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Authors: Sharan Newman

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BOOK: The Devil's Door
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He didn’t tell me what sort of accident he had in Paris
, she worried.
He was far too quiet while Solomon was telling us the story. Something’s wrong.
There is a huge lacuna in your logic,
the voices responded.
Silence does not imply anything but a lack of speech. You have no basis for your conclusion other than a response. colored by the least intellectual of all human actions.
Catherine shifted uncomfortably. She was not in a mood to argue, especially from a position of weakness, both intellectual and physical. Across from her, Solomon was singing softly. She leaned over at a dangerous angle to catch the words.
“Ast nos tristificis perturbat potio sucis, cum medus atque Caeres, …”
“Solomon! When did you learn Latin?” She was so startled she nearly fell. Edgar reached out an arm to pull her upright again.
Solomon laughed. “I don’t need to understand it to sing it. With each stanza comes another round of drinks. After a few of those, one becomes almost fluent. Since we’ve finished the ale, it’s particularly appropriate now. Care to join me?”
And so, singing lustily of their need for more beer, the trio approached the gates of Troyes.
A beam of light fell across the page. Héloïse looked up. The fog was lifting, but not her mood. Spring, it seemed, had finally come to Champagne. She heard laughter in the cloister. Sister Bertrada would most likely arrive soon to remind the women of decorum and dignity. And she would be quite right. But for now, Héloïse let them rejoice. It soothed her aching spirit.
“I ought not to set my sights on the things of the earth,” she told herself firmly and picked up the pen once more.
But the only thing she saw was the image of all she loved most leaving, and leaving her behind once more.
“Dear God,” she pleaded, “I have tried to do my duty and serve you, but I still love him more. Why won’t you give me peace?”
There was no answer. Héloïse had long ago stopped trying to change her heart. She could only hope that one day she would be forgiven and God would change it for her.
Her mind strayed to Catherine. Dear, gawky, bright child. Héloïse had a special fondness for her. It was a shame she had been torn between the flesh and the mind, but perhaps the way she had chosen was for the best. There was no point in observing a life of outward piety and rectitude if one were constantly yearning for an occasion to sin.
“Mea culpa,”
she sighed and got up from her desk.
And it was useful, she considered, to have Catherine available to look into those matters she couldn’t see to, herself. Héloïse only hoped that marriage would bring the child a stronger sense of caution. She was entirely too prone to leaping into situations that mature reflection would have warned her to avoid.
“Lady Abbess?”
The voice through the door was that of Sister Thecla. Héloïse opened to her.
The elderly woman looked at her a moment with concern. Héloïse smiled, knowing that Thecla guessed her feelings.
“You know me too well, old friend,” she said. “I’m fine, but I admit you were wise to interrupt my thoughts.”
“Thoughts can become demons if we stay alone with them too long,” Thecla said. “But I have no such fears for you. No, I’m sorry to say I’ve come because we have a visitor.”
She paused portentously. Héloïse had a sudden image of a wrathful angel at the gate, righteously swinging a flaming sword around his head.
“Yes?” she prompted, firmly putting the idea away. “And who is it?”
“It’s
that man
,” Thecla said.
“Ah,” Héloïse needed no more explanation. Robert, the prior of Vauluisant, come with another demand or complaint. Very well. She lifted her chin and straightened her spine. There was nothing like a good fight to take one’s mind from gloom.
Prior Robert rose as she and Sister Thecla entered the guest room, but there was no respect in his attitude.
“I have just learned,” he began without preamble, “that you allowed my niece, the countess Alys, to stay with you for over a week without showing me the courtesy of sending someone to tell me she was here. Is your anger against us so great that you would deny me the right to see her before she died!”
Héloïse’s shoulders drooped. She put her palms together and pressed her fingers against her lips, lest she speak too hastily. She had forgotten the relationship entirely. The prior had every reason to be angry. But, she noted, like Raynald, all he showed was anger. Where was his grief? His demeanor was just the same as when he came to argue over his pigs. Poor Alys! It was obvious that Robert had another reason for being here. What was it? She lowered her hands. She would have to make him tell her.
“I beg your forgiveness, my brother,” she said. “Truly, we were so concerned with the care of Countess Alys and the observance of Holy Week that we were unable to spare anyone to go to you. But if I had known that Lord Raynald had not sent word to you himself, I would have sent one of our lay brothers at once.”
