by Marion Meade
Heloise attempted a pigeon pie, but it came out soggy, and she threw it away. She scrubbed the solar floor and covered it with rushes, and this drew criticism from Jourdain. "A noble lady shouldn't behave like a servant," he told her with a grimace of disapproval. "Master Peter must hire someone to clean."
"No," she said. "I want to care for him myself." He shot back in a whisper, "Lady, it's plain to me what you are thinking. But it's not your fault that all this happened."
"No? Whose then?"
He muttered, "Why, your kin. They are mad dogs."
Heloise looked away without replying. Abelard came into the solar and seated himself in his chair. Resting his elbows on the carved arms, he turned a weak smile on them. "The two of you look peaked," he said. “You could use sun and fresh air."
"My lord," answered Jourdain quickly, "you could use the same."
Abelard nodded agreeably. "I suppose." He did not appear to be offended by Jourdain's suggestion but obviously had no interest in pursuing the subject. "Lad, I won't be needing you for the rest of the day. Go find some cheerful pothouse and relax."
Jourdain looked surprised. "My lord," he began to protest.
"Go on," Abelard said. He waved him out the door.
Hands on hips, Heloise waited by the hearth, wondering if she should cut up the hare she had bought for tomorrow's stew. After the disaster with the pigeon pie, there would be little for Abelard's meal that evening.
"Heloise."
"Do you feel like having hare for supper? I don't know. It's so hot. Mayhap a light supper of fruit and cheese would be better."
"Heloise."
A fleck of nervousness in his voice, a certain jagged quality, made her look up sharply. His face was grave. "Come. Sit down. Over here." With his foot he nudged a stool toward her.
She sat facing him.
'You've had the patience of Job these past weeks."
"My lord, I—"
"It's true. The patience of Job. And you've been wondering when I will put on my
clothing—“
She smiled uneasily.
"—and get off my haunches and leave these stinking rooms."
“Something like that," she admitted. “You can't stay like this forever."
Abelard said, "No. I can't." He paused. "Nor can I walk through the streets of the Ile and return to my former life. There's no place for me here."
"Then we must leave at once for—"
He was going on, as if she had not spoken. "Lady, it is my intention to take religious vows and enter the abbey of Saint-Denis. There are other abbeys, but I think Saint-Denis would be best. Abbot Adam is willing to have me, and King Louis is especially eager for me to associate myself with the royal abbey."
All the while he had been talking, Heloise had held herself rigid, her mind frozen around the words "religious vows." The rest of it she had barely heard. "No," she shouted angrily, "I won't listen! You have no vocation. It's only shame speaking, not any devout wish for conversion. If it's shelter you want, it needn't be in a monastery. We'll go to Le Pallet." She stopped. 'You're a philosopher," she added in a more careful tone, "not a monk."
There was a lengthy silence. Abelard rubbed his forefinger back and forth over his upper lip. "I was a philosopher. Now it is my desire to become a monk. My motives may be suspect, but my resolve is firm. I will not change my mind, that I can tell you."
"And I tell you I won't let you."
"The Lord's hand touched me for an express purpose, I believe. To free me from the temptations of the flesh and worldly distractions. No more will I pursue fame and wealth."
He can be talked out of this, Heloise thought. Once they got to Le Pallet, he would hold his son and remember that he had responsibilities; he could not hide like a criminal. She leaned toward him and said, "These decisions shouldn't be made hastily. Even Abbot Adam will tell you that. You must allow yourself time to consider. Six months from now you may feel differently."
He was staring into the corner, shaking his head slowly. "Lady. This is painful for me. Don't make it worse."
She leaped up from the stool. Her bliaut soaked in perspiration, she poured two goblets of wine and brought them back. It seemed, curiously, as if all this had happened to her before. Someone had gone away suddenly, and she had beat her hands against some wooden object and screamed, pleading with them to stay, but they had not listened. She couldn't remember where or when this had happened, only the cold fear, then and now, gnawing her stomach. She gulped a mouthful of wine.
