by Hager, Mandy
‘Forgive me,’ he says. ‘I am not worthy of your love. I took it carelessly and in the process caused you lifelong harm.’
‘Not quite lifelong …’ She smiles and cups her hand to his trembling jaw. ‘You gave me a son and a home with a family of women I have grown to love. And, although I may regret our separation, I appreciate the riches — and, in an odd way, the freedoms — I have gained. For showing me how to launch my mind into flight and my body into bliss, I am forever in your debt.’
He quakes as if darkness rallies at his back, then reaches for her. He kisses her with all the tenderness and finality of a deathbed farewell. ‘I give you thanks, my love. Whatever happens, know that I never stopped loving you, from the moment I first saw you listening with such rapt attention in my lectures.’ He sighs. ‘Come. I am ready now.’
There is a new lucidity to his tone and her spirits soar. Perhaps, despite their fears, this old war-horse can walk away again unscathed.
They cross with him to the cathedral, where its mighty bells call all to attend. Heloise draws her cloak’s hood close about her and follows him in, she and Garlande taking up sentry at the back as the church fills up with those eager for spectacle. Louis arrives, a grim, dark-haired young man with Bernard by his side, and a murmuring rises from those who sit within the generous nave, their voices flying about the vaulted arches like a flock of malevolent crows.
Abelard takes a seat alone at the front, not one churchman prepared to sit beside this man already condemned. Henry, Archbishop of Sens, leads the prayers until Bernard rises to stand before the expectant convocation. Bernard looks haggard, even more sickly in his countenance than she remembers him — perhaps the effects of all his famed fasting and self-flagellation?
After making much show of a prayer designed to underline his intimacy with God, he begins, word by word chipping away at Abelard’s reputation to harden his audience’s hearts before he brings forth his simplistic charges.
‘There is not one thing in the Heaven above or in the Earth beneath that Peter Abelard deigns to know nothing of: he puts his head in the clouds and scrutinises the high things of God, then he brings back to us unspeakable works that are not lawful for a man to utter … We meet here today a man whose school sees the faith of simple folk laughed at, the mysteries of God forced open, the deepest things bandied about in discussion without any reverence … the Easter lamb either boiled or torn to pieces and eaten raw just as a beast would eat it, quite against the command of God.’
His words stir up a rumble of outrage, especially among those guileless townsfolk possessed of little wit who cannot resist the thrill of likely bloodshed.
‘He prefers the intentions of philosophers and his own novelties to the doctrine and faith of the Catholic fathers,’ Bernard goes on. ‘He proves himself a heretic not so much by his error as by his pertinacious defence of error. He is a man who goes beyond due measure, making void the virtue of Christ’s cross by the cleverness of his words.’
On he intones, declaring that the light of reason might destroy the mystery of faith and that Abelard’s pride in his own philosophical arguments shows disdain for the wisdom of God. ‘Hark his jeering blasphemies and great guffaws.’
At this, Heloise nearly scoffs aloud, as Bernard unwittingly describes himself.
When Bernard begins to list the thirteen passages supposedly revealing Abelard’s sins, they include a mix of statements from his theory of the Trinity and the thoughts on intentionality of sin and redemption that she and Abelard worked on together back in Paris. Bernard waves about a copy of Abelard’s Theologia Christiana, clearly unaware the claims he calls heretical are the same as those in Abelard’s Theologica ordered burnt at Soissons. The first explicit example presented is so out of context as to be laughable: The shocking comparison of the Trinity with a brazen seal.
Garlande turns to her and whispers, ‘Is it so?’
Heloise nods. ‘Yes, but he separates it from its explanation. The seal contains three aspects, as does the Trinity: its matter, which is brass; its ability to seal; and its action of sealing.’
Garlande’s brow knits. He shrugs. ‘If he does not explain it simply, this mob will tear Peter limb from limb. All they will hear are words they do not understand, which therefore must be trickery.’
