by Marion Meade
“Yes?"
"—lovely in bed?" Ceci looked at her.
"I mean, did you like lying with him?"
Ceci shrugged. "It was all right. Why? Did you like lying with Abelard?"
In the darkness, Heloise smiled. "It was the greatest of all pleasures. The greatest."
They slept uneasily in each other's arms. The night trembled with sounds. Before dawn Heloise woke, her body paralyzed from the cold and from crouching in one position. Reluctant to wake Ceci, she disentangled herself and sat up. Suddenly a sense of something missing stabbed her, and she fumbled around heavily, groping for Aristotle. The dog was not there. "Aristotle!" she screamed. Ceci lurched upright.
As soon as the sky had lightened, they began to scour the crags and crevices, shouting, trying to distinguish tracks in the whiteness that might belong to a small dog. It did not take long. Some fifty yards from their shelter, in a glade fringed by black brambles, the snow was stained pink with gobbets of blood and bits of fur. The snow had been trampled down in a circle and whipped into a bed of brown and red slush.
Nothing remained except a few spotted bones. Gagging, Heloise closed her eyes and backed away. Ceci grabbed her arms. Dizzy with horror, they swayed over the rocks, and when they came in sight of their ledge Heloise could walk no farther. She threw herself full-length in the snow, tears running into her mouth, cursing God for taking away her lamb, her darling, her precious.
In the late afternoon, they crossed a frozen marsh and came out of the forest near a village belonging to the lord of Caudry. The villagers were poor shepherds, suspicious of travelers. They told of bad harvests the previous autumn. The children's faces were pale, their stomachs bloated with hunger. The headman had enormous hands and massive limbs and a face as black as charcoal, no water but rain having ever touched his face. If not for the pleadings of his wife, he would have chased them back into the forest. Heloise found the people repulsive, though the filthy thatched hut where they spent the night seemed a palace. The chief’s wife offered them a pottage of leaves and roots, sour wine, and garlic. They took a few spoonfuls of the pottage, chewing slowly so that their empty stomachs would not throw back the food. The garlic Ceci put in her girdle. For sleeping, they were gestured to a corner far away from the peat fire. Ceci fell asleep the minute her head touched the ground, but Heloise, thinking of Aristotle, wept silently into Ceci's shoulder.
Early the next day, impatient to be rid of them, the headman set them on the road to Beaugency, which he said was a half day's journey on foot. It was not. They arrived in the town after dark and then had trouble finding a place where they could shelter for the night. Beaugency was full of horses, noisy people, and torches. After their nights in the forest, the flames made their eyes water. Light from the houses spilled into the snowy lanes, and the smoke of cooking fires smelled of roast meat. Stomachs cramped, they took a position outside a tavern and began to call, "Bread. For the love of Christ, a little bread," but nobody stopped.
It was late; soon the narrow streets emptied. From inside the tavern came drunken shouts and the clattering of ale cups. After a while, Heloise and Ceci went around to the side door and knocked. A woman opened and looked at them, closed the door, and opened it again a minute later. She held out a platter heaped with gravy-stained crusts and the carcass of a roast fowl. Heloise saw at once that flesh still remained on the underside of the bird and the wings had not been touched at all. Blessing the woman, she snatched the carcass and handed it to Ceci. The soggy bread she stuffed under her mantle. They trotted back to the street, eating as they went.
The winter was hard that year; there was rain blended with snow and chill winds, and the cold seeped into their very bones, felt all the more intensely because they got little to eat. When they came to a town, they quickly learned to find the church and sit with the other beggars. Noble lord, good lady, a copper, a crust of bread, for the love of Christ. Even so, it was not easy, because more than once they received a copper only to have it nipped from their fingers by fellow beggars. Hunger, they discovered, did not breed generosity, even for God's holy women.
The mornings were foggy, the roads deserted, and sometimes they walked for half a day without meeting another traveler. They stayed on the highroad along the bank of the Loire, not daring to turn off and attempt a shortcut lest they lose their way again. From time to time, they heard troops of armed men, soldiers in the service of some local lord, perhaps only a band of roving thieves, they did not know. Then they would plunge into the nearest thicket, crouching low to the ground for fear their black habits against the snow would give them away. Heloise lost count of the days; she knew it must be late in the month of February, but she could not have said how late. "Comrade," she said to Ceci, "spring is coming. When it's spring, life will be easy. You'll see."
