Heloise

by Hager, Mandy

  Autumn brings icy winds that strip off leaves the colour of dried blood. As winter sets in, snow traps them inside the house for weeks. Now, with the tracks impassable, Heloise does not even have the relief of teaching Agnes and Agatha.

  In this embedded state, she has far too much time to tally up the growing list of her regrets. Her cavalier attitude to Fulbert most taxes her; how could she have so betrayed his kindness? Heloise pores over Abelard’s letters to detect if their passion speaks of love or mania. She now doubts every word.

  By spring, she is caught in a snare of hopelessness, swollen by a baby who takes to moiling inside, all sharp-edged elbows. Its buried movements track across the orbit of her belly to make its presence known. Her days are hard, her nights vigils of bitterness as sleep deserts her.

  As the time of her lying-in grows near, Heloise is so consumed by her need for Abelard she sends him a desperate letter, begging he come.

  … My voice is hoarse from my lament and all my spirits fail. Whatever our crimes, whatever the sins we have committed, why do we let this split our souls? As I lay down my quill at this letter’s end, I wish my grief would rest as well …

  She waits, convinced he will not ignore such a raw plea. He does not reply.

  Eleven

  BRITTANY, 1117

  In the midst of a three-day torrential downpour, Heloise’s own waters burst. The pain builds from small gusts to gales that batter her defences. She hates Abelard at this moment, her body rent in two while he plays celebrity and panders to his students’ whims. She tries to swallow down the cries that rip from her, Denyse by her side with cool hands and herbs to ease the baby’s way.

  Time turns on its head; she has no notion of day or night breaking through the struggle to evict her child. When finally a dark-capped head emerges, the long thin body follows in a fluid rush.

  ‘Praise the Lord!’ Denyse says. ‘You have a son!’ She swaddles him and lays him in Heloise’s arms.

  Such a sweet moment, looking down upon this mite through eyes still blurred by the effort of his release. He is a complete person; a perfect sleepy soul. Love such as Heloise has never felt enfolds her, and she touches his tiny mouth with one finger, his lips rising to receive it as if it were her breast.

  ‘You are my Astrolabe,’ she whispers, leaning forward to dredge a kiss across a flawless copy of his father’s brow. ‘Through you, my darling boy, I see God’s Heaven shine.’

  When she puts him to her breast, his body nestles against the curve of hers in a curiously restorative way. She feels a strong and reverent connection, and as her focus gathers in around him, every moment is spent marvelling at his perfect form and her body’s natural meeting of his simple needs. Each hour of these first two days, she is completely in his thrall, devoid of sleep, watching for his milky eyes to open and graze hers, revelling in the grip of tiny fingers as they encase her own. If hearts could speak, hers would sing an anthem worthy of a stage.

  But on the third day, she crashes down to earth, ambushed by fears about the future, her mood sinking so low all words run dry. Denyse assures her this is common and soon will pass. Yet as her son latches on more greedily, his wails constant, she grows increasingly withdrawn. The days drag long, and she loses faith that Abelard will ever come.

  His family do their best to soothe her. Denyse brews herbs to treat her malaise; gentle Hugh brings flowers to decorate the room. Maree, Agnes and Agatha all call to try to lift her spirits. Their simple kindness is a comfort, but it is Abelard she aches to see. She fears he has abandoned her, not merely tardy. That Astrolabe might share her fatherless state is an irony too far.

  Every day, she invents new reasons for Abelard’s absence: Fulbert, the pope, their king, bandits and Garlande all feature in her blame. But at night, past the hour of hope that this might be the day he comes, Heloise knows the fault is Abelard’s alone. He no doubt would blame political impediments, but does not every man have buried within the muscle to resist? She traces the lines that streak her belly and thinks on how they not only mark her as mother but also as woman made fool.

  With her son so small and vulnerable, she refuses the offer of a wet nurse. She wrestles with the reality of her mother’s death and her father’s hateful act, for, even in her gloomy state, Heloise cannot conceive of abandoning a life so young.

