by Hager, Mandy
She runs to him, collects his poor, mutilated body into her embrace, and rocks him as she did sweet Astrolabe.
‘I will do it,’ she says, ‘if this is what it takes for you to know how much I love you.’ Her own grief is now well past reason. ‘If you can find peace in God then I will attempt to also.’
‘It is the only way forward. I cannot bear to think another will have you.’ He kisses her. ‘I will love you always.’ Again he is overcome, his distress merging with her own.
When she finally stumbles out and tells Jehanne and Garlande of this decision, they lecture and plead, but guilt holds her firm. This is her fault, hers alone; Fulbert’s role in Abelard’s undoing is a symptom of her own deceit. It is the only act of contrition that has some chance of settling Abelard’s mind — and the only one significant enough to put things right with God.
Abelard pushes this grand gesture even further when he begs her to take her vows before his, obsessed by his jealous thoughts. He is so mentally fragile, her capitulation now seems integral to his recovery and she cannot risk backing away. Besides, where will she go if she refuses? Perhaps Denyse might welcome her, though Dagobert would no doubt take his brother’s side and see her off. And how could she care for her son if she is alone without his father or her uncle for support? Every way she turns this problem over, there is no happy outcome or reprieve. My heart is being torn, my substance spoiled …
On the day itself, she feels sick. She has no heart to wed herself to God; the marriage vows she made with Abelard already pledged total devotion. What is left to give to Him?
As the bishop makes ready to place the veil on her freshly sheared head, one last subversive act of will rears up. When she kneels before Gilbert and submits to a lifetime’s servitude and confinement, she utters Lucan’s words, barely able to push them out:
O, hero mine,
Mightiest husband, wedded to a wife
Unworthy! ’Twas through her that Fortune gained
The right to strike thee. Wherefore did I wed
To bring thee misery? Mine, mine the guilt,
Mine be the penalty.
Part Four
* * *
Thirteen
ARGENTEUIL, 1117–1122
From Argenteuil, the closest Heloise can get to Abelard is an infrequent glimpse of the tall spire of St Denis on the few days the sky is radiant. She writes to him every week but receives nothing back. The grief at his silence leaves her drowning. She needs to know how he fares, and craves his reassurance.
Day on day, her mood grows darker as shock gives way to the cold dawning that she has forever lost her son. She had hoped she held enough sway to prevent Abelard’s unravelling, but that was delusion. His self-absorption is breath-taking. So, too, was the ludicrous notion that she had exhibited strength by obeying his call for self-destruction. Fool. She has robbed herself of the very things she loved the most.
She recognises in her bitterness Abelard’s own; pecking him like the flesh-eating Stymphalian birds, stringing out his gut and heart, his love, his hate, his jealousies, each so interlaced with his inherent vanity he resists every chance to learn and change. She sees this but loves him still, the gift of love equally a curse.
To the other nuns, she presents a facade of calm to cover the vault she builds to stow her failure and sadness … but some nights she rouses from bleak introspection to find herself at the bell-tower’s edge. Never has she felt so close to her mother; never has she felt more alone. She rages at God, yet pleads with Him; curses Abelard, yet longs for him; sends hurt-filled barbs after her uncle, and yet frets for his health and aches over the souring of their love.
The Abbess Basilia does her best to counsel, but Heloise resists. She fears if she lets go the frayed connections to those she loves, they will be lost; these tenuous bonds are all she owns. She misses Jehanne most grievously, in desperate need of her sense and tender care. The flesh falls from her bones, her eyes sink deep into her skull, and any spirit she once owned curls around her guilt at Abelard’s mutilation and ossifies there, an anchor-stone that sits at the base of her stomach and will not budge.
It seems unfair that while they indulged their initial physical love little opposed them, but scarcely had they wed than God saw fit to stamp with brutal force. To silence thoughts of death, she goes to her trusted masters for their familiar consolation.