Each day Ceci walked more slowly. The soles of her boots had worn thin, and she stuffed them with rags torn from the hem of her undertunic and, once, with one of Abelard's love letters. Still, her toes and heels erupted in sores, which soon began to swell with pus. It was bad luck. Limping, she hung on Heloise's arm. When they were covering less than a half mile a day, Heloise insisted they turn off the highroad and push toward a castle on the crest of a hill. Even though the guard in the gatehouse refused to lower the drawbridge— his master feared the plague—he did drop a basket of onions and rotting meat and direct them to Our Lady of Hope,a small convent down the valley.
They stayed at Our Lady three weeks while Ceci's feet healed. It was a poor house with only sixteen nuns; the prioress, Sister Maheut, herself cared for Ceci. Shaking her head, she chastised them.
"You should have stopped when you saw the sores. Look how they are festered."
Ceci, who could barely endure to rest her feet against the floor, slumped back on the pallet bed. Now that it was unnecessary to move, there was nothing to prevent her sinking into sleep, and she did not wake the rest of that day and all that night. Heloise got up in the morning and went to say prime in the chapel. After the sisters broke fast, the prioress took Heloise into the chamber they used as a chapter house. She was a lean woman with a harried manner and penetrating blue eyes. The sisters at Our Lady seemed in awe of her. Leaning against the door, she said tightly, "Why do you wander the roads? Where do you come from?"
"France. Sainte-Marie of Argenteuil."
"And your abbess permits you to rove?"
"No, my lady. Our house was closed."
Sister Maheut was silent for a few moments. At last she said, "You may join us if you wish, but I can't take you without dowers. There are too many mouths to feed already, and we are poor. Surely you can see that for yourself."
"Yes, lady. I can understand."
"Have you any money?" Sister Maheut sounded embarrassed. "Anything at all you could give us?"
Heloise thought of the two rings in the bodice of her habit. "No," she murmured, "only the clothing on our backs."
Shaking her head, the prioress only sighed.
They kept going west. The ground began to thaw and ooze with mud. All about them the woods quivered with the chirping of birds, and the sap began to rise in the trees. As if drunk, they sucked eagerly at each ripening dawn, testing it for mildness. Happiness was warmth, Heloise thought; she never wanted to be cold again. With the approach of mild weather, the whole aspect of the road changed. Knights galloped smoothly by on their fine steeds, merchant caravans made deep ruts with their carts, pilgrims began to emerge from their huts and castles. The rich had mules and horses, the humble folk walked, and now and then a penitent with bare feet could be seen. Singing and laughing, people moved slowly and talked about the wonders they would find at Compostela or Notre Dame-du-Puy. In holiday moods, they smiled and opened their provision sacks to give a little to those who had less. Sometimes Heloise and Ceci had a loaf of bread or salted herring, and once a monk gave them a whole goat's-milk cheese.
Outside Tours, they fell in with a hand of Normans, countryfolk hound for Brittany, and
by Holy Week they were approaching Nantes. Somewhere to the south, less than fifteen miles, Heloise judged, her son was running in the meadows. She wondered if he knew how to ride yet; surely he must have learned long ago and become a fine horseman by now. She could imagine the black outline of the pine grove above Le Pallet, remember its inner ward raucous with children's laughter. So many children at Le Pallet. Children and dogs. Not a day passed that she did not think of her Aristotle; she had been the only living thing that had truly belonged to her, truly loved her. O God! Kill my memory. Make me forget the sweetness of that tiny body.
At Nantes, they parted company with the Normans and took the road north to Vannes. About sixty miles to Saint-Gildas, an alewife in the town assured them. Stay on the highroad, keep walking, they could not miss it. O my Lord, you who send me only ill fortune, I do not judge your ways or presume to understand. But, Father, give Abelard back to me and I swear that 1 will obey you for the rest of my days. Thy will be done. She knew better than to haggle with God, but she tried just the same.
