The Devil's Door (4 page)
Edgar hung his head. He felt like a just-thrashed schoolboy. In his part of the world, Jews were mythical beings inhabiting only the Old Testament or Easter sermons. He still found it difficult to associate them with the people of Paris who looked and acted just like everyone else. He had forgotten the shame of Hubert Le Vendeur’s family connections and remembered only the kindness they had shown him when his life was in danger.
Why had he come to Eliazar first? The reasons that came into his mind could not be spoken. Because I felt more likely to be taken in here. Because I wanted someone to be on my side when I see Catherine’s family. Because your wife reminds me of my stepmother and it comforts me to see her. He felt like an idiot and knew that whatever he said would cause laughter or offense. He took a deep breath and decided to tell the truth.
“I didn’t want to appear at Catherine’s door like a beggar or an abductor,” he explained. “Also, I wasn’t sure how I would be received there. Perhaps Hubert has decided that Catherine should remain in the convent, if only for her mother’s sake. You know her mother believes that Catherine has risen bodily into heaven and is now a saint?”
Eliazar nodded. “His wife’s condition is one of Hubert’s greatest sorrows. Yes, it would be difficult if you appeared at family dinner. Madeleine would not take kindly to your intentions.”
“Exactly,” Edgar said. “If Hubert were not there, I didn’t know how I would explain myself, or to whom. But you know me.”
“Yes,” Eliazar smiled. “We have had a short but illuminating acquaintance. For most of it, you were unconscious, as I recall.”
Edgar grimaced. “Yes, that’s true. I suppose I came here because I know you. You were kind to me. I would have gone directly to the Paraclete and met Catherine there, avoiding the whole problem,” he added, “but I don’t want to be accused of abduction.”
“Very commendable.” Eliazar smiled. “Especially since they would not be likely to let you anywhere near my niece without her father’s permission. Well then, as far as I know, my brother is in Paris. Madeleine is at Vielleteneuse with Catherine’s brother and his family and so safely out of the way. If you want word of Catherine, or a formal contract made up, I think you should go see Hubert. I would send a messenger to him, but I won’t risk anyone this week.”
“I understand,” Edgar got up. “Thank you.”
Johannah came in just as he was leaving. “Are you going without eating? We do allow Christians at our table.”
“You have given me something better than food,” Edgar said. “I will not intrude upon you further.”
When he had gone, Johannah turned to her husband.
“That boy is still in love with Catherine,” she said.
“And what’s wrong with that?” Eliazar asked.
“Love should come after marriage, not before,” she answered firmly. “It’s something that happens in spite of knowing a person’s worst habits. Putting it first will only cause trouble.”
“If you feel that way, I’m very glad you didn’t love me when we got married.”
Johannah patted Eliazar’s stomach. “You foolish man, I’ve loved you since I was six years old.”
Eliazar shook his head. “Then I hope you will forgive me, I’ve only loved you since you were ten.”
Johannah sighed. “Those poor children, from opposite ends of the world. It’s a miracle they even met. I hope nothing prevents their happiness.”
“My dearest, that’s what life does,” he answered sadly. “I only hope they taste a little joy before things go wrong.”
Despite Eliazar’s advice, Edgar went in the opposite direction from Hubert LeVendeur’s house at the Grève on the northern bank of the river. Instead he crossed the Petit Pont and headed west, to Sainte-Geneviève. On the other side of the Seine the crowds were rowdier, younger, much more drunk. He pulled his hood far down over his face and elbowed his way through. He could feel hands groping him, hunting for a purse, he hoped. He had none. He had sent the books and his pack on with Astrolabe. He felt a sudden thud against his side, as if someone had thrown a rock, but in this crush it was impossible. A voice muttered,
“Aversier ou serjens? Par le cors Saint Omer! Fils a batart avoutre!”
“Aversier ou serjens? Par le cors Saint Omer! Fils a batart avoutre!”
Edgar looked down in time to see a knife flash away from him, the tip bent. He rubbed his side. There was a tear in his chainse that had slit the cloth underneath. He could feel the smooth gold revealed. He covered it with his hand and wrapped his cloak more tightly. With renewed energy, he shoved himself away from his assailant and hurried on, repeating under his breath,
“Deo gratias, Mariae gratias!”
over and over.
“Deo gratias, Mariae gratias!”
over and over.
“And thank you, too, Egbert,” he added. “For paying me in good thick bezants.”
By the time he reached Sainte-Geneviève, his side was aching fiercely. He would have one beautiful bruise from this, but it made him shaky to think how close he had come to having his stomach gutted. He had passed twice through an England in the middle of civil war and had not come so close to death.