  Through the long solitary nights, she nurses him and breathes in tandem with his creature snufflings, treasuring his tiny pearled nails, his dark skullcap of hair and the sweet curve of waxen shell that shapes his ear. She longs to share him with Jehanne, to see her smile spread wide and hand her a small taste of motherhood she can pretend to own. She pines for Fulbert, too, knowing in any other circumstance he would make the most doting of grand-uncles. She dreams they somehow mend the rift forged by her selfish acts and reignite the sense of family they both crave. But most of all she wants Abelard to see his son and understand the miracle. His absence pains her heart, a deep, dull ache that steals both energy and appetite.

  Some nights, Denyse joins her by the fire’s edge, often woken by one of her own children, and heats honey-steeped mead for the two women to share.

  ‘Peter will come,’ she says, the third week after Astrolabe’s birth. ‘For all his quirks and difficulties, inside him beats a loving heart.’

  ‘Perhaps Abelard believes Aristotle — that those who educate children are more worthy of honour than those who produce them.’

  ‘I cannot believe that. Peter revered our mother. Did he not tell you how she argued with our father to allow him to seek higher education? Papa accused him of treacherous disloyalty — until Peter succeeded, and then he was once again embraced.’

  ‘He told me his father was happy to pass him over.’

  Denyse laughs. ‘We all rewrite history in the image of our fancies!’ She sips her mead, staring into the glowing coals. ‘So, too, you will hear my brothers’ claim I forfeited any chance of higher education by choosing marriage.’

  ‘Did Hugh forbid you?’

  She waves Heloise’s surprise away. ‘Not at all. He swore he would wait for me should I be given the chance. I see now it was foolish to ever hope for it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My father thought to get me off his hands was more important than my education.’

  ‘So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our minds unto wisdom …’ Heloise says. How wrong that the Bible’s guidance is so often held hostage by men whose self-imposed power gives them licence to speak on women’s behalf. She grasps Denyse’s hand. ‘I wish you had told me this earlier. For all these months, I could have taught you once your babies were in bed. Forgive me.’

  ‘You would think me a scatterbrain. Dagobert does.’

  ‘Abelard told me of your cleverness most proudly — and I have witnessed it myself.’

  Even in the fire’s low light she can see Denyse’s blush. ‘You exaggerate. Whereas you, I sense, could outsmart even Peter — though never tell him I said this, for he views every other mind as a rival and cannot stomach losing!’

  ‘It is never too late to learn, Denyse. From this point make use of my books or your regrets will haunt you.’

  Denyse squeezes Heloise’s hand, then draws away. ‘I am content now, and I was blessed to be given the opportunity to choose my man. All the learning in the world cannot match the solace of his love when he curls around me on a stormy night.’

  A sob breaks deep in Heloise’s chest. She presses her hand over her mouth to hold it in.

  ‘Oh, Heloise, forgive my thoughtlessness.’ Denyse wraps her arms around her. ‘He will come, just wait and see. I cannot believe he would leave you without a word.’

  Heloise clings to her kind reassurances as a boatman knocked overboard clutches a trailing rope.

  Their son is twenty-six days old before Denyse’s hound announces Abelard’s arrival, late one afternoon. Her children screech his name, and Heloise scoops Astrolabe from her lap in a rush to greet him. At first gla
nce, she sees Corbus followed by Stephen de Garlande, and only then spies Abelard bringing up the rear, surrounded by a gaggle of tots while attempting to dismount from his horse. His gaze surfs across the children’s heads to rest on the bundle in her arms, and she sees the awed softening of his face.

  When he raises his eyes to hers, she feels her blood pulse and her cheeks tug into a smile. Abelard shakes off his nieces and nephews and comes to her, taking her face in his hands to look upon her first.

  ‘Dear Lord, how I have missed you.’ He kisses her forehead. ‘You look tired, my love. Pray, tell me, you are well?’

  ‘The wait has been hard.’ She tries to hold back the hurt. ‘Here, sir, is your son, who in your absence I have dubbed Astrolabe — to celebrate his stellar state.’ She pushes him into Abelard’s arms, forcing his hand.

  ‘Have you indeed?’ The corners of his mouth twitch, seemingly undecided which way to settle. He glances down just as Astrolabe opens his eyes and peers back with a look as wise as Prometheus. Abelard catches his breath and runs a finger down the baby’s perfect cheek, causing his tiny lips to pucker. ‘Greetings, my son … my Astrolabe. You are undeniably a seer of stars.’ Abelard’s rapturous smile meets Heloise’s, and she feels as if she floats.

