The Sharp Hook of Love

by Sherry Jones

  I also told him of Petronille’s revelation that, had my mother chosen to do so, she could have taken me with her to Fontevraud. Now that Robert had revealed the truth I understood why she had not. Everyone, including Robert, would have known who’d sired me: a streak of white had fallen over his left eye, too, before all his hair turned gray.

  “When he extended his hands and called me ‘daughter,’ I could scarcely believe my ears. At first, I thought he must have mistaken me for one of his nuns. But the expression on Petronille’s face told me all: Robert of Arbrissel is my father.”

  “Hermits and monks,” Abelard said, smirking. “They are all the same.”

  I stiffened. His was the kind of remark my mother must have dreaded—and, surely, the reason she had relinquished me. “My mother loved Robert. She gave up everything, even her child, to protect him. She would not sacrifice his glory, not even for her own sake.” We hope to make a saint of him, Petronille had said to me again, escorting me to my horse at the abbey gate. Were our secret known, the Church would not even consider sainthood for Robert.

  “When he dies she will petition for sainthood, but no one thinks it will succeed,” Abelard said.

  I gasped. Did Robert yet live? He had appeared so close to the end when I had seen him last October.

  “I thought you knew,” Abelard said. “But of course, you would not have heard the news here.” After my visit, Robert had recovered his health—a miracle, it was said, and I could not disagree—and appointed Petronille as his abbess “with much hesitation and eyes full of tears, causing many to say that he would never have chosen her were your mother alive.” He had returned to preaching for several months but now lay deathly ill again in the infirmary at Orsan, Fontevraud’s priory in Berry.

  I lowered my eyes, thinking of Robert’s kindness to me, and the smile, filled with warmth, that had encompassed his face when he had recognized me as his own.

  “Even had you never been born, the Church would not canonize Robert,” Abelard said.

  “He has lived too much like Christ for the Church’s liking.”

  “Yes, and, like Christ, he is beloved of women.”

  I remembered how Robert had called me to him, wanting to hold me in his arms. Had he lain with my mother in the convent? I had dared not ask Petronille, for fear she might say yes.

  “Your uncle is convinced that scandal taints him, as well—and that your mother is to blame. He said that if our love becomes known, he will be ruined forever.”

  “If Uncle Fulbert wants the reason for his failure, he need look no farther than the flagon in his hand.”

  “But he will never admit to that.”

  “Non. Admitting the truth even to himself would be too difficult. He must blame someone else for his downfall. My mother is dead, so now he points his finger at us.”

  “Do you see now why we must wed? In Fulbert’s eyes, marriage would sanctify us. Otherwise, we are sinners—and I have corrupted your soul. I swear, Heloise, he will kill me if I do not make you my wife.”

  “He will not. Nor would I marry you, or anyone, at the point of a sword. To do so would mean a life of misery for you, me, and for our child. I would rather be your mistress—or even your whore.”

  11

  I looked for no marriage bond, no marriage portion, and it was not my own pleasures and wishes I sought to gratify, as you well know, but yours.

  —HELOISE TO ABELARD

  THE NÔTRE-DAME CLOISTER, PARIS

  OCTOBER 1116

  Ours was the most desolate of weddings, or would have been except for the presence of our friends. Agnes stood next to me, squeezing my elbow in sympathy. Etienne, conducting the sad ceremony, wore his ceremonial white robes, attempting to bestow dignity where grace was lacking—for what could be more disgraceful than a forced union? Etienne’s little chapel felt cozy and quaint during the daylight hours when sunlight streamed through its stained-glass windows, illuminating the fleurs-de-lis, acanthus leaves, and lions on the capitals supporting the ceiling’s many arches. Now, however, in the hour before dawn, the room felt gloomy and cold, the dimness of its lamplight only adding to my sense of doom.