As he climbed the steps to the abbey, he began to wonder about it. The man had not tried to cut a purse. He had thrust at his left side, under the rib cage. He had wanted to murder him in the crowd and be gone. Why? Edgar felt a cold hand on his neck and shuddered violently, turning. There was no one there.
This was insane, Edgar told himself. There was no reason for someone to single him out for murder. He had no importance. His family’s feuds were confined to the area between Northumbria and Edinburgh. It was unlikely anyone would follow him here for revenge. Apart from a difference of opinion with Catherine’s uncle Roger, now mercifully dead, he had made no enemies that he knew of. His attacker was most likely mad, someone with a grudge against all clerics. Perhaps a student had seduced his wife or cheated him at dice. It was unnerving and painful, but nothing to become morbid about. Cities bred madness; it was a well-known fact.
Astrolabe was sitting by the fire in the monastery hostel. The bag of books and a smaller sack of clothes and writing tools were beside him. Edgar shook himself, forcing the fear from his limbs. There was no point in recounting the tale. Certainly not here, at least, where his explanation of being saved by his belt of gold coins might be overheard.
“What are your plans? Are we leaving soon?” Edgar asked Astrolabe, as he went through the sack for his drinking cup. “Is there any ale?”
“The barrel is in the corner. There’s a monk guarding it,” Astrolabe answered. “My father wants to leave at first light tomorrow.”
Edgar stopped in his quest for a drink. Astrolabe seemed as upset as he was himself. “That worries you?”
Astrolabe rubbed his forehead. “He is much worse. He’s gaunt as if on a perpetual fast. His skin is some part red, some part pale as your own. He barely has the strength to stand.”
“Is he well enough to ride the mule?”
Astrolabe frowned. “I have no idea. It certainly is the proper mount for an abbot and he clings to the perquisites of his office. He has little more.” He covered his face with both hands. “I just don’t know if he could even stand that much jolting. Which would anger my mother more, if I let him use the last of his strength to reach her or if I risked his dying where she could not reach him?”
“I haven’t met your mother,” Edgar said. “But I do know Master Abelard. The decision will be his.”
“Exactly.” A hand descended heavily onto Edgar’s shoulder. At first he thought it was a blow of reprimand, then he realized that, if he moved, Abelard would fall. Edgar looked around slowly. His eyes widened in shock.
In the four months he had been gone, Abelard had aged ten years, it seemed. His hair was nearly white and the skin was stretched over the bones of his face like leather on a new drum. The hand gripping Edgar’s shoulder, however, was iron strong.
“I will spend Easter at the Paraclete,” he announced. “It is my duty to see to the welfare of my daughters in Christ. Then, I must see the archbishop of Sens.”
“Father … !” Astrolabe began. Then he stopped and shook his head in resignation. “Then I’m going to see about getting you a horse. The mule has too uneven a gait. And don’t make any objection,” he added as he got up and put on his cloak. “I may not have your gift for argument, but I’m as stubborn as you and Mother put together.”
Abelard eased himself onto the stool Astrolabe had vacated. He smiled at him fondly.
“I think a horse would be an excellent idea,” he said. “Thank you, son.”
His agreement seemed to alarm Astrolabe even more. Muttering that the Day of Judgement must surely be at hand, he went out.
Edgar finally went for his drink, getting another for Master Abelard. When he returned, he found the master staring blankly into the fire. He roused himself to take the offered cup.
“Do you ever see images in flames?” he asked Edgar.
Startled, Edgar answered, “No, never.”
Abelard sighed. “Neither do I. God grants me no such visions. I see only what logic and common sense tell me is there. It might be better if I saw dragons or visions of damned souls. Instead, I see only something burning to create warmth. One would think a heretic would feel some premonition upon regarding fire.”
Edgar looked at the glowing coals and tried to decide if he was supposed to see something or not. After a few minutes, Abelard spoke again, in a different tone.
“So, are you still determined to steal away one of Héloïse’s charges for the trials of married life?”
Edgar grinned. “Yes, Master, if she’ll still have me.”
“I will not lecture you on the subject again,” Abelard assured him. “Although the ability to enjoy carnal union has been taken from me, I remember it well enough and know the force with which it can overcome us.”
“Neither of us has taken any other vows,” Edgar reminded him. “It isn’t the easiest road to salvation, I know, but …”
“You intend to marry this woman, don’t you?” Abelard asked sharply. “You intend to live with her and honor her and engender children upon her who will be raised in the faith. Is that correct?”
“Yes, of course,” Edgar answered, though he hadn’t actually thought too far beyond the initial consummation as yet.
