by Hager, Mandy
‘So he beat you.’
Heloise does not answer. The thought of Jehanne hearing his deceitful performance mortifies her.
Jehanne leans down and places a hand on her shoulder. ‘You must rise above it, Heloise. Men have beaten women since they first left the Garden.’ She strokes Heloise’s hair back from her brow. ‘Maybe now he will leave you be. Perhaps he did it to appease Fulbert.’
Heloise shakes her head, masking her tearful face again beneath her hair. She cannot reply; can neither enter further into this wicked lie nor tell her the truth.
When Jehanne leaves, Heloise dozes, though startled awake with each sudden sound. She does not eat, ignoring the morsels left for her, and refuses to go to church for their daily prayers. How can she face them? She cannot even face herself.
After Sext, Fulbert comes to see why she was absent. Even before he speaks, she can tell he also heard Abelard’s charade. He cannot meet her eye and nor can she meet his. Instead, he lingers at the doorway, stooped and tense.
‘Child, please. You know that any discipline is meted out with all the power of God’s love. If your teacher has felt the need to castigate you, bend to him. Take what he deals and learn, dear girl, so no other correction will be necessary.’ There is such pain in his voice.
She turns her back. Not only did he start it with his treacherous words, but when he heard her cry out he did nothing, ruse or not. She thinks of Sister Saris and the horrors she endured. How she survived such brutality as long as she did is incomprehensible; this is shame enough.
Fulbert grows tired of waiting for a response and leaves. Next to come knocking is Abelard’s man Corbus. He says so little during their daily exchange of tablets she has no real sense of him — beyond the fact he is polite if slightly sneering and Jehanne cannot abide him. ‘Mademoiselle, I have a letter Master Peter insists I deliver directly to your hand.’
‘Return it,’ she says. ‘Let him see the seal unbroken.’ Thanks to Abelard that phrase can never again be said of her.
She hears Abelard arrive late that night and tracks his footsteps until they stop outside her door. Ever so gently he knocks. ‘Heloise?’
For a moment she rallies at the sound of his voice, before plunging headlong back into her shame.
‘Heloise, please. Allow me to speak for just one moment.’
‘Leave her.’ Jehanne thumps down the corridor. ‘You, sir, play with power like a child plays with fire. Go now. Go.’
She feels such guilt at fooling Jehanne, who, unloved since birth, defends Heloise as if her cub. This awful irony pitches her into violent sobs.
Jehanne enters and wraps her loving arms around her as she howls. Heloise falls asleep in her friend’s embrace, waking in the night to find Jehanne snoring like a drunken man.
The next day, Heloise rises and bathes, although she still cannot face either Fulbert or church. Again Corbus comes knocking with his master’s letters, once before the bells for Prime and twice thereafter. These, too, she orders back. Nothing Abelard can say will change what has taken place. She feels a fool. Betrayed. And also fears the excitement in her belly when she thinks of his kisses and the touch of his hands.
All day she stays in her room, eating little, intent on trying to pray but failing. Fulbert fusses; seeks her out the rare treat of a pomegranate to tempt her, but its small red globes remind her of drops of blood. That night Jehanne, still indignant on her behalf, offers to sleep next to her again but Heloise cannot bear to dig herself further into a liar’s grave. Aristotle’s warning rings loud: the least initial deviation from the truth is multiplied later a thousandfold.
Deep in the night she is woken by the sound of her opening door.
‘Heloise, please,’ Abelard whispers. ‘I must speak with you or die.’ He approaches, the candle in his hand casting an ogre’s shadow against the lime-washed wall.
She does not have the heart to silence him; in his misery she hears the echo of her own. She sighs. ‘Say your piece but keep your voice down.’
‘Oh, thank the Lord!’ He stands at the foot of her bed. ‘If you had read my letters you would know how struck down I am by remorse.’
She says nothing; sits up and draws her knees to her chest. His eyes look rubbed raw, his skin waxen in the candle’s quavering light.
As he starts to speak, she recognises his words as written for Acontius. ‘I will give you leave to say you were deceived, and by wiles of mine, if only of those wiles my love be counted cause.’