There is but the space of an hour between sitting on the throne ourselves and clasping the knees of someone else as suppliants. Know then that every station of life is transitory, and that what has ever happened to anybody may happen to you also …
Oh, yes, she can recite such wisdoms to convince any who will listen … but for once their words do not ease her hurt. She roams on Purgatory’s dark stage, the script demanding fitting punishments for every sin: a liar’s tongue tacked down, a cuckold unmanned, a lover stripped of everyone she loves. It hurts — especially the knowledge she brought this on herself.
The days are entombed in tedious rotations of prayer and ritual: Vigils, Matins, Lauds and Prime, Terse, Sext, None, Vespers and Compline, and then, if she is lucky, a little patchy sleep. The bells toll so unfailingly, she stops in anticipation moments before their ring.
When she is called one day to Mother Basilia’s office, she hopes to find that Abelard has written at last. Instead, even more thin than Heloise, stands her friend Jehanne.
‘I am to work in the kitchens,’ Jehanne says as they warmly embrace. ‘No one will house me at Paris since Fulbert’s actions. I am sick of knocking door to door for food.’
‘Dear Lord! I am so sorry, I did not know.’ Heloise embraces her again, ashamed of how little she has considered her friend’s well-being. ‘Did you try the chancellor?’
‘He has gone north to curb de Marle’s thieving of his neighbours’ lands. But before he left he made arrangements for me here.’
Abbess Basilia clears her throat. ‘Show Jehanne the kitchen gardens,’ she says. ‘And introduce her to Sister Cateline in the infirmary. Her herbal skills will be most welcome.’
Outside, Heloise seizes her friend’s hands. ‘Promise me you will not take the veil. Leave your options open.’
Jehanne shakes her head. ‘It is unlikely. This life does not suit me — and after St Eloi I still hold grudges.’
The shift in her tone stills Heloise. ‘For what?’
The light deadens in Jehanne’s eyes, and for a long moment she says nothing. When she does, she will not meet Heloise’s gaze. ‘My mouth was ever put to other uses by the priest.’
‘Why did you never tell me this?’ Heloise clasps Jehanne’s hand and strokes it to overwrite the horror with a more loving touch.
‘Have you not had enough of your own troubles?’ Now Jehanne looks at Heloise. ‘Please do not speak of this again. It serves no point.’
What is wrong with these men? Do they have no decency at all? How can they kneel and pray when they do such harm? Heloise believes Pope Gregory, and those who adhere to his doctrines, are right that the Church needs reforming, but their arrows keep striking the wrong target — always the innocent, always the women.
‘I am so sorry.’ Heloise wants to say more, so much more, but understands the urge to bury such hurts. ‘Tell me, is there news of Fulbert?’
‘Not a thing. But I have heard Master Peter is seeking papal leave to sue the bishop and his canons for showing Fulbert too much leniency.’
Can he not see how that wounds her, too? ‘He is well?’
‘They say he struts like a rooster again and treats all others as hens.’ Jehanne makes a show of it, doing such a good impression Heloise smiles despite herself. It is so good to see her.
Jehanne’s arrival is the one sliver of light amidst the darkness of each day. As the months roll on, it is assumed Heloise has come to accept her place. In truth, she feels even more dead inside despite her friend’s welcome company and the respite she provides from those who will not cease their infernal whispering. She thinks G
od makes a game of her, a living metaphor for those who dare indulge the yearnings of their heart. Seek freedom and ye shall be caged … She does not trust His care; the punishments He wrought, she thinks unjust and show no concession for the good intentions of her love.
One midsummer night, Heloise climbs the bell-tower again, this time determined to rid the world of her — and her of it. Through death, she can free Abelard from guilt, atone for Fulbert’s shame, and stem the flow of tears she still weeps for her son. Never has dying seemed more seductive.
She pictures the tower of St Denis looming over Abelard in his poor severed state. His lack of contact, of simple kindness, she can only interpret as blame and total disregard for her. She crooks her toes over the edge to show them the earth below. On the count of ten. One … two … three … Into her mind comes a stanza from one of Abelard’s poems, as clear as the first time he whispered it into her ear.
