by Hager, Mandy
‘First I would know where Sister Saris is.’ The ball of fury that fuelled her outburst is fast dissolving under Sister Renee’s livid stare.
But she has sparked others’ interest now. Heads turn, looks cast about. When none can locate Sister Saris, Heloise feels a subtle shift within the room. Sister Renee surely feels it, too, for she clasps her hands together like a supplicant and draws a calming breath.
‘Sister Saris is no more among us. She has abandoned God, like those who sinned at St Eloi. I praise the Lord we have cast her from our midst.’
So she has gone, even as Sister Renee rewrites her history before their eyes. Whispered disquiet bounces all around Heloise. ‘When did she go?’ How could Sister Saris leave without one final word?
Now Sister Renee smiles, teeth bared, a hound at the kill. ‘The godless always prowl under the cover of night. If you had not detained us with your outburst, Heloise, you might have seen her leave.’
There is triumph flashing across the prioress’s face. Heloise holds in her bitter disappointment just long enough to storm from the refectory, neck stiff, head high until she pulls free of Sister Renee’s victorious stare. Now she runs to Argenteuil’s great portal, hefting the door open by herself. The sole sign of her teacher’s leave-taking lies in one small set of footsteps dark against the settling frost.
Heloise shivers through the hours of darkness, denied a blanket for her sins, while ice cloaks the land, turning tree and bush, vine and roof, hearth and hedgerow to brittle shards. As her churning thoughts prevent sleep, Heloise watches the frosty breath of those around her hang in the moon’s bright cast and knows her outburst will now change her life forever. She, too, must be as frost; so cold on the surface no one will ever glimpse again the furnace roaring within.
When a messenger next stops before he makes his way to Paris, she writes a hurried note to Fulbert begging him to come. She pays the rider to deliver it with sous her uncle left for such emergencies.
Heloise prays for Fulbert’s reassuring presence, but his silence and her grief overshadow every day. She thinks of nothing but leaving, heaping silent hatred on their prioress even though Heloise knows it stains her own soul. She cannot hold it back. She sacrifices the last of Fulbert’s sous to buy a set of quills, good parchment and a store of ink. With these, she hides away in the scriptorium with the scribes and undertakes to copy every one of her most loved texts. It is a slow and arduous task, though one that gives her some relief — not only as a means to bide her time but as a tangible expression of hope: creating treasures to accompany her should Fulbert take her to his home in Cathedral Close.
Beneath the low, vaulted ceilings that house both scriptorium and crypt, the smell of gallnuts and lampblack, gesso and ground minerals mingles with candlewax and smoke from the ever-burning fire to stick to her clothes and hair like the Devil’s breath. In this hell she finds her every sense is heightened, as if the words seep right into her skin; every connotation, every metaphor, every subtle emotional shift is imprinted on her as her quill remakes them fresh onto each page.
Ovid’s Heroides most especially affects her. She feels Penelope’s pain at her desertion, her wretchedness as utter as Heloise’s own.
This missive your Penelope sends to you, O Ulysses, slow of return that you are — yet write nothing back to me; come yourself!
‘Come yourself,’ she finds herself whispering, sending her plea to Fulbert through the long, cold nights as winter settles over Argenteuil and the snow now banks so deep along the tracks that none can pass.
As for myself, who when you left my side was but a girl, though you should come straightway, I surely shall seem grown an aged dame.
Day after day, Heloise sits in this cold room between the hours of Prime and Sext, squinting in the wavering light, pages building up around her. She binds a rag over her hand, soaked in the infirmarer’s potion of egg, wine and fennel root, but her fingers are still chilled raw. She grows obsessed, each day diving again into tales of loss and war and treachery, at night lying exhausted. And still Fulbert does not come …
There are days when Heloise can barely lift the quill, others when her eyes are so inflamed the words blur. The sight of food now turns her gut. But her own struggles are not noted as the abbey fights a larger war: to feed the forty-two newcomers from St Eloi while in the depths of a winter so pitiless and bleak.
When her mind grows tired, Heloise worries over what the future might bring. Will she be married to one she loathes? Or will the mystifying secrets of her birth be whispered behind every hand, so all will shun her? Even so, she prays each day will be the one when Fulbert comes.
