by Hager, Mandy
‘So what does it mean that he is excommunicated, then?’
‘Banished from the Church.’
She gasps. ‘The Church can reject us even if we hold Christ in our heart?’
‘It is possible, yes. But in this case the Holy Father simply refused Philip the right to join in any sacraments or services.’
‘Did you convince the king to repent?’
He smiles. ‘Not personally. I was sent by Philip’s man Stephen de Garlande to keep an eye on our two negotiators, William of Champeaux and Robert of Arbrissel—’
‘Who?’
‘Stephen belongs to a family that has long served the king; a man who knows the secrets of every corridor conversation. William of Champeaux regards himself as France’s loftiest thinker, yet pokes his nose into every dirty corner, while Robert of Arbrissel has a canny knack for easing confrontation. It was he, in the end, who convinced His Majesty to acquiesce.’ He checks to see if Heloise follows. She nods, although she is not sure. ‘The king agreed to give Bertrada up, although I wager it will be in declaration alone. But it will quiet the Church for now — a good thing, as he sorely needs their help. The counts and larger landowners flex their muscles against him.’
‘But he is our king!’
‘Pursuit of power, my sweet. All men’s curse.’
As Fulbert falls again to musing, her impatience rears. ‘Uncle, please, I need your help.’ She lays bare her concerns about the prioress’s odd behaviour. ‘Why does she treat poor Sister Saris so? Others shun her, too.’
Fulbert rolls the tip of his beard between thumb and forefinger. ‘As it happens, I think I might know your answer … I first heard talk of this when your Reverend Mother wrote about your tutoring.’ He takes up her hand and laces her fingers between his. ‘Just as you and I are victims of life’s prejudices and cruelties, Heloise, so is Sister Saris. While I commend her for having kept such woes from you, perhaps it is better you know. You have heard of the Jews?’
She nods. Has not everyone? The Christ himself was once heralded their king.
‘When you were aged around two or three, at the start of Pope Urban’s war to retake the Holy Land, people got it into their heads to rout the Jews and claim their possessions for themselves. Not for the first time nor, I suspect, the last. But many died, including your good teacher’s sister. Sister Saris and her mother found themselves alone at a dangerous time; her father, Master Kalman, had died some years before. I am told he was a wise and decent man.’
Tears spring to Heloise’s eyes. ‘Were they hurt?’
‘Thankfully not. To preserve themselves, they came to Christ and took the veil. It saved their lives, though not even great Argenteuil would place them both together for fear of tainting Christ’s true-born brides. Sister Saris was sent to a convent down south before she shifted closer to her mother, who lives now at St Eloi.’ Fulbert runs a finger down her cheek. ‘I would not be surprised if this suspicion is still the consequence of Philip’s stirring up of hate.’ He sighs. ‘The poison that drips from idle tongues makes outcasts of us all.’
His words toll in her head; it is a revelation to realise that the petty whispering she and her teacher are assailed by seems to taint the outside world as well.
‘Please, Uncle, is there anything you can say to our Reverend Mother to stop this hatefulness?’
‘For you, little sparrow, I will try. But how she will take to my meddling I cannot say.’
He is true to his word. Before he leaves he requests a conference with the Lady Alberea, and though he will not disclose their conversation, from this point forth there is a freeing of Sister Renee’s torment of Heloise’s teacher. It is clear, however, their prioress resents the interference. If ever there is need to lay the blame at someone’s feet, she now looks first to Heloise.
Heloise cares little, as Sister Saris begins to stretch her mind. They work through the Libri Manuales, which Heloise loves for their tales of pagan gods, and move on to read aloud from handpicked dramas by Terence. She is drilled in Latin until the words flow easily from her mouth, and untangles the works of Boethius, Aristotle, Seneca, and St Jerome with her teacher’s expert help. Sister Saris also shares the writings of Lucan, Virgil, Ovid and Rabbi Rashi. Heloise is captured by their drama, shaken from a state too long defined by loneliness and boredom.
