by Sherry Jones
“I wonder how Canon Fulbert could be related to such an intelligent girl,” Anseau said.
“My uncle is not dull, monsieur,” I lied, daring to send him an admonishing glance.
He cocked one eyebrow. “Then why haven’t we heard before about his illustrious sister? Whenever I’ve encountered Fulbert, he talks unceasingly about himself. A man so anxious to advance his position would certainly make that connection known. Wouldn’t you agree, Brother?”
“Given his ambition, it does seem strange that he hasn’t mentioned her,” Etienne said. “If Galon knew, Fulbert might be a bishop by now. What do you think, Pierre? You know Canon Fulbert the best.”
Everyone looked at Abelard, who shrugged. “Fulbert talks much, oui, but he reveals little.” Agnes burst into laughter, falling against Abelard’s arm. Grinning, he amended, “He reveals little about himself, I intended to say.”
Agnes rested her cheek on his shoulder and, with her eyes closed, sighed. Her cheeks flushed, rosy with wine. Her lips smiled, still, as though she expected a kiss, and Abelard gazed at her as fondly as if he might give her one. I turned my eyes, shuddering, and yet thanking God. He had shown me, today, the dangers of the path on which I had allowed my thoughts and desires to wander. A continent philosopher Abelard might be, but, like Robert of Arbrissel, he did not want for women. I thought of his kiss on my hand when last we had parted, how his lips had lingered, and his compliment: Like the petals of a rose. I felt like a toy played with once and then cast aside, forgotten.
5
To his brightest star, whose rays I have recently enjoyed: may she shine with such unfailing splendor that no cloud can obscure her.
—ABELARD TO HELOISE
He spoke of Aristotle’s Categories, of Porphyry’s Tree, of the classes of words that could be predicate to a subject. I gazed through the open window at the splendor of stars and tried not to think about the fragrance of roses rising from his clothes.
He had arrived late for our lesson, apologizing and giving me more parchment but not offering any explanation. But why should I need excuses? The roses spoke for themselves, and they shouted, not whispered, Agnes of Garlande’s name.
He tapped my hand with his stylus. “Does Porphyry prove Aristotle’s theory that all living things have souls, or does he disprove it?”
Had he embraced her and touched his lips to her cheek as he’d murmured her name?
“Heloise. What difference does Porphyry establish between ‘accident’ and ‘essence’?” he prompted again.
He sat across from me, his eyes demanding, yet I could think only of roses. I walked to the window to stir the pot of herbs scenting the air. Four days had passed since the dinner at Etienne’s home—four days since he had kissed my cheek at my uncle’s door and breathed my name like a prayer. In four days, I had heard not a word from him, not even in response to my letters. Now that he had come, I could not even ask what had kept him away, for I dreaded his reply.
The tap of his stylus on the desktop; my blood’s slow thrum; the cathedral bell’s peal. I resumed my seat, but could not meet his demanding stare.
“I await your answer.”
I admitted I had forgotten the question.
“Have you forgotten, too, that I am commanded to discipline you for idleness?”
I caught my breath, wondering what punishment he would inflict. Would he lift my skirt as the Reverend Mother Basilia had done and strike me with a cane?
“It is a wonder to me, then, that you have not pondered the Isagoge.”
“I have read it, and pondered it, and written of it.” I gestured toward the tablet. “As you have seen.”
“I see words prettily arranged, nothing more. Where is the conviction behind your argument? Where is your passion?”
“I can hardly be expected to feel passion for the categorization of words. Does it matter whether the quality of being able to laugh is a differentia or a propria?” I would rather discuss whether plants and animals have souls, or which of the virtues is most desirable.
Abelard stood. “My topic fails to inspire you?” He took up his bag and walked to the door.
I cried out, asking where he was going, forgetting about roses for the time being.
“You have sat staring out the window since we began. I cannot compete with the beauty of the night. Let us go.”
