by Marion Meade
That year, both the harvest and the slaughter had been exceptionally good, and Thibaut generously wished to share the fruits of blood month with his brother. Enormous haunches of beef, as well as pigs, ducklings, rabbits, and kids, were unloaded from the sumpters and carted into the kitchen. Frantically, Agnes began salting down the meat for use throughout the winter, and she also made pig jelly, blood pudding, minced beef and raisin tarts, and several other dishes Heloise had never heard of. In any case, the men of Saint-Gervais were great eaters, and the spit kept turning from dawn to midnight.
The eve of Martinmas was a fast day, and they ate nothing but bread and cheese. But on the day of the saint's feast, Fulbert invited Canon Martin and Abelard, and they all sat down to a bountiful meal. As head of the household, Fulbert carved the meats and made sure the goblets remained filled.
As the meal went on, the men began to loosen their girdles, and their voices grew more excited from the wine,
"God, I'll never forget it," said Thibaut, starting on another story about the crusade. "Three blackamoors, dark as the devil's belly. They were guarding the door and standing in blood up to their ankles, and when they saw my sword—" Thibaut had been little more than a boy when he went to the Holy Land with his father and elder brothers, but one might think that he had taken Jerusalem single-handed. Certainly he never tired of recounting his adventures. Heloise honestly couldn't tell whether or not his stories were true.
"And I daresay you took on all three blacks at once," Abelard said mildly, chewing on a capon's wing. To Heloise, his remark sounded merely conversational, but her cousin Philip apparently interpreted it as an insult.
"At least my father fought for Christ!" he said, bristling. "Not like some—"
"Soft, fair nephew," said Fulbert. "Master Peter meant no offense. He was only asking your father a question."
"I mislike this fine gentleman's questions," Philip muttered thickly. He was a handsome youth of twenty, or would have been handsome if not for his wolfish expression. Heloise decided, for the second time, that she disliked him.
There was a heavy silence, and then Canon Martin hurriedly changed the subject. The men began to talk of Louis the Fat and his perpetual quarrels with King Henry of England. "The king," said Thibaut, "is far too trusting. He treats Henry Beauclerc as a man of honor, when everyone knows the Normans are shifty dogs. Look at the battle of Gisors, when they—"
Heloise yawned. Across the table, Abelard stirred restlessly. He did not appear to be following the conversation. As she knew, the subject of war bored him, and she had no doubt that he would have hated being a knight. Suddenly, however, she heard his voice ring out above Thibaut's.
"King Louis is a good siege fighter," said Abelard, "but I tell you this. When it comes to military strategy, he's as brainless as a woodcock. At the battle of Gisors, he should have taken care to—"
Thibaut, who had expressed virtually the identical opinion a few minutes earlier, threw him an angry look. "I'm the king's man!" he shouted at Abelard. "I won't listen to anyone speaking evil of my liege lord!"
"God's pardon, sir, but I'm the king's friend. I've said nothing that he would not admit about himself. I repeat, he has yet a great deal to learn about the art of war."
"Indeed, sir," bellowed Martin. "As I recall, Louis fought bravely enough in the Vexin."
"I did not say—" Abelard growled. The table trembled on the brink of a quarrel.
"Calm yourselves," called Fulbert from the end of the table, but no one listened.
In a cutting tone, Philip said to Abelard, "Yes, and what would a clerk know about fighting? I wager you've never been near a battle."
There was an embarrassed silence around the table. Abelard smiled tightly. “It is clear that you have no high opinion of clerks, my friend."
“True," Philip answered curtly.
“I pray you. Why?"
“I’ve yet to meet one who didn't think a lot of himself." He grinned maliciously, "Or else was a nancy."
Abelard went white. "You bastard!"
Instantly pushing back from the table, Philip staggered to his feet and whipped a dagger from his belt. "Milksop! Coward!"
Abelard stood to face him. He shouted, "Liar! If I had a sword, I would prove you a worthless piece of shit!"
The men scuffled to their feet, knocking over chairs; the trestle swayed wildly. Goblets rattled, and a bowl of pears landed in Heloise's lap. In the midst of the uproar, she continued to sit, rigid, on her stool.