“Raynald has had quite enough to occupy himself with,” the prior sniffed. “Finding and punishing his wife’s murderer.”
“Yes, of course,” Héloïse nodded. “Surely that is why he did not return to visit or send anyone to inquire how she fared. We do our best to remove ourselves from such wickedness as revenge, which is best left to the Lord. We pray that her attackers are soon brought to His justice, though. As I’m sure you and the brothers of Vauluisant do.”
“Naturally.” The prior waved her comments aside.
Héloïse waited. Prior Robert was of an age with her and she had never felt intimidated by his ways, only exasperated. She looked at him steadily, which seemed to anger him even more.
“My niece’s widower
has
sent word to me,” he corrected her. “He has informed me that, because his poor wife died under your roof, you are now attempting to keep a donation of land that was never intended to be yours and for which you have no use.”
The bequest again! What was so important about it? Héloïse hoped Catherine could find out soon. It was difficult to play this game in the dark.
“I have been through this with Count Raynald,” she said. “Even though you are a member of her family, I cannot see how it concerns you. As I understand, the property
Sister
Alys left us comes from her father’s side of the family. You are her mother’s brother, I believe.”
“I’m not here only as Alys’s uncle,” Robert answered.
Héloïse could readily believe that. She opened her eyes wider and inclined her head, inviting him to continue.
Her stare seemed to disconcert him. He moved back a step, nearly bumping Sister Thecla, who sat in the shadowed corner. She moved her feet out of his way and he jumped.
“
Harou
!” he yelped. “Saint Maurice’s sword, woman, you startled me! I’d forgotten you were there.”
“I am not worth your notice, good prior,” the portress said. “I am only here because it would not be seemly for our abbess to receive you unaccompanied.”
“And yet, I understand Peter Abelard was just here,” Prior Robert shut his mouth as soon as the words were out, but they could not be recalled. He gave Héloïse a sidelong glance. Her mouth was shut firmly.
Before she could speak, Thecla answered, “Ah, yes, Master Abelard honored us with a visit. He gave the most beautiful Easter sermon I have ever heard and inquired most kindly as to my health. We are fortunate that, with all his duties and his work, Abbot Peter finds time for his daughters.”
Héloïse blessed Thecla with all her heart. She had been about to be as rash in her speech as Catherine ever had. Prior Robert had known that his comment would anger her. They had been sparring too many years. She took a deep breath.
“You were saying?” she smiled politely. “Your niece?”
“I was saying,” he paused to collect himself, “that I am not here solely because she was my niece. This property is in the forest of Othe, adjoining our land. As I said, you have no use for it and it is not clear if you have any right to it. However, in a spirit of charity and because of our long association, I’ve been sent by my abbot to make you an offer.”
“Oh?” This was becoming more interesting every moment.
“I’ve been authorized to arrange for the Paraclete to receive all the proceeds of our vineyards at Chablis, in return for which we will accept the uncultivated land in the forest of Othe.”
“The proceeds from the vineyards?” Héloïse asked. “Your people will do all the work, care for the land, harvest the grapes and make the wine and then give us the profit?”
“Yes,” he said.
“For how long are we to receive this?”
Prior Robert swallowed. “Because of our great respect for your piety and holiness, …”
A response seemed to be expected here. Héloïse smiled humbly.
“We are prepared to grant them to you in perpetuity,” he finished.
Forever. Héloïse knew where the vines of Vauluisant were in Chablis. Those wines travelled as far as Carcassonne and Denmark. What could be hidden in the forest of Othe, the True Cross? She was greatly tempted to borrow a pair of trousers, dress as a charcoal burner, and set out herself to find out.
“That is a most generous offer,” she said. “I will have to discuss it with the other nuns in chapter. We will let you know our decision. Sister Thecla, perhaps the good prior would like some dinner before he leaves?”
“Of course, Lady Abbess.” Thecla clapped her hands and Brother Baldwin appeared in the doorway.
“Could you please show Prior Robert where he might wash?” she said. “I will have a meal brought to him here.”
And, before he could do more than give an inarticulate protest, Prior Robert was led away in search of a wash he didn’t need to prepare for a meal he didn’t want.
Héloïse turned back to the portress.
“Thank you, Thecla,” she said. “I almost lost control of my temper. Prior Robert has a talent for infuriating me.”
Sister Thecla chuckled. “That’s nothing to what you do to him, my dear abbess.”