When in her thirteenth year, she tires of syntax, conjugations and ablative absolutes, rather than allow Heloise rest, her teacher pushes further. She undertakes to teach her the basics of Greek and Hebrew, too, and as Heloise slowly unravels their mysteries she feels these ancient tongues come alive and adds them to the world of words she builds within her head.
At fourteen, Heloise is struck by the passion in the works she reads. She studies the Song of Songs and finds the words unpeel her from the inside out. Lustful thoughts bubble up, unnerving her, while at the same time she is awed by the beauty and fragility in every human life. Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out.
Heloise develops a new thirst for Lucan’s vivid imagination and Virgil’s detailed eye, but falls for Ovid’s tragic lovers most especially. Their grief she feels with real pain; their words give voice to her litany of doubts and hurts. The urges Ovid writes of make her blush — but still desire them — and the notion one can conceive a love so passionate and life-long leaves her tingling in the night, those tender words kindling an urgent and unfulfilled burning.
At times she fears the Devil will sniff her out and mark her ready for the flames. As if to prove her shame, Heloise wakes one morning to bedding stained with blood and thinks the Lord has struck her down. With rising horror, she discovers its source between her legs.
She scrubs away the evidence until her fingers have rubbed raw, and stems the flow with rags torn from an old chemise. When Sister Saris finds her huddled in the darkest corner of the library, she has to winkle out the reason for Heloise’s distress like a snail from its house.
‘It is the same for all of us,’ she says. ‘As we gain womanhood God sends the monthly mark of blood to signify our sin.’ Beneath her breath she says, ‘Or so they claim.’
‘You suffer from this, too?’ How could one as good as Sister Saris be so stricken?
‘All women, Heloise. Once every cycle of the moon, until we pass our middle years.’ She offers her hand to raise her. ‘Come, you must know by now the best remedy for all ills?’ She waits with a dancing smile.
‘Prayer?’
Sister Saris glances over her shoulder then whispers, ‘Books, dear girl.’ The delight in her voice brings a grin to Heloise’s lips. ‘You and I both understand that nothing lifts the heart so well as a perfectly placed word.’
It is true. The learning makes her feel alive; a different, happy Heloise. But it does not make her any friends. She feels as foreign to the novices as the moon must to the sun. She sees them one by one accept the veil with a passion she feels only when pushing her mind — or caught in sinful thoughts. In fact, she suspects what stirs them is the same except, where their restless dreams trigger desire for chaste marriage to Christ, her nights fill with aching for the hot-blooded heroes of ancient myth. Of course she loves the Lord; his presence is as vital as each passing breath. But never has she been overcome by desire to serve like those who take the veil — in fact, she is alarmed by their lack of curiosity and their blind refusal to speak out. Nor does she think God wishes such subservience; Isaiah tells them plainly to seek justice and correct wrongs.
All this is submerged, however, when Galo, Bishop of Paris, and his new archdeacon, the famed philosopher William of Champeaux, concoct a tale of damning shame. Heloise arrives for her lesson after Terce one day to find Sister Saris distraught.
‘What is wrong?’
‘They would undo the nuns at St Eloi with lies and throw them out!’
‘This cannot be. I am sure—’
‘No!’ Her teacher slumps to her knees, rocking like a graveside mou
rner. ‘My mother took the veil there. She writes that all will be displaced, the convent and its lands surrendered to the monks at St Pierre des Fosses.’
Heloise crouches at her side. ‘But why?’
‘They claim such scandalous behaviour has been unearthed no other course is possible but to evict the nuns.’ Sister Saris turns her seething gaze on Heloise. ‘Lies, all lies. It is a land theft such as France’s kings have inflicted on my people time and time again.’
‘But they are the Lord’s servants. How can they act with such stony hearts?’
‘My mother says the masons already measure up the abbey to redesign it. A new road is spoken of, linking a larger bridge to all the houses in the land beyond.’
Heloise embraces her, feeling the tension in the sister’s thin frame. It is not the first time she has heard such accusations; it is often whispered St Benedict’s rules are flaunted by those with power or gold enough to silence tattling tongues. But no whisper has ever been heard of St Eloi. Sister Saris is likely right: such claims are made by those who have the most to gain.