"Nephew," Fulbert implored over the noise, "for the love of God, you are discourteous to Master Abelard. You must beg his pardon."
"By St. Denis, never!" Philip cried. "I spit on him. He dared to insult my lord father." His face was clenched with rage.
Heloise watched Abelard turn from the table and go straight for the hall. Knees shaking, she levered herself from her stool and bolted after him, clutching his arm as he fumbled with the latch of the street door. "Abelard," she said uncertainly, "wait."
Eyes blank, he tore his arm from her grasp and threw open the door. Bitter air rushed at her.
"Abelard, please. Where are you going?"
'To some friendly pothouse. Your barbarous kin are not to my taste."
"Sweetest love, wait. Its cold." She sucked in her breath and stationed herself in the doorway. "I'll get your cloak."
"Get out of my way."
She struggled to keep the tears from her voice. "Won't you take your cloak, please? You'll catch a fever."
"Gramercy, lady mother," he snapped with a savagery that stung her. "I have no need of a wet nurse." He thrust her aside roughly.
One hand on the door, she lunged at his sleeve. He backed away and struck her, slamming her shoulders against the wooden door. Dazed, she watched him disappear in the direction of the cloister.
After a while, she made her face expressionless and went back to the solar. The men were still going on about the quarrel, everyone laying the blame on either Peter Abelard or Philip. Mostly on Abelard. Agitated, Fulbert said to her, "Where did he go?"
"Out."
Canon Martin was attempting to smooth things over, his meaty face sagging with distress. "Oh dear, oh dear God. That's what comes of too much Cypriot wine."
Thibaut grunted loudly. "God's mouth, what's wrong with the man? Methinks he takes offense too easily. Surely he could see Philip was only jesting."
Philip grinned snottily.
Gradually the confusion began to die down, and the men returned to the table. Heloise, just inside the door, stood nervously on one leg and looked for an opportunity to bid them good night.
"Never mind," Martin was saying to Thibaut. "Master Peter is not himself lately."
Fulbert squinted at him. "What do you mean by that? I've noticed nothing."
Martin puffed himself up. "Why, brother canon," he said in a slushy voice, "the whole chapter is talking. Where have you been? Master Peter is bewitched, they say."
"Indeed."
"He's turned lazy. I mean, he's lost all interest in study and won't even prepare lectures anymore. They say"—he lowered his voice—"they say, and I'm only repeating gossip, that he runs after women."
"Women!" Fulbert echoed in surprise. "Master Peter runs after women! Preposterous!"
Martin shrugged and said helplessly, "Well, I'm just repeating what I've heard. Mayhap it's not true, but everybody has noticed a change. It's something of a mystery."
Fulbert filled his henap and glanced over Thibaut's head at Heloise, still standing in the doorway. He called abruptly, "Fair niece, come here." Heloise walked to his chair demurely. He pulled her into his lap and folded his arms about her waist. "Pussy, have you noticed Master Peter behaving oddly?"
She took a quick breath. "No, my lord."
"You're certain? He's not skipped lessons or skimped on the instruction?"
"No."
Fulbert shot a satisfied glance at Martin, as if to say his friend was quite wrong. To Heloise he said, 'Tell us what you'
re studying now."
"Theology, my lord. The Bible, St. Jerome, St.—" She wriggled out of his arms and jumped to her feet. "Uncle, may I bid you good night now?"
He stretched her close and pecked at her cheek. "God give you good rest, child."
In the hallway, she could hear Fulbert's voice. He was still talking about Abelard. "—and there is no doubt in my mind that he's a strict master. If my little one doesn't recite her lessons properly, he punishes her. Why, I know for a certainty that he has struck her, because once I heard her cry out—"
The back of Heloise's neck prickled.
8
"They've gone now," Abelard said. "There's nothing to fear." He gave one final glance around the lecture hall and blew out the lamp.
They stepped outside into the cloister and turned west. The night air was raw, and Heloise could feel him shivering. All day he had walked around without his cloak; tonight she would prepare him a wine posset and stir in some anise, so that he should not take ill. Abruptly she slowed to a halt. "I'd better leave you now," she told him.
