“Thibault,” she said to her husband, “perhaps it was a mistake for you to bring your granddaughter with us. The crowds may be too much for her.”

Count Thibault studied Margaret, who was now absorbed in trying to see the fire jugglers before she passed into the city.

“Nonsense!” he said. “She’s tough, like all my family. There’s a lot of my mother in her. Our family doesn’t breed weaklings.”

That was undeniable. The Norman duke, William the Bastard, had conquered England, and his descendents, Thibault among them, were doing their best to control the rest of the Christian world. Mahaut thought of Thibault’s older brother William, the one child who had not lived up to his name. She had never been quite sure what had been wrong with him, only that he had been sent off to Sully with a caretaker wife and banned from inheriting any real power. Most of the family were indeed strong; weaklings weren’t given a chance.

That mustn’t happen to Margaret.

Looking at the mass of people invading the city, Catherine was grateful that she had a bed. How in the world would enough space be found for them all? And what about food? The last of the winter stores would have to be opened up, if there was anything left in them in this famine year.