“What are you talking about?” Héloïse asked.
“You poor lamb,”—Thecla patted her cheek—“did you think that by putting on a wimple you stopped being a woman? Now, I know I shouldn’t be speaking to you like this, but I’ve known you since you were a child. If you want me to repeat it in chapter, I’ll do it and take my punishment. But you should be aware of things. That man is so drawn to you, he can barely keep from stuttering. He probably goes back to his cell and sits on cold stones to punish himself.”
“That is absolute nonsense,” Héloïse told her. “I’m ashamed of you.”
“I’m not the one with the lustful thoughts,” Thecla said. “I may have spent my life in a convent, my lady abbess, but in my day we were taught to know the signs of a man’s attention straying to bodily temptations, if only to avoid them. You are as beautiful now as you ever were and Prior Robert is still a man, for all his vows.”
Héloïse had known Sister Thecla too long to discount her advice. She had been made portress partly because she had shown herself a good judge of people. But she did not need another complication in her dealing with Vauluisant.
“Very well,” she said. “I will keep your observation in mind. For the moment, I need to speak with Prioress Astane about this ‘offer’. And we will discuss it in chapter. Someone must know why this particular piece of woods is so desirable. With all the interest in it, I can only assume we’ve been given the site of the Garden of Eden.”
Outside a house in the old Jewish quarter of Troyes,
late afternoon, Tuesday, April 9, 1140
The ancients who have preceded us have passed down the following rules: that each will pay according to all his fortune, with the exception of tools, houses, vines and fields. As for the money of the Christians by which he earns his bread, he only needs to pay on the capital.
—Rules for taxation in Troyes,
Rashi, responsa n. 248
“
T
hey can’t stay here,” Joseph ben Meïr told Solomon firmly. “She might not be noticed, but that man with her is not only a Christian, but obviously a foreigner. My business is too delicate just now to have questions asked about my visitors.”
“Our sort of business is always delicate,” Solomon insisted. “The law of hospitality still holds. It’s your duty to take us in!”
“Only you,” Joseph answered. “Not them. I have no duty to outsiders.”
“How much wine has my uncle Hubert bought from you this year?” Solomon asked. “And how much wool from your wife?”
“I can find another contact in Paris,” Joseph sighed. “Peter of Baschi lives here in Troyes and that culein deacon will make my life impossible if he can find a reason to. He owes me forty marks and hasn’t even paid the interest on it this year. If I have Christians in the house, he’ll accuse me of proselytizing and refuse to pay at all.”
Joseph rubbed at his chin beneath his beard and stared at the table, apparently waiting for sympathy. But Solomon was not interested in financial problems; he heard enough of those at home.
Joseph slammed his palm against the table. “No,” he repeated. “It’s not worth the risk. I won’t have those idolators in my house. Take them to their own people.”
Solomon got up. He was sure that they could find someplace else in Troyes to stay, but that wasn’t the point. Hubert had done too many favors for Joseph ben Meïr to announce that the arrival of Hubert’s daughter and nephew was inconvenient to his business.
“Very well,” he said. “I will take them elsewhere. But I hope you remember this when your priest decides to pay you back by heating those marks until they glow and shoving them up your
tabahie
, brother. You may wish you had made friends among the idolators, as well as debtors.”
Catherine and Edgar were waiting outside in the shelter of the overhanging roof. Catherine was shivering even though Edgar was as close to her as possible and had wrapped her in his cloak as well as her own. She didn’t notice his attentions at the moment. She was busy worrying about how she was going to find out about the land for Mother Héloïse and, at the same time, prove that Count Raynald had beat his wife to death. Edgar was thinking on a more immediate level, of a hot meal and then a steaming shared bath in a curtained wooden tub. He kissed her forehead, which happened to be the part closest to his mouth at the moment.
“I wonder if we can find a shop that sells perfumed soap,” he whispered.
“From the stench of the tanneries, there must also be rendering and soapmaking done here,” Catherine answered. “This place smells worse than Paris.”
“Somehow, a hot bath sounds less appealing, after that thought,” he moved away a pace.
“A hot bath?” Catherine stopped her musing and returned to the present. “You mean the two of us?”
“That was the thought,” he answered, still annoyed.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she smiled. “I was thinking of something else. I’d like that. I could wash your hair; I’ve had lots of practice.”
He smiled back. He wondered if she would sing, too, but decided to wait to suggest it.
