The baby remained calm while Peter enacted rubrics and said prayers, but then let out the inevitable shriek when Peter dipped him three times into the holy but frigid water. The child’s cries bounced off the stone walls and echoed down from the womblike ceiling. Peter’s voice, in pronouncing the sacramental formula, overrode the cries: “Ego te baptizo in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” Hearing this, the child quieted, as his father went on to bestow his sacramental name by plucking a line from the Gospel of Matthew: “Tu es Petrus”—Thou art Peter—Peter Abelard declared, lifting the dripping child high above his head, “and the gates of hell shall not prevail against thee.”
The child wailed once more, as if dangers implied by the prophecy registered, and Lucille stepped forward to take him. With the help of Marcus, she efficiently wrapped him again in soft woolen apparels. Comforted, the baby fell silent. Attention centered on Peter Abelard, as all awaited the concluding prayer, but, still in his preacher’s voice, he announced, “And now…Kairos tou poiesai to Kyrio—the appointed time for the Lord to act—one other sacrament, at this intersection with eternity.” He turned to Héloïse.
“Meaning what?” she asked carefully.
Peter was shrugging off the white vestment, down to his black habit, but his eyes never left hers. “Matrimonium sanctum. We have our witnesses. We have the blessing of God, who made us as we are. We have each other.”
Héloïse shook her head. “Kairos is the action of the Lord, not of men.”
“The Lord acts through men, dear Héloïse. What else does our new theology mean?”
As he stepped to the altar and folded the vestment there, Héloïse exchanged a look with Lucille, who, with Marcus, was smiling benignly. Their children calmly looked on, enraptured by the glad solemnity they were witnessing.
Héloïse, understanding, faced Peter. “We have no celebrant but you,” she said.
Peter laughed loudly, and so did his sister and her husband. “My being in Orders is irrelevant,” he said. “The ministers of matrimony, as you well know, are the woman and the man themselves. The form and the matter belong to us. An illicit sacrament, perhaps, but nevertheless valid.”
When he took her hand, she let him.
His eyes were intent upon hers. He said with grave deliberation, “Having long ago betrothed myself to you, I now offer this sign of my earnest pledge…” He turned briefly to Marcus, who placed something in his hand—a golden ring. Peter continued, “…if you freely receive me as your husband.”
For a long moment, Héloïse said nothing. Peter’s hand, with the ring, remained suspended between them, awaiting her finger. But Héloïse did not supply it. Instead, she turned to Lucille. “If you please, dear sister, your Agnus Dei.” She gestured to the silver pendant at Lucille’s throat, a delicate piece of jewelry engraved with the Lamb, fashioned by Marcus. Without hesitating, Lucille whispered to Marcus, who stepped behind her and untied the waxed hemp cord from which the pendant hung—a short length, in fact, of bow string. Marcus removed his wife’s medallion and handed the cord to Héloïse, who turned back to Peter. “I accept your pledge and this sign of it.” She gave the cord to Peter and turned her back to him.
Peter saw. He threaded the cord through the ring and, lifting his arms over her head, tied it at the back of her neck.
When Héloïse turned to face him again, with the gold ring suspended on the top edge of her bodice, at the cleft of her breasts, she said, “I return your pledge with my own, dear husband.” She took both of his hands in hers. “I will be a wife known but to you”—with that, she lifted one hand to make the ring disappear into the velvet at her bustline—“for as long as we live.”
Peter drew her face to his. She parted her lips to receive his kiss.
He said, “What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.”
They embraced. When Peter pulled back, he put his hand at her breast, to finger the ring beneath the fabric. He said in a less solemn but still earnest voice, “But, wife, when we return to Paris, we will find a way to make this marriage regular, settling this ring, thereby, on the hand where all can see it.” He smiled suddenly. “And now that you are wife, you must obey.”
Héloïse laughed, not perturbed in the least, but pushing back: “There is vanity in you, Master Peter Abelard, if you think, by mere words, you can shift the pillars of the age.”
“The age is new, my lady. We are new. Substance matters more than form.”
