The Tenth Chamber

by Glenn Cooper

  On the twentieth day, Bernard’s fever broke and he became aware of his surroundings.

  He propped himself to a sitting posture as his brother adjusted his coverlet. ‘Who brought me here?’ he asked.

  ‘Gerard and some of the monks from Clairvaux.’

  Bernard rubbed the grit from his eyes and artfully concealed chastisement as compliment. ‘Look at you! You look well, Barthomieu!’ His older brother was fleshy and robust, his complexion pink as a pig, his hair in need of updated tonsuring.

  ‘I’m a little fat,’ Barthomieu said, defensively patting his middle through his good linen robe.

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘The abbot here is not so strict as you!’

  ‘Ah, I have heard that said about me,’ Bernard said. His down-cast eyes made it impossible to tell if he rued the austerity he had imposed on his community or Barthomieu’s dismissiveness. ‘How is your life here, brother? Are you serving Christ fully?’

  ‘I believe I am, but I fear you will look upon my contentment with suspicion. I do love it here, Bernard. I feel I have found my place.’

  ‘What do you do beyond prayer and meditation? Have you a vocation?’ He recalled his brother’s aversion to manual labour.

  Barthomieu acknowledged he was more inclined to indoors pursuits. His abbot had freed him from planting and harvesting. There was a small scriptorium at Ruac turning out copies of The Rule of St Benedict for a tidy profit and he had been apprenticed to a venerable monk with a practised hand. He was also adept at caring for the ill, as Bernard had come to witness first-hand. He assisted Brother Jean, the infirmarer, and spent a good hour a day scuttling around the infirmary, making sure the fires were ample, lighting the candles for Matins, cleaning the bowls that had been used for bloodletting, washing the feet of the sick and shaking their clothing of fleas.

  He hoisted Bernard to his feet, let the skeleton of a man lean on his back as he held the piss pot for him. He enthusiastically commented on the improved flow and colour of his brother’s urine. ‘Come,’ Barthomieu said when he was done, ‘take a few steps with me.’

  Over the weeks, the few steps turned to many and Bernard was able to take short walks in the spring air and start attending mass. The old abbot, Etienne, and his prior, Louis, were both entrenched in the ancient Benedictine ways and were, as they admitted to each other, rather fearful of the esteemed young man. He was a fire-brand, a reformer, and their provincial minds were no match for his intellect and powers of persuasion. They hoped he would see fit to be a humble guest and let them keep their casks of wine and the likes of dear old Sister Clotilde.

  One day while strolling in the meadow by the infirmary, Barthomieu pointed to the low building and remarked, ‘You know, Bernard, there is a cleric here, sent to Ruac by confidants to recover from a horrific injury, who is the only man I ever met who is your equal in discourse, knowledge and learning. Perhaps when he is stronger, you may wish to meet him, and he, you. His name is Pierre Abelard and, though you will vigorously disapprove of certain aspects of his tempestuous life, you will surely find him more stimulating than your dull brother.’

  The seed planted, Bernard wondered about this Abelard. As spring turned to summer and his strength increased, each time he walked the perimeter of the abbey, he would peer into the arched windows of the infirmary hoping to catch a glimpse of the mystery man. Finally, one morning after Prime prayers, Barthomieu told him that Abelard had requested a visit. But before it took place, he felt his brother was obliged to hear Abelard’s story, so that neither man would need to suffer embarrassment.

  In his youth, Abelard had been sent to Paris to study at the great cathedral school of Notre-Dame under the same William of Champeaux, now Bernard’s superior. Before long, the young scholar was able to defeat his master in rhetoric and debate and at the age of only twenty-two had established his own school outside Paris where students from all over the land elbowed each other to be at his side. Within ten years, he himself would occupy the chair at Notre-Dame and by 1115 he had become its canon. Bernard interrupted at this point and remarked that yes, of course, he had heard of this brilliant scholar and wondered what had become of him!

  The answer: a woman named Heloise.

  Abelard met her when she was fifteen, young and petite, already skilled and renowned in classical letters. She lived in Paris in the gilded home of her uncle, the wealthy canon Fulbert. Abelard was so smitten he arranged for her uncle to give him lodgings for the ostensible purpose of rendering private tutoring to the sharp-minded girl.