Bernard continues with his crude list, all points written to help Abelard’s students in their practice of enquiry, impossible to understand without the benefit of the entire lecture. That the Holy Spirit is not of Substance with the Father; That omnipotence belongs properly and specifically with the Father; That Christ did not take flesh in order to free us from the Devil; That God ought not to hinder evil …
At this last, the congregation erupts with calls of ‘heretic’ and ‘heresy’, while the bishops nod sagaciously, making plain their prejudice in support of Bernard; most are too old and immovable in their thinking to ever understand the nuances of Abelard’s argument.
As this sideshow continues over the reverberation of concocted gasps, Abelard sits as pale as a corpse. ‘I demand to be heard,’ he says when Bernard draws breath, rising to his feet. ‘You skew my words most foully.’
Bernard, now so smug he cannot contain his scorn, gestures as one most magnanimous. ‘Come forth then and confess.’
Abelard shambles to the front, setting the whole cathedral humming like a maddened hive. He clutches the lectern’s sides, rocking, head lowered and lips moving as if he seeks God’s strength. Minute on minute this continues, each time he lifts his head to address them, he resorts back to his own fraught reverie, twice closing his eyes, looking for all the world as though he is about to faint. Heloise fights the urge to run to his side, so distraught she seeks Garlande’s hand in comfort. Around them starts up petty laughter and puerile jibes, slapping at Abelard so hard he flinches. At last, after a final swoon so grave that even Bernard lunges forward, Abelard steadies himself and draws in a ragged breath to face his accusers.
‘I see no point in this parade — this — this — this …’ White-knuckled, he swallows and starts again. ‘If you have no … no, allow me to … I mean, for God …’ He looks over the bishops’ heads, seeking out Heloise and Garlande. She rises a little in her pew in hope he will spy her, but his glassy stare doesn’t reach her and she can only watch in agony as he mumbles something indecipherable, sadly shaking his head.
But now, for one short moment, his head appears to clear. ‘I will appeal to the papal court in Rome.’
With this he releases his hold on the lectern and stumbles down the aisle as those all around him rise from their seats, their displeasure at the lack of blood-letting building to a cacophonous wall of angry noise as Bernard bellows, ‘He has appealed from judges he himself has chosen, a course that I do not think should be allowed.’ As Abelard blunders past them, making for the doors, Heloise and Garlande rise to pursue him. Outside the cathedral’s main doors, each grasps an arm, saying nothing until they have dragged his sapless frame back to the inn, trailed by a loud procession of his incensed boys. Heloise and Garlande heft him up the stairs to his room, thinking to save him from his students’ agitation and allow him rest, but, as soon as they have carefully settled him on the bed, he rises as if unaware of them and begins to throw his scattered belongings into his saddlebag.
‘My darling,’ Heloise says, stilling his hands. ‘You are unwell. Let me escort you to the Paraclete to take some rest before you decide how to proceed.’
She is chilled by the lack of recognition in his gaze, his mania now in control as he shakes her off. ‘Rest? Rest? Can you not see how they scheme to end me? I must make all haste to Rome before their poison kills me.’
‘Peter, please,’ Garlande says. ‘Rome will wait. You are not in any fit state to travel.’
As if he has not heard, he dons his cloak and gathers up his saddlebag. ‘Guy of Castello and Hyacinth Bobboni will stand beside me,’ he says. ‘They both hold copies of my books and speak of them most highly.’
; He makes to leave the room, growing more agitated as Garlande stands between him and the door.
‘Do you not hear me, man? If you ride out in this state you will take another fall.’
Like a man possessed, Abelard rams past Garlande, mumbling something impenetrable under his breath as he vaults for the stairs.
‘We must stop him!’ Heloise says, making after him.
Garlande halts her. ‘Heloise, wait! I will ride with him until I am sure he arrives safely. Now it is in his head, I do not believe he will rest until he reaches Rome.’
‘But did you not just say yourself, he was in no shape to ride?’
‘I fear we would have to tie him down in order to stop him. Allow me to accompany him while you return to the Paraclete. Your presence, if openly known, might condemn not just you but the Paraclete — it is not wise to remind anyone that it was founded by Peter, for it might be just the excuse required to seize it. I pledge I will do what I can to turn him back.’
Reluctantly, feeling the minutes stretch now Abelard has gone from view, Heloise allows Garlande all speed and follows on more slowly for fear of arousing suspicion. She makes at once for the Paraclete. She is still on the road alone as night falls, Saris’s brutal attack of so long ago ever-present in her mind. But rage drives her on, the injustices screaming in her head.
