“Umm … no, my lady,” Catherine said. “I’m indisposed. I would be grateful for a tisane.”
“Of course, you poor thing!” Constanza leaned forward and patted her hand. “Like ice! That time again, is it? You should have spoken sooner. I always have my box of herbs with me. Samonie! Get my medicine box.”
The other woman bustled over, feeling Catherine’s forehead and stomach as well as her hands.
“I always have a warm herbal bath made up for me,” she said. “And I just sit in it until the pain lessens. Does the convent make up bags of herbs for those days? I have a wonderful mixture that I got from a friend who got it from the abbess of Saint-Disibod. It is most soothing. She would be happy, I’m sure, to send your abbess the recipe.”
The maid had returned, but without the box.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” she said. “We must have left it at Troyes, or perhaps the Paraclete. I can’t find it anywhere.”
“You stupid girl!” Constanza shouted. “It’s your duty to keep track of these things. I ought to whip you!”
“Constanza,” her friend spoke quietly. “I’m sure someone here has the necessary herbs. Your cook can make up a draught of mint, valerian, thyme, spikenard, artemisia, licorice and raisins. Those condiments should all be available.”
“Yes, that will do for now, but what if there were serious illness?” Constanza replied. “Her incompetence could cost someone’s life.”
The maid threw herself at Constanza’s feet.
“Please forgive me, my lady,” she begged. “I am truly filled with remorse for my negligence. I can only implore your mercy!”
“Very well,” Constanza said grudgingly. “I will pardon your mismanagement, this time. Send messengers out at once. I expect you to see to it that the box is recovered.”
At that moment another maid rushed in, carrying a wooden box edged in gold leaf. Upon seeing it, Constanza stiffened. Even through her own pain, Catherine could tell that the woman was furious.
“How dare you touch that!” she said. “That was my daughter’s medicine box and is sacred to her memory. I’ll not have it used by anyone. Samonie, take it and put it in the chest with Alys’s cloth. ing!”
With obvious effort, she controlled herself and turned again to Catherine.
“Since you are feeling unwell, perhaps we should have a bed made up for you in the corner now instead of tonight,” she said, trying to smile. “I will have the infusion of herbs brought to you. Rest for the afternoon. Don’t feel obligated to join us in the hall this evening.”
Catherine stood and thanked her hostess. Constanza also rose and with her companion left the chamber.
When everything had been prepared, the maid took Catherine’s arm and led her over to the bed. Within a few minutes she found herself in her
chainse
, tucked in among the quilts, with a warm poultice of mustard and cress on her stomach and a hot cup of wine infused with herbs in her hand. As she sipped it she felt the warmth drawing out the pain and she began to relax.
Samonie hovered over her, fussing with the covers.
“I know just how you feel,” she whispered. “I heard you were about to be married. That’s good. It’s not nearly so bad after you’ve had a child.”
“I’ve not heard that,” Catherine said. “How do you know?”
“My children live with my cousin, in Troyes,” Samonie told her. “I have three.”
Catherine opened her mouth to ask about Samonie’s husband, then shut it. The maid was pretty and bright, with golden-brown hair, green eyes and dimples. A woman like that in a keep full of men, with no kin to protect her, wasn’t likely to keep her virtue long.
Samonie saw her look and smiled.
“They’re beautiful children,” she said. “They look just like their fathers. Does that offend you?”
“It’s not my place to be offended,” Catherine said.
“Good,” Samonie stopped fussing. She looked around. It was the middle of the day and the women’s chamber was empty except for them. But, to be sure, she pulled aside the curtains and checked behind the screens. Then she returned to the bed. Catherine sat up straighter.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Many things,” Samonie spoke quietly. “Are you the woman from the Paraclete who found Lisiard’s body?”
Catherine nodded.
“My sister was betrothed to him,” the maid said. “At least they saw it that way. They were going to run away to the south. His uncle, Isembard, said he would help them.”
“I’m so sorry,” Catherine said.
“So am I,” Samonie’s face grew hard. “Lisiard was a kind man, but he had a loose tongue. So does my cousin. She loves passing on all the court gossip she hears. It never occurred to her, until now, that some knowledge is too dangerous to possess. Do you think Lisiard was killed because of what happened to Countess Alys?”
“Yes,” Catherine said. “I’m sure of it. Do you also have dangerous knowledge?”
