by Hager, Mandy
Garlande frowns. ‘Come now, man. Do not diminish your niece when it is you who championed her learning. Give the girl credit where due.’
Fulbert splutters his drink. ‘Give her credit? I have given her everything —’ in the bat of his eye he turns from sour to sweet — ‘and gladly, too. Heloise knows I jest with her, do you not, dearest? I could not be prouder.’
‘I owe you everything, Uncle.’ Heloise kisses his forehead, worried by the clammy chill of his skin. She feels such guilt. She loves him and, though they have their differences, the fundamentals of that love will never change.
‘I wish you well, Heloise,’ Garlande says. ‘But I fear our friend Master Peter sees only a forward motion, while those of your sex may well find themselves on the wrong side of the Church’s new direction.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It is my job to keep an ear to the pulse of those who hold power, and their beat signals consolidation. What Master Peter views as opening up is a short stretch of quiet in the world of politics and trade. But where money is concerned, watch and you will see the wealth and power streaming back into the pockets of two men only, the king and the pope. All of us are minnows in their wake. Mark my words: Bernard of Clairvaux’s extremism better suits the Church; they have no need for women. They see them as both danger and distraction, a threat to their authority — and property rights.’
His words fill Heloise with dread. Though she does not like Garlande, he is clearly no fool.
‘Surely we are past the point of viewing women as the conduits of evil?’ Abelard says. ‘Even Bernard hails the Mother Mary.’
Garlande shrugs. ‘It is one thing to worship God’s instrument of delivery and quite another to forgive the sins of Eve.’
Fulbert’s head sinks into his chest, at the same time as he breaks free with the most appalling wind.
‘All hail, our generous host!’ Abelard’s tone balances on a knife-edge between jest and sneer.
‘It is good he sleeps,’ Garlande says. ‘I would like a quiet talk with you both.’
Heloise’s heart clatters at his serious tone. ‘Perhaps a little river air would clear the head?’
Garlande nods and the three tiptoe from Fulbert’s presence to gather in the garden overlooking the Seine. An awkward silence falls as they watch a boatman row towards the port.
Finally, he speaks. ‘Forgive me if I talk out of turn, but am I right in thinking there may be some closeness ripening between you?’
Heloise fights a violent blush. Abelard, too, looks flustered, at odds with the confidence of his public displays.
‘Why do you ask?’ She has never before seen Abelard on the hind foot. There is the look of an obstinate child about him, a fixing of his jaw.
‘Tattling tongues,’ Garlande says. ‘And eyes perhaps more focused than those of our good friend Fulbert.’
‘Master Peter is gracious enough to teach me daily.’ She tries but fails to look Garlande in the face. ‘If tongues are tattling perhaps this holds the key.’
Garlande nods but seems little swayed. ‘It could be.’ He stares up to the heavens for a long, stalled moment. ‘All I will say is this: there is a mood for cleansing, as we have just discussed. You, Heloise, must remember how your actions impact upon the man who stands beside you as family. And any master who wishes to work within the cathedral schools would do well to remember the virtues of chastity and dedication to the Church. There are those keen enough to cull the flock, and you, Peter, are often wont to fly too close to the hunters. Beware, and pray heed my words. There is not one of us who cannot be brought down should the mood shift against us.’
Abelard laughs, his audacity bouncing back. ‘A little danger sharpens the mind!’ He scoops up a stick from the river bank and hefts it into the water’s flow. ‘Do not forget my notoriety brings with it students’ money, brother; it pays to remember how well we all benefit from that. The desire to brush up against another’s fame is enticing — and, if well managed, long-lasting. Look how many have flooded here today and emptied their pockets after seeing Gilbert’s relic of Christ’s cross.’
Garlande bristles. ‘Surely you do not compare yourself—’
‘Stephen, please! Enough. Of course not. But put your worries away, man, for it is equally well known that philosophers and those devoted to arousing love of sacred study have long been strong on chastity.’
Garlande stares at Abelard, and Abelard endures it, not conceding.
