by Hager, Mandy
‘I so long for contentment. Whenever I glimpse it and try to grasp for it, it gets torn away.’ Heloise looks up to the stars, her nightly reminder of Astrolabe, and sighs. ‘You know, every year on his birthday I write to Astrolabe, and never once have I even had acknowledgement the letters arrive.’
‘He is still young. Just wait. One day he will be free of Master Peter’s family, and then you can connect without their interference.’
‘But what if they turn him against me?’
‘You must trust, Heloise. Just as you hoped your own mother loved you until you had proof, so you must have faith that he will feel the same.’
Heloise nudges her friend. ‘How did you get to be so wise?’
‘I had a good teacher!’ Jehanne pokes her, chortling.
Fifteen
THE PARACLETE, 1129–1131
As these interminable weeks drag on, Heloise takes Jehanne’s advice and spends her time in writing once her fruitless pleading letters for the day are done. She pours her heart into her poetry, bitter morsels penned to silence the cynic shrieking in her head in an act of angry exorcism.
We are expelled from the new world because our concern is writing.
Clio, faithful companion, we are driven out, leave!
Though new reading once pleased our leaders,
Under new leaders a new law rules.
Formerly fierce hearts used to be softened by poetry,
But now weak hearts are enraged by our poems …
I am indicated, but in fact for what foregoing misdeed?
If you want to know: art is my crime …
Envy seeks its place under the guise of correctness,
It is not for holy women to compose verses,
Nor for us to ask who Aristotle might be …
At last, on a day that dawns cold and dank, Garlande sends for her, smiling broadly for the first time since she sought his help.
‘My dear, I have the most magnificent news!’ He tows her to a seat in his family’s voluminous country house: rich tapestries in tones of red and gold warm three walls, a soot-blackened fireplace dominates the fourth. From a sturdy oak table, he snatches a wad of scrolls and brandishes them, a hero’s sword. ‘Voila! Heloise, look! Peter has come to your aid. He gifts you and your nuns his Oratory of the Paraclete!’
Heloise is taken aback that Garlande has approached Abelard behind her back, and even more so that he has finally come to her aid. ‘You are sure?’
‘Not only has he agreed to hand over the oratory, he has prepared the way by gaining Thibaud’s blessing and even that of Suger, though only Peter and God know how. That scourge, no doubt, will claim the credit. He will use it to ease the minds of those incensed by your ousting.’
This, too, is news. That some showed outrage cheers her. ‘Is it suitable? Did you not once describe it as just a few small reed huts?’
‘Peter assures me those are temporary. Though the living is plain at best, Thibaud has constructed a sturdy scriptorium and built a chapel on the site. When you arrive and are made known to him, Thibaud will also provide tools, stores and workmen to make a start on rendering it more suitable to your needs.’
To hear this is like being swept away by flood after many years of drought. ‘That is generous indeed. What is the catch?’
‘Nothing that affects you. I suspect Thibaud’s kind support is as much to annoy Louis as to renew the Paraclete. But you must believe me, Peter has ensured your security as best he can.’
That Abelard cares enough to facilitate this is staggering. Her heart sings love for him, but her head screams caution. What is his true intent?
‘You are really sure Abelard wishes this? It would be hard to settle and then to find ourselves again evicted.’
Garlande presses a scroll into her hand. ‘Look! It is all here. For once, the man has done the honourable thing.’
Heloise scans through, clause upon clause, more thrilled as she reads Abelard’s familiar script. He gifts them his safe haven with what appears to be genuine willingness, despite the fact he names her just once and thereafter only as his ‘sister in Christ’. There is but one string attached, and it is here that her reading falters: he says she must lead the order in the role of deaconess, as his second-in-command. Not abbess? He cannot even give her that? For a moment she is swamped by old grievances. Does he not think her up to it? Is he still seeking a way to assert his control?
