by Hager, Mandy
So Jehanne was right. ‘I have been told next to nothing.’ Yet now she knows. To have a name to cling to, even if not the family branch, is a great relief. ‘And what of my father? Do you know his name?’
‘I do, but I humbly advise you not to pursue it. Sometimes when we pull on a loose thread, the whole garment unravels; it is better to cut it off and patch over the hole.’
‘Even if the hole sits at the centre of one’s heart?’
‘Ah, that can only be salvaged by love — whether God’s, one’s love for the self or love for another.’
‘Have you ever loved a woman?’ She sees his eyebrows knit and is shamed by her impulsiveness. ‘Forgive me. I do not mean to intrude.’
He waves her apology away. ‘In my youth I fell for every woman I met! But when I came to God, He opened my heart to all, and, though they have said much to the contrary, I have never abused my vows. Why do you ask?’
Despite his forbearance, she knows it would be foolish to persist. As Robert himself has just confirmed, some things are best kept as secret. ‘No reason.’
‘All you can do is hold to the honest path, though it is narrow indeed and difficult. Simply believe, love, hope in God. Pray from your heart and go in grace and peace.’
Heloise rises and helps him to his feet, conscious of his frailty as he brushes away a bee with a shaking hand. ‘Thank you. You have given me much to think on.’
‘God bless you, Heloise. Life is short, so live it well and, if you can, make peace with your own soul, for then Heaven and Earth will be at peace with you.’
Peace? He speaks of it with such certainty, as if she can easily forget the pains, the losses, the mysteries and the fears about her future. If only it were that simple. Instead she goes to seek out her uncle and smother him in grateful kisses. She dares not tell him why.
Nine
PARIS, 1115–1116
On the day of Petronilla’s consecration as abbess, a rider delivers a scroll to Heloise bearing Abelard’s seal. Such haste can only mean bad news.
To his only longing, he who longs longingly: may you be happy, but may you not wish to be happy without me. I am your servant; my whole body, my whole spirit I direct towards you. When I do not see you, I do not see daylight. Have pity on your beloved, wasting away and fading, unless you quickly come to help me. Ask the messenger what I did after I wrote this letter: there and then I threw myself onto the bed out of impatience. Farewell.
She is eager to reply, thrilled by this proof of love, but first must go to Petronilla’s honouring. All through the ceremony, she swings between exhilaration at the thought of seeing Abelard again and fear that she will further slide into unsalvageable sin. By its end she firmly pushes the fear away. She has no choice in this, her fate is sealed: she is damned already and if she seeks forgiveness it would be a sham — she craves him still. She hurries to write a note, aware of the rider waiting for her response.
Just as the thirsty land of Syria longs during the summer for the rain, so does my mind desire you …
As soon as she can without offence, she prods Fulbert to set off home. But he makes her wait two days more while he and Garlande pursue overdue taxes for the king. Heloise broods, though she is still required to don a polite mask and act her role. When Petronilla and Robert finally wave them off, the trip home is rendered uncomfortable and tedious by intermittent rain. At night Heloise shivers, nose streaming, and she coughs like a blacksmith by their journey’s end.
Once home, Jehanne bustles her straight upstairs, and Heloise is happy to comply. As soon as she has privacy, she writes a note to slip under Abelard’s door.
I am home but ill; stay away, although I wish you here.
She has just climbed back into bed when Jehanne brings an infusion of mint to ease her chill and willow’s bark to soothe her cough and aid her sleep. Heloise is already dead to the world when Abelard wakes her with a tender kiss to the curl of her ear.
He kneels and strokes her brow as a father might a child. ‘Lord, how I have missed you, lady. It grieves me to see you are not well.’
‘I am better for your touch.’
‘Without you I am a pale excuse of a man. You fill me when hungry, refresh me when thirsty, give me rest when weary, warmth when cold, shade when hot—’
‘Abelard, hush. I have missed you, too.’
He kisses her palm and holds it to her lips. When her hand drops away he moves on to her mouth and neck and hair. She is surprised at how her body responds despite its state.
‘I die without you,’ he whispers in her ear.