She pictures riding down the road with him to Paris, free of this place, passing sights only ever before described, meeting others who share her hunger for the world of books. She longs to run through fields unattended; shout her favourite verses to the sky while birds flock high above. She wants to see the colours of illuminations painted on the clothes of those at Philip’s court, to watch his courtiers dance, to hear them laugh out loud, to one day feel the warmth of love that Ovid captured so well.
Come to me Fulbert, kind uncle, loving friend. My teacher Sister Saris awaits me and I ache to live.
Part Two
* * *
Three
ARGENTEUIL TO PARIS, 1108
Heloise waits a full six months before her uncle returns; it is three months, nineteen days since her teacher’s footsteps hardened to ice. Fulbert finds her deep in the trance that the copying brings, intent on finishing Lucan’s civil war tales. The first she knows of him is a pain-filled groan.
‘Dear Lord in Heaven, Heloise, is that you?’ He stands in the scriptorium doorway, the fur of his cloak slicked by rain. ‘What has happened?’
She launches into his arms, the smell of horse and dank fur steaming off him as she weeps; she had begun to fear him dead. When Fulbert breaks down at her distress, she is steadied.
‘Dear Uncle, please. I am overjoyed.’ She swipes away his tears and kisses his icy nose. ‘It is good to see you.’
He holds her at arm’s length. ‘You have grown so pale and thin. And tall!’ He crushes her to his chest. ‘I cannot look at you without seeing Hersende.’
‘Please, Uncle, may we find somewhere more private?’
A second time he draws away. ‘They have mistreated you?’
She dares not open up while scribes sit open-eared around them. She meets his eye instead so he may read her state.
He takes her hand and squeezes it. ‘Come, we will speak where none can hear.’
They settle in the cool spring sun beside a patch of hyssop in the kitchen garden. Heloise tells him of Sister Saris and confesses to speaking out, fearing his anger but determined to tell him the truth so he can judge her fairly. She prays that despite his disappointment he will stand beside her.
‘I know already the sorry tale of St Eloi,’ he says. ‘An act of outright confiscation. But you must learn to curb your temper, niece. It will do no good.’
‘I know. I am sorry. I fight it daily now.’ Her voice is thinned by nerves. ‘Please take me home with you. I truly am not wanted here.’
‘I planned to come but kept being called away — and then the roads were blocked by snow. Forgive me. With the thaw, I wrote to ask if you were well. Your prioress replied you were much engaged.’ He groans. ‘God forgive me, I should have known not to trust her but I have been much pressed.’
‘It does not matter. God has answered and you are here.’ She strokes his beard and sees silver threading through the red. ‘I give my word to do my best — but please, Uncle, I will go mad if I stay here.’
Fulbert holds his hand to his chest as if to restrain his heart from breaking out. ‘Of course you may come,’ he says. ‘I am now in a position to accommodate you and I will not lose another to despair.’ She is about to question his meaning when he carries on. ‘Besides, I too now have great need for company. I am feeling my age.’
She see
s his hair has also greyed and deep lines cut his brow, his skin more ruddy and open-pored than ever before. How old is he? Five decades? Another year or two beyond? ‘Then let me be the daughter to your needs, dear Uncle. All I wish is to be home with you.’ Is it a sin to also want her teacher? She guesses yes, but cannot help it.
They leave for Paris at dawn, the mist still hugging the ground as Fulbert lifts her onto a sturdy mare, her manuscripts and books in saddlebags each side of the horse’s rump. She thanks her Reverend Mother, who returns a stiff farewell before Sister Renee shoots off a final arrow: ‘May God forgive your wayward pride.’
Heloise does not care. She has her uncle, shield enough against such barbs. She does not look back.
They take the Roman road that follows the river Seine through groves of olive trees and firs. She has never before ridden without Fulbert’s safe encircling arms. He rides beside her, leading the mare she clings to, her fingers knitted into its coarse black mane, thankful for the animal’s sweet nature. She grows to like the motion, its rhythmic beat perfect for the poems that rise up in her head.
