by Marion Meade
"Of course he did." But it was obvious that his response was automatic. She watched his face and knew that he wanted to spare her.
"I don't think so," she insisted. "Everyone says he didn't love me."
Jourdain took her hand. "This is what I think. I think he did love you and I think he still loves you. But in his own way." He looked away. "It is not your way."
She didn't believe him. If Abelard had written only once, she would have believed in the truth of Jourdain's words.
His gaze wandered over the garden, the fountain, the cherry trees straining to bud, the carefully tended beds of costmary and Our Lady's bedstraw. "Do you know what his students call him now?" he said, smiling. "Rhinoceros indomitus."
In spite of herself, she laughed. "The rhinoceros that can't he tamed? But wait a bit—what students?"
"Thousands. I think Paris must be empty."
"But where do they live?" she asked, bewildered. "There are no houses. You said it's a wilderness."
"Was. They've built themselves huts along the riverbank. The place looks like a good-sized city. Really. You should see it."
"I can't imagine—how do they live?"
"On herbs and coarse bread. And they sleep on mattresses of thatch and straw."
Heloise got to her feet, excited, and began to pace up and down. "It's just like the old days, isn't it?"
"They look after him," Jourdain was going on. "He'd built a small chapel of thatch. Well, some of the students are rebuilding it from stone and wood."
She felt easier; he was all right then, still the philosopher of all philosophers. Sext began to chime. Jourdain stood and stretched, and slowly they began strolling toward the courtyard.
Waving his hand in a circle, he drawled, "How peaceful it is here. Surely that is something to be thankful for,"
"Appearances deceive. A spy lives in our midst."
He grinned quizzically. "Come now."
Heloise jerked her head at him. 'Tell me something, friend. What do you know of Abbot Suger?"
"Why—what everyone knows, I suppose. He's shrewd and ambitious —and powerful."
"Is he evil?"
"Evil?" He paused to think. "I don't know—why do you ask?"
"He has threatened to close Argenteuil."
"On what grounds?" Jourdain snorted. "Bah!"
"Oh, Jourdain. He's gone back into the archives and found old cases. I don't think he has proof of course, but—" She remembered Ceci. She should have told Jourdain, but it was too late now. A groom was bringing up his horse. Swiftly she said, "Suger hates me. He calls me Abelard's leman."
Jourdain scowled. "Probably he hates all women. But I know one thing. The abbot is just about the only true friend that Abelard has in the Church." He grinned at her. "Suger was just blowing hot air. How can he close Argenteuil? God's blood, it's been here two hundred years."
"Three hundred. Or more."
"Well." He laughed heartily. "You see."
The troops had passed on. The yard echoed with bursts of excited laughter: people jostling and yelling, and a knot of beggars clamoring for their dinner. A lay sister appeared carrying two enormous baskets of bread. Sister Esclarmonde, hands on hips, was surveying the yard with haughty indulgence, as if saying to them, Don't kill each other. Your bellies will be filled. Heloise stood there trying to shake off her sense of dread. She said, "Jourdain, sooner or later, he means to destroy us. And I think it will be sooner."
She was wrong. It took the abbot of Saint-Denis five years to fulfill his vow.
17
"Lady Virgin! Holy Alais!"
Heloise glared at the parrot. This bird, also called Baby, was a good deal smarter than its predecessor, and Lady Alais had taught it a few words, which it usually managed to scramble.
"Holy Lady! Virgin Alais!" It inched along the window bench, leaving a trail of droppings. Heloise made a mental note to avoid sitting there. From the abbess's bedchamber came the muffled rustling of clothes being pulled on. She went to the half-open door and tapped lightly, so that the abbess would understand she was still waiting. "My lady," she called, "this matter is of some urgency. But if you would liefer I came back later—"
Lady Alais came out, her eyes pouchy with sleep, and she flicked her gaze around the floor. "Where's beastie?"
"I left her in the schoolroom."
"Why?"
Heloise bit back her irritation. "My lady, you know her barking upsets Baby. Lady, please. I beg you, attend me. This is extremely important." She bore down on the word "extremely."