"Why?" He glanced at her, surprised. "Aren't you coming home?"
"I don't think," she murmured vaguely, "that we should be seen together."
"Lady, it's pitch-black. Nobody will see us. Come on." Heloise pulled her cloak around her face and trotted after him. "Uncle told Martin that he heard me cry out in the night."
"Did he."
"He assumed that you were punishing me."
"Of course. If I were him, that's exactly what I would assume." He laughed, very low, and took her arm. "My ladylove, you must remember to bury your face in the pillow when you—"
She grabbed roughly at his arm. "If he finds out, he might—"
"He won't find out."
"You don't know!" Heloise whispered harshly.
They were skirting the western edge of the cloister with its rambling border of canons' houses. As they passed a lighted window, she glanced at Abelard's face. There were lines of exhaustion around his mouth. Oh God, he looked so tired. She said steadily, "Uncle is not a stupid man."
"No." He frowned. "But that's not the point. I know of two reasons why he will never suspect."
"Two?"
"It's not easy to think ill of those we love most, and he loves you dearly. That's one."
"And—“
"I have a well-known reputation for chastity." For a while, neither of them spoke. They reached the gate leading to Fulbert's stable, and then walked around to the front of the house. Abelard finally added, "Even if someone told him about us, he wouldn't believe him."
Abelard opened the door, and they went in. The solar was dark, but Heloise could see candles smoking through Fulbert's half-opened door. She went in to kiss him good night. When she returned to the hall, Abelard was waiting for her, and he followed her up the dark steps, his hands bouncing lightly on her hips.
Heloise said nothing; she opened her door and went to light a candle. In the hall, Abelard was fumbling with his door latch. "Come over when you're ready," he called in a loud whisper.
When she had hung up her cloak, she walked slowly back toward the door. "Abelard—"
"Yes."
"I'm not coming." She expelled her breath sharply and licked her lips.
He slid out of the shadows and stood in the doorway, staring at her. Then he stepped inside her room and closed the door behind him. "Don't be silly. My sweet lady, you're being very foolish."
She nodded. "All the same, I'm not coming to you again."
"May I ask why?"
She hesitated. "I love you."
"I know. Is that a logical reason for not lying with me?" He moved to the bed and carefully sat down on the edge. In the haze of light from the candle, his eyes smoldered with bewilderment and resentment.
Heloise said blandly, "I'm afraid that I will destroy you." In her ears, the words sounded ridiculous. Overdramatic. "I'm—" Without saying anything more, she went to the brazier and reached down to light the charcoal.
Abelard was watching her intently. "Go on," he prompted.
'You won't understand."
"I'll try."
"I'm not good for you." Her words began to tumble out. "Ever since we became lovers, you've been utterly bored by the school. There's no time to study because we make love all night. Even Jourdain says that your lectures lack inspiration—you repeat yourself. He says the students snicker. And all of this is my fault!"
Abelard shook his head. "Dearest, no. You're raving. “
"Wait—I haven't finished!"
"Heloise, hush. Listen to me. Do you imagine I could give you up?"
Slowly she swayed to the bed and sank down beside him.
"I promise to give more time to my lectures." His voice was low with fear. "But don't turn away from me."
She closed her arms around his head and squeezed him to her. For a long time, she rocked him against her breast as if to suckle him. His mouth rested above her nipple; she could feel his breath through the fabric. Slowly she rolled back across the bed, dragging him with her. Against her thigh she was conscious of him hardening slightly. Quickly she rolled out and sat up; she tugged his tunic over his thighs. Oh God, she loved him, she loved to roll his name on her tongue, "Ab-eh-lard, Abelard," saying it to herself as one might repeat the name of a deity. She treasured every breath that came from his lungs, every inch of his body, every hair, every muscle, and she loved the private, familiar part of him that none saw but her. So adorably formed, so sweet. Cupping her hand under his scrotum, she lowered her mouth. Her hair spread out in ripples over her face, like the cascading of a golden fan.
Moaning, his fingers tightened around her neck. Very gently she wrinkled back the frills of flesh and sucked lusciously, like an adder in a honeycomb.
