Heloise

by Hager, Mandy

  ‘Heed Socrates, brother, if not me: Strong minds discuss ideas, average minds discuss events, weak minds discuss people. Of the latter kind you have suffered enough already and, with Gregory’s reforms once again raising their head, none of us is safe.’

  The colour drains from Fulbert’s face. ‘You truly think such secrecy is called for? What of Jehanne? Surely you cannot be saying there is risk in her presence as well? By the saints, you brought her here!’

  Garlande laughs. ‘No, no, my friend. Not even Galo would think you to stoop so low, of this I can assure you. And your favour, of course, is noted and duly stored.’ He taps his forehead, as if this unnamed debt is lodged inside.

  Her uncle downs the rest of his ale in a single gulp and wipes the froth from his lips before he beckons her. ‘Come, niece, make yourself close.’

  She crosses the floor — Garlande assessing her as if she is butcher’s fare — and places her hand in Fulbert’s. ‘I hope my presence will not cause trouble, Uncle. Nothing would pain me more.’

  ‘These are troubled times. Loyalties flit this way and that and our little enclave is always rife with rumour and suspicion. But here you will stay, my dear. I vowed upon your dear mother’s grave I would raise you to your rightful place, and that I will. But, for now at least, let us agree to keep faith about your age. While others rest their minds in muck, we must raise ourselves above the flow.’

  ‘You would have me tell untruths?’

  Fulbert drops her hand, flushing. ‘It is not—’

  Garlande breaks in. ‘Not a lie, my dear, instead a failure to verify. A charming ruse. Why, many a grown woman refutes her mounting years. Consider it mere girlish coquetry.’

  Fulbert strokes his beard, a habitual comfort. ‘A tactical move, Heloise. One that frees you of the usual expectations that will arise.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Garlande says, and smiles. ‘A little more time before you are wed will do no—’ he turns to Fulbert mid-breath, ‘unless, of course, you plan to instigate the marriage process right away? In which case—’

  ‘No!’ The word breaks from Heloise’s lips at the same time as Fulbert’s equally fervent denial. An uncomfortable silence descends.

  She wants to question him, to know if marriage is indeed his plan, but now he waves her out. ‘Enough. This is no talk for such a happy day. Take some refreshment, and then I will show you around Cathedral Close.’

  As she departs, curtsying first to Garlande and then to Fulbert, she hears her uncle mumble an aside, ‘Less of your meddling, man. Pray, leave your games and manoeuvring for the entertainment of our king-in-waiting. Lord knows his father’s time is long overspent.’

  Heloise closes the door, shaken that this stranger speaks of her personal business so forthrightly. Again she takes up her position with an ear to the crack, although Garlande takes no care to lower his voice. He is a man quite confident in his own opinion.

  ‘Such a charming face. And, as luck would have it, she is thin enough to chance the ruse. Still, bind her breasts should they grow further, and dress her plainly. Once Louis takes the throne from Philip the mood will turn against this moral scaremongering, but while we have Galo running amok we must ensure her budding presence in your house exists below the surface, as we all must live.’

  Heloise nearly laughs aloud. Although their conversation has been short, already she doubts the visitor has the temperament to curb his own conceit and swagger. But if her presence could harm Fulbert, she has no qualms about duping those whose prejudices might threaten him. She has but one goal only: to seek out Sister Saris and learn from her once again. Bound breasts, drab cloth, an untruth told; none of this matters so long as the craving of her mind is met.

  Jehanne appears with word of bread and cheese laid out. But not halfway through, the air is rent by tolling bells that do not cease.

  ‘Is it Sext already?’

  Before she can make sense of Jehanne’s alarmed reply, there is a fierce and urgent rapping on the street-side door. Fulbert bursts from the parlour and Heloise watches from the shadows as he wrenches it open.

  A sweating monk pants out his news. ‘Our king, the mighty Philip, has just this moment gone to Christ.’

  Heloise is sure she hears Stephen de Garlande mutter, ‘Praise be to the Lord!’

  Fulbert spins around, ‘Hush, man. Would you put us all at risk?’ He turns to find Heloise observing them and beckons her forward. ‘I must go, dear one. There will be much to do. Stay here. Jehanne can ably meet your needs.’

