The Sharp Hook of Love

by Sherry Jones

  What had happened to him? Jean had not taken the time to say. A fall down the stairs after his nightly flagon seemed most likely, or a tumble from his horse. In my time with him I had come to expect that he would suffer some such tragedy, being consumed by wine, and reeling in vision, and stumbling in judgment. Why had I never admonished Uncle or expressed my concern for his well-being?

  Now that his end was near, he had summoned me to his side. Would he repent of treating me so harshly? If so, I would readily forgive him. In fact, I should do more and beg his forgiveness. Yet I knew that I would not do so. For, in spite of the judgments of men, I never felt a speck of remorse for loving Abelard, the other half of my soul, with all my heart and, yes, body. Never did I feel closer to God than in the circle of my beloved’s arms.

  We arrived in Paris in less than an hour, perhaps even half an hour’s time. As we slowed of necessity to a canter, then a walk, I gazed around at the city I loved. The noise of the children, the cries of the vendors, the rattle of cart wheels, the gurgle and splash of the Seine, the clopping of horses’ hooves: all were as music to my ears after three weeks of uneasy silence broken only by the song of the abbey choir. The air, pungent with the smells of manure, dogs, rotting meat, baking bread, lavender, roses, smoke, ash, rain, even human feces and urine, exhilarated my senses in contrast to the dulling reek of incense at Argenteuil and, beneath it, the dank linger of mildew.

  I took deep breaths, relishing the light snow on my face, the heat and prickle of the horse’s flanks, the throb of my own heart in time to the pulse of life. I had come home to stay. I would never return to Argenteuil.

  We entered the cloister gates and headed toward my uncle’s house, not along the streets but, to my surprise, through the narrow, hidden alleys. Soon I heard a shout, followed by more voices, and looked to the right to see four men on horseback racing toward us, their faces grimly set. With a cry for me to hold tightly to him, Jean brought down his whip, sending the horse into a sudden run. Down the alley we sped, kicking loose piles of garbage; narrowly avoiding a flock of chickens pecking at scraps; scattering rocks, splattering mud. Then another horseman appeared in our path, and we halted so suddenly that I went tumbling over, off the horse and onto the icy street.

  Dazed, I looked up at Jean, expecting to reassure him that I was unhurt, but his eyes had fixed on the men on horseback who now surrounded us.

  “Apprehend him,” someone said. Two men jumped to the ground and ran to Jean, then grabbed his kicking legs and pulled him off his horse. Someone clutched me from behind and lifted me to my feet, then, holding me by both arms, shoved me forward, toward the group that had pursued us.

  “I have no money,” I said. “Neither does he. Not even a single coin. Please, release us. My uncle—”

  “Silence!” I stared at the red belts of the men who surrounded us—not thieves, after all, but the cloister’s own gendarmes. My captor tied my hands behind my back and, taking me by an elbow, led me along with Jean toward the Saint-Denis-du-Pas Chapel.

  “Jean, what is happening?” I said to him, but he would not reply or even look at me. “Please, there has been some mistake,” I said to my captor. “You must let us go. My uncle—”

  “Silence!” roared the man again, and tightened his grip, bruising my arm. Seeing my wince, Jean turned eyes to me that brimmed with tears.

  “You must do as they say. For your own sake, I beseech you.”

  “Did you hear my friend call for silence?” snarled the man who held Jean. He lifted a booted foot and kicked Jean in the behind so forcefully that he fell to his knees. “I ought to push you all the way down and strangle you in the mud. But for what you have done to Monsieur Abelard that punishment would be too light.”

  “Abelard? What does he mean?” The gendarme holding me jerked my arm so abruptly that I cried out. “Please, monsieur. I have just arrived in the cloister and do not know anything. Has something happened to the headmaster?”

  “We soon will find out what you know, and what you do not,” the man said.

  Inside the chapel, on cushioned chairs, sat Bishop Guibert and the monk Suger, whose roaming gaze seemed to penetrate my clothes. My skin crawled as though spiders scuttled over my body.

  “We have captured the assailant,” the provost said, pushing Jean forward so roughly that he stumbled. The word assailant clanged in my mind like dissonant bells, obscuring all else that he said.