“Of course not,” Samonie replied. “But I have questions too dangerous to ask.”
“Perhaps you should forewarn me of them,” Catherine suggested, “so that I don’t unknowingly put myself in peril.”
Samonie sat on the bed and leaned close to Catherine.
“That’s very wise,” she said. “There is one thing I have been wondering ever since Alys was found. And that is, what happened to the monkey?”
“The monkey?” Catherine hadn’t even thought of it.
“It’s not at Tonnerre or Troyes or here,” the maid said. “I presume the nuns don’t have it. Did it run away? Was it slaughtered by whoever attacked her? Did she even take it with her with she left for Tonnerre?”
“Do you think it’s important?” Catherine asked.
“I think it is strange that no one has mentioned it, or tried to find it,” Samonie answered. “Now, I must return to my work. I’ll come up again before evening to see how you are.”
She left Catherine alone in the tower room. For a while Catherine contented herself with lying still and enjoying the softness of the quilts and the luxury of being pampered. Outside the window, crows cawed raucously, fighting over something thrown into the midden. Nasty, noisy, evil-eyed things.
The monkey. Alys’s stepfather, Rupert, had said the monkey was nasty. Walter told them Alys had hated it; Constanza said she doted on it, fed it from her own dish. But they all agreed that she took it with her everywhere. Samonie was right, it did seem strange. What had happened to Alys’s pet? Catherine wondered how much it had cost Raynald. Such a rare beast had to have been worth a fortune, more than what most of the people she knew could afford. Why hadn’t anyone searched for it?
The poultice had cooled by now. Catherine pulled it off and laid it on the floor beside the bed. The herbs had worked and she was feeling almost normal again. Perhaps she should get dressed and join the others in the hall below. The drawstring of her braies was chafing. It reminded her that it was probably time to change the rags.
Catherine looked around for a bucket in which to soak the used rags. In one corner was a large chest, made of yew. There was a lock on it but it had not been carefully closed.
“I wonder,” Catherine said as she tiptoed over to it. “Is this where Alys’s belongings have been stored?”
The hinges had been oiled recently and the lid opened without a sound. Inside were a number of lengths of cloth, some wrapped around other objects. Catherine picked up one and unwrapped it. It was a small casket of ivory carved with a scene from the wedding at Cana. She shook it and was rewarded by a rattle. Prying open the top, she found a large ring set with rubies. Too large for a woman’s hand. The only other thing was a silken purse. In it was a lock of dark hair, almost as black as her own. She thought she could name the head it had come from. Raynald’s hair was russet brown.
“Poor Alys,” she said. “Poor Walter.”
Carefully she replaced the jewel box. The shape next to it was larger. The cloth had been draped over it carelessly. As she lifted it, Catherine recognized Alys’s medicine box. Actually, it was odd that Alys hadn’t taken it with her when she left for Tonnerre. It was part of the household supplies every woman kept always in her possession. Constanza had been no more than just when she had berated Samonie for misplacing hers. There would be mixtures of herbs and spices that could only be made once a year. The recipes might have been in a family for generations. There was one that her mother had always carried. Catherine supposed her sister, Agnes, used it now.
“I should see about getting one of my one,” she considered.
For some reason, that brought home to her more than anything else that she was truly a married woman, with responsibilities. She opened the box.
In it lay the bags of herbs, some linen cut in strips, a small, sharp knife and some smooth stones. Catherine sniffed at the herbs, trying to guess what they were for. Most of them were dried herbs and garden flowers; daisies and roses, iris root, chamomile, comfrey, thyme, different worts, and so on. A few were exotic substances like pepper, sandalwood, myrrh and cinnamon. There was nothing special about it, but Catherine could see that Alys had assembled it with care. Catherine put it back gently.
The rest of the articles in the chest appeared to be nothing more than clothing, shoes, belts or hair ribbons. Catherine rummaged among them, feeling as though she were looting a reliquary. At the bottom of the chest there was a small packet, a leather bag, crudely stitched together. Cautiously, Catherine opened it.
Another smell of herbs rose from the bag. The mixture was familiar; tansy, rue, hyssop, scammony, dittany, and something else, bull’s gall, perhaps, or nard. It was the sort of combination she had just been given in her wine, only much stronger. It was designed to bring on the menses when they were delayed. Among the herbs, there was something hard. Catherine took it out. It was a cloth about as long as her middle finger, stuffed tightly and sewn shut. The thread had not been cut but a long cord left instead. Catherine dropped it, rubbing her fingers in distaste. She knew what that was, too—a pessary to be used if the herbs were ineffective.