  Garlande grasps her hands and kisses each cheek. ‘Heloise, my dear, motherhood has made you more radiant still.’ He looks upon Astrolabe and slaps Abelard on the back. ‘What a fine son! May God be praised!’

  With this, Abelard and his companions are swept towards the house. Denyse cobbles together a meal of capons and cabbage, washed down by Dagobert’s finest plum wine, and it is not until well after the children are settled in bed, Corbus to the barn, and Denyse and Hugh make their goodnights, that Abelard and Garlande finally join Heloise by the fire where Astrolabe suckles at her breast.

  Only now is there opportunity to speak plainly. ‘I fear, chancellor, you are the bearer of bad news about my uncle. Yes?’

  Garlande presses his fingers to a steeple. ‘Fulbert lives, although his health has greatly suffered since you left. Your departure and news of the child rocked him to his core.’

  ‘Is there any hint of his forgiveness?’ She scours Garlande’s face for signs of concealment, but he is far too practised a statesman to give away such vital clues.

  Heloise looks to Abelard, refusing to let him duck away. He clears his throat. ‘It has been, shall we say, a difficult time.’ Abelard seeks Garlande’s eye but receives nothing back except a nod to spur him on. ‘He has made much trouble for me, bending the ear of anyone who will listen to his claims.’

  ‘Have you spoken with him directly?’ Heloise studies Abelard intently for the signs Denyse described. At the very least she sees a man overwrought and evasive.

  He sighs, dropping his head into his hands to rub his bristled face as Garlande looks on.

  ‘Before I begin, I ask that you hear me out.’

  She shifts Astrolabe to her other breast, refusing to answer, worry gnawing, and when he realises he will receive no encouragement he sighs heavily again.

  ‘When I first returned, Fulbert was consumed by grief. One only had to see him to rightly guess his burning sorrow and bitter shame.’

  Abelard has written nothing of this in his infrequent letters. The confirmation of Jehanne’s words affect Heloise so deeply that Astrolabe seems to sense it, and pulls back from her breast. She strokes his head and latches him back on, willing her turmoil down.

  ‘So crazed was he, he did not know what steps to take against me.’ Abelard’s cheeks blaze. ‘I think he hoped to kill me — or at least to do me harm — and it was only by the grace of God and your presence here that he stayed his hand.’

  She cannot help herself. ‘I am gratified you now have the decency to admit the true purpose of my entombment here.’

  He flinches, and Stephen de Garlande hurriedly places a hand on her arm. ‘Calm, lady. Let him say his piece before the night grows too long to talk our plan through.’

  There is a plan? An outcome already decided between them that needs nothing more than her compliance? Hurt strikes so hard, Astrolabe whimpers as if assailed also.

  Abelard speaks on, rehearsal evident in the care with which he forms his words. ‘Although our actions stopped him seizing or imprisoning me, I do not doubt he would have if he could — or dared.’ He glances towards his patron.

  ‘Have no fear. I took all measures to guard against any such attempt.’

  Abelard nods. ‘Believe me, dearest, I took pity on the poor fool’s boundless grief, blaming myself for the suffering which our love had brought upon him. In the end I went to ask his forgiveness and promised to make any amends he decreed.’ At last he looks at her, as if confident she will now shake off her upset. ‘In order to atone, I offered to take you in marriage — and to this he gladly agreed.’

  ‘What?’ Shock pitches her to her feet, the child grizzling at his sudden loss of comfort. She lifts him to her shoulder, so many responses boiling inside they form an unspeakable soup. Despite the birth of her child, she still does not want to marry. Marriage, she has learnt, is a means of financial gain, political alliance, business arrangement, satiation of lust, or for procreating an heir — no more than prostitution. Where is the love, the coming together of equals, the connection of minds? She has no desire to be married off, simply a chattel.

  Abelard frowns. ‘He has agreed to it, Heloise, I swear, and says he will welcome you back into his home. Does this not please you?’

  ‘This is your solution?’ She looks to Garlande. ‘Surely you did not counsel this? You know well enough the Church will not allow Abelard to continue in his present occupation if he takes a bride. Those wolves will shred him.’ So much for Fulbert’s oath.

