Heloise

by Hager, Mandy

  ‘A very good question, Sister. Perhaps you, Agnes, would care to respond?’ Heloise nods to her niece, whose mind she has seen blossom into something rare and beautiful.

  ‘The Lord said that to eat with unwashed hands does not defile a man and that, in general, the soul is not defiled by outward things but only what may proceed from the heart: evil thoughts, murders, adulteries and the like.’ Agnes meets Heloise’s gaze, and Heloise nods for her to continue. ‘Unless the heart is first corrupted by a depraved will, what is done outwardly in the body cannot be sin.’

  Heloise applauds her and the other sisters follow. ‘Excellent! Though, perhaps we will indulge in hand-washing for its own sake!’ She smiles as they laugh. ‘Now think how this connects to Abelard’s work on intention. Remember his example of the two different motives behind a convict’s hanging?’ She scans the room and, though several sisters nod, others stare back blankly. ‘Very well, a quick reminder then …’ She points to Agatha, another she is confident can explain ideas clearly. ‘If you would, my dear?’

  As Heloise draws forth her sisters’ thoughts and nudges them towards understanding, she feels the warmth of satisfaction. In this one place, at least, women’s minds are free to prosper.

  Meanwhile, Abelard also witnesses the effects of the Church’s harsh new attitudes. The devotees of his fellow teacher, Arnold of Brescia, are accused of heresy, a charge increasingly common now all the laws from Innocent’s council are set in place.

  To distract from Heloise’s more general concerns over the further closing down of women’s opportunities — and to keep her own mind stimulated — she takes on a special project to open Abelard to his emotions without fear of being bowled by them. With sly sideways words, she taps away at his hard shell each time she writes, surprised and exhilarated when she receives, amidst a bundle of his writing for the Paraclete, two songs of lament, both retellings from the Bible. As soon as she starts to read the first, ‘The lament of Jacob over his sons’, she knows of what it speaks: through Jacob’s words he expresses the power of paternal love with such beauty and tenderness it can only be an articulation of his own loss over Astrolabe and his recognition at last of Heloise’s accompanying pain:

  Childhood lullabies

  were sweet

  beyond all songs

  to the wretchedness of a bereaved old man …

  The greatest comforts

  of the two who are lost

  are borne in you, my son.

  Equally beautiful,

  both are represented,

  so rendering me to myself.

  As if to further make amends, a second planctus ‘Lament of the virgins of Israel for the daughter of Jephtha’, makes plain that he finally understands the sacrifice she has undertaken, left in a grieving motherless state. She reads and weeps:

  And I will roam the valleys and hills

  with my companions and give loud lament

  that thus does the Lord deprive me of seed …

  One holds forth a silken robe

  Dampened by her tears,

  Another brings a purple veil

  Moistened with her weeping …

  O the mindless judge’s mind,

  O the prince’s zeal insane,

  O father hostile to your clan,

  To destroy your only one!

  Such tangible proof of his turn-around, marking a shift from his self-absorption to a more thoughtful and humane outlook, so moves her that she writes at once to thank him and to celebrate his alteration.

  It is a letter he never receives. Shortly before she sends it, Garlande comes. She is called away from prayers at None, so pleased to see him she does not at first notice his strain.

  ‘Dear friend, it does me good to see you.’ It is only as she pulls away from their embrace that she notices the bags under his eyes and the tension lurking behind his smile. ‘Come, let me find you refreshment to restore you after your ride.’

  Instead of taking up her invitation, Garlande reaches for her hand, such a grave expression on his face her heart skips in its beat. ‘Dear Heloise, I come with the very worst of news.’

  She clutches for his arm, knees failing. ‘Dear God. Is he dead?’

  He shakes his head, though no less grim. ‘Forgive me, I did not think. Rest assured he lives. But I have news that cannot wait.’

  ‘Come, then, and sit.’

  They settle on a bench beneath the cloister’s graceful arches, panic throbbing in her head. For a moment, Garlande closes his eyes.

