by Hager, Mandy
Before she can answer, Garlande speaks. ‘In this instance that would be unwise. Many are suspicious of Ramon’s intentions, and I would rather you keep sharply focused on him. If you note anything of concern, send news at once.’ Garlande raises his goblet in salute.
While they talk details, the men proceed to devour the last of the stew, mopping the gravy with slices of Jehanne’s rye bread. When they are done, Fulbert settles in to drink while Garlande stretches ostentatiously and rises. He turns his smile on Jehanne, who has said not a word all this time.
‘That was an excellent meal. I give my thanks. You have a knack for it.’
‘Thank you.’ Jehanne nods, head down, and fumbles in gathering the empty dishes.
Heloise rises to help, but Garlande stays her. ‘Would you give me the pleasure of joining me for an after-dinner stroll? I must move myself before that fine meal settles around my waist.’ He pats his well-covered belly, causing her uncle to laugh and pat his own.
‘Perhaps I should join you, too?’ he says. ‘I also suffer from Jehanne’s fine skills.’
Garlande rests his hand on Fulbert’s shoulder. ‘Come, man, put your feet up. You will have plenty to exercise you in the morning.’
‘Very true. Well then, goodnight. I entrust my niece’s safe return to you.’
‘Of that, friend, you can be most certain.’
Heloise follows him out into a mild late-summer evening.
‘Thank you. That was kind,’ she says. ‘To be treated as equal will mean a lot to Jehanne.’
Garlande shakes his head. ‘I cannot tell you how it unsettles me to look at her.’
‘We all have secrets of which we are not proud.’ Her own presses hard.
‘Precisely why I have sought you out, my dear.’ He guides her along rue des Chantres towards the cathedral, and says nothing more until they reach the site nearby where he builds his private chapel. It is growing dark; a trail of torches lighting masons who toil late to lay out stones ready for use come morning.
‘Now,’ he says, as they settle on a stone bench to oversee the work. ‘First you must know that Peter has come to me and told me of your problem.’ Heat consumes her. She draws breath to respond, but he raises a hand. ‘I have no need to hear your defence. God knows I have made poor decisions enough in my youth. What you must know is this: tomorrow, as soon as Fulbert is away with Ramon, Peter will come for you and take you to his family in Brittany where the child can be born.’
She gulps. ‘What then? To stay? To marry? To set up a new life?’ Every possible option terrifies her. ‘Am I to have no say in this?’
‘One step at a time. The news is fresh upon us all.’
‘But is not Brittany a place of rogues and thieves?’
‘What it is, Heloise, is a long way from Fulbert and the ears and eyes of the Church — and you can be cared for by Peter’s family there. You have a good two or three days’ head start before he finds you gone, and I will work to restrain him from following after that. You must know that to stay here is madness. Your uncle’s temper is too unpredictable, and Peter’s position too important. As it is, it will take all my skills to keep him safe from harm.’
It is too much to take in at once. ‘So you have devised this trip for Fulbert solely to give us an advantage?’
He shrugs. ‘Not devised as such, but let’s just say Ramon’s arrival makes for useful timing. By the time Fulbert returns you will be long gone.’
‘I cannot desert him without a word.’ Heloise wills down nausea. ‘If he thinks I have abandoned him it will break him …’
‘It will break him more surely if he loses his position as a canon due to your sins.’
Heloise cringes at this last word, though knows she deserves it. ‘All the same, the truth will hurt him less than thinking I forsook him. I love him too much to do that.’
Garlande shakes his head. ‘I am not sure if you are brave or foolish, but I admire your loyalty. Oh, that my own children felt the same. I saw the damage done to you by his fists. Jehanne insisted I bear witness when I called in early after an evening held ransom by Fulbert’s drunken rage. You looked as if you had fallen under the hooves of a stampede.’
He saw her and said nothing? She shakes her head more fervently. ‘Even so, I will not do that to him. I will leave a letter to explain my flight.’
‘But if Fulbert knows the extent of your deceit it will make Peter’s position in the school that much harder.’
