by Sherry Jones
Why would I do so? Would they want to hear how Abelard had sharpened my wits and my tongue with the whetstone of his rigorous teaching? Did they desire to know how he had transformed me with his love from a shy, nervous mouse into a lioness shining with power? Would they rejoice at the one thousand blisses I had enjoyed in his arms?
“Master Petrus has taught me well,” I said.
With no confession from me, and from Etienne only a steadfast refusal to try Abelard until he might defend himself, Suger could only gnash his teeth and curse us both under his breath.
Bishop Guibert, on the other hand, took my uncle into his care, offering him lodging in his own palace. “It is the only place suitable for a man of your birth to live while you await your trial.” The bishop poured a cup of wine for my uncle from the flagon on the table. Of poor Jean, nursing his bleeding hands in the cold stone prison, no one said a word.
“Petrus is improved this evening,” Etienne said as he escorted me to his house, but worry furrowed his face. Some of Abelard’s students had entered Etienne’s hall that day, he said, wanting to tell Abelard of the rumors spreading like fire through the city—all of them cruel, and all untrue. “I forbade them to see him, for he needs to rest. But he will hear the slander against him somehow. God only knows how he will react.”
Abelard’s future and mine, as well as Etienne’s, I presumed, depended on the mercy of the Church fathers. “What rumors have you heard?”
What he said made me flinch: Abelard had fornicated with prostitutes and contracted a disease that he had given to me. He had fornicated with my uncle and me together, in the same bed. I had used my learning to conjure spells that drew him to me constantly and deprived him of his ability to resist . . .
To hear that scholars had slipped into Etienne’s house made me grind my teeth. What if someone less friendly had reached him? I longed to dismount from that horse and hasten to him. But the nearer we drew to Etienne’s house, the slower we moved, impeded by horses and riders, carts, and people walking in the street. Soon enough we saw the reason for our delay. Another crowd had gathered outside the house, not, this time, to call Abelard’s name and cry for justice, but to listen to him speak. From the open windows he proclaimed himself innocent of any wrongdoing and a victim of conspiracy and debased my uncle with the foulest of insults.
12
I would not want to give you cause for finding me disobedient in anything, so I have set the bridle of your injunction on the words which issue from my unbounded grief.
—HELOISE TO ABELARD
With a cry, I slid off the horse and began to run, heedless of the mockery and laughter pelting me like flung stones.
“Abelard! Tell them to let me in,” I cried. He did so and I, followed by Etienne, entered the gate and bounded up the stairs.
“Behold Heloise of my heart, whom I have made famous with my songs,” he called out as I joined him before the windows. “Does she appear diseased? Have I abused her in any way? Tell them, Heloise, that I am innocent. Why would I marry you, my scholar? Philosophy is my life, and, indeed, my wife.”
“Abelard,” I said quietly, “you must come away. This is not the time. You need rest.”
“How can I rest when all of Paris roils with lies and slithers with scandal?” he cried. “Are we married? Answer me, sic or non.”
I shook my head.
“Voilà! As I said, Canon Fulbert is a liar. He begged me to help him gain a promotion, and when he did not get it, he vowed to destroy me. But he has not destroyed Petrus Abaelardus—he has done the opposite. I am stronger than ever before!”
A great roar arose from the crowd as, with Etienne’s help, I pulled him away and closed the window.
“I have not finished.”
“Yes, you have,” I said, as we led him toward the bed. Once he had settled, Etienne went to call for a fire and our supper.
“Heloise, you would not believe what people are saying—about me, about you!” Abelard clutched my hand as though I could save him. “The truth is not enough for their filthy minds. We are accused of every sort of perversion, disgusting acts—”
“Yes, including many things we never thought to try. And I had thought us quite imaginative.”
“How can you jest?” He scowled. “Your uncle has destroyed my reputation, and yours.”
“I care nothing for the opinions of others, as long as you think well of me, and I think well of you.”
