by Marion Meade
She woke at dawn. Through the cracks of the shutters, the sun was probing spears of brilliant yellow. It would be warm again today.
She slipped out of the covers and dressed quickly. Around her, the rest of the household still slept. She went downstairs to the pantry, took a loaf of yesterday's bread, and tucked it into her sleeve. Latching the main door behind her, she set out for the cathedral.
Already there were several dozen gowned students sprawled in the nave, having slept there all night in order to get a place. Heloise briskly marched up the aisle to a small section near the front that had been set aside for nuns. Scrambling under the rope barrier, she settled on the floor and bowed her head to say the morning office. Afterward, she brought out the bread and forced herself to chew.
By terce, the cathedral was thronged. It was just like the previous day, except that this morning's crowd was noisy and unruly. They had not come to a religious service, but to witness a tournament and defend their champion. The more blood the better, Heloise thought bitterly. The mob grew restless, stamped its feet, and spat impatient whistles. Around Heloise, the women swaddled in black whispered discreetly, while the abbess of Notre Dame-aux-Nonnains complained about the heat and the town's poor accommodations for visitors. Heloise craned her neck. The nave was packed to its last cranny.
Presently, the choir began to fill up. On one side were seated the bishops and abbots, gorgeously robed. In their midst, she caught sight of Bishop Geoffrey, who was the papal legate. Next to the bishop, stiff as a carved capital, sat Abbot Bernard in his white Cistercian wool, his hands folded in his lap. His eyes were closed, as if to shut out the vulgar assortment of humanity. On the opposite side of the choir had gathered the lay dignitaries—King Louis and Queen Eleanor with their courtiers, Count Thibaut of Champagne, the crabbed old Count of Nevers. There were many others whom she did not recognize. Everyone was sumptuous in his spring finery. A little lower down, near the choir steps, was a section crammed solid with black-robed monks. Heloise leaned around the head of the nun in front of her, trying to pick out Abelard. The crowd banged feet against the stone floor.
Abbot Bernard stood and walked briskly to the center of the choir. Silence dropped. Heloise waited to hear how he would open the assembly. It was a few moments before she realized, to her intense astonishment, that he had no intention of opening it. Instead, he was beckoning to somebody at the side of the choir. A white-robed monk advanced, his arms laden with books, and he laid them on a table near Bernard.
The abbot ignored the books. He took a step forward and said, "At Master Abelard's request, the archbishop of Sens wrote to me and asked if we might meet, so that Master Abelard might defend his propositions which I have condemned. My initial reaction was to refuse." A murmur eddied through the nave. Bernard gave a fey smile. "For one thing, he has been a debater from the cradle, just as Goliath was a warrior. Compared to him, I'm merely a child."
Heloise grunted under her breath.
Bernard was going on. "For another, I felt it was unseemly that the cause of the faith should be defended by the feeble arguments of one man."
The abbess of Nonnains twisted to the nun at her side. "What did he say?" she shouted.
"That he didn't want to come," said the nun.
Heloise looked up sharply. "Shhh."
An angry voice growled, "Pox take you! Get on with the debate!"
Ignoring the catcalls, the abbot said loudly, "On several occasions, I've asked Master Abelard for a statement of his faith. He has been given the opportunity to deny that he writes heresy. Or to amend his works in a spirit of humility." Triumphant, he gazed about the choir. "He has refused!"
In the monks' section, men were muttering openly and darting comments over each other's heads. An angry claque began down in the nave, awkwardly bawling, "Master Peter, Master Peter . . ." Something sailed through the air, splattering against the choir steps, and the claque still yelled, "Master Peter . . ."
Face working intensely, Bernard lifted his arms. "It is not I who condemn his writings. He is condemned by his own words," From his sleeve he whipped a sheet of parchment and unfolded it. "Those who have ears to hear, let them hear." Without pausing for breath, he started to read: "Heresy Number One. Christ is not one of the three persons in the Trinity. Heresy Number Two. Free will is sufficient, without the help of grace"—suddenly Abelard sprang to his feet—"to ensure our ability to do good."