  He sighs. ‘Peter is once again accused of heresy. I make my way to Sens with greatest haste. This time it looks as if all Heaven and Earth moves against him. I fear he will be lost.’

  ‘I must come with you!’

  ‘It would not be appropriate.’

  ‘Do you truly think I care? Without support this may well kill him.’

  ‘I know, I know. But how do you think it will look if—’

  ‘I will go in disguise.’ She reaches for his arm. ‘Please. If you have any love for us then allow me to support him now.’

  He shakes his head, though more from hopelessness than refusal. ‘I very much fear this time they have strung enough rope to hang him.’

  ‘Then is it not even more vital that he sees those who most hold him dear?’

  ‘Very well. But if your presence is noted you must leave. Any implication of a return to your physical love will seal his fate.’

  Straight away, Heloise makes ready to accompany Garlande to Sens, a day’s ride from the Paraclete. As she did so long ago, she searches out an enshrouding cloak with a cowl so deep it veils her face from any who chance to look, although her habit could pass for a monk’s with any cursory glance. There is a certain irony in the gesture: these days she finds her sex irrelevant in her everyday life, even though she knows it will always constrain her in society.

  As they set off the following morning, Garlande tells her more about this spurious charge. ‘All is not as it seems, Heloise. I hold myself partly to blame by allowing Arnold of Brescia to teach beside him. Arnold’s talk is too subversive; he preaches that the Church ought not retain its wealth — a step too far for Bernard, even though he promotes austerity himself. And you know Peter, he could not keep his boasting to himself, declaring support among some of Rome’s cardinals for his writings, which was bound to rankle Bernard, who worries over others usurping him.’

  ‘It seems a disappointing display of vanity on all sides.’

  ‘Indeed. Bernard first approached Peter in person with charges drummed up by that lackey William of St Thierry, whose ignorance is such he hates all those who apply reason to matters of faith. He labelled Peter a heretic — and accused him of evil. Evil?’ Garlande shakes his head. ‘Dear Lord, how I tire of this.’

  ‘Was William not once one of Abelard’s supporters?’

  ‘He shifts according to the winds of power. Though in truth Bernard’s influence is now so robust it affects us all — as does Suger’s.’

  Heloise does not comment. Matilda has told her already how Garlande now panders to the abbot of Clairvaux. While still supporting Abelard he is ever on the lookout to climb up to the lofty towers again. Bernard and Suger sit atop, both determined not to fall. And Bernard despises Abelard’s way of teaching; he is quoted as saying from wood and stones you will learn more than you can of any master.

  To Heloise’s mind, Bernard’s passion around such matters is childlike, simplistic, fearing the corrupting influence of higher thought as well as the carnal. He denies his bodily needs through increasingly rigorous fasts, which he follows by bouts of vomiting. He and Abelard sit at the two extremes of faith versus reason, neither able to acquiesce … and Bernard will not allow Abelard’s opposing style to undermine his own. She thinks back to Bernard’s sole visit and how, despite his many charms, she never quite trusted him.

  ‘How did Abelard react to Bernard’s accusations?’

  ‘At first it seemed he would yield and humbly redress t
he wrongs that Bernard raised, though some are manifestly ridiculous even to the simplest of minds. But as soon as Bernard had left, thinking himself successful, Peter wrote to the Archbishop of Sens demanding he be allowed to speak in his own defence, and Henry, despite Bernard’s vigorous arguments, agreed.’

  ‘Why Sens? Is there not at the moment a showing of relics taking place there?’

  ‘That is the very reason. Many already attend, including the king and Bernard’s kinsman Hugh of Auxerre, as well as that scoundrel Geoffroi of Chartres, who hoodwinked Peter at Soissons. Thibaud will be there also, although his support straddles both Bernard and the Paraclete. It will be a convocation significant in its numbers — officials, clerics, politicians, and lesser hangers-on who dine out on the spectacle — though they have not one other philosopher among them skilled enough to understand the subtleties of Peter’s mind.’

  ‘So he has set himself up for defeat?’

