by Marion Meade
It was ironic. Never, and certainly never since she had taken vows, had she spent so much time thinking about the material things of this world. Now these things that she needed—wheelbarrows, a proper well, plow, fishing forks—these worldly goods obsessed her so that even during prayers she could barely keep her mind on the words. There were so many things that she needed—and a few that she merely wanted. She struggled to remember that there was a distinction.
"Bees," she said to Ceci. "Wouldn't it be wonderful to have bees?" She craved a bit of honey.
"Aye. And a cow and some hens. Maybe we could get a dog, Heloise."
"No," she answered sharply. "No dog." Deep inside, memory knotted her stomach.
She sent Berengar and Ceci to the woods to gather sticks and fallen timber, and she began to mend the rotten beams under the chapel roof. Abelard helped to the best of his ability, but Heloise had to conclude finally that he had no gift for physical labor, especially not for carpentry. More often than not, he ended by smashing a finger under the hammer, and she dared not allow him to approach the saw.
Abelard and Berengar left for Etampes. That same day, Heloise rode the mare to Quincey. As she passed down the main street, she looked around more carefully than on the day of their arrival. Judging from the yellow clay houses, the villagers seemed to be a mixture of poor villeins and comfortable freeholders. Certainly, Arnoul's stone house was nice enough, and most of the wooden houses had chimneys. Now, for the first time, she noticed that Quincey had a small parish church, as well as a saddler, blacksmith, and carpenter. She made a mental note to find out which, if any, of the craftsmen would be willing to ply their trade on behalf of the Paraclete.
A crowd stood talking around the well. When they saw her, they stopped, and one of the women stepped forward, smiling shyly.
"Good day to you, Sister," she said. "I'm Melisende. My husband is Payen the saddler." The woman was young, pretty, and seemingly friendly.
Heloise smiled down at her, relieved to find a welcoming face. "God's greetings to you, madame." She reined in the mare and dismounted.
Melisende came closer. She said in a low voice, "Sister, how are you faring up there? Do you have firewood and food?"
"Oh, yes. Anyway, for the moment." She shrugged. "Later I don't know about."
"I wasn't prying, Sister—"
Behind Melisende, Heloise could see the town people staring, their eyes suspicious. She stared back, unblinking, wanting to smile but afraid.
"They say that Master Peter left today," Melisende said. "Will he be returning?"
"Certainly," Heloise said. "He's gone to Etampes." She added, "To see the pope."
Melisende lowered her eyes. Nodding stiffly, she murmured, "If there is anything I can do, Sister," and backed away toward the villagers. Heloise led the mare to Arnoul's house and tied her to the gate. She reminded herself that begging was nothing new to her, and, besides, in asking help for the Paraclete she was not begging for herself but for God. Still, she felt uncomfortable. She went to Arnoul's door and knocked. Arnoul opened. "Sister," he said nervously, "Sister, I thought you had gone." It was obvious that he had not expected her visit.
"Not at all. Abbot Peter and his friend have left for a time. But Sister Cecilia and I will remain." She decided to make clear to Arnoul that they were not transients. She said firmly, "The Paraclete belongs to us now. We intend to build a convent. We shall be your neighbors, Arnoul."
Arnoul signaled to his wife to bring wine, but Heloise shook her head. She could not remember what St. Benedict had said about the propriety of drinking wine in the house of a peasant. Probably nothing, but she was sure he would not approve. For that matter, St. Benedict's Rule did not seem to apply very well to a convent that had two members, three ruined buildings, and no resources. She shook her head again, and Arnoul's wife took the cups back to the hearth. He said, "We shall be honored to have a house of holy women for neighbors." Despite his words, he did not look pleased.
