ALSO BY JAMES CARROLL
FICTION
Warburg in Rome
Secret Father
The City Below
Memorial Bridge
Firebird
Supply of Heroes
Prince of Peace
Family Trade
Fault Lines
Mortal Friends
Madonna Red
NONFICTION
Christ Actually
Jerusalem, Jerusalem
Practicing Catholic
House of War
Crusade
Toward a New Catholic Church
Constantine’s Sword
An American Requiem
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 James Carroll
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Nan A. Talese/Doubleday, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.
www.nanatalese.com
DOUBLEDAY is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC. Nan A. Talese and the colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Cover images: (archway) Mark Owen; (figures) Trevor Payne, both Arcangel Images
Cover design by Emily Mahon
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Carroll, James, [date] author.
Title: The cloister : a novel / James Carroll.
Description: First edition. | New York : Nan A. Talese/Doubleday, [2017]
Identifiers: LCCN 2017016952 | ISBN 9780385541275 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780385541282 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3553.A764 C58 2017 | DDC 813/.54—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017016952
Ebook ISBN 9780385541282
v5.1
ep
Contents
Cover
Also by James Carroll
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
A Note About the Author
For Julia
Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God; and every one that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God.
— 1 JOHN 4:7
Author’s Note
Quotations from Abelard’s The History of My Calamities, and from the letters of Abelard and Héloïse, are from the classic seventeenth-century rendition by the French Enlightenment figure Pierre Bayle, Letters of Abelard and Héloïse, which appeared in an English translation by John Hughes in 1782. Other quotations are from The Lost Love Letters of Abelard and Héloïse, edited and translated by Constant J. Mews; from Peter Abelard’s Collationes, edited and translated by John Marenbon and Giovanni Orlandi; and from a letter of Bernard of Clairvaux to Pope Innocent II, translated by Bruno Scott James. In these citations, I have taken some minor editorial liberties for clarity and style. Biblical quotations are from the King James Version or, to reflect mid-twentieth-century Catholic usage, the Douay-Rheims Bible. The anathemas from the twelfth-century Council of Sens are from Heinrich Denzinger, Enchiridion: Decrees of the Solemn Magisterium.
PROLOGUE
In the Duchy of Bourgogne in the year 1142, the largest church in Christendom stood on a hill above the tidy village of Cluny. That church, with its towering belfry, Corinthian columns, and massive rectangular pilasters, defined the pulse of the Benedictine Abbey of Cluny, a large walled complex itself the center of a vast monastic empire, counting ten thousand monks and nuns in foundations spread across the continent, from the Mediterranean to the British Isles. The sharply pointed Cluny belfry was visible for miles around, and had served, across the last phase of a long journey, as the locating focal point for the small band of horsemen that approached now, making its way up the final slope toward the monastery gate.
The palfrey on which a heavily cloaked rider sat, as it slowly ascended the hill, was a lighter-weight horse, and its unsteady gait suggested what a distance it had come. Trailing behind were four other ridden horses, and a hitched pair pulling a covered cart. The wind was howling from the valley spread below, and the sun was low at the distant ridge. The stout wooden gate banged open. The porter rushed out, going to the first horse, to take its headstall and stirrup. In a bustle of activity, others of the minor orders followed from within the monastic enclosure—the almoner, oblates, and lay brothers. A knot of black robes, they surrounded the riders and the cart. With the porter’s help, the first rider dismounted, throwing aside the covering woolen mantle, and being seen only then for the religious woman she was. The porter bowed, showing his tonsure, muttering, “My lady.”
Two others in the party were religious sisters, clothed, like the first, in a long gray belted tunic, scapular, white coif, and veil. Except that the fabric was the gray of rough, undyed wool, the garb was the habit of the Benedictine Order. They were nuns.
The party’s six accompanying men were the horse master, the marshal, two armed henchmen, and two stewards. As the first nun, walking erect and at an authoritative clip, led the way through the gate, the receiving monks bowed, even while stealing glances at her sharply concentrated face. With whispers, they had spoken of this arrival, although this woman of slight stature and medium height did not match the measure of the songs sung in her name. She was the Abbess Héloïse, Mother Superior of the Abbey of the Paraclete, a ranking convent several days’ journey by river and rough trail to the north. In those whispers, they had spoken of what she would be coming for. There would be further songs.
The porter had been instructed to show her at once into the main Cloister garden, to which women were ordinarily forbidden entrance, but the instruction had come from the Abbot Primate himself. At this time of year, the garden was still bare of fruit and berries, but twigs shone with the fresh scales of buds and shoots. The waters of the central fountain, drawing on the stream that ran below the monastic kitchens and toilet block, had quickened in recent weeks, but would not splash again until the coming spring rains replenished the flow. The normally bright marble of the arches and pillars of the surrounding arcade was dusky gray now, for the shadows of evening had settled on the place, like loneliness. The Vespers bell would be ringing soon.
