Heloise

by Hager, Mandy

With one hand held by each girl, Heloise enters the dining hall where three older boys jostle alongside Abelard at the table. To Dagobert’s left sits his wife, Maree, a woman clearly beautiful although lacking lustre. She clasps Heloise’s hand for a long moment.

  ‘Peter says you carry his child,’ she says. ‘Blessings to you, Heloise. May God be praised.’

  ‘Thank you. It is an honour to meet you and visit in your fine home.’

  Maree looks about to speak further, but her husband raps on the large oak table with his knife to order silence for the blessing. When it is done, the food is served and Maree’s warm gesture is lost amidst the children’s babble.

  The meal progresses, with Dagobert chastising the children’s lack of manners while Maree valiantly tries to soothe his peevish outbursts. Abelard, too, attempts to lift the mood, reciting poems and teasing the children, despite his brother’s frown. Heloise has pictured family meals such as this when she was young and ached for a place to belong. The reality, however, is far more fraught than she imagined.

  That night, as she lies alone in the tower while Abelard and his brother lock horns below, her ignorance of family life preys on her. How is she to raise a child when her only examples are her foster mother’s distraction and Argenteuil’s nuns? Such is her agitation, she wraps her cloak about her and goes in search of Abelard to seek his reassurance. She finds herself outside the great hall’s door as an argument sharpens into focus.

  ‘… her here can hardly be a secret.’ Dagobert’s voice has in it the same slight slur as Fulbert’s when he has taken too much wine.

  ‘He is a fool,’ Abelard says. ‘Besides, Stephen has assured me he will make plain the consequences should he try.’

  ‘What if he claims blood feud? You know he has every right. You could be castrated, man, or blinded, or both. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth …’

  ‘No doubt he will explode, but he will do nothing while she is here. He loves her like a daughter; he has not the stomach to risk an act of retribution.’

  This is why Abelard has stolen her away so swiftly? Not out of desire to see her safe from Fulbert, but as a hostage to secure his own well-being? Heloise has to lean against the wall to keep from buckling. What was it Garlande said? Safety was his first concern. How stupid to think he spoke of hers when this was nothing but a ruse designed to secure Abelard’s own.

  ‘All the same, it is imperative you lie low, brother. Any act that shows you at odds with the mood of the times will destroy you. You must rein in your excesses; I can see the signs …’

  Abelard’s laugh is feverish. ‘That old bull cannot hurt me; Fulbert can hardly get himself about each day. Besides, I am worth too much to the Church. You should see how the students flock, brother, from every corner of our world, each paying three full purses to attend my lectures. I have beaten them all, and none are left who have the wit to best me …’

  He enters into a tangled and sprawling account of his latest stoush with a rival, a street standoff, his voice rising as he crows over his skills. It sickens her to hear his bluster, yet what can she do? If she returns to Paris, Fulbert can wreak whatever punishment he wishes and none will say a word; if she remains here, hostage, at least she has a chance to live — and the child, too.

  Heloise stumbles back to her room and cries herself to sleep. When she awakens at dawn, she finds Abelard snoring beside her, breath sour from too much wine. Her rising wakes him and he makes all haste to leave, claiming impatience to introduce her to Denyse. Of the overheard conversation she says nothing, still so wounded by its implications she dares not speak for fear of sharpening its sting.

  It matters not; he talks with little pause from the moment they ride out into the morning air, leaving Corbus and their guard to rest in Dagobert’s stables. Denyse is fifteen years younger, he tells her, first betrothed at nine to the son of Clisson’s lord. When he died of smallpox at sixteen she confessed to loving one of her father’s landless squires, a giant of a man called Hugh the Stranger.

  ‘My father allowed them to marry. Although illiterate, Hugh is honest and he shows great kindness to Denyse,’ he says. ‘And, as fate would have it, my brother Porchaire married the early-widowed daughter of the lord of Clisson, and Hugh now farms his land while Denyse tends her brood. You will like her. She is by far the sanest of us all.’