"Oh God!" he cried out hoarsely, and she looked up to catch a glimpse of his face, naked with a kind of holy ecstasy. They lay, at last, with their tongues in each other's mouth. Hotly, she felt him press his body into her.
With a soft explosion, the candle guttered and sent the room black. Through the shutters, a shaft of moonlight silvered a thin horizontal ribbon across the bed. She stirred voluptuously under him, drawing the coverlet around his shoulders.
He grinned down at her. "And you were never going to lie with me again."
During the next few weeks, she and Abelard reorganized their daily routine so as to live more nearly like normal people. Sometimes, now, Heloise left him shortly after matins and crossed the hall to sleep in her own bed. She insisted that he prepare new lectures for his classes and that he also set aside two hours a day for his own studies. The tension that had electrified their lives began to dissolve so that a new feeling of relaxation and companionship became possible.
All during Epiphany a play based on the Book of Daniel was being performed in the porch of Notre Dame. Fulbert, having already viewed the work, pronounced it suitable for an unwed girl and promised to escort Heloise. But at the last moment he pleaded a pressing appointment, summoning Jourdain to accompany her in his place.
The piquancy of the rhythms, the courtly procession with its banners and immense orange gonfalons, the piercing shrieks of the trumpets and vielles, all welded together into a pageant that left the audience in a mood of wild intoxication. Afterward, Heloise and Jourdain reeled home chanting the Te Deum and growling at each other like the silly lion-actors who had shuffled on the porch steps.
Heloise invited Jourdain into the house for a hot drink. From the hallway, she noticed Fulbert and Abelard talking together in the solar. Both men were smiling quite amiably, but something about the set of Abelard's mouth made her feel uneasy. She sent Jourdain home and went into the parlor.
"Fair niece," Fulbert said, "we've just been talking of a matter that concerns you."
She advanced toward him, reassured by the warmth of his smile. Without looking at Abelard, she said eagerly, "What a marvelous play, Uncle! Thank you for allowing me to go."
"Yes, yes." He brushed aside
her words with an impatient wave of his hand. "There is something I must speak to you about—"
She stared at him expectantly. From the corner of her eye, she could see Abelard gazing at the arras with apparent casualness. He seemed almost bored.
Fulbert cleared his throat several times. "It has come to my— An extremely unsavory fact has come to my attention. That is to say"— he cleared his throat again—"it seems there is gossip in the Ile—" He trailed off and stopped.
"Gossip?" Heloise felt herself stiffen. She gripped her wrists together behind her back.
Fulbert grunted. "Filthy whispers about Master Abelard's residence in my house! Why now? That's what I don't understand. He's been here more than a year. If there was anything untoward about his living here, I should think there would have been talk last year. No, but now some people with nasty minds suddenly start to—" He rattled on, complaining about the small-mindedness of the burghers, the depravity of the students, the way certain pernicious wretches, immoral themselves, saw evil in the most innocent events. And so forth.
Heloise kept shooting half glances at Abelard. He was nodding his head in agreement, punctuating Fulbert's tirade with sympathetic murmurs of "shocking" and "absolutely." She did not enjoy watching his performance, although she did have to admire his skill. She supposed that she should follow his lead but wasn't sure what to say.
"Are we barbarians?" Fulbert demanded of no one in particular.
"Mark me, my dear Fulbert." Abelard broke in with a jab of his finger. "Great minds of every age are smeared by the rabble. Consider the case of Socrates—"
"Quite right," sighed Fulbert. "Against the highest peaks, the storms will break."
Watching them, Heloise thought that all along Abelard had read her uncle correctly; of course he refused to believe any evil about either of them. Whether this counted in his favor, or whether he deserved contempt for his stupidity, she didn't want to ask herself right now. She had long given up fretting about her own crime in deceiving a man who loved her and had never treated her with anything but kindness; for her behavior there could be no excuses, nor did she attempt to make any. All she could think of now was that, apparently, everything was going to come out all right. "Uncle," she broke in cautiously, ignoring Abelard's signal to remain silent. "Uncle, what has all this to do with me?"