Yawning, Lady Alais sat down at the trestle and took a long gulp of ale. She raised her head, a spasm of weariness brushing her face, and said to Heloise, "Proceed then."
"Have you had any private communications from Abbot Suger?"
Lady Alais gave her a puzzled look.
"Any personal messages?"
"Why, child," the abbess answered, "you read all my correspondence." She turned toward Baby and puckered her lips into a kiss.
"I know that. But has there been anything that perchance you forgot to show me? Anything at all. Think."
The abbess frowned. She didn't like to be bothered with matters that required thinking. At last she said, "Nothing I can recall."
"Have you had any letters from the bishop? From Pope Honorius?"
"Merciful Mother, why would the pope write to me?" Lady Alais turned away, apparently losing interest in the conversation.
Heloise remained silent for a moment. Abbot Suger was an underhanded son of a dog, that fact she had understood for several years now. But she had not imagined that he would initiate eviction proceedings against Argenteuil without some kind of formal warning. Or without allowing the nuns to defend themselves. She crossed to the trestle and sat down opposite the abbess.
Heloise pulled a sheet of parchment from her sleeve and laid it flat between them. "I have here an announcement of a synod council to be convened in Paris on the second day of February. It is to be held at the abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Pres."
Lady Alais broke in, smiling. "The second. That's Thursday, isn't it? My, my, is it February already?"
"Yes, lady. Or it will be tomorrow. Please, lady, permit me to continue." She did not wait for the abbess to reply but hurried on, making sure to speak slowly and precisely so that Lady Alais would grasp the situation. "Now. The purpose of the council is to consider the question of reforming the monastic rule in several abbeys where zeal is thought to have waned. I am quoting, lady. Are you following me?" She looked up sharply.
"Certainly," Lady Alais said.
"Now follows a list of the abbeys to be considered. There are six, seven, eight of them down here. The second on the list is Sainte-Marie of Argenteuil."
Lady Alais's smile dried up. "There must be a mistake," she snapped.
"No mistake." Out of patience, she slid the sheet across and pointed. Lady Alais peered for a second and then slammed the paper back at Heloise. "Now—"
"Stop saying now constantly!"
"Yes, my lady. Now we get to the interesting part of this announcement. It goes on to state that a claim has been presented by Abbot Suger, to the effect that our lands and buildings belong to the abbey of Saint-Denis—and that we are, er, trespassing."
Lady Alais stared at her. "The abbot must be daft," she said slowly. "Charlemagne gave this abbey to his daughter. It says so in our cartulary. There is no question of its belonging to Saint-Denis."
Heloise held out the paper. "This announcement says that Suger will present documentary evidence to prove that Argenteuil was founded in the reign of King Pepin as a priory of Saint-Denis's." She had sat up until matins last night with a tallow candle, going through chests of dusty archives. Suger lied. Argenteuil had been founded a century earlier than Pepin, in the reign of King Clothair, by a nobleman, Hermenricus, and his wife, Numma, and—Suger was correct about one thing—they had presented the land to Saint-Denis. Probably men had inhabited the premises then. But under Charlemagne, it was dec
lared autonomous and turned into a nunnery for his daughter. There had been some talk of its reverting to Saint-Denis after Theodrada's death, but this had never taken place. Argenteuil had been handed down, from abbess to abbess, for over three hundred years.
The abbess had screwed her face into a scowl. "The abbot can prove nothing," she said firmly.
"I agree.” Heloise paused. "Unless he produces a forgery."
"Don't be silly," she murmured. "It is a mistake, that's all."
"Lady, don't you think it's strange—Abbot Suger has made these charges, but the synod has not asked us to refute them." For that matter, the announcement had not arrived until the previous day, stuffed in carelessly among other Church circulars in the pouch from Saint-Denis. Since it was dated January 5, obviously the letter must have been delayed at Saint-Denis—deliberately, she suspected. She said to the abbess, "We should have been given an opportunity to answer."
Lady Alais stood and took a crust of bread to Baby. Squawking furiously, the bird tore it from her fingers. "Baby hungry?" she crooned, tilting back her head. "Baby wants breadie? Child, what is the use of answering such ridiculous charges? No doubt the Church realizes that."