  Who seduced whom would become a matter of debate but no one could deny that a passionate affair did ensue. Abelard giddily ignored his teaching duties and indiscreetly allowed songs he had written about her to be sung in public. Tragically, their affair culminated in a pregnancy. Abelard had her sent away to his relatives in Brittany. There she delivered a child she called Astrolabe after the astronomical instrument, a name that spoke volumes about Heloise’s striking modernity.

  The child was left in the care of her sister and the two lovers returned to Paris where Abelard began to tensely negotiate a pact with her uncle. He would agree to marry her but he refused to make the marriage public lest his position at Notre-Dame be compromised. Fulbert and he almost came to blows over disagreement on this point. In turmoil, Abelard convinced Heloise to remove herself to the nunnery at Argenteuil, where she had gone to school as a girl.

  She went against her will, for she was an earthly person with no inclination towards a religious life. She sent Abelard letters questioning why she had to submit to a life to which she had no calling, especially a life that required their separation.

  It was 1118, a few months before Bernard had arrived at the Abbey Ruac. Her uncle was incensed that Abelard had seemingly dealt with the inconvenience of his niece by sending her off instead of publicly taking a stand for an honest union. Fulbert could not let the matter rest peacefully. He bade three of his sycophants to accost Abelard in his rooming house. Two held him down on his bed and one used a knife to crudely castrate him like a farm animal. They plopped his severed testicles into his wash basin and left him moaning in a coagulating pool of blood.

  Abelard hoped to die but he did not. He was a freak now, an abomination. In agony he contemplated his fate: did not God Himself reject eunuchs, excluding them from His service as unclean creatures? Fever set in and the numbing asthenia of blood loss. He languished in a dangerously precarious state until William of Champeaux, that perennial protector of fine minds, intervened and sent him to Ruac to be attended by the noted infirmarer, Brother Jean. And in that peaceful countryside, after a long physical and spiritual convalescence, he was ready to meet Ruac’s other notable invalid, Bernard of Clairvaux.

  Bernard would long remember their first encounter. He waited outside the infirmary that summer morning and there emerged a dangerously thin, stoop-shouldered man with a domed forehead marked with worry lines and a shy almost boyish smile. His gait was slow and shuffling and Bernard winced in empathy. Abelard was forty, an old forty, and despite his own infirmity Bernard felt robust compared to this poor soul.

  Abelard extended his hand, ‘Abbot Bernard, I have so wanted to meet you. I know well your esteemed reputation.’

  ‘And I too have wanted to meet you.’

  ‘We have much in common.’

  Bernard arched an eyebrow.

  ‘We both love God,’ Abelard said, ‘and we both have been nursed back to health by Sister Clotilde’s green soups and Brother Jean’s brown infusions. Come, let us walk, but pray not too swiftly.’

  From that day forward, the two men were constant companions. Bernard could scarcely believe his good fortune. Abelard was more than his equal in matters of theology and logic. Through debate and discourse, he was able to exercise his mind as well as his body. As they took the air, they discussed Plato and Aristotle, realism and nominalism, the morality of man, matters concrete and abstract. They verbally sparred, swapping roles of teacher and stud
ent, lost in argument for hours at a time. Barthomieu would sometimes look up from his chores and point out the infirmary windows towards the two men walking the meadow, gesticulating. ‘Look, Brother Jean. Your patients are thriving.’

  Bernard was keen to talk about the future – his desire to reengage in church matters, his ardour for spreading Cistercian principles. Abelard, for his part, refused to look forwards. He insisted on dwelling in the present as if he had no past and no future. Bernard let him be. There was no profit in insisting on candour from this pitiful soul.

  One morning, some distance from the abbey on a favourite high outlook over the river, they stopped to take in the view. Both men sat on rocks and fell silent. The first warmth of spring and the first petals of the season combined to make heady fragrance. Abelard suddenly said, ‘You know of my past, do you not, Bernard?’

  ‘I know of it.’

  ‘Then you know of Heloise.’

  ‘I know of her.’

  ‘I would like you to know her better, for if you know her, you will know me better.’

