Heloise

by Hager, Mandy

  They sit together in the refectory by the fire and catch up on his news. Dagobert lives like an embittered toad alone in his keep, Berengar says. All three sons have also been driven from his life.

  ‘I have been spending time with Uncle Peter, aiding him. The man is a genius.’

  ‘Indeed he is,’ Heloise says. ‘Tell me, how is his health? I have heard he took a fall from his horse.’

  ‘It gives him pain. He barely sleeps.’

  ‘Has he seen a healer or physician?’

  ‘He refuses everything for fear of poison.’ Berengar’s eyes droop as the fire’s heat unwinds him after his hard day’s ride through heavy snow.

  ‘What brings you forth at such a dreadful time?’

  ‘I am delivering a document to Paris for him. He has written a letter of consolation to a friend.’

  ‘Not to Garlande? Pray tell me he has no need of support.’

  ‘I do not know, but I am to deliver it to him. Uncle Peter said should you offer a bed I am to ask you to secure the letter for the night, though I assured him I could keep it safe and have done since I left.’

  This puzzling statement proves irresistible. ‘Then I will take it now so you may rest your head.’

  ‘My thanks.’ From his saddlebag he produces a thick wad of parchment and hands it over. ‘I leave as soon as it is light.’

  ‘Very well. I will lock it in my office for safe-keeping until then.’ She notes, heart thudding, the lack of a seal. Father, forgive me.

  Later, at her desk, once her candle’s light has steadied, she scans the manuscript’s words.

  Often the hearts of men and women are stirred, as likewise they are soothed in their sorrows, more by example than words. And therefore, am I now minded to write of the sufferings which have sprung out of my misfortunes … This I do so that, in comparing your sorrows with mine, you may discover that yours are in truth naught, or at the most but of small account, and so shall you come to bear them more easily …

  His words goad her, their self-pity clashing with a surge of her own. Who is this ‘friend’ he supposedly consoles? Why choose to write to him and never once to her? As she continues to read, her anger flares from spark to outright fire. The whole rambling letter is filled with his particular take on their misfortunes. It is a work of self-aggrandisement, a retelling of his life from his fixed point of view, filled with accusations of ill-treatment and disrespect.

  Worse still, he misrepresents her; makes her love seem foolish, false, a work of his manipulation, and yet he takes her ardent pleadings and desires and holds them up as proof of his great weakness in falling for her charms. Where is his decency?

  He begins the section telling of their meeting with the heading Of How, Brought Low By His Love for Heloise, He Was Wounded In Body And Soul, as if the faults were hers alone. He lampoons Fulbert, declaring him greedy for money, and crows over the advice to beat her; his writing is malignant and thick with self-righteous scorn. He even exposes their intimate games and forced seduction, and admits that after Fulbert found them out, Abelard declared by way of weak excuse that women had cast down even the noblest men to utter ruin. Who is this man who so betrays me?

  With gleeful recollection, he works his way through all her arguments against their marriage, making her ever more the fool by revealing how he and Fulbert had already kissed to seal their pact before he even asked her. How could he do this to her? He recounts her tears on taking the veil with little sympathy and, instead, keeps the subject steadfastly fixed on himself. With frenzied hyperbole, he writes of others’ sinister attacks, blow by blow relitigating every word uttered against him … and there are many, her own angry mutterings now adding to the pile.

  His gift of the Paraclete to Heloise and her nuns, he claims as God’s way to provision his oratory anew, and he dismisses all their hard toil by claiming use of wiles and female weakness to seduce the locals into the support he never had. Is he so blinkered he cannot see the fault was his? And he has the audacity to accuse her of shutting herself away to appear more mysterious to achieve her ends, yet tells overblown lies of her spiritual devotion, an assertion as farcical as Fulbert’s about her age.

  Of his trials since moving to St Gildas he cites slander and hateful murmurings, and a string of jealous rivals with murderous aims. Perhaps worst is how he embellishes the truth with self-important posturing, falsely laying claim to frequent visits to the Paraclete as magnanimous father to his nuns. This can only be the voice of latent guilt.

  By the work’s end, she is so stirred up she cannot sit still, much less sleep. In a fever, she spends the night in copying, recording these baffling lies so she can process and then dispute them. It is clearly a work intent on rehabilitation of his standing, the first step in a strategy to recast him as an innocent unjustly hurt; the goal, no doubt, is to see him restored to his teaching at Paris now Garlande is redeemed. That he dismantles her so coldly splits open all her wounds to bleed afresh.

  By the time she is finished and her well cried dry, the silver of early dawn creeps through her window. What is wrong with her that she so trusted him? Has she too long imagined herself one of Ovid’s tragic heroines, victims all, some willing, most not, every one a dupe in search of rescue? She fears the answer is yes.

  It has to end, she now realises, this eternal swinging of emotions and blaming of Abelard for her life’s great sadness. By framing herself as some kind of paragon of fortitude, another Penelope always in wait, she has squandered her best years, her life constrained by a man so caught up in his own miseries he sullies her reputation to aid his own.