They were still standing there grinning when the gate slammed behind Solomon.
“
Avoutre
!” he muttered. “
Fils de cochons
.”
“Is there a problem?” Edgar asked.
“He won’t take us,” Solomon answered. “Afraid of the Gentiles.”
“Then we’ll have to stay at one of the hostels,” Edgar sighed. “Stuck in a room with twelve other people. Come along, Catherine.”
He began to lead their horse through the narrow street, past the church of Saint-Frobert, toward the Rue de la Cite, where, either in the old city or out in the new town, they might find a place for the night.
“If we could just find a hostel upwind of the tanneries,” Catherine said, “I wouldn’t mind anything else. I’m dreadfully tired.”
“Didn’t sleep well last night?” Solomon asked mildly.
They didn’t answer him. All three of them were aware of their exhaustion as they trudged through the gate of the old city and crossed the bridge over the swampy bed of the river Seine, which had been diverted to create a canal around the expanded town. Catherine realized that the night before hadn’t been the first sleepless one that week. Between caring for the countess, the duties of Holy Week and ruffians beneath her window, she couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been tired. Poor Edgar! She probably had disappointed him. She would have to do better the next time. If they could only find a private place to have the next time.
Edgar and Solomon were conferring about their options for a hot meal and a bed and didn’t notice as Catherine fell behind. As usual, her thoughts were not on the road under her feet, and she didn’t hear the sedan chair coming up behind her until the bearer cried out his warning. With a start, she jumped to the side of the road, tripped and slid headfirst into the dank weeds of the riverbed.
“Catherine!” Edgar heard the scream and knew, from experience, that it was not of fear but annoyance. Still, he hurried back to the edge of the ditch, prepared to descend and fetch his bride. He couldn’t say that he hadn’t been warned.
“
Leoffœst
!” he called. “Are you hurt? I’m coming!”
“No, don’t!” Catherine called back. “It’s horridly slimy here. I don’t want to think about what I’ve landed on, but it was soft enough to break my fall. I’ll climb up the side. Hold your nose with one hand and help me up with the other.”
Catherine began climbing up the bank. She had lost her scarf and her braids were covered with bits of leaves and rushes, as well as the combination of mud, scum and garbage that she’d fallen into. Edgar ignored part of her order and leaned over the edge, holding out both hands to help her up.
“Give the man some help, Hugh!” The sharp and imperious voice was right at Edgar’s ear and nearly caused him to slide in after Catherine. “Lupel, stop fussing about your hose and get the poor girl out!”
Two more hands reached out and grabbed one of Catherine’s wrists. Edgar took the other, and together, he and the stranger pulled her back onto the street. Immediately, the stranger backed away, looking around frantically for something to wipe his hands on beside his own linen, fur-edged robe.
“Here, Lupel, don’t be so fastidious. Take my scarf.”
They all turned to the sedan chair, now resting in the road. Its occupant appeared oblivious to the fact that all the traffic now had to pass around her, with some difficulty. And none of those so inconvenienced seemed inclined to remonstrate.
“Are you hurt, girl?” The woman asked Catherine.
“No, my lady countess.” Catherine recognized her at once and was so abashed she could hardly speak. “I am terribly sorry. It was all my fault. I wasn’t watching the road.”
Mahaut, countess of Champagne and Blois, wife of Count Thibault, daughter of Englebert, duke of Carinthia, sister to abbots and bishops and mistress of any situation, peered at Catherine. Beneath the mud, she noted that Catherine’s cloak was good wool, and under that, the
bliaut
was linen and well made. She also saw the delicate carving on the ivory cross around her neck. She looked closer. Catherine returned her stare. In her dark, begrimed face, Catherine’s blue eyes shone like lapis. The countess blinked.
“I know you, girl,” she said. “I’ve seen you before, I’m sure.”
“My name is Catherine, daughter of Hubert LeVendeur.” Catherine tried vainly to wipe her face.
Mahaut suddenly began to laugh. “Of course! How could I forget the little girl who came with her father to my faire at Provins and managed to fall from a tree onto my son and his nurse, spill a pitcher of wine she was carrying to me and nearly be trampled by a bee-stung mule, all in one day.” She tried to control her amusement, but the sight of Catherine was too much. “My dear, you haven’t changed at all!”
