by Marion Meade
"Notre Dame-des-Bois." Heloise looked away, afraid that he would see the tears begin to well up at the corners of her eyes.
"And the rest of them?"
"Various houses," she answered. "And some asked release from their vows."
He flared, "What a waste," and got up and began pacing the floor. "What a hateful loss when holy women defile themselves with carnal pleasures." Heloise blinked, amazed. "How unseemly for holy hands to perform the degrading services that women are compelled to provide."
Heloise nodded several times, because she could think of nothing to say. She folded her hands in her lap to stop their trembling. Desperate to change the subject, she broke in, "Abelard, my"—she stopped herself from saying "my beloved"—"my lord, how fare you at Saint-Gildas? I've so longed for news of you." Immediately, she regretted her choice of words, for fear he might interpret them as a rebuke, but he did not appear to notice.
'Well." He gazed up at the ceiling. "Saint-Gildas. That would fill a book. A large book. Never, God knows, would I have agreed to take this house had I not been determined to outdistance my numerous persecutors. Who have an endless supply of persistence, I might add."
She could not bear to have him start on Soissons, so she said quickly, "I've heard that the monks here have a reputation for unruliness."
He sighed. "I've tried to reform them, but it's useless. I work, but I achieve nothing." He repeated bitterly, "Nothing. Brother Jacques still couples with his niece."
"They are your own countrymen," she said.
"Exactly. And who knows better than I what stinking sons of bitches the Bretons are." He paused. "It was for these swine that I abandoned the Paraclete and my students."
"Oh, Abelard." She wanted to weep for his loneliness and despair. He read her and grinned.
"So," he said. "Here I am and here I will remain. God has put me here. Beside the harsh, roaring waves." He said it in Latin— horrisoni undas oceani.
Heloise nodded. The roar of wind and water. There was no escape from them.
Abelard murmured, "I never liked the sound of the sea. Now I've grown to loathe it."
"The headaches?” she said. "Do you still get them?"
"Yes, yes." He sounded impatient.
The bell for nones began to toll. He glanced at her, turned away, and took a step toward the door. "Lady, I must leave you. Can you come back later?"
Heloise thought of staying until the office was over. But Ceci would be waiting, eager to hear what Abelard had said. He had said nothing —and everything. “Tomorrow," she said. “I’ll return tomorrow."
"We must talk further."
"Yes." He was opening the door. "Abelard!"
He swiveled his head.
I’msorry," she said. "I mean, about this place."
He smiled at her. "Don't be. Truly the Lord is watching over both of us."
Then he was gone. She waited a few minutes, studying the cupboards lined with books, the familiar armchair, the worn inkhorn on his trestle. When she went into the yard, the bells stopped. Some of the monks were strolling slowly toward the church, but many ignored the summons. Three men knelt in the dirt, dicing; near the guesthouse a monk whom she recognized as the sacristan mounted a mare and headed in the direction of the gate. A falcon fluttered on his wrist. As she passed through the gate, the porter's child lisped, "Fare you well, pretty lady." The tears sliding around in her nose, Heloise went down the hill to find Ceci.
"I did not say I wanted to break my vows."
Abelard said, "That's the implication behind your words. What do you mean, then?"
Heloise kept her voice neutral. "I said that if I were to leave the order, our son would have a mother. It's one solution to all of our problems, that's all I said." She turned her head toward the wall, wishing that she were outside in the sunlight.
Abelard, silent, stretched back in his chair and pulled thoughtfully on his lip. At last he said, not looking directly at her, "Lady, I admire your efficiency. No doubt you can solve most any problem that needs solving." She opened her mouth to interrupt, but he turned her off with a glance. "But I fail to see that any problem exists. You have dedicated yourself to Christ."
"And our son?"
"Is accustomed to Denise. He's content at Le Pallet."
Heloise made herself ask the question that had burned in her gut for years. "And he thinks of Denise as his mother?"
"Well, yes. She is the only mother he's ever known."
Abelard could not know how his words cut her, true though they might be. "I wrote him many letters. But never did I get one reply."
