by Marion Meade
Somebody called her name.
She rose and shot forward into the offices. The room, stifling, smelled of ink. A dozen monks sat at tables. Coins clinked. Heloise sat down tentatively before a hook-nosed monk who did not look at her. He took the pouch and dumped its contents on the table. With ink-stained fingers, he carefully examined each piece of parchment and laid it to one side. Abruptly, he glanced up. He said, "The miller at Aventin-sur-Seine owed you two hogsheads of wheat on St. John's Day. One is listed."
"He brought only one," Heloise said slowly. "He promised the other at Lammas."
The monk scowled. "See that you collect it."
"Yes, my lord."
He picked up the empty pouch and shook it. "Lady abbess owes twenty-six livres interest on her loan from the bishop. Where is it?"
Heloise reddened. "I know nothing about it. I'm sorry."
"Now, listen to this. The bishop will tolerate no further excuses from Abbess Alais. Tell her that."
"Yes, my lord. I'll tell her."
He gave her a sheaf of receipts to sign, and then he filled up the pouch with mail. When she was finished, he said, perfunctorily, without meeting her eyes, "God be with you, Sister."
"God be with you, Brother." Outside in the reception hall, she tried to remember how to get back to the courtyard. Her head was pounding. She had not known that Lady Alais had borrowed from the bishop. That was foolish. And to renege on the interest was equally stupid. Heloise turned down a passageway and saw a sullen sky ahead. When she realized that the passage opened into the cloister, she wheeled and hastily retraced her steps. Stalking toward her was a tall monk surrounded by a cluster of chattering novices. Something about the set of his shoulders made her tense up. A smile began to form at the corners of her mouth. Abelard's eyes met hers and slid past the side of her head. Suddenly he was behind her, and she could hear him saying, "St. Augustine, you know, was of two minds on that point."
The stone walls heaved around her. Blindly, she lifted one foot and then the other, not caring where they took her. He had pretended not to know her; he had looked at her as if she were a stranger. She walked on until she came out into the yard. The cobbles, slippery from the rain, made her stumble. The cathedral bells began to roar nones.
"I must get home," she thought. "Ceci will have forgotten to feed the dog."
The road through the forest oozed with mud; the trees formed a dripping canopy over her head. Why did you do that? O God, cruel to me in everything. O merciless dispenser of mercy. A little while later, she told herself that God had spoken to her through Ceci earlier that day. Ceci had told her that Abelard had not loved her—she must forget him. She had not believed it, but now God had forced her to see with her own eyes. She began to weep.
When she reached Argenteuil, it was beginning to rain again, a sticky drizzle. Her mood black, she went up to the dormitory and changed into a clean habit. Later, in the schoolroom, she found Madelaine reading the Bible. "Did Sister Cecilia remember to feed Aristotle?"
"Yes."
"Good." She licked her lips. "Lady Alais is in trouble at Saint-Denis."
Madelaine screwed up her mouth and began to laugh. "My sweet child," she said finally, "Lady Alais has been in trouble for twenty-five years."
After matins, she woke from a dream, still tightly wrapped in a feeling of intense warmth and softness. Drowsy, she squirmed to her stomach, trying to hold on to it, whatever it was. Aristotle, curled beside her ankles, twitched her tail restlessly. Under the covers, she grazed her fingers under the curve of her breast and up over one nipple. She tried to remember what the dream had been about, but it was gone. She knew what it was. Something wanted to explode inside her. If she could fall back to sleep quickly, the sensation would pass without the necessity of her doing anything about it.
Hastily, she wrenched her hands away from her breasts and clenched them under the pillow. She hated her body, which insisted on torturing her during the nights. Wide-awake now, she tried to think of something else, but only pictures of Abelard in his black gown came to her, and him she could not bear to consider. The only way she could permit him into her thoughts was to think of him as dead. She tested the idea: her beloved was and now he is not. Abelard is dead. In a way, she wished it were true, so that she might grieve for him, as one normally did for the dead. No comfort there, though. She had seen him surrounded by young men, watched his arms and legs swing toward her, heard him speak of St. Augustine. Thinking about him now, she decided that he looked happy. Or at least he did not appear unhappy. He still walked like a king.