Heloise straightened and watched Abelard's face. Scarcely breathing, she waited for him to interrupt Bernard. But he stood motionless, rapt and shockingly white, his lips pressed together. The claque swung into clapping, and some of the monks in the choir picked it up. Reluctantly turning to face Abelard, the abbot shouted over the racket, "Master Peter, do you deny writing Heresy Number Two? Feel free to answer without fear and in whatever way you choose."
Instantly, the enormous cathedral was quiet. Her habit clammy with perspiration, Heloise strained to see. Abelard's face was glazed; he did not move or speak, and after a moment he looked down at his feet.
"Heresy Number Three," Bernard said, raiding the parchment sheet. "There is no sin without consent to sin." He darted a quick shake of the head to King Louis. "The man stubbornly refuses to speak. Heresy Number—“
Swaying like a man walking in his sleep, Abelard slowly began to move forward. Bernard broke off. Stepping into the aisle that divided the choir, Abelard stopped, turned his head toward the bishops, and then swiveled and slowly surveyed the young king. The voice that had enthralled two generations of scholars filled the choir and nave. "I refuse," he cried out, "to be judged like a guilty clerk. I appeal to Rome."
The choir enclosure broke into a hum of confusion, like a wind scattering sleet through the forest. Bernard shrugged. Wheeling, Abelard made a gesture toward his right and strode down the choir steps, down the aisle past Heloise, back through the nave to the west portal. After him ran Astrolabe and a half dozen others.
The cathedral broke into a roar. The dismayed prelates sat gaping at the astonished faces in the nave. Only Abbot Bernard appeared unperturbed.
With a flourish of disgust, the abbess of Nonnains turned to Heloise and demanded loudly, "Do you mean it's over? Where has Master Peter gone? What on earth—" Heloise paid no attention. She sat like a ghost, shivering and invisible, and rocked forward until the half-eaten bread crumbled in her sleeve. She felt sick to her stomach. All around her, people were muttering and yelling; they had come to be entertained, but the main attraction had suddenly bolted the arena. Rising slowly on trembly legs, she pushed her way to a side entrance and staggered into the hot sunshine. A monk rushed up to her. "Sister," he asked, "do you know why Master Abelard left? Is it true, did he walk out?"
"Aye, Brother. I—I don't know the reason." He was not well, no matter what Astrolabe said. So far as she could judge, he had teetered on the edge of fainting.
"Thank you," said the monk, and turned away.
In the afternoon, she had Mme. Montauban send a servant to find Astrolabe. An hour passed. The man returned, saying that neither the lad nor his father was at the archbishop's guesthouse. Their belongings were gone. Jourdain came, sad and exhausted, and murmured soothing words. She nodded politely, not answering. In the solar, she sat by the window, twisting her girdle into knots and peering into the road for a sight of the boy.
"Don't torture yourself," Jourdain said. "Master Peter said he was going to Rome, and he's probably on the road by now. You should leave too."
Heloise shook her head stubbornly. It could not end this way.
Jourdain said, pleadingly, "Do as I tell you—I'll take you home. The assembly is over."
In the street, a black dog was foraging for scraps. Heloise curled her fingers until the knuckles whitened. "The assembly is over," she repeated dully. "Did they judge him a heretic?"
Jourdain burst into an ugly laugh. "In secret session, may God forgive them. They have sent their decision to Rome. Heloise, friend. It's time for us to be off."
"Please," she said. "I beg you. Go and try to find out what happened to him. If he has truly left Sens, then I'm willing to depart."
Sighing deeply, Jourdain agreed and went out.
She sat at the window a while longer, too tired to climb the stairs to her chamber. The youngest Montauban child prattled hesitantly in the doorway. "Lady," she quavered, "are you going home? Why, lady?"
Heloise smiled vaguely at her. "It's time, that's why." She turned back to the street. Farther down, she heard the frantic pounding of hoofs on the cobbles. When the horseman came into her line of vision, she gasped to see that he was Astrolabe. Before she could get up, the door banged open and the clatter of feet rang in the vestibule. She ran, seizing him by both shoulders. "Where is he?" she cried.
"Gone. Set out for Rome an hour ago." The child flattened herself against the wall, frightened to see the wild-looking youth. "I tried to make him wait—"
They stared at each other. Heloise said swiftly, "What ailed him? Why didn't he speak out against Bernard?"