  Garlande draws his horse to a halt. ‘I fear it will be a farce. By Peter forcing Bernard to speak against him publicly, he courts disaster. Bernard will never allow Peter to win, it would be too damaging to his reputation — and he knows full well he can never beat Peter in a duel of words. But even if Peter can argue his way out of the charges, they will claim him a threat to the Church and public order, just as they intend for Arnold of Brescia.’

  ‘Does Abelard know he walks into a trap?’

  Garlande groans, rubbing his brow as if it pains him. His horse shakes free its rein to swipe at a clump of grass. ‘He takes a rabble of eager students to act as support, though I have argued this bolsters their claim that he fosters discontent. He has worked himself into one of his frenzies, so inflated by their rebellious talk in defending him he has succumbed to a most grandiose intellectual arrogance — though at other times he is barely lucid.’

  Heloise turns this over as they ride on, unsure how best to help. She hopes to convince Abelard to talk it through with her first; to calm the situation before it flares out of control.

  Heloise has not seen Sens for a good few years, despite its relative proximity, and when they approach she is stunned by the newly completed cathedral towering above them. It seems to touch the heavens, its structure unlike anything she has ever seen. Ten years in the making and surely the largest building in France, the cathedral boasts of man’s triumphant service to God. Its western face is punctured by three enormous entrances, the middle topped by an arch of sculptures depicting the Ten Virgins of parable as well as St Stephen’s life; above the right-hand portal are twenty-two sculpted prophets — she is so astounded she counts them. The huge stone tower is bedecked with coats of arms and benefactors’ likenesses. If ever there is a building designed to intimidate, this is it. It speaks of power, of a bold new direction, Bernard’s way; Abelard’s is now outdated. It trumpets the dire mistake Abelard has made in choosing to come here.

  They arrive at dusk and make straight for the inn where Abelard and his students lodge. He sits at their centre in a low-slung, smoke-filled dining hall, an elderly, Christ-like figure converged upon by bare-faced boys. Before he notices her, she pauses to study him, but not even Matilda’s warnings have prepared her for this shrunken man, all skin and bone, eyes haunted within their hollows, bald but for a few grey strands. As his feverish gaze rises to take in her and Garlande, his mouth falls open, jaw slack.

  He shakes himself. ‘Leave me,’ he barks at his boys.

  With a few suspicious backward glances, they shift as Garlande and Heloise sit down to join him.

  ‘My brother in Christ,’ she says. She longs to take him in her arms to offer comfort. He looks like one of the tormented souls depicted in illuminations of Hell. ‘I come to offer my support.’

  He turns on Garlande. ‘Why do you allow her here? Is my shame not great enough?’

  ‘I gave him no choice,’ she says before Garlande can answer. ‘The friendship that can cease has never been real.’

  He snorts in recognition of St Jerome’s words but says nothing.

  Garlande gestures for the innkeeper to bring them food and wine, forcing upon Abelard a stew of cabbage he barely touches. ‘Tell us,’ he says, ‘what has occurred this day.’

  Heloise is shocked by the manic working of Abelard’s jaw as he chews upon his answer before he speaks. ‘Bernard is out to get me,’ he says at last. ‘Have you read the charges? Trumped-up puffery from the ignorant, fashioning claims only a fool would believe. They are darkened in their understanding, alienated from the life of God because of the ignorance in them and their hardness of heart.’

  ‘Have you prepared your arguments?’ His state is such she doubts he has the wherewithal to speak unscripted. His hands are overcome by such nervous tremors, he struggles to guide the spoon to his mouth.

  Abelard taps his head. ‘It is all in here; a lifetime’s learning, which those simpletons fail to comprehend.’

  The bleakness of his tone bites into her. ‘Would it be of aid if you were to practise them with me?’

  He rests his head in his hands, failing to respond. Garlande’s disquiet mirrors her own as Abelard slowly shakes his head.

  ‘Peter, you must listen to me,’ Garlande says. ‘Rally yourself. Bernard will not wish to be made a fool in front of so many of France’s most influential. Either refuse to speak or go through his charges one by one, as Heloise advises, and plan in advance how best to address them to people who have not your wit.’