Heloise decided to come straight to the point. "Arnoul, you know that we have only two small dwellings and the chapel and those are in bad condition. Sister Cecilia and myself—we are doing our best, but we're not masons or carpenters." Perhaps intuitively she left Abelard out of it. "We have fields to plow soon, and we must borrow oxen and a plow." She went on rapidly without giving Arnoul a chance to respond, spilling out her plans to build a good well, a wall, a water mill over the Arduzon. He kept nodding, but when she asked for men to help repair the buildings, her most immediate need, he began to shuffle his feet. He did not know if anyone was available at the moment.
"Why not?" she asked politely.
"Friday is the feast day of Ste. Veronica."
"What about Monday, then?"
"The feast of St. Macarius." He shrugged helplessly.
She had never heard of either of those saints and told him so.
"Humble saints, my lady. Peasant saints. Many here observe their feast days."
Heloise turned away, tired. "I understand." She began moving toward the door.
Arnoul came after her. "My lady, wait. You mistake me. If it's acceptable to you, we'll come next week. On Tuesday."
She remained with him for an hour discussing which tools she owned and which the men of Quincey must bring with them. Afterward, she left the horse tied to Arnoul's fence, burrowed her neck in her cloak, and walked up the street toward the church.
The place was empty and cold, and a single candle guttered on the altar. She said the office quickly, mechanically, and got up to leave. At the portal, as she was pushing the door, somebody pulled from the outside, and she sailed into the porch, struggling to land on her feet. A black-robed arm reached out to steady her. Looking up, she saw a priest chuckling. He was middle-aged, probably past middle age because his head was as bald as a walnut, but he had twinkling blue eyes and the grin of a youth.
"My, my!" He laughed. "I've never seen a nun fly. Sister, are you one of the Blessed Virgin's angels?"
Heloise straightened her wimple. "Sorry, Father. Only a clumsy mortal."
"Well,” he said, "you look like an angel to me. Would you be one of the sisters from the Paraclete?" He did not wait for an answer. "Of course you are. You have your work cut out for you, don't you?"
Heloise could feel her shoulders relax. He was the first one in Quincey who seemed genuinely eager to meet her—and sympathetic. The priest took an onion from his girdle, broke it clumsily in half, and handed the larger segment to Heloise. They stood in the porch eating. His name was Father Gondry and he knew Abelard. He also knew that she was Abelard's wife, and when she expressed surprise that he should be aware of this, he only said that the world was small and the reputation of the learned Lady Heloise great.
"Father Gondry," she said suddenly, "tell me something, please. The people here don't like us. Why?"
He squinted at her. 'That's not it exactly. They have nothing against you."
"Be honest. There's something amiss."
He chewed off another piece of onion and turned his head, jaws working. "The Paraclete is yours now. It belongs to women, not to Abbot Peter. Once the people realize that, they will love you, I’m sure." He looked at Heloise. "It's the abbot they're suspicious of. Not you."
She rocked back in bewilderment. "In God's name, how could Abelard have offended them?"
"Sister, it was not his fault, not really. All those students—why, you should have seen the place. Lord Jesu and all his angels, what a mess—"
"But Abelard said it was heavenly."
His blue eyes blinked. "Mayhap it was—for them. Not for us. There were, er, disturbances."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
Father Gondry blushed furiously. "Drinking. Incidents of various sorts. It wasn't safe for our maidens to go abroad without escorts. You know. It could have happened if there had been a dozen hot-blooded young men. There were thousands, for the love of heaven. Who bothered to count?" He offered her another onion. "Here, eat."
"No, thank you."
"Sister, I doubt if anyone could have controlled them. Best put it from your mind."
"Yes," Heloise said, and sighed.
Milo of Nogent sat on a great carved chair, which perched on a platform before the hearth. Heloise, on a stool, felt as though she were sitting in a hole; she had to crane her neck to see his face. “I don't think he should have left you without protection," he said. "There have been evil men in those parts."
"We've seen no one." She added calmly, "And if the bandits should return, what have we to fear? We own nothing they'd want to steal."
"You have a horse."
Heloise thought of Jourdain's serf; she wondered what he had done with the stolen mount. Sold it probably. Hurrying to change the subject, she said, "My lord, speaking of animals. We have plowing to do and no oxen or plow."
