The Cloister

by James Carroll

  Héloïse looked up from the page. Its edges were yellow. Creases broke the page into quarters. It was one of his letters, written more than a decade before, when letters had flown between them. While waiting for the Abbot, she had, as she often did, drawn the folded parchment from inside her habit, less to read than simply to hold—her true periapt. Indeed, her eyes floated up from the letter to drift through the Cloister arcade to the rustic panorama beyond the cellarium, granary, and barns, where neatly ordered vineyards sloped down to the river basin. Its silvery water justified the name of the place—Argenteuil, her home. Within four years of her profession as a Benedictine nun here, she had been elected Prioress. Everything Mother Héloïse could see, including plowland stretching along the north bank of the Seine to the forested far hills, was hers.

  Young Sister Célestine appeared in the arched entranceway, breathless. Twenty paces separated her from Héloïse, who was seated near the central fountain of the Cloister garden. The afternoon sun was gauzy with clouds, but the air was warm. Carefully trimmed hedges, bunched herbs, trellised roses, and potted jasmine stood between the women. “Father Abbot has arrived, Mother.”

  The portress, at twenty, was two-thirds the age of Héloïse, yet rank juvenescence showed in her agitation. She well knew who Abbot Suger was—Primate of Saint-Denis, the Bishop’s rival, competing for preeminence as prelate of Paris. Héloïse, by contrast to the young nun, was serene, though she knew that the Abbot’s sudden demand for an audience, received by messenger only that morning, could bode nothing but ill. Among the sisters of Argenteuil, the habitual calm of their Prioress seemed preternatural, a sign of sanctifying grace. To Héloïse, though, unruffled self-possession was less a virtue than a tactic. Rather than respond to the young nun, Héloïse dropped her eyes to the letter once more. Farewell, my beauty, you who are incomparably sweeter than all sweet things. May you prolong your years as happily as I wish for you, for nothing better is needed. Peter Abelard’s words were all the blessing she would need. The parchment sheet fell easily into its creases as she folded it back into the sleeve hidden under her gray scapular, where, equally hidden, her golden ring rode on its cord. She pressed that lump against her breastbone, to remember that she existed. She stood.

  Abbot Suger was a lean, tall man who, unusually for a monk, sported a thin mustache; it emphasized his tenebrous complexion, the stabbing darkness of his eyes, and the severe black of his religious garb. He habitually wore his cowl up, covering his head and, more to the point, keeping his face in shadow—I see you; you cannot see me—which was essential to his gift for intimidation. For a man of fifty, he was fit and agile, with something martial in his bearing. He swept into the Cloister garden with his robes swirling. Having removed his gloves, he paired them in his left hand and swatted his thigh as he strode. Because he wore heavy, ankle-high Norman shoes instead of sandals, his footfalls resounded. Approaching Héloïse, he bowed. “Good day, Reverend Mother.”

  Suger had been raised at Saint-Denis, and had served as clerk to Abbot Adam, whom he succeeded the year after Peter Abelard was forced to leave that monastery. Everyone knew that the wily Suger had been the instrument of Abelard’s expulsion, and he had ridden that wave of triumph over the once-great Master into the Abbot’s chair. Saint-Denis was less than an hour’s ride from Argenteuil, and, from the churning air with which the Abbot arrived, Héloïse understood that he had pushed his horse to get here quickly. When Sugar wanted something, he did not hold back.

  Héloïse returned his bow with one of her own. He did not offer his ring hand, nor did she betoken readiness to kiss it. With an easy curl of her forearm, she indicated both the marble stool on which her visitor should sit, and the tray on which cups of barley tea and cider stood ready. “You are most welcome, Father,” she said. Héloïse knew that reserving the cushioned armchair for herself would not be lost on Suger—a Prioress violating an Abbot’s primacy. Indeed, she counted on his taking note.

  “You honor us with your visitation.” Héloïse sat, arranging the skirts of her habit as she did so. A simple toss of her head settled the drapes of her veil across her shoulders.

  He sat. “You are gracious to receive me, Reverend Mother. I offer apologies for this intrusion.” He dropped his gloves on the table, beside the cups.

  Héloïse declined to offer him refreshment. Absently, she touched her starched white coif, but in a way that drew Suger’s eyes directly into her own. “How can I help you, Father Abbot?”