Two beds away, someone coughed. Heloise reached down, fumbled for the dog, and tucked the curly body under her chin. She nuzzled her face against Aristotle's nose.
"Sweet heart," she whispered, "my sweet little love." In the dark, Aristotle licked her throat. Heloise closed her eyes.
Queen Adelaide gave birth to a second son. In honor of the new prince, who had been christened Louis after his father, Sainte-Marie of Argenteuil conducted a special thanksgiving mass. A silver chalice, made in the crafts workshop, was sent to the Cite Palace, with a letter promising that the nuns would include Prince Louis in their prayers. Heloise composed the letter and copied it on a good grade of parchment.
She no longer hoped for letters from Abelard or Denise, although during that autumn she did receive her first piece of correspondence, a message from Jourdain. As if apologetic for his long silence, he wrote sheets and sheets describing the court at Troyes, the marvelous poets and minstrels, and one entire page devoted to his friend Peter of Montboissier, who had recently been elected abbot of Cluny at the astonishing age of twenty-seven. Even though Jourdain wrote little about himself, the cheerfulness of the letter lifted Heloise's spirits in that it re-established her link to the outside world. To hear news, to know that people still sang and laughed and were amused, shivered a thrill through her. She read and reread the pages, always finding some item that she had passed over during previous readings. For days she dwelt on Peter of Montboissier. How young to be an abbot —he must be as unusual as Jourdain had always insisted. And he was a cheerful young man, Jourdain wrote, gay of heart and full of love for life. How a person could be gay in a monastery was hard for Heloise to imagine, but she decided that she would make an attempt to emulate Abbot Peter of Cluny. Some days it worked, but it was a matter of constantly reminding herself.
Just when she was successfully managing to put Abelard out of her mind for days at a time, word of him reached her ears in a roundabout way. On a visit to Saint-Denis, Astrane learned that Abelard had left the abbey and was now teaching at a priory near the city of Provins in Champagne. He had been, Astrane revealed to Lady Alais, requested to leave.
Cornering Astrane near the abbess's apartment, Heloise stretched out her arms and refused to allow the girl to pass. "Why did he go?" she demanded. "I want to know everything you heard."
Astrane sniffed. "I don't carry tales, Sister."
"You've already carried this one. Now I want the details. Why did he leave?" Heloise lowered her arms.
"Truly, I know nothing," Astrane muttered. "He was at odds with the abbot. And others."
"About what, in God's name?"
"He said the monks were lewd and filthy-minded. You know, worldly. He complained to the abbot of their foul morals."
Heloise gasped. That did not sound like Abelard. "Foul morals," she repeated. "Is that true?"
"How do I know?" Astrane shrugged. "But Brother Abelard charged thusly."
"And Abbot Adam? What did he say to all of this?"
"Don't ask me." Her eyes were icy blue points. "But they say that he called Master Abelard an odious burden to Saint-Denis. In any case, the abbot has sent him away." She smirked. "Everybody disliked him. They say."
She limped away, and Heloise let her go. A few weeks later, Madelaine told her that Abelard's new priory was called Maisoncelles-en-Brie. He had set up a school there, and students were flocking from all over Europe. Heloise, rea
lizing that Madelaine had made a special effort to obtain this information, asked no further questions. It was enough, in a sense, to know that Abelard must be content. He was a born teacher. Now he would have his admiring young men again and, she hoped, the self-assurance that had made him so glorious. She merely said to Madelaine, "These charges of immorality made against Saint-Denis, are they true?"
Madelaine's eyes flickered. "Mayhap," she answered, and left the room.
Heloise was to remember Madelaine's admission, because the first scandal at Argenteuil occurred shortly afterward. A novice named Isabella was surprised behind the altar with a kitchen scullion, one of the lads who had worked for Cook since he could walk and who was now about thirteen. It was said that Isabella's skirts had been around her waist when she and the boy were caught, but Isabella swore on relics that she had not known the boy carnally. Lady Alais took the easy way out, merely switching Isabella and dismissing the kitchen boy. The matter might have ended there with nobody the wiser, but it did not. The morning after the boy had been sent away, Isabella hanged herself. The body was discovered hanging from a limb in the apple orchard. Plainly, there was no way that Lady Alais could conceal this unfortunate tragedy from the bishop, who threatened an investigation of the abbess's affairs. The promised inquiries did not come, however, and gradually the prospect of danger receded.
