Heloise

Home > Other > Heloise > Page 8
Heloise Page 8

by Hager, Mandy


  It is a time of excitement, filled with music and art, a crucible of many cultures and hot-headed debate. The teacher Peter Abelard provides the flash of lightning in every theoretical storm, his name now impossible to ignore. Amid all the political chest-beating, he finds protection under Stephen de Garlande’s gilded wing — a barb aimed at William of Champeaux, whom Master Peter bested when William was his master, as he had also bested his teacher Roscelin in the years before.

  Garlande appoints Peter Abelard master of the cathedral school, further taunting William, and soon even Heloise hears talk of his feats. Every morning, throngs of the sharp of mind disgorge from hostels, taverns and doss houses to attend his lectures; she hears the sudden squalls of laughter and applause that vault the school’s walls. She takes to lingering wherever she can overhear, drawn by talk of Master Peter’s perfect Latin and the show he makes of quoting all the writers she has come to love.

  Heloise grows obsessed with the urge to see him lecture. When her uncle is next out of town, she dresses in a monk-black robe and secures over the top Fulbert’s longest cloak — although it is unlikely to hide her sex, she hopes her attire will at least ensure she does not stand out. She slips out so early Jehanne has yet to wake.

  Outside the hall where Master Peter’s students are set to gather, she watches dawn creep over the roofs, bit by bit lighting their tiles. As the quadrangle and cloister start to fill with men, Heloise draws back into the building’s shadows. She is used to a crowd of nuns; to be the sole woman in this fast-growing mob feels decidedly unsafe. But she is determined to hear Master Peter speak, even if just this one time. She tries to distract from her discomfort by studying with an analytical eye the many different types around her.

  The French, Breton and Norman nobles are easy to pick; she sees their likes in church every day. They pose in cheerful silks and fur-tipped mantles while fingering slender swords, hair shaven like felons at the front but left to flow in luxuriant curls down their backs. Their foolish turned-up shoes were originally designed to hide the Count of Anjou’s bunions, Jehanne once told her with a laugh. They so over-egg their finery they look like fairground jongleurs. They are being narrow-eyed by a group of English students, clothed in their leathern hose swatched with red, yellow, green and a deep woad-blue she has seen before only in illuminations. Beside them lurks a band of stern-faced men so poor their feet are bound in strips of bark. It is a strange concurrence.

  Soon they are joined by shaven monks and black-clad clerics, and then a less distinctive mass of young and old, the stylish rubbing up against the weather-worn with little care. Within the space of half an hour, well over two hundred swell these eager ranks and she begins to doubt her plan; if they notice her and take offence who knows what they might do?

  But as the hour tolls, a beadle pushes through the crowd and Heloise slips into the lecture hall to ensure a place right at the back while he disseminates hearty greetings. She hides behind a column as the beadle enters to strew fresh straw where the crowd will sit. Once he leaves the hordes stream in, crouching haunch to haunch, wax tablets balanced on knees. An overflow mills at the door as still more come; Heloise presses against the wall, hemmed in, thankful when she realises all attention is eagerly trained towards the front.

  She can tell the instant their master makes his entrance; the crowd hums like a frenzied hive. He is tall and looks more youthful than she expects, though she has heard his years are numbered thirty-six. He wears a knee-length bliaut dyed deep forest-green, open to the waist to reveal a silk undershirt and striped hose beneath, and his shoes, although they nod to Anjou’s fashion, are far more understated.

  Always Heloise has thought it possible to read a person’s measure by their eyes: whether they shine, gifting light to others, or suck other’s light into their cold dark souls. Peter Abelard’s eyes exude a vivid and fiery cast that sets her heart thumping out of beat. So, too, does his vast smooth forehead, which hints at the scope of his prodigious mind. His face is capped by curling sable locks, and from his bearing it is clear he knows full well his mesmerising power.

  He walks to the podium and opens his text. He waits with downcast face, stoking his students’ expectations … and when he raises his head, those lustrous eyes sweep the full compass of the room. ‘If there be sun, there is light, now there is sun.’ His voice is smooth as cream, yet still as potent as the man himself. ‘No sun, no light. Now, there is light, therefore there is sun!’ He grins, the radiance of his smile illustrating the point exactly. ‘Sun and non-light there cannot be. Now there is sun, therefore there is light!’

