by Sherry Jones
When the tearful trainer had taken his pet out of sight, the man bowed and kissed Agnes’s hand—lingering over her dainty fingers as if he might kiss each one in turn.
“Lord Amaury, what a bold display of courage and authority.” Agnes’s voice shook slightly—not from fright, I knew—as she withdrew her hand.
“I could not simply watch that dirty beast shred your beautiful dress.” The roam of his gaze said he coveted that task for himself.
“I owe you a debt of gratitude,” she said, never cringing under his eyes’ assault, but, rather, seeming to enjoy it. “Fortes fortuna juvat.” I lifted my brows to hear her speak Latin. Fortune, she had said, favors the bold.
“I warn you, my lady: I intend to collect on that debt. In full.” His lips twitched. “Fortune willing.”
She remembered me then and tucked her hand into the crook of my elbow. “Amaury, here is the one I’ve been telling you about. The daughter of your sister’s friend, Hersende of Champagne.”
“Lady Montsoreau was your mother?” He tore his eyes from Agnes to bend over my hand.
My pulse quickened to hear this stranger refer to her, and I sent Agnes a concerned glance—hadn’t she promised me to tell no one about me? She, on the other hand, nodded as if she had done me a great favor.
“You knew her, my lord?”
“Your mother spent many hours in our home. But no one knew her better than my sister.” He returned his gaze to Agnes’s face, where it remained except when, from time to time, he allowed it to dip to her bosom. “Bertrade and Lady Montsoreau were the closest of friends.”
Agnes squeezed my hand. “Heloise, have you heard of Queen Bertrade? Did your mother ever speak of her?”
“How could I fail to hear of her? She was the wife whom King Philip loved so much, he risked the fires of hell to keep her.” But I had never heard my mother speak her name.
“Nothing could stop my sister from having anything that she wanted,” Amaury said. “She wanted King Philip from the first time they met.”
She’d knelt to kiss the king’s ring, he said, and when she stood, he kissed her hand. I shall not wash this hand until it belongs to you, along with the rest of me, she told him. He carried her away from her husband’s home that night, in secret, and brought her to Paris. He married her—although she was already married to Foulques, the Count of Anjou, and he was married to Queen Berthe, our King Louis’s mother.
“After he’d possessed Bertrade, he bathed every inch of her,” Amaury said, his eyes sending messages to Agnes. “That is as it should be, non? I would do the same.”
The words spoken and unspoken stirred my blood, as did the heat pulsing like lightning between them. I looked upward, to the royal table, and saw Abelard standing too near a woman with hair like sunlight who leaned into him as the two shared a laugh. Mon Dieu, it was as Agnes had said: every woman in Paris wanted him. I ignored the stab in my breast and reminded myself that it was I whom he loved.
“Did you hear Amaury?” Agnes brought me back to the conversation. “His sister lives in the Hautes-Bruyères Abbey, at Saint-Rémy-l’Honoré.”
“It is not far from Paris,” Amaury said.
“Heloise is my closest friend,” Agnes said. “He who helps her, helps me.”
“In that case, I shall take you to Bertrade myself,” he said. “And Agnes can be our chaperone.” He winked at her, and I wondered who would chaperone whom.
The trumpet sounded. We sank to our knees, bowing before the king and queen as they entered and settled themselves on the bench at the royal table, above the rest of the room. Then we stood and moved to the rear of the hall to sit with the queen’s other handmaids.
“Fortes fortuna juvat?” I said as Agnes led me to our seats. “You told me you don’t speak Latin.”
“I’ve been studying it lately.” She shrugged. “I heard Amaury speaking it with his wife in the court at Anjou. Apparently, they study it together. Of course, such a plain little mouse would have little else to do but conjugate verbs.”
“He is married?”
“Of course he is married,” she said, her voice terse. “He is lord of Montfort-l’Amaury and a future count and must have heirs. But his horse-faced wife has not even conceived.” She slanted her eyes. “He will marry me next—as soon as the pope grants his petition for annulment. As it turns out, he and she are related.”
“What a surprise.” Every noble in the realm, it seemed, claimed kinship with his wife in order to put her aside.