The village of Saint-Gildas-de-Rhuys squatted on the Roman road running between Vannes and Port-Navallo. It was pretty, Heloise thought. There was a winding street that abruptly gave way to a square where fig trees had been planted. On the far side of the square stood a rather imposing church, surprisingly grand for such a small community. Beyond the church, silhouetted against the western sky, she could see the walls of the abbey, which had been built on a granite cliff jutting out into the ocean.
In the church porch, Heloise and Ceci sat down in the sunshine and watched some boys playing ball. After the quiet Seine and Loire, the furious hissing and thudding of the waves against the cliff sounded frightening, harsh. Heloise marveled that water could make so much noise, but none of the villagers seemed to notice. Approaching the village, they had caught quick glimpses of the sea, a dazzling blue shadowed by amethyst streaks, and it had looked beautiful but far from tranquil.
Ceci said, "This is nice. I'd like to stay here. We could get one of those little cottages we passed."
Heloise smothered a sigh. Abelard might object to their living so near the abbey.
"Should we eat first?" Ceci asked. "Or have a look at the sea?"
"I’m not hungry," Heloise said with a shake of her head. "Ceci, you wait here. I’ll go up alone."
"No. I’m going with you. So let's not argue about it."
"He may not recognize me. It's been ten years."
"More likely you won't recognize him." She pulled a loaf of stale bread from her sleeve and broke off a chunk.
"What do you mean? I—"
"He's old now. What is he? Forty-five?"
"Fifty-one."
"Fifty-one! God's mouth, that's ancient."
They staggered up the rutted track that led to Saint-Gildas, the wind tearing at their wimples. A jowly-faced monk appeared in the doorway of the porter's lodge; he held a baby in his arms. Over his shoulder, they could see a woman spinning.
Heloise, disconcerted, remained silent a minute, and then she said, "Greetings, Brother. Is Abbot Peter within?"
"Not here," he barked.
Alarmed now, she tried to find out when the abbot was due to return. But to each of her questions the monk only shrugged. Finally, he took the child into the lodge and kicked the door shut. Heloise and Ceci started back toward the village. That Abelard should be abbot of such a place seemed incredible.
19
The villagers knew all about Abbot Peter, and of course they never missed an opportunity to gossip about his monks, whom they regarded, simultaneously, with amusement and revulsion. Once Heloise and Ceci had settled down to wait, they heard everything. More than once, they were told how Abelard, newly appointed to his abbacy, had ridden into the village and left his horse and baggage at the tavern. Changing into a shabby cloak, he had climbed on foot to the abbey, where he had been given an offhand welcome and told to bed down among the beggars in the yard. The next day, returning in full regalia, he had been greeted ceremoniously and ushered into the chapter house, where the community had assembled. The first words he spoke to his new monks were a furious reprimand, a trick for which they had never forgiven him.
"Those swine," croaked a goodwife to Heloise. "They'd spit on Christ if they had met him ragged and barefoot." The woman insisted that she knew of what she spoke, because her aunt had five children by the cellarer.
Almost the whole of May passed, and still there was no sign of Abelard. The porter, Brother Alain, whom they visited daily, said nobody knew where the abbot was. On the second day of Whitsuntide, Heloise and Ceci went to the beach to fish. Returning to the village in late morning, they crossed the marketplace and heard people talking excitedly. Heloise edged into the crowd, trying to hear. Abelard was back; he had galloped through the village not an hour earlier. Trembling, she ran back to Ceci.
"He's here. They say he rode up the hill just after terce."
Ceci smiled. "I'll pray for you, sweeting." She took the cods.
Not caring if anyone saw, Heloise hitched up her skirt and careered up the hill to the abbey. Coming toward her were three monks, their faces locked with anger. She veered around them and loped to the gatehouse, breathing hard. The porter was not on duty, just a lay brother who said the abbot was in a temper and only a very foolish person would approach him now. Heloise pushed the brother toward the yard. "Find the porter," she said sternly. 'Tell him I must see him at once." The lay brother went into the courtyard without answering. Heloise paced steadily in the road, her stomach churning. Twenty minutes later, the lay brother came sauntering back. "He's eating now," he told her.
