Heresy: A Catherine LeVendeur Mystery (18 page)

Catherine blinked. This last was news to her. She had only met Count William once, and her opinion of him was that he was a wicked, impious philanderer. How amazing that he should decide to end his days at one of the strictest monastic houses. Or perhaps not. The depth of his sins would require some serious repentance.

Annora told of Countess Sybil’s problems with Baldwin of Hainaut. Others added their stories.

“Abbot Bernard, when he preached this pilgrimage, said that it was a chance for even murderers and blasphemers to find salvation,” one woman sighed. “But it seems to me that only the best men went to the Holy Land and the worst were left behind for the rest of us to cope with.”

Catherine listened without making any comment. She realized that, in this room, she was learning more about the situation throughout Christendom than would ever be presented at the council. These women were the ones who had been left with the responsibilities of their fathers, brothers and husbands added to their own. Many were traveling with countesses and vicountesses who were bringing charges against other nobles and also church officials who had appropriated rights. They were well informed about the situation in their lands.

No one said a word about heretics.

Catherine bent her head, letting the snarled curls dangle over her face. She stretched out her bare feet. They were filthy with street debris. John had obligingly rubbed muck on them, adding a few splotches to her face for good measure.

“It might help if you had some sores or bruises,” he mused. “And a lady’s hands are always better cared for than a beggar’s. I don’t know if this will work.”

“Look at my hands, John,” Catherine held them up. “I’m not a grand lady. I scrub and prepare food. I’m scarred from slips of the knife and spatters from the pans.”

“You don’t take care of your nails, either,” John commented as he examined her hands. “Amazing! You could pass as a beggar after all.”

“Thank you, I think.” Catherine bit at a ragged cuticle, adding defensively, “I have a goose grease and rose petal salve for my skin but I never have time to use it.”

“You should make the time,” John said. “You don’t need to do all that work. I don’t understand why you don’t have more servants. Edgar never struck me as a miser.”

“We like keeping our household small,” Catherine answered. “Now, am I ragged enough?”

John surveyed her critically. “Yes,” he said slowly, “but there’s still something wrong. What do the rest of you think?”

Catherine turned to present herself to Astrolabe, Godfrey and Gwenael, who had advised them on where to get worn clothes.

“She looks disreputable enough to me,” Godfrey said.

“Do you think her hair is too clean?” Astrolabe asked.

“It’s not her hair.” Gwenael spoke so softly that the others couldn’t make out what she had said.

“Speak up, Gwenael,” John said. “On this subject, you are the expert.”

“Master John!” Godfrey admonished him.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” John tried to explain. “Haven’t I myself been a beggar at the doors of my friends? It’s only through their goodness that I haven’t joined the troop at the church door. Gwenael, if you think that Catherine is still not able to appear in need of charity, then please tell us.”

Gwenael pursed her lips. “She’s grubby enough, I’ll give you,” she said. “It’s not that. But I don’t know. The way you sit, my lady, it’s too straight, too confident. You don’t look as if anyone has ever kicked you or beat you with a stick. You haven’t been so hungry that you would eat scraps left for the pigs or boil acorns for soup. Your hands are rough, but your face hasn’t been out in all weather. You haven’t bent your back in the field for days on end just to lose the crop to a storm or a battle. Your eyes, they still have hope in them.”

“Oh.” Catherine had no answer for that. Her life had been hard enough, but there had always been love in it and a measure of security. Even when she had been lost in England with baby James and no understanding of the language, she had still known that somewhere she had a home and people who loved her and could afford to feed her. How dare she think she could pretend to be truly in need? Her shoulders drooped.

“You make me ashamed of even attempting such a ruse,” she told Gwenael. “I’m sorry.”

“There!” Gwenael said. “It’s a bit like that. Despair is what you were missing. If you could add some humility and fear, then you’d have it. I know, let me go with you. I won’t speak, then no one will note my Breton accent. But I can remind you if you sit up straight or look people in the eyes.”

“You’re not supposed to look at donors? All these years I’ve been giving alms and I never noticed that the paupers didn’t look at me,” Catherine said. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Gwenael said firmly. “You look at the ground as if about to kiss their feet and mutter, ‘Blessings on you, good lady. May the saints guide and keep you,’ or something equally grateful. But you never dare to meet their eyes.”

“I don’t think that this was what Our Lord had in mind when He told us to remember the poor,” John said. His clerical garb seemed suddenly constricting.