"He told me that at that very moment his memory completely deserted him. He couldn't remember what Bernard had said, or what he was doing there in the choir."
"Dear God." Heloise clung to his arm. "You should not have left him. He's in no condition to travel anywhere."
"Mama, he insisted." Astrolabe fumbled in his girdle. "He wrote this letter for you. He thinks you're at the Paraclete and he wanted you to get this tonight. Before you had news of—today."
Swallowing, she took the letter, unsealed it, and began to read where she stood.
"Heloise my sister, once so dear to me in the world, now even dearer to me in Christ, logic has earned for me the hatred of the world. The perverse, for whom wisdom is nothing short of perdition, say that I am a master of logic, but I cannot understand St. Paul. They acknowledge the brilliance of my intellect but question the purity of my faith as a Christian.
"I do not want to be a philosopher if it means rejecting Paul. I do not wish to be an Aristotle if it cuts me off from Christ, for it is in his name, and none other under heaven, that I must find my salvation. I adore Christ who sits on the right hand of the Father.
"And so to remove all anxiety, all doubt and uncertainty, from your heart, I want to reassure you that I have established my conscience on the rock on which Christ built his Church. I will give you, in brief, my testimony:
"I believe in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, God who is one in nature, the true God who comprises the Trinity of person. I believe the Son to be equal to the Father."
She glanced up. "When did he write this?" she asked Astrolabe.
"Last evening."
"You're sure."
"Positive," he said.
"I further believe that the Son of God became the Son of Man and having completed his mission, even unto death itself, he rose again and ascended to heaven whence he shall judge the quick and the dead. Finally I believe that all sins are remitted in baptism and that those who have erred may be reformed by penance. As for the resurrection of the body, what need have I to speak of it? I could not call myself a Christian if I did not believe that I would one day live again. This then is the faith by which I live and from which my hope finds strength. Thus safely anchored, I do not fear the barking of Scylla; I laugh at the whirlpool of Charybdis; I care nothing for the siren's deadly songs. Let the storm rage, I am not shaken. Though the winds blow, I am not moved. For the rock of my foundation stands firm."
Slowly she lifted her eyes to the boy. "This is the confession of faith that Bernard wanted." He could have saved himself with this statement, but he bad not. Instead, he had given it to her.
Abruptly, she thrust the letter into her sleeve. "How far south has he got, do you think?"
"Not far. Mama, you—“
"Saddle my mare."
They careered south along the river road that led to Auxerre, saying nothing. Heloise kept her eyes straight ahead and watched the dust rise like brown moths in the dying light. Mounted monks came into view, loitering toward their monasteries and grumbling loudly about the abortive affair at Sens. Heloise and Astrolabe kicked up their horses, passed, and churned on, dodging a party of pilgrims on foot.
Twice they stopped at inns to make certain that Abelard had not turned off for the night. Heloise thought about the road to Rome, how it wound treacherously through the Alpine passes. It was a hard journey, even for those in the best of health. Her fists tightened on the reins. He would not reach Rome, that she knew as surely as if God himself had told her. She ached with loving him, the man with the silvery voice and the pain in his eyes, but she would not add to his humiliation by pressing him to return to the safety of the Paraclete. Let him climb the long road home, let God watch over him.
An arm's length away, Astrolabe called out, "Mama, darkness is coming. Mayhap we should stop."
She looked away from him, into the woods that snapped with twigs and the whirring notes of birds. "No," she said in a tight little voice. She must see him once more; she needed a picture of him to keep in her mind during the endless years ahead.
At the hour of dusk, finally, they came upon Abelard in a clearing beside the road. Beneath an ancient oak, he was sitting on the trampled grass chewing bread, and he did not look up until they had reined in. Then he rose and walked toward them slowly, as if it hurt to move. The skin across the bridge of his nose, along the sides of his cheeks, and down over the neck was fiery red, scratched raw in spots.
Heloise dismounted and swayed toward him. He dipped his head, smiling, as if meeting her on the highroad were an ordinary occurrence. "Is it you, lady?" he asked.
"Aye." Behind her back, Astrolabe cleared his throat. "You will want company. It would be best if the boy goes with you."
"And it will be a good thing for him to see Rome." He spoke without glancing at Astrolabe.