Quietly, so as not to awaken my uncle or Jean, we crept down the stairs and out the front door to confront the mysteries of the planets and wheeling stars, the moon hanging low like ripe fruit on a branch. He led me across the street and through the vineyards to the river. I followed him to the bank’s edge, tiptoeing over my misgivings. What did he intend for me out here, shielded by the vines from everyone’s view? In the moon’s orange glow I could see dark shapes all along the bank, couples lying in each other’s arms or strolling beside the churning deep. Breezes soughed across the swift-moving waters, edging the night with chill. I rubbed my arms, wishing that I had brought a blanket or cotte.
When we reached the bank, he removed his cloak and laid it next to him, making a seat for me. He rummaged in his bag and extracted a bronze disk inscribed with symbols. I exclaimed: an astralabe! Mother had given one to me before taking me to Argenteuil. It was the only thing of hers I’d possessed, but the abbess had taken it away. Everything here belongs to God. As she’d snatched it into her hands, her eyes had snapped with greed.
“I have heard that the Saracens have found one thousand uses for an astralabe,” he said, handing his to me. “Tonight, I am going to teach you one of them.”
I cradled the instrument in my hands, admiring its cool weight, its ornate design, its surface inlaid with precious stones and carved with images of moons, stars, and planets. This work of beauty was made more precious by its power to unlock the secrets of the universe. The scent of roses faded in the starry breeze.
He slid closer to me, his eyes on the astralabe, his hands touching the parts as he described them: the rete, on which the stars were inscribed; the tympanum, engraved with circles delineating altitude and latitude; the mater, or main body, with degree marks and numbers etched onto its rim. As he worked, his fingers touched mine, and his body’s heat warmed my skin. No longer did I want for a cotte. I leaned into him and tipped my face toward the night, imbibing the silvered light shining from the moon and glossing his hair and brightening his face, which was now close to mine. He turned the astralabe over to show me the markings on its back and, along the edge, an inscription that, in the dim light, I could not read.
Where, I asked, did he acquire the remarkable instrument?
“From Agnes.” The sound of her name on his lips set my teeth on edge. “She has befriended the king’s astronomer and purchased it from him at my request.”
I handed the astralabe back to him. “Far be it from me to tarnish its costly shine with my common hands.”
He frowned as if he had not heard me clearly. “It was not so costly. She obtained it for a good price.”
“Of that I have no doubt. I wonder what she gave besides her father’s silver?” What besides money had Abelard given to her? The wind shifted, carrying the scent of roses again, filling my mouth with it, making me want to spit.
He cocked his head. “You do not care for Agnes? Then she has captured the hearts of all in the world but you.”
“She certainly seems to hold yours in the palm of her hand.”
“What do you find objectionable? Her nimble tongue? Her ready laugh? I had thought that, being of the same age, you might become friends.”
How I cringed to hear him praise so readily this woman who, it was plain to me, excited his desire in ways that I could not.
“I do not befriend hypocrites,” I said. “Agnes and her father profess concern for the wives and children of clergy, but do they help them?”
“I thought their repartee amusing.”
“So I noticed.”
“And did you notice also how I tried to compensate for your ill h
umor?”
“I call it ‘discernment.’ ”
“I have yet to hear you laugh.”
“And I hear you laughing all the time. I take life more seriously.”
“Do you think me unserious because of my levity? Sometimes we must laugh in order not to cry.”
“And what cause do you have for crying? You possess all you desire, it seems to me, including the admiration of every woman in the realm.” I stood, blinking back tears, and walked away from him to the river’s edge. Below, the water flowed deep and sullen.
“Only one woman’s admiration matters to me, Heloise.” Abelard’s voice murmured against my ear, as close as a kiss. His hand pressed into the small of my back—rose-scented hands, wafting her fragrance. I cried out and struck at him, wishing I could fling him into the Seine—but I knocked the astralabe from his grip, instead—into the current, where it sank out of sight.
