by Hager, Mandy
‘Intelligence and curiosity are troublesome. If we are allowed to question the Word’s interpretations, we may also question why the Church holds so grimly to its wealth and power at our expense — or why, for instance, those at the top demand stricter moral codes for their clergy and officials than they do for themselves.’
The more they joust, the more Heloise is convinced. A faith arrived at willingly must surely be more genuine than one imposed. Aristotle said the mark of an educated mind was the ability to entertain a thought without accepting it … But Heloise finds this easy to say and a great deal harder to achieve out in the real world, especially for those born woman.
For near on six full years such lessons carry on, the source of Heloise’s tuition kept safe from all except the few invited to enter through Fulbert’s door. By night she dreams of lustful mythic heroes, by day her mind is fed by far more scholarly fare. As winters rage, she and Gertrud hunker under rugs that smell of nesting rats, the snickering horses in the stable below sharing their warmth with the two hard at work above. In summer they open the north-facing shutters to usher in the breeze. They fight off the sticky flies from the muck-strewn stalls by laying out shredded onions, and when the swarms of biting insects off the water grow too dense they burn fresh willow herb to drive them away.
Each day, as well, she and Jehanne attend the midday prayers at Notre-Dame, a trying reminder that the whispering and scheming she thought to leave behind at Argenteuil is just as rife out in the world. While Heloise maintains inscrutable silence in accordance with her uncle’s wishes, he takes much delight in talking up her talents and underplaying her age. She feels eyes on her at all times, her face a mask as she listens to the sideswipes and innuendo passed behind raised hands. It confounds her why they take such interest when there are intrigues enough in Church and palace to keep all tongues a-wag.
The next time Louis the Fat is off brawling with England’s king, one of these intrigues literally combusts. Heloise wakes to a continuous tolling of the bells. She looks for Fulbert but cannot find him; instead she rouses Jehanne still dozy from her bed. They run outside and at once it is clear what the bells proclaim: two pillars of smoke billow from the island.
They join the stream of neighbours tracking down the fire’s source and soon discover both of Paris’s wooden bridges are ablaze. Those who live there drag their screaming children through the flames, while others leap into the Seine amid the falling timbers to join the chain of men who bucket water. Their efforts do little. Within minutes two threatening walls of flame rise up.
It is impossible to breathe. Heloise and Jehanne run back through the increasing mayhem, choking, intent on seeing how Gertrud fares. They find her cowered under a table, hands over her ears to block the shouting and the terrified cries of the horses trapped in the stalls below.
‘We must get her away,’ Heloise says. ‘If the fire spreads this place will go up.’
‘But what of the horses? We cannot leave them.’
‘I will let them out. Better they take to the water than are burnt alive.’
While Jehanne coaxes Gertrud to her feet, Heloise drives the frantic horses down towards the river and prays for forgiveness as they launch straight into the water’s flow. It is already teeming with people holding children aloft, their livestock flailing in the current as they dodge charred lumps of steaming wood.
‘To Notre-Dame,’ Heloise cries as Jehanne bundles Gertrud down the stairs. She worries at Gertrud’s silence.
They join the crush of bodies making for the safety of the church’s stone, fighting their way through the stampede until they set Gertrud down beside the altar at the building’s heart. Smoke fouls the air, eyes are streaming, chests aflame, hearts pounding so fast it is hard not to give in to the urge to run. But then from the milling crowd Fulbert breaks through, the relief on his face met by Heloise’s own.
‘Thank the Lord.’ He crushes her to him. ‘I was summoned from Matins before we set the bells tolling, and by the time I got back home you were not there.’
‘What has caused this?’
‘It is the work of Robert, the Comte de Meulan,’ he says. ‘He has declared his intention to seize Paris in punishment for Louis’s actions years ago.’
‘That is ridiculous. Can no one stop him?’
‘Louis has most of his guards with him, but Stephen is helping to rally a local response.’ Fulbert casts around the crush of people. ‘Stay here until I come for you — though if the smoke worsens, cross the river to Sainte-Genevieve.’
‘You mean swim?’
