Heloise

by Hager, Mandy

  ‘I was both loved and beaten. Is that not all parents’ duty? And, yes, I see them from time to time, though seldom is it rewarding. Of all, it is Denyse I miss the most. She has a good mind, although her marriage brought her schooling to an end.’

  ‘She is happy?’

  ‘How would I know? Such things take too much space in the head. It is better to avoid closeness to keep one’s mind free for its work. If you are serious you must do the same.’

  She rolls towards him now, connecting chest to chest, belly to belly, toe to toe. ‘All closeness, sir?’

  His teeth flash white. ‘Point conceded! Though, what we possess is very different. You are my muse.’

  ‘I am honoured, master.’

  ‘And so you should be!’ As they kiss, he eases her onto her back. ‘Enough talking now! I propose we see if we can improve upon perfection. What do you say?’

  She pushes away the thoughts of sin and retribution that are knocking at her conscience. To give them air is far too frightening — and, besides, her body’s feverish response to his urgent touch leaves little choice. ‘It would be churlish not to try …’

  This magical night heals the scars of their first coupling. Both are rocked by the force of their new connection. His daily letters exude devotion on every page.

  To the singular joy and only solace of the weary mind, that person whose life without you is death … may the first time I forget your name be when I no longer remember my own …

  For weeks their happy love-making fills every night, newly aroused senses leading to ever more intimate pleasure. For Heloise the days seem interminable without Abelard there, while their evening game plays out in several discrete acts to titillate each other further: Act One, their serious discussion — neither is prepared to give this up; Act Two, that complicated middle dance, the dizzy slide down to flirtation. The final Act is taken up entirely by arousing love, and as an epilogue they whisper in the dark and pledge devotion.

  By day they turn each casual encounter to advantage: hands brushing on the stair, Abelard hooking his little finger onto hers and leaning in, hot-breathed, to whisper, ‘You are so beautiful I can think of nothing else’; a loving look across another’s head, his glance caressing her lips as if he can deliver a kiss by thought alone; a snatched moment to plan a secret tryst, like the night they spend bobbing in a skiff beneath a low-slung willow downstream, the light from a single flame transforming it to an unworldly bedchamber in which to share their love. When they sneak free of the house, Abelard serenades Heloise with his latest compositions; when she wakes in the morning, she finds manuscripts slipped just inside her door with loving phrases marked.

  Abelard’s new-found passion sets him ever more alight; he sings on rising and again to humour his students at the end of his long day. His love songs grow ever more popular; it seems the whole of Paris now rings with his audacious musical seductions. Heloise lives in fear of Fulbert becoming aware of their intention but cannot resist listening out for them; to hear Abelard’s feelings for her sung from others’ lips quite steals her breath. She floats on happiness and constant desire.

  She is still uneasy under Jehanne’s watchful eye, silent as they walk together to church each day at noon. After weeks of fretting, one day Jehanne rounds on her.

  ‘You make yourself look foolish.’

  Heloise stops. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Do you think it is not clear you are in love with him?’

  ‘Can I not be in love with mental stimulation without this pleasure being soured?’

  ‘Even that whore-hound Corbus mutters about it under his breath. Do you not see how dangerous this is? Master Peter may have friends and hangers-on but he has an equal number of enemies. If they see you as his weakness they will savage you to get at him.’

  ‘Then he will challenge them, and pity the man who thinks he can best him. Even William of Champeaux could not defeat his tongue.’

  ‘Your stubbornness overrides sense. Where Master Peter walks, trouble will follow.’

  Heloise feels her temper flare, ready to take on Jehanne just as Fulbert strolls around the corner to usher them into Notre-Dame. They split one each side of him, brooding.

  The priest leads a hymn and three short psalms, followed by a passage from Corinthians that seems designed to taunt her: ‘Flee fornication. Every sin that a man doeth is without the body; but he that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body …’

  When they leave, the priest’s words have built an even thicker wall between the two women. On reaching home, Heloise goes straight to her room, choosing to forgo lunch rather than suffer under Jehanne’s disapproval. Instead she transcribes Abelard’s latest letter and composes her reply.