His words come like a fist to the gut. ‘Abelard does not plan to stay with me?’
‘His responsibilities are here. If he does not return promptly his students will riot and then desert him — and if this happens his enemies will destroy his career as sure as God lives.’
Heloise fears if she does not change the subject she will weep and never stop. She grabs for a question. ‘Why do you help him?’
Garlande strokes his moustache with thumb and forefinger. ‘Far better to own the man who creates such annoyance in others than always confront him. And since I appointed him as master of the cathedral school, our fortunes are shackled.’
Own him? She doubts Abelard would like that description, although it is probably true. She sits silent, watching the masons shift stones so heavy their yokes bite deep into their shoulders. The yoke of my transgressions is bound by his hand …
Heloise can see the sense in Garlande’s plan, the straightforward logic, but it takes no account of her feelings or the effects of isolation. For a moment she thinks to ask if Jehanne might join her, but she cannot leave Fulbert alone or he may lose his mind. She hates that her thoughtlessness brings him so much hurt.
‘Tell me,’ she says, ‘is this proposal Abelard’s or yours?’
‘When Peter came to me, Heloise, safety was his prime concern. All I have done is allow you an easier start, with a few armed men to ensure safe passage. Enjoy the journey for its own sake, lady, for none can read the future except the Lord.’
The tone of his voice makes it plain their talk is at an end. She stands.
‘Thank you. I beg you to care for Fulbert once I am gone, and keep him from hurting Abelard.’ Although her voice is calm, her heart pounds. Can this be real?
Garlande places his hand through the crook of her elbow. ‘Of course.’
‘And Jehanne? Will you please offer her occasional kindness? She is a good and loving woman.’ Heloise tries not to think of her grief at leaving her, yet tears still swell.
He smiles. ‘My mother’s favourite saying comes to mind whenever I speak with you. What does love look like? It has hands to help others, feet to hasten to the poor and needy, eyes to see misery and want, and ears to hear the sigh and sorrow of men.’
‘Saint Augustine?’
He nods.
‘Then I beg you to recall this next time you are in Jehanne’s company.’
Now he chuckles. ‘I will miss our conversations, Heloise. You alone have the boldness to take me to task and arouse my conscience.’
She lowers her head. He is the chancellor to the king and, not least, Abelard’s patron. Who does she think she is? ‘Forgive me, I did not—’
‘Stop! It is not a criticism. Such frankness is refreshing after the palace’s games and scheming.’
Back at her door, he pats her cheek. ‘Be ready for Peter as soon as Fulbert has cleared the gates. God speed.’
‘Thank you for your kindness.’ It is a phrase she never thought to say to Garlande. ‘Tell Abelard I await his word.’
She watches him stroll away through the night’s deepening shadows, and pauses on the doorstep just a little longer. She hears the voices of the boatmen on the water, the clatter of pots and dishes, drunken laughter, the soft snicker of a horse, the high-pitched whine of a tired child; all the sounds of home she has grown so used to. A shudder rolls through her like thunder. She wraps her arms around herself and returns indoors to kiss her uncle and rub his aching feet for one last time.
Heloise stows her belongings
into saddlebags. She can take only those books without which she will fret; several times, she repacks before forsaking two gowns to fit in her writing tablet, rolls of parchment, quills and styluses.
Abelard arrives soon after and is eager to leave. Besides Corbus, Garlande has supplied four men, two to ride ahead to check for ambush, two behind. As she readies herself, Abelard draws her aside and presents her with a bundle of black cloth.
‘You must wear this to aid our escape.’
Heloise shakes it out to find a nun’s habit, complete with veil. She presses it back into his hands. ‘Surely this is sacrilege?’
‘Yet not to wear it is foolish.’ He pushes it on her again. ‘You must be unrecognisable in case Fulbert tracks our route.’
‘Surely you are far better known?’ Deception upon deception; lie upon lie. She dares not tell him of the short, apologetic letter she has left on Fulbert’s bed.
‘My darling girl, you could wear the flailed skin of a Moor and still look beautiful. Come, think of it as a game.’