Héloïse put her hand at her breast. “This sign of our troth—form and substance both—will stay where it is.”
“The treasure chest?” Peter said, happy enough to drop the subject.
Now when they kissed, Lucille, holding the infant, and Marcus, and all the children encircled them—a familial sacrament of joy.
As they moved to leave the baptistry, Lucille handed the baby back to Héloïse. Her heart swelled to receive the child. Yet, once again, she was overwhelmed with a sense of his vulnerability—and a sudden premonition of danger hit her. “Wait,” she said.
All at once, she realized what that qualm had been, at the thought of his baptismal name. “We must not call him ‘Peter.’ He must not be known as the son of Peter Abelard, the son of a cleric. His true name, like our marriage, must be known but to us and God.”
Peter put his arm around her. “I promise you, Héloïse, I will protect him, as I will protect you. I will make all things licit. I have power in Paris, beyond what you think.”
“It may be as you say. But until then, our son will have another name.”
“What name?”
Héloïse did not answer. The children, their patience exhausted, jostled against Marcus, who clapped one boy’s ear, then the other’s. He pushed them toward the door, and the boys rushed out into the afternoon. The girls followed.
Silence settled on the sacred space. At last, Héloïse said, “Astrolabe.”
“What?” Peter asked.
“Astrolabe. You said we are ‘new.’ All right, then. Name our son for the precious instrument of star-science that comes to us from south of the Pyrenees. Measuring the heavens for guidance, he will know the way on earth. Our son, a secret Peter, will be known abroad as Astrolabe.”
Peter Abelard was astonished—his face showed it—by the boldness of her unfettered declaration; by her, yes, newness. He leaned close and whispered, again, “You are magnificent.”
He assumed he would be returning to Paris alone, but when it came time for him to depart Nantes—he was loading his bundle on the riverboat—she appeared. She carried a strapped bundle of her own. Lucille came up behind, holding the baby. Lucille’s agitation—a red face, wet eyes wide—was apparent.
Héloïse, striding toward him, declared, “You will not be without me in that brood of vipers.”
Peter, for all the confident assurance with which he’d been carrying himself, was not pleased, and took no pains to disguise what he felt. In the bosom of his family in Nantes, no harm would come to Héloïse. “You must remain here,” he said.
“I will not.”
Peter glanced back at Lucille, and at the baby. “But what of our son?”
“You and I have our defenses. Our son has none. He must remain here until our situation is resolved.” Héloïse turned to Lucille. “The love of this family will be his fortress until the danger clears.”
Lucille said, “Do not rebuke her, brother. Neither of you should return to Paris. Your wife would hear me on that no more than you. But if you must, your child is safe with us, until you return. That much I say without hesitation.”
Peter faced Héloïse. “But the hill ahead,” he said, “is for me to climb. We agreed on that.”
“We agreed on nothing,” Héloïse said. “You have not been listening to me, dear husband. You wanted marriage? All right. This is what it means. ‘Whither thou goest, I will go.’ ”
“But that was Ruth, speaking as a daughter, not a wife.”
Lucille, drawing cl
ose, put in, “I speak as a sister! You are both mad to return there.”
“No,” Héloïse said sharply, “Paris is the birthing room of the future. Peter must vindicate himself in Paris.”
“Cockpit, more likely,” Lucille spat.
“That, too,” Héloïse answered. “Which is why I must go. Lucille, please. I beg you. Understand me. Your brother is at risk, and his denial makes the risk worse. I will be his shadow, the unknown figure in the back of the hall.”
“Unknown, hah!” Lucile said. “You know the reports Marcus brings from the Duke’s palace. You are both spoken of wherever snot-nosed scholars throw their knucklebones, wherever Court ladies sit at spindles. Not just bachelors of philosophy but itinerant jongleurs—singing the songs of lovers! Not just Paris, but even here—in Bretagne!”
Héloïse said, “Those songs tell of an unnamed Master and his comely pupil. No one thinks of us.”
“Of course they do!” Lucille insisted. “Notre-Dame de Paris! Who else would it be? You, brother, count on your fame to part the sea ahead, but your fame is why you will drown in that sea.”