“That is a difference between us as well,” Gwenael added. “I would never assume to know what Our Lord meant.
My
Lord Eon shared with us equally. He made us all feel that we were the same, not only in the eyes of Heaven, but in his eyes as well. They say that Jesus did the same. Is it any wonder I believe Eon to be Our Savior come again?”

John’s jaw fell. “Are you sure you are not a theologian?” he asked.

Gwenael drew herself up indignantly. “Of course not. I’m a good Christian!”

“John, we’re straying from the matter at hand,” Astrolabe observed. “Catherine, will you feel better if Gwenael accompanies you?”

“I confess I would,” Catherine said. “I’m very much afraid of being accused of taking alms falsely. I don’t think I could bear the shame of it, and how could I explain?”

Astrolabe grimaced. “This was a bad idea from the start,” he said. “I don’t believe that the possible gains are greater than the risk. What are the chances that you’ll hear anything that will be of use to us?”

“It’s all we have right now,” Catherine answered. “I’m willing, just nervous. Gwenael will keep me from doing anything stupid.”

“I will at least try, my lady,” Gwenael said. “We should start at the church, where we won’t be noticed in the throng. If that works, then we can move to the door of the house of the bishop of Tours.”

“Good enough.” Catherine stood, putting a hand to her aching back. “Now, if you men will leave, we’ll see if we can find a place at the church portico, in the shadows.”

Where I shall pray that no one from the dinner last night recognizes me
, she added to herself, imagining the expression of her trencher mate, Gui, if he should see her in this state.

“We won’t be far, if you need us,” John said. “I’ll keep you in sight every minute.”

Margaret had been fetched early that morning by a servant of Countess Mahaut. Fortified by her conversation with Catherine, she had made up her mind to tell the countess that she declined the kind offer to be married. Her resolve lasted all the way to the house where the lords of Champagne were staying.

“Good morning, my child!” Mahaut kissed her. “My brother and I are so delighted that you will be joining our family. We have much to discuss. I want to provide you with an appropriate wardrobe as my wedding gift. You must come with me to my fair at Provins. There are always drapers there with wonderful cloth.”

“You are too kind to me, my lady,” Margaret pleaded.

“Of course not!” Countess Mahaut smiled at her fondly. “You’re a dear child who deserves a secure future. And, of course, this will help cement the alliance between Champagne and Carinthia for another generation. Consider how pleased your grandfather is.”

“Of course.” Margaret bent her head humbly and fought back tears. “But don’t you think I should wait until my brother returns from Spain?”

“Oh, no,” Mahaut replied. “That could be months! You want to be settled in before the winter.”

The winter! Margaret’s heart froze at the thought. Oh, why wasn’t she strong enough to let the countess know how she felt?

“Now, my dear,” Mahaut continued, “I am going to Mass at Saint-Symphorian. Would you care to come with me? After that I shall introduce you to some of our friends.”

“Thank you; I would be honored,” Margaret answered faintly.

She trailed after the countess and her court, feeling totally furious with herself. Catherine would be so ashamed of her!

“
Avoi!
Yes, you two
jaels
,” the man at the church shouted. “Get away. This is our spot. You want to beg, go somewhere else.”

The man’s legs were withered and his back twisted. His friend, a boy of about fifteen with a vacant smile, pulled him from one spot to another on a small plank, fitted with crude wooden wheels. Catherine’s first impulse was to leave a coin. The second was to slap the man for referring to her as a whore.

Gwenael did neither. She sat on the step next to him and took his hand.

“Good friend,” she said gently. “We are not women of the streets but wives of men taken for the king’s army. We were left with no way to earn our food but dishonor, and my friend is in no state even to do that. Please let us stay near you, for we are alone and frightened in this city. We are here only because our need is desperate.”

“No more than anyone else’s,” the man grunted. “And what are you doing so far from Brittany, woman? Can’t you find alms in the city of Nantes?”

“We’ve come here to throw ourselves on the mercy of the bishop,” Gwenael improvised. “He wouldn’t see us at home, but how could he refuse to help us with all his fellow clerics watching?”

Catherine gave a moan that was not entirely faked. Her legs were aching again. She sat on the other side of the man.

“Please?” she asked.

For the first time in her life, she looked straight into the eyes of a beggar.

He blinked first. Perhaps it was the contrast of her deep blue eyes in her thin, pale face and the black hair against her cheeks. Catherine had early learned that her eyes were more eloquent than she was.

“Very well,” he muttered. “But you must share what you receive. They’ll give me less with you here.”

“Thank you, kind good man,” Gwenael answered before Catherine could offer to give him all their alms. “We only need enough for bread.”