The porter gestured at a garden bench, but did not wait to see if Mother Héloïse would sit. She watched him hurry away, as relieved to be alone as, after the day’s ride, she was to be standing.
It was not long before the Abbot Primate entered, coming from the chapel. Because his cowl was up, his face was shadowed. Across his chest was the leather strap of a pilgrim’s satchel, hanging at his side. The unfettered stride with which he crossed to her suggested the depth o
f feeling she knew was there. His arms were stretched toward her, but as he drew close, she genuflected, a proper obeisance. With her head bowed, she reached for his hand, pulled it to her mouth, and kissed his ring. Grasping her upper arms, he lifted her. He lowered his cowl, unveiling sadness.
“Where is he, Most Holy Father?” she asked.
The Abbot Primate turned slightly, gesture enough to indicate the Chapter House, the darkened room, close at hand, separated from the garden by a large arcaded gate of three stout arches, each one upheld by a clutch of fluted pillars. Mother Héloïse peered into the room. Under the interlacing of groined ceiling vaults, the open space was large enough to accommodate the professed members of the monastic family, with each monk sitting at the wall, on the stone bench that defined three sides of the rectangle. Now the room was vacant, but as her eyes adjusted, she made out the dark form of the catafalque standing in the center. She should have sought the Abbot Primate’s leave to move away from him, but did not. Instead, she simply walked out of the garden, crossing through the arcade, to enter the Chapter House, going directly to the one for whom she’d come.
Leaves of lavender and woodruff, and dried rose petals, were scattered on the floor; pots of rose water stood at the four corners of the bier; but still the fetid odor of his decomposition came to her. He was clothed in his black habit, and his hands were hidden under the folds of his scapular. But the sight of his sharp-featured face, with its distinctive brow and aquiline nose, made her stop. Oh, Peter.
Lifeless, yes. But also old. He had come into his seventh decade, yet she still thought of him as they had been before. The lids of his eyes were down, but his lips were slightly parted, the lips from which the most precious words had pierced her, the lips with which her own had been so sweetly caressed. His lips. She bent to them, touched them lightly with her cheek, then put her mouth on his. Oh, my Peter.
The Abbot Primate took up a place behind her. To her back, he said quietly, “When I sent for you, I assumed he would still be alive at your arrival. I am sorry.” He waited.
When, finally, she turned to him, she said, “They condemned him because of me.” Her voice was shot through with feeling, a mix of grief and anger. “Because I refused to renounce my love; because he remained mine through all calamity. I will publish his virtues across all the world, to punish the age that has not valued him.”
“It is true, Mother. They hated him for what he had in you. But he opposed them in their vain repudiations of God’s mercy. By the end, he was the exemplar of mercy. That is what he had from you. Mercy. Against all charges leveled at you, the measure of your love was mercy, not licentiousness.”
“He disowned our promiscuity. I did not.”
“He did what was necessary to keep his authority—as you yourself wanted. You flogged him with your writing, to re-enter the fray. And he did.”
“But look!” Her hand swept across the corpse. “What authority has he now? They betrayed him, all of them.”
“Not all.”
“You, my lord, were his only friend.”
“No, dear Mother. Many, many loved him.”
“Where were they, then? When the Damnamus was pronounced, and pronounced again, where was a hint of objecting murmur?”
“You were not there, Mother.”
“But I was.”
The Abbot looked at her aslant, as if to diagnose derangement. “Impossible. A Canonical Council? No women were present.”
“Enthroned beside King Louis? Does your monkish vow prevent even the perceiving of the female form?”
“The Queen? Yes, the Queen was there. Pro forma. But otherwise—”
“And the Queen’s party, the Ladies-in-Waiting, in the loggia, nearly out of sight.”
“Ladies-in-Waiting?”
With a half-curtsy, the nun mocked herself.
“You? A consecrated woman among the courtiers?” The Abbot checked his first reaction, and smiled. This Héloïse was indomitable.
“Disguised as the widowed cousin of Her Majesty,” she said. “A consecrated woman dressed, illicitly, in the mourning clothes of a widow. But a widow is what she is.” Héloïse turned back toward the bier, perhaps in part to face away, as she said then, “In the hour of his great test, I would not abandon him—unlike the others. It was as close to him as I could be. If the Abbot Primate is obliged to censure an undisciplined religious woman, so be it.”
“Mother, what the Abbot Primate does not know, the Abbot Primate is under no obligation to censure. I know nothing of the Queen’s Ladies.”
“Queen Eleanor, as you do know, is a patroness of the Paraclete.”