Peter leapt onto the boat. “Our father taught us to swim, Lucille,” he said jauntily. He looked back at Héloïse, and, after a long moment, he nodded. She handed her bundle over to the boatman. Peter took her by the hand and helped her across the side deck.
Marcus appeared, coming along the quay. He was accompanied by an even larger man, also dressed in leather—but even more so. He wore a spiked head covering, and his tunic had a metal breastplate. His leggings were proper to one of the Duke’s marshals. A sword was sheathed at his hip, and a dagger was holstered at his calf. Marcus, who had outfitted the man-at-arms, called out, “One more for Paris!”
Peter exchanged an impatient glance with his sister, who shrugged, feigning ignorance.
Marcus and the marshal clambered onto the tiered dockside.
Peter Abelard said, “Marcus, I told you! No. No. My weapons are words. If I”—he glanced at Héloïse—“if we arrive at the Cloister with an armed escort, it will be taken as a sign that I doubt my ability to defend myself by explaining myself.” Peter reached his open hand to the man-at-arms, who took it. They shook. Peter said, “Thank you, my friend, but no. This is the decision I made years ago, when I left the household of our father, who was one of the Duke’s fine company, like yourself. I chose differently, and still do—the cowl, not the sword. Our protector is the Prince of Peace.” Peter turned to Marcus and embraced him. “Thank you, brother,” Peter said. “All will be well with us. And we shall return before long to collect our son.”
Marcus nodded. “Young Astrolabe will be safe with us”—he grinned, draping an arm around Lucille—“until my children learn that the saint for whom he’s named does not exist.”
As the boat moved slowly away from the timber wharfing, Héloïse stared back at her son, asleep in their sister’s arms. Héloïse clung to Peter, trusting him, but a tooth-edged blade was sawing through her heart.
—
AT NOTRE-DAME, the contest was soon joined. When Fulbert learned that Héloïse had reappeared and presented herself to the General Mistress of the Cloister, expecting to be shown to the rooms she’d occupied the year before, he did not wait, as protocol required, for his niece to be shown into his presence in the Great Hall. Instead, that very night, with his stick banging in stride, he went directly to her chamber and burst through the door. She was on her knees, before the image of our Lady, reciting Compline within the halo of the candle flame. She was clothed in her muslin sleeping gown. Even before she had come fully to her feet, he struck her with his stick. She fell. He was poised to hit her again, but the ferocity in her expression stopped him.
“You dare raise a staff against me?” she hissed. In the instant of his hesitation, she got to her feet and crossed to him, bringing her face close to his. “My mother should be alive to see this!”
“Your mother would be crushed with shame,” Fulbert managed to say, but the energy of his long-nursed rage seemed drained.
Héloïse had not noticed, but in her fall the gold ring on its cord had come out from under the neck of her gown, and now hung quite openly at her breast.
“What is that?” Fulbert demanded.
Héloïse, realizing, put the ring back inside her garment.
Fulbert seized her now and clutched the cord at her throat, the unbreakable piece of hemp bow string. He twisted it, choking her. “What is it?” he cried. “What is it?” He jolted her up. “Are you married, or not? Is it true? Which? A monk’s wife? Or a simple whore?” Again he jerked her. “Or both?”
She clawed at the cord, which, thinner than rope, cut into her flesh. She tried to scream, but gagged.
Fulbert might have choked her to death if Peter Abelard had not arrived at her chamber just then. He had stolen across the Cloister for one last loving word, but, seeing Fulbert bent over Héloïse, he threw himself on the Canon. He could not pull him back. Peter stooped for Fulbert’s stick, and, swinging in a wide arc, brought its knob square against the Canon’s head, knocking him back, dazed.
Héloïse gasped for breath. Peter untwisted the cord at her throat, then held her. In the moments it took for Héloïse to return to herself, Fulbert, too, recovered.
Peter rose to face him. “I will see you flayed for this crime. I will be at the Bishop’s palace by Terce tomorrow.”
“The Bishop, hah! He will have you seized.”