“You’d do better at the convent, then,” the man told them. “They give bread away each morning. The coins you get won’t go far. Prices are doubling every day the pope and his troop remain in Reims.”

Gwenael and the man settled down for a chat about the vagaries of the nobles. With him, she wasn’t at all tongue-tied, and soon they were both laughing over a story the man told about a miller in his village, the blacksmith’s daughter and a hot horseshoe.

Catherine minded her orders to not look around, so she smiled at the boy who was sitting on the ground digging holes in the soft earth with his fingers. He smiled back.

“What are you doing?” she ventured.

The boy smiled again.

“You’ll get nothing from him,” the man told her. “He can’t speak, nor understand much. But he’s a good boy. We get on well together.”

Catherine nodded with discomfiture and left the boy to his amusement. Other beggars had arrived at the church, and they too seemed to have their own places and pecking orders. There was some conversation, then they settled into position at their own stations.

“No talking among ourselves, now,” the man warned Catherine and Gwenael. “You’ll get nothing if you don’t pay attention to the grand folks alone. They see us whispering and such and they’ll start thinking we’re plotting something.”

“Oh, surely not!” Catherine said.

Gwenael hushed her with a look.

“Remember, you’ll have to do the talking to the lords, my lady,” she hissed in Catherine’s ear. “Hunch over more, hide your face. If you can’t do it, now’s the time to say. People are coming for Mass. Those who attend on Saturday are good pickings.”

Catherine swallowed. “I can do it.”

She held out her hand as a woman and her retinue approached the church portico.

“Alms, good lady,” she quavered. “For the love of Christ, help us, please.”

The other beggars added their chants to the litany: “Food for my child.” “Mercy, please. Enough for an ointment to ease my pain.” “For the love of God, the Blessed Virgin, the holy saints, help me!”

It was easy to keep her head down. Catherine had never been so mortified in her life. Every few moments a coin was placed in her hand. She mumbled thanks and handed it to Gwenael. So far she had heard very little Latin. That wasn’t surprising. The clergy would all hear Mass in the abbey churches or their rented homes. This was merely a test. She did catch a number of other interesting snatches of conversation. People talked over her head as if she were one of the stone carvings on the tympanum.

“With your coloring, a pale green would be nice for the wedding, don’t you think?” the voice was familiar but Catherine couldn’t place it. “Here, child, one should never forget the poor at our gates.”

A coin was placed in her hand.

“May the saints bless you,” Catherine began.

Then she heard a gasp. Catherine ventured a peek around her hair.

Margaret was looking down on her in horror.

“Go. Say nothing,” Catherine mouthed, pulling her scarf farther down over her face.

“Margaret?” The countess sounded worried. “Did that woman say something improper to you?”

“Oh, no, my lady,” Margaret answered. “I was only startled by her face.”

“Not a leper is she?” the countess asked quickly. “They know they aren’t allowed here.”

“No,” Margaret said. “A fire, I think. Horrible.”

Their voices were lost as they entered the church.

For the next few moments Catherine didn’t have to pretend palsy. Her hands were shaking and her heart thumping. She should have told Margaret what they were planning, but there hadn’t been time. Thank the saints that Margaret had been so quick-witted.

As the Mass began, the crowds thinned so Catherine and Gwenael made their way back to where Astrolabe and Godfrey were waiting for them.

“I need to wash,” Catherine said shortly.

Astrolabe took off his helmet and hurried to the nearest well.

“We did very well.” Gwenael showed Godfrey that handful of silver pieces they had received.

Godfrey looked at them wistfully. “I don’t suppose we could take a few for some wine and real meat?”

Catherine had slumped onto a bench set into the wall. She looked so pitiful that a passing monk started to come over to her and ask if he could help. She sat up straight at once.

“Absolutely not!” she said.

The monk, startled, backed away, then turned and hurried down the street.

Godfrey grimaced. “It was only a jest, my lady. I know it would be theft.”

“It is theft,” Catherine said. “I’ll not feel clean until we see that it goes to those who really need it.”

Astrolabe soon returned with cold water. Catherine pulled a rag out of her sleeve and tried to rub off the dirt.

“It’s just smearing,” Astrolabe said. “We should find a bathhouse.”

“It’s Saturday,” Catherine said. “The bathhouses will be full. Even the pope wouldn’t get in unless he’d reserved a tub. No, let me change back into my own clothes. I’ll return to the convent. They’ll have soap and hot water. I can tell them I fell down. They won’t find that hard to believe.”