The word ‘love’ so amazes her she sputters, ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘What was the object of my wiles but the one thing — to be united with you? The thing you complain of has power to join you to me. Neither by nature nor by practice am I so cunning; believe me, maid, it is you who make me skilful.’ He recites the words as if a prayer, all pomp leaked out of him. When she hears the querulous waver in his voice, it strikes her perhaps he does not trust to express this apology himself. This alone is astounding, as is a man who embarks on such an explanation by borrowing from Ovid, which he knows has the power to move her more than any other gesture.
In her mind, Cydippe answers. Is this the reward that falls to my beauty, proud in your praise? Must I suffer for having pleased? If I had seemed misshapen to you — and would I had! — you would have thought ill of my body, and now it would need no help. Despite her effort to contain her hurt, her throat aches with the strain of holding back tears. I met with praise, and now I groan …
Abelard sets off again, filling her silence. ‘If I wrong you by loving, I confess I shall wrong you for ever —’
‘Stop!’ This is all too contrived. Too trite. In fact, insulting, now that shock has given way to context. ‘You would try to woo me with the words of one who hunted his quarry and snared her in a trap, claiming the fault was hers. Is this your point?’
He sinks onto the corner of her bed and scrabbles for her hand until he seizes it. ‘You think me a heartless hunter, setting a trap? Look again. I was as you, a novice, untried, swept up by the riches of your kiss. You question my ambition when none had been formed. It was as if, once begun, I was powerless to stop. I am less a hunter than a hapless animal with all its primitive urges.’ Such self-loathing powers his words that she winces. ‘Heloise, ask me to do anything to prove my sorrow and deep regret. I will surely do it. But do not tear us both apart, I pray. We are good together; our minds are alike.’
He rubs her captured hand against the jawline of his bristled cheek and the rawness of his unkempt state somehow underlines his vulnerability and innate humanness. What does she know about the workings of men’s sex? Perhaps there is a point of no return, when that which has arisen cannot recede until it finds release?
‘Will you forgive me, Heloise?’ he says. ‘I swear to honour you better and keep the animal in check.’ Though the candle is too weak to show if sincerity lights his eyes, she thinks she hears it in his voice.
‘You truly love me?’ Can it be possible that he, Peter Abelard, the greatest master, greatest philosopher in the whole of Europe, has chosen her above all others — and craves her so intensely he would risk his positon by submitting to his lusts?
‘For your love I would most willingly die. You are my light, my only consolation, my brightest star.’
It is the answer to her greatest longings, her sweetest dreams. She must believe then that his motivation was not just lust but love, even though it manifested in brutal form. He had intended love, not harm. If she cannot forgive the harm, then she cannot forgive the love either; and yet she does, she has craved it. And in return, she cannot claim to love unless she lets him atone. Already it is evident that he has also suffered from this fall. ‘Then let us talk of it no more.’
He is, after all, here, contrite, and swears his love — and since they both must live in the same house without her uncle sensing their divide, she must find a way to rise above her humiliation and make it worth the pain already spent. After all, what does she have left to
lose? Aristotle said that happiness depends upon ourselves and that dignity does not consist in possessing honours but in deserving them.
Still, she is not sure if the twinge in her heart is the shame of capitulation or excitement and relief.
And so begins Abelard’s more tender wooing, a love affair in letters. He writes, Corbus delivers, Heloise replies; flirtatious reveries designed to flatter the mind and heat the blood.
To his brightest star, whose rays I have recently enjoyed: may she shine with such unfailing splendour that no cloud could obscure her … Because you, my sweetest lady, have so instructed me, or to speak more truly because the burning flame of love compels me, your beloved could not restrain himself from greeting you as he can, through the agency of a letter in place of his actual presence.
Therefore keep well, just as I need your keeping well. And fare well, just as my faring well depends on your doing so. In you is my hope, in you my rest. Never do I wake so suddenly that my spirit does not find you present within itself.