Oh nightingale, be still
For an hour
Till the heart sings
With the love of a maid
A flower …
Before she realises it, they have passed the limits of her childhood rambles and a whole new world of discoveries opens up.
Where Argenteuil’s solid form overwhelmed her as a child, now the mighty walls of St Denis steal her breath. She is in awe of the westwork that frames its two spired towers, a masterful piece of craftsmanship in tribute to the Lord.
Fulbert lets the horses graze on roadside greens so she can take it in. ‘Behind those walls, Heloise, rest kings from Childebert to Philip’s father. And inside there stands a marble column that bears a miracle.’ He points to the double-arched doorway, his face alive as in the early days when he spun his magical tales for her. ‘The night before the church’s consecration, it is said a leper crept inside to shelter. He woke to a blaze of light, from which stepped St Denis and the Christ! A host of angels came as well, to help our Lord conduct a service where he stripped away the leper’s poxed skin. Beneath there lay another, this skin absolutely perfect!’ He grins. ‘And, it is sworn, that discarded skin flew through the air and struck the marble column. The blemish is still there.’ He crosses himself and laughs. ‘It is true, Heloise. I have touched it myself.’
‘What did you feel?’
‘A warmth from my hand that spread right around my body.’
‘May I see it one day?’
‘Of course. Once you are settled we will come again. But for now let me get you home.’ He moves the horses on.
Home. That word warms her as much as the leper’s relic did her uncle.
Past St Denis the countryside gives way to makeshift dwellings. They are swarmed by merchants peddling everything from vibrantly dyed cloth and jingling trinkets to onions and skins of wine, slowing them as they enter the straight that leads to Paris’s Grand Pont. The thought of entering such a town — home to scholars and philosophers — is so affecting that her eyes well up; this is a dream made real. She pinches her hand, expecting the bell for Lauds to shake her free.
Stone forts, stately residences and Roman-inspired temples rise from muddy fields, shortly overrun by the ruder huts and hay-strewn alleys that house the traders who occupy the Seine’s north bank. Heloise is assaulted by new sensations and curiosities on every side: the smell of unknown spices, herbal infusions, perfumes from the Arab world; the sight of faces black as midnight, white skin burned to gold, strange headdresses, bleating kids, fighting cocks, drunken sots; all astonishing, intimidating, challenging every picture she has constructed in her head. Her conjured world is ordered; in this real world, chaos reigns.
Below them, laden barges float two, three, four abreast, men hefting livestock up onto sandy banks while others stack waiting barrows, swatting children, roaring orders, singing lurid choruses as her mare avoids the streams of fish guts and animal entrails that run down to meet the river between the throng of boats.
Ahead, the road is strewn with droppings — duck, goose, goat and horse — and in between the close-built quarters, tilting at all angles, drifts the sickly-sweet aroma of their open drains. And there are people, people everywhere, dressed in fabrics she has never seen before, reds, stark blues, pinks and golds. Her head turns this way, that, eyes wide, mouth open, trying to take in everything so she can summon it again at will.
To their right, the royal palace stands half ruined, its crumbled ramparts now the haunt of pigeons, judging by the mess; close by, St Eloi is being redesigned stone by stone. To their left, beyond the barrows filled with grains and fruit, lie the remnants of St Stephen, a victim of the Viking hordes. At last they reach the wall enclosing Cathedral Close.
Though the houses are planted as tight as podded seeds, there is less chaos here. Small gardens yield spring shoots, laundry is slung between the crooked walls, and narrow alleys link houses, schools, cloisters, small provisioners; all beneath the shadow of Notre-Dame. In the eastern corner stands a tumble of houses at the point where the Seine splits either side. It strikes Heloise this entire teeming, cluttered habitation owes its life-blood to a stubborn mound of earth that stands its ground in the river’s flow.
They stop not far from the water’s edge outside the last house on rue des Chantres. Heloise slides from her mount, legs buckling.
‘Here we are, my dear. Welcome to my modest home. What was mine is now most happily yours to share.’ He beams with genuine warmth.
‘Thank you, Uncle. You will never have need to regret such kindness, you have my solemn oath.’