This was a dangerous compound. A certain amount could cause a pregnant woman to abort. Too much could kill her as well. A woman trying to find the right dosage would have to be very careful. She would probably start out with a weak dilution of the formula and then increase the strength slowly until she achieved the desired result. It might take several days, but if she were careful, no one would know. Each person drank from her own cup.
But the monkey drank from Alys’s cup. It ate from her dish; she took it with her everywhere. Was that what had happened to it? Had it been poisoned by the herbs Alys was dosing herself with? And had the unexpected death of her pet frightened Alys into trying the suppository instead?
“Why, though?” Catherine muttered. “Why would Alys want to abort a child that was by her own husband?”
“What do you think you are doing?”
Catherine dropped the bag back into the chest. She looked up in horror.
Constanza stood in the doorway, her ladies just behind her. Their expressions were varying degrees of shock and contempt. But it was Constanza’s face that terrified Catherine the most. There was no surprise in it, rather a kind of grim triumph.
“A spy after all,” she said calmly. “I think we’ll have to find out just how much she knows. Ingeltix, you and Doda tie her to the bed. The rope we used for Alys is still under the table there. Remember, my dear, if you scream, I’ll have to kill you.”
Catherine had no doubt that she would.
A new village in the forest,
Feast of Saint James, brother of Jesus, first bishop of Jerusalem,
Wednesday, May 1, 1140
Fasting empties the soul of matter and makes it, with the body, clear and light for the reception of divine truth.
—Clement of Alexandria
“
I
must get inside to see what this mill is for,” Edgar said. “I have a guess but it seems impossible. How do you think we could arrange to do it?”
“We could ask that monk over there if he would show us his mill,” Walter suggested, gesturing for the man standing outside one of the crude huts to come over to them.
Edgar wasn’t amused.
“Aren’t you worried that you’ll be set upon and turned over to Raynald of Tonnerre in chains?” he asked.
Walter laughed. “I don’t see anyone here likely to attempt it. I’m not so dangerous or evil that monks would feel it necessary to attack me.”
The monk approaching them certainly showed no signs of hostility.
“Welcome!” he greeted Walter. “How may I serve you, my lord?”
“A mug of beer and a blessing are all I need,” Walter answered, dismounting. “But my friend, here, is curious about that strange building by the stream.”
The monk’s eyes lit and he beamed at Edgar.
“Of course, of course,” he said. “It’s not quite complete, as yet. I’m still having a small problem with regulating the action of the bellows. But I would be delighted to show you.”
“Bellows?” Edgar said with growing excitement. “You’ve adapted a water mill to pump bellows? For what purpose? Show me.”
He slid down from his horse and followed the monk toward the mill, forgetting Walter entirely.
With a shrug, the lord of Grancy took the reins dangling from Edgar’s abandoned horse and set about acting as squire.
As they entered the mill, Edgar took a deep breath. The air was redolent of fresh cut wood, burning charcoal and the tang of metal and lime.
“It’s only a model, you understand,” the monk told him. “The abbot wants proof that this will work before wasting our funds to build in stone. My name is Brother Ferreolus, by the way.”
“Mine is Edgar. This machine is beautiful,” Edgar said, going over to the contraption of stone and clay. “How does it work?”
“Well, you know how iron is usually separated from its rock, don’t you?” Brother Ferreolus said.
“Of course,” Edgar said. “The heat of the coal releases the iron imprisoned in the rock and it melts to the bottom of the forge. The problem in the procedure is with maintaining a steady flow of air over the coals to keep them hot enough, but not so hot that the iron metamorphoses into a heavier, useless form.”
“Yes, that’s one of the problems,” Brother Ferreolus agreed. “But another is that it’s costly to pay or feed the number of men necessary to keep the bellows working at any speed. And, since we white monks believe that we should not hire others to perform manual labor for us, we have been trying to provide for our needs for iron through our own efforts. As you can imagine, it’s very difficult to do this and keep up our other duties, even with the help of the lay brothers.”
“Why don’t you simply buy the iron from the smiths in the villages?” Edgar asked.