  ‘It is good to hear of one whose motives smack solely of love.’ Bitterness drips from her. She feels vulnerable, stupid; intellect fighting heart, and self-loathing undermining her ability to speak against him.

  Abelard glances over at Heloise, an eyebrow raised, but simply moves on to speak of matters even more banal.

  The landscape now gives way to woodland bristling with holly trees, and streams that tumble over smooth-edged boulders so large they could be the stooping backs of titan gods. At the convergence of the rivers Sèvre and Maine stands Clisson castle, even more substantial than Le Pallet’s keep.

  A short ride further and they arrive at a clearing in the woods, where chickens and geese compete with the song of woodland birds. The horses step through late-blooming wildflowers towards Denyse’s plain-built house, its doors and shutters open wide, releasing the wail of a child. A long-haired dog the size of a newborn foal lopes out with an enquiring bark that summons a tumble of five small children, with a dishevelled woman running in their wake.

  ‘Peter! Praise the Lord for delivering such a welcome surprise.’ She looks to Heloise with a quizzical smile, revealing the loss of a front tooth. She shares Abelard’s wide brow and flowing locks.

  As Abelard lowers Heloise from the horse, Denyse’s children scrabble at his knees. Within the centre of an adoring throng, he is swept inside to leave Heloise trailing in their wake, witness to their affection but apart from it.

  By the time she steps over the threshold, they are settling at a large table in a room dominated by a sturdy fireplace. Flowers and herbs hang drying from the rafters — arnica, hyssop and lavender — and the stone walls are softened by threadbare tapestries and the pelt of an enormous Pyrenean bear.

  Denyse greets her with a kiss to each cheek. ‘Heloise, you are very welcome here.’

  ‘Thank you. I have heard much about you.’

  ‘All good, I hope!’

  ‘The very best.’

  Denyse beckons forward her milling brood, ranging in age from barely one to six, and introduces them before they swarm back to Abelard to hang, gabbling, from his limbs.

  To be thrown straight from her quiet life into this commotion quite overwhelms Heloise. She knows little of children past the sight of them in church or on the street — and, though there is much appeal in their earnest faces, their constant chatter and activity makes it impossible to think. She hardly comprehends what goes on around her.

  When Abelard rises and starts to bid his sister and her mites farewell, Heloise staggers up. ‘You are leaving?’

  He nods, avoiding her as if her mind is addled, and pats his sister’s bony shoulder. ‘When the child is due, send word and I will come.’

  Heloise’s anger finally flares. ‘You are going within moments of arriving? What further cruelty is this?’

  Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the colour creeping up Denyse’s neck. ‘We are most happy to have you here,’ she says. ‘And I am sure Peter will write to you as often as he is able, will you not, brother?’

  He, unlike his sister, fails to blush. ‘You know already I have taken too long from my lectures. The last thing any of us needs now is my students to revolt.’

  ‘But I will not see you again until after the birth?’ He may as well have said they will not meet again until the afterlife.

  ‘What would I do here? Back in Paris I can focus on my writing between lectures without distraction.’ He smiles as if this statement sets all right. ‘As you grow this child, so I will brew a book that will erase William of Champeaux’s name once and for all.’

  Heloise is so taken aback she does not know how to repl
y, and now the children pick up on his leaving and cram between them as they wish him loud farewells. By the time he has unloaded her belongings and said goodbye, all chance to argue further has passed. Abelard brushes her with his lips just before he mounts and spurs the horse so hard it takes offence and bolts.

  Heloise stands bereft, staring at the empty track between the trees, all of the life knocked out of her amid the uproar of these strangers. Laodamia’s words ring in her ears, and she tries to run from them, chasing him: But when I could no more perceive either you or the flying sails, and nothing appeared to my aching sight beside the sea, light fled also with you; a darkness hung round me, nor were my tottering knees able to support my pale frame … She follows the track, deaf to Denyse’s worried calls.

  Her way is slowed as she crashes through the undergrowth, at last giving vent to her fury. At her cries, tree-creepers and warblers startle into flight. Heloise stumbles deeper into the woods, until finally she stops, with no idea how to retrace her steps. She casts about for a sign when she spies a grotto fashioned from overhanging rocks.