  The three men depart in haste to join the crowd amassing as the bells toll on. Alone with Jehanne at the table, Heloise makes light talk above their urgent pealing.

  ‘Have you ever visited Argenteuil?’ When Jehanne shakes her head, Heloise tells of her life there, of their Reverend Mother and the difficult Sister Renee.

  ‘A cruel one,’ Jehanne offers. ‘I know much of that.’

  ‘You have had cause to suffer, too?’ She senses a hunger in Jehanne less for pity than for friendship, a need Heloise also feels.

  ‘I do not know who suckled me or bore me to the nuns at St Eloi but there I lived until we were expelled. When no one would take me in, Stephen de Garlande brought me here to tend to Canon Fulbert when his housekeeper fell ill.’

  ‘You took the veil?’

  Jehanne shakes her head. ‘No, though none but the Lord would ever want to wed a cast-off like me.’ A world-weary sense of rejection infuses her tone. ‘I worked in the kitchen.’

  ‘Did you ask for sanctuary at Argenteuil? We took many from St Eloi.’

  ‘Only the sisters were placed. My questionable parentage made them nervous. No one will risk the rumour-mongering these days. Your uncle is a rare man.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt. But what is Garlande’s place in this?’

  Jehanne shrugs, and Heloise spies the crinkle of a smile about her eyes. ‘Stephen de Garlande is at the centre of almost everything. He has been named canon, archdeacon, bishop and now chancellor as well — although for a while the king’s favour decidedly waned. But since Garlande is returned there is nowhere you will not hear his name or find his mark.’

  ‘What kind of man is he?’

  ‘One best not crossed. It is said he scrapes and smiles to the king while others do his dirty work.’

  ‘And my uncle? What have you heard of him?’

  ‘He has been nothing but kind to me—’

  ‘Yes, but what are the whispers?’

  Jehanne tears off a corner of bread and rolls it to a ball. Finally, she answers, ‘In truth, they say he made money and gained much support by executing others’ murky business.’

  Heloise nods. ‘Yes, I think he once admitted this to me himself.’ She bites into a slab of cheese and slowly chews as she considers this. Was this the way of all men? One hand stroking while the other hides a knife behind the back? But, if so, who could really blame her uncle? From the little she knows, he was estranged from his family with few other means of influence; Heaven is a long time coming to those who cannot drag themselves above the mire. If not for Fulbert’s sacrifices where would she be today? A kitchen drudge like Jehanne, unclaimed and unwanted? ‘Is there talk of his family? Do you know who I came from?’

  Jehanne flicks the ball of bread onto her plate. ‘I have heard the name Montmorency whispered but never seen any proof.’

  Heloise gasps. This is a name she, too, has often heard bandied about, though never in relation to her. One of the oldest and most distinguished families in France, they had direct ties to Argenteuil.

  ‘If this is true, why would Fulbert not say so?’

  ‘Perhaps it is not true at all, if he has never said. Gossip is just that: idle talk designed to promote those whore-hounds who mouth it.’

  Through her shock at Jehanne’s language, Heloise tries to think back to that first day at Argenteuil, when Fulbert bartered names for her acceptance there. Was this Montmorency one of them? It does not sound familiar. And what good is specula
tion anyway? If Fulbert does not think it wise for her to know, perhaps there is good reason. ‘Tell me, did you know the wife of Kalman the Jew at St Eloi?’

  ‘Indeed. She was most kind.’

  ‘You knew she has revoked the veil?’

  Jehanne creasing her forehead. ‘Yes. It was no great surprise. Often she was shunned by the arse-winds who thought themselves better.’

  ‘I mean to find her daughter, my teacher Sister Saris. There is a silk merchant — a man named Seidman. Do you know his whereabouts?’

  Jehanne pauses as if weighing her answer. ‘Sometimes I take pleasure in the beauty of his silks.’

  ‘Will you lead me there?’

  ‘Now? First we must seek leave of Canon Fulbert. I dare not act without his say.’

  Heloise likes her; she has an appealing straightness. ‘We will be friends, you and I. I sense it here.’ She presses the older girl’s hand to her heart in the hope she will feel its happy beat. Jehanne’s smile lights her face.