He frowned. "Denise never mentioned any letters."
"Dozens. Why didn't Denise write me? Surely she did not imagine I'd forgotten my babe."
"Well," he grunted. "Well, I don't know. Mayhap she had her reasons. The lad is happy there with his cousins, and—mayhap she didn't want to upset him."
She shouted, "How could knowing his mother loved him upset him?" The wind had died down; the room was eerily quiet.
"Heloise, please—"
"Am I some slut who drops her babe in the field and leaves him there?"
"Stop." He clapped his hands over his ears. "You're distorting everything."
She got up and went to the window. Turning her back on him, she clutched the sill to steady herself.
“Lady, let's not quarrel. I know you love the boy, but there is no cause for worry. I swear it. He's a fine, happy lad. Just like the others at Le Pallet."
She did not want him to be just like the others. "Tell me, have you seen him?"
"Last year. Or the previous one. I don't remember. Lady, stop fretting. He's a fine lad."
"Yes, you said that. What does he look like?"
Behind her, Abelard's chair skidded on the tiles. "Why, like you. Tall, blond, handsome—" He sounded as if she should know all that.
He was standing behind her, quite close, but she did not turn to face him. "Lady," he said quietly, "put your mind at rest." She nodded, suddenly aware of the closeness of his body. Her chest began to pound.
She did not speak, nor did he. He slid nearer, so near that when she twitched her shoulder blade, it brushed lightly against his chest. An inch from her ear, through her veil, she could feel his breath. She closed her eyes, waiting for him to touch her, but he did not, and she sensed that his fists were clenched at his sides.
They stood, rigid, listening to each other's breathing, and still neither of them moved. At last, Heloise let the muscles in her back and hips slip, so that the whole back of her body eased against him. Instead of stepping away, he pressed himself against her. Through the rough cloth of his robe, she could feel his belly, ribs, thighs. Slowly she felt something move and stiffen against her buttocks. Inhaling a gasp, she let her mind race forward to clutch at hope. Her groin began to tingle. She wanted him inside her, and if he could not be, there were other ways to give and receive pleasure. Surely he remembered. Had they not once tried everything? She bit her tongue to keep from moaning aloud.
And then abruptly it was over. She heard him groan and he jerked back so suddenly that she almost lost her balance. Gracelessly she wheeled around. He was leaning against the back of his chair, his mouth working silently.
"Abelard—"
"Hush." She hugged her arms around her waist and stared at him. Stiffly, he said, I beg your forgiveness, Lady."
"Please, no—"
"Lust. That has been the root of my misfortunes. Lust and pride." His voice swam with self-loathing. "The merciful Lord takes thought for the salvation of my soul, but I persist in my sins." He softened. "Go. Please go."
Numb, Heloise began to glide toward the door. Reaching blindly for the latch, she lifted it and stepped into the reception hall and out into the yard. Some monks were saddling their horses. She went toward them and then stopped, darting a fast look over her shoulder. Abelard was standing in the doorway, watching. She walked quickly toward the gate.
They left Saint-Gildas that aft
ernoon. Ceci asked no questions, and for that Heloise felt grateful. They started back along the road to Nantes, leaving the sea at their backs.
After a week, Heloise was able to think of Abelard with a kind of detachment. Naturally, she had not expected to find him unchanged after a decade, that was too implausible an idea even to contemplate. Yet, at their first meeting, he had not seemed terribly different, and she had been able to jolly herself into believing him the man she had loved. She amended that thought—still loved, and would go on loving to the grave.
What she had not expected, what shook her at the core, was to find that he had been truly converted to God in a way that she had not dreamed possible. The things he said to her that morning, before she brought up the subject of Astrolabe, were what the most zealous of abbots or bishops might say. Rather, those extremely holy abbots, like Bernard, who despised the things of this world. Abelard the sensualist had vanished; Abelard the property of God stood in his place. And viewing it that way, she could not fault him. By anyone's standards, even her own if she thought calmly about it, it had been wrong of him to stand behind her as he had, making her want him. Although God and all the saints knew that she had needed no encouragement. But really he should not have done that.