‘A dunking is less dangerous than the flames. If we cannot get the bridges doused, the fire will quickly spread.’ He pulls Heloise to him again, the comforting Fulbert of old. ‘Take care, dearest. I will return when I can.’
She holds him tightly. ‘I love you, Uncle. Stay safe.’
He kisses her brow, then starts to summon the men among the crowd as she looks again to Gertrud, who slumps under the curve of Jehanne’s arm.
‘I think we should prepare for a siege,’ Heloise whispers. ‘Stay with her and I will go back to the house and gather food. We could be here a long while.’
It sounds a simple task, but outside the smoke is now so thick Heloise pulls the neck of her gown over her nose, yet still it feels as if her lungs will retch right out. In those around her, fury replaces panic as word leaks out of the count’s intent. Able-bodied men are wielding makeshift arms — shovels, spades, axes, truncheons, slabs of timber, iron pots — and they swarm across the river on boats, barges and horseback or swim between this improvised fleet to march upon the Comte de Meulan’s Paris castle, a stone’s throw across the Seine from Louis’s own.
In the overcrowded church, Gertrud’s terror recalls the worst of Sister Saris’s deliriums. Heloise, once returned, sits alongside her with Jehanne, as they whisper reassurances into ears that do not seem to hear. The smell of charring pervades everything, smoke catching in airways, barking coughs inducing vomit, all eyes red and weeping as many kneel to pray for safe deliverance. They hear of deaths and horrific burns, of Louis’s family holed up in their chapel, of the angry march of citizens surrounding Meulan’s castle, determined to let no one in or out. For the first time since she has lived here, Heloise feels part of the community as they share out food and comfort. When a cup of mead is thrust her way, she cajoles Gertrud to swallow it down. As it relaxes her, Gertrud begins to talk.
‘They came for us in the early morning, surrounding our wooden huts.’ She speaks so quietly Heloise must stoop to catch her words. ‘We woke to coughing, smoke closing in as thick as river fog — like this.’ Her gaze spikes Heloise, who shivers at the depth of horror there. ‘Kalman was already dead, my Chana and Saris were still with me, and all around there was shouting and nothing but flames sweeping hut to hut. Then through the smoke came a troop of armoured men.’ She screws her eyes shut, chin trembling, before she carries on. ‘They made a grab for Saris, so I ran to her, beating them off with bare fists and taking their blows in order to shelter her. They threw us to the ground, swords dangling so close I felt the shift of air.’
Heloise strokes her teacher’s hunched back. ‘Shhh, it is all right, Mother. No one will—’
‘We curled to balls as hedgehogs do, heads tucked to our stomachs, taking the brunt of their boots in the small of our backs. Dear God—’ Gertrud chokes, a hand clawing at her mouth, breathing hard. She sucks air through her nose and regains herself. ‘Out of that fire came a terrible, terrible scream as a burning apparition burst from our hut. My darling Chana was alight, flesh melting off her, face dissolving, her arms—’
‘Good Mother, stop!’ Every hair on Heloise’s head bristles at Gertrud’s dreadful words. It is a scene drawn straight from Hell. On all sides round horror spread wide; the very silence breathed a terror on my soul. She seizes Gertrud’s hands and covers them with pacifying kisses. ‘We are here now, dear Mother. We will keep you safe.’ Heloise’s head thumps, her eyes stin
g. To think Sister Saris witnessed this and never said — and now poor Gertrud must endure this reminder of the unbearable death of one she loved. Life is so unfair. So cruel.
Gertrud’s words are now spent. She looks at once both as old as time and as defenceless as a child. They coax her to eat a hunk of bread and sip more mead before resting her head in Heloise’s lap. She strokes Gertrud’s brow until her quaking stops and at last she sleeps. There they stay, beneath the Christ nailed to his cross, until at day’s long end it is announced the fires are finally out.
As night falls, the women, children, ill and elderly creep from the church back to their dwellings to take stock. Heloise brings Gertrud home and tucks her up beside her, reassuring her every time she stirs.
