Heloise

by Hager, Mandy

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I lost the child I was carrying as we made our way home. I fear it sank me low.’ Fat tears collect in the corners of her eyes, prompting Heloise’s to well again in sympathy.

  ‘You have my pity and my sorrow. I know how it feels to lose a much-wanted child.’

  Matilda nods. ‘So I have heard. I likewise share my sorrow for you. I cannot think how you must bear it. Mine, at least, I did not have the chance to know.’

  ‘It has been a trying test.’

  ‘If you hold faith in God’s ultimate plan, I wish you would share it with me. I struggle to see past my own selfish grief.’

  ‘For that you must ask another.’ When Matilda knits her brow, Heloise feels compelled to explain herself. ‘God’s ultimate plan often appears too obscure for one such as me. I try to see past the Church’s changing interpretations, which seem always to revolve around accusations of our impropriety and deliberate sin, and instead hold onto Christ’s message of love, a value that more greatly inspires me.’ It is a risk to speak so plainly, but she suspects the truth will be better received.

  Matilda’s smile blooms. ‘You cannot believe how pleased I am to have you here,’ she says. ‘I hunger for honest talk that is not always of children, damnation or war.’

  ‘I, too,’ Heloise says. ‘When I was taken in by Abelard’s sister and her growing brood, the conversation rarely rose above the level of the weather or her children’s needs — although her kindness was unfaltering.’ This is not quite truth; more the voice of polite exchange. She still cannot entirely forgive Denyse for failing to support her in keeping Astrolabe. ‘Tell me, how is it you are so far from those who raised you?’

  ‘My husband sired a son in his youth with a woman deemed unfit. His family insisted he marry one more worthy of his title, and I was chosen by his mother for my father’s status and my agreement to take on the child — an heir, if no more were born. I was barely eighteen and had little choice, yet have found myself most favoured to be given to a man who grew to truly love me, and I him. There is no greater blessing …’ She studies Heloise through lowered lashes ‘… as I suspect you know.’

  Heloise stays her spoon before it reaches her mouth. ‘Mutual love is indeed a rare and precious thing.’ The broth that has been settling warm in her gut now stirs.

  ‘Though he spoke little of it, I could tell your Peter felt the same. When he talked of you, his eyes lit up, and never did he mention you without great praise for your strength of mind.’

  Bitterness breaks over Heloise, such is her weakened state. ‘It is a strange way to show it; never once making contact in over a decade until this.’ She stops, embarrassed, and then shrugs. ‘Forgive me. The heart of a man is a labyrinth whose windings are ever difficult to decipher.’

  ‘And yet he comes to consecrate the buildings once they are done. Is that not in itself a show of love?’

  ‘He comes?’ The broth now sours.

  ‘Indeed. Already Thibaud plans the celebration. A chance for the community to come together to welcome you in earnest.’ Matilda registers Heloise’s unease. ‘Do you not wish to see him?’

  Does she? Of course. Heloise wishes still more than any other desire to see him, hear him, touch him, and yet she fears the stirring up again of feelings she has tried so hard to shed. ‘He is our founding father. It is right he comes.’ Oh, how the art of obfuscation falls so easily from one’s lips.

  Heloise stays another day with Matilda, who shows great kindness as she tends her and orders a prodigious offering of stores to be readied for her to take on her return. Heloise leaves with a promise of upcoming visits and a cart filled high with flours and grains, root vegetables and fruits, a dozen healthy laying hens, three sloshing buckets alive with fish to stock the pond and two good milking goats besides. Most of all, she leaves with the sense of a kind new friend … and ever-growing unease at Abelard’s planned return.

  But with their life still so focused on survival and the improvements they have yet to make, there is little time to fret. When worry does rise up, she pushes it back down, filling all her hours with strenuous work so at night her mind’s circling is stilled by exhausted sleep. With the turning of their first year, the basic building work is done and they possess a dormitory, refectory and kitchen with a turreted roof to vent the smoke, all joined to the chapel and scriptorium by a cloister with a garden at its centre. Their architecture is plain — stacked stone, oak-trussed thatched rooves, all simple — but watertight, and reflects an overall elegance in its clean lines.