Agnes did not notice my sarcasm. “I am relieved that you do not disapprove. I thought that, coming from the convent, you might have strict ideas about marriage.”
“My only idea about marriage is to avoid it.”
“Now you really sound like a nun.” She poked me with a finger. “But I’ve noticed the happiness on your face when Pierre is near. I think you would marry him if you could.”
Reminded of him, I sought him out again. There he sat with the royals, next to that odious little monk Suger. To my satisfaction, Abelard appeared thoroughly bored.
“Wait until Pierre beholds you in your courtier’s clothes,” Agnes said. “The change in you will make him beg you for your hand—if only for one night.”
Heat filled my body, and strange imaginings: Abelard’s gaze rolling like a lover’s tongue across my exposed bosom; his excitement to see me in this costume. Guillaume of Poitiers had all but eaten me alive with his eyes. Would my provocative dress inflame Abelard’s desires, as well?
Suddenly shy, I asked Agnes to exchange seats with me so that I might sit behind the large column in front of our table, hidden from Abelard’s sight. She happily did so, for the column had blocked her view of her precious seigneur.
“He did not bring his wife this time, hoping to spend some time alone with me,” she said as the servants poured water over our hands. “Of course, I have refused him that privilege.”
“But you love him, non? It shows in your eyes, Agnes.”
“And that is why I must resist him. Once he has taken what he wants from me, he will lose interest and return to his wife. Men revel in the hunt, after all. If I want him to marry me, I must make him wait to claim his prize.”
Positioning myself next to the wall proved a wise move, not only to hide myself from Abelard but also to avoid speaking to anyone who might question me about my family. As servants presented a stunning array of dishes—twenty different courses, at least, beginning with a broth of veal and ending with six different candied fruits—I found another reason to be glad for my hidden spot: I could, and did, eat as much as I desired, a fortuitous circumstance since the henap passed my way many times. Although we sat at one of the lower tables, the wine tasted more delicious than any other I had ever tried. I reminded myself to sip it slowly lest I embarrass myself—and Abelard.
The trumpet sounded again as the servants removed our trenchers, platters, and washing bowls. A man’s voice rang through the hall, presenting Master Pierre Abelard, scholar and poet, and the greatest of both—Guillaume of Poitiers called out in protest, making everyone laugh—and announcing the minstrel Daurostre, who would perform the magister’s new songs. But first, the composer wished to speak a few words.
I leaned toward Agnes to watch as, standing, he addressed the hall. His cheeks glowed with the blush of wine, and his arms made sweeping gestures, as when he lectured to his scholars.
“Crude and humble though they be, I hope these songs will please you all, especially Your Grace and My Lady,” Abelard said, bowing to the royal couple. “And, although I dedicate them to our king and queen, I ask that you share the dedication with another: with the most brilliant star in all of Paris—excepting myself of course.”
Laughter filled the room as my face filled with heat.
“Ladies and gentlemen: Allow me to introduce my Muse, the inspiration for the songs you are about to hear, and my most accomplished scholar besides. Heloise of Argenteuil, would you stand? Where is she? Where is Heloise?
”
“Stand,” Agnes hissed. “You must bow before the king and queen. Hurry! And step out from behind that column. You must be seen.”
Now I wished that I had not indulged my appetites, for my stomach turned at the necessity of presenting myself before all these people, especially in the too-tight gown I wore and with a mouth reddened by ocher and wine. The room fell silent as I dipped toward the floor, praying as I dropped that my breasts would not spill from my bliaut. When I rose, I met Abelard’s gaze and beheld an expression that I could not decipher. Did it displease him to see me so attired and adorned—or did it excite him?
When I returned to my seat, Agnes had taken it and refused to move. “This is your day,” she whispered. “You must be seen.” When the minstrel began to sing, however, I wanted only to slide under the table. Abelard’s new song declared his love for me to all who listened.
My reason for living: be kind to your faithful one.
Since all hope in my life resides in you.
I cannot say how much I love you.
Without you this life is night to me, and to live is death.