  Still Abelard does not stir. Heloise reaches over and lays her hand on his arm, at which he so startles from his lassitude his elbows strike the table as he rouses.

  He snarls, a dog backed in a corner. ‘To what point?’ His eyes meet hers, rubbed raw, the sink-holes in their centre causing an involuntary shudder to rock through her. ‘Woe to them that devise iniquity, and work evil upon their beds! When the morning is light, they practise it, because it is in the power of their hand.’ When neither Garlande nor she reacts, little knowing what to say, he continues. ‘They plot this very night, all together for their feasting. My nephew, Berengar, a young man with an able mind, attends in order to report back on their betrayals.’

  His pronouncement has the ring of doom to it. But beyond this, despite their continued attempts to convince him to prepare, Abelard has not the clarity of mind to attend.

  At length they persuade him to take some rest and see him up to his bed, Garlande paying the innkeeper to provide him a private room away from his undisciplined students. Heloise is housed in a room next door, and she hears through that long worrisome night Abelard’s footfalls as he paces, his rabid murmurings at times leaking through the wall. She longs to go and soothe him, but responsibility for her sisters stays her; she can ill afford any action to be spied and cynically misconstrued.

  By breakfast, Abelard finally sleeps. Garlande stirs Berengar from his bed to report on the night’s ominous dealings. He is aflame with righteous indignation.

  ‘The abbot of Clairvaux has acted as Judas,’ he says. ‘He plied them with drink, always whispering in someone’s ear, calling in his debts and making veiled threats about sins currently overlooked; a reminder any can be shoulder-tapped to face their crimes should they fail to judge in Bernard’s favour.’

  Heloise bites back her anger. Is this not the very kind of back-room manipulation and intimidation Fulbert employed on others’ behest in his younger days? And his sons walked not in his ways, but turned aside after lucre, and took bribes, and perverted judgment.

  ‘Did Bernard speak of the charges themselves?’ Garlande asks.

  Heloise feels pity for Garlande, who once wielded such power himself. To be relegated so, having to seek his information from a callow youth, underscores the irrevocability of his fall from grace. She mutters Plato’s words. ‘And I think that you too would call it seduction when people are enticed into a change of opinion by promises of pleasure, or terrified into it by threats? … Societies are not made of sticks and stones, but of men whose individual characters, by turni
ng the scale one way or another, determine the direction of the whole.’

  At this, Berengar nods emphatically before he answers Garlande. ‘He sought to convince them of his claims before my master has a chance to speak — no doubt for fear of his superior arguments.’

  ‘Did any declare in his favour?’ she asks.

  Berengar shakes his head, lip curled. ‘It was the abbot’s night. Any who looked to make trouble were quickly removed.’

  Berengar is so wound up with rage he is at risk of saying too loud something they all will regret. They attempt to settle him; now is not the time or place to talk open rebellion.

  Less than an hour before Abelard is due to appear, Garlande goes to his room to awaken him. He quickly returns and entreats her to follow. Abelard is so agitated by tremors and an insatiable itch with no visible cause, he cannot attend to his clothes or daily ablutions. With Garlande standing aside, eyes averted but present to ensure no possible claims of impropriety, Heloise gently helps Abelard into his soiled and crumpled robe and does what she can to refresh him with a cloth and water. His arms are a mess; a crisscross of scratching, his fingernails caked with blood as he sits shaking, immune to everything except his own infernal mutterings.

  When she is finished, she asks Garlande to leave them for a moment alone. Once he has gone she hoists Abelard to his feet and takes him in her arms. At first, he trembles as an earth-quaked stone, but she continues to hold him and tries to pass her strength to him, until at last she feels him still and his arms snake up around her to return her embrace. They stand so, tree and winding vine, for several minutes until she feels him expel a sigh and slowly straighten.

  ‘I have put you through so much yet still you came,’ he says. ‘I thought at first you were a ghostly manifestation of my need.’

  ‘Whatever else has passed, you are still my husband.’ The words fall from her lips devoid of any accusation.