I fell to my knees and thrust my hands into the stream, rummaging as deeply as I could reach but grasping only water, numbingly cold. Where had it gone? Downstream? But it was surely too heavy to float away—wasn’t it? Dear God, please. I wished that I, too, might hide in the water’s dark, not only from Abelard but also from my foolish self. I bent over farther, stretching my fingers, seeking. Something brushed my fingertips and I lunged forward to seize it—then tumbled, headfirst, into the river.
Water filled my mouth, my nostrils, and all the pores of my skin. I heard a rushing in my ears and, as blackness enfolded me, the bubbling laughter of the river goddess Sequana. I grasped water in my flailing hands, thrashed it with my feet, strained my eyes against it, peering into the dark. My tunic twisted about my ankles as I kicked in a futile effort to find some toehold against which to push myself upward, toward the air. But I did not know which way was down, or which was up, seeing no light, not even the moon, but only darkness, as in a tomb. I struggled and turned, feeling the goddess tugging at me like possessive hands. The desire to breathe clawed at my lungs, but I knew in opening my mouth I would swallow death. Abelard! I cried out wordlessly as my foot touched a stone. Pushing against it, I sent myself upward, toward the water’s surface, my heart now laboring for want of breath, my chest aching. Then I felt a hand grasp my wrist and pull me upward, and the water break around my head and pour from my eyes, my nose, and my mouth, and the grip of Abelard’s arm around my waist.
“Heloise, thanks be to God. You are safe. Oof!” In my effort to shake off the goddess’s grasp, I had struck him in the face. Abelard seized me more tightly and begged me to relax. “Still yourself. I am here and have you and will keep you safe.”
My breath returning, I clung to him as he swam the short distance to the bank, letting the current carry us. Never had I felt so grateful to feel solid ground. I lay, panting, my eyes full of stars, marveling at the sight of them, at the breeze chilling my wet skin, at the fragrance of linden perfuming the night. I had not drowned.
Then I remembered why I had fallen into the Seine. A flush spread over me. Had I nearly died from jealousy of my teacher?
“You are shivering,” Abelard said, pulling me to his bare chest—for he wore only his leggings and braies. My palms moved across his skin; my pulse sped up again, but not, this time, out of fear. His body, like mine, felt cold, but when I pressed the length of myself to him, we both warmed in the instant. I felt his heart’s beat, his hand on my back, his fingers in my hair, his lips on my cheek.
“I feared I had lost you.” His taking of my hand seemed, now, the most natural of acts.
“I cannot swim. Thanks be to God that you can.”
“My father loves the sea. I learned to swim before I could walk. But—behold your stricken face! Heloise, are you crying?” I was not. He saw only water from the river glistening on my cheeks, for I had used all my tears sobbing for my mother, many years ago.
We sat still for a moment, swaying together in the breeze. “Did you think I loved Agnes?” Abelard finally said. “There is no one but you, Heloise. As God is my witness, I have never been with another, not even in my thoughts.”
And then, O my beating heart! Under the spreading linden tree beside the Seine, in the air suffused with its sweetness, Abelard kissed me, his lips trembling with cold and his arms entwined around my waist. His mouth’s tender press made me feel like moonlight itself, aglow and shimmering. A shiver ran through me. I tightened my hold, sliding my arms around his neck, and resisted my hands’ urge to wander. Our lips parted and our tongues met, and I tasted his sweetness like that of a juicy apple. Warmth spread through me as though I were melting, and yet my skin tingled everywhere we touched. I wanted both to sigh and to sing.
“Heloise,” he murmured, kissing my nose, my cheeks, my forehead. “Your softness; your delicious flavor; I would devour you, if I could.” From under those curling eyelashes, his gaze dipped into mine and drew me in.
A shiver ran through him. I folded myself around him completely, holding him so close to me that I could feel his heart knocking at my chest, and willed myself to believe his words. None other, even in my thoughts.
“You are cold, and I am to blame. Forgive me, please, for my foolish behavior.”
He kissed my cheek. The brush of his lips made me shudder. The linden’s aroma enwrapped us like a sweet vine.
“I would hurl myself into the waters every night in order to feel your arms around me,” Abelard said.
