Heloise

by Hager, Mandy

  ‘Of course I will take her in; she is my sister. And I love you, too, dear Stephen. You are as much a father to me as Fulbert was.’

  With Garlande’s death came Heloise’s realisation that the mystery of her parentage that had plagued her for so many years no longer held any sting nor held her curiosity. Her concept of ‘family’ had forever altered. Astrolabe, Abelard, Fulbert, Jehanne, Agnes and Agatha, Garlande and Matilda, and the good friends who lived in kind community around her, more than made up for any gaps on some proscribed ancestral tree. If those who shunned her think of her at all, she is content to be judged for the woman she is, not caring if she is viewed in the light of their expectations, good or bad. How she wished she could tell this to poor Fulbert.

  She sighs. It is strange how the further Abelard is removed, the more his picture acquires a greater likeness, more alive, when really it is nothing but a little flat colour on time-stiffened parchment. Yet she feels him here, as if he stands behind her, his warm hand of comfort firm against her back.

  Tonight is not the first time she has whispered to his portrait in search of solace from the real man, and beneath her coffer’s worm-tracked base lies a secret drawer in which she stores the precious copies of all his letters and hers; dry renderings of his voice. She finds them company at her side as she shifts her quill across the ledger’s pages by the candle’s milky light. The movement gives her comfort, the nib’s mouse-scratchings more familiar than a mother’s voice.

  ‘I am yet to forgive Bernard, my love.’

  He too, died nigh on ten years past, a man of many contradictions. Her first assessment all those years ago still stands: on the one hand, Bernard and she were closer in their thoughts on the love of Christ than many in her own Benedictine stable; on the other hand, she despises his hounding of others and his call to war.

  ‘You would have been outraged, dearest, when, despite his mixed legacy, on his death Bernard was lauded as a saint! More proof, if needed, that with undue influence comes credulous worship, yes?’ She pauses, as if hopeful for his reply. In the silence she sighs again. ‘Did you know that when he died, it was bandied about that before his birth his mother dreamt she was pregnant with a barking dog? She was reportedly told her child would grow up to be a guard dog for the Lord’s house, yapping at any enemies and licking clean their poison from his master’s wounds.’ She grins, Abelard’s gaze intent on hers, the corners of his mouth uplifted as if he, too, smiles at such outrageous rhetoric. ‘Oh, my love, you certainly felt the imprint of his teeth most cruelly.’

  It is curious how her life has come to this: a solitary figure hunched over a fading picture, hands trembling, a single flame throwing up the shadows of old demons and the flickering shape-shifters that herald death. Her eyes have wandered over every surface of this room, tracking the beams of oak that once dipped gnarly toes into the Paraclete’s stream, the rough daub walls furrowed by the marks of those who toiled to press them smooth, and the one shuttered window that looks across the cloister to the fields, where once she dug each day until her back would bend no more. It is a comforting place to summon up her ghosts and linger in their company. The past is a vast reservoir of truths.

  She has always dwelt in the realms of the mind for surrender and escape. In her youth, she roamed imagined settings from Fulbert’s stories; now she wanders the landscape of her many decades.

  She starts at a tap on her door. ‘Come.’

  In limps Jehanne with a bowl of chicken stock infused with sage, her joints so stiff they sometimes creak. ‘What are you doing out of bed?’

  ‘The accounts needed my attention.’

  ‘Have you not appointed Ermelina for all this, woman? For goodness’ sake, why squander what little energy you have left?’

  Heloise lays down her quill and makes her way back to bed, relieved Jehanne’s weak hearing will not pick up her groans. ‘Old habits are hard to shed.’

  ‘Especially when worn by you!’ Jehanne places the bowl in Heloise’s hands. ‘Do drink it all. Your colour is bad.’

  Heloise can only take it down in tiny sips; the sage is overpowering. ‘Is the room made ready for Astrolabe?’

  ‘Of course. What time does he come?’

  ‘He rests the night at St Ayoul.’

  Heloise is swamped by a fit of coughing so fierce that Jehanne retrieves the bowl. The attack exhausts her. She shakes her head when offered the broth back and settles lower into the bed.

  ‘You have warned him of your state?’

  Heloise nods. When he wrote to tell her he had accepted an offer to lead the monks at Hauterive, she asked him to detour and visit on his way. What she did not say is that she feels Death on the prowl — or that she hungers to greet Him. Why spoil his happy news?