Of course, the incident was not forgotten, and the nuns chewed over Isabella's escapades for a long time. Heloise closed her ears, fornication being a subject that she dared not think about lest she drown in her own longings. Throughout November, while Sister Madelaine sickened in the infirmary and Lady Alais remained incommunicado for days at a stretch in her apartment, Heloise tried to put the convent's financial affairs in order. The window shutters in the schoolroom had blown out during a storm weeks earlier, but the abbess had not bothered to have them repaired. At Madelaine's table, Heloise flexed her numbed fingers and wished for a charcoal brazier. Even Aristotle, with her coat of fleecy curls, shivered under her skirts. Heloise's task appeared hopeless, as the abbess had borrowed and mortgaged and run the institution deeply into debt. She could see that no help, or even cooperation, would be forthcoming from Lady Alais. Confronted with figures documenting her poor judgment, she merely smiled fuzzily and sighed. Often Heloise smelled wine on her breath.
On a Friday morning, angry that Astrane had not yet appeared, Heloise went to the abbess's apartment to fetch her. Most of the time, Astrane was willing to drill the children in Latin and rhetoric, and Heloise had come to rely upon her. The cloister stood deserted, and the wind hissed along the north walk. Heloise was tempted to run, but she settled for a fast trot and hoped no one would notice. In the passageway leading to the abbess's chambers, it was not much warmer than out of doors. The reception parlor was empty, but the door to the apartment stood ajar. Abruptly, Astrane's voice bellowed hoarsely, "I'm sick of this. Don't touch me."
"Sweet," Lady Alais wheezed. "Sweet, I meant nothing."
Heloise, who had been about to knock, stopped her arm in midair and rocked back on her heels. She had never heard anyone shout at Lady Alais, and that was what Astrane was doing. Uneasy, she ducked back against the wall.
"You stink like a swineherd," Astrane croaked with a short laugh. A goblet crashed to the floor. "Get up."
Her face burning, Heloise stood rooted to the spot. Astrane had always been bad-tempered, but no one had ever spoken to the abbess with such disrespect.
The voice of Lady Alais rose to a sickening whine. "Come back to bed. I won't touch you, I promise."
"No. Get dressed."
"Ah, sweet. I just want to hold you."
Astrane began to mutter. "Disgusting old pig. You make me want to vomit."
"Please, lovey."
The pleading, slurred and groggy, made Heloise recoil. She sidled back a step, frantically wondering how she could get away without being heard. It sounded as if Lady Alais were crying.
She whimpered, "You used to love me. Why don't you love me?" Astrane was silent. "Come, it shall feel so lovely. And then I'll get dressed. I promise."
"You promised me an embroidered shift, and you never gave it."
"Why, pussy, I was going to give it today. You shall have your pretty shift. You know that I would do anything for you." Lady Alais's voice trailed slowly away, toward an inner room. "Come, puss, you needn't take off your habit."
Feet shuffled, and then it was quiet. Heloise, nauseated, nosed into the cloister and gasped at the icy air. Two of her pupils were chasing Aristotle with a dead rat One of them, shrieking, threw the rat at Aristotle's feet.
"Hie!" Heloise called crossly. "Don't do that." Aristotle grabbed the rat and shook it. "She could get sick from that filthy thing."