When she sneezes, he hands her a clean linen square to wipe her nose. ‘Forgive me.’
‘No need. To see you again is all a man could want.’
‘All?’ Her heart sings. Ovid was right: love is a curious, credulous thing.
‘Ah! I hoped you might ask that! In truth, not quite …’
He collects her into his arms and rolls her under him, their mating fierce, cries muffled by the seal of their lips. As he gasps in her ear at their joining’s end, she wishes life could always be lived like this: spontaneous, with vigour, breaking the rules that lead her nowhere.
But over the next few weeks, she finds the strain of letting Jehanne believe the flame has dimmed exhausting. She struggles with guilt — made worse by Abelard’s daily letters thrust upon her by a foul-tempered Corbus. To atone, as well as starting to teach Jehanne, Heloise takes great pains to give Fulbert her undivided love when he is home.
She starts to dream she might be able to gather all her eggs in one basket: Jehanne her day’s companion, a mellow Fulbert to share their meals, and Abelard at night for stimulation of heart and mind. Real life, however, is far less certain. She fights the nagging fear of pregnancy; Gertrud had told her of the physical act and its risks but not prevention, and she has not the slightest idea how to avoid it, other than through desperate acts of prayer. Yet this is far too sacrilegious … and she dare not ask Jehanne. To make things worse, Abelard is increasingly distracted, often rushing her straight to bed, and though she plays along, flattered he desires her, she is uneasy with the shift; their talk is part of the seduction and without it she feels used.
For reassurance, she poses questions on the subtleties between the Latin terms dilecto, caritas and amor. If solely amor, she fears he loves her for passion’s sake alone; if caritas he shelves her under a broader category of Christian love. She hopes he feels amor but equally dilecto: that selfless intention to love with heart and soul. But he prefers to expound the degrees of friendship, even though his letters continue to proclaim love. The harder she digs, the faster he burrows, her mood swinging up when he is there and down when she is left to turn these worries over on her own.
Amidst all this, he grows obsessed with leaving his mark, pushing philosophy’s bounds and taking risks that see him stepping on theology’s thin-skinned toes. He seeks to avoid rebuke by the eager wooing of those in power; soon Heloise can go nowhere without seeing evidence of his need to impress.
At church, his doting students flock around him as if they are hungry chicks, while married women seek him out, resting bejewelled fingers on his wrist as they murmur platitudes; to be seen with him feeds their vanity. He speaks with charm and ready humour, skills his rivals lack, winning him ever more admiring friends — and muttering, resentful enemies. She cannot understand why he does not fear exposure and demotion, when this possibility nags at her with the same ferocity as the eyes that uncloak her whenever she walks the streets. Instead, he laps up the attention like a thirsty dog, flattered into performances designed to please. Thus more compositions first written for Heloise are sung to honour other women, his lyrics expressing love more openly than many nobles dare. His students who frequent the taverns soon pick up his words, wooing lovers through drunken songs.
… I rue the time, each day, each hour,
Of my solitude,
I who nightly pulsed with power,
With such aptitude
That breathe with spices when they part,
And from which, to bewitch the heart,
Sweet cassia drips …
Heloise watches this fawning at the end of the midday service, troubled when he accepts each coquettish kiss and sigh. While she and Jehanne wait for Fulbert to complete his work, Heloise must stand firm against the whispering. They damn her as an adolescent, thanks to Fulbert’s lie about her age, and as far too precocious, a pretender, a whore … such talk fills her with dread should Fulbert hear. All the same, she cannot deny the secret sinful pleasure in knowing she is the one Abelard elevates to goddess through the power of his words.
Jehanne, less easily fooled, is thankfully well diverted, her nights now taken up with reading as she proves herself both capable and eager to learn. Of her paternity, Garlande has still said nothing; it seems he lacks the decency to let her know.
As they move into their second year, Abelard withdraws each time he thinks his teaching role is at risk through discovery of their attachment, and Heloise retreats whenever she feels dismissed. But through the medium of their daily letters, they somehow manage to bridge the gaps, and as the year advances Heloise comes to believe their love is unstoppable. They begin to take risks for flagrant thrill: snatched moments between Sunday services, a day during Easter week, the occasional late-night excursion, and they take to meeting at Fulbert’s house whenever the others are out.