"Listen, my lady. There is still time. You could go to Paris and—"
"I?" The abbess seemed shocked. "I, go to a synod meeting? Among all those men?"
Heloise put the letter away. "I merely thought—"
"Besides, I was not invited. No, child. You'll see. Next week we shall get a letter apologizing for this mistake. Mark me, nothing will come of it." She hoisted Baby to her shoulder. "Do you know whether Sister Marie has finished the silk cushion she is sewing for me? She promised it several days ago."
"I don't know, lady. I'll remind her." She rose and moved swiftly toward the door, anxious to get away. Through her mind flashed a picture of Suger, standing in that very room, questioning her about Ceci. It had happened so long ago that she had gradually discounted his threats. I underestimated the abbot, she thought angrily. Not that taking him at his word would have prevented this.
In the cloister, snow was melting and the walks were covered with rivulets of slush. God's elbows, she hated the winters; she should have entered some house in Provence or Toulouse. Along the east walk, a shower of droplets cascading from the roof splattered against her forehead. Ducking back, she slowed her steps and finally shuffled to a complete stop. To be sure, Abbot Suger hated her. But would he expel ninety-three women from a religious retreat for that reason? It seemed absurd—surely no sane person would consider such a step. And then too he had continued to help Abelard. Three years earlier, when attacks on his writings had made further residence at the Paraclete impossible, had not Suger arranged for him to be elected abbot of Saint-Gildas-de-Rhuys?
She leaned up against a stone capital and traced her fingers over the acanthus-leaf carvings at its base. These walls and pillars had seen thousands of women live and die, and events had not always been peaceful, either. She laughed, remembering that last night she had come upon a notation in the archives that had cheered her. In the ninth century, during some war or other, an army of Normans had swept the countryside and stormed the walls of Argenteuil. The abbess, one Ertrude, had led her daughters in hurling boiling oil on the besiegers, and the Normans had fled. Unfortunately, Lady Alais was no Ertrude.
Sighing, she started across the cloister toward the cellaress's quarters. She had enough to do today without worrying about Suger and his trumped-up documents.
Ceci hurried out of the refectory door with an armful of laundry. When she caught sight of Heloise, she ran to her and grabbed her arm. "What did she say?" she cried.
Heloise shrugged. "Shhh. Nothing much. She thinks it's a mistake."
"She didn't swoon?"
"I told you. She's not terribly concerned. She says nothing will happen."
Ceci, solemn, studied her face. "Do you think she's right, Heloise?"
“I don't know."
Every day, Heloise taught Latin, totted up her accounts, and waited for news from Paris. The fiercest part of the winter had passed. Without mishap, the spring crops had been sown—oats, peas, barley, and vetches—and she looked forward to a splendid harvest that summer. On Shrove Tuesday, she told herself that no news was good news. And when the last day of February arrived and still no word came, she had almost talked herself into believing the synod had thrown Suger's claim off the agenda.
During the afternoon recreation hour, Heloise took Aristotle to the laundry house and dunked her in a trough of soapy water, the dog squirming miserably and staring at her with accusing eyes. The laundress was watching, arms folded in amused disapproval.
She said, "It's not spring, you know. She'll catch cold."
"No she won't," Heloise said. "Hand me that towel." She set Aristotle on the ground, watched her shake water in all directions, and began to rub her down vigorously with the towel. Outside in the yard, she could hear someone shouting. How many times had she told the children not to yell? A thousand, at least. A girl ran in, breathless.
"Lady Prioress," she said, bobbing, "you're wanted."
"Shhh. Who wants me?"
"Lady Abbess. Right away."
Heloise swaddled Aristotle thickly in the towel and gave her to the laundress. In the doorway of the abbess's apartment stood Sarazanne, her bovine face mottled red from weeping. She was waving a sheaf of crumpled parchment on which the bishop's seal had been broken. "Lady Abbess has gone to bed," she whispered. "You're to call a chapter meeting."