She blows out her anger in a long breath, willing it away. What does it matter? Her sisters now have somewhere to live and perhaps this means he intends to offer her his guidance and support.
‘Thank you so much!’ She embraces Garlande.
‘No need to thank me. Though I informed him of your situation, it was he who came up with this plan.’
‘All the same, it would not have happened, I suspect, if you did not state our case in the most compelling way. And we owe you for harbouring us. I will never forget your kindness.’
He waves her away. ‘It is nothing. Go and tell your companions.’
‘With pleasure!’ She runs from his house.
Oh, the relief to see their spirits rise! These homeless, vacant weeks have left them all feeling far too vulnerable.
With few belongings beyond a change of clothing each — and Heloise’s cherished coffer, heavy with scrolls and manuscripts, sent on to Argenteuil after Fulbert’s eviction — they make ready to travel with Garlande in attendance. With a group so large, they have no choice but to walk and seek sanctuary each night with Garlande’s contacts. Garlande and his armed men ride fore and aft, carting the belongings and a few basic stores through wind and rain in a tortuous five-day trek along this notoriously dangerous road. The tracks become muddy rivers, the landscape obscured behind relentless squalls. At night they barely have the strength to eat and change from one sodden habit to their only other. They reach Provins in a sorry state, many falling ill to shakes and fever.
Reprieve comes in the form of the abbey of St Ayoul, where Abelard once ran from St Denis. There, they share lodgings with a band of goldsmiths who have travelled all the way from Liege, to attend the count’s bi-annual fair. For two days Heloise and her contingent rest, made welcome by the monks who, refreshingly, had fallen for Abelard’s charms yet not housed him for long enough to see it sour.
The final leg of their journey takes two days more, as they make for the small village of Nogent-sur-Seine, the closest parish to the Paraclete. On their final day, the weather clears in a last-minute miracle. They steam through rolling meadows past woods alive with deer and boar, until they reach the Paraclete, the sun transmuting to an orange orb low in the western sky.
Against this burnished backdrop stands Abelard’s Paraclete, empty since he abandoned it for St Gildas and his followers deserted. The two years since have taken their toll: the small lodgings of reed and mud wrecked by raiding wildlife and storms, only Thibaud’s stone scriptorium and chapel still standing without much damage. That night they fashion beds from bracken and straw laid on the cold chapel floor amidst the foulings of birds and mice. Garlande and his men take the scriptorium next-door at Heloise’s insistence; it is equally squalid but at least with a fireplace to warm their bones — her thanks for their kind escort.
After her sisters have made their blessings and stumbled to bed, Heloise’s mind refuses to slow. She hears every scrabble and scratching of the creatures that have made the oratory their nest. She fears the task ahead, only now grasping the vastness of this undertaking. To make their home in this far-flung place, first they must break their backs to reestablish it. She spends all the hours of night in prayer, asking God to give her the strength to see this through.
The next day’s rising does not afford more cheer. The gardens have not simply run to seed but reverted to their natural state, and if not for Garlande’s gift of stores to last their first few days they would starve. Garlande does not stay, leaving that same morning to call on Champagne’s count to report of their arrival before
he heads off home. As he and his men ride away, her panic makes her want to gallop after them; she has only herself to blame now should anything go awry.
When she disclosed Abelard’s stipulation that she be named deaconess to her sisters, they shared her surprise but agreed to her leadership no matter the title. It means she now finds herself, a woman of thirty-six, still weakened from the walk and nagging inner doubts, with twelve loyal friends all trusting her and no immediate back-up or support.
‘Work!’ she says, feigning enthusiasm as Garlande and his men disappear. ‘First we will clean the scriptorium so we have a place to sleep until something more suitable can be constructed. Then to the chapel, so when it is ready we can properly thank the Lord.’
She musters a tone of calm, its effect immediate in rallying her flock. They search out birch twigs to fashion brooms to sweep away the wild creatures’ spoils, and, with the aid of wooden pails found in a corner, they heft water from the stream and take to their knees to scrub the stone tiles and wipe away the accretion of webs and abandoned nests.