  Let me speak plainly to your resplendent mind and heart so pure. It is not a great thing if I love you, but rather a wicked thing if ever I shall forget you …

  Such is her loyalty to Abelard, week on week she avoids Jehanne. However, the next criticism is delivered not by her but from Corbus. There comes a day when, after he hands her Abelard’s sealed tablet, he does not leave. He stands in her doorway, grim and immovable.

  ‘I must speak with you, lady.’

  ‘Then do.’ She clasps Abelard’s tablet to her breast, a defensive wall between them.

  He fixes his glower on her hands, his own fisted to knuckled balls. ‘There is much talk about Master Peter’s present frenzy. His students say he lacks interest, is distracted, repeating lessons they have heard before.’

  She wills her rising flush to cool. ‘Why tell me this?’

  His gaze flicks up, scathing before it sheers away. ‘The walls are not so thick as you might think.’

  Dear God! As much as she wishes to throw him out she knows she has no choice; better ally than enemy. ‘Is this not more suited to raise with your master?’

  ‘We both know a warning will be better received from you. Believe me, lady, I speak for your protection as much as his.’ His eyes transform from brown to black, such is his pent-up anger. ‘Of late he has been childish in the way he makes points to his students. He chooses phrases like “Peter loves his girl” and “May my sweetheart kiss me”. Please forgive me, but he also says such things as “she will sucumb, she will not sucumb”.’

  Heloise battles her blush. ‘Surely not! That sounds far too base and puerile.’ And fraught with risk. What is he thinking?

  ‘I swear on the Holy Book I heard him say these very words, my lady. I am required to attend every lecture. Between this and his songs, he makes you fodder for the masses and the masses are growing displeased. They claim he regurgitates old glosses and often fails to attend. You must speak to him, lest his frenzy undoes everything … and everyone.’

  ‘Does my uncle know of this?’ She feels sick.

  ‘How can I answer for his thoughts? But the chancellor on occasion stands at the back to listen, and I dare say William of Champeaux has also planted spies.’

  ‘I am truly thankful for your concern. I will have words with him.’

  She shuts the door before her knees give way, furious Abelard has so little care for his safety that he risks her own. Such carelessness works against his great ambition.

  That night she sees afresh what Corbus might term frenzy.

  Abelard bursts in through the door and interrupts the blessing of their evening meal.

  ‘Such smells waft straight from Heaven,’ he says, pushing his plate towards Jehanne, who cuts short her prayer to serve the rabbit pie. He turns to Fulbert. ‘You, friend and best of hosts, have no inkling of the service you have done by allowing me to stay in your fine lodgings. You have freed my mind! All night I work on my Dialectica and now I have thoughts of a new work on the philosophies of Porphyry. Without your welcome I doubt I could carry out such vital work.’

  Although she knows Abelard often writes after she creeps back to her bed, she has not until now noticed the toll such sleeplessness takes. Beneath his red-rimmed eyes lie bruised shadows.r />
  ‘I sometimes hear you pace in the early hours when I take my piss,’ Fulbert says. ‘It is pleasing to know I can contribute in some little way to your work.’

  Jehanne chokes, spluttering pastry across the table. Abelard claps her on the back so hard she grunts.

  ‘Help?’ he says. ‘Good man, your generosity has transformed my life!’ His foot finds Heloise’s under the table and travels up her leg. She shakes it off. ‘My work proceeds at strength thanks to the comfort of your home.’

  ‘What do you write about?’ Fulbert pushes back his chair to stretch his legs, taking up the nightly pose that sees him drift, wine-drenched, to sleep, at which point Heloise and Jehanne usually haul him off to bed.

  Abelard springs from the table, jolting it. ‘Language’, he says, ‘is a puzzle worth solving every day. For instance, we might say that “Socrates is a harp player” and “he is good in his behaviour”, but it does not mean we can conclude “Socrates is a good harp player”. Or we can take the simplest of sentences like “Abelard has three brothers”, say, and to this add “they are all human”. Then we can extrapolate this further: Dagobert is human, Porchaire is human, as is Raoul.’