“Then I see no reason for you to alter your plans. The apostle would not have told couples to pay each other the marriage debt if it were a sin. I believe that no such natural pleasure of the flesh, such as that which is necessary to continue the human race, should be called a sin. Nor should it be considered a fault if we take pleasure from the act in marriage when the pleasure is unavoidable.”
“I remember your lecture on that, Master,” Edgar said. “So you feel that I should not consider it a sin if I prefer marriage to burning.”
“Precisely,” Abelard replied. He set down his cup, serious again. “I wonder if that is among the list of heresies the former abbot of Saint-Thierry is making from my writings.”
“I don’t understand this new controversy.” Edgar said fiercely. “Haven’t they persecuted you enough? After Soissons, didn’t they realize how ridiculous these charges of heresy were?”
“That was many years ago,” Abelard answered. “Since then, I have achieved even more respect and renown for my theological studies. Little minds fear me. They are in terror of the influence I might have. My books are read even in Rome. William of Saint-Thierry was once my friend. He must know my faith is as strong and orthodox as his own. But I intend to settle this matter once and for all.”
“How?” Edgar wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“Henry Sanglier, archbishop of Sens, is holding a display of relics on the octave of Pentecost. He has invited the king, the count of Champagne and a number of bishops and nobles. The following day I propose to debate William’s champion, the abbot of Clairvaux, on these matters that he considers counter to dogma. I will prove my case before everyone.”
Abelard sank back on the stool, exhausted. Edgar didn’t know what to say. He believed completely that his teacher was no heretic, that he was the most brilliant scholar in France, or anywhere else. But he did not believe that Abelard, in his present state of health, was strong enough to debate anyone, especially someone with the passion and certainty of Bernard of Clairvaux. But, as Astrolabe had said, there was only one person who could outargue Peter Abelard.
“You say we’ll leave for the Paraclete at first light?” he asked. “I must go now to make arrangements with Catherine’s father. Where shall I meet you?”
“At the Devil’s Fart,” Abelard answered. “Be there before the sun strikes the spire of Saint-Jean, or we’ll leave without you.”
Paris, at a house on the right bank near the Grève,
Palm Sunday and the eve of the Feast of All Fools,
March 31, 1140
Palm Sunday and the eve of the Feast of All Fools,
March 31, 1140
Brutescent homines si concessi dote priventur eloquii, ipsaeque urbes videbuntur potius pecorum quasi saepta quam coetus hominum nexu quodam societatis foederatus, ut participatione officiorum et amica invicem vicissitudine eodem iure vivat,
Deprived of their gift of speech, men would degenerate to the condition of brute animals, and cities would seem like corrals for livestock, rather than communities composed of human beings united by a common bond for the purpose of living in society, serving one another and cooperating as friends.
—John of Salisbury,
Metalogicon
Metalogicon
T
he open field of the Grève was still cluttered with stalls and celebrants when Edgar arrived that evening. He waded through the broken evergreen branches, carried in lieu of palms by most of the people in the processions. The scent of pine mingled with that of stale beer, incense and the sharp tang of freshly tanned hides. Edgar inhaled deeply. It reminded him of home. He wondered if he should buy another draught of beer to fortify him for the meeting with Catherine’s father.
he open field of the Grève was still cluttered with stalls and celebrants when Edgar arrived that evening. He waded through the broken evergreen branches, carried in lieu of palms by most of the people in the processions. The scent of pine mingled with that of stale beer, incense and the sharp tang of freshly tanned hides. Edgar inhaled deeply. It reminded him of home. He wondered if he should buy another draught of beer to fortify him for the meeting with Catherine’s father.
A woman was lounging against the keg.
“How much to fill a cup this size?” Edgar asked, holding up his drinking mug.
The woman smiled and straightened. “It depends on what I fill it with,” she said, wrapping an arm about his waist.
It was only then that Edgar noticed the bright yellow belt the woman wore. As she brushed against him, he also realized that her chainse was laced up so loosely that one could see her naked skin showing between the ribbons from armpit to thigh. She must have been cold without her shift. But he didn’t have the time, money or inclination to warm her.
“Sorry,” he said, backing off quickly. What if she had felt the gold?
“You should be,” she answered. “A night with me is worth a day of penance, cleric.”
Edgar doubted it. The skin he had touched had been greasy and her hair had smelled of a hundred unwashed men.
Catherine’s hair smelled like summer rain.
He made his way through the detritus to the door of the house of Hubert LeVendeur, merchant.
Catherine’s father was just finishing the evening meal and was thinking seriously about taking a cup of mulled wine and going to bed when Edgar was announced.
“By the vats of Saint Vincent!” he exclaimed. “You’ve come back!”