That night they settle by a crackling fire, shattered but exhilarated by the gains they have made. Heloise can feel Abelard’s presence everywhere; with each sweep of her eye, she sees what he once saw in this sanctuary from which he hoped to rule. She decides, for the first time ever, to speak openly of her love for him, telling her sisters of his tenderness and the influence of his prodigious mind. If she is to govern the community, she wants no secrets or innuendo to weaken their bonds and, since they are attended by neither man nor Church, proposes they vow to always honour Abelard as their patron, and to rule with the values of ethics and justice of which he so often spoke … if less observed.
Before they rest, they elect the roles that each will play. Astrane, the oldest by nearly twenty years, a woman abundant in both sensible counsel and quiet kindness, they name their first prioress. For refectorer they choose the novice Rhecia, who during the weeks in Garlande’s barn has shown an innate skill for conjuring a meal from any scrap. The job of infirmarer they hand to the wise Celestria, whose understanding of herbs and salves equals Jehanne’s. As well they choose Clotild as chief gardener, while among the rest they share out roles of granarer, keepers of wine and fishponds — in an act of optimism — and an almoner to organise relief for the poor once they are on their feet. The others volunteer for the myriad tasks and, though in truth they can do nothing immediately except ensure their own tenuous survival, for each to have responsibility and title binds them together into a steadfast team.
Once her nuns are asleep, Heloise steps outside. The surrounding night is very dark, yet the stars above are startlingly bright as she raises her eyes to the heavens to give thanks. Though panic still hovers at the immensity of the tasks ahead, she feels the stirrings of something else, something huge, something utterly foreign and deliciously spine-tingling. For the first time in her life, she is solely in control! No whispering townsfolk, churchmen or courtiers; no threats hanging over her; no undue influence or pressure to comply.
‘Thank you,’ she murmurs to those perfect glowing orbs above. Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage.
The following day they are interrupted in their clearing of weeds by the arrival of the local count, Thibaud, followed by a cart that carries his wife and a troupe of noisy children. Behind them trails an array of local workmen, stonemasons and labourers and carts stacked high with building materials for the nuns’ eventual home. They bring seeds and tools, and enough food to last the Paraclete’s new occupants a good two weeks.
Thibaud is barely three years older than Heloise, his wife Matilda only twenty-four. She leaps from the carriage as Heloise walks out to meet them, her smile wide with welcome.
‘My lord.’ Heloise drops to one knee before the count. ‘We are your humble servants and undyingly grateful for your generous support.’
His smile has an unexpected softness for one so often in the midst of war. ‘I have heard much of you, Heloise d’Argenteuil. Your presence is most welcome and we look forward to watching Master Peter’s oratory further take root under your care.’ He wraps an arm around his wife’s waist, which looks to be growing another child. ‘This is my wife, Matilda, who has been awaiting your arrival with much excitement.’ The warmth of his smile towards his wife as he guides her forward, their six small children milling about, is comforting. A man who shows such open affection to the mother of his horde makes for a promising start.
Matilda takes Heloise’s hands. ‘I am so glad to meet you at last. Peter has told me much of your talents and passion. I hope we will make good friends.’ Her accent is unusual but it has a pleasing lilt.
‘I am sure, Countess. Already you and your good husband have shown such kindness, we are indebted for life.’
One by one, Matilda introduces her children, naming Thibaud’s eldest Hugh — widely known to be a bastard — with the same familial warmth she endows on her own. When Matilda has finished acquainting them with this line of sunny heads, she laughs. ‘I look forward to a time when we can speak without my menagerie all around us!’
‘You are most welcome here at any time, my lady, menagerie or not!’ Heloise sweeps her hand to encompass the Paraclete’s ramshackle state. ‘I hope in time we can welcome you to more refined surroundings.’