  This primer, designed to illustrate dialectic’s logic, was taught to Heloise by Gertrud in their first year. But to hear it now rendered in Master Peter’s rich, compelling voice turns it from drill to artistry.

  ‘And therefore stultifyingly obvious!’ a voice hurtles from the back.

  She is taken aback by this outburst but their master chortles, the sound buoyant and contagious. ‘Ah, Roland, we can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men, such as you, are afraid of the light!’

  Laughter rumbles around the hall in appreciation of Plato’s wisdom. It is the first time others, beside her teachers, have so overtly shared her thrill for clever words. It feels as if she has found her natural home.

  Master Peter raises his hands for silence, and immediately the crowd responds. ‘I do not promise to teach the truth — which, by the bye, neither we nor any other mortal can ever truly know — but only a verisimilitude of it which accords with human reason …’

  He peers into the crowd, an eyebrow raised, daring any to interject. None do. It is as if they sense he casts a net for those foolish enough to stumble into. All turn to their tablets, none prepared to challenge him. He nods almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth shadowed with a grin.

  ‘Those who fear they impugn the Faith by human reasoning know this: in this hall we strive for the truths derived from philosophical thought. What these truths unlock is yours alone to accommodate — or not. I simply hand you the key.’

  His edge of arrogance is oddly complemented by the warmth of his delivery. It asserts expert standing in his field, the best; yet through his humour he acknowledges his smallness and humility in the face of God.

  ‘What is the first rule of this hall?’ There is a general murmuring Heloise cannot catch. ‘Indeed! By doubting we come to enquiry, and by enquiry we perceive truth.’

  The rogue identified as Roland now chips in: ‘A-men.’ Once again the hall is flooded with good-natured laughter.

  Master Peter wags a reprimanding finger, keen wit lighting his face. ‘For your sins, little liver-eater, respond to this counterfactual: Peter Abelard has three brothers; they are all humans.’

  Roland stands; he is one of the curly-tressed nobles. He and Abelard set about a back and forth on the nature of the concept ‘human’. Heloise wishes she had brought her tablet, as their talk ranges from identity to whether humanity can be deemed as ‘rational’, and how to talk of something that may not really exist. With each intersecting answer, Master Peter encourages others to take up the thread, teasing out responses, badgering, driving, mocking, winding in ever-tightening circles, a puppet-master skilled at manipulating many different strings.

  He conducts this for four hours without break, at times playing for a laugh, at others insistent and short with those who let their mouths run on without engagement of their minds. Heloise feels more alive than ever before, her thoughts turning cartwheels to keep up. But keep up she does.

  When Master Peter finally calls for a short break, Heloise feels the focus shift back to those around her. She is aware of several sly glances, and tugs the cloak’s hood close. With great reluctance, she pushes out through the crowd, heart knocking. She daren’t miss the noonday service; her absence would be noted.

  Afterwards at home, Jehanne follows Heloise to her uncle’s chamber where she replaces his cloak. ‘What wicke
dness have you been up to?’

  She cannot hold back. ‘I have just been to a lecture from the world’s greatest teacher, Jehanne! He is the master of all masters.’

  Jehanne pouts. ‘Tell me you do not speak of that puffed-up Breton? They say he so loves himself he is a virgin yet.’

  ‘Does your mind ever reach above smut?’

  Jehanne laughs. ‘Does yours?’

  Heloise slaps at her, chasing her back into the kitchen, where Jehanne has been making bread. ‘You should have seen how he held court. To watch him is to observe a play of the greatest wit. Somehow I have to study under him.’

  ‘You dream too high, girl.’ Jehanne kneads her knuckles into the bloated dough, deflating it as effectively as she does Heloise. ‘You forget you were born with the curse of breasts and cunt.’

  Heloise’s mouth falls agape. ‘This is the language of St Eloi?’