Finally, she sobered. “But what are you doing here? I seem to recall your father asking me to sponsor your entrance into the Paraclete. If you’ve run off from Abbess Héloïse , I’ll have you whipped and sent straight back. And who are these men?” she added, at last noticing Edgar and Solomon.
“This is my husband,” Catherine said.
Edgar bowed.
“If this is true, you have my sympathy, sieur,” the countess said. “If it’s not, I’ll have your …”
“Of course it is,” Catherine interrupted. “Edgar, show her the contract.”
Hurriedly, Edgar started rummaging in the pack. Countess Mahaut turned her attention to Solomon. “And this is your brother?”
“No,” he answered. “Her cousin, Stephen, from Rouen.”
He glanced a warning at Catherine, who for once held her tongue.
With a gasp of relief, Edgar found the contract and gave it to the countess. She studied it carefully.
“In French and Latin,” she said at last. “Signed by Hubert LeVendeur and witnessed by both Abelard and Héloïse. Even if Peter Abelard is a heretic, which I doubt, he should be competent to sanction a marriage. It seems official. And dated … yesterday?”
She studied them all, Catherine most closely. “Married at the convent, with only your cousin present. Rather unusual and hasty, I would say. Are you pregnant?”
“No, my lady!” Catherine said with indignation. “Of course not!”
“Then there must be a story in all this,” the countess said. “I love a good story. Come with me, all of you. Lupel, run on back to the castle and see that a room is prepared for my guests. And start heating water for baths. A lot of water. Hurry.”
There seemed no reason to argue. Edgar took Catherine’s arm and he and Solomon led the horses in procession behind the countess’s chair.
“This is a stroke of luck,” Catherine said. “If the countess will help us, no one will dare deny our requests for information.”
“Nearly getting yourself killed, yet again, is not lucky, Catherine,” Edgar said. “And I don’t like how noticeable we’ve suddenly become. Everyone in town now knows that we’re here. What if the countess disapproves of our requests?”
He rubbed his aching side. Money and property, internecine greed and death, Catherine’s uncle attacked in Paris just as he had been. He wondered if the man—it must be the same man—who had tried to stick his knife into Eliazar and himself had meant to kill them at all. It was odd to have two such inept attempts. Of course, he amended, Saint Guthlac may well have been watching out for him. But what saint would save a Jew? And always he worried about these whispers of heresy. Even now in Paris they were drawing up sides to condemn or defend Abelard. From the countess’s comment, they were doing the same in Troyes. And how many there had actually read his work?
Edgar rubbed absently at his side. He should have gone with Abelard to Paris. Now his place was at the side of his master, not entangled in some sordid plot of the champenois and burgundian nobility. What did their earthly struggles matter when Truth was being threatened?
Catherine noticed the gesture. That bruise must hurt more than he had said. She plodded along, filthy, exhausted, mortified at her continued clumsiness and wondering why she had left the convent.
You’re walking beside the reason, Catherine. Stop whining.
That was true. In spite of her discomfort, Catherine smiled. She’d have taken Edgar’s arm, but didn’t want to smear his clothes any more than they had been. Hot water, soap, dry clothes, good food, a warm bed, Edgar. Hot water, soap, dry clothes … like a litany, Catherine hummed her desires. There was no room in her tired brain for further disquiet.
Solomon followed as ordered, hoping he would be allowed to wash alone. His faith would be evident the moment he dropped his pants. In the past, he had resorted to convoluted explanations to avoid being seen naked. And he did long for a hot soak. Beyond that, he refused to worry. He had long ago realized that his life was not his own. If the Almighty One was now telling him to dine with the countess of Champagne, who was he to question?
Countess Mahaut was a thorough hostess and they were all provided with whatever they needed. Edgar was dismayed to realize that the amenities didn’t include a chance to indulge his steamy fantasy. He and Solomon were given the curtained tub and Catherine was sent to the women’s rooms to have the countess’s ladies heat the water, wash and braid her hair with ribbons and sew her into a pair of sleeves so tight they almost cut off the blood to her hands.
Catherine felt like a newborn butterfly in the borrowed finery. The linen
chainse
was a bright yellow and the silk
bliaut
over it was blue. The hem and neckline were embroidered with vines. Although Catherine had insisted that the
chainse
be laced tightly on the sides so that her skin was covered, the
bliaut
was done up loosely, so that the yellow cloth showed through. She had a belt of blue silk in a darker shade, with gold fringes at the ends that she found fascinating.
BOOK: The Devil's Door
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