Milo smiled away her words. "See Arnoul. All that can be easily arranged." He signaled a page to bring wine. Heloise swept her gaze around the hall, trying to remember what Father Gondry had told her about Milo. A friend of Count Thibaut's, a man of shrewdness and craft, a womanizer, a rich nobleman who had forgotten God a thousand times and now wished to make reparation for his sins. Heloise thought him not unkind, but he was certainly representative of his class. She shifted uneasily on the stool. "My lord," she said loudly, trying to get his attention again. "My lord, if you please." Milo leaned back in his chair. "Here is what I have. Three arable fields, each averaging thirty acres. Five villeins who each have a cottage and five acres. That leaves me sixty-five acres. Each villein is bound to plow four acres for the Paraclete and work three days a week on our land."
Milo cut in. "Who's going to plow the rest?"
"I am. I mean, Sister Cecilia and myself."
The lord of Nogent raised his eyebrows sharply.
Determined to head off his objections, she said hastily, "St. Benedict ruled that holy men and women should occupy themselves with manual labor at certain times."
"St. Benedict. Surely he didn't suggest that nuns go into the fields with oxen. Such work was not meant to be done by women." He shook his head.
Heloise thought of the villeins' wives, who plowed, sowed, and threshed. "Thank you for your concern, my lord," she said. "It is true that the Rule of St. Benedict was written for men, but I believe that women must try to obey it." She paused for breath. "Your original bequest does not make clear our water rights."
"What do you mean?"
"Have we the right to fish in the Arduzon?"
"Certainly." His eyes kept studying her, as if he were trying to locate Abelard's mistress and wife under the baggy black habit. "Of course. Fish all you like."
"How far along the banks in either direction?"
"How far do you want?"
She had planned her answer days ago. "From Quincey to Saint-Aubin. And if it please your lordship, we humbly request exclusive rights."
He ended by giving her what she wanted, also the promise of seed grain, hens, and some razor-backed hogs. He told her to make a vegetable garden in the marshy land south of the chapel, which she had already thought of, and to plant vines, which she had not.
"My lord, begging your pardon—don't you think it would be a good idea for your clerk to take note of these gifts?"
"Don't you trust me?"
"I trust you. But it's always prudent to have business matters put down in writing. For your own protection, my lord." It was for her protection and he knew it.
Milo grinned at her, amused. "La tres sage Heloise is wise in more ways than one. You have a good head for business, lady abbess."
She smiled, trying to accept the compliment graciously.
They had snow twice in February, but it thawed quickly. Heloise's original assessment of the Paraclete as an isolated haven was proving to be inaccurate. Quite the opposite. The road between Saint-Aubin and Quincey was frequently traveled. There were merchants taking their wares to Troyes or Provins, and people from Trainel, Lisines, and Nogent-sur-Seine on the move through the Champagne countryside. Almost daily, people passed their encampment, for it could hardly be called a cloister at that point, and some of them came especially to see Heloise and Ceci. The saddler's wife brought seeds for the vegetable garden—beets, watercress, lettuce, leeks, and mustard—and she also was generous with advice. Their apple and plum trees must be pruned if they were to get good fruit in the summer, and Melisende showed them how to snip off shoots with a sharp knife. The bailiff of Saint-Aubin, Galon, came with his wife, Adelaide; also a knight named Ralph Jaillac and his wife, Elizabeth; even Abbot Norpal of Vauluisant, who arrived on a mule and sniffed disdainfully when he realized that the Paraclete had only two residents. He found fault with everything.
"Recruit," he snapped at Heloise, "recruit or perish."
She tried to keep her temper. "Yes, we need novices," she said smoothly, "but no one has come forward yet."
"Come forward? You must go after them. And take only those with rich dowers."