  “Jean,” I cried, “what have you done?”

  “No more and no less than he deserved,” Jean said, but he would not meet my eyes.

  The bishop sent him from the room, then turned to me. “What wrong has Master Petrus done to your uncle that he would command such a violent act?”

  “Of what act do you speak? What has happened to Abelard? Is he alive?”

  “He lives,” Guibert said.

  “At this moment, he may wish he were dead,” Suger said with a grin.

  “Canon Fulbert’s temper is widely known, but you, Heloise?” Guibert’s expression was grave. “What is your part in this terrible crime?”

  “Terrible crime?” My voice rose. I looked from the bishop to the monk and back again. Neither answered, waiting, apparently, for me to confess something. “I do not know what you mean. Please tell me: What has happened to Abelard? Where is he?” My only love, injured at my uncle’s behest? I would have turned and run from these men and their accusing eyes, their pointless questions, were it not for the ties binding my wrists and the gendarme who guarded the door.

  “Petrus lies in his bed, groaning and mutilated, and will remain there for a long while,” Suger said. “You will have ample opportunity to comfort him after you have told us all that you know.”

  “I took refuge in the convent at Argenteuil weeks ago. I know nothing of any attack.”

  “Why, then, were you riding with Jean, the doer of the deed?” Suger reminded me of a viper snapping its jaws.

  “He came to fetch me. He said my uncle had been injured and was calling for me.” Suger narrowed his eyes, skeptical, but confusion shadowed Guibert’s face.

  “The men who assisted Jean fled to your uncle’s house. One of them returned to us and confessed, and the other we found hiding in Canon Fulbert’s storeroom. We have not apprehended Canon Fulbert, but we will do so. Perhaps you know where we may find him?”

  “As I have told you, I know nothing.”

  “Give her to the gendarmes,” Suger said to the bishop. “She will confess to them soon enough.”

  “Please, Your Grace, I wish only to see Abelard. I beg you to take me to him, or to release me so that I may go to him.”

  “Do not be deceived by this woman, Your Grace,” Suger said. “She feigns heartbreak, but where are her tears? Why did Jean bring her to Paris from Argenteuil?”

  “Why not ask that question of Jean?” I said.

  “I would like to know why you were living at Argenteuil, instead of with Canon Fulbert,” Guibert said.

  I paused, considering whether I ought to tell him the truth. Having sworn to keep our marriage a secret, however, I could only bring myself to reveal part of my tale. “Master Petrus took me there to escape my uncle’s abuse. Uncle Fulbert had grown increasingly harsh with me. I lived with him in fear.”

  “And why did he deal with you so cruelly? Could it be that you deserved the treatment you received?” Suger asked.

  “I did not,” I said, returning his accusing glare with a level gaze.

  At that moment, the door opened and two gendarmes hauled Jean back into the room. I gasped at the bruises on his face and stripes of the whip, oozing blood, on his bare back. But he would suffer much worse that day.

  “He says Canon Fulbert ordered him to do it,” one of the men said. “Fulbert held his wife hostage.”

  “Where is Canon Fulbert now?” the bishop asked.

  “I do not know, Your Grace,” Jean said in a slurring voice. His head drooped from his limp neck like a wilting flower. “My instructions were to
meet him with the lady at his house.”

  Suger turned triumphant eyes to me.

  “For what purpose?” Guibert said.

  “I do not know, Your Grace. I fear that he planned to do her harm. He was—he was obsessed with Heloise.”

  My stomach turned.

  “And what did the lupa think of that?” Suger licked his lips. “All of Paris knows of her wantonness. Have you heard Petrus’s songs about her?”

  “She is no lupa, but a married woman.” Jean’s voice rose and his skin reddened. “A virtuous woman, as well, even if she has that scoundrel for a husband.”

  “Married?” Guibert arched his brows. “To Petrus?”

  “Has a teacher—nay, the headmaster of our school—taken to bed his own scholar?” Suger said. “How disgusting.” He leered at me. “Who seduced whom?”

  “He moved into our house and made himself her teacher, then forced himself upon her,” Jean said.

  I stared at him, barely able to comprehend what he said.