  “I fear I come with difficult words.”

  Héloïse only looked at him.

  “Shall I simply speak my piece?”

  She remained motionless.

  Suger pulled a scroll from inside his habit, an unknowing match to the parchment sheet that was hidden on her. “This decree commands the removal of your convent from Argenteuil.” He offered the page to Héloïse. She made no move to receive it.

  He opened the scroll, and read. “The Holy Tribunal of the Metropolitan See of Sens, in the Kingdom of France in the twenty-second year of the reign of Louis VI, being of the intention to proceed against disorder, mischief, and scandal which increases to the prejudice of the Holy Faith, by command of the Most Eminent Lords Cardinal of this supreme and universal jurisdiction, and drawing on primacy recorded in the Donation of Clovis I, hereby removes and dissolves the Priory of Notre-Dame of Argenteuil. We pronounce, sentence, declare, and ordain the desacralization of the Benedictine Order of Argenteuil, pending the reconsecration of the monastic foundation by the Benedictine Order of the Abbey of Saint-Denis. By order of and signed, Henry, Archbishop of Sens; Samson, Archbishop of Reims; Stephen, Bishop of Paris.”

  Suger let the scroll curl back into its tube. When he looked up, he was jolted, if only slightly, to see that the piercing eyes of Héloïse had never left him. She was as still as a statue.

  “Well?” Suger said, finally.

  Héloïse said calmly, “This convent was founded by Princess Theodrade, the daughter of Charlemagne, more than three hundred years ago.”

  “Yes. And Saint-Denis was founded more than six hundred years before that by Dionysius the Areopagite, named in Acts as a convert of Saint Paul.”

  “I will leave that claim aside, Father. It is enough for me to observe that the monks of Saint-Denis, once each century, and always citing the spurious and long-discredited ‘Donation of Clovis I,’ make this bid for Notre-Dame, aiming to secure a port on the River Seine, not to mention the vineyards and contiguous demesne of Argenteuil. His Holiness the Pope always turns the essay back.”

  “In this century, Dear Mother, His Holiness the Pope is particularly concerned to suppress the source of scandal at Argenteuil. The Pope, furthermore, affirms the Donation. We have his writ. He is in France this very day.”

  “Which Pope?” she asked calmly. The question was a jibe because there were two papal claimants. She added, “Pope Innocent? Or Anacletus?”

  “Innocent is Pope. Innocent II.”

  “But, Father Abbot, am I wrong to understand that the Petrine succession is in dispute, speaking of disorder? Simple nuns are less well informed than holy monks, but word has come here that the Cardinal Electors deem Innocent’s election uncanonical. Pope Anacletus is recognized in Rome. Hence Innocent’s flight northward across the Alps. So, of course, he is in France.”

  “Innocent is recognized by the Emperor, and, more to the point, by our own King Louis. And indeed, as you imply, a contested papal election is a matter beyond the competence of nuns in Lutetia.”

  “But Innocent, obviously, is beholden to you. Therefore, his writ lacks objectivity.”

  “Mother, this dissemblance—”

  Héloïse cut him off with a raised hand. “Notre-Dame d’Argenteuil is under the patronage of Matilda, Countess of Champagne. Has Her Grace been informed of this interdict?”

  “King Louis VI has been informed.”

  “Louis the Fat, your schoolmate at Saint-Denis. You were boys of the bench together.”

  �
��Mother, your disrespect makes my case. Need I remind you that your solemn vow of obedience, and that of every woman in this convent, is invoked?”

  “ ‘Disorder, mischief, and scandal’—how dare you use such words of Argenteuil! What mischief? What scandal? I demand to know.”

  Abbot Suger craned forward, and with a lowered voice, he hissed, “The scandal here is well known.”

  “Canonical observance at Argenteuil is scrupulous in every regard. Consult your priests, who serve as chaplains here. There is no disorder. I demand that you specify your indictment.”

  Suger leaned back. “Look at you. Your very habit is a violation.”

  “The gray of our habit, the natural color of undyed wool, is an emblem of the simplicity for which we strive. Boiled wool and hemp cloth suffice.”

  “Peasant clothing.”

  “The repeal of luxury, Father Abbot, defines our reform.”