"Very well," Heloise said, taking the letter from her. Without further comment to Sarazanne, she went into the abbess's garden, sat down on a bench, and carefully read the letter once and then a second time. Disbelief welled up in her and, on its heels, helpless rage. Helpless because, for all Suger's lies, there remained a kernel of truth in his allegations. It was true that Argenteuil had had its share of, as Suger put it, "irregularities," but then, so had every other religious house, Saint-Denis not excepted. Indeed, some counted Saint-Denis among the worst.
An hour later, in the chapter house massed with bewildered nuns, Heloise read the bishop's fiat that the convent of Sainte-Marie of Argenteuil no longer existed. At her elbow, Lady Alais sat in the abbatial chair, her back very straight, her face congealed into an expressionless mask. The women ranged on the stone benches around the sides of the room stared at Heloise blankly. "Therefore," read Heloise, "it is decreed that the convent should revert to the royal abbey of Saint-Denis and that the nuns should be replaced by monks." She added, 'We are given thirty days to vacate the premises."
"That's a barrel of muleshit," burst out Sister Blanche indignantly. "What ancient charter is the abbot talking about?"
"Evidently he has produced one," Heloise replied. "A copy has been sent to Rome."
Outraged, the nuns began to shout angrily among themselves, and even the dogs started to howl, until the racket in the chapter house rose to an earsplitting level. Heloise shouted over them, to restore order, "Sisters, sisters, I haven't finished . . ."
"Where did he find this obscure charter?" Sister Angelica asked. "Just tell us that."
"That information is not revealed," Heloise answered, her voice scratchy. "At Saint-Denis, I would imagine."
At the far end of the room, somebody screeched, "He wants our land and peasants!"
"It won't work!" another voice yelled. "There will be a papal inquiry, and Suger will be flung into the Tiber." The room exploded with nervous laughter.
"Think of public opinion," Sister Blanche said. Her blue eyes glinted with hope. "The people of France will never stand for it. This was an honorable retreat for women when the Capetians were still swineherds."
Sister Esclarmonde stood up, her massive shoulders as bulky as a man's. "We're going to appeal the decision, aren't we?"
"By all means," Heloise grunted. Her head was throbbing. Lady Alais had not moved. She wished that the abbess would say something, or at least give an indication that she was still breat
hing. Heloise let the women hop around and yell for another ten minutes, and then she waved them back to their places. "Make no mistake—we'll appeal. But it may not do any good."
"What do you mean—not do any good?" demanded Sister Esclarmonde. "What kind of negative talk is that?"
"There's another document here," Heloise said wearily. She paused to scratch her nose. The fragrance of laundry soap still clung to her fingers. The nuns were going back to the benches. She unfolded the letter that had accompanied the bishop's decree. "Now, listen to this and listen carefully."
The women stared at her.
"This is a charter drawn up by Matthew of Albano, the papal legate to the synod council." She began to read: "Recently in the presence of the illustrious lord and sovereign Louis of France, together with our brother bishops Reginald, archbishop of Rheims, Stephen, bishop of Paris, Geoffrey, bishop of Chartres, Gozelin, bishop of Soissons—"
"Get to the point!" somebody cried from the corner, "—and others in great number, we were discussing the question of monastic reform. Suddenly, from the back of the hall, there was an outcry against the scandal and infamy prevailing at a nunnery called Argenteuil—" Looking up, she struggled to keep her voice steady; the chapter house was silent, and she noticed that the nuns were not looking at each other, "—at a nunnery called Argenteuil, where a small number of nuns were bringing disgrace upon their order and had long since polluted the entire neighborhood with their lewd and shameful conduct." She stopped.
Nobody spoke for a minute, and then Sister Judith roared, "Well, well! Our polluted neighborhood, is it? Our beloved brethren at Saint-Denis keep their whores in the dorter. God's death, there are more brats in this neighborhood fathered by monks than by lay folk."
Astrane spoke for the first time. "Sister, you are thinking of Saint-Denis under Abbot Adam. You know that Abbot Suger has reformed the abbey."
"Really?" Judith snapped. "I hadn't noticed." Her chest was heaving.
Astrane shrugged. "The abbot cannot abide immorality. There's nothing wrong in that."