She scooped up the dog and carried her into the schoolroom. God in heaven, Lady Alais and Astrane. Once Abelard had told her that nuns coupled with each other, but she had laughed at him. "Mayhap in evil convents," she had retorted, "but such things never happen at Argenteuil." She slumped against Madelaine's table and tried to remember what else Abelard had said, but her brain refused to work. All she could think of was the abbess and Astrane, in bed with their tongues in each other. The insides of her thighs throbbed. She rushed to her feet and began to march nervously up and down the room, willing the disturbing images from her head. Nothing had prepared her for this. The worst was Lady Alais's pitiful voice, wheedling, begging a girl thirty-five years her junior. God's eyes, Lady Alais would burn in hell for this. She must have seduced Astrane as a child. Heloise rubbed her hands together, scalded by the thought. Yes, Lady Alais had done a wicked thing. Astrane had been a mere babe when the abbess got her, a crippled little maiden whose parents had sent her away. Surely she could not be blamed.
Grimly, she pushed back from the table and hurried to the infirmary.
Madelaine sprawled against the pillows, reading.
"Sister, how do you feel this morning?" Heloise pulled up a stool and sat down. Now that she had come, she wondered if it would be wise to tell Madelaine. The old woman deserved peace.
"The same," said Madelaine. "No better, no worse." She laid the volume of St. Jerome on the coverlet and studied Heloise's face. "You look tired."
"No. No."
Madelaine pointed to the open book. "St. Jerome writes that the concept of reincarnation was widely accepted among the early Christians. Strange."
"Origen mentions reincarnation," Heloise said. "He thought that certain scriptural passages could only be explained in that light."
Madelaine leaned forward, grinning a little. "Then in my next life I wish to return as pope."
"Naturally." Heloise grinned back. "And I shall be the queen of France." The grin died, and she glanced around to mate sure the infirmarian was out of earshot. She gritted her teeth. "Sister, something bad has happened." She did not know how to start.
Madelaine barked impatiently. "Well, hurry up and say it. Bad news can't wait."
"I—I went to Lady Alais's apartment. The door was half open. I—"
"Come on," Madelaine said.
"Astrane was with her. I overheard them talking." She threw Madelaine an anguished look. "I couldn't help it, Sister. The door was open."
Madelaine said nothing.
"Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly." Madelaine's voice whistled.
"What should I do?" Heloise cried.
"Nothing."
"You knew of this?"
"Aye."
The breath went out of Heloise. "Sister Madelaine."
"Do nothing," Madelaine murmured. "Forget everything you heard."
"But I can't." She swelled with anger at Madelaine. "What's the matter with you, Sister? This is—"
"Heloise. I order you. Now go back to the schoolroom."
Heloise stood, knees trembling. "I don't see why I should obey you. It is against every law of heaven and earth. I don't see why."
"You will. Someday."
"You must hear him," Ceci
was saying. "I swear, he sings like a nightingale."
Heloise sat on a bench in the chapter house, blowing her nose. If only she could stop her running nose and eyes, she might be able to enjoy Christmas. It seemed bad luck that she should be sniffling during the only real season of festivity at the convent. She said to Ced, "We've never had jongleurs before."
"Lady Alais said we could go."
"Lady abbess is not herself lately." She had been surprised when the abbess announced the minstrel's presence in the guesthouse and gave permission for the nuns to attend his performances.
"Besides," Ceci added, "Sister Judith told me they used to have minstrels at Christmas. In King Philip’s time. So it's nothing new."
Heloise grunted. She did not believe it wise for Ceci to be exposed to minstrels. Repeatedly, the girl had been punished for mingling with visitors who stopped at the convent. Many of the travelers were pious pilgrims, but the portress did not interview each person she admitted, and some of them were rough and coarse. Once Ceci had picked up a lewd jest from an English knight and, failing to understand its implications, had innocentl repeated it in the dormitory. On that occasion, she had been punished with a two-week fast.
"Please, Heloise"—she clutched Heloise's wrist—“there's no harm in it. And he's leaving tonight."
It was one of those crystal nights with a blizzard of stars flickering high overhead. A bonfire sputtered near the porch of the guesthouse. The crowd stamped about restlessly while the minstrel tuned his lute. He was young, no more than a pretty boy. His green velvet cloak was of a good cut, and over his straw-colored curls he had pulled a cap with some kind of exotic feather. He had an air of breeding.
Ceci nudged her. "Raimon was trained at the court of Eble of Ventadour," she whispered.
"How do you know?"
"He told me." Her voice had a cocky edge that Heloise disliked.