As they crouch, Sister Renee comes across them. ‘Rouse yourselves,’ she says. ‘Enough of your scheming.’
Sister Saris moans and flees the room, casting Heloise an apologetic glance over her shoulder.
‘Forgive her,’ Heloise says. ‘She is disturbed by news of St Eloi.’
Sister Renee shrugs. ‘It is not for us to question Galo, we are solely here to serve. And you, girl, would be wise to meditate upon your own salvation. Surely it is time to dismiss this vanity and take the veil?’
‘My uncle has other plans for me,’ she says. However, Heloise is fearful to put her mind to what lies in store. She has learned that disappointment has a bitter taste.
‘Then your uncle is a fool. Does he think to marry you off to enrich your standing? You, whose family does not care to claim you? You will be lucky if you end up shackled to a widower to tend his brats.’
‘What do you know of my family?’
‘That they traded your mother’s life away and will have no compunction to do the same to you.’
‘You lie!’
‘Silence! Reverend Mother will hear of your wicked tongue. I blame her — that … Jew.’
‘It is you who has a wicked tongue!’ Heloise pushes past Sister Renee and runs to the privy to cry in peace.
In punishment, she is forced to scrub the abbey’s floors, a job that sees her bent on hands and knees for two full days. Her head is filled with questions she has no means to answer and an anger that smoulders. As soon as she is finished, she seeks out Sister Saris but finds her teacher has been sent to the infirmary and none may see her.
As rumours swell, their Reverend Mother oversees a fine display of piety: prayers are said with added fervour and every dealing with those outside is attended by a vigilant pair of carefully chosen nuns.
Five weeks go by before one evening Lady Alberea orders all the doors locked as they take their evening meal. One by one the sisters lower their spoons, a slow rolling sigh filling the refectory as the Reverend Mother fingers a scroll of parchment bearing the Holy Father’s seal.
‘St Eloi’s expulsion has been confirmed by His Excellency. Here I hold the charter. We are charged with taking in as many of her nuns as can attest to piousness.’
The Reverend Mother clears her throat, hands trembling as she delivers their Holy Father’s words.
‘We want it known to all,’ she reads, ‘that the convent of St Eloi of Paris was anciently assigned to an order of nuns; but nevertheless by diabolic instinct that weaker sex fell to such great misery of turpitude that, arrogantly adhering to open secularism, their vows of chastity broken, the message of the Rule of St Benedict thoroughly rejected, they made the temple of God a cavern of fornication and did not hear the voice of our admonition and correction at all …’ On she reads, their gasps a punctuated chorus to these most dreadful words. Foulness. Infamous. Incorrigible. By the reading’s end there is no sound except the sniffs that betray weeping.
‘We stand on notice, Sisters. Make no mistake, none are safe. If they smell one whiff of indiscretion, the future of Argenteuil, too, is likely doomed.’ She rubs at a twitching eye but fails to still its agitation. ‘Therefore, by God’s Holy grace, hold your wits about you and make no movement that would place us all in jeopardy. We are, I accept, by our very nature creatures of sin. Give no cause to bring Eve’s curse back down upon us. God protect us from a call to leave.’
She gathers up the charter and fumbles to unlatch the door. Heloise feels Sister Renee’s attention upon her, a silent accusation chilling the space between them. She lowers her head and turns away, convinced the prioress thinks her Argenteuil’s greatest risk.
Heloise concludes that even if their Reverend Mother’s fears are proved unfounded, Sister Renee’s moves against her and this new pressure to take the veil will now intensify. She resolves to sound out Fulbert once again, although more and more often his duties keep him from her. She dares not write. Sister Renee controls all letters in or out.
Two days later, she arrives for Lauds to find Sister Saris at the chapel door — ever more pale, much too thin, the shadows under her eyes have darkened to bruised indigo. Heloise squeezes her hand, alarmed to feel every joint.
After Prime her teacher trots her around the cloister at a feverish rate. The exercise is welcome, the day cool and sombre, little warmth breaking through.
‘I bring news.’ Sister Saris lowers her head, muffling her words so only her student can catch their flow.
Heloise leans close. ‘You are well?’