Late one afternoon, Abelard slips home while Corbus and Jehanne accompany Fulbert to Garlande’s vineyard for the season’s first treading of grapes. There is an added frisson to these daylight trysts; Heloise loves to watch Abelard as his mind breaks free. This day they satisfy their need so quickly they begin again, fingers and tongues teasing, teeth nipping, cries loud as each slow thrust—
‘What in God’s name is this?’
They wrench apart as Fulbert rushes them. He knocks Abelard aside, shouting at him as he seizes Heloise by her hair and drags her naked from the bed. ‘Get out of my house, you villain. Liar! May God strike you down for what you have done.’
Fulbert hauls Heloise upright, with a tug that rips hair from roots, and slaps her so hard she reels and falls. Her head strikes the edge of the door, and such is the fog she cannot hear what Abelard yells as he tries to reach her, tripping in his struggle to haul on his robe.
Fulbert rounds on Abelard, fists bunched. ‘Touch her again, you filthy dog, and I swear I will kill you.’ He stamps like an enraged bull. ‘Corbus!’ he bawls. ‘Pack your master’s belongings and get out, he is leaving now.’
He lunges and catches Abelard in a stranglehold. He drags him downstairs, slamming him from wall to wall before throwing him into the street. When Fulbert bolts the door and storms back up the stairs, Heloise shakes as though her bed is rocked.
‘How could you betray me? I fostered you, protected you, gave you everything I own.’ He strips the covers, baring her, and beats her again with both fists flying. ‘You have made me a laughing stock; while others tried to taint your so-called virtue, I defended you. May God have mercy on your soul, for I will not.’
On he flings his rage, hands pummelling flesh, froth spattering from slack-jawed lips, his face flushed and grunting sobs breaking through the terrible damnation in his words. ‘And the daughter of any priest, if she profane herself by playing the whore, she profaneth her father: she shall be burnt with fire.’
‘Dear God, stop!’ Jehanne runs in. ‘Corbus! Help! Come here now!’ Jehanne wrestles Fulbert like a hound on the back of a wild boar. ‘Stop it! You will kill her.’
Fulbert shakes Jehanne off with little trouble, but Heloise is too battered to make any use of his distraction. She cannot move, eyes swelling, blood trickling from her nose and pouring from her scalp. When he looks to start again, Jehanne throws herself between them, daring him to strike.
Fulbert bellows, a thwarted Minotaur, and raises bloodied fists. ‘Never shall you see that man again, nor leave this house. If you do, God help you. You shall be banished for good.’ He barrels past Corbus, who gapes, and thunders down the stairs. The front door slams with malevolent threat.
Jehanne clamps a rag to the wound on Heloise’s head. ‘Go see to your master,’ she snarls at Corbus, with such force that he turns and runs.
Heloise retches and tries to push words past her thickened lips. ‘Abelard,’ she says. ‘Is he …?’ She attempts to rise, collapsing as pain undermines her.
‘Quiet now,’ Jehanne says. ‘He has wit enough to vanish until Fulbert has calmed.’ She changes the bloodied covers after she bathes Heloise’s wounds, and crushes a root of arnica and its yellow flowers into a soft wax ointment to treat the bruises. Tender mercies.
Later, Jehanne comforts Heloise as she lies shivering and helps her to sip a sedating draught. Heloise drifts in and out of restless sleep all afternoon and well into the night. She cries out each time she is struck again by the memory of Fulbert’s rage and seeks Jehanne’s comforting presence, always finding her there. In the pre-dawn chill, Heloise wakes Jehanne, needing aid to squat over the chamber pot, each movement punishment anew.
When Jehanne helps her back to bed, she coaxes her to drink again. ‘Take a little more of this. It is better to sleep and let your body heal.’
‘My thanks.’ Once the herbs are down, the two women lie side by side as the draught begins to ease Heloise’s pain. ‘You were quite a sight on Fulbert’s back,’ Heloise says, her words mangled through swollen lips. ‘You looked like an avenging angel.’