May your night be clear, may you lack nothing but me.
And lacking me, beautiful woman, may you feel deprived of everything.
Imagine me when you sleep, think of me while awake,
And just as I am yours, be my spirit for me.
Be my spirit for me … This phrase tolls on while every wrong he ever did her unfurls like a court roll in her head. His bodily force, his vanity, his total absorption with himself, his insistence on marriage and that she take the veil, the stealing of her son …
Be my spirit for me … And yet, and yet … had he not also marvelled at her mind and shared the tools to open it? Had he not woken the woman in her and enabled that fleeting glimpse of Heaven? He rarely talked down to her; he listened and valued her input into his works. He may be a man with many failings, no doubt of that, but is not everyone imperfect? Surely this is the lesson of Adam and Eve? Godlike perfection may be the ideal to strive towards, but in the garden somewhere will always lurk a snake.
Be my spirit for me … Is this not admission of his imperfection and a plea to stand beside him, acknowledging her strength?
Above, the risen moon endows the clouds with halos, a fleeting band of angels to herald in her end. How did it happen that fear so yokes her? Her passions, rather than elevate her life, have beaten her down. She thinks of Fulbert lounging beside a riverbank once to marvel over spring’s first bulbs. There is not one meadow flower, Heloise, that does not work its way to air through dirt. What he failed to mention was that if more dirt gets piled on top, the flower rots and dies.
The wind comes up with force enough to scud the clouds towards the south, one moment revealing the stars, the next obliterating them behind a swirling, viscous haze. It tugs, a thousand fingers scrabbling at her ankles to stop her tumbling, a slapping veil as if to wake her up.
Teetering between Heaven and Hell, Heloise frees her spirit from the silent dungeon she trapped it in. She opens her mouth and allows all her hurt and angry words to pour into the night, purging the accumulated poison of loss after loss after loss.
Jehanne would no doubt counsel acceptance; it is the logical thing. But how to accept something that has gone so manifestly wrong? It is easier to end it now. Four … five … six … But if she unearths her strength, she will honour the gifts God and her teachers gave. She owes it to them to persevere, especially to Gertrud and Saris, who suffered so much.
Seven … eight … nine … Heloise hovers, looking up into the face of stars that watched her mother stand exactly as she does now. If Heloise closes her eyes she can feel her here at her side, feel her pain and desperation at her husband’s cruel theft of her child … Dear Lord! What is she thinking? If she succumbs she dies a hypocrite, deserting Astrolabe and leaving him with the same void in his heart as hers. This she must not do. No! Even if she never again gets to see him, still she can write and make her love known — and if this proves the sole use of her writing skills, it is prize enough … and reason enough to pause. She steps back from the ledge and clutches the doorframe, imprinting its solid form on her resolve before she shuts it firmly on the voice that coaxes her to leap.
This retreat is to prove a turning point. Heloise volunteers to teach the novices and wards, and when she has finished she then tutors Jehanne. She sees afresh how knowledge feeds the soul and how minds laid open to well-crafted words grow richer; and she sees that, given the chance, the only limits to complex understanding are those imposed by lack of opportunity and damaged self-belief.
Any news from outside, meanwhile, she gobbles up. Garlande often stops in on his return from errands for the king, and always keeps her well informed of Abelard’s carryings-on.
‘It seems that rather than hang his head in shame,’ he says, ‘he cannot resist the chance to flaunt his primacy. He lectures all others, delivering unwelcome tirades to whip his brothers for laxness and supposed scandal.’
‘Has he so soon forgotten our past? How do they respond?’
Garlande snorts. ‘It fails to win him many friends.’ He raises a well-trimmed eyebrow. ‘He even took poor Abbot Adam to task. It seems as well as aspiring to be the greatest philosopher and teacher, he now sets his sights on being God’s most devoted monk.’
‘He is a man of great ambition.’ It cuts her that he carries on so seamlessly.
‘Ambition? The man is an infuriating fool. He seems intent on burning every bridge fashioned to support him.’
‘How goes his work?’