  Long stalactites form a daggered ceiling, below which is a carving of the Madonna wedged into a natural altar. Heloise crouches to study the face and calm slowly descends. Here, in the middle of nowhere, she looks into the eyes of another who bore a child against all odds and shook off shame and name-calling to raise her son. In these worn features, she reads both love and sorrow, and recognises the fear and sacrifice of every mother undergoing the mystery of bearing a new life.

  Heloise regards it as a potent reminder not to doubt God’s plan. Her task is to hold on somehow to the words of love — and wait. Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

  She sits contemplating this until Denyse’s dog bursts from the undergrowth and barks as though berating her. Reluctantly she lets this shaggy creature lead her back to where Denyse stands anxious at her door.

  ‘Ah, thank the Lord.’ She takes Heloise in her kind embrace. ‘Come,’ she says. ‘I will put the little ones to rest and we can talk.’

  When Denyse has settled the children with good-natured threats, she steeps lemon balm to drink and offers Heloise a slice of rabbit pie.

  ‘How long has he been like this?’ she asks.

  ‘Like what?’

  Denyse studies the contents of her cup, swirling the leaves. ‘Have you heard of the afflictions of mania and melancholy?’

  Heloise nods, the words unsettling her. ‘Aristotle and Plato spoke of divine mania as a gift from the gods to those with superior minds and creative genius — and Galenus developed Hippocrates’ theory of four humours into the categories of the sanguine, melancholic, choleric and phlegmatic temperaments.’ Heloise stops on seeing Denyse’s astounded expression. ‘Why?’

  Denyse laughs. ‘I see why Peter so loves you! You have a mind like his!’

  ‘He so loves me, he rushes immediately away?’

  ‘Oh, Heloise, it is not you. He builds up to a mania where he cannot sit still, and grows ever more excitable and high-flying, more foolish, more overblown in his self-appraisal, and cannot stop — until eventually he reaches so fraught a state he falls into a melancholy of such great torment and lethargy he can barely lift his head. Today I saw all the signs …’

  It is as if Denyse has drawn a bow, its arrow flying straight to the heart of Abelard’s feverish behaviour. ‘You have seen him like this before?’ Heloise asks.

  ‘Oh, yes. The worst to date was after his fight with William of Champeaux, when he first went to Paris. We thought it would settle when he left to teach at Corbeil, but it grew so serious he went into total collapse and had to be carried home. For the next two years he was so low my brother Raoul slept outside his door each night in fear he would take his own life. It took another year before he recovered enough to leave again — and then my father called on his connections in Paris to keep watch.’

  It all makes horrible sense. ‘Have there been other events?’

  ‘Sadly, yes. Four years later he collapsed again, just after Goswin challenged him at Mont Sainte-Genevieve. He came home for near on another year that time, just before our parents retired into the church. Being celebrated feeds his mania, but, when the strain grows too great, melancholy and foundless suspicions strike him down.’

  Heloise thinks back to Dagobert’s words the night before — I can see the signs — and how they watch him with furrowed brows, as one might stand sentry over a smouldering embers for fear they will reignite. ‘What will happen if my uncle exerts untoward pressure?’ Panic churns within her. ‘Dear God, I should be there to keep him safe.’

  ‘Chancellor Garlande is aware of his weaknesses and keeps an eye out at our father’s request. Should Peter be in any danger, Garlande knows to send him home.’

  Just as an embroiderer slowly builds a tapestry by plying tiny blocks of colour until the features suddenly burst forth, now all the small snatches of conversation come back to her in their right context. Twice, at least, she can recall Garlande making veiled references to Abelard’s fragile mental state, their import washing over her. Robert of Arbrissel, also. To give it a name helps soften her rage at Abelard’s abandonment. There is no great genius without a mixture of madness, Aristotle claimed.

  That night, lying in the narrow straw bed made up for her, tucked high in the eaves of the house where the heat gathers close to give her comfort, Heloise’s mind whirls. How could she have been so blind? Does love spin a web across the eyes, veiling the truths that might unwind its viscous threads? She feels foolish; angry with herself for dismissing all the signs.