  “Reform! Hah! Vainglory, rather. To puff yourself up, you refuse the daughters of the well-born—”

  “Not true. I refuse daughters who are sent here against their will.”

  “Instead, you receive women without dowry, which signifies their standing as harlots.”

  “Former harlots, yes. Some. Like the Gospel’s own Mary of Magdala, perhaps. Repentant. Converted. Several of our most devout sisters.”

  “Admitted to the choir.”

  “We have abolished the distinction between choir nuns and lay sisters. Our women are equal before God. As your monks should be. Your lay brothers are no better than thralls.”

  “By what Rule do you live? Your nuns work on manuscripts, not embroidery. You presume to run a school for female children. You admit externs to the Cloister—”

  “Never. We heal the sick who are brought to our gate. We feed the hungry. And, yes, we teach girls—as I myself was taught here, in the time of Mother Agnes. But our Cloister is inviolable, an enclosure absolutely restricted to those who are professed.”

  But Suger’s litany rolled on, as he ticked offenses off with his fingers. “You instruct your sisters in writings of the pagans. You trade in Saracen texts. You forbid self-discipline—”

  She interrupted with a sharply pointed finger. “Self-flagellation. Self-mutilation. Yes! The whip and thorn. Yes, I forbid that. Loving acceptance of the suffering attached to human life is all the corporal discipline we require. I forbid my sisters to torture themselves.”

  Suger made a sharp gesture of his own, the cracking of a whip. “Our Lord underwent flagellation, freely. He accepted thorns. Are we not called to imitation? Benedictines share in the Passion of Christ that they might share in His Kingdom. But you ignore Benedict’s Rule. You presume to substitute—what?—the Rule of Héloïse?”

  “Our house is reformed according to strict observance, Father. Magnum silentium. Fast and abstinence. The counsels of perfection. The furthest thing from ‘mischief.’ Again, I demand that you specify the indictment.”

  “Reverend Mother, I propose to spare you and your sisters the notoriety. But if you compel me, I will be merciless. I have consulted your chaplains. I am prepared to bring sworn testimony of holy men with certain knowledge of illicit, promiscuous, and decadent behavior by your women, one with another, and with themselves.”

  “Holy men, Abbot? Confessors? You would violate the sacred intimacy of the Sacrament?”

  “No more than the examen of the Chapter House does.”

  Héloïse stared at him. After all these years—an epiphany. Early in her time at Argenteuil, she had sensed that the tonsured men on the other side of the Confessional screen, when presented with the once-notorious Héloïse, conjured lewd images and hoped to hear, in her Me accusant, details of her wicked carnal history. If she had never—never!—openly regretted her behavior with Peter, it was for the simple reason that she had never repented of it. As for the opinions of the priests, once she was elected Prioress, she had simply stopped presenting herself for Confession. Now, with this threat from Abbot Suger to exploit the sacred forum, she understood why. Her instincts had been correct.

  She said calmly, if somewhat disingenuously, “My sisters regard the Sacrament of Penance as an encounter with Christ Himself. Would He so betray them?”

  “ ‘Whose soever sins ye remit, they are remitted unto them; and whose soever sins ye retain, they are retained.’ ” Suger smiled the smile of self-satisfaction. He continued, “Our Lord has given His ministers all authority to hold fast and to lay bare.”

  “Then use it.” Héloïse stood, rattling the table holding the cups of cider. “Lay bare these charges. I demand a public accounting. You say the King knows of this interdict and its justification. I demand a hearing in the Royal presence. If Pope Innocent is involved, I demand a reckoning before His Holiness. My sisters are absolutely innocent. You say they are whores! I challenge you! I have no fear. Your holy men will be shown up as blatant liars, and then Saint-Denis will be the source of ‘disorder, mischief, and scandal.’ Not Notre-Dame d’Argenteuil.”

  “Mother, you are blind to what is most obvious.” Now it was Suger who was calm. He looked up at her from his stool. “You are blind to your own standing in this matter. You yourself are the avatar of scandal never renounced. Your sisters’ primordial offense subsists in their disregard of your publica fama. The disgrace of Argenteuil began with your election as Prioress, when you ceased being a penitential nun and became a false prophetess of virtue.”