"Heloise."
She looked down at her feet. The sunlight streaking through the window had lightened the rushes to a pale golden green. Trying to think of something to say, she whispered finally, "Have you no thought for me or your son?"
Abelard said, "Our marriage is over. I can give you no pleasure now."
"I don't care if you can never lie with me again. All I want is you, yourself. It's all I've ever wanted. You know that."
"God's eyes, stop it!" he shouted, covering his eyes with one arm.
"Abelard. Don't leave me." She went to him and cupped his hand in hers. She told him there were other alternatives besides a monastery. No matter how he felt now, there was no reason why he could not wait a while and then return to teaching. His reputation as a philosopher was too eminent to be seriously diminished by the crime. He was her husband, she was his wife—he was alive, and a long life of happiness together was still possible. Clinging to him, she pounded him gently with words, always seeking the one magical phrase that would turn him back from despair. The bars of sunlight across the trestle began to fade. Abelard stood and tramped to the window. He kept his back to her.
She said, "At Le Pallet, you said you couldn't bear to be parted from me—that was why we had to marry. I tell you that I can't conceive of a life without you. Surely you understand that."
After a long silence, he nodded. "I understand." Heloise waited, her eyes steady on his back. She took a sip of the wine. It was warm and made her feel sickish.
Abelard said, "We needn't be separated. I—" He said something more, but his words were so faint that she did not catch them.
Heloise squinted. "I didn't hear you."
"We might enter religion together," he said, his voice almost inaudible. He was still looking out the window.
For a moment, she thought that she had misunderstood him. He must have said something else. If she didn't answer, he would turn to her and repeat himself, and then she would hear his actual words. He couldn't have—
Abelard turned. She sat down hard, her eyes enormous with astonishment. "You can't—" Her hands groped blindly for the wine goblet.
Abelard said quickly, "It's the only thing to do, the best thing for both of us. I can't leave you alone. I must see that you're cared for."
She heard him rattling on. Swallowed up by the shock of the idea, she did not really listen. No, she thought. I want to live.
"You'll see. In the long run, it will be best for everyone. Even for Astrolabe. Denise will raise him. He'll be happy. You and I can serve God."
She thought, I don't want to serve God. It is you I wish to serve.
"Heloise, speak to me."
She said cautiously, "Why do you ask this of me?"
He hesitated. "You're my wife. At Argenteuil you'll he safe."
"Safe from what?" she exploded.
He looked away.
"Do you think I'll bed with someone else?"
"You're young. Someday you will—"
She licked her lips. "God in heaven, is that what you think? Do you know me so little that you think I'll crawl into another man's bed?" She lunged forward and grabbed his arm. "You think me wanton?"
"Lady, listen."
"Answer me! Is that what you are thinking?"
"Your blood is hot," he fired back.
Tears burning at her lashes, she bolted for the door. Halfway down the stairs, she heard him shouting her name. She was out on the open street, running, horses and c
arts and people streaming past in a steady blur. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She looked over her shoulder, but no one was following her. Absurd hope. She allowed her legs to slow down. He had not been out of his rooms since the assault; he would not come looking for her. She walked slowly the rest of the way to the inn.
Heloise flopped across the sagging bed, something thundering against her ribs until she felt as if her chest would split open. Panic. Rage. She had heard of people strangling on their own angry breath, and with each breath she willed that it should be the last. It began to grow dark. Men-at-arms came into the garden below, talking of a tournament at Le Mans and boasting of the ransoms they had collected, and then compline rang and they went to bed.
After a while, from habit, Heloise groped to the side of the bed and knelt. Prayer was not her intention. There was nothing to pray for; no help would come. This person who had been Peter Abelard, who was now someone she barely recognized, this man she loved would vanish behind the walls of Saint-Denis, and no prayers of hers could prevent it. For herself, all roads to safety were barred, on earth as in heaven. All roads, she thought, but the one leading to Argenteuil. Oh Lord, she thought dully, how terrible are thy works, and no more would she address to him.