  Heloise frowns. This is not new work; she heard him discuss this in the very first lecture she attended. Does he forget?

  ‘Simple enough,’ Fulbert says. ‘If this is all you teach my niece—’

  Abelard claps his hands as if Fulbert is one of his unruly students. ‘Come, come! So we have three “simple” humans, as you say. But what, indeed, does “human” mean? Does each of them have his own humanity, like a coat, or do they all have a share in this thing called humanity?’

  Fulbert shrugs, sulky now. ‘They are all God’s creatures.’

  Abelard stops pacing and stares at the ceiling as if petitioning God to send him fortitude. ‘All right, for my sins, let us agree that there is a general thing called “humanity”; that God did not create a separate version for each and every member of the human family.’

  Fulbert humphs but says nothing more.

  Abelard recommences his pacing. ‘On the other hand, it is a peculiar thing. Both men and women participate in it, for instance. So, does that mean when we talk of humanity we are talking of something both male and female, both short and tall, thin and fat, and so on?’

  Heloise cannot resist such semantic play. ‘Perhaps “humanity” is not a thing at all. Perhaps it is merely a word.’

  Abelard beams, raising his hands above his head. ‘Yes, oh yes! And if that is the case, then what do I mean when I say “humanity is rational”? Am I talking about nothing? How can I talk about things that do not exist?’ He looks directly at her. ‘Does speaking about something conjure it into existence?’

  Is he doubling up on meanings? Has he, too, heard the whispers of his students’ discontent? ‘Surely one must consider the intention of each statement, rather than the words themselves.’

  ‘This is the whole point exactly! Individual words must be studied not for their literal meaning but for the intention behind their use. Therefore, those who want to serve logic should deal more with things for the sake of names, than names for the sake of things.’

  Fulbert belches and waves the fumes away with a sweep of his hand. ‘Enough! It hurts my head. Such twaddle this late in the day addles the brain. Save it for your lessons.’ He pushes his half-eaten meal towards Jehanne for her to clear. ‘Did you hear how Bernard of Clairvaux fills his abbey with his family? The father and five brothers have all committed to serve him.’

  Abelard claps his hands together. ‘So this is how Bernard makes his name, abbot of others’ cast-offs and his own poor kin. Good luck to them, living out in the provinces as little more than beasts. If ever he comes to Paris, how his jaw will drop.’

  Heloise knows enough of him by now to guess that beneath this bluster lies a surprising mass of jealousies, uncertainties and contradictions. So why continue to make such blatant attacks on those who one day might wield the power he so craves to share? It is impossible to live this close to Louis the Fat’s court and not have heard the intrigues, squabbles and manipulations playing out there. She fears Abelarde’s pride will prove his downfall if he refuses to rein it in. Friends can be lost overnight; enemies forged for life and reputations ruined.

  After Fulbert has been deposited in bed, they can at last be alone. As soon as they reach Abelard’s room, Heloise tells him of Corbus’s warning. ‘You must take care,’ she says, ‘and let nothing interfere with your work, not even me.’

  ‘Forget that cloven-toed buffoon, sweet girl. Envy drives him. I rescued him from bondage to a simpleton I lodged with once in Laon, and now he thinks his well-being should be my primary goal.’

  ‘You must take this more seriously. If he decides to tell my uncle we both could be banished and you would lose your standing.’

  He kisses her, nudging her backwards over his arm, his lips sliding down her chin to bury in the crush between her breasts. Pulling away, he says: ‘So long as he thinks I do his bidding, he will not disrupt things. You forget my presence also elevates his own.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Hush now. Let us make noise enough to remind him who is at the helm.’ He snatches the sleeve of her gown so ferociously the stitches fail, her shoulder bared.

  She backs from him, nervous but aroused despite herself, and he stalks her while he whispers with such hypnotic force she barely dares to breathe. ‘O Nymph! O Daphne! I entreat thee stay.’ At each line’s end, he claps his hands as if delivering a blow. ‘The lamb leaps from the raging wolf, and from the lion runs the timid faun, and from the eagle flies the trembling dove, all hasten from their natural enemy but I alone pursue for my dear love.’