Twelve long days those angry menfolk continue their siege at Meulan’s walls, the women ferrying food and drink, until one by one the count’s men abandon him. They say those trapped inside his castle slowly starve, and in the end they force his surrender, allowing this madness to come to its end. That night the whole of Paris crows in celebration … except Gertrud, whose unearthed terror has started to disorient her. It is as if a quake has thrown up so many painful memories they obstruct her mind.
Although they resume their lessons, more and more Heloise finds she must take the lead. Jehanne, too, now joins them when her work is done, hoping to ease Gertrud’s suffering by giving her two flesh daughters to replace those lost. Weeks turn to months, months to years, Heloise immersing herself in every text she can source from her teacher, Fulbert or his scholarly friends. Though her uncle now seems less concerned to closet her from the world, often loudly championing her skills to all who will listen, she grows ever less inclined to appear with him in public. She takes to avoiding all unnecessary social contact where she can, finding the talk too banal and the inevitable assessments of her too invasive. This way, too, she can divest herself of Fulbert’s defensive measures, revelling in freedom from the bindings that have concealed her physical blossoming for so many years.
But she cannot avoid her daily church attendance, often having to endure with eyes lowered, cheeks pink, as Fulbert fawns on those in power to maintain his position. One day, just as they are edging through the crowd at the service’s end, her uncle is stopped by a middle-aged man who, apart from a peptic stain to each cheek, looks as waxen as a corpse.
‘My lord, Champeaux,’ Fulbert says, ‘what brings you back to Paris?’
Heloise studies the man closely. At brow and mouth she sees the lines of austere thought stamped upon his face. This is the great William of Champeaux? When his greeting shifts to her, she feels the severity of his examination.
‘Canon Fulbert. Mademoiselle.’ He nods, his pious focus now turned again towards her uncle. ‘I come in my capacity as papal legate, and to keep watch on those who would sully the Church’s good name.’
Fulbert laughs nervously. ‘I hope, my lord, you will find no fault with me.’
Champeaux snorts and dismisses the comment with a wave of his bejewelled hand. ‘Unless you have fallen under the spell of that snake Abelard, I dare say you have nothing to fear.’
‘It is hard not to run into the man or his boisterous followers,’ Fulbert admits. ‘But have no fear, my lord, my mind is not capable of grasping such complex thoughts. My niece, meanwhile—’
Champeaux accosts her. ‘Surely you, Mademoiselle, would not risk damnation at the behest of one who discredits with impunity and ridicules the thoughts of others to bolster his own fame?’
‘I know nothing of him, my lord, past what is casually overheard.’ Her cheeks are colouring; there is something about this man that makes her quake.
‘Then be warned: those who seek to rise above their station will suffer the fires of Hell. God’s will is not to be questioned, and that man, Abelard, is an abomination in God’s eyes.’
‘Thank you for your wise counsel, my lord.’ Her feet itch to run; to escape his animosity.
This answer seems to calm him somewhat, and he turns away as those of higher status now snare his attention. Heloise releases a breath she failed to notice was withheld. Whatever is at the heart of this war between the two master philosophers, God help any who stumble into the contested battle ground between the sides. No wonder her uncle’s colour is so drained.
Her concerns over such intrigues are washed away in an instant, however, when midway through Heloise’s twenty-first year, as her teacher approaches four and seventy, Gertrud dies in her sleep.
The loss of Gertrud leaves Heloise floundering at the very time Fulbert is reaching his career’s prime and is therefore often unavailable. During the day, he is forever between church and palace, while after dark his drinking drives a wedge between them. Nightly he downs two full jugs of sharp red wine and sometimes more before he stumbles to his bed. Heloise worries for his health and the drink’s effect on his mood, which swings between maudlin, sweet but tearful, and angry and unpredictable.
Again unanchored, Heloise takes solace in her books and wallows in the grief of others as a comfort for her own. She feels abandoned, and grows convinced it is her fault — that something sinful buried deep within her means that every mother figure she embraces will end up taken away — and yet she does not know the crime for which God punishes her, though a niggling inner voice whispers it is the fault of questioning that which she should not.