South of Nantes, on the road to Poitou, they were picked up by a farmer hauling home a cart of provisions. Heloise remembered him because he had come to visit William occasionally, but he obviously did not connect the pregnant girl of years ago with the black-robed nun. She and Ceci sat on top of the cart, lazily watching the fields roll by. Throughout the morning, the sun beat steadily on their heads. The farmer grumbled about his vines and the avarice of a certain priest in Nantes and other matters of interest to him. The sky was full of lacy clouds.
A half mile from Le Pallet, he turned off, and they walked the rest of the way. The drawbridge was down, the gatehouse deserted. Heloise and Ceci went into the ward, where a dozen or more children were playing tourney with stick swords. Swiftly, Heloise scanned their heads for blond hair, but none of the boys was especially fair. One of the older girls ran up, breathless. She looked at them as though they had landed from the moon. The rest of the children had dropped their swords and stood gaping.
"Child," Heloise called, "we wish to see your lady mother. Is she about?"
"Agathe!" one of the boys shrieked. "Ask her what she wants." The girl ignored him. "Holy sister, I think she's in the hall. Shall I fetch her?"
Heloise smiled. “Your name is Agathe?" The girl was thirteen or fourteen and her breasts were hard little apples under her bliaut. Heloise thought, This one was a babe when I last saw her,
"Agathe! Ask her—"
"Oh, shut up," Agathe threw over her shoulder. "Lady, I am Agathe. Do you want me to find Mama?"
Heloise resisted the urge to stroke the girl's head. "No, go back to your game." She motioned Ceci up the wooden steps to the keep. This was going to he difficult. She must remember to keep a good control over herself.
The hall smelled of incense and fresh rushes. Somebody had picked sunflowers and scattered them over the trestles. Denise walked in, carrying a pile of bed sheets. When Ceci cleared her throat, Denise stopped and swung around.
"Greetings, lady," Heloise said.
Denise blinked at them, puzzled. "Good sisters—"
Heloise broke in. "Don't you know me, Denise? It's Heloise. This is my friend, Sister Cecilia."
The sheets tumbled to the floor, but Denise made no attempt to catch them. Her face was lined around the mouth and eyes, and patches of sweat stained her gown beneath the arms. "Heloise," she echoed in a dazed voice.
Ceci started to say something, but Heloise put a hand on her arm. She said to Denise, "Are you in good health, lady?"
Denise nodded blankly. She was watching Heloise and Ceci, her eyes darting between their faces. Finally she said, "I didn't know that you'd left your convent."
"The house closed," Ceci said quickly.
"We have not yet entered a new one," Heloise added.
"You are just passing through Brittany?" Denise asked thinly.
Heloise shook her head. "I've come to see Astrolabe."
"Astrolabe?" Her voice was stupid.
"My son. Astrolabe. What do you call him?"
Denise said slowly, "Peter—is what we call him."
Heloise looked carefully at the woman's face. She's afraid, she thought, frightened I will take him away or something. But why? She has a dozen others. "Is Peter well?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"What do you want with him? You won't make him feel bad?"
"I love my son," Heloise said. "You must know that from my letters."
At the mention of the letters, Denise flushed and stared down at the mounds of bed linen heaped around her feet. "Go away," she mumbled. "Go now before he sees you. I don't see why you've come back." She added in a small voice, "Have you no shame?"
Heloise swayed against Ceci. She struggled to keep her voice even.
"Shame? Lady, I can't feel shame in loving my babe. Come now, send in my son."
"I've warned you. Remember that."
"Send him to me."
Denise scooped up the sheets and went out. Ceci glared at Heloise. "What's wrong with her? She's certainly disagreeable."
Sighing, Heloise walked over to a trestle and sank on a bench. Through the open shutters she could hear the children screaming in the ward. The minutes dragged. Ceci, at the window, called to her, "I see someone coming." Trembling, Heloise got to her feet.