As Daurostre lifted his voice in my praise, repeating words I had read in Abelard’s letters, sweeter than honey and the honeycomb, Agnes arched one of her painted eyebrows. From somewhere, her father’s laugh rang out, evoking murmurs. At the table in front of us, a richly dressed woman with a heavily painted face turned and stared at me, then whispered into her husband’s ear. Meretrix, I read on her lips. I pressed my hands to my chest, covering myself.
When the song ended, cheers filled the room. A beaming King Louis lifted his henap. “Encore,” he commanded. “Sing us another of the poet’s enchanting songs.”
The minstrel cleared his throat, strummed his lute, and sang another, even more beautiful, song of despondency and love, one in which the poet begged Heloise of my heart to receive him and forgive his faults, adding, May the day’s risen light be the last that I see, if there lives a woman I could prefer over you. I felt a blush spread over my face and bosom as everyone in the court, it seemed, stared at me. In naming me as his beloved, Abelard had either honored me or shamed me, or both.
“Exquisite,” the king proclaimed, hushing the murmurs rolling like low thunder over the hall. “Delightful. Master Pierre, had not the bishop of Paris so wisely established you at the Nôtre-Dame School, we should bring you to court to write songs for us.”
Abelard, who had stood to acknowledge the applause, fell to one knee to offer his thanks. “I fear the results would disappoint you, Your Grace. Parted from my Muse, my font of inspiration would run dry.”
“I should like to dip my quill in her font.” A young knight sniggered with his friends. Not having heard him, Abelard frowned in confusion at the shouts that followed.
I turned to face the knights. “Sir, I take exception to your remark. To do that, you would need a proper quill. Your pinfeather would not suffice.”
Laughter flew like raucous crows through the hall. The nobles bared their teeth as if to devour me. “The lupa has captured her prey,” I heard someone say.
I lowered my eyes in shame—for didn’t lupa mean not only a wolf but also a prostitute?
“Is trading skins permitted in a canon’s home?” The fleshy woman in front of me spoke more loudly this time. “In exchange for the master’s parchment, Canon Fulbert’s niece offers the teacher her hide.”
“If Fulbert discovers the affair,” said her husband, “he will skin them both alive.”
12
Day after day I burn more for your love, while you grow cold.
—ABELARD TO HELOISE
When Daurostre had finished his performance and resumed his seat, and as the courtiers and nobles laughed down their noses and called me a whore—the women burning with jealousy, wanting the handsome poet for themselves, and the men livid with desire, wanting me—Abelard stepped down from the dais and crossed the great hall with his hand outstretched, beckoning, showing everyone whom he loved. He bowed to me—he, the great composer and teacher, honoring me—and then escorted me to the royal table.
“We have before us a living Muse, my lady!” King Louis said to the queen. “Which one of the nine might she be?”
“She would be none other than Erato, Your Grace,” Abelard said. “The Muse of love poetry.”
“Erato!” His Grace struck the arm of his throne, excited. “This marks the second time in as many days that we have heard that name.” Another poet, he said, had invoked Erato the previous evening while reciting a poem about Rhadine and Leontichus. I knew the tale from my studies in Greek: Rhadine, forced to marry, sailed away in sorrow to join her brutish husband in Corinth, leaving behind the man she loved. But soon Leontichus rode to her, and they resumed the secret meetings they had enjoyed in their own city. When Rhadine’s husband discovered their romance, he killed them both.
“Lovers make pilgrimages to their tomb,” I said, sending Abelard a daring glance and thrilling to see his gaze fixed on my chest. “They think that touching it will bring good fortune in love.”
“Ah, yes! Great fortune, indeed, to be murdered in one’s bed,” Abelard said. “Your Grace, I have changed my mind. Heloise is no Erato, after all, nor any other of the nine, but rather a tenth—a new Muse, inspiring poems about happiness in love.”
“We did not care for last night’s poem much,” the king said. “We do not enjoy tragedy, especially in our songs of love.” He patted the hand of his queen. “We are glad that the Muse Heloise does not inspire such unhappy tales.”
“As am I,” I said with a smile.
“What do you think?” Queen Adelaide said. “We have invited your poet to join our court, but he will not come without you. He needs his Muse.” Her lips made a secretive smile when she said the word Muse.