  Where does this leave her love for Abelard? She loved him first for his mind — a mind now clearly flawed. If his superiority of thought laid the foundation stone for her love, should the fact that a crack runs through it bring the whole edifice tumbling down?

  In an intellectual sense, yes, perhaps a little. Part of the thrill in their relationship has been to push herself to scale his lofty heights. But, though his mind may have a fracture, it does nothing to erode his brilliance — and maybe even furbishes it. And, though his brillance was certainly the basis of his initial seductive power, now there is so much more. While her head engaged with him mind to mind, her heart and her body set off on their own journeys … and the fact that he is flawed, imperfect, rather than impeding love, curiously strengthens what she feels for him. He is human after all. Does not Revelations say: Be watchful, and strengthen the things which remain, that are ready to die?

  What started as intellectual infatuation has now ingrained itself within her, good or bad. She loves him, desires him, cares for his welfare. How can she walk away from one who daily battles the demons in his head? Love, once solidified, is not so easily chiselled out. Does she not still love Fulbert, despite everything he has done? And though there is no doubt Abelard, too, has hurt her, did she not also rush towards that hurt most willingly, knowing its inherent dangers and prepared to take the risk? She cannot desert him. Does not want to desert him. Above all things have fervent charity among yourselves: for charity shall cover the multitude of sins. She herself argued with him that dilecto is the ultimate love of both heart and soul. If this is a test, then she is prepared to see it through. What other choice has she? Just as she loves the Lord despite the suffering in the world, so likewise she loves Abelard. As St Augustine said: What is not loved in its own right is not loved.

  The days are filled with the shrill demands of children and of Denyse’s husband, Hugh, who comes in exhausted and hungry from his toil. Heloise’s admiration for the warmth of this family is soon overwhelmed by the lack of mental stimulation. She desperately misses her searching conversations with Abelard, but also her quiet time alone. As her belly grows and the tiny life taps at her ever-stretching skin, all confidence she can fit this child into the life she once dreamed of seems ever less certain.

  To halt her tumble into despair, she offers to teach Dagobert’s two daughters, Agnes and Agatha;
his sons are already under the tutelage of a local noble. It helps to fill her days, and she finds they have inquisitive minds hungry to learn; so, too, their mother Maree, who sits in on their lessons but says little, eyes wide as a hounded rabbit’s. From the little Maree gives away, it seems Dagobert is not a man to cross; his temper is known throughout the region. Yet there are still times when Heloise’s need for solitude drives her back to the grotto to seek the comfort of Mother Mary. Here, she takes Abelard’s infrequent letters.

  He seems not to miss her at all, so caught up in the writing of his treatise Dialectica he does not tell her of the world outside his head or how he sees their future. He does, however, send her pages of his work for comment, and this is a welcome distraction for her mind, if not her heart. Jehanne also writes, telling of Fulbert’s uproar when he found her gone.

  He howled the house down when he found your letter, and would have set off after you if not for Garlande’s staying hand. Now each night he drinks until the wine is gone, his appearance in filthy disarray. It breaks my heart to hear him crying in the night, and if he hears mention of Master Peter he bellows for revenge. It is the same, I am sorry to say, when he hears any talk of you. He is like a devil possessed, and many avoid him now for fear his madness will consume them, too …

  The thought of her uncle slumped over his emptied goblet, hands trembling, drool pooling, is almost too terrible to bear. Several times she drafts him letters but always in the end she scrapes the parchments blank, fearing her contact will further destabilise him. She writes to Jehanne care of Garlande, not wishing to put her at odds with Fulbert, and though this comforts her it also underlines their distance and stirs up her ever-present grief at the loss of her dear friend. To Abelard she writes little beyond her thoughts on his work, afraid her latent anger will drive him further away, but in her head the words tumble out, accusing, disillusioned, hurt. Ah me, my pangs are from wounds wrought by weapons of my own! I had faith in your wheedling words …