“The Royal Palace, then. I will put the charge before the King. You dare to lay brutish hands on his kinswoman?”
“She has disgraced the King. You are the agent of her dishonor!”
Abelard took hold of Fulbert by the folds of his cloak. “I am the agent of her protection. The day you lay hands on her again will be your last. Do you hear me?”
Fulbert did not answer.
Peter twisted Fulbert’s collar close around his throat, choking him as Fulbert had choked his niece. “Do you hear me?”
Gagging, Fulbert nodded.
“Answer! Speak! Your last day, do you hear me?”
“Yes,” Fulbert managed, a whisper.
“Then go! Go!” Peter threw him to the floor. The Canon scrambled out of the room, half crawling. Out of nowhere, Fulbert’s thrall appeared in the doorway, stooped and hesitant, with fear in his eyes. When Peter did not attack him, the thrall reached into the room to pick up Fulbert’s stick. Then he, too, fled.
Peter closed the door. Héloïse had covered herself with the blanket, pulled to her throat, concealing whatever bruise had risen. Despite her unease, she found it possible to smile. “A man of the mind, are you? What was it you told Marcus: you use words?”
“But those were words, my dear one.” He knelt at her bedside.
“Words full of threat. The threat seemed real.”
“There’s the trick,” he said. “If the threat seems real, words suffice.”
“The Philosopher Knight.” She reached to his cheek, stroking. “Your father’s son, after all.”
He put his head by hers. She rested against him. After a time, recovering, she said quietly, “No wonder the hierarchs fear you. Now that you are returned to Paris, the Council will send its subpoena, the trap at last. William of Champeaux and his White Monk will have you where they want you. Threat of a different order.”
“And I will meet it.” Peter pulled the blanket down to look at the bruise on her throat. He touched it gently with the back of his forefinger. She did not wince. He let his finger fall to the lip of her gown, which fell in turn. When he cupped her bare breast, a customary initiation, she pressed her own hand onto his.
She shook her head. “We must not tempt the fates.”
“The fates are with us.” His hand went to the gold ring between her breasts.
“And they will be tomorrow. Be off.” She moved his hand away. “Return to your quarters.”
“I do not want you to be alone tonight. Not after—”
“After that, I am safe. T
hanks to you. I am safe until the King’s summons.” She smiled, knowingly. “After you storm the palace tomorrow.”
“Mere words, Héloïse.”
“Simply putting the possibility of the King’s involvement in play—”
“Fulbert crossed a line tonight, and knows it.” Abelard touched the red band at her throat again, tenderly. “There’s the proof.”
“I will be wearing a high collar.”
“We need not actually involve the King, and Fulbert would dare not. There is our protection. Fulbert falls if we fall.”
“And that, as I said before, is what makes him dangerous. Not to me. To you. Therefore, caution, Peter. Caution. Beginning now. Be off.”
“We must find another domicile for you, away from your uncle’s household. What of your cousin?”
“That is for tomorrow. Now be off. I mean it.”
He nodded, and said, “Meet me at the Cloister wall, after Lauds, before the light. We will take our steps in sequence, beginning with a safe place for you.”
She felt the crest of his love breaking over her. She brought her hand gently to his throat, as if he were bruised. All at once, she felt the pulse of blood in her own fingertip, matching the pulse of the vein in his neck. That proximity was enough. She pulled his face down to hers, kissing him, shyly at first. When she lay back, she whispered, “Quickly!”
—
SLEEP, WHEN IT came to Peter, back in his rooms in the porch of the Cloister, was deep and dreamless. Lost in the labyrinth of his exhaustion, he did not hear the soft sound of his door being slowly pushed open. Indeed, he heard nothing until he heard the whoosh of his bed clothing being ripped away, followed by a loud bang, which, he realized vaguely, was the sound of his own head being slammed back against the bedstead. Dark forms of men showed in the doorway, against the gray of the fading night. Of the several figures closing on him, one carried himself in a familiar stoop—Fulbert’s thrall. Peter Abelard’s half-aware mind failed to register the intruders as his mortal enemies until too late, when they had pinned his arms and legs to the frame of the pallet.
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