  “But Petrus has taken a vow of continence.” Guibert’s frown caused me to lower my gaze.

  “And so, you attacked Master Petrus at the uncle’s command—and with his wife’s permission?” Suger said, his voice now gentle, as if to coax from Jean the answer he wanted.

  “She knew nothing of it. If she had, she would have run to his side. I never saw a woman more in love—or a man less deserving.” A sob escaped Jean’s lips. “Please forgive me, my lady. I had no choice in what I did, but I did it with pleasure. He is not good enough to kiss your feet.”

  When the gendarme had taken the quivering, crying Jean out the door again, the bishop ordered my hands untied. As I rubbed my wrists, he apologized for my treatment. “This heinous act has thrown us all into confusion.” He gave me permission to go. I dipped low to kiss his ring and thanked him for his kindness—and then, as he was about to turn away, I asked again what calamity had befallen my husband. Instead of answering, the bishop cleared his throat. A flush spread like fire across his face and neck.

  Suger, however, seemed eager to answer. “Who would have surmised that the drunkard Fulbert would prove to be such a . . . man? He has outstripped us all with his magnificent feat.” Suger’s eyes, gazing at some far-off delight, held me transfixed as I waited for him to finish. “ ‘An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.’ With his servant’s blade, Fulbert has cut off the instrument of your husband’s dishonor.”

  By now, Suger could barely restrain himself from laughing. “Petrus Abaelardus is gelded. He will not sin again.”

  8

  Is it the general lot of women to bring total ruin on great men?

  —HELOISE TO ABELARD

  How would I reach Abelard when all of Paris blocked my way? Canons, clergy, students, servants, merchants, husbands, wives, and children pressed against Etienne’s gate, shouting and exclaiming, impervious to my efforts to push through, ignoring my pleas for passage.

  “Please, he is calling for me,” I said, but the group of scholars in front of me only laughed.

  “He might have done so before, but not anymore,” one of them said, prompting laughter all around.

  “Who is she?” someone asked.

  “Heloise,” I heard another say. “His whore.”

  “Master Petrus can’t do anything for you now, sweetheart,” the first youth said. “But I can.”

  Someone groped at my tunic; I felt a hand on my bottom. I cried out in protest, but who could hear me over the chants and calls of the crowd?

  “There he is!” I shouted. “Master Petrus—I see him coming.”

  As the youths stretched their necks to see, I took advantage of their distraction to plunge more deeply into the crowd. Yet the gate seemed no closer than before. I could barely glimpse its brown stones, or the windows of the large house behind it—which, as I watched, opened to reveal Etienne in his alb and bejeweled stole of red.

  “I beg you to leave us,” he called over the din. “The magister has been grievously injured, perhaps gravely so. He needs rest. Please depart and allow him some peace.”

  Gravely injured? I raised my voice, adding it to the noise, wishing for wings so I could fly up and over the obstinate crowd, through Etienne’s window. My mind’s eye pictured Abelard pale and bleeding, seeping life, in need of my comfort. I strained, again, for the gate as the few who heeded Etienne’s words began to trickle away.

  But then one of the unruly scholars grasped my tunic and yanked me backward, into his arms. “Where are you going, Heloise? Do not leave us, my beauty. Your lover has nothing for you.” He clamped an arm around my waist and, with his free hand, pressed between my legs.

  I struggled, my heart throwing itself against my rib cage, my elbows flailing, trying without avail to strike my captor. Laughing, he nuzzled my neck. I waved my arms, hoping to draw Etienne’s eyes—but, shaking his head at our refusal to disperse, he reached out to close the window.

  “Etienne!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Etienne, it is I, Heloise! Etienne! Let me in, please!” He heard not a word over the shouts coming from the crowd, but continued to pull the window shut.

  “Heloise!” a man shouted. “It is Heloise, his lover!”

  “Heloise of his heart,” another cried, referring to Abelard’s song. “Let her pass!”

  “Abelard’s seductress,” called a man’s gruff voice. “Canon Fulbert’s niece.”

  “Her uncle’s man did the deed. Heloise is to blame for this crime!” Angry faces turned my way. Someone—my assailant, perhaps—snatched at my chemise, tearing the sleeve. I screamed again, shouting Etienne’s name with all my might.