“Yes, sir,” Edgar said. He wasn’t sure if this greeting were a welcome or a curse.
The room was empty, except for a small trestle table near the fire, where Hubert was seated. An oil lamp, hanging from the ceiling, gave the only light.
“Where is everyone?” Edgar asked.
Hubert shrugged. “I sent my men-at-arms to spend Holy Week with their families. The rest of the household is at my son’s home at Vielleteneuse. I have business that keeps me here. And you?”
He didn’t ask Edgar to sit, or offer him wine. Common manners should have required that much. Edgar’s nervousness suddenly turned to anger. Who was this man to glare at him and treat him like a serf? He lifted his chin and glared back.
“I have business here, too,” he answered. “Four months ago you agreed to my betrothal to your daughter, Catherine. The desponsatio having been approved by both you and the lady in question, I returned to my father’s home to acquire his permission and to obtain a dower. Since you did not wish her to be burdened with land in a foreign country, I have brought her dower in gold.”
He reached beneath his shift and untied the belt he had worn for so many miles. He then laid it on the table in front of Hubert.
Catherine’s father didn’t even glance at it. He poured another cup of wine from the pitcher.
“And what did your father say when you told him you were returning to France to marry a woman who was meant to marry Our Lord?”
Until that moment, Edgar was unaware of the generations of aristocratic arrogance hidden deep in his being.
“My father was not at all concerned by that,” he said. “He was much more appalled that I would forfeit my right to become abbot of the family monastery and then bishop of Edinburgh. It was only to that end that I was sent to study in Paris.”
Hubert nodded slowly and drained the cup. He looked at Edgar again, this time with deep sadness.
“It’s not too late to fulfill your father’s wishes,” he said.
Edgar blinked. His stomach lurched. Hubert had not touched the gold.
“What are you trying to tell me?” he asked, his voice faltering slightly. “What has happened while I was gone? Has Catherine …”
“No,” Hubert said. Finally he stood.
“Come over here, son. Sit. Drink. Catherine is well. Her letters speak mostly of her concerns for you. I have spent many wakeful nights reviewing my decision to grant her to you. I truly expected your father to forbid you to return. I thought, Well, she will be unhappy a while and then realize that the Paraclete is the best place for her.”
Edgar’s hand froze as he reached for the pitcher.
“And now?” he asked.
Hubert poured wine for them both. He gestured to the half-finished bread and meat, then gazed into the shadows lurking beyond the small circle of lamplight.
“I came to Paris from Rouen thirty-five years ago. The Christian merchant who raised me had given me the job of providing the Norman lords of the area with wine from Francia and Burgundy. In executing this commission, I acquired wealth and connections of my own. One was with a knight of Blois, Raoul de Boisvert. The family had little money but they were distantly related to the counts of Blois and could trace their line back to Richard le Justicier. Raoul had a daughter. He was amenable; she was obedient. I married her.”
Edgar remembered the only time he had seen Madeleine, daughter of Raoul. Catherine had been so ill, she had fallen from her horse outside the castle keep. He had rushed up to catch her but Madeleine had pushed him away and started raving about the sickness being a punishment or a penance. Catherine had already told him how her mother spent most of every day praying and visiting the local shrines.
Hubert sighed. “Pay attention, boy. I’m telling you the story for a purpose. I want you to understand why I’m doing this, so you know what to expect from me. I bought Madeleine from her father. I was fond enough of her, but mostly I cared for her family. Her ties to nobility would improve my social position and increase my wealth. It was a perfectly normal arrangement.
“Then there were the stillbirths, the children taken by fever their first winter, our second son crushed by the cart. She began to suspect that my conversion to Christianity had not been genuine, that I still adhered to the faith of my ancestors. She withdrew from me and replaced me with the saints. Finally, the saints alone mattered, even more than our remaining children. But nothing she does for them brings her peace. Look what these fears have done to her. What I did. I keep thinking that, if I had loved her, I would have noticed sooner that her piety was beyond the normal. I could have reassured her as to my faith. Perhaps it would have made a difference.”
From what Edgar knew of Madeleine’s family, he doubted that her madness could have been prevented. Her brother Roger had certainly been insane. Was Hubert warning him against marrying into a family of lunatics? It could work both ways. Edgar hoped they never had a visit from his uncle Ethelraed.
Hubert refilled his cup. “I’m almost finished,” he promised. “They say that physical lust is the worst possible reason for a marriage and I can see, as can everyone else, by the way, how you and my daughter lust after each others’ bodies. All I can hope is that you also share a love encompassing the mind and heart that will see you through to the end of your days. If you don’t, if one day you regret not making a career in the Church, then release her. Let her go back to the nuns and be happy. Don’t make her stay with you for pride’s sake or honor.