With a fond pat to her head, he leaves her on the doorstep of this two-tiered wattle-and-daub house to tether the horses by the river. Along the street a woman sings, her voice high and filled with gaiety, nothing like the hymns intoned at Argenteuil. Somewhere a baby squalls like a yowling cat, and pots and pans chime together in an unholy din.
With no warning, the door Heloise leans upon caves in. She falls into the arms of a startled woman aged not more than twenty.
‘Forgive me,’ Heloise says, ‘I was caught off guard.’
Behind her, Fulbert clears his throat. ‘I see you have met Jehanne. Jehanne, allow me to introduce my niece Heloise.’
Jehanne responds with a self-conscious smile. She stoops to pluck up the saddlebags and beckons Heloise to follow.
The house, its make-up flimsy after Argenteuil’s stone, reveals fair proportions. Two rooms in breadth and two in depth, it is spliced through the centre by a steep staircase. On one side sits the downstairs parlour where Fulbert meets his guests and takes his meals, his bed set in the chamber opposite. Beyond the parlour lies a kitchen steeped in the scent of fresh-cut rosemary and the smouldering fire; the room adjacent contains a sturdy pallet with bedding neatly piled at its foot, as well as the kitchen’s overflow of jars holding wine and ale, onions strung by braided stalks and a gamey leg of something hanging from one beam. Out back the privy stands close to the river.
Jehanne leads her up the stairs to a bedchamber. ‘Have this room. It is less damp than the others.’
Never has Heloise imagined such comfort: the bed softened by a thick cushion of duck down, framed each side by shelves, and at its foot a wooden coffer hers alone to fill.
Jehanne places the saddlebags at the foot of the bed. ‘I sleep down there if you need me.’ She points to the knotty floorboards, suggesting the store room below, then gestures to the other doors. ‘Within lie other chambers for the canon’s guests.’
‘How long have you lived here?’ Not once has Fulbert mentioned her.
‘Just on three months.’ Jehanne hovers in the doorway. ‘You will be wanting food?’
The mention sets Heloise’s gut rumbling. ‘Thank you. Food would be most welcome.’
Heloise lays her belongings in the coffer and places her copied treasures along the shelf, an instant li
brary of her own making. The window shutters open to reveal a glimpse of the Seine beyond, letting in the breeze that rises off the water. The rumble of voices drifts up from the stairwell. She runs her fingers through her hair, rebraids it and dusts the grime of travel from her gown’s frayed hem.
Downstairs she presses an ear to a crack in the parlour door: she hears Fulbert speaking with another. She knocks, each rap akin to the nervous knocking of her heart. Fulbert calls her in.
The two men stand each side of a blackened grate, ales in hand. The visitor is taller than her uncle and perhaps a good ten years younger, his dark hair and neat-clipped beard lacking any sign of Fulbert’s creeping silver. His forehead rises high above arched brows, his nose long, eyes the blue of winter skies. He studies her back with equal measure.
‘Well, well. So this is Hersende’s girl.’ The man bows in one neat movement.
Fulbert rests his cup on the mantle, slopping ale. He mops it with his sleeve. ‘Heloise, meet our good friend Stephen de Garlande, chancellor of the royal council. He and his brothers are men of utmost influence at court, so attend him well.’
She bobs in curtsey, lowering her eyes, but can feel his continued scrutiny as a whip.
‘Tell me, what age are you?’ Smooth-voiced, he speaks as one who always expects an answer.
‘I approach my fifteenth year.’
‘So old?’ He turns to Fulbert, an eyebrow raised. ‘Do many know this fact?’
Her uncle shrugs. ‘I think not.’
Stephen de Garlande seats himself on the bench beside the mantle. ‘Hear me out on this, my friend: I propose you keep this truth between us. Claim her younger, eleven, ten — at a pinch, clothed modestly, she might well pass for a far less problematic age. And keep her presence closely guarded, with little to and fro. With Galo and that cur William of Champeaux sullying the reputations of all who dare to challenge them, now is not the time to draw their attention.’
Fulbert reaches for his cup. ‘She is family, for Heaven’s sake! What kind of lurid innuendo are you implying they will make?’