  Once she has farewelled Berengar, she takes to the snow-laden road herself, walking the lanes to think through these revelations and undergo a stern investigation of her thoughts; the time has come to dig herself from self-pity’s hole. She is a woman of thirty-nine, no longer a guileless child. She must take the reins and keep her emotions in tight check from this time forth; she has others in desperate need of her attention and support.

  By the end of this long day, she has walked off her fury and is left with sadness at the cracks so obvious in Abelard’s mind. It is clear he fears for his life and, whether real or imagined, he certainly feels the threat most sharply. Perhaps she has to enter into his fiction if ever she is to help him overcome this? She has rebuilt her life to find meaning and purpose anew, whereas the life of the man she worshipped is collapsing, and if she does not move to act as a crutch for his fragile mind all will end in ruin.

  But does she still even love him enough to re-engage? The years apart and his cruel silence have certainly tested her. When she needed him, he deserted her. When she called out for his help, he slammed the door. Is it her heart and the love she held for him that smarts so, or is it more that his silence chafes her pride? Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. She can be as angry at him as she likes, but the truth is he is ill, vulnerable, fragile, and the strengths in him that she first fell for — his genius and his drive to challenge ambiguous and outmoded thinking — remain the same. Love is not something that can be picked through and sorted; not something to be rationalised. It is a feeling deep within … and, yes, God help her, she feels it still.

  How then to proceed? First, she must accept in herself that, despite everything, her love for Abelard will never change. He is a part of her now, and father to her son. Therefore, what is the point in her continued anger at his past betrayals or even this — this — this sad, distorted story? If she puts aside from this time forth her disappointments and desire for receiving love and focuses on the giving of it to those who need it more, surely this is a better path with greater riches at its end? Christ showed the way in this, so cherished for his simple acts of love and charity that he did not need to demand love in return, it came most willingly.

  But how does one break down walls another raises when feeling under threat? A bear has its sharp claws, a wolf its teeth. All she has is her love, her mind and the artifice of her w
ords; she knows if she does not use every scrap of nous available, this task will fail. She has to find a way to reach Abelard; to turn a crack into an opening sufficiently large to allow in sanity’s light.

  She is sure now he intended her to read this sham, perhaps even wrote it with her in mind; why else insist Berengar make such a show of handing the manuscript over? Yet he must have known it would upend her, though to what purpose she cannot tell. Was it to warn her of its existence before he touts it for redemption? Or an unconscious attempt to provoke and re-connect, perhaps? Though why bury it within such smarting insult? The only solution she can see to help him calm his mind is to put it to work again, pandering to his vanity and suppressed love in the hope he re-engages and regains force enough to steady his crumbling perception.

  The Paraclete is key, she thinks; his heart is invested here. Perhaps if she plays to his accusations of women’s inherent weaknesses and demands his aid as their father, he might put his mind to their support, and in the process save himself. If so, she has to phrase her response carefully, to slowly lure him in. If she is too overt, he will suspect her, therefore she must charge her reply with all the anger and emotion he no doubt expects — and which she has no problem accessing if she writes purely from the heart.

  When she sits down that night to fashion a response, she knows this is the first step in a new, long game of serious intent. He is a master at reading between the lines. Every word counts.

  To her lord, no, her father; to her husband, no, her brother; from his handmaid, no, his daughter; his wife, no, his sister — To Abelard from Heloise … The other day, my most beloved, one of your men brought me a copy of the letter you wrote as consolation to your friend …

  She sympathises with his sorrows and mistreatment, expressing her real heartbreak for his troubles, and begs he writes to allow her the comfort of his paternal words.

  … So, by that Christ who keeps you for his own even now, we beg of you, as we are his handmaids and yours, write to us, tell us of those storms in which you find yourself tossed. We are all you have left: let us share your grief or your joy …

  She entreats him not to let them lose through negligence the only happiness left to them; he is her husband and she his wife, and she has need to read his sacred thoughts and hear the dictates of his heart.

  As part of her campaign of words, she lets loose raw accusations in hope to wound his pride — for it is this that ever punctures his defences. If she can enrage him enough to unleash his anger, then she has hope he might reply in order to defend his name. With this in mind, she also emphasises his duty to her nuns, flattering his self-importance, entreating his care to cultivate and improve them as his principal affair.

  Yes, it is yours, truly yours, this newly planted garden, whose living shoots are young, still delicate, and need watering to thrive. From the nature of women alone the garden is tender and would not be hardy even if it were not new …

  What she hopes to instil is the sense that he alone can guide them through the spiritual and practical hazards in their life; that without his direction they sail a weak and rudderless ship, in need of his expert steering to captain them safely to God’s shore.

  You try to teach rebels and do not succeed; you are casting pearls of God’s word before swine. While you squander so much on your enemies, think what you owe your daughters. But leave aside these others for a moment — remember what you owe me, and all you owe this whole community of devoted women you may repay at once to her who is, with more devotion, your only one …

  When she finishes weaving this complicated web, exhaustion fells her. She goes to bed with a prayer that this will be enough to draw him from his shell. But in the cold light of morning, as she sends it off, she holds out little hope. The man she loves seems all but gone … and, given his silence, she must conclude the same of her son.