  Before they know it, plans for the consecration are underway, and they are swept into a frenzy clearing the worksite to make the best of all possible impressions for their invited guests. They have no choice; they are in pressing need of further patrons.

  As the days rush towards Abelard’s arrival, Heloise is ambushed by her feelings. During the nights, when her mind ought to rest in sleep, even here she cannot flee him. She dreams she is with him, speaking and hearing him answer, as charmed as when they brushed aside her studies and gave themselves over to love. Other times she dreams of opposing his enemies’ fury, breaking out in piteous cries of defence, and in that moment rousing to the wet of tears.

  Even when kneeling before their chapel’s altar, she finds herself caught up in the memories of their love and, far from lamenting the sins, sighs for their loss. She tries to hide her weakness and disquiet from those entrusted in her care, all the while her longing soaring up like a wraith from the grave.

  When at last the day comes, Heloise is so rushed to prepare refreshments and finalise the last decorative touches, she cannot mentally ready herself. Abelard arrives with a crowd from St Ayoul and Nogent-sur-Seine, riding in the carriage with Thibaud and Matilda.

  Her first sight of him shocks her. How he has aged in these thirteen years, his hair tonsured and almost entirely greyed, his skin the colour of one who never sees the sun, more lined than ever she had imagined. He seems to have shrunk; the tall, confident man who drew all women’s attention now stooped. She pictures her own aging through his eyes, a blush rushing to her face as his gaze flits over her, refusing to land.

  She and her sisters stand in line to welcome their guests as they make their way to the chapel. Abelard walks towards her at Thibaud’s side, and Heloise’s tension leaves her struggling to breathe. Thibaud draws to a halt before her, and Abelard in turn is required to stop.

  ‘My greetings to you, lady,’ Thibaud says. ‘It is most gratifying to have reached this day and to celebrate the outcome of so much hard work.’

  While she thanks him profusely, she can feel Abelard’s scrutiny slide over her, and every nerve-end responds, suppressed desire stirring, flaring, despite her best efforts to dampen it down. Though he has changed, it seems her body knows him on such an instinctive level it seeks to make connection, the air between them taut with unsaid words.

  Thibaud now steps aside, forcing Abelard’s hand. He stands before her, at last his gaze settling, turmoil evident before he looks away.

  ‘My Lady Heloise, it gives me great pleasure to see you so established here. May God be praised.’ He offers his hand, and she takes it, a charge sparking from skin to skin before he pulls away, leaving her light-headed in its wake.

  ‘I give my thanks to you, Father, for your open-hearted generosity.’ Never have so few words been forced at such cost, the rich timbre of his voice still licking inside, her ears drinking his words as if parched.

  Matilda steps forward to aid her, sweeping Abelard aside to wrap Heloise in a warm embrace. ‘It is good to see you a little more covered in flesh,’ she says. Matilda runs her hands down to her own belly. ‘I, too!’ Her happiness glows.

  ‘I am so pleased for you. Your joy is mine also.’

  Not once throughout the rest of this long day of services and prayer do Abelard and Heloise speak again, although he leads the service with full-throated solemnity, announcing to all his pleasure at their habitation there. Wherever
she places herself, he skirts around her in a stiff dance of avoidance, yet she often feels the force of his stare, only to turn and find his back to her. Such tension leaves her shattered, so on edge she takes no joy at all in the celebration and the kind welcome of their neighbours, who have gathered in force to mark the day, bringing with them generous gifts.

  As the dark draws in, they share a meal, duty done, free at last to look back and give thanks. But such is Heloise’s state, she steals herself away while others are sharing food. She walks down to where the stream slips off into the night, and leans against a tall birch sapling to watch the moon rise through its leafy crown. Now in thy face thy love-sick mind appears, And spreads thro’ impious nations empty fears: For when thy beamless head is wrapt in night, Poor mortals tremble in despair of light. ’Tis not the moon, that o’er thee casts a veil, ’Tis love alone, which makes thy looks so pale.