The boy coming slowly across the hall was not one of the children she had seen below. He was tall for his age and gave the impression of being frail, even dreamy, although she could see that he was muscular and healthy and his arms, hanging loosely from the short-sleeved tunic, were covered with dirt and mosquito bites. Going up to Ceci, he smiled easily and said, "Sister, my lady mother said you wished to see me."
Ceci pointed to Heloise. He trotted over and bowed.
"Peter." Heloise made herself say the name. "Did Lady Denise tell you who I am?" It was a rhetorical question, but she did not know how else to begin.
"No," he answered.
Oh, Denise, she thought, how unkind you are. Licking her lips, she said gently to him, "Peter, Lady Denise is not your real mother. You know that, don't you?"
"Oh yes. But she is my mother." The boy's voice was confused.
She was going about this all wrong—she should have told him at once. She heard Ceci, at the window, cough sharply. Astrolabe was shuffling his feet and scratching his bites. She saw at once that he could not keep still a minute. She smiled at him. "Lad, I am Heloise. Your lady mother."
He opened his eyes wide. Obviously he was reluctant to accept that piece of information, but he did not want to be rude. "If you say so," he said at last. "But the Lady Denise is my mama."
The expression on his face was so full of pain and bewilderment that Heloise forgot her reserve. She went to him, took him by the hand, and sat him down on a bench. He did not resist, but next to her he began fidgeting. A lock of hair fell over his eyes. "Tell me, Peter. Don't you remember the letters I wrote you? About the convent and my little dog Aristotle? About the river with all the pretty boats?"
Puzzled, he tossed his head. "No."
"Fair son, mayhap you've forgotten. You were smaller then."
"No. I had no letter." He looked up at her impatiently.
Heloise knew there was no point in insisting. It was as she had always suspected. Denise had destroyed the letters. The boy was ill at ease anyway; he did not understand that the letters were meant to convey her love and longing for him. She wanted to fling her arms about those skinny shoulders, shout that she loved him. "Do you like books'?" she asked cheerfully. "Tell me what you read."
The question seemed to surprise him. "Why, the Disticha Catonis and the Eclogue of Theodulus . . ."
Heloise nodded encouragingly. These were the standard beginner's readers. "And?"
"
And my Latin grammar."
"Donatus. What else? Plato, Aristotle, St. Augustine?"
"No. I mean, I can't remember. Mayhap."
Questioning him further, she learned that a priest from the village came once a week to instruct the children at the castle. Astrolabe did not feel deprived in regard to his education, indeed he seemed to think that he showed more progress in his studies than his cousins, who were prone to tease him about it.
"At your age," Heloise told him, "you should be more advanced in your education. Your lord father is the most brilliant scholar in—well, in all of Europe."
"I know," he mumbled sullenly. "He's a great abbot."
"And a very learned man. As you must be, too, when you grow up and become a man."
He stared at her, his eyes flashing. "I'm going to be a knight and ride in tourneys."
The racket in the ward had stopped. The children must have gone away somewhere. From the passageway leading to the kitchen, Heloise could hear the clanging of pots. She glanced at Ceci, who raised her eyebrows. She said to Astrolabe, "Your lord father and I love you very much, my sweet. Even though God has willed that we should be parted from you."
The boy did not answer.
She leaned toward him, carefully stroking the hair back from his eyes. To her astonishment, he flinched. "Sweet, what's the matter?" Suddenly Astrolabe burst into sobs. "What is it?" cried Heloise. "Are you ill? Holy Mother, Ceci, what ails him?" Ceci started toward them, then stopped. The boy continued to sniffle loudly.
"You're going to take me away!" he blubbered. "I won't go, I won't!"
To soothe him, Heloise stroked his hair. "There, there, I wouldn't take you away. We can be friends. There's nothing to cry about."
"You'll bewitch me and steal me—my mama said so."
Forgetting to guard her tongue, Heloise cried, "And who has a better right to you? You're my son. I would be the happiest woman in the world if I could be with you."
"You're a whore!"
"Son—"