"Have you money?"
"Some. Enough." He shrugged. "I shall travel from monastery to monastery. We won't go hungry, God willing."
She felt her tongue dry in her mouth. "At the passes. You must hire a guide to take you through."
"That's right," he said absently. "Lady, you look weary."
“I’m all right."
Abruptly, he rasped, "I'm finished."
She looked up, startled.
"Let others carry on the fight for truth. My young men—let them look to other teachers." He spoke very quickly and looked beyond her shoulder at Astrolabe while he talked.
She shook her head, hunting for an argument, but in the end she said nothing.
"You need not grieve. Nothing can be changed now."
"How do you know?" she said. "Mayhap it will come out differently."
"Once I wrote verse. I sang songs. When I was done with poetry, I put aside my lute."
Under the great tree, they stood quietly for a few minutes. Each looked at the other without speaking. Dark blue was staining the evening sky, pricking it with pinpoints of white. The wind was still.
"Lady?"
"Yes, my love."
"If I've caused you pain in this life, forgive me."
She did not trust herself to speak. At last, he reached for her and she tangled her fingers in his. He put his cheek against the coarse black wimple.
"Ladylove," he breathed.
26
It was Michaelmas again, and the sacks of grain had been counted and duly recorded in Heloise's ledgers, the tithes collected, and the villeins blessed and twice blessed. With the coming of autumn, she turned her efforts to the renovated house at Trainel and prepared to install her women. Each day the packing progressed a little; barrels and boxes were filled, wagons loaded with beds and trestles and chests. Keys swinging from her girdle, she moved briskly through the whitewashed rooms and arcaded walks of the Paraclete, and her eyes, deliberately smiling, cloaked all evidence of her thoughts. Three months had passed since Abelard had been condemned at Sens, less than two months since Pope Innocent had issued his edict: guilty as
charged . . . heretic . . . sentenced to perpetual silence. Abelard's books had been burned ceremoniously in St. Peter's. Now it was over, Heloise had thought. Now, silenced, he would never write again. Jourdain had said that Abelard undid himself, that a man of different temperament, less contentious, more humble, would not have attracted so many enemies. Well, possibly Jourdain was right, but she did not believe it. Since Sens, the anger had rushed out of her, and all she felt now was a vast sadness that it should end this way.
The Saturday after the fall quarter day, the nuns going to Trainel assembled in the yard, twenty of them, and Sister Gertrude, whom the chapter had elected abbess. With them came Astrane, Ceci, Hermeline, and those of the senior nuns who wished to attend the installation ceremony. In anticipation of the trip, the women chattered and giggled, behavior not ordinarily encouraged at the Paraclete. Heloise pretended not to see. Some of them had not passed through the gate into the outside world for years; let them have this one day. Horses were brought up, wagons for those who did not ride. After some early-morning fog, the sun broke out.
The caravan straggled north along the river road to Saint-Aubin, where they would make a crossing. The woods were thick with colors of apricot and russet; the air smelled of fungus and burning leaves. Ceci trotted her horse close to Heloise. "You're sure the archbishop is coming in person," she said. "He's not sending an assistant."
Heloise nodded. The archbishop of Sens had requested the honor of presiding over the opening of Trainel. Not Henry Sanglier, who had died suddenly, but his successor, Hugo. Heloise had been surprised that Hugo was bothering to come all that way. She lifted her head into the air and dragged deeply, thinking of the pine-strewn plains of Burgundy, thinking of Abelard and the abbey of Cluny, of its abbot, whose name was Peter also. Peter the Venerable people had begun calling him, although he was only six or seven years older than Heloise. One day in July, Abelard had ridden up to the gate of Cluny. He was still there, and now he would never leave. A temporary resting place for a wanderer, he had written to her shortly after his arrival, but it had become more than that. She did not know what Abbot Peter had said to Abelard, what tact and patient persuasion he had used, but it was clear to her that he had immediately recognized one thing: Abelard had reached the farthermost limits of his endurance. Within weeks, he had persuaded Abelard to join their congregation, and he had assured Pope Innocent that heresy was abhorrent to Abelard. Most astonishing to Heloise, Peter had reconciled Abelard with Bernard, but how he had managed that feat she could not imagine.