Thibaud is quick to pick up on her words. ‘Indeed, Lady Heloise. Let us walk together now and talk of the work to be done.’
With Matilda and children in tow, they fall into discussion about the nuns’ immediate needs. The masons are put straight to work to plug the breaches in the stone buildings through which the birds and rodents have snuck. New privies are to be dug, and the pond shored up to provide them with fresh fish once restocked, and the derelict huts will be demolished to make way for a dormitory, refectory, kitchen and cloister. Such enthusiasm is contagious, and by the time the gaggle of weary children is deposited back into the carriage, Heloise feels a hopeful flutter break through her pervading exhaustion.
She and her nuns work every day until they drop, their accommodation rising slowly from the ground. They stuff mattresses with hay and hack back the overgrown gardens to plant the seeds Thibaud gifted them. They clear a path to the water’s edge for easier collection, and prune the fruit trees Abelard planted to bring about more robust growth.
Between times, when she can will the energy to walk, Heloise visits the local priest at Nogent-sur-Seine and negotiates with him to take a service once a week, careful not to submit to his overarching control. Father Pelfort is long in the tooth, a local with few connections to Paris, and his lack of ambition to insinuate himself into the halls of power allows for a far more open and honest pact.
All the same, it takes some time to win him over. He dislikes Abelard, claiming him arrogant and incapable of controlling the followers in his care. This attitude is one Heloise must counter often in their first year, finding herself Abelard’s apologist and having to work hard to convince their neighbours that they are cut from a different cloth. It becomes her primary mission; if her community is to eat and prosper, it requires the goodwill of the locals.
Their first few months are plagued by tiredness, anxiety and a gnawing hunger as constant as the prayer cycle, for they do not want to take further advantage of Thibaud’s remarkable generosity. Their buildings, meanwhile, are rising, completing the dormitory their first priority. Their bones are beginning to knock as they struggle to stretch their stocks of flour and grain with foraged goods. They are paying the price for their cossetted life back in Argenteuil, where every need was ably met: now they must teach themselves skills in trapping birds and game as well as learn how to fish. If not for the helpful tips offered by the workmen, and the discipline they learned while staying in Garlande’s barn, they might well starve. Yet beneath all this still simmers an excitement. For all the hardships, they are free — and this is home.
Nearly four months after
their arrival, Heloise is sent an invitation to meet with Matilda at Thibaud’s palace in Provins. The summons comes with the gift of a horse and an escort to guide her. It is a sore day’s ride for one so short on padding, and, by the time she reaches the valley where the Durteint and Voulzie rivers meet, she is so hungry she can hardly stay aloft.
The palace sits on a high plateau, presiding over the valley to the east, with a double-height hall alongside a small chapel and an accompanying lodge. On her arrival, she rests in the stable before mustering strength to walk the distance to the palace’s carved front doors.
She is ushered into the great hall. At the sight of her weakened state, Matilda rises from her seat, shedding two toddlers. ‘Dragi moj!’ She rushes to Heloise’s aid, arms snaking around to bolster her, and leads her to a cushioned bench next to a slow-burning fire. ‘You are all skin and bone.’
With her small children flapping about her like yellow-fluffed goslings, she fusses, calling for food and wine, not settling beside Heloise again until she is sure her needs are met. As Heloise lifts fresh bread and ripened goats’ cheese to her mouth, tears swell at Matilda’s show of kindness.
She insists Heloise soak in a tub of hot perfumed water and then go immediately to bed, where she will be delivered a warm meal. Heloise has no will to resist. To lie clean again on a soft squab with the warm weight of furs on top is such luxury she dozes, only waking when Matilda appears with a bowl of steaming broth. While Heloise eats, allowing little time for cooling, Matilda settles herself at the bed’s foot as if an old friend.
‘Forgive me for not thinking of your needs since last we met. I feel great shame to see you in this state. The trip we made to you came to a sorry end and I have since been out of sorts.’