Her friend grunts. ‘An ant attempting to fell an ox.’
‘It was brave.’ She has to ask. ‘What brought you back so early?’
‘It does not matter now.’
‘Is Fulbert here?’
‘He came in late last night.’
‘I am so sorry I put you at risk.’
‘Of all the things to regret, that is least. Better you worry for your soul — and safety.’
‘You miss the point.’ Heloise draws deep for strength to speak. ‘We are one, Abelard and I, and God surely knows this. He asks that we love with honesty and faithfulness, and this is what we do.’
‘Where is your head, Heloise?’ Jehanne rolls onto her side to better engage her friend. ‘This is not some story of ancient Rome’s invention. To all eyes but yours you have gravely sinned — and though Fulbert is wrong to beat you, no one will blame him. Did you not think what it might mean to him, a canon of the church? There are those who would strip him of his title at the slightest whiff of scandal.’
‘Who is anyone to judge? Every day we hear of priests flouting their vows, and what of our late king, who chose his lover over his wife? Why, even Stephen de Garlande must—’ She stops, only just preventing a grave mistake.
‘Oh, yes,’ Jehanne replies, oozing sarcasm. ‘Even our great chancellor and archdeacon. What a paragon of virtue that cowardly rooster is.’
Heloise hears a tell-tale sniff. ‘You know?’
The pillow moves as Jehanne nods. ‘Yesterday he took great pains to take me aside and explain why he never can name me.’
‘Dear friend, I am so sorry.’
‘How long have you known?’ To Heloise’s ear the words sound accusing.
‘I overheard him on our journey. I made him promise he would let you know.’
‘Why? To remind me I am impossible to love?’
‘Jehanne, no! I love you — and I am sure Fulbert does — and Abelard, too.’
From Notre-Dame comes the chiming of the bells for Lauds, light creeping in as if heralded by their call. ‘Enough,’ Jehanne says. ‘My hurt will wait and yours must heal — and I must light the fire.’ She wipes her tears away and leaves.
Heloise falls again into a doze, made fitful by pain and anxiety. Through the fog she hears the bells for Sext and then for None and, in between, now and then Jehanne comes to check on her. Whether the herbs or her body’s shock, she has no will to rise.
But by the bells for
Vespers, Heloise’s worry is such she can no longer sleep, although her eyes are now so swollen she can hardly see. Her bruises have coloured to a devil’s rainbow from florid red to black, and when she drinks or eats her lips split. She lies teetering between remorse, fear and indignation, cursing her own stupidity — and vanity. What on Earth made her think she could get away with this?
As day tips into night, she hears the rumble of Fulbert’s voice below and a frantic thumping rekindles in her chest. When he climbs the stairs, Heloise gathers the bedding around her as a shield, shaking by the time he enters.
She can smell the wine on him; his eyes are as loose and bloodshot as the taverns’ drunks as he rocks on his heels to take in his handiwork. He tries to form a word, but the trembling of his chin prevents him. Shame eats at her.
‘Oh, Fulbert, forgive me for causing you such hurt.’
With her words the dam gives way and a sob breaks from him as he propels himself to collapse beside the bed. ‘Forgive me, child. I am so filled with shame at what I have done to you.’ His tears turn to a downpour, and he clasps his arms around her and cries into her lap, her own tears welling both at his woe and the pain of his urgent embrace.
When he has calmed a little, he picks himself up and settles on the edge of her bed. ‘I should never have raised my hand to you, Heloise. My anger overtook me and turned me into the very kind of beast I have fought so long to protect you from.’
‘I feel great shame, Uncle. I was caught up in a whirling wind that sent me tumbling. I am so sorry to disappoint you.’
He takes her hand. ‘If he forced you in any way—’
‘No. Abelard is not solely to blame—’
‘Never speak his name again. I entrusted him with my most precious jewel and he betrayed me.’ Blood rises in his cheeks, and her fright returns, but he draws a breath and blows it out as slowly as a bellows’ sigh. ‘Let us never speak of it again. He is gone and what is done is done.’