His words soften her spine of resistance. Letter by letter he plies his charm, replacing that painful scene with poetry from his heart or borrowed from the greats. The act of composing each reply slowly rebuilds her confidence and pleasure. Your presence is my joy, your absence my sorrow …
No longer does he set her tasks; instead each night he dissects his day’s teachings and they tease out new ideas, her challenge to dream up far-flung tangents while awaiting his return. Of their unhappy joining neither speaks again, except obliquely through their prose. She does, however, leave nightly with the gift of one soft courtly kiss warm on her lips. It matters that he works so hard to right the wrongs.
Still, when given time to brood, she remains confused. His forcing himself upon her she cannot simply forget, despite his valiant efforts to put the situation right. But it is equally true that, despite herself, a part of her was aroused. Is aroused. Is it normal to feel love, hurt, want and bewilderment all at once? If only Sister Saris or Gertrud were there to ask; the ancient works she pores over offer too many variables of what is deemed right or wrong. Whatever the answer, in the end she finds she cannot outpace her aching humanness. All her circling thoughts lead back to this: she loves Abelard, both as a man and for his mind, which awes her.
Each night, long after she is sure he sleeps, she lies in the thick darkness moment by moment rewriting her shame. His inability to halt, his taking of her, she redrafts as breathless passion. She brushes her fingers over her breasts, circling their peaks, sliding down the line of her belly to the hair below. She learns that a single trailing finger can cause such desire her knees rise up, hips rocking, fingers rubbing until such force engulfs her she must smother her cries. She is convinced God gives this pleasure to glimpse a little of Heaven on Earth. How else to explain the burst of light at that unrestrained moment of release?
She sees Abelard, too, undergo an opening up: he begins to shirk his duties in order to share some of her daylight hours. The lie of the beating has forged in Fulbert a greater sense of trust; he allows Abelard to chaperone Heloise and Jehanne on outings such as Louis’s first royal fair.
To great fanfare, they watch as the bishop reveals a shard of wood from Christ’s cross sent all the way from Jerusalem. Though small in size, the thought that it once touched the Lord is wondrous. Afterwards rue St Denis swarms with traders, cobblers fashioning curl-toed shoes, scribes writing love letters for the illiterate, and suckling pigs skewered on spits while hungry children salivate. Jongleurs perform, minstrels sing, the streets teeming with dancers, fire-eaters, acrobats and an astonishing act performed by captive monkeys.
But Heloise soon discovers that to appear in public with Abelard is to be rendered naked by his notoriety. Outside he seems to grow in stature, and his imposing air draws every eye. Many stop to speak with him: eager students, devotees, noble ladies whose cheeks stain scarlet as they primp before him. He flatters all, intent on winning hearts to bolster his standing. Never has Heloise felt the subject of such hostile appraisal as when she stands at his illustrious side. Anxiety is set simmering; she fears that she will somehow cause her uncle trouble with the unsparing Church.
As the fair-going crowds surge around them, Jehanne and Corbus for once not engaged in their silent war, Abelard is bailed up by a Benedictine monk who, rather than flattering him, provokes his impatience.
‘What of today’s young woman, eh? Those who speak unasked about matters of the heart? In my youth hardly ever was the good name of a married woman besmirched. But now modesty and honour in maidenhood have sadly declined.’
Abelard draws himself to full height. ‘Can you not see we are in company, sir? Hush, lest these ladies take offence.’
The monk seems not to hear. ‘Wantonness shows in their gait and only silliness in their behaviour. So much does the extravagance of their dress depart from the old simplicity …’
As the monk speaks, Heloise looks down at her gown to seek out what offends him so. The plainness of her dress is modest to the point of ugliness, the linen dyed a muddy brown, the fit loose and unflattering to hide her curves.
‘Sir, I beg your silence!’ Abelard clamps a hand on the old man’s shoulder and steers him away with a well-aimed shunt.
Before Heloise can question his harsh treatment, Abelard grasps her hand and takes Jehanne’s, too, plunging into the crowd with them, Corbus trailing. This romp turns to a riotous frolic of swerves and sidesteps until they land up near a makeshift stage. The cathedral’s finest choristers sing with such power the hairs rise on her arms.