  ‘The damage is already done,’ Garlande says. ‘Unless your uncle is appeased and silenced, Peter’s position at the cathedral school — in fact, any Church school — is likely soon untenable. There is further change afoot, increasing pressure on all members of the clergy from our ecclesiastical friends who hold sway with the pope. We cannot allow Fulbert to continue in his maddened state or he will demolish us all.’

  ‘How can you say this? If we marry, I will be the cause of bringing down the greatest mind in all our world.’ She scrabbles for Abelard’s hand. ‘Can I not remain your mistress? I would rather that than live with any other, even if made empress of the world. Listen, please, my darling: we should not need marriage chains to bind us; love can do this on its own. If I destroy your calling it will undo us both.’

  Abelard’s face has blanched a sickly pale. ‘You do not understand.’

  ‘Think, man! How can I ever glory in you again if I make you inglorious — and in the process rob the world of a shining light? I would be cursed by those who mourn your leaving; fellow philosophers will weep at the loss of your fertile mind.’ She struggles to keep panic from her voice. ‘Nature gave you gifts to share as an honoured teacher. To contain your genius is to destroy the best in man.’

  ‘But the child—’

  ‘Ha! There is that, too.’ She knows she fights against her own best interests but cannot bear the thought of living out her life in the knowledge she has ruined him. ‘What use have you of domesticity? And more to the point, what use has domesticity of you? Heed the Apostles if you will not heed me: Seek not a wife. Such shall have trouble in the flesh: but I spare you … I would have you free from cares.’

  She barely pauses for breath, afraid that if she does not loosen all her arrows while he stands before her the chance will be gone and her bow left ever ineffectual. ‘At least consider the advice of other philosophers and carefully weigh what has been written about their lives. St Jerome set forth in great detail the annoyances and disturbances of married life, and you know Cicero believed it impossible to devote to both philosophy and wife. Dear Lord, Abelard, how would you cope with the whining of children, the lullabies and the whole noisy confusion of family life? Believe me, it makes it impossible to think.’
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  Heloise sweeps her arm to indicate the cluttered room, one part of her mind combing for persuasive arguments, the other shrieking at her foolishness. She is not sure if she is trying to drive him off or force some proof of love beyond his need to protect his skin. On she spouts, her words designed to flail him. Jew and gentile she summons up, the Nazarites, Theophrastus, the prophets, the apostles, St Paul, St Augustine; every far-flung justification her mind can resurrect. She is aware that her arguments work against her own needs and those of her child, but still she cannot stop, driven by the fear of being tied to a resentful man and a God who views her actions as a hindrance to his manifest gifts.

  In one last desperate bid, she plays on her fear of returning to Paris amid the whisperers and watchers, claiming Fulbert will forgive her neither for shaming him and risking his position nor for implicating him in Abelard’s fall.

  ‘Hush, woman! If you will stop your sermon there is more to tell.’ Abelard takes Astrolabe from her arms and sniffs the babe’s milky scent before he lays him in the cradle by the hearth, pausing for a moment to stare upon his sleeping face. ‘Fulbert has agreed to keep the marriage secret so my reputation is not lost, and will take you back into his house.’

  Ah, here then is his out. ‘And you believe him?’ She shakes her head. ‘You already know full well he has manipulated facts to suit his ends, overinflating my achievements, underestimating my age, all to pander to the pedants and prickle at my father. If you think he will be satisfied with the world believing you have forsaken me, when to boast of my marriage to the great Peter Abelard would set my family’s shame alight, then you are a fool.’

  Abelard leans towards Garlande. ‘I told you this was wasted breath. She swings from one state to the next with little sense.’

  Garlande rises and draws himself to full height in fine administrative style. ‘Listen to me, my dear. Put your arguments away. Now is not the time to allow your emotions to take control.’ He pauses to let this insult fully slap her, waiting for the colour to set upon her face. ‘We are at a crossroads here and the path you chose affects us all. I have put my reputation on the line for Peter; his placement at the cathedral school only one act in a long list. If you allow Fulbert’s rage to drive this situation and you do not take this opportunity to put it right, like one burning tree in the forest, all the rest of us will face destruction.’ He throws a log into the fire, causing a flurry of sparks as if to illustrate his words. ‘I cannot protect Peter if I lose my credibility with Church or king, nor can I help your uncle. And think on this: if he is left to fester, what will happen to the well-being of the girl?’