The night stillness was broken by the watchman's staff tapping rhythmically against the cobbles. Heloise heard him call, "Pray for the dead!" and then he moved down the street.
She got into bed. In the morning, she would find Jourdain and ask him to take her to Argenteuil. It was quiet there. On her rock, she could think what to do.
14
By the time they reached Argenteuil, she and Jourdain had stopped speaking. Her throat felt raw from yelling, and she imagined his must be the same.
When they rode into the yard, the portress looked up in astonishment. Heloise waved stiffly and slid down before Jourdain had reined the horse to a halt.
"Mark me," Jourdain muttered, dropping beside her.
Heloise cut him off harshly. "I have marked you. All the way from Paris. Jesu, what more is there to say?"
He grunted. "All I ask of you— Mark me, I'm pleading with you. Friend, use logic. Be reasonable."
She shrugged and laughed. "In a reasonable world, there would be incentive for making reasonable decisions. This is not a reasonable world."
Jourdain glowered at her. "It's the only world we've got."
"Well, it's not good enough." At the stricken look on his face, she thumped his shoulder with a fist. "Ah, friend, I told you. I've made no decision yet. Mayhap I'll take your advice. Let's part in peace."
He smiled sourly and resumed lecturing her.
The sound of his voice enraged her, as did the sight of the banner atop the gatehouse and the snapping of the wind against her ears. "Enough!" she roared, and walked quickly toward the cloister gate without looking back. Dancing toward her, one foot twitching along the cobbles, came Astrane.
"Lady, what happened!" Astrane gasped.
Heloise did not reply.
By nightfall, the convent heaved with gossip about Heloise and Master Peter Abelard, and Heloise could turn neither one direction nor another without noticing a whispering novice or nun. She was not surprised at their interest in the matter, since they had little else to occupy their minds. She watched them watching her. The whole thing bored her. They were alive and she was dead: what difference that they took her blood and nerves and brain in their voyeuristic hands and passed judgment. At dinner, she ate two helpings of fish and listened to the weekly reader droning a passage from Corinthians. Everything tasted and sounded blurred, as if she were wearing a band of linen around her senses. Abelard will not have me, she thought wildly. He has chosen death for himself; he has chosen it for me. Because he loves me.
There was no question of her not understanding all this. To keep from losing her, he was willing to bury her. She wondered what she would do in his place. No, she did not think she would feel compelled to bury him. The reader stopped suddenly and everyone else rose from the tresdes. Dark and brooding, Ceci's eyes followed her as she left the refectory. Heloise looked back over her shoulder, and Ceci plunged to her side.
"Heloise," she said, "don't."
Heloise nodded. "I didn't seek your advice," she said mildly.
"Leave here tonight. Jourdain is still at the guesthouse. I saw him. He'll take you home." She was babbling.
"Home?" Heloise laughed. "Where's that?"
"Jourdain will marry you. He told me."
“I have a husband. Did you forget?"
Abruptly, Ceci's face wrinkled into tears. She pawed convulsively at Heloise's sleeve.
"Let go." She dipped around the corner of the cloister and lurched down the west walk. Entering the schoolroom, she pulled a stool to Madelaine's table and sank down.
Sister Madelaine put down her quill with a click. "That young man. Jourdain. He loves you."
"Oh," she said, surprised to hear Madelaine use the word love. "Him. Mayhap."
Madelaine's eyes fixed on her face. "More than your Master Abelard."
She turned away, uncomfortable, and tried to strain the anger from her voice. She said evenly, "Sister, you talk foolishly. You do not know my lord. Or Jourdain." Or anything about love, she added silently.
For a week, she lay in the infirmary, too exhausted for grief. Gray circles ringed her eyes. When Sister Blanche brought soup, Heloise turned her head toward the wall. On the eighth day, Sister Blanche's assistants tried to pour broth down Heloise's throat. From a stool by the side of the bed, Sister Madelaine crouched like a wizened yellow bird and studied her. Each time she opened her eyes, Madelaine hissed, "Fool."