  This marriage was a mistake. My uncle’s scowl as we entered the Saint-Aignan Chapel told me that, as I had argued, he would not be satisfied by a wedding conducted in secret, hidden from a world that honored hypocrisy more than love, and blind obedience more than thought. Uncle Fulbert had educated me, but only so that his star might rise with mine. Now that I had fallen, like Eve, from my exalted status, his eyes held only contempt. I averted my gaze, hiding my own feelings. Uncle Fulbert, not my mother, had abandoned me at Argenteuil. Had he forced her to take her vows? I wanted to spit in his face.

  “Ignore Fulbert,” Abelard whispered, seeing my hands’ tremor. “He cannot harm us now.” If only I could believe Abelard, my trusting one! Or, rather, I wish that he had heeded me and realized the danger my uncle posed to us both. Seeing Uncle’s hands clenched at his sides and rage compressing his features, I knew that Abelard had erred, and that I was in the right. This marriage would bring disaster upon our heads. My step faltered.

  I turned beseeching eyes to Agnes, who mistook the reason for my distress. “The gown is perfection,” she murmured, “and so are you.” Before the wedding, I had cringed to behold the gown my uncle had provided: the bloodred bliaut sewn for me to wear as Christ’s bride at Fontevraud. Yet, for this occasion, what could be more appropriate?

  I said nothing in reply, for all eyes rested upon me now. This wedding bade ill for Abelard and me, as well as our son. We might have lived happily outside the cloister, perhaps in a house on the Grand-Pont; crowds of people passing by day and at night would have made splendid company. The new bishop, Guibert—Galon had died during my absence—would have frowned at the arrangement, but he might have allowed it. As for Uncle, yes, he would have hated to think of me as Abelard’s mistress—at first. But the Parisian tongues would have ceased their wagging about us soon enough, as some other scandal erupted—a bishop found consorting with prostitutes, perhaps, or another priest forced to abandon his wife and children. Then, his ears no longing burning from the whispers about us, my uncle would have turned his thoughts elsewhere, as well.

  Mine had been a perfectly sensible plan. Why had I consented to this one?

  Why? Why? The question began to torment me as soon as we rode away from le Pallet, our child’s cries pummeling my heart. Why had I agreed to leave my only son behind, doing the very thing I had sworn I would never do? Perhaps Abelard’s constant entreaties had worn down my resistance, as soft water carves the hardest stone. He coaxed, wheedled, accused me of selfishness, uttered threats. He made promises that we both knew he could not keep. He ridiculed me, apologized, pretended to give up the fight, gave to me the most exquisite pleasures, and then, as I lay languid in his arms, tearfully begged me to do his bidding: “You possess the power to save me, or to destroy me.”

  When I pointed out that I had failed before to influence my uncle on his behalf, he said that, by bringing our child to Paris, I would oblige Uncle Fulbert to commit some public act against him. “We are friends again, Fulbert and I, thanks to my gifts of wine, my assurances that I can help him gain a higher position in the Church—I see your skepticism, but I have Etienne’s friendship, remember—and my promise to marry you.”

  “My uncle, contrary to your opinion, is no fool. These deceptions, while soothing him now, will in the end bring disastrous results.”

  “Marrying you would be no deception,” Abelard said as he lowered his head to touch his lips to mine.

  I, keenly aware of his determination to prevail over me, turned my head away. “I cannot marry you. To do so would spell your ruin. Who has ever heard of a married philosopher?”

  “Socrates wed Xanthippe.”

  “And he lived in misery.”

  “But I need suffer no harm should our marriage remain unknown.”

  “How long do you think my uncle will honor t
hat agreement? Tongues will wag the instant we arrive in Paris with Astralabe. If Uncle blames my mother’s indiscretion for his own failure, how much more vigilant would he be against any smear on my reputation?”

  “You have just made the perfect argument in favor of leaving our son with my brother and Denise.”

  “I would rather die than do so.”

  “And I will die if you do not. Heloise, listen—Fulbert doesn’t know about the child.”

  “You didn’t tell him?” My voice rose, disturbing our sleeping son. Abelard arose to go to him, but I leapt between him and the cradle. “You will not take my son from me.”

  “No one is taking him away. It is only for a short time, until everyone has forgotten about you and me, and we may do as we please again.”