Heloise shrugged her shoulders. No doubt it was sage advice. No doubt Abbot Norpal meant well, but she didn't care for his manner. He acted as though she were a fool who could not manage her own affairs. Besides, she had not asked for his opinion. She had her own ideas about the kind of women she wished to admit, and foremost among her requirements was that they be intelligent. Or, she told herself, at least not stupid. When he rode off, Ceci made a withering face behind his back. She said, "Oh my, recruit or perish. Pompous old ass. God's balls!"
Heloise laughed. "Sister Cecilia, is that any way to talk? You should be ashamed."
Abelard arrived the next morning from the Morigny meeting. He and Berengar stalked around the place exclaiming and vowing that Heloise had accomplished miracles. In her opinion, she had done practically nothing. Arnoul and the men of Quincey had helped repair the roofs and beams, and on one of the buildings they had added a room with a chimney, which Heloise was using as a kitchen. The well was still being worked on.
When Abelard had finished tramping up and down the riverbank, he came over to the marshy spot where Heloise was turning over the earth for her vegetable garden. "What are you going to plant here?" he asked.
"Lettuce, herbs, you know. I've already put in cabbage and onions."
"Any mint?"
"I might." Abelard had a great fondness for mint. She remembered that he liked to crush it into his wine. She sliced the spade into the mud and pushed with her foot.
"Here. Give that to me." Heloise stepped back, handing him the spade. "Why didn't you wait and have this plowed? Your hands will be ruined."
Heloise quickly hid her hands in her sleeves—they were already as calloused as any peasant woman's. "My lord, what news from Morigny? What did the pope say?"
"Lady." He straightened his back. "Innocent is a lion of a man, a prince and a fighter."
That meant something to Heloise. She had been worried about Innocent, because for many months the Church had been rent by schism and the Chair of Peter claimed by two popes. Innocent's rival was a former Cluniac monk who called himself Anacletus II. Heloise had suspected that Innocent would be seeking support from the important abbots of France, but whether he would grant favors in return was another matter. She said to Abelard, "What is he going to do?"
"Send a papal legate to Saint-Gildas. My old friend, Geoffrey of Chartres. No doubt the worst offenders will be excommunicated and expelled and the rest severely warned." Abelard leaned on the spade, smiling exuberantly.
Heloise nodded. If the legate planned to visit Saint-Gildas soon, it meant that Abelard would not remain with her long. She smiled back at him, trying not to think of it. "God be praised," she said. "Now everything will be fine."
He began digging again. “I spoke to Innocent about you. He's going to extend you papal recognition as the new owner of the Paraclete."
"That's splendid." She smiled. "My lord, I do thank you from the depths of my heart."
In the kitchen, she built a fire and looked fretfully
at the basket of eels on the floor. Ceci had trapped them early this morning, before Abelard and Berengar had come, and clearly there were not enough to feed four. The two of them had been living on onions, garlic, acorns, and coarse barley bread—and the gifts of visitors. When they had time, they fished, but this was not always possible. She slapped the eels into a pan. Into a deep kettle she threw beans, onions, and water, and hooked it over the fire, hoping that by evening it would turn into soup. Oh, she thought, what I wouldn't give for a garlic sausage. Even a small one.
When she finally set the food on the trestle, it seemed more inadequate than she had expected. The eels must have shrunk during cooking. Nobody mentioned the spareness of the meal. Berengar, courteous as always, complimented her on her skill with the eels. He said, "Sister Cecilia tells me that you do not lack for visitors."
Abelard looked at him sharply. "What does that mean?"
Before Berengar could reply, Heloise said hastily, "People have been very kind. They wish to know us—and offer assistance."
For reasons which she could not explain, Abelard sounded cross. "Have men come here?" he demanded roughly.
"Certainly, my lord. Arnoul and some of the villeins from Quincey and—"
"Others?" Abelard ripped off a chunk of bread and lifted it to his lips.
"And others."
He was staring at her as if she had done something wrong. "Lady abbess," he murmured at last, "the more rarely you allow yourself to be seen, the more highly valued will be your appearances in public and your spiritual guidance."