  The water’s chuckle brings forth a memory of the night they spent beneath the willow tree downstream from Fulbert’s house, the low-hung branches trailing leaves in the river like listless fingers, the canopy above them picked out in the torch-light like a building’s vaulted timber ribs. They had lain together skin to skin; had—

  ‘You do not join your sisters in their hard-earned festivity?’ Abelard’s voice comes through the dark, and she spins around, unsure if it is real or imagined.

  There he stands, no more than an arm’s span away, the fractured moonlight marking all the crevasses of his face.

  ‘I find I need more quiet reflection.’ She wraps her arms around herself for fear they will make their own way to embrace him.

  ‘You have done well.’ He speaks as a father might to a child who has accomplished some juvenile task.

  ‘Indeed.’ After all she has achieved to build his dream he speaks down to her? ‘Then it is no thanks to support from you.’

  He steps towards her. ‘But have I not given you all you could want? The Paraclete is yours to do with as you please.’

  ‘Want? What I wanted was some comfort from you — my husband — the man who took me from my sheltered life and opened my eyes, then ordered me to blind them.’

  ‘Heloise, please. What is past is past.’

  ‘Perhaps for you. Do you never think of me? Do you never consider how your actions have impacted upon my life? What of our son? What of our—’

  ‘What of me? My monks are little better than barbarians and seem intent to kill me, and the powers that be attempt to muzzle all my work. They bury my light under a bushel, their jealousies blurring their judgement. You, at least, can live in peace.’

  ‘Peace? Have I not still a heart? Have I not still a—’

  He comes at her then. Takes her into his arms and meets her mouth with his. It is as if the sun has fallen from the heavens to ignite her and she pours herself into him, hard against his broken body, feeling him tense, feeling the incomplete part of him stir. Stir?

  She pulls away at the very same moment he groans and breaks from her, turning and running, leaving her trembling and dazed. Has she imagined it, that hardening and shifting under his robe? How is it even possible? Was the castration nothing more than an elaborate ruse to rid himself of her?

  Heloise can hear her guests as they gather to take their leave. She fights to pull herself together so she can face them all to give her thanks. But her mind is a blur, utterly shaken by what she has felt, and she remembers nothing of the next hour, acting as deaconess to those on the outside while fighting a host of demons within. Only when the last straggler has left can she drop this farce. Abelard has gone, not looking back, no word of if or when he might ever return. She cannot sleep; instead, she paces the cloister, around and around, hoping somehow to outwalk the terrible doubts that so afflict her.

  Of all his teachings, his work on intention most takes possession of her mind. It has formed the foundation of all her beliefs, a tenet to live by and one bound unequivocally to the need for truth, the only other doctrine, along with unconditional love, that she sees some logic in adopting as a way to live one’s life. Yet what is truth? It can only ever be what each person perceives, forming the first impulses of every step one takes. Even those who twist a given truth for gain know in their heart the true intent from which they act. A man who hoards his wealth while others starve may fashion defences for his actions, but in the private storehouse of his soul, surely he sees that greed and selfishness most spur him? She hopes God honours good intention when her days are done; how can it be otherwise if He truly embodies love? All other readings she thinks misrepresentations; the Bible’s constant is Christ’s call to act from love without condition, and yet so often that intent is sacrificed to the unholy trinity of power, vainglory and greed.

  So where does this leave her, with Abelard’s unexpected response today after so long an absence? She does not doubt his good intention in handing her the Paraclete, nor his wish to see her at its helm. But in his shunning of her, his running, he sucks all joy from the gift and turns it from an act of deliverance to another prison defined upon his terms. He knows she will never allow his Paraclete to fail — in fact, she has no choice, no other home — and yet he offers no practical or spiritual guidance to achieve this goal. Does she demand too much of him? Perhaps. Always we are more able to see the faults of others than those lurking within ourselves, she concludes.

  Late in the night, her prioress Astrane comes in search of her, and coaxes out the problem’s crux. At Heloise’s admission she sighs.

  ‘It is possible,’ she says, ‘for a member to still respond a little, but nothing more. I have heard of it.’