  Once she has eaten, Heloise is left to while away the time until Fulbert’s return. She settles in the parlour, drawn to his copy of De arte metrica, and spends the hours shaping playful verses in Bede’s style, breaking only once to try out these lightweight offerings on Jehanne as they share an evening meal. Her companion’s laugh, now unguarded, is loud and fulsome and helps to stall Heloise’s impatience over Fulbert’s instruction not to leave the house.

  Later Heloise lies in that heavenly bed but cannot sleep. Every night for the last ten years she has drifted off to others’ whispered prayers and the rise and fall of their loud emissions and dreaming breaths. Here she lies alone, the unfamiliar night noises of Cathedral Close leaking through the walls and shuttered windows: men’s voices — harsh, laughing, blaring snatches of drunken song — and women’s shrieks, dogs’ whining, footfalls, whistling, a screeching baby, the clink of metal on stone … Long into the night her heart races, mind alert, fretting over Stephen de Garlande’s assumption that Fulbert will marry her off. Was her uncle’s quick denial truthful or biding time? Until today, she feared most taking the veil and finding her world shrink even smaller. But to marry, to exchange Church control for that of a man, this indeed is a chilling prospect. Ovid has moved her to hope that love can unlock convention, but the bonds of marriage bear with them life-long duty.

  At dawn Fulbert staggers home, weary-eyed after a night of prayer over Philip’s body at Notre-Dame. Once washed and changed, he escorts Heloise and Jehanne through the crush of mourners. They cross the Petit Pont, passing crude wooden signs announcing taverns, brothels and hospices, and Fulbert settles them on a sunny flank of hillside just below the church of Sainte-Genevieve before he returns to attend the funeral march. From this vantage point they see the whole of Paris.

  It lies in the valley below, spread out as a bird might view it; the larger of the two small islands bearing almost all the weight of France’s power. White-sailed boats glide up the broad reach of the Seine, making for the port of St Landry, and the commerce quarter spreads up towards Montmartre. The surrounding valleys and gentle hills are swathed with vineyards, cornfields and orchards, crowned with groves of olive and oak. And, on the nearer side, below them, habitation also overflows the narrow limits of the island. There are houses stacked along the Petit Pont, and a jumble of buildings steals up the rise towards their perch. Here, too, the land beyond is strung with vineyards and lush gardens, a Roman ruin peeping through the green.

  A grand procession appears below them, headed by the royal heir astride a large white stallion, followed by a red-shrouded bier borne upon the shoulders of Philip’s most faithful servants. At its rear come the extended family, noblemen and church fathers, and behind them file all the other men who make up Paris’s elite. Heloise is so taken by the pageantry she almost forgets its solemn cause.

  As the procession advances down the wide sweep towards St Denis, a whispering rises up, protesting that the king is not to rest in the hallowed ground there. It is said they intend to march all the way to St Benoit-sur-Loire, by Philip’s own request; that he dares not rest among his royal kin for shame over the woman Bertrada. Scandal, it seems, can outlast death.

  When the parade has passed, the large contingent of young men now filling the streets strike up bawdy songs, throwing back ale and wine. Jehanne explains their rowdy disrespect: they sit right in the cradle of Paris’s famed schools, and these ill-mannered rogues are their lucky students.

  How Heloise’s ears prick up! She studies those around her more closely. Unruly and worse for drink, young men of every hue and costume boast of their achievements, posturing, preening, the light of vitality and entitlement beaming from them as they pass judgement on the greatest teachers and scholars of their day.

  ‘Champeaux’s time is past,’ she hears. ‘Master Peter can out-manoeuvre him at every turn.’ Others, too, have this one name ever on their lips. ‘My master, Peter Abelard, says …’ ‘Abelard is the most exciting thinker of our time …’ ‘Only Master Peter can put the elders in their place …’ Who is this man? There is a frisson in the air whenever someone speaks his name, the promise of old ways spurned, a fresh approach to reaching life’s inner truths, a sense that he, alone, holds the key to thought’s limitless flight.

  By now Heloise understands the nature of their privilege: only men are allowed the right to scholarship in these schools. A lustful envy steals into her heart. Oh, to be born a man, to walk with shoulders back, no fear of challenge, confident in the right to enter those famed halls. Heloise yearns for the freedom their education brings.