He would not need to do so, I nearly replied—but then I remembered what a dear price he had paid.
“Your beautiful astralabe. It is lost, because of me.” I covered my face with my hands. “Seneca warned against jealousy. Why didn’t I heed him?”
“Jealousy?” He kissed my hands, pulling them away from my face. “As if you had anything to envy in anyone—you, the swan among clucking hens, the glittering gem in the common stones.”
“Non, not glittering, but dull with stupidity. And, now, deeply in your debt.”
“A debt easily repaid.” He kissed me again, more fervently than before, his breath in slow, deep pants warming my cheek while his hand caressed my waist. I longed to push him backward onto the bank, to spread myself over him like a blanket, to meld his body into mine.
But, alas, the moon shone full, exposing us to anyone who might pass, and the hour had grown late. We arose and made our way back to the place on the riverbank where we had begun, to retrieve Abelard’s clothing. I sat upon a stone to wring out my hem as, whistling, he dried himself with his cloak. Let God be my witness: I averted my eyes. Yet the grace of his form—his smooth body; the glisten of him, taut curve and sinew, like a Roman sculpture—appears in my mind even now, as though he were a blinding star at which I had stared unblinking.
“Have you seen enough?” he said with a grin. “Or shall I tarry a few moments more?” I looked down at the water, where a glint of light caught my eye. I reached forth my hand and extracted, from the mud, the astralabe.
“Behold!” I cried, lifting it up. “My debt is paid.” I offered it to Abelard, but he shook his head.
“There was never any debt, Heloise. That astralabe belongs to you.”
“Non. You must not reward my foolishness with such a gift.” Frowning, I held the instrument out to him.
He refused it with a laugh. “I bought it for your sake. I had it made for you.”
“For me?” I lifted an eyebrow. “For what purpose?”
“Do you mean to ask what I wanted in return? I have already received far more than I expected.” He winked.
My face burned. “Excuse me, please. I am not usually so . . . demonstrative. You saved my life.”
“Therefore, you kissed me with mere gratitude? I do not think so. I felt much more.” He lifted his eyebrows suggestively and laughed again. “But if that is how you express gratitude, then I will remind you daily how I rescued you from drowning in the Seine.”
“I cannot accept this gift. Fashioned by the king’s astronomer—this is too dear. You must keep it and bring it to our lesso
ns for us to use together.”
“There will be no more lessons for a while.” We started up the bank together, toward my uncle’s house. The breeze had stopped; the air was as still, now, as my wondering heart.
“No more lessons?” I longed, at that moment, to curl up on the sand, among the vineyards, and close my eyes. “I understand. After the way I have behaved tonight, I cannot blame you.”
“It cannot be helped.”
“You probably despise me, and with good reason.”
“Despise you?” Abelard shook his head. “The opposite is closer to the truth.”
“ ‘Anger is cruel and fury overwhelming, but who can stand before jealousy?’ ” The proverb sprang to my lips. “With my jealousy, I have driven you away.”
“Driven me away? Would that it were so, for then I might have the pleasure of changing my mind and remaining with you.”
Duty called Abelard to his parents’ home in Brittany, he said. His father had become ill, and his condition worsened every day. Abelard must hasten to him, as well as sign the papers giving his brother the lands and title Abelard had forfeited so long ago in embracing the philosopher’s life.
“It is a mere formality,” he said of relinquishing his birthright. “I chose knowledge and wisdom long ago over the life of a lord—the lap of Minerva over the court of Mars, as I like to say.”
“Your father permitted you to choose?” The word coated my tongue like cream.
“My father served as a knight in the court of Anjou, where philosophy and song are revered as highly as God. He might have chosen the scholar’s life for himself, had he not married my mother.” Abelard halted his steps and turned to me, his eyes bright. “Were you truly jealous of Agnes?”
Heat flooded my face. “Does that amuse you?”
“It delights me. It tells me that you care.”
My pulse throbbed sweetly. Questions filled Abelard’s eyes once more, but I had no answers—only questions of my own.