The Devil's Door by Sharan Newman Page B

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?”
    “But he has many powerful friends,” Edgar protested.
    “Many of whom also owe favors to the abbot of Clairvaux,” Gilbert answered. “I wouldn’t want to count on them to protect Abelard from him. Please, ask Héloïse to make him see reason.”
    Edgar sighed. “I will ask, Master Gilbert, but from what I have heard of her, she will do what she decides, and no one’s words will sway her.”

    The Paraclete was busy during the last days before Easter. There were extra prayers, fasts and alms. Catherine had always felt it a joyous season, but this year she was no longer truly a part of the convent. Her mind was not fixed on heaven, but on things of the earth, on carnal desire. Her own for Edgar, she admitted it. But her thoughts also gnawed on the other base passions; anger, pride, fear. Living in the world meant facing those, too. Was she strong enough? Watching over the broken body in the infirmary, Catherine wasn’t sure. Despite the rapidly spreading infection, the countess Alys still lived. It was as if she were struggling to accomplish one more thing before she let go. To name her true attacker? Catherine hoped so. But how much longer could she survive?
    It was Holy Thursday after None, and Héloïse knelt with the other sisters in the cloister wing to wash the feet of twelve poor women. After this symbolic ritual, the women would be given new shoes and cloaks and a warm meal.
    “Careful of my corns, Lady Abbess!” one old woman winced. “Scrub any harder, you’ll have them bleeding, and then how will I manage?”
    “Just as you always do, Hrotruda,” Héloïse smiled. “Your feet will get you from your son’s door to ours and we’ll both see that you’re cared for.”
    Hrotruda leaned forward so that her face was even with Héloïse’s. “Do you think Our Lord mocked the poor beggars who came to Him for comfort?”
    Héloïse’s smile wavered. She looked directly at the old women and spoke without a trace of mockery. “Do you imagine for a moment, my honored guest, that I believe myself in any way equal to Our Lord?”
    Suddenly there was a clattering and thumping. Both women looked toward the noise. Sister Ermelina came running down the east wing of the cloister, beating on a wooden board with a mallet, the signal for the sisters to gather at the bedside of the dying.
    “Mother Heloise! Come quickly! Everyone, hurry!”
    Heloise rose with a startled gasp. She swayed and Hrotruda reached out a hand to steady her.
    “Careful, my lady,” she said. “I expect you to be here to do better next year.”
    Héloïse caught her balance. “Thank you,” she said. “Agate, will you explain what is happening to the women and see that they are served before you join us? This takes precedence. Emilie, tell one of the lay sisters to run for Father Guiberc. Tell him the countess is dying. We need to prepare for the Last Rites.”
    The nuns gathered quickly in the oratory. Father Guiberc, carrying the Host in a chalice, and the sacristan with the holy oils were waiting to begin the procession to the infirmary. Catherine took her place near the end.
    They all filed in through the open door. As she entered, Catherine was hit with a stench that almost drove her back outside. With an effort, she controlled her stomach and forced herself to keep her place.
    The infirmarian had hung bunches of rosemary and valerian at the windows and over the bed. She had also put scented oil in the lamps, but nothing could overcome the odor of putrefaction and approaching death. As each woman entered, a lay sister handed her a scarf that had been dipped in wine vinegar. Catherine tied it at once over her nose and mouth and found she could