  The king’s death proves a boon. Her uncle is called to Orleans, where they hurry to crown Louis to stop Bertrada’s son usurping him, a deed the departed Philip’s mistress seems most eager to enact. Before Fulbert leaves, Heloise has no difficulty wheedling from him enough deniers to buy a bolt of cloth to make a simple gown, an excuse which gives her the freedom to seek out Sister Saris with Jehanne’s help.

  At first encounter, Heloise is overwhelmed by the beauty of the silk merchant’s wares, running her hand along a bolt of fabric the flaming gold of bonfires, its weave smooth and lustrous. A man she assumes is Seidman shuffles towards her, bowing low.

  ‘I see you have an eye for beauty. What may I do for you?’ He is turned to Jehanne, although she leaves Heloise to answer.

  ‘We are seeking Saris, daughter of Master Kalman. Do you know where we might find her?’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘I am Heloise, niece of Canon Fulbert.’

  ‘Ah, yes, she spoke of you.’ To Jehanne he says, ‘You will escort her?’

  Jehanne nods, although she stiffens. ‘It is not an imposition?’

  He shrugs, hands pressed before him as if in prayer. ‘Go! I am sure they will receive you gladly.’ Seidman indicates over his shoulder towards a low-stooped tenement that sits between the synagogue and a livery store, no more than scrappy wood tacked one board over the other. ‘You know the door.’

  Heloise turns to Jehanne. ‘You know already?’

  Jehanne’s blush rises from neck to cheek. ‘I have kept in contact with her mother. She favours privacy.’

  ‘But I told you Sister Saris and I were friends.’ Why such ridiculous holding-back? Something is not right. ‘Is this safe?’

  ‘Safety is not the issue here.’

  Jehanne’s coded answer nags as Heloise knocks on the small planked door. A woman pulls it ajar, and Heloise asks for Sister Saris, explaining their bond.

  ‘God be praised!’ The woman reaches out and draws her across the threshold, firmly clutching her arm. ‘Perhaps you will cheer her.’

  Cheer her? Has Sister Saris cause to regret her flight from Argenteuil?

  Inside, a dozen bolts of silk are raised above the hay-strewn floor on wooden stools, creating a jewelled rainbow within the clutter of this dingy room. But they do not stop here. Heloise is ushered to a rough lean-to out the back, Jehanne trailing. A pot of fish-heads bubbles on a fire, st
eam and smoke billowing through a hole in the makeshift roof. An older woman, whom Jehanne greets as Gertrud, hunches over the head of a pallet that lies close to the fire. She nurses what at first glance appears to be a child.

  Heloise rubs her smoke-smarting eyes, her heart quickening. Sister Saris? Can it be? She lies as still as the stone figures in Argenteuil’s crypt, a study of skin and bone. With a groan, Heloise lunges to take her chilly hand.

  ‘Sister Saris, it is me. Heloise. I have come.’ She is aware others speak around her but cannot hear past the pulse inside her head. In vain she tries to rouse her teacher, jiggling, stroking, kissing her temple, attempting not to gag on the foulness sweating off her.

  The woman, Gertrud, places a hand on Heloise’s shoulder. ‘Child, please. It is preferable she sleeps.’

  ‘What has befallen her?’ Heloise cannot tear her gaze from her teacher’s face. Her waxen features are far too like the death masks she has seen at Argenteuil.

  Gertrud replies not to her but to Jehanne. ‘Should I answer this with truth or comfort?’

  Jehanne shrugs. ‘It is best she knows.’

  Gertrud draws a ragged breath. ‘Very well … The night my daughter quit Argenteuil she was forced to make her way on foot through the freezing dark, no escort to protect her when she fell prey to a band of brigands. After they beat her to submission—’ Gertrud swallows hard, for a moment closing her eyes to seek composure, ‘they used her, one after the other, five or six in all. Her will to live has gone. May God forever wreak vengeance on their souls.’

  Heloise looks to Jehanne, too dumbfounded to take this in. ‘We must help her! Carry her to Fulbert’s house, call in a—’

  Gertrud shakes her head, silencing the girl. ‘It is too late.’

  Heloise throws herself over her teacher’s wasting body and sobs out her love for her, her gratitude … So, too, her broken dreams and raw impotent rage. She turns on Jehanne, links connecting now: bang, bang, bang. ‘You knew of this yet you stayed silent?’