  Bernard gave him a look of non-comprehension.

  Abelard reached into his habit and pulled out a folded parchment. ‘A letter from her. You would honour me to read it and give me your thoughts. She would not object.’

  Bernard began to study it, hardly believing it was the product of an eighteen-year-old woman. It was a love letter, not low in any way, but lofty and pure. He was moved by the melody of her words and the passion in her heart. He had to stop after some minutes to clear a tear from his eye.

  ‘Tell me what passage is that?’ Abelard asked.

  Bernard read it aloud. ‘These cloisters owe nothing to public charities; our walls were not raised by the usuries of publicans, nor their foundations laid in base extortion. The God whom we serve sees nothing but innocent riches and harmless votaries whom you have placed here. Whatever this young vineyard is, is owing only to you, and it is your part to employ your whole care to cultivate and improve it; this ought to be one of the principal affairs of your life. Though our holy renunciation, our vows and our manner of life seem to secure us from all temptation.’

  Abelard nodded sadly. ‘Yes, please finish it.’

  When he was done, Bernard folded it and returned the letter. ‘She is a remarkable woman.’

  ‘Thank you. Though we are married, she can no longer be my wife. I am dead inside, the joy for ever gone. Nevertheless, I aim to dedicate the remainder of my life to her and to God. I will live as a simple monk. She will live as a simple nun. We will be as brother and sister in Christ. Though I will live with the perpetual misery of my fate, through our love of God we will be able to love each other.’

  Bernard touched the man’s knee. ‘Come, brother. It’s a fine day. Let’s walk further.’

  They wandered downstream, the river far below. The summer had seen heavy rains and run-off from the banks turned the river muddy-brown and turbulent, but on their wide ledge the ground was dry and firm. Their sandals snapped against their heels with each step. They approached the furthest point along the cliffs they had ever travelled but the weather was perfect and both of them had the energy to carry on. There was no need for talk; competing with the sounds of the wind rustling through the foliage would have been a shame. High on the cliffs they felt privileged to be in the realm of the hawk, the realm of God.

  In time, Bernard said. ‘Look! Let’s rest here.’

  On a wide ledge with a marvellous view over the valley, there was a gnarled old juniper tree seemingly growing out of the rocks. Its twisted branches provided a zone of cool shade. They sat, resting their backs against the rough trunk and continued to revel in silence.

  ‘Shall we go back?’ Abelard asked after a spell.

  Bernard stood up and surveyed the path forward, shielding his eyes from the sun, searching the top of the cliffs. ‘I have a notion that it may be possible to return to the abbey by continuing on, finding a gentle climb to the top and walking through the meadows to the north of the church. Are you feeling fit enough?’

  Abelard smiled. ‘Not as fit as you, brother, but adequate for the enterprise.’

  The path forward was somewhat more difficult and their sweaty feet started slipping on the soles of their sandals. Just as Bernard was doubting the wisdom of proceeding, they heard a wonderful splashing sound. Around the next bend was a small waterfall, the sunlight making it sparkle like a ribbon of gemstones. The water lashed the ledge and cascaded over the cliffs.

  They thirstily cupped handfuls of pure cold water into their mouths and decided it was perhaps a sign the way forward was propitious.

  The going was slow and the ledge a bit treacherous but they were committed to finding their shortcut and both were silently glad their bodies were up for the task. Months earlier, they had been so feeble they could hardly rise from their beds. They were thankful and trudged on.

  A second waterfall graced their path allowing them to drink their fill again. Bernard wiped his hands dry on his habit and craned his neck. ‘Just there,’ he pointed. ‘If we go a little further I believe that is a place we can safely climb to the top.’

  At the chosen spot, Bernard put hands to his hips and asked Abelard if he was prepared for the ascent.

  ‘I am ready, though it does seem a long way up.’

  ‘Don’t worry. God will keep us attached to the firmament,’ Bernard said cheerfully.

  ‘If one of us is to fly, pray it be me, not you,’ Abelard replied.

  Bernard led the way, searching for a route that best approximated a stairway. Sweating heavily, his chest heaving from exertion, he pulled himself up to the next level and stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Abelard!’ he cried. ‘Take care on that loose rock there but come! There is something marvellous!’