‘In that, at least, he makes good progress. The wealth of manuscripts at St Denis means he has now collected around two thousand quotes to include in his Sic et Non.’
‘I fear it will anger his critics if he fails to write with tact.’
‘I have already said much the same, but he insists he blames the worst inconsistencies on the Bible’s scribes!’
‘He will regret that, should the scribes of St Denis take offence when he needs their help.’
‘Such is his infamy, they will not forgo the chance to brag they have worked for the great Peter Abelard.’ Garlande smiles. ‘Lord knows what he has that makes us so love him.’
‘You love him, too?’
‘I find him fascinating — if mesmerisingly self-destructive.’
‘Does he seem content?’
Garlande shakes his head. ‘If he does not curb his loud complaints, Bishop Adam will move him to Maisoncelles-en-Brie, where his criticisms will fall on less influential ears.’
Much as Heloise treasures Garlande’s visits, she is left with the lingering spectre of Abelard and a short-lived sense of a return to normality that works to depress her mood once he is gone. She misses the back and forth of real intellectual debate. Her mental boundaries are closing in.
Abbess Basilia observes this torpor. She calls Heloise to her private chamber some eighteen months after she first arrived.
‘How do you fare, Sister Heloise?’ Basilia is a woman of some three score years, and the lines that mark her face bear witness to a life spent more in the habit of smile than frown.
‘I am pleased with my students’ progress,’ Heloise says.
Basilia laces her fingers, thumbs caressing. ‘Indeed, they do very well,’ she says. ‘But this is not what concerns me. Tell me of your heart, Heloise. Tell me of your relationship with God.’ Basilia has a gaze like a corncrake, harbouring secretiveness yet staring at the world with sharp attention.
Heloise decides on truth, hoping for guidance. ‘I fail to feel His mercy.’
‘Have you truly sought it?’
‘I have tried, Mother, believe me. But still within me sits resistance. I fear I will never feel the kind of unquestioning devotion expected of a nun.’
‘Unquestioning devotion?’
‘Forgive me. I did not mean it as it sounded.’
‘Do you really think we all choose this life from absolute devotion to the Lord, Sister?’ At Heloise’s puzzlement, she laughs. ‘Think again. In a world where we are no more than property and breeding stock, there are many who seek refuge such as you.’
‘And you, Mother?’
‘I had good standing, married to a man whose family were rich enough to indulge my whims. But he died young in Urban’s holy war and my position grew untenable. I stood in the way of his brother’s inheritance. I could choose to fight for what was rightly mine — a fight I could not win — or seek out sanctuary. I went first to Jumieges Abbey, and then came here to Argenteuil.’
Heloise thinks she hears the hint of repressed anger, and her own responds: ‘How, then, have you reached acceptance? I struggle with it every day.’
Mother Basilia runs her fingers beneath the confines of her veil, scratching at a thin stubble of greying hair. ‘I do not accept the unfairness of our world. Instead I try to relieve the hurt as much as I can. I worked my way to this place so I can use my mind again and assert some measure of control over my life — and the lives of my sisters. Can you think of any other position where we can shoulder such responsibility without the constant oversight of men?’
Heloise shakes her head. ‘You truly think we are not at men’s mercy here? I saw myself the destruction of St Eloi in order to impound it — and my friend Jehanne can tell tales to raise your hair.’
Basilia’s smile is wry. ‘Nowhere is there total freedom. But here, at least for now, we have space to breathe and the chance to think for ourselves. Surely this is a better outcome than most face?’ She touches her crucifix. ‘However, you are right, my dear. The winds of change threaten even this, which is why I want you to take on the position of prioress. Sister Renee’s health declines.’
‘Prioress? But I have just admitted my underlying ambivalence.’
‘What I need is your passion, your eyes and your wit to help me steer Argenteuil through the turbulent times ahead. And since you have committed to being a nun, I want to offer you the chance to stretch — to learn how to run the business of this abbey so that one day you can step into my place. It is, Sister, the only workable option to keep you sane.’