“Do you yet think well of me?”
“The best, sweetest. I love you beyond measure.”
He sighed and sank back into his pillow. “You still love me, even after . . . everything.”
“Of course I do. But you must not deliver any more lectures, not until we know what the bishop will do.”
“Etienne is the judge. He will favor me—”
“Bishop Guibert has excused him from your case, at Suger’s insistence.”
“Suger.” Abelard winced. “He hates me. Ever since that day in the court, when I laughed at his remark about ‘young girls.’ ” A moan fell from his lips. “God, Heloise, it hurts. I felt nothing while it happened, but now I am all on fire. And yet, there is nothing to feel. How can that be?”
I took the bottle of serum the healer had left behind and administered a dose to him. Relief spread over his face, and his grip on my hand relaxed.
“Amica,” he murmured, drowsy. Not amor. No longer “lover,” but, now, “friend.” Yet, what dearer name could I ask from him, the best friend I had ever known? Emotion crested like a wave and broke upon me. I could have sworn I was crying, but when I touched a finger to my eyes, they were dry.
Abelard slept. I sat near him, keeping watch lest he awaken in pain—needing more of the physician’s “elixir of oblivion,” as Abelard called it. For several days I remained by his side, desiring to relieve any discomfort, since I could do nothing to calm the storms of delirium that wracked him as he slept: his Non! like a clap of thunder, startling me, followed by unintelligible murmurs; his cries of Stop!; the toss of his head on the pillow, his perspiring brow; and then, the lightning crack: Heloise! Mon Dieu! My name screeched in my ears, a cataclysmic howl.
O Abelard! How patiently I waited those days and nights for his return to me, for his eyes glinting like starlight from under their insolent lids, for those soft, sweet lips curled like a question that I could not answer. When he did awaken, he only moaned for water, or for more of the serum. I offered him bread, soft cheese, meat, apples. He took only broth and a little milk. Look at me, I willed as I handed the bowl to him, and, as he returned it to me, Look into my eyes. Look! But, alas, he did not.
Even when he lay on his pillow and I sat on the bed beside him, holding his hand and waiting for the serum to take effect, he would not gaze at me as he once had done. If only I could see into those eyes again, feel their caress, dance in their light. Many years later, clinging to him as his life slipped away, I would remember those days and nights after his mutilation and shudder at my selfishness.
How could I have spared even one thought for myself while my Abelard suffered, robbed of his manhood and also of the glory that he so richly deserved? Already, Etienne told me, Bishop Guibert had appointed Abelard’s replacement at the school, at Suger’s urging. Abelard would be forbidden to teach, some whispered. His books would never be read.
The whole world, it seemed, hastened to condemn him, whom it never understood or even knew. Abelard loved me. No knife—nor instrument of any sort devised by man—could alter what we shared. We were husband and wife, bound to each other for life by our vows and by our son. When, now, would we go to Brittany for Atralabe? Yet I dared not ask. Just to think of mounting a horse would cause him distress.
When, after two weeks, Abelard had begun to move about again—even going to Etienne’s window to wave to the scholars who still gathered outside, waiting for news—Bishop Guibert and Suger came to see him. I tried to forestall them, saying he needed rest. The bishop hesitated, but Suger insiste
d they be admitted.
“Canon Fulbert has been expelled from the cloister and his manservant castrated,” he said. “It is time Petrus Abaelardus faced the consequences for his sins.” He lifted his upper lip as though the word itself gave off a rank odor.
“Being butchered in one’s bed does not suffice?” I forced him to meet my steady gaze.
“For another man, perhaps.” He narrowed his little eyes. “But Petrus has a unique facility for turning even the worst humiliation into triumph. We have heard of the speech he gave denying his guilt. He has not grasped the gravity of his situation, it seems. A master does not seduce his own scholar without repercussions.”
“He did not seduce me.”