  In one swift movement he lunges so suddenly she shrieks. He catches the fabric of her gown and rips it free, her chemise giving way as he bares her to the waist. Lust flares in his eyes, one hand snaking around her back, the other twisting into her rope of hair. He nips her breast, causing her a strange mix of pleasure and pain, and then he pushes her up against the wall, one hand still bound into her hair while the other strips the remnants of her gown. He takes her there, her buttocks shunting against the wall until relief consumes him.

  Still panting, he drops to his knees and presses his mouth to her, tongue lapping juices as her body catches fire. The deeper he delves the more she opens and unfolds, until so overwhelmed, all thought explodes.

  He holds her as she trembles, kissing her to share the taste of their combined love, before he whispers: ‘Ah God, ah God, that night when we two clung / So close, our hungry lips / Transfused each into each our hovering souls, /Mortality’s eclipse!’

  Later, when she can prise herself away, she clutches her tattered gown about her to slip back to her room. As she enters she startles: Jehanne sits at the foot of her bed.

  ‘I heard you cry out,’ she says. ‘I thought—’ She stops, shifting the candle to more clearly see her state. Her mouth drops open. ‘So it is true,’ she says. ‘I had hoped he was wrong.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘That swine Corbus. He told me his suspicions and I defended you.’ Tears gloss her eyes.

  ‘Abelard loves me,’ Heloise says. ‘And, God knows, I love him.’

  ‘Indeed God knows. You have forsaken Heaven for a rooster.’

  ‘You are wrong. He is exceptional.’

  ‘Can you not see how this will destroy you? If the canon hears—’

  ‘Do you think I do not know all this?’ Heloise says. ‘I cannot help it. And, yes, it troubles my mind but I refuse to sway from it. For the first time in my life I am truly happy.’ She sits next to Jehanne and takes up both her hands. She has caused this rift and now she must repair it. ‘Please, dear friend, be glad for me. I did not think to find such wondrous love. His mind is the sharpest of our age, and he, Jehanne, he loves me and sees me as his mate. What more could any thinking, feeling, loving woman want?’

  Jehanne shakes her head, though Heloise sense
s her friend’s anger easing. ‘He will leave you hurt — or worse,’ she says. ‘What if you bear a child, what then? Will he marry you? No. He cannot and keep his post. Do you want to be shunned as a whore? That is what they will say of you.’

  ‘I can take whatever comes, as long as Abelard and you do not desert me — and, trust me, Abelard loves me too much to do that. Oh, Jehanne, I have hated these past months without your company. Please forgive me. You are my sister, and all I wish is that you love me as a true and constant friend, as I love you.’

  Tears slide down Jehanne’s cheeks, spurring her own. ‘I fear I will lose you, and fear for your safety if the canon finds out.’

  ‘Do you not see I have no choice in this? He makes me feel alive.’

  ‘What I see is a man who set his sights on you and seduced you through the flattery of your mind. Not for a single moment has he taken that pressure off; he holds you like a tethered hawk. Could you not seek a little more distance to reflect?’

  ‘It is all I do, night and day.’

  ‘But you are ever running after him. Why not leave for a while and sincerely think this through? Go with Fulbert. He and Garlande travel tomorrow to Fontevraud to welcome their new abbess, Petronilla. Why not attend him there and see what distance brings? Surely that could not hurt?’

  It is a comfort to talk it out. Better wrestled aloud than the constant circling in her head. She does not doubt Jehanne’s common sense or logic — yet she cannot bear to leave Abelard. But what if her friend is right? Perhaps a short separation is worth the reassurance. And if Corbus’s fears are founded, then her absence might work to refocus Abelard’s teaching. Plus, the travel is tempting in itself.

  ‘Very well,’ she says. ‘If it will ease your mind I will go. It will be good to spend time with Fulbert.’

  ‘Thank the Lord!’