"Go away."
"Idiot. It's not so easy to die. Besides, I won't let you." She gestured to the sisters with the broth. Heloise jerked away, feet and arms flailing. One of the nuns caught her by the jaw and wrenched. A little of the hot liquid sloshed over her tongue. The rest of it she spat at Madelaine.
The prioress grinned. "Good." She winked at Sister Blanche.
On the tenth day, Heloise rose and dressed. Her bliaut hung like a sack over her bony shoulders. Feeble, she said to Sister Blanche, "Is that boy still here?"
"What boy?"
"You know. The one who brought me here."
The infirmarian shrugged. "I can find out. Do you want to see him?"
"No. Ask him—ask him if he has a message for me. From Paris. That's all."
There would be no message, she was certain of that. A long time ago—two weeks, a century—she had had a husband and infant son. Little by little, her mind had been letting them go. Possessing them no longer seemed so desperately important; nothing seemed important.
She went into the cloister and sat on a bench near the lemon tree. Around her, September leaves drifted into the grass. Throughout the morning, she watched the nuns passing in and out of the cloister, whispering, arguing, carrying piles of linen and manuscripts. Busy with their duties, they seemed happy. Or at least content. Once, with effort, Heloise got up and walked the few steps to the lemon tree. Then she dragged back and sank down again. No strength remained to her— no strength to fight—but somewhere she must find strength to do one last thing. Very well, she thought, very well. Thy will be done. You know that I never wanted anything but Abelard, not wealth or power or marriage or possessions, only my beloved. You have denied me the one thing I love above all else; I will deny you the one thing you love. My heart and soul. Those belong to Abelard. The rest of me, the part that does not matter, you may have. He heard; she knew that he heard.
Sext rang. She went to find Lady Alais.
"Here is the law." The abbess read from the Rule. "If you can observe it, enter. If you cannot, you are free to depart."
“I can."
"Do you truly seek God?"
“I do."
"Are you zealous for the work of God?"
"Yes."
The abbess looked up. "The journey to God is made by hard and rugged ways."
; Heloise returned her gaze calmly.
The abbess went on reading. "According to the law of the Rule, from this day forward you may not leave the convent." She paused. "Nor withdraw your neck from under the yoke of the Rule. Do you understand?"
"I do," said Heloise.
Lady Alais spoke of other things, but they were unimportant and Heloise did not listen.
The cloister had emptied but for the birds. Sister Madelaine led her down the east walk and into the side entrance of the abbey church. The sanctuary was crammed with a blur of people and candles, and the air stank of sweetish incense. Heloise tried not to focus. Her palm against Madelaine's began to sweat. They walked to the back of the nave and crossed to the center aisle. Madelaine said they would wait there until Bishop Gilbert gave the signal. Ahead and to her left, somebody was crying. Deliberately, she turned her head away, staring at nothingness. The sounds of the whimpering grated on her ears.
"Sister," she said to Madelaine, "somebody is bawling. Can't you make them stop?"
"Shhh—pay no mind. Stand up straight."
For a while, they stayed there, not speaking. Madelaine sent a novice up to notify the bishop that they were ready. Nuns were swarming around the altar as Sister Judith arranged them into lines. The ultimate ritual. Heloise had watched it dozens of times. As a child, she could hardly sleep for excitement on the nights before a novice was to be received into the order. There was Sister Marie, who had cried for her lord father, and Sister Custance, who had forgotten to wear an undershift and was sent back to the dormitory to dress properly. Or was it Sister Marie who'd neglected her undershift? It was all a jumble now. Sister Custance was dead anyway. She'd had beautiful breasts, rose-tipped and saucy. But she had bled to death one Advent—Heloise thought it must have been the sixth year she had been at Argenteuil.