Bishop Guibert folded his hands and lowered his eyes. “We wish only to ask Petrus Abaelardus some questions essential to our investigation.” Reassured by his quiet manner, I relented and went to prepare Abelard for visitors.
Although I found him sitting up in bed, surrounded by parchments and scribbling in a tablet, he slid down under the covers when I told him who had come. “Tell them I am unwell. I wish to see no one.”
“They know of your appearances in the front window, and the speech you gave yesterday,” I said. Hearing rumors that he would be replaced at the school, Abelard had accused Guibert of weakness, called Suger the “devil’s mouthpiece,” and encouraged his scholars to withdraw from classes in protest. The rousing cheers that had ensued surely resounded all the way to the bishop’s palace.
“Besides, I cannot refuse the bishop of Paris.”
“I have had a relapse.” His groan sounded insincere. “I want more of that serum.”
“Abelard, they are coming in. You may allow me to help you dress and greet them with dignity, or not.”
“I will remain as I am. Let them see for themselves how I suffer.”
With a sigh, I went to the kitchen to discuss the morning meal. I had hoped that Abelard might join Etienne and me at the table today, but he seemed determined to prolong his convalescence for as long as possible. My head ached at the thought of enduring his complaints and constant calls for even one more day. Astralabe in his infancy had not demanded so much care.
As I ordered a restorative soup for him and some greens from the garden, a servant entered the kitchen with a wax tablet in hand. “A letter has arrived from Master Abelard’s brother in Brittany. Shall I deliver it now or wait until His Grace and the monk have gone?”
I took it from him and went to the courtyard to sit and read what Dagobert had to say of our child, and when he might return to me. Two more weeks without him had passed, and the crack in my heart surely had widened.
Astralabe. My arms ached to hold him; I longed for the press of his soft cheek, the smell of his baby’s skin. Had Dagobert and Denise told him that his mother was coming for him? I will not be much longer, little one.
I broke the seal and opened the tablet to read the letter, which was disappointingly short. Denise will marry soon, and her husband does not wish the boy to accompany her to his household. Are you coming for him, as you said? My wife is with child again and cannot care for him. If he remains with us when Denise has departed, we must declare the boy abandoned and send him to a monastery.
I pressed a hand to my thumping chest and willed my legs to be still, for they would have run up the stairs to Abelard before his visitors had gone. Coveting le Pallet for their own sons, Dagobert and his pinch-faced wife would stop at nothing to ensure their inheritance—including making an oblate of their own little nephew. Even Denise, who supposedly loved him, would forsake our boy. None, it seemed, had room in their lives or their hearts for Astralabe.
Yet, was I any different? I had abandoned him first of all, his own mother who had given him life and ought to give him a home. I closed my eyes, remembering how I had cried for my mother at Argenteuil. Thinking that I had not been good enough for her, I made myself obedient in hopes that she would return. I became a shining star of goodness, placating the Reverend Mother Basilia, submitting to my uncle’s will, and, lately, considering Abelard’s happiness over my own. Now, however, my child needed me. In my never-ending desire to please others—and to protect Abelard—I had failed my son as my mother had failed me. I was her child through and through, as my uncle had said.
But I was also the child of Robert of Arbrissel. He had endured slander and speculation far worse than anything being said about Abelard and me, never straying from the path to which God had called him. He had sinned, yes, but had then atoned for that sin by building Fontevraud Abbey and placing my mother at its head—elevating her in the esteem of the world and, more important, in the eyes of God. Had he known about me, would he have helped me, as well? His sickbed plea, his stricken eyes, told me that he would have done so. Now it was time for me to find my father’s strength within myself and demand that our son come home to Paris. Astralabe needed me.
The servant came to say that Suger and the bishop had gone. I headed upstairs with the tablet in my hand, taking deep breaths in attempt to calm my jumping pulse. The brevity of the interview told me that the men had, indeed, presented only a few questions. Now I had more than a few of my own to ask.