Heloise is so overwhelmed she complies, aware their guards are already outside waiting. She feels a fool. A fraud. A heretic. If Fulbert returns at this moment she will either die of shame or by his hand.
As it is, she has to face Jehanne. But what she wears is insignificant when to say goodbye with no idea of whether they will see each other again feels like the cleaving of a limb. They stand together in the doorway as if perched on the very edge of a steep precipice.
‘God speed, Heloise,’ Jehanne says, her voice thick. ‘May your journey be safe and your child’s arrival the source of endless joy.’
‘Oh, Jehanne, I do not know what I will do without you.’
Jehanne draws her into a close embrace. ‘Write to me.’
Heloise holds her tight, taking strength from her friend’s stoic form. ‘I will. And you take care to mind my uncle’s temper. Should he raise a hand to you, seek Garlande’s help.’
Jehanne kisses her cheek and pulls back with a laugh. ‘You forget that I have herbs to quiet the Minotaur himself!’
Her friend’s defiance rides with Heloise as she crosses the Seine, a tearful misbegotten nun.
Once they clear the crowds, Abelard breaks into one of Aquitaine’s vacuous songs. ‘Much joy I take in love, a joy that gives me more pleasure …’
With the exception of her expectant state or the implications of her leaving home, he talks of everything, alive with stories and jokes, an excited child erupting from the body of a grown man. When they stop at day’s end on the outskirts of Briis-sous-Forges, Corbus secures the use of a farmer’s barn and they dine on pheasant provided by Garlande. When their companions set off in search of local ale, Abelard steals Heloise to a field in the curve of a small protective hill.
It is the last of summer’s long days and still warm enough to sleep outdoors. He spreads his cloak to make their bed, and they lie together to watch the sun vanish below the treeline, his head on her belly as she strokes his hair. When the night has crept upon them, he stirs and she thinks he goes to relieve himself. But he returns with a flaming torch to plant in the ground, light spilling out around them in a golden pool as from his pocket he unearths a series of metal disks, intricately marked and pinned together to make rotating parts.
‘This, my darling, is for you,’ he says. ‘It is what the ancients called a star taker.’
‘An astrolabe?’ She draws it near to read its Latin inscriptions in the flickering light. ‘I have always wanted to see one of these. Where did you find it?’
He grins. ‘It is best not to ask!’
He explains how the alidade pointer sights a star and shows its altitude, and how the filigreed rete can also find fixed stars and indicate the markers of the Zodiac. The tympan plate, he says, engraved as finely as any jewel, has the ability to track each star’s distinctive path.
To hold it in her hand is like waking from a dream to find it real. For the best part of the night they lie and star-gaze, their fascination equally shared. When they grow too tired to read the astrolabe’s fine codes, Abelard comes to her on hands and knees, head hanging, and supplicates himself before her to swear his love. Under the stars’ glow they join and for the first time since they shared their love they curl into each other’s arms and sleep until dawn creeps rosy-fingered to awaken them.
For ten idyllic days, they journey in this dreamlike state, free the rules and uncertainties, the dangerous gossip of Cathedral Close. Upon their arrival at Orleans, he takes her exploring before they leave Corbus and their escort to follow on horseback while she and Abelard board a boat on the Loire, the boatman seeing to their comfort during the day before tactfully retreating to the shore each night. They lie on deck to trace the stars until the need to touch transcends the occupation of their minds.
Not for a moment does Abelard allow her to dwell on the drama left behind; he fills the hours instead with talk and song. When she probes, fears rising up, his caressing words slide over the issues, his distracting kisses littering all the secret places only he can know. Her worry gives way to mellow torpor in keeping with the languid nature of the river’s flow.
What colour are they now, thy quiet waters?
The evening star has brought the evening light,
And filled the river with the green hillside …
They disembark in Nantes and rejoin their companions to ride southeast until they reach a plain with well-tended fields and vineyards sliced mid-reach by the meandering river Sèvre. Through woods of oak and elder they proceed to a clutch of grey-roofed cottages that sprout from the red earth like Coulemelle mushrooms. Nearby squats a chapel beneath a cliff-top harbouring a castle keep with three tall towers set into its curved defensive wall.