  “Meanwhile, my son will forget about me. Your sister will tell him that she is his mother. By the time we return for him, he will not want to leave her. Is that what you desire?”

  “It will not be so long, my sweet, but only a few months. I promise you that.”

  So, having no more arguments to offer in the face of Abelard’s logic, I conceded to his plan. If he had not told Uncle we had a child, then for me to ride into Paris with Astralabe in my arms would only enrage him further. Would he take our son, as he had wrested me from my mother? Without my husband’s support, he might try. But, said Abelard, my uncle would be powerless to do so with Astralabe so far away, and in Dagobert’s care.

  I rode away from le Pallet that bitter morning with a tear-slicked face and my entire being already aching for our boy. Denise, standing with Dagobert on the drawbridge, emanated joy even as she bounced Astralabe in her arms as if to shake him loose from his cries. I wanted to leap from my horse and snatch him from her.

  Why, Abelard? Every hour of that long ride home I asked myself that question. Why had I left my child, born of my body and possessing a part of my soul, for even a few months? As Abelard and I rode, discussing a future with the three of us together, I noted that the shadows under his eyes had vanished, and his skin had regained its color. His leonine laugh, the self-assured toss of his curly head, the strut in his walk, all had returned, as well as his eyes’ lively glint. At night, although we slept in separate rooms—in lodgings much more satisfactory than the boatman had provided. He came to me to imprint his love on my body with hidden pleasures and whispered bliss. By the time we arrived at the Saint-Aignan Chapel, I had found my answer at last. I had left our child behind out of love for Abelard, and a desire to protect him from harm. Someday I hope that you will understand. At last, my mother’s wish had come true.

  Yet, I did not think myself like Mother. While she had relinquished me to that strange, dark abbey for many years, I had left my son in the care of family members, and for only a short time. It seemed, however painful, a small sacrifice. Abelard’s Sic et Non, when disseminated, might make him as famous as the saints. When that happened, he said, he might do anything he desired, even acknowledge me as his wife and Astralabe as our son. Until then, I would return to le Pallet from time to time so our babe would not forget me or, heaven forbid, think himself abandoned.

  A child needs no vows to bind himself to his mother in love; nor did Abelard and I require them from each other. Yet as he promised himself to me before God and our witnesses, I felt my dread lift. He said that he would love and cherish me forever, and for a single, exalted moment, I believed in him, and in us. O Abelard! Light of my days! I pressed his hands with mine and told him with my eyes all that I felt. His shining face mirrored mine.

  The strange, hushed ceremony finished, Agnes, Etienne, and my uncle embraced us and wished us well. I thought of the family that I could at last call my own and felt on my face a smile befitting a bride.

  “I shall see you soon enough, my dear,” Etienne said, holding my hands. “I have had Pierre’s apartment cleaned and decorated for wedding-night nuptials. I hope you both will dine with me at terce today—and the Canon Fulbert, as well,” he added hastily, seeing my uncle appear by my side.

  Uncle’s furrowed brow, his frowning mouth, the rigid set of his body, all told me that he wished to decline Etienne’s invitation. He hated Abelard; I had no doubt. However, the notion still flourished in his mind that the powerful Garlande brothers might assist him somehow.

  “We will come to dine, but my niece will return home with me after the meal,” my uncle said as he clamped his hand around my arm. “Every eye in Paris will be upon her now, every tongue flicking with scandal—scandal!”

  I sent Abelard a desperate look: Would he allow this? He frowned but said nothing as my uncle led me away.

  “But, Uncle,” I said as he pulled me toward the chapel door, “surely you do not object to our consummating the marriage that you demanded.”

  “Hush, you wanton,” he hissed. “Consummate your marriage? Hmph! Everyone here knows that you have already ensnared your teacher in your web of deceit and womanly tricks. He came to you a continent man, holy and pure, but you tempted him with your forbidden fruit.”

  “Is that truly what people are saying?” Heat spread across my face. “Have you heard it whispered that I enticed Abelard into my bed?”