“What villages?” Ferreolus replied. “We build our monasteries in deserted land, far from any other habitation. At least, we attempt to. The world has a way of following us. Still, it is part of our philosophy to be self-sufficient and it was to that end that I designed this.”
“You did?” Edgar was amazed. “I thought your order also frowned on novelties, and this is certainly new.”
“Oh, this is no novelty, not at all,” Ferreolus insisted. “Everything here is a perfectly common tool. I have just arranged them differently to make them work better. That is not new, nor is it frivolous.”
“And,” he added, “as I explained to Abbot Norpald, if Our Lord hadn’t wanted this to be built, He wouldn’t have illuminated my mind with its image.”
“That is a quite reasonable argument,” Edgar said. “This work does bear the mark of divine inspiration.”
He examined the stone and clay oven, with the bellows inserted in two places and attached to the workings of the mill so that one opened to take in air as the other blew it over the coals. It was elegant, but the wood building wasn’t safe. They would need to build in stone if they intended to continue or expand the operation. He noted that there was an opening at the bottom for the molten iron to run out into a mold. It was fairly primitive. They must have a finery nearby also. Then something clicked in his mind.
“Abbot Norpald?” he said. “Of Vauluisant?”
“Yes, do you know him?” Ferreolus asked.
“I have heard of him,” Edgar admitted. “I didn’t realize that this land was part of the monastic property.”
Ferreolus seemed embarrassed.
“Actually, there has been some dispute on that point,” he said. “But I’m sure it will be resolved soon. Do you want to see where I’m going to put the water-driven
martinet?”
Edgar allowed himself to be diverted from further questions about the land. That could be delved into later. It was the beauty of the machine before him that consumed his interest.
“You’ve found a way to power a tilt hammer with a waterwheel?” He was doubtful. “That’s much more complicated than a double bellows.”
“I know,” Ferreolus agreed. “I’m having a little trouble with the cam and the balance. But if I pray long enough, I’m sure the answer will come to me.”
“I would dearly love to see the result when it does,” Edgar said.
“I hope you shall,” Ferreolus said as he led Edgar back out into the clearing.
Walter was sitting under a tree with a mug and a hunk of bread, talking with another of the monks. He waved the mug happily at them.
“Your squire seems very astute regarding the working of the forge,” Ferreolus said to him. “Is he an engineer?”
“Not my squire,” Walter mumbled through the bread. “Says he’s English but comes from Scotland; his father’s a lord and his great-aunt a saint. Probably all a story. It’s nothing to me. I like him. Want some food, Edgar?”
“I could do with something,” Edgar said. “You should see what this man has created, Walter. They could make enough iron in a week to shoe a hundred horses.”
“Ah, so they’re not grinding rocks into flour?” Walter said. “A pity. So much famine in the world.”
Ferreolus seemed distressed by this thought. He shook his head sadly.
“That would indeed be wondrous,” he said. “But God only granted me illumination, not a miracle. Not that I would ever consider myself worthy of receiving one, of course. Please, allow me to fill a cup for you.”
He went to the barrel for more beer. Edgar sat next to Walter, full of excitement over the machine he had just seen.
“You must come look at it,” he told the castellan. “It’s so much better than the old method. He’s even put an extra hole on the side of the forge so that one doesn’t have to lean over the chimney to put in the charcoal and rock.”
“Fascinating,” Walter yawned. “But what has it to do with Alys?”
Edgar thought. This was on the property the countess ceded to the Paraclete. But this was, as yet, a minor operation. It was not as if gold had been found there. Iron was necessary to any building project, however, and a ready constant source would be useful. Also, the property was convenient to Vauluisant and the monks had been known to pay well for land they wanted, if they couldn’t convince the owner to donate it. Ferreolus had given the impression that Raynald would transfer the land from the Paraclete to Vauluisant. Had the monks promised him a countergift in exchange for it? But why would Raynald need payment? He seemed wealthy enough. And how valuable was the land? Without the efficiency of the water-powered forge, the amount of iron one could capture from the rocks was not enough to bother with. That was why it had always been done by villagers, with little interference from the great lords.
Edgar sipped at his beer, certain that the answer was close. He went through the steps in his mind. First one gets the iron ore from the earth. Then, usually, the smelter is built nearby, the charcoal prepared and sometimes lime is added, if it’s available. The metal is extracted and taken to the finery, usually also nearby, to be hammered into a usable shape, strips or bars.