"Who's eating? Brother Alain? Abbot Peter?" She stuffed her hands into her sleeves to keep from shaking the man.
"Why, Brother Alain. Sit down. You're making me nervous."
Heloise sat near the wall. Brother Alain came, motioned, and led her into the yard. Her mouth was dry. She wanted to ask the porter if he had told Abelard her name, but the man looked surly. Monks were crowded around a door, screeching at the top of their voices. When they spotted her, they began to snicker. Brother Alain pushed them aside and gestured inside. "What do I do now?" she asked.
"In there," he muttered. "Wait."
The reception hall looked as if it had not been cleaned in a long time. The floor rushes smelled of rot and urine. She looked at a door at the far end of the hall, wondering if she should knock. She went over, bent her ear to the frame, but heard no sound; then she gave a soft thump. Nothing happened. She pounded.
"What is it?" somebody growled. She did not recognize the voice. Chest hammering, she pushed the door and went in.
Across the room, he was sitting behind a trestle strewn with papers and ledgers, writing, but he did not look up. When she cleared her throat, he finally lifted his eyes and stared at her.
Uncertainly he said, "Heloise?" Then: "Heloise?"
"It is I, my lord," she said, smiling softly. "It's Heloise."
"Lady." He looked puzzled. "I never thought to see you again in this life."
She wanted to reach for his hand, press her face against his chest, but she could not move. Outside, the monks' voices were raised in angry debate, and above that roared the thudding of the waves against the cliff.
"How came you here, lady?" Abelard was saying. "Forgive me, I—" He was hopping in circles about the chamber, finding a chair for her, bringing a cup of wine. She wished that he would touch her, just once. "Are you hungry?" he asked. "I can fetch you—"
"No, thank you. I need nothing."
"We must find a place for you to lodge," Abelard said.
"I have one," she told him hurriedly. "Ceci and I—we have been here a month."
Amazed, he stared at her. "A month! But—"
"No one could tell us where you were. So we waited."
"Please, tell me what you're doing in Brittany. Are you on pilgrimage?" He walked hack to the table and sat down.
It was then that she noticed the chair, the same
old armchair that he'd had at Fulbert's and later in his room on the Left Bank. The sight of it made a lump rise up into her throat. She said to him, "I came to see you. We came on foot."
"You walked!" He burst into delighted laughter. "Sweet heart, you walked. Wonderful. God, what a marvelous woman you are!" The grin stayed on his face, lighting up the blue eyes and curving the mouth with warm good humor. "God knows where you get your strength. There's nothing helpless about you, is there?"
She shifted uneasily on her chair, overjoyed to hear him praising her. "Oh, it was no large thing. People—" He was sitting back, smiling that old irresistible smile, and he continued to rave about her talent, strength, and good sense. It was not true, but she could not bring herself to tell him that. She leaned back and listened, soaking up his words like a drought-stricken field.
"Lady, my sweet sister in Christ." He spread his hands, palms up. "You do me honor, as always. You are—there is no woman like you in all of Christendom. Ah, Heloise, with all my burdens here. If you only knew. How often I've thanked Our Lord that you can manage for yourself."
Heloise said nothing.
"But of course you were never one of those helpless females. I insult you by even suggesting that you might have been a burden." He smiled comfortably. "My strong, capable Heloise. If the devil himself came to your door, you would find a way to deal with him."
Heloise smiled, not trusting herself to reply.
"When Suger reclaimed Argenteuil—but, lady, you have not told me which house you've joined."
"None," she said. At the shocked look on his face, she hurried on. “I applied to several but they refused me."
"Impossible!" he cried. "The most learned woman in France, in all of—"
"Mayhap it was Ceci they didn't want. I don't know. And then Suger—he dislikes me."
He frowned again, but did not comment on Suger. "We must remedy this." He gestured smoothly toward the ceiling. "You must have another prioresship. Or an abbacy. But we can talk about that later. Where did Lady Alais go?"