How it hurts to see someone so uniquely gifted dragged down by a territorial dog who pisses at every corner, destroying the brilliance that lights them all. And how wrong a world where this man whom she loves must struggle on without her in his time of greatest need.
Eighteen
THE PARACLETE, 1141–1142
Heloise arrives back at the Paraclete in the early hours, in such a state of nervous exhaustion that she remains in bed the next day. It is nearly two weeks before Matilda comes with news; two weeks of agonised waiting.
‘After Peter left for Rome, Bernard proceeded without him and all to a man damned him. They condemned every single one of his works.’
Heloise grips her friend’s tethering hand, her mind unwilling to take in such a monstrous act. ‘Dear God, they mean to kill him.’
‘That is not all. Bernard now takes his witch-hunt straight to Rome, writing directly to Innocent and Peter’s ally, Guy of Castello. As well as telling of the council’s ruling, Bernard claims Peter is in league with Arnold of Brescia to subvert the church.’
‘That is ludicrous! Surely Innocent will see through this? They met at Morigny when he ratified our Bull, and Garlande said they enjoyed each other’s company.’
‘I hope that is so. Bernard has sent his assistant to see Innocent directly. My guess is Peter will have no chance of a fair hearing if ever he arrives.’
Heloise’s heart stampedes like a runaway horse. ‘Why, oh why did he not just play their game and alter his texts? For all his brilliance and despite his many fears, he has never understood the deadly games of the jealous and ignorant.’
‘For that matter,’ says Matilda, ‘why did not Thibaud or Stephen offer payments to those who could have pulled strings to see him spared? It is the only way to deal with such men. I have roundly scolded Thibaud.’
Heloise shakes her head. ‘There is no point.’ Matilda’s cynicism is well founded, but Heloise does not want to exacerbate any disagreement between Matilda and her husband. How has it come to this; that anything can be forgiven if one has status enough and wealth? ‘We cannot fight venality by colluding in it. At some point we must take a reasoned stand. I admire Abelard for this. He worked hard to secure his place.’
‘Principles and ideals are fine in theory, Heloise, but when power is at stake, morals are far too easily cut to fit the cloth.’
‘Yes, yes, I know. But it does not stop me wishing it otherwise.’ Heloise halts her pacing, Matilda’s earlier words only now taking overt shape in her head … if ever he arrives. ‘You have heard of Abelard’s progress? He was in very poor shape.’
Matilda sighs, revealing her discomfort over her unspilled news. ‘It is not good. Despite Stephen’s care, they made it only as far as Cluny before Peter collapsed. Their abbot, Peter the Venerable, took him in and has convinced him to rest before he carries on. Peter is so exhausted, he can barely string two words together.’
Heloise’s hand flies to her mouth. They are set to destroy him, those libellous, sanctimonious zealots. They peck at his sanity like vultures. ‘All thanks to Cluny’s abbot, then. It is good he sees first-hand their damage and treachery. I pray his good care will revive Abelard.’
The abbot is universally liked, and Heloise knows he has opposed Bernard’s calls for greater austerity … though given the riches of his ancient Benedictine seat, his stance is unsurprising. Within Heloise’s mind tolls a bell of doom, and she fears not even this temperate man can help Abelard enough to silence its ominous ring.
Abelard has been at Cluny just over a month when Heloise receives a letter from Garlande. Pope Innocent has upheld the charges and written a proclamation condemning Abelard for ‘pernicious doctrines and other perverse teachings contrary to the Catholic faith’. His ruling forbids him to teach or travel ever again and requires his books to be destroyed wherever they might be found.
Heloise finds the pain completely overwhelming. This is enough to fell a robust man; in Abelard’s weakened state it will kill him. He is effectively under arrest, his whole life’s work struck out with one malicious stroke of Innocent’s pen. It breaks her heart to read that Abelard was refused a move to St Ayoul to be closer to the Paraclete — petty vengeance wrought on a man already one foot in the grave.