  “I was never a penitential.” Héloïse felt heat come into her face. She had long secretly suspected that her fellow nuns had elected her not despite her lewd history but because of it.

  “Your so-called husband was a penitential—with us, if only for a time.”

  “And what good came of that for him?”

  Suger shrugged. “We showed mercy to a man whose dismemberment was as much moral as physical.”

  “Your predecessor admitted Peter Abelard because a Jew whose knowledge of herbal medicine the Infirmarian coveted requested it.”

  “Peter Abelard was a Jew’s friend, yes. Eventually, that corruption, too, showed itself.”

  “What showed itself was Peter Abelard’s application of critical reason to the fairy tales of the Abbey of Saint-Denis. You claim to have been founded by Dionysius the Areopagite, Saint Paul’s own convert. Peter Abelard, through careful study of history and Scripture, showed that to be impossible. He reduced your creed to the absurd. For which you banished him.”

  “Peter Abelard is degenerate, Mother—in thought as much as in deed. You are the living proof. The difference between you is that he has properly embraced his obscurity. Now it is time for you to embrace yours.”

  Héloïse, aware of the Abbot’s advantage in his equanimity, was desperate to check the surge of anger coursing through her. As the organizer of Peter Abelard’s shaming eviction eight years before, this man had been the object of her purest hatred even before this new outrage. Yet those early years came back to her now, and, for the needed brief interval, she took refuge in memory. Though her enclosure at Argenteuil, and Peter’s at Saint-Denis, had been separated by only an hour’s journey, she had never seen him. Yet she had been infinitely consoled to know that the same noonday sun made like shadows of their figures; the same rain fell on their upturned faces; and the same dark of night vaulted the ceilings above their narrow monastic pallets.

  With a fresh pang, she recalled Peter’s torment: first the long-in-healing catastrophe at the hands of Fulbert’s henchmen; then betrayal by the monastery to which he’d entrusted himself; then, in the precincts of ecclesiastical power, almost universal disparagement, mockery, contempt. Once ostracized from Saint-Denis, and craving only solitude, he had built a hermitage a day’s journey to the southeast, consecrating the place as the Paraclete to rebut adversaries who accused him of denigrating, in his theology, the Holy Spirit. Worshipful would-be scholars—bless the young men!—pursued him there, and the place grew, willy-nilly, into a true religious foundation. But enemies followed
, also, and the ever-famous Abelard was hounded away once again. The Paraclete fell derelict. Now he was ensconced on the far Atlantic coast, as the Abbot of a rough monastery of no importance on the wrong side of Christendom’s most desolate frontier. Obscurity indeed. The great Peter Abelard, lost to the actual world forever: a chain of consequence that began with Abbot Suger, this man, here, in front of her. This villain.

  To calm herself, she put her hand to her breast, to touch through the fabric the folded letter. Farewell, my beauty…sweeter than all sweet things.

  The letter, yes. Her own Abelard.

  Without ever imagining how such a thing might come to pass, Héloïse had long assumed that the day would arrive when they would once again turn toward each other. How could Abbot Suger’s wrathful intervention become an occasion of grace if not by prompting that very pivot? Héloïse knew that Suger’s bottomless ambition—not for Saint-Denis, or for King Louis, or for France, but for himself—required the takeover of Argenteuil. Lading traffic on the Seine had exploded in recent decades, carrying goods from Paris to Rouen and beyond, as well as pilgrims by the legion to and from Chartres. Héloïse had been expecting some move from the abbey to exploit the river’s double-bend at Argenteuil—a landing site, a barrier-chain for tolls—and here it was. Suger would fortify the riverbanks and impose tariffs on every passing barge and cog. An endless supply of revenue was the issue, not the scandal given by promiscuous nuns. On mammon’s account, there would be no deflecting the Abbot from his course. Even so, Héloïse would have fought him to the death if she alone were vulnerable to him.

  He read her mind, for he said quietly, “I will summon each of your sisters to appear before the metropolitan tribunal. Your portress, for example—the girl who brought me in. Her name is…?”

  Héloïse did not answer.

  “…Célestine,” Suger said, with a lewd sneer. He could not disguise the pleasure he took in this toying. “She will be required under oath to account for her night pollutions; what passions have her moaning to the point of communal disturbance?”