  Jehanne laughs it off. ‘There was a laxity of language, surely, as well as other contradictions.’

  ‘Contradictions? You mean the accusations were true?’ Now she is genuinely shocked.

  Jehanne’s smile collapses. She replies with gritty anger in her voice. ‘Oh, yes, they were true all right, but not in the ways made public. The priests saw the nuns as ripe pickings. When Galo looked to steal back St Eloi he turned this truth on its head to use against us — and those who spoke out were stripped of the veil. Gertrud was one. Although it suited her, it was also an act in which she had no choice.’

  ‘Are you sure of this? She never told me.’

  ‘You also forget whose stable gave her shelter. Her continued lodging relied on the goodwill of Stephen de Garlande, a man so in the thrall of power he would have tossed her out if it worked to his advantage. And even your connections to Fulbert and the church posed a potential risk.’

  ‘I never would have betrayed her!’

  ‘Not purposefully, no. But with your learning comes an increased boldness. Can you truly say you would not have spoken out if given the chance? Look, even now! You risk your uncle’s good favour to learn from the mouth of an arrogant arse about freedoms you will likely never have.’

  ‘You do not understand.’

  ‘Oh, yes I do. But just because you have the head to take in all that trumpery matters little. Your learning makes you ripe for what? An abbess? Perhaps. A rich man’s wife? Though, God help you if he thinks you can best him in an argument.’

  ‘Fulbert has sworn an oath—’

  ‘And I am Louis’s queen!’ She smacks the dough, the sound like the slap of hand on flesh.

  ‘You are wrong. Just watch me steal there every day. None will know.’

  ‘I do not count?’

  Heloise sweeps around the table to place an arm around her waist. ‘You, dear friend, will not say.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we both know life is stacked against us, that is why. Therefore, we must band together. And, besides, where is the harm in it? All I plan to do is feed my mind.’

  Jehanne fashions the dough into a loaf. ‘No good will come of it.’

  ‘When Fulbert returns I will work my charm.’ Heloise curtsies low, with such scraping exaggeration Jehanne laughs.

  ‘Get out!’ She shakes her floury hands at Heloise. ‘May God have mercy on your eternally dissatisfied soul!’

  Five

  PARIS, 1115

  With the aid of Jehanne’s reluctant silence, Heloise steals to Master Peter’s classes every day. She binds her breasts again for the first time in a year and pulls her hair back severely. Beneath the hood of a nondescript enfolding cloak, her unadorned face could be that of a youth. Underneath she wears hose and a gown suitable for church hitched up until she rushes out afterwards to drop off her tablet and meet Jehanne. They arrive at Notre-Dame together to join Fulbert, who later escorts them home to take his meal as always.

  There are times during the lectures that she is aware of the curiosity of others, but once their master lights the room all focus shifts to him. She scribbles copious notes, each afternoon transcribing them onto parchment before their meaning slips away. The stimulation drives out her anxieties; there is no further space inside her head.

  She dares not ask Fulbert for his support of this. She does not want to damage their fragile truce. His drinking leaves him tired and bad-tempered in the mornings, only reviving to any semblance of health by midday, when he starts anew.

  Day by day her fascination with Master Peter grows. She tells herself it is his lessons that grip her so — and this is true; her mind has never been more stirred — but it is also the man himself: the way his teeth flash white; the burst of light that blazes in his eyes when struck by a witty comeback or a new idea. She finds herself watching his mouth as he speaks, at night imagining how that mouth might feel against her lips. The words of romance and passion that have so moved her in the past now come to life and take on real meaning.

  Sudden is winter gone

  The time is blossoming

  And all that barren was

  Is burgeoning.

  All goes smoothly until one day just over three weeks on. Master Peter paces before his rapt students in the closing minutes before the break at noon, reading aloud from notes scrawled in the margin of his text. ‘Indeed, we call an intention “good” or “right” in itself. We do not say that an act takes on good itself but, rather, that it proceeds from a good intention. Yes?’

  He looks up, scanning the sea of upturned faces, continuing when several nod in assent.

  ‘Yes. Hence even if the same thing is done by the same person at different times, nevertheless, because of the diversity of the intention, his doing it can once be called good, but at other times bad.’