‘I have contacted my mother.’ This disclosure renews her eyes’ shine. ‘It is a miracle! When they banished her from St Eloi she renounced the veil!’
Never has Heloise heard of such a thing: first changing course to take the veil and now returning it? Is this even possible? ‘She will be safe?’
‘She is harboured by a trustworthy friend. For now, at least, our people are left unaccosted — although if the Church wants the land our synagogue sits upon, God help us all.’ Sister Saris rounds on her, nostrils flaring. ‘I intend to join her, Heloise.’ She draws in so close they share the warmth of her exhaled breath. ‘For eleven long years I have mouldered under the cross of Christ, hiding like a wolf in clubbing season. Do you think I have not felt the scorn and bigotry since I first took the veil? I told myself that I deserved it, for forsaking my family’s ancient practice. If not for you, I might have thrown away my life. But now I have a chance to live again.’
‘When do you go?’
‘Now. Today. As soon as our Lady Mother gives me leave.’
‘But what of me?’
‘You, too, must leave! Speak with your uncle. I will stay with my mother’s friend in Paris. Once you are there I can teach you still, should your uncle permit.’
At this daring thought, Heloise longs to run, to dance, to raise her voice. ‘Where will you be?’
‘The silk merchant, Seidman, and his family have agreed to lodge me. He has a barrow at the market by the synagogue.’ She clasps Heloise’s face and kisses each cheek. ‘There is so much to learn, Heloise. We must seize every opportunity. Time, like freedom, is all too quickly snatched away.’ The light dulls in her eyes again and Heloise knows of whom she thinks. What must it be like to have a loving family so close, only to lose them? Heloise has only ever grieved for those unknown.
Sister Saris promises to return to say goodbye and rushes off to seek her leave, but Heloise cannot settle. Until this moment, the thought of simply walking away from Argenteuil has never risen past the momentary desire of childhood rages. To contemplate it now feels scandalous, tantalising, fraught with risk. But if Sister Saris goes there will be no one here who understands her — and no loving guidance to occupy her days. Her heart sets firmly on the need to follow.
She busies herself polishing the chapel’s woodworked panels, feigning diligence in the knowledge Sister Saris must return this way
. The carvings of the choir stall glow warm and golden as she puts her elbow to the task, but with no news by Sext, Heloise is corralled by the bells to take her meal. No whispers break the silence; no sign of Sister Saris reassures her heart. Has she gone without farewell, or has their Reverend Mother refused her leave? Heloise spends the rest of this slow, circling day in worry, and is overwrought by the time the bell for Vespers draws her back to prayers.
Once all the nuns are seated, Sister Renee surveys them with such a stormy face that those about her cower. Reverend Mother, too, arrives dour and abrupt, and together they recite the devotions under this combined dark cloud. When they move from chapel to refectory for their supper, not a word is uttered and Heloise feels her questions boiling up, fired by a desperate need to know how Sister Saris fares.
The sisters consume their broth, soaking the dregs with the crusts of the morning’s bread, before their Reverend Mother hastens to take her leave. With her departure, Sister Renee rises, waiting for all to attend her before she breaks open the Holy Book.
‘Tonight our lesson comes from the seventh Proverb. Say unto wisdom, Thou art my sister …’
As she reads, Heloise’s scalp prickles with unease. She slowly grasps the prioress’s meaning and whom she attacks in such a calculated, coded way.
‘Let not thine heart decline to her ways, go not astray in her paths. For she hath cast down many wounded: yea, many strong men have been slain by her. Her house is the way to Hell, going down to the chambers of Death.’
‘Stop!’ It sickens her that Sister Renee hand-picks the Lord’s words to serve her hate. ‘Where is she?’ Warring drums beat in Heloise’s ears. ‘What have you done with Sister Saris?’
Shock ripples through the sisters as those around her try in vain to make her hush. Instead Heloise rises to her feet. She is Medea, most reviled of women; she is Artemis, loosening her quiver at her foe.
‘Have you no respect, girl?’ Sister Renee’s voice bleeds poison as she points towards the door. ‘Go, immediately, straight to your bed!’