Only after an interminable age does Garlande break the standoff with a more genuine smile. ‘Then I am pleased. There is always someone desirous to destroy those in the crown’s current favour. I must be sure of who I choose to back.’
‘You, sir, need have no doubt in me — though I appreciate your concern and the confidential nature of your enquiry.’
Heloise remains silent, not willing to indulge his twisted truths. Instead, she curtsies, the picture of discretion Garlande wishes to see.
As Garlande farewells them, Abelard’s swagger and lack of shame is by turns impressive and disturbing. Only when the chancellor has gone does she find her voice.
‘That is a strange sort of truth you tell. Does it not discomfit you to lie so boldly to one who chooses to look out for your good?’
‘Was it my intention to deceive him or to protect the honour of the woman whom I love? If to protect your honour, then surely that sits well. Did not St Augustine himself say: For not everyone who says a false thing lies, if he believes or opines that to be true which he says? And, as I believe you to be virtuous, I was not lying.’
‘You cannot believe what you told him.’
‘Between believing and opining there is this difference: sometimes he who believes feels he does not know what he believes—’ He breaks off, swallowing back rising laughter. ‘Lord forgive me, there were times our dear Augustine tied himself in knots!’ He gathers up her fingers and kisses their tips. ‘Sometimes expediency is called for, sweet girl. If lying is the price paid for your reputation, I gladly pay it. Give me until tomorrow morning and I will fill a book with justifications if that is what you wish.’
Heloise hears Jehanne clear her throat and spins around to find her watching. She wrenches her hand from Abelard’s and pushes past both of them, rushing for her chamber. But she cannot outrun the furious disappointment in Jehanne’s eyes. Why does love have to come with so many complications?
Seven
PARIS, 1115
So concerned is Heloise by Garlande’s warning, along with Jehanne’s spying and the ease of Abelard’s lies, she keeps to herself for several days, refusing to see him and speaking to others only when forced to reply. By the fourth day, upon awakening early, she finds a tablet fixed with Abelard’s seal slipped inside her door.
To his beloved, firmly stored in eternal memory … may prolonged cause for envy be given to those who envy us, and may they long pine away for our prosperity, since that is what they want.
But it is not possible to separate you from me, even if the sea itself should flow between us; I will always love you, I will always carry you in my spirit. Nor should you be surprised that twisted jealousy should turn its eyes towards such a conspicuous and fitting friendship as ours, because if we were miserable, we could undoubtedly live among others however we liked without any malicious attention.
Therefore, let them backbite, let them drag us down, let them gnaw, let them waste away inside, let them derive their bitterness from our good things; you will still be my life, my breath, my restoration in difficulty, and finally my complete joy.
The letter ends with a plea for Heloise to meet him down beside the river at the night’s darkest hour. I beg of you. Until then, farewell, you who makes me fare well.
The days without Abelard have proved absurdly hard; he claims possession of her every waking thought and often, too, invades with shameless dreams. Now her discomfort is pushed aside by the exciting prospect of this midnight jaunt; the temptation is too great.
<
br /> As always, she copies his letter and stows it in her mattress with the rest. Next she erases the tablet. Although Jehanne cannot read Latin, and Corbus cannot read at all, Fulbert does; she cannot risk it.
That night, awake and nervous as all others sleep, she tiptoes down the stairs past Corbus snoring on his pallet and sneaks outside. By the river Abelard waits.
‘Thank you. I feared you would not come.’ He stoops to kiss her. ‘I have missed you. The more I drink your sweetness the more I thirst.’ He takes her hand and leads her to the water’s edge, where a punt lies grounded on the shingle beach. ‘Come, my love.’
With great care he deposits her inside the boat and takes the oars, navigating across the river to the left bank, away from obvious habitation. Under an overhanging willow he beaches the punt, securing the rope around the trunk before he reveals the basket hidden beneath his cloak.
‘Voila!’ He smiles at her. ‘Dear Lord, how I have missed you. Have I said this yet?’