Abelard is so greatly stirred at the end that he leaps up and begs a lute to sing one of his own creations. His first few lines hold Heloise spellbound, a moving lover’s lament. She knows already the enthralling nature of his voice, the tone smooth and honey-sweet. She is lost in the pleasure of it until it takes a pointed turn.
… Her name reflects the beaming lines
Of Helios the Sun.
She is the mirror
Of the sky. In her I rejoice.
She is my life, my only choice,
Now and forever.
Heloise feels Jehanne jolt, and notices Corbus’s glare from behind his jug of ale. What dumbfounds her next is the others breaking into song around them, joining in. How is it possible so many know this? As if to make matters worse, Abelard fixes on her so obviously the crowd soon gawks with open curiosity. Her face flushes. How could he do this? He must know full well the dangers of drawing the Church’s attention.
I rue the time, each day, each hour,
Of my solitude …
She ducks her head and pushes through the crowd before the song comes to its end. While Abelard basks in the crowd’s adoration, Heloise runs back home, her heart drumming danger, danger, danger.
She finds Fulbert and Stephen de Garlande engaged in friendly bickering amidst the wreckage of their midday meal. When she tries to excuse herself, they insist she stays.
‘You would toss them out?’ Fulbert gestures wildly with no apparent cause. ‘Surely it is better that they have the opportunity to hear God’s words. As well, it works to get them off the streets.’
Abelard strolls in and serves Heloise a veiled smirk. ‘Of whom do you speak?’ He settles beside them as if resident all his life, while Heloise rearranges objects for the sake of occupation — a book, a jug, a vase of wilting irises — staying well clear of the kitchen where Jehanne, now returned, vents her disapproval on the pots.
Garlande grunts. ‘He speaks of the wretches who sell their bodies, although I dare say our superiors would find much fault in this assessment.’
There is something in Garlande’s tone that provokes Heloise. ‘Yet the Lord said prostitutes will go first before us into the kingdom of Heaven. Perhaps those who are welcomed with love despite their sins seize on the Lord’s teachings more ardently than those who tread the line for fear of damnation?’
‘That is a very forward statement, young lady,’ Garlande says.
‘Come, come, sir. We live in a new age,’ Abelard says. ‘Thinking and understanding expand in every quarter. She represents the move to more fully explore the underlying messages in the Lord’s words.’
‘Too much change brings with it quarrels and complications,’ Fulbert says. He reaches over the spoils of a roasted chicken and claims another jug of ale.
Abelard laughs. ‘Even you, sir, are more enlightened than you know. We came upon that old grumbler, Guibert of Nogent, making great complaint of women’s dress.’ He glances at Heloise and sends a covert wink. ‘I dare say he would like to see us step back into last century!’
Garlande runs his fingers through his hair, leaving slicks of grease. ‘While he surely harks back to older times, do not underplay the possibility of slippage. That pious puppy Bernard from Clairvaux is the latest to watch out for. He speaks of cleaning up the clergy with the type of zeal designed to knock freedoms back into Gregory’s reign. That ass William of Champeaux encourages him, and Bernard laps up William’s poison like a tame mastiff.’
‘I hear it said Bernard will not live long,’ Abelard says. ‘He starves himself and suffers to prove his faith.’ He flicks his wrists towards his shoulders in mock self-flagellation. ‘They say he will be dead before the year runs out.’
‘Do not underestimate him, friend,’ Garlande says. ‘They also say disciples flock to him, much as yours stampede to you.’
Abelard laughs. ‘Pity them, who buzz around that dour carcass in the country. Here we lead a grand new age. Philosophy, literature, architecture, the arts … In times to come they will look back on us as the forebears of true civilisation — and it will not be pedantic little boys of the likes of Bernard whose names will ring forever on history’s lips.’
‘I pray that will be the case for women, too,’ Heloise says. ‘I have a vision of a library one day filled with women’s words …’
‘A library filled with what?’ Fulbert’s words slur as the ale takes hold. ‘Recipes? Potions? Lessons on good wifeship? Fripperies for idle matrons?’