  Dear Astrolabe. If not for him, she doubts she would have come to such an accommodation with her grief. His regular letters and occasional visits have worked to heal its sting. When he was named a canon after Porchaire absconded to the Cistercians, Heloise thought his life was set. But he struggled, his father’s condemnation and his uncle’s treachery constantly raised, and he found the pull towards the Cistercians too compelling to ignore. On the quiet, she lobbied Guy at Cherlieu, who had already given him much support. That his abbey was close to the Paraclete was enticing, too. Her son had found contentment there in a way neither she nor Abelard fully achieved, and Guy enabled Astrolabe’s talent to shine. When he plays her his compositions, she swells with pride; they ring with pure emotion. Let us not grow weary in well-doing, for in due season we shall reap if we do not lose heart.

  Jehanne hovers at the edge of her bed and points to the open manuscript that lies on the floor beside them. ‘What are you reading?’

  Heloise smiles. ‘Your eyes are too sharp, old woman!’ She pauses, willing a wheeze to settle as Jehanne patiently waits. ‘Ovid, of course. I have marked a passage I would like shared with our sisters when I go.’

  ‘Do not say such things.’

  ‘We both know it comes.’ Heloise points a languid finger towards the pages. ‘Read out the piece marked, dear friend, if you will.’

  Jehanne wipes a tear away as she picks it up. ‘Very well, though you know I will mangle it.’ She draws in breath. ‘And now, I have completed a great work, which not Jove’s anger, and not fire nor steel, nor fast-consuming time can sweep away. Whenever it will, let the day come, which has dominion only over this mortal frame, and end for me the uncertain course of life. Yet in my better part I shall be borne immortal, far above the stars on high, and mine shall be a name indelible.’ Jehanne sniffs loudly and mutters something indecipherable before she carries on. ‘Wherever Roman power extends her sway over the conquered lands, I shall be read by lips of men. If Poets’ prophecies have any truth, through all the coming years of future ages, I shall live in fame.’ She mops away a stream of tears and mucus. ‘You would see us all weeping then?’

  ‘Tears are healthy.’ Heloise grins. ‘Is it not beautiful? He says it so much better than I ever could.’ Ovid’s is still the voice that speaks most loudly in her head when Abelard’s falls silent. It is as if he peered into the future and read the secrets of her mind.

  ‘You underplay your talents.’ Jehanne picks up the bowl again and spoons small mouthfuls for Heloise to sip. ‘Promise me you will stay in bed. Preserve your strength for Astrolabe.’

  ‘I have—’

  ‘Hush. I swear before God your stubbornness will outlive you!’

  ‘As will yours!’ Heloise coughs again, each bout stealing a little more strength and intensifying her gurgling wheeze.

  For some time, they say nothing, Jehanne spooning the broth, Heloise summoning her willpower to get it down. When it is done, she closes her eyes, the effort needed to hold them open now too great. After a long while, she feels Jehanne stir.

  ‘Wait!’ Heloise opens her eyes in time to catch the look of deep sorrow on her friend’s face. ‘Please. Lift the base of my coffer and take out the letters within. I want Astr
olabe to have them all.’

  Jehanne does as she is bid, emptying out its contents to reveal the hidden store. ‘Dear Lord, so many.’ She draws them out in stacks and lays them in neat piles beside the bed.

  ‘My whole life,’ Heloise whispers. She watches her friend’s trembling hand as she straightens them, knowing she understands their power. ‘I love you, Jehanne. Thank—’ The wretched cough interrupts again, and she struggles to rein it in.

  ‘I love you, too. What you have given me—’

  ‘—Shhh … was nothing.’ She feels a great need to get this out before all strength is gone. ‘Thank you … true sister.’ Each word is a leaden weight. What is a friend? A single soul residing in two bodies, she and me. ‘Now go. I will rest.’

  Jehanne kisses her brow and smooths the bedding around her. ‘I will check you again soon.’

  When she is gone, Heloise lies still, trying to modulate her breath, which hauls to her lips like a bucket drawn heavy from a well. Her memories again surge up, as if demanding review of her life’s lessons one last time. The greatest gift of age is the ability to cut straight to truth and see with perfect clarity one’s flawed intentions. She owns a strange mix of guilt and shame, inherited from a