The Devil's Door by Sharan Newman Page A

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