‘Le Pallet,’ Abelard says, pointing to the cottages. He sweeps his arm towards the keep’s stone fortifications. ‘And that is where I was raised, and where my brother Dagobert and his family live — Le Chateau de le Pallet.’
‘You said your father served the local lord, not that he was one.’
Abelard shrugs this off. ‘My mother was the lord’s daughter and my father took it over when my grandfather fell ill. Now Dagobert shoulders the role.’
‘All this could have been yours?’
The keep has the look of a building that stood proud upon its raised foundations before age took its toll, like a knight whose fighting days are over and is now content to sit and soak up the last of the summer’s sun.
‘I thank the Lord every day it is not,’ says Abelard. ‘The thought of being buried alive in Le Pallet turns my gut, while the maintenance and obligations of the building has turned my brother into a bad-tempered and anxious man.’ It seems he does not see the incongruity of leaving her to stay where he will not. ‘We must spend the night with him before I take you on to meet my sister, Denyse.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Family protocols and jealousies … Lord, how glad I am to live apart!’
‘Really? The closeness of family is something I have often pined for.’
Abelard laughs. ‘Hold tight to that sweet thought, my love!’
His cynicism jangles in her head as they steer the horses up towards the ridge, the precipitous track transforming into a stone staircase that leads to a rusting portcullis. It stands open; a further portal beyond frames a large inner courtyard that houses goats, chickens and stabled horses. The good-sized kitchen garden rings with the squeals of a young girl taunting two belligerent geese.
Dagobert’s squire greets them and conducts them up a flight of stairs to the keep’s great hall. Inside, a man resembling Abelard in all but charisma glances up from his papers with an astonished cry.
‘Good lord, brother! What brings you here?’ He rises, a guarded expression crossing his face, and embraces Abelard with a back slap before holding him at arm’s length to study him. ‘You are well?’
Abelard pulls away. ‘Yes, yes. We are only passing. I have come to seek a favour of Denyse.’ Abelard turns to Heloise and takes her hand. ‘
Here is the lady Heloise. She bears our child.’
Dagobert’s eyes widen like those of a spooked horse, their whites veined red. ‘You have married? But what of your position? Your—’
‘Brother, stop! We share a bond of love, nothing else is necessary.’ Dagobert’s glance slips to Heloise and she nods assent, though uneasiness squeezes her gut. Did Abelard not first warn his family of her arrival? Dear Lord, what if they refuse to take her in?
‘If this is one of your—’
‘Dagobert! Give your welcome to my dearest lady and let the subject rest.’ The impatience in Abelard’s voice is ill-concealed.
His brother’s lips pinch together as he turns to Heloise and bows, stiff-backed. ‘Lady, my greetings, welcome to our home. Allow me to find you a resting place, and I will have water brought.’
He dismisses her into the care of his squire and they climb up through the tower to a small room in one of the turrets. As they ascend, she hears raised voices, and the joy she had felt during their flight now crashes abruptly back to Earth.
Heloise sees no one again until she has washed, changed and rested on the lumpy bed, awaiting a summons: a scrubbed-up lamb for slaughter. A knock on her door heralds two solemn girls who introduce themselves as Agatha, approaching eleven, and Agnes, the goose-chaser, younger by a year.
Agatha studies her. ‘Father says you are to come with us.’
Heloise rises and Agnes slips her hand into hers. ‘Uncle Peter says he loves you.’
Heloise smiles at the incredulous tone. ‘I do believe he does.’
‘Father says love is only for God.’ Agatha’s intense gaze locks with hers. ‘But I don’t believe that, do you? Penelope loved Ulysses and waited for him forever.’
That she knows this lightens Heloise’s heart. ‘Who told you their tale?’
‘Uncle Peter,’ Agnes says. ‘He is the best storyteller in the world!’
Heloise laughs. ‘Indeed he is!’ I used to claim that of Fulbert, she thinks, her guilt returning.