  “I have heard much worse, you temptress. I did not believe it at first, but your detractor was very persuasive—very persuasive! He said, ‘Heloise could not help herself, being a daughter of that seductress Eve.’ ”

  “What man said this of me?” My cheeks burned. “Who would spread such slander?” Jean sprang to mind. Beneath his curtain of servility I had detected, more than once, a whiff of judgment. “As God is my witness, he is the one against whom you ought to seek revenge.”

  Uncle Fulbert’s laugh slithered in my ear. He slid his fingers up the soft inner part of my arm, then gripped me again so brutally that he bruised my flesh.

  “Revenge, yes, heh-heh! How I would have loved to hear your detractor beg for mercy—mercy! But, alas, he deprived me of that satisfaction today—by marrying you.”

  12

  To the imperiled boat not having the anchor of faith, [from] she who is not moved by the winds which fan your faithlessness.

  —HELOISE TO ABELARD

  If I was a “daughter of Eve,” as Tertullian had called all those of my sex, then Abelard was something worse: a true son of Adam, who, after freely partaking of the forbidden fruit, blamed Eve for his sin.

  “I said only what he wanted to hear,” he told me when, after an agonizing week apart, my uncle at last allowed me to go to him.

  Be a good girl, and obey your uncle, Abelard had whispered during our wedding feast at Etienne’s. Hold your tongue; take care not to anger him. He will forget this wound to his pride when he has gained the promotion I have in mind for him.

  I cared nothing about my uncle’s position or his pride, but I hid my true feelings for another reason. Abelard and I depended on my uncle’s complicity now—on his silence regarding our marriage. So I submitted to him despite the bile that arose whenever I considered what he had done to my mother, and to me.

  Stretched upon the bed where, after carrying me over the threshold, Abelard had laid me, I spoke not of the past but of the present. I told him what my uncle had said of him—that, accused of seducing me, Abelard had insisted I was to blame.

  He lifted his brows in mischief. “Do you truly think that I would degrade your character to your uncle, who loves you, and so increase his wrath against me?”

  I thought that Abelard would say, and do, anything to save himself, and I said as much.

  “Have you no heart?” He kissed my shoulder, my collarbone. “Do you not comprehend the depth of my love for you?”

  Was it love, I wondered, that had compelled him to take me in my sleep our first time? Had love inspired his songs that, sung far and wide, told the world of our sins? Yes, I’d enjoyed being known as mistress to the world’s most brilliant man. Every woman had envied me, and every man had desired me. All was vanity! But in my uncle’s eyes, Abelard had stolen my honor and
Uncle’s, as well. Like the first man, and all men who have followed, Abelard blamed a woman for his weakness.

  “Fulbert misunderstood me,” Abelard said. “I never blamed you for anything, but invoked Eve to deflect his ire.”

  “Deflecting it onto me.”

  “Not onto you, no, but your sex.” He struck his breast with his fists. “ ‘From the origins of the human race, beautiful women have ever brought the noblest of men to ruin.’ Clever, non?” He caressed my cheek, then moved his fingers to the soft skin under my ear. Pleasure rippled my blood. “And you are beautiful, Heloise—more so than ever now that motherhood has softened you.”

  My features may have softened; not so my powers of insight. “You have regained my uncle’s trust at my expense. He regards me as a meretrix.”

  “My meretrix.” Something flared in Abelard’s eyes. “And if you want to be paid, you wicked woman, you must lie still.”

  He touched his lips to the nape of my throat, sending shivers over my skin. He leaned into me, nudging me backward onto the pillows, cupping one of my breasts and rubbing his thumb across the nipple until I began to squirm. He unlaced my surcotte, slipped it off my shoulders and over my arms, then lifted my bliaut over my head. Melting under his attentions, I forgot about my uncle, about my yearning for our child, about my past, present, or future and all else save for the two of us, as alone together as though we were the first woman and the first man and no others existed. In all the world, only we remained: his serpent, and my fruit.

  PART THREE

  Caritas

  1

  Now at last I understand, sweetest, that you are mine with all your heart and all your soul.

  —ABELARD TO HELOISE

  THE NÔTRE-DAME CLOISTER, PARIS