  Alerted by the commotion, Etienne paused, looked over the crowd, and spied me at last. “Release her!” his voice boomed over the melee, drawing everyone’s attention. He glared at the youth who, laughing, yet clasped me to him. In an instant, all hands fell away and I was free—but surrounded, now, by dark and murderous faces, the scowls of people who, loving Abelard, blamed me for his injury.

  “Heloise, come to the gate,” Etienne called. “All of you—clear a path! Allow her to pass unmolested. I am watching and can see everything from here. If any of you lays even a finger on her person, I will have you arrested on the spot. Come, Heloise! Pierre needs you now.”

  Slowly the crowd parted and I made my way to the gate, keeping my head down, not wanting to see the angry looks that I knew would assail me. Reputation is the first of all things to abandon the unfortunate.

  “Daughter of Eve,” a man snarled as I passed. I kept my eyes upon my feet lest anyone see my blush. Just as the first woman had brought about the downfall of the first man, so had I caused Abelard’s ruin. These people blamed me for what had happened to Abelard, and they were not entirely wrong to do so. My face burned as I remembered the letter I had written complaining that Abelard had abandoned me and begging Uncle for rescue.

  “Meretrix,” I heard someone mutter as I passed. How, in that moment, could I disagree? Now I must pay the price for my error, no matter how high. If the rumors about Abelard’s injury proved true, nothing I might do would atone for what I had already done.

  Yet, amid the anger and insults, I also found compassion in the crowd.

  “The poor girl,” I heard a woman say, “behold her trembling. She loves him.”

  And, also: “Why would her uncle do such a thing? Did he want her for himself?”

  My hand reached for the gate latch, but it opened before me. I lifted my eyes to see, not Ralph, but a gray-haired servant whose kind expression made me lower my gaze again, unable to bear his mercy.

  “My lady.” The familiar voice drew my attention as I was about to step through the gate, and I looked around to see Pauline, her large eyes luminous and moist. She gripped my hand, causing me to wince in pain.

  “Pauline! Why have you come?”

  “I am looking for Jean.” A tear slipped down her face. “Have you seen him? No one can tell me where he is.”

  The s
ervant rattled the gate. “Young lady, will you enter?”

  “I must go,” I said to her. I placed my hand on her arm. “Pauline, Jean has been arrested and is with the bishop in the Saint-Denis-du-Pas Chapel.”

  “With the bishop!” She squeezed my hand more tightly. “What will they do to him? Please, you must help us.”

  “After what he has done?” I shook my head.

  “For our son.” I stared at her, uncomprehending, and she added, “Jean-Paul is missing. I cannot find him anywhere.”

  “Please, miss,” the servant said. “Make haste, or the mob will try to come in.”

  I tugged at Pauline’s hand, pulling her through the gate with me. I would talk with her after I had seen Abelard.

  The servant led us into the house, where Etienne greeted me with a kiss. “I did not realize that you had come,” he said. “I sent a servant to Argenteuil for you.”

  “Jean brought me home. Where is Abelard?”

  “Jean?” Etienne scowled. “So that is why my men did not capture him. Where is he now?”

  “He is in the bishop’s custody. Where is Abelard?”

  “Fortunate fellow, that Jean—he will get a trial.” Some of Abelard’s scholars, Etienne said, had captured the men who had assisted Jean—Etienne’s own servants, including the sneering Ralph—and blinded and gelded them in the street.

  “They would have done worse to that traitor Jean. God damn him!” Etienne said, surprising me with his vehemence. He made a fist. “Had those boys captured him, I would have wielded the knife myself, and with pleasure.”

  I could not help staring. Was this truly Etienne, my kind friend? Hearing him, Pauline uttered a cry, drawing his attention. I introduced her, then asked again where I might find Abelard. He rested in Etienne’s own bedchambers, he said, next to the hearth. “The physician said we must keep him warm. He shivered for hours after the attack.”

  I hastened into the room, trembling all over myself, wanting only to comfort Abelard. Dear God, forgive me for betraying him. As soon as I entered the room, however, he turned his back to me, and his face to the wall.