  ‘But why, if this is proof of ongoing affection, did he cast me out? Could we not have still shared the closeness of man and wife? Does he not think more of me than that?’

  ‘What is done is done, Heloise. You may wish it otherwise, but your path has been set. Put such thoughts away., they bring no good. Turn no more to Abelard for love; you must find it now in the workings of our day.’ Astrane pats her back. ‘Rest now. Sleep brings relief and tomorrow will dawn anew.’

  Heloise allows Astrane to walk her to bed, but her mind works on. She recalls the time and place Abelard first declared his passion and swore he would love her until death. His words, his oaths, are written on her heart, and she has no wish to erase them, no matter the price. They are a part of who she is now, lying latent, suppressed, yes, but always there, simmering just below the surface, ready to flare with one touch of his lips to hers. She is a fool, made even more so by his body’s betrayal.

  As the night grows cold in its tumble towards the dawn, Heloise writes in her head what she wished she had said before he chose to run:

  Pardon me, Abelard, pardon a mistaken lover … You will happily finish your course; your desires and ambitions will be no obstacle to your salvation. But I must weep, I must lament forever without being certain whether all my tears will ever avail for my salvation.

  Meanwhile God has forsaken me, as I am tempted to forsake Him. I fear I am forever doomed to love a man who does not want me, while serving a God who judges my intent and yet forgives me not.

  Sixteen

  THE PARACLETE, 1131–1133

  In the wake of Abelard’s visit, Heloise nurses her bruised feelings while she juggles the challenges her new role brings. As word of the Paraclete’s new ministry goes out into the world, she is approached by others seeking to join their flock, some donating property or alms.

  The first, a young widow named Ermelina, gifts profits from half a mill at Crevecoeur, along with vineyards and rents they gratefully use to help support their needs. Ermelina has a talent for finding other donors, too, a skill Heloise quickly puts to use; a growing convent needs greater resources, and the job of sourcing them is one she gladly shares.

  On a day when the air carries the first cool breath of autumn, two young women arrive to speak with Heloise. There is something familiar about them she cannot define.

  ‘Do sit,’ she says. ‘I feel as if I
should know you.’

  ‘You do not recognise us?’ asks one. ‘We are your nieces by marriage; Maree’s daughters. I am Agatha, and here is Agnes!’

  ‘Look at you!’ Heloise rises and rounds her desk to embrace them both. ‘You make me feel so old!’ The inquisitive fawns she taught in the months before Astrolabe’s birth have grown, but now the wariness of stalked deer hangs about them. She longs to ask them about her son, but it is clear they have needs that must come first. ‘What brings you here?’ How old are they? Twenty-five and twenty-six? It seems impossible, yet Astrolabe is already fourteen.

  ‘We wish to become novices,’ Agnes says.

  Her older sister scoops up Heloise’s hand. ‘Please. We need sanctuary and long for further learning.’

  ‘Sanctuary? That sounds dire. What is wrong?’ She ushers them back into chairs and takes her own.

  ‘Do you remember our father’s disposition?’ says Agatha.

  Heloise nods. Dagobert’s boorish attitude towards his family she recalls most clearly.

  ‘Ten years ago Mama fell ill and we cared for her ever after. In June she died, and now our father seeks to marry off Agnes at all costs and keep me home to tend his needs.’

  ‘Please, Aunt. You know what he is like,’ Agnes says.

  ‘I am so sad to hear of Maree. Did she bear much pain?’

  Agnes glances at Agatha, who nods and says, ‘Her illness was caused by our father. He injured her over many attacks. She suffered much.’

  Heloise sees in her mind the gentle woman who listened, rapt, while her daughters learned. ‘I am so sorry. My heart breaks to hear this.’ She presses her lips to hold back tears, and fights to compose herself before she looks to Agnes. ‘I take it you do not wish to marry whomever he chooses?’

  Agnes bristles in anger. ‘He chooses for alliances; old men with hearts as cold as his. Anyway, I will not leave Agatha alone with him. He grows worse with each year.’