  Her anxiety over Abelard’s possible response — or lack of it — lasts twenty-nine long days; at night her dreams astir with love-making that turns to fights or falls, from which she wakes with a knocking heart in the seconds before her dream-self crashes back to Earth.

  This disrupted sleep affects her mood and her ability to function. When a local landowner delivers his daughter to take up the veil, Heloise forgoes her usual rigorous questioning of the girl’s true desires and motives, too tired to sustain the conversation. The girl seems willing enough, if very quiet, and it is not until three weeks later — when they discover she has fled in the night — that Heloise sees how her lack of vigilance and judgement played a vital part.

  ‘What have you discovered?’ she asks, after her prioress Astrane has spent the day in exhaustive interrogation of all those in the postulant’s company.

  ‘She was secretly trothed to a farmer’s son from over Provins way. Her father thought to prevent it, but it appears now she always planned to run.’

  ‘Who told you this? Why did they not come to you — or me?’

  ‘It seems she confessed to Sister Douceline who, if you remember, herself only arrived three months ago. She made Douceline promise to say nothing. Rest assured, I have now stressed again to our little sister our policy of no secrets.’

  ‘We must ensure this goes no further. It is exactly the kind of scandal those in Paris would leap upon with undue glee and retribution.’

  Heloise seethes, mostly at her own foolish distraction, and sets upon another round of goodwill visits to her local benefactors. The last thing they need is anyone stirring up scandalous talk and withdrawing their life-sustaining support.

  When at last a rider delivers a letter with Abelard’s familiar seal, she waits until all others are in bed before she breaks it open, her hands so shaking she can barely light a second candle off the first. She places one each side of her desk and lays the scroll upon it.

  To Heloise, his most beloved sister in Christ, From Abelard, her brother in Christ. If I have written you no consolation or encouragement in the time since we turned our lives toward God, it was not because of negligence on my part but because of your own wisdom, in which I have always had implicit trust …

  The compliment stops her. Could this really be the case? On one level she is flattered, but it also reeks of self-delusion. Has he not read all the other letters she has sent?

  I did not believe you needed these things from me when the grace of God has given you all you need to instruct the wayward, console the weak, and hearten the lukewarm through word and example … But if in your humility you think otherwise and believe you need my writings or my guidance in any matter that pertains to God, then write and tell me what you wish, and I will write back so far as the Lord allows me …

  Her back straightens, buoyant as she realises her strategy has worked. His vanity — and his love for her, she has no doubt of it — have taken up the call. He proceeds to offer prayers and commentary on how she may come to peace within the confines of the Paraclete and reconcile with God. His words at his letter’s end, however, rock her.

  If the Lord should deliver me into the hands of my enemies that they prevail over me and slay me, or if by some other chance I go the way of all flesh while I am not there with you, I beg you, take my body wherever it may lie, buried or unburied, and bring it to your convent cemetery … and that the love you showed the living man you will later show to me when I am dead …

  He clearly does believe his days numbered; how terrible to live under the strain of such all-consuming fears.

  Heloise spends the rest of the night meditating upon his every word, hoping to work out the best way forward for the sake of both his sanity and hers. When she rises for Vigils to lead the prayers, she calls on the help of she who best knows her pains:

  Holy Mary, Saint Mary Magdalene, Pray for us. Sister of Martha and Lazarus, Pray for us. Who didst enter the Pharisee’s house to anoint the feet of Jesus, Pray for us. Who didst wash His feet with thy tears, Pray for us. Who didst dry them with thy hair, Pray for us. Who didst cover them with kisses, Pray for us. Who was
vindicated by Jesus before the proud Pharisee, Pray for us …

  As their voices ring out, Heloise feels as the Magdalene must have when she watched the man who rid her of her demons die so appallingly on the Cross. Faithful Mary, who anointed his broken body and sat outside his tomb; Christ’s chosen Mary, she to whom He gifted the first revelation of his resurrected state. It strikes Heloise as sad that though He treated her with reverence and kindness, bestowing on her alone that most wondrous of all moments, still Mary Magdalene is more slighted for her fall than worshipped for her strength and faithfulness, apostle to the apostles.

  With this one simple thought, all her grievances and uncertainty with God are washed away. This God, who embraced both women and the blemished without judgement, and is revered for His unconditional love, she has no argument with. This God she can love without restraint. What she has blamed on Him, she sees is not His fault at all: those who caused her pains corrupt His love for other gains. How strange, after all her years of inner struggle, to suddenly find the sting so easily removed. She feels as if she has effortlessly stepped across what once felt an unbridgeable gulf, to find a smoother path she always knew existed but until this moment could not see.

  By the end of Vigils, she knows exactly what she wants to do: for herself, her damaged sisters and poor dear Abelard, Father to them all. After their meal, while her congregation of forty-seven gather in the refectory, Heloise puts to them her epiphany.

  ‘Sisters, those of you who were here at the start will know of my long connection to the Paraclete’s founder. We each have come with our own painful pasts, some of body, most of mind. I propose we take lessons from our master storyteller, Christ himself, whose parables were a means to provoke and challenge his listeners; a way to push beyond the wretchedness of their own lives to the wise lessons of love and compassion we read in those same parables today.’