Jehanne counsels prayer and urges her to form a stronger compact with God. And Heloise tries, oh how she tries, to seek the comfort of the Lord. But though it eases her guilt a little, one fundamental question keeps arising that halts her in her tracks: how could a loving God allow those good, deserving women to suffer such appalling pain?
She is like those touched by Ovid’s two-horned god, going hither and thither, where madness drives. So often has she dived into the ancients’ words, she finds they form her shifting narrative, one moment railing — Love is a thing ever filled with anxious fear — the next contemplating death — my heart is being torn … She is no more capable of stemming her moods’ excesses than that frightened little girl of five she once was.
While she clings to Fulbert’s act of rescue, when the wine leaves him angry or morose, she worries the drink will affect his work and that any small misstep could undermine their refuge. Garlande may call her uncle ‘friend’ but she does not trust him — and, even if she did, their esteemed chancellor comes under greater pressure every day. Louis the Fat’s pet churchman, Suger, and William of Champeaux have spies keen to whisper their gossip-hid-as-counsel to the king. Accusations leak from clerics and courtiers alike, but they are distorted truths and puffed-up lies.
In Fulbert’s bumbling desire to soothe Heloise’s agitation, it grows increasingly clear that he reasons a good and steady husband will help secure her. He finally speaks one evening after they have dined, when he is already well fortified.
‘I have raised your achievements at the court again,’ he says. He combs his fingers through his beard. ‘I think I should be able to make you a good match.’
‘You want me gone?’
Fulbert squirms and tosses back another slug of wine. ‘Is this not what women seek? I swear I will do what I can to find you someone who will appreciate your mind …’
And make me your angel of revenge? The thought of being flung from him, the first to show her love, shakes her despite their recent cooling off. She cannot answer past the fear that swells in her throat.
‘Dear Heloise … you must know everything I do is for your benefit—’
She flings herself at him, her face buried into the soft barrel of his chest. ‘Please, Uncle, please, never send me from your house or bind me to another. I wish to stay here always so I can care for you.’
‘Cease this now. You know I never seek to cause you misery.’ He pats her back with awkward strokes, his discomfort her one glimmer of hope.
‘Then promise you will keep me with you always.’ She knows he shares her pangs of insecurity; in truth, it is the strongest bon
d that keeps them still entwined. They are two outcasts adrift on a fickle sea, though only Fulbert knows the route to take them home — and still he will not say. ‘Uncle? Please?’ She senses a weakening in him and places a hand each side of his bearded jowls. ‘I never want to leave. I love you far too much.’ The fact that this serves her does not negate the statement’s truth; the thought of leaving him strikes panic in her heart.
‘Oh, child.’ He plants a wet kiss on her nose and blinks back tears. It is clear he has no real wish to harm her. She is the waif he plucked from the mud, his one connection to Hersende. ‘But who will care for you when I am gone? A husband would secure your—’
‘Stop!’ She presses a finger to his lips. ‘God will preserve you for a long time yet. Let us worry less about the future and treasure what we have for now.’
He exhales a fumy sigh. ‘Yes, yes. Very well.’
‘I have your oath?’
He nods, eyelids drooping. ‘Indeed, you have my oath. I am nothing if not selfish.’
Later, in bed, she whispers thanks for this deliverance, but knows the Lord can see right through her. An oath induced by tears signifies little.
But despite her doubts and guilt, Fulbert no longer talks of marriage, and slowly her anxiety lifts; he is instead kept occupied with Louis’s rebuilding after the Comte de Meulan’s siege.
In order to scrape together the costs, Louis had called on the church to levy further tithes. Now, more and more he empowers the clerics, among them his childhood friend, the unctuous Suger, who has the Garlande brothers and those loyal to them in his sights.
For Heloise, meanwhile, the days drag long. She is directionless. As new buildings rise to north and west, Louis’s new Paris transforms into a place of scholarship surpassing the reputations of both Gandersheim and Landesberg. News of this draws youths from every stretch of Europe. Over mountains, rivers and seas they flock, Heloise ever more jealous as the schools grow.