“I love Catherine the most of all my children,” he added. “I would rather see her happy than countess of Champagne. That’s all.”
Edgar picked up the gold and laid it in Hubert’s lap.
“I will not buy your daughter,” he said. “This is my promise that, with or without me, she will be taken care of. Catherine is more a part of me than any friend I have ever had. And I think I would make a most unholy abbot.”
Hubert untied the cloth and counted out the bezants. He held one up to the light.
“I’ll have Ullo make up a bed for you when he’s cleared the table. You can sleep here by the fire tonight. Later, when you have been properly wed, I’ll have the room above the counting house made up for you and Catherine. She’ll want to be near the books.”
Then he called for another pitcher of wine.
Edgar was standing next to the Devil’s Fart the next morning at first light. He leaned against it as he waited, rubbing his back against the scratches on the ancient megalith. No one knew who had built it or why it had been so named. It had been done by pagans, of course, long before the Romans, long before Christ. But the people of Paris seemed happy enough to leave it standing, once its evil influence had been countered by the church of Saint-Jean, built next to it. Large and easy to spot, it was a convenient gathering place. Many a pilgrim had etched his mark on the old Fart before setting out for Jerusalem or Compostela.
The sun touched the spire of Saint-Jean and the bells of the town began ringing Prime. Edgar felt his mended chainse and was reassured by the crackle of vellum. It was worth as much to him as the gold that had been there before. Hubert LeVendeur had written a letter in his own hand, authorizing the abbess of the Paraclete to release his daughter, Catherine, if she agreed, to Edgar of Wedderlie for the purpose of honorable matrimony. Hubert had also noted that she was to be under the care of Abbot Peter Abelard until she was returned to Paris for the nuptials. It was as clear a contract as they needed. Permission had been granted. The bride-gift had been paid. All that remained was to collect the bride.
The sun climbed higher above Paris. The bells he heard ringing now were from the street, not the churches. Vendors, lepers and pigs all made noise to warn or attract passersby. The road to the Porte Baudoyer was thick with people these days. Ever since the artisans and merchants had started spilling from the Île into Monceau-Saint-Gervais on the right bank to avoid the high tariffs and expensive housing, the streets around the Fart had begun to resemble the faires at Troyes and Lendit. Edgar fidgeted as he was pushed farther from a clear view of the road.
Finally, he saw them, Astrolabe leading his father, who was riding a white palfrey with easy skill. Edgar smiled. Despite all his adversities, Abelard never quite forgot that he was the son of a knight. He would never sit a horse like a mealbag scholar.
With them was Edgar’s English friend John, who had gone to study at Chartres that winter, and another man, a cleric, whom Edgar thought he should recognize.
“I apologize,” Astrolabe said as soon as he was within hearing range. “We left early, but it seemed that half of Paris needed to have ‘just one word’ with my father. You’d have thought his purse was laden with benefices, the way the clerks trailed him.”
“I presume you are referring to me, young Astrolabe?”
The man who spoke was grey, well past sixty, Edgar judged, but still vigorous. He was not tonsured and wore the robes of a priest, but had an air of authority and humor that wasn’t often found among parish clergy.
Astrolabe flushed. “Of course not, sir,” he said. “Not at all! Edgar, perhaps you already know Master Gilbert, late chancellor of Chartres?”
“Only by reputation.” Edgar now knew why Astrolabe was so embarrassed. “I have not had the fortune to attend one of your lectures but hope to do so now that I have returned to Paris.”
Master Gilbert laughed. “You know my repute and still you wish to hear me speak? Brave man! I have as many crows circling me these days as Master Abelard.”
Edgar glanced toward Abelard, who was speaking with John and another student. He lowered his voice.
“Are there still so many who would pick his bones?”
Master Gilbert grew serious. “Too many. They can’t forgive him for wanting to apply the rules of logic to theology.”
They were jostled and sworn at by a milk vendor on his way to the Pierre au Lait to set up his stall. The canon drew Edgar out of the path.
“What worries me most,” Gilbert continued, “is this insane plan to have Henry Sanglier arrange for Abelard to debate Abbot Bernard.”
“You think he would lose?” Edgar asked. “No one can outargue Master Abelard.”
“Don’t be so loyal,” Gilbert told him. “Astrolabe told me you have already discussed it. This debate would serve no purpose and might do great harm. When they condemned Abelard’s work at Soissons nineteen years ago, it nearly killed him to have to put his own books into the flames. What do you think it would do to him now, in his state of health?”
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