  Heloise, too, nods in agreement, thinking about her deception of Fulbert. Is her intention to mislead him in order to achieve her own ends, in which case it is bad? Or is it to protect him from unnecessary troubling, in which case can she raise an argument for good?

  She glances up, her heart stumbling. Master Peter’s travelling gaze has arrested on her, and he does not look away when their eyes meet. Instead he pauses in his pacing. The intensity of his stare pierces right through her core. She looks away, head buzzing, breath tight in her chest.

  His voice begins again, and when she is sufficiently recovered to look, he is back to his measured walk.

  ‘So it appears to shift between good and bad, just as the proposition “Socrates is now sitting”, or the understanding of it, shifts between true and false according to whether Socrates is now sitting, now standing.’ Again his attention returns to her. Again she feels the burst of heat. ‘What do you think Aristotle would say of this?’

  She glances side to side, praying his question is not for her, but those around her peel away to leave her exposed. She clears her throat and toys with dropping the timbre of her voice. Too risky. It would lead only to even greater mockery and shame.

  She draws a breath, willing down her blush. ‘I do not know …’ His eyes remain unwavering, as brown as the small roe deer that haunted the orchard at Argenteuil as night drew in. ‘I imagine Aristotle would say this … this … this alteration, this shift between true and false, occurs not in such a way that the things shifting between the true and false take on anything in their changing, but—’ to speak with all heads in the room turned to her causes her own to thump with most appalling pain — ‘but, rather that the subject, in this case Socrates, is in himself moved from sitting to standing … or conversely.’ Dear God, please let that make sense.

  Master Peter plucks at his lips and nods as she awaits his response. Slowly he starts to clap, at which point others also break into applause. Ground, open wide your jaws and swallow me.

  With this he dismisses them for a break and Heloise jostles through the crowd as those around her stare with open curiosity. She pulls the hood of her cloak close and runs, looking neither right nor left until she is clear of the cloisters.

  Just as she passes into the street,
a hand clasps her arm. She spins around, heart leaping for her throat. There he stands.

  Master Peter smiles, his usual air of mocking confidence gone. ‘You answered well,’ he said. ‘You have been coming for, what, three weeks now? Or is it more?’

  He has noticed all this time? ‘Forgive me. I did not mean—’

  He raises his hand. ‘You are the niece of Canon Fulbert. Yes?’

  She is aware of the gawking of others. ‘Forgive me, I am late.’ She bobs and draws the cloak’s hood tight as she rushes away.

  ‘You have a very good mind,’ he calls.

  She turns back for a moment, her smile lit by joy.

  All through the rest of that day, his words stay with her, each time she recalls them the thrill of excitement is soon doused by regret. She can never return. Until this morning she has been a passing oddity but now she is a face and voice, the very kind of tasty morsel the gossipers and moral arbitrators feast upon behind closed doors. It will not take them long to figure out who she is. How did he know?

  For three long days she dares not leave her room when Fulbert is home, dreading each time he seeks her out in case it is to punish her. When nothing happens, she spends the hours formulating an argument to convince him, but as the week grinds on she concludes any bid will fail. It is too public. Too exposing. The last thing Fulbert needs is unwanted attention; she worries already over his increased drinking.

  The following Sunday evening, as she and Jehanne cook together, Fulbert arrives and calls her straight to the parlour. She fears she has been found out.

  ‘Heloise, come. Sit.’ He waits for her, bringing his fingers together as if in prayer. ‘I have had a most strange encounter that concerns you.’

  She sits on her hands to hide their trembling. ‘Yes, Uncle?’

  He takes a long while to answer. ‘I have been approached by Master Peter Abelard. What do you know of him?’

  She can hardly find her voice. ‘They say he is the greatest teacher in the land.’

  ‘I have heard so, too. All claim it except William of Champeaux and his lot, which makes me more likely to err in his favour. He seems pleasant enough — and he has made a handsome offer.’ He stands and pours a generous drink. ‘It seems he needs new lodgings and desires to live closer to his school.’

 

‹ Prev