Such is the night’s dreamlike quality she only nods, dropping a kiss on her fingers and blowing it to him. He catches it and presses his hand to his heart before he leads her up a hill and into Garlande’s vineyard, its knotty vines looming around them. At its centre, free from prying eyes, he spreads his cloak, its pale fur reflecting back the moonlight.
‘Sit here,’ he says, ‘and let us eat, then talk of stars.’ He opens the basket and produces crusty bread, a knob of goat’s cheese and half a bladder of wine.
While they savour this midnight feast, Abelard tells her of his days and she laughs at his dramatised accounts of troublesome students. When they finish eating, their talking slows until it stops completely, stalled in a moment of intense expectation. He smiles, and tips her backwards so she faces the starlit sky. It is truly beautiful.
‘There,’ he says, pointing, ‘that one to the left of the moon is called Arcturus, and that is Mars below it, there, and Spica slipped in just beneath.’ She tracks his finger as he sweeps it to the other side of the sky. She does not tell him she has already learned this; she loves that he knows and wants to share. ‘From top to bottom we have Capella, Pollux, Jupiter, Procyon, Aldebaran and Betelgeuse and — see that one there? — it is the brightest in all God’s sky.’
‘Sirius,’ she says. She stares up at its steady glow and starts to recite a poem Gertrud taught her. Abelard recognises it and joins in.
Through the thick gloom of some tempestuous night,
Orion’s dog (the year when autumn weighs),
And o’er the feebler stars exerts his rays;
Terrific glory! for his burning breath
Taints the red air with fevers, plagues, and death …
He stops her with a finger to her lips. ‘Have no fear, my dear. The only fever this man suffers is the sickness of love.’ Heloise stiffens, unable to fully push away the residue of fear from their first coupling. It is as if he senses this. ‘Believe me, I will never again take what you do not freely share.’ He offers his hand. ‘But tonight I ask you to trust me. I have given this meeting great thought.’
She allows herself to be helped to her feet, feeling as if she is walking towards one of her carnal dreams. He cups a hand each side her face and draws her lips to his, a tentative kiss that deepens when she responds. He steps back.
‘If stars could truly grant wishes,’ he says, ‘mine would be to see you unclothed beneath their shine.’ He takes up her hand and brushes it down his cheek. ‘Heloise d’Argenteuil, might you allow it?’
Her head still swims from his kiss though she fights the warning chatter in her head. But is this not exactly what she desires, the equal sharing of an act of love? She nods, her heart thumping.
He slips her gown over her head. Her undergarments too he takes, slowly, as tender as a mother strips her child. The fur at her feet glows in the moon’s silver light as if she stands upon a cloud, a naked Eve. Abelard, short-breathed, locks his gaze on hers. She braves disrobing him, flustered by the evidence of his lust but resolved not to let it daunt her. She trails one finger from his lips to throat to chest, and then around the two tiny buds that rise there, feeling her potency.
Abelard groans and makes a grab for her.
‘No!’ Heloise says. ‘Please. Let me show you what I wish to receive back.’ If it is true he is as much a novice in the art of love as her, then let her bring the secret knowledge she has gained of what makes her body sing and show him a better way to love, a true sharing. Take control. If he cannot bow to this, all hope she can move past his first taking of her is in vain.
He swallows and nods, trembling as she lets her fingers worm through his fine chest hair, tracking ever lower until her hand comes up against his sex. She slides her fingers to its base, eyes snapping open at the shock of its responsiveness.
A guttural groan breaks from the back of his throat. ‘Sweet possessor of my soul! I pray you, let me show you what a good student this old man can be.’
He kisses her fully, fiercely, tongue to tongue, and then pulls away. It leaves her breathless as he, perfect pupil, slides one licked finger over her goose-bumped flesh, plucking the peaks of her nipples before he rolls his tongue around their rim. Now she too groans, not caring.
Further down his fingers glide, their touch scorching wherever they pass. At her thatch he crouches and nuzzles in its midst. She thinks she will explode.
He scoops her into his arms and lies her down on the silken fur, rising above her. ‘Lady, may we do this now, please?’
She arches until her breasts meet his chest. ‘Let us. Yes.’