She is reminded of something Seneca wrote: Religion is regarded by the common people as true, by the wise as false, and by rulers as useful. There is a dangerous rift between the structures of the Church and people’s intimate faith — and men like Bernard may well love God but clearly have no empathy for His humble creations. She will never forgive him for Abelard’s hounding; it may well damn her soul, but she fails to see it as anything other than vanity and rivalry.
The one salvageable blessing is the fact that Abelard has found himself by chance at Cluny. Heloise learns that under Peter the Venerable’s care, Abelard has returned to a little surreptitious teaching of Cluny’s monks, and they treat him with the reverence deserving of one who has advanced the thinking of the Christian world. Peter the Venerable is perhaps one of the few men universally respected enough to defy the pope without sanction.
Heloise writes to Abelard weekly as the months roll on, little trifles designed to cheer, poems and reveries. In his irregular replies he writes of the garden’s progress or stories of the monks with whom he stays. It is as if his spirit has already fled, only the husk of him remaining — though in that husk she glimpses a simple sweetness and an acceptance that gladdens her heart.
Garlande then reports the abbot of Cîteaux has brokered a reconciliation between Abelard and Bernard. He tells her how Abelard prepared two documents for the occasion, one arguing charge by charge Bernard’s accusations, the other, titled Confessio Universis, confirming his orthodoxy of belief in wording Garlande describes as listless and sardonic.
Heloise daily plans to make her way to Cluny, but every time she ekes out space enough to leave, something occurs to hold her back. Eighteen months fly by, and then she hears Abelard has been moved to Cluny’s sister house at St Marcel, Garlande citing his failing health and greater need for quiet.
A great foreboding creeps on Heloise that she cannot shift. When she receives a letter from Abelard that begins with the words Confession to Heloise, her heart sinks even further.
My sister Heloise, once dear to me in the world, now dearest to me in Christ: Logic has made me hateful to the world, for those twisted men who entwine things and are wise only to destroy claim that I stand alone when it comes to logic but badly stumble when it comes to Paul … they slander the purity of Christian faith; and in all, they come to judgement led by prejudice and not by what experience should teach them …
> He proceeds to lay out his beliefs in simple words so no one can ever again misrepresent him; three sad, defensive paragraphs without an inkling of the majesty of reasoning for which his mind was made. Only in his last does she sense again his wit:
… This then is the faith on which I rest, from which I draw the firmness of my hope. Anchored here in safety, I do not fear the barking of Scylla, I laugh at the whirlpool of Charybdis, I do not shrink from the song of the Sirens that brings death. In the howling storm I am unshaken, in the onrushing winds I am unmoved, for I am founded on this rock, and it is firm.
At its end, she weeps.
She is not surprised when Garlande arrives a few days later.
‘He is gone, Heloise. Our brilliant man and his quarrelsome tongue are at an end. May God in all His wisdom have mercy on his soul.’ Her reformed fox wipes away a tear. ‘Abbot Peter said his final words were: I do not know …’
These four small words undo Heloise. She weeps for the loss of Abelard’s surety; his glorious arrogance that he alone could see beyond the scriptures’ great enigmas to voice God’s true intents. And she weeps for the waste: two minds that once had made such music thrust apart. Did her neediness play any part in his withdrawal from her, and in his demise? Would his mind have been less torn if she had simply walked away and disappeared? Or did her hunger to make sense of all life’s struggles overwhelm him; was she no better than every other adoring disciple, always hanging on his words in order to better articulate her own?
Of his lust she can be sure — she still has recurring dreams and memories to remind her — but what of love? To judge his acts alone brings little comfort: a catalogue of loosely woven promises, nonchalant carelessness and public disdain. Yet he was ill, tormented. Should she have fought harder to help him?
Garlande pats her back, returning her to the present. ‘I have dreaded telling you. I am so sorry.’ He wraps his arm around her and steers her to a bench to sit her down. ‘Oh, Heloise. Never have I seen a man more in love than Peter was with you. My dearest friend, for all his failings — and let us not pretend he did not own a great many — lack of love for you was never one. Even when all else failed him, at the end the mere mention of your name had the power to bring a light to his eyes. You were the one abiding star in the dark of his waning days. His love for you will survive; his death is but an interruption before he once again can take you in his arms.’