Abelard lay in the same position in which I had left him, in bed, facing the empty fireplace, his back turned to the room. What had the bishop said? I asked. He merely grunted, expecting me, no doubt, to press him for details. But I had more interest in speaking than in listening.
“A letter arrived from your brother this morning.”
Abelard remained quiet for a long moment before turning onto his back, pushing himself to sitting, and asking to see the letter. He frowned when I handed it to him, remarking on its broken seal.
“I wanted news of our son,” I said, feeling myself flush and berating myself for it. Wasn’t I his wife? I had been within my rights.
He opened the tablet and read his brother’s note, then snapped it shut and closed his eyes. The servant entered the room. Dagobert’s messenger wished to know if he should wait for Abelard’s reply.
“No reply.”
I cried out, stopping the man as he turned to depart. “You must write something to him, Abelard. He will send Astralabe to a monastery.”
“He would never do so.”
“But he says that Astralabe is a burden. Our son, Abelard!”
The servant lifted his brows in surprise. I sent him away for the time being, telling him to offer the messenger something to eat while he awaited our response.
“Dagobert says we must come for him now.”
Abelard closed his eyes. “But of course, we cannot do so.”
I snatched away the tablet. “You think only of what you want.” I called for a blade and stylus.
“What are you doing?”
“If you will not reply, then I shall.” Blade in hand, I began to scrape Dagobert’s words from the wax. “I shall tell your brother to expect us within the month.”
“That is quite impossible.”
“Why?” I fumbled with the tablet; it slipped with a crash to the stone floor. With shaking hands I tried to put the pieces back together.
“Do you see? We are not meant to respond.”
“Do not be ridiculous,” I snapped. “Why can’t we go and retrieve our son? If you cannot make the journey, then send me with a servant as you did before.”
“That will not be. I am sorry, Heloise, but Astralabe must remain with my brother and his wife. We have no choice.”
“What are you saying?” I let the tablet fall at my feet. “I want my son. I insist that you write to Dagobert now and tell him so.” I called for another tablet.
“Have you forgotten?” Abelard gestured with his hands over his lap. “I, too, am broken, Heloise. Nothing is as it was before.”
“Do you think our son cares about that? Do you think that I care?” I sat beside him and took his limp hand between both of mine, then pressed it to my breast. “Abelard, look at me. Please, dearest. Look at your Heloise.”
The man came in with the tablet, which I took and thrust at Abelard. “Write to your brother,” I pleaded. “Tell him we are coming. Tell him that I am coming alone, and that he may give the child to me.”
Abelard shook his head.
“If you will not write to him, then I shall do so.” I took the stylus in hand.
“Give it to me.” Abelard snatched the tablet and stylus from me, then began to write, scratching into the wax, reciting his words as he did so. “ ‘Circumstances prevent my doing as you wish. We are unable to retrieve our son from your home, now or in the future.’ ” I cried out, but he continued to write. “ ‘We pray that you will keep Astralabe in your care and give him the love he needs. He is, after all, your nephew.’ ”
“What are you saying?” I tried to wrest the tablet from his hands, but enough of his strength had returned so that he easily pushed me away. “Non, Abelard,” I begged.
“I tell you, I have no choice in the matter. The bishop of Paris has commanded me to enter the abbey at Saint-Denis.”
“So he has not banished you from teaching?”
“Not as a teacher, Heloise. As a monk.”
“My God,” I whispered. “Abelard, no.” How often had we derided the monks we saw in the cloister, laughing at their glumly pious faces, their bellies made fat from too much poverty? Abelard, one of them? I could not imagine it, or his living out his days in silence at Saint-Denis, shut off from the world. The cloistered life had been all but unbearable for me, but it would kill Abelard.
“As my wife,” he continued, “Heloise will naturally do as I command. I have arranged for her to become a bride of Christ.”
I laughed, thinking that he must surely be jesting. “Have you asked our Lord for his assent? Surely he knows that I am already married to you.”