Your poet. Light filled my body. Abelard had declared himself mine, in the hearing of all. No one mocked me now; I stood with him before the Queen of the Franks. Her slanting eyes said, I know what you are doing with him. Queen Adelaide’s laugh rippled like a breeze.
I decided to give her a surprise. “If Master Pierre’s claim is true, he will be of no use to you in any case. He will lose his ability to write poetry a little more than nine months from now, when I depart for the Fontevraud Abbey.”
She did not gasp, as I had expected, but instead lowered her eyes. Her mouth drooped; she lost her queenly bearing. She reminded me of the paintings I had seen of the Virgin Mother, her face brimming with sorrow.
“To take the veil at such a young age—that ought to be a sin in itself,” she said. “God gave us the world in which to live, and the convent in which to die.”
I stared at her, remembering Agnes’s words to the same effect. What did either of them know of abbey life? Not as much as I. Yet, when I wanted to argue with her, I could think of nothing to say without an argument’s also springing to mind.
“But why despair over something that you cannot change?” The queen, having regained herself, lifted her henap in a toast. “Why not rejoice, instead, over what you possess? You have nine more months in which to love. That is more than many of us are given.”
Abelard and I rode home slowly, woozy from too much wine, starlight falling like snow on our shoulders. The warm September breeze caressed my bosom like a lover’s kiss; I yet wore Agnes’s gown, she being too occupied with her seigneur to help me change. I hoped my uncle would be asleep. I did not wish to feel his eyes upon my bare skin or endure his rage at seeing me so scantily attired. Abelard’s stare, however, roamed like fingers of heat over my cleavage; he could barely guide his horse.
“By God, are you the same girl?” he said when I tried, without success, to pull my mantle over my chest. “My plain little nun? My bookish scholar?” He slipped to one side, then shifted back into place, laughing and yanking the reins.
“If you thought me plain before, you have concealed it well.”
“You are far from plain, as everyone in the court now knows. All of Paris
would know it, as well, if you didn’t conceal your virtues with high necklines and dark fabrics.”
“I did not know that parts of the body constitute virtues. But I do know better than to argue with a drunken man.”
“Drunken, me? I do not become drunken, my little cabbage. I can drink an infinite amount yet remain as sober as a horse.”
“I imagine your horse would appreciate your being sober.”
“Heloise,” he said, slurring my name. “My beautiful Muse. ‘My stars, if you should ask, are two. I know no others; I declare them to be those starry eyes of yours.’ ” He sang, his rich baritone as loud as if he needed to fill King Louis’s great hall with it. “By God, I love you, Heloise.” He sighed. “My beautiful Muse.”
Now it was I who wanted to sing. Abelard had said it at last—he loved me! But then he slumped forward, his head drooping as though it were too heavy for his neck. He mumbled something unintelligible, and I felt my spirits plummet. He had spoken those precious words in drunkenness. Would he remember them tomorrow?
The horses stopped at my uncle’s house. I paid the lantern boy while Jean helped Abelard to dismount, averting his face from his breath. I wondered if Jean smelled wine on me, as well. The henap had passed more times than I knew as Queen Adelaide and I had talked. Abbey life, especially, fascinated her. Her parents, the Count and Countess of Savoy, had sent her younger sister to study at an abbey, where the girl had recently taken the veil.
“I always wondered what sort of life she led there, if she was happy.”
I thought of the girls I knew at Argenteuil, their haunted eyes. I must have appeared the same, abandonment stamped on my face like the mark of the beast. “One thing I learned in the abbey is this, my lady: happiness comes from within.” Even a king may live in misery, I pointed out. If possessions or power could make one happy, those men should be the most content of all.
“And yet you left Argenteuil behind. Inner happiness did not suffice for you.” Why, she asked, would I wish to return to that life? “God made the earth and all its treasures for our enjoyment. Can you hear the laughter of children in the convent, or an infant’s cry?” I wanted to cover my ears. “Can minstrels come to play their merry music, and may you dance? And what of love?” I wanted to place my hands over her mouth, anything to stop these questions.