  There was a gaping hole in the cliff face, as wide as a man’s bed, as tall as a child.

  Bernard extended a hand to help the older man up. ‘A cave!’ Abelard exclaimed, gulping air.

  ‘Let us have a look at it,’ Bernard said excitedly. ‘At least it will cool us down.’

  Without fire, they had to rely on sunshine to see anything within the vault. A yellow glow extended only a few feet before tapering into blackness. After crawling inside they found they were able to stand easily. Bernard took a few tentative steps forward and saw something at the edge of the light. ‘My God, Abelard! See there? There are frescoes!’

  Running horses.

  Charging bison.

  The head of a huge black bull overhead.

  The creatures disappeared into the darkness.

  ‘A painter has been here,’ Abelard sputtered.

  ‘A genius,’ Bernard agreed. ‘But who?’

  ‘Do you think it is from antiquity?’ Abelard asked.

  ‘Perhaps but I cannot say.’

  ‘The Romans were here in Gaul.’

  ‘Yes, but these do not appear as any Roman statue or mosaic I have ever seen,’ Bernard said. He looked out over the valley. ‘Whatever its age, it is a spot of majesty. The artist could not have found a better tablet to paint upon. We must return with illumination to see what lies deeper.’ He clapped his hands on Abelard’s shoulders. ‘Come my friend. What a marvellous day this has been. Let us get back to the abbey for mass.’

  Bernard encouraged Barthomieu to return to the cave with he and Abelard, and in turn, Barthomieu recruited Brother Jean who was learned about and fascinated by the natural world. The four men set off from the abbey in the morning after the Terce service. They aimed to return by the Sext service at noon. They would have to hurry, but if they missed Sext, they would do penance. The world would not end. If Bernard had been the abbot at Ruac, attitudes would not be so lax, but that bright day he felt more explorer than cleric.

  The men arrived at the cave by mid-morning, with the giddiness of boys on a lark. Barthomieu was buoyed by his brother’s improved vigour and good cheer. Jean, a tubby, good-natured healer, the oldest of the group by a few years, was eager to see these fre
scoes for himself. Bernard and Abelard for their part, happily nurtured their growing bond.

  They brought good torches with them, lengths of larch with ends wrapped in fatted rags. On the ledge below the cave, Jean knelt down, not to pray but to open his pouch of fire-making materials: a flint, an iron cylinder which was the broken shaft of an old abbey key and some powdery linen char cloth, prepared and dried in his own special way.

  He worked fast, sparking the iron on the flint and had the kindling going in moments. After his torch was lit, the others set theirs blazing too. Soon, four men were standing in the mouth of the cave, hoisting burning torches, staring wordlessly at some of the finest art they had ever seen.

  Inside, they completely lost track of the hours; by the time they would return, Sext would be long over and they would be fortunate to attend the next service at Nones. By the light of hissing torches, they marvelled at the menagerie. Some of the animals such as the bison and mammoths seemed fanciful, though the horses and bears were realistic enough. The weird priapic bird man startled them and set their tongues clucking. And when they came to crawl through the spider hole at the rear of the cave they were dazzled by the red-stencilled hand prints that encircled them in a small chamber.

  From the first moments, they had been discussing who the artist or artists might have been. Romans? Gauls? Celts? Other distant barbarians? Lacking an answer, they turned to the question of why. Why bedeck a chamber with hands? What purpose would be served?

  Jean wandered into the last chamber and exclaimed, ‘Now, brothers, here are things I can better understand! Plants!’

  Jean inspected the paintings with a keen eye. He was an avid herbalist, one of the most skilled practitioners in the Perigord, and his abilities as an infirmarer were unrivalled. His poultices, rubs, powders and infusions were legendary, his reputation reaching all the way to Paris. There was a long history of herbalism in the region and knowledge of plants and medicaments was carefully passed down from father to son, mother to daughter and in the case of Ruac, monk to monk. Jean had a particular gift at embellishment and experimentation. Even if a poultice for wheezing worked well enough, might it not work better with the addition of stalk of cranesbill? If loose bowels could be staunched by the usual brews, might the infusions be made more potent with the added juice of poppies and mandrake?