Beneath the glowing moon they join, her body open to receive him; his, ready to be received. Oh, what a different tale to the last — no fear, no shame, no dread; instead an act of equal passion, two perfectly united.
Later they sprawl with limbs entwined and continue with their talking.
‘Tell me, has anything come of Garlande’s words?’ She is conscious of their presence on his land. ‘Can our love really put your teaching at risk?’
Abelard runs his hand along her arm, the hairs rising to meet him. ‘Put your worries away, dear girl. Garlande seeks to cover his back. I bring him prestige — and a much-desired thorn in William of Champeaux’s side — therefore he must humour me.’
‘But what if there is talk and Fulbert should hear?’ This fear prowls like a harpy in the shadows.
‘Then Stephen will disabuse him. It is his job to manage any scandals that may affect the court, just as mine is to cause stir enough to bring more students whose purses will fill the king’s coffers — once they have paid my dues.’
‘It appears scruples are slippery fish in this world of yours.’ She fights to remain focused as his hand caresses the curve of her back.
He laughs. ‘A fish may sometimes slip from the grasp but there are always other ways to bring it to the pot.’
‘Pot? This is an odd way to speak of scruples. Besides, your pot may be brought to boil by means of suspicion and indignation. If that fish does not take note of the rising heat it ends up cooked.’
‘Hush, Heloise. You imagine troubles where there are none.’
His nonchalance seems reckless, but she does not want to break the spell by further arguing. Instead, she rolls over, curling into his body. ‘Then tell me of your home,’ she says. ‘What brought you to this place?’
Abelard kisses her nape. ‘I come from a town called Le Pallet near Anjou’s border. There is not much to it, though Nantes is only eight or so miles to the east. It makes good wine — some say as fine as here, though I think not.’
‘Is Brittany very different?’
‘It is a land bereft of the crown’s civilising influence, rough but beautiful in its own way — and certainly rich with history. Once, when I was a boy, I rode with my father to the coast and saw an army of standing stones there, some taller than I am now — row upon row in perfect lines. Some say they were pagan soldiers cursed while chasing Pope Cornelius; others swear they were once a Roman
legion turned to stone. The truth is no one really knows, but to walk among them, Heloise, was both extraordinary and unsettling. They have a real presence.’
‘I would very much like to see that one day.’
He exaggerates her enthusiasm with gushing earnestness. ‘And I would very much like one day to show you!’
She laughs and jabs him in the ribs. ‘You mock me cruelly! Remember I have been a bird wholly caged.’ She weaves her fingers through his. ‘Do you have family?’
‘I am the oldest of five — a sister called Denyse, and brothers Dagobert, Porchaire and Raoul. My father, Berengar, served the local lord.’
‘Should you not be home doing your duties as his heir and knight to your lord?’
Abelard shrugs. ‘I was seduced by Lady Philosophy from an early age — and, believe me, I am ill-suited to physical work and fighting. My father allowed me to hand on that privilege to my brother and it suits Dagobert well — he was born with a love of telling people what to do and flaunting his strength.’
‘Do both your parents live?’
‘They both now serve the church, my father first to take the vows and then my mother.’
‘By her own choice?’
He shrugs. ‘I do not know, although my father is most persuasive and my mother amenable. It is common enough, especially when an heir such as my brother is impatient to ascend. Have no fear, their position enabled them both to enter abbeys considerate to their needs.’
‘Amenable hardly shouts devotion.’
He laughs. ‘Who am I to answer this? When I was raised I viewed them as any child would and now I barely know them.’
‘Was your childhood happy?’
He raises onto an elbow to better study her. ‘Why so many questions?’
She quotes his rule. ‘By doubting we come to enquiry, and by enquiry we perceive truth!’
He pretends injury, as if he has been shot through with an arrow. ‘You use my words to taunt me!’
‘Poor Abelard,’ she says. ‘My truth is that I have no notion of family past my uncle, and certainly not of family life. I find stories of it fascinating. Were you shown love or beaten? Do you have contact with your family?’