“Her Majesty is a devotee of the storied niece of Canon Fulbert. Your former notoriety defines her interest.”
“Not ‘former,’ ” the nun said, but quietly.
The Abbot Primate continued, “The Queen cares only for romance, nothing for theology. And at the Council of Sens, theology was at issue.”
“Romance and theology, Father. Only eunuchs would think they are unrelated.” Mother Héloïse raised her hand, a fist. Then she checked herself, biting her knuckles, letting her eyes fall again to the face of the dead man before her. “Despite what they had done to him because of me, and despite his palsy, Peter Abelard was the only one in that large nave with manliness. The only one, I mean, besides you.” She raised her eyes. “Your bold statement rang like the Word of Jehovah.”
“I could not save him. All I could do, as his canonical superior, was confirm his appeal to the Roman Pontiff, and guarantee it.”
“An appeal that was then promptly denied. The Pope excommunicated him, burned his books in front of Saint Peter’s Basilica, condemned all those who dare to follow in the way of Peter Abelard. Anathema sit! The greatest man in Christendom!”
“Yes. All of which I then myself appealed, with Peter’s approval. The Pope is reassessing, even now. I succeeded in getting Clairvaux to second my petition.”
“Bernard! That false prophet! It was he who betrayed Peter.”
“Yes. But he is remorseful. His support will help Pope Innocent overturn himself. The excommunication will be lifted. Now, more than ever, I will see to that.”
“But again, I ask: if so many others loved him, where were they when Clairvaux led that chorus of Damnamus?”
“Afraid. They were afraid, Mother. The winds from Rome are fierce. And not only Rome.” She knew this, of course. Peter Abelard, by the end, was tied by his enemies to the restlessness of the schools, but rowdy boy-geniuses were the least of it. Abelard and the thinking he promoted were blamed for the rebelliousness of burghers; he was faulted, even, for the deceptions of the Jews. In those days, princes challenged bishops; but, then, yeomen challenged princes. Peasants, obviously, would be next. Order was shaken—inside the Church, but outside, too. The King’s sworn duty was to restore that order—everywhere. Fierce winds, therefore, blew from his palace, too. The savvy Abbess understood. Alas, she had not understood soon enough. Yes, she had flogged him to re-enter the fray, entirely underestimating how lethal such an action might be.
She said, “Peter Abelard was an apostle of caritas, yet he was damned.”
“The excommunication will be lifted,” the Abbot said forcefully. “I will make it happen. Then the gates of heaven will be opened to him, we will be authorized to inter him in sacred ground, and we will do that here at Cluny.”
“No! I will have him at the Paraclete. I will have him with me. It’s why I’ve come. Any ground that receives this man will be sacred.”
The Abbot Primate began to object, but she raised her hand again, stopping him. He stared at her. She did not blink. Finally, he lowered his eyes. One of the most powerful men in Christendom—yet he yielded to this woman.
“As for tonight,” she said, “I will not have this Chapter House plunged into darkness. I want torches here until Matins. And the paschal candle.” The dynamic between Abbot and Abbess had reversed. Each saw it; each assumed it. “I want water brought in,�
� she continued. “Heated water, and cloths. Incense. And scented oil. I will bathe him.” The Abbot Primate bowed. She added, more quietly, “And perhaps a mat. Bundled straw will do.” She would not be leaving him.
“Yes,” the Abbot said.
“I will depart with him tomorrow, at first light. I will need fresh horses. He will be mine, at last.”
After a long silence, the Abbot pulled back the flap of his leather satchel and withdrew a sheaf of beribboned vellum sheets. He said, “Peter asked me to return these to you.”
Mother Héloïse received the bundle solemnly, knowing at once what it was. Her letters, all that she had written him. Once, Peter had said that it was womanly to save such letters, implying he never would. Yet he had.
And then the Abbot produced another pair of bundles. “These also. His Credo, a last explanation of himself.” Solemnly, he handed her the sheaf. “And one other…” He held the second, hesitating. “An unfinished treatise, what he called Dialogue with the Jew. I alone have read it. Guard these words—”
“Peter was never guarded with words.” Héloïse received the pages, but she was bristling.
“Guard these words, Mother! Clairvaux’s dark angels are everywhere—spies!—even here at Cluny. He joined with me in the petition to Rome only because he thinks he has heard the last from Peter Abelard. This treatise must not be published! They condemned him once because of the Jews. They will again.”
“Jews are being attacked, murdered. If Peter wrote of Jews now, despite the Council’s Damnamus, it was to defend our Lord’s own cousins, for was Jesus Christ not a Jew?”
“Mother! There are reports of Jews slaughtering Christian children, to get their blood.”
The Cloister Page 1