Now, how would this use of water power change that?
The only thing that Edgar could think of was that one couldn’t build and destroy the smelter as casually as before. It wasn’t just a clay oven, but a complicated set of instruments. That was a drawback. But, if there were sufficient iron ore in the area and enough wood to build the mill and make the charcoal, it would be possible to produce an enormous amount of metal of high quality with very few laborers. That would increase the value of the forest.
Edgar had been at the ongoing rebuilding of Abbot Suger’s church at Saint-Denis. He knew how much material was needed for such an endeavor. Iron, wood, stone; it seemed that most of the church was of stone and the worry that there would not be enough in neighboring quarries was constant. But wood was used even more, for a hundred things; beams like those the abbot had miraculously found, huts for the workmen, scaffolding, and, of course, charcoal. And the archbishop of Sens was contemplating building a new cathedral to rival Saint-Denis.
Yes, Edgar concluded. This forest might be valuable enough to fight over. But to kill someone? That seemed rather drastic. And why Alys? She may have held the rights to the land, but her husband would have had the final say. If Raynald had wanted to make an arrangement with Vauluisant or if he had wanted to use the land, himself, he had plenty of ways to coerce his wife to agree. There had to be something more.
He wondered if Catherine were right and Raynald had beaten Alys because she wouldn’t renounce her gift to the nuns. He might have gone farther than he had intended and been frightened when he realized what he had done.
But why then bring her to those same nuns for care? No, there was still something missing. But they had found all they could here. It was time to return to the Paraclete for Catherine. The thought warmed him. And then to Paris, where it seemed that other clouds were forming around Master Abelard.
Edgar took the last swallow of beer. Beside him, Walter snored peacefully in the afternoon sun. Edgar leaned back against the old chestnut tree and closed his eyes. The slap of the water against the creaking wheel was soothing. Perhaps just a short rest. He wondered what Catherine was doing now. Probably playing happily with the convent accounts. He hoped she wouldn’t have become too content with life there by the time he returned. Despite recent events, he suspected that the normal peace of the convent could be quite alluring.
His head dropped forward and his hand released the empty cup. Soon his gentle whistling snore gave a counterpoint to Walter’s bray.
Catherine twisted her hands once again, desperate to work loose from the ropes. There didn’t seem to be much point in trying to escape unnoticed, as they never left her alone, but not having the use of her hands was pushing Catherine close to hysteria and so she continued the effort.
Constanza’s visitor, who had finally been identified as Marcella, a recent widow making the tour of her less fortunate friends, smiled thinly at Catherine’s struggle.
“If you can’t endure a few days bound to a bed,” she smirked, “how do you ever propose to survive years of being bound to a man?”
Catherine didn’t respond. She had learned on the first day of her captivity that neither argument nor protestation had any effect on these women. Apart from slapping her a few times in their first moments of fury and fear, they hadn’t touched her. But their incessant tales of the bitterness of marriage were torture enough. Marcella continued, her voice grinding into Catherine’s ears.
“How would you like to be lying in that bed, night after night, knowing that someone was coming to torture you, to poke and prod and bite and drool all over you and you with no hope of freedom, no one to save you. A man with his horrid scratchy face and stinking breath, hands like wooden planks, leaving splinters in whatever they touch,” she snorted. “What we’ve done to you is nothing to what you’d experience once you wed. It would be a mercy to let you die now.”
Catherine kept her eyes turned away. If she gave no sign of hearing, maybe that horrible woman would stop.
But she didn’t.
“I remember how I used to watch my husband go off on one of his hunting trips, and the saints only know what he was really hunting.” Her words were still thick with resentment. “Every time I would wave and smile and pray he’d break his ugly neck.”
She paused. Her voice calmed. “And, one day, my prayers were answered.”
Catherine still refused to look. She heard the clink of the pitcher against a cup and the sound of liquid pouring. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. She wouldn’t acknowledge her tormentor, not even to ask for water. They had allowed her a cup a day, but no food. Why? What did they want from her? They had asked her no questions, not what she was doing or who had sent her, nor why she was there. They had only kept her prisoner and tried to drive her insane with stories of the horrors done to them by men. She couldn’t understand it. What was their reason? Did they plan to convince her to stay with them rather than marry? Or that whatever they had done was justified by the treatment they had endured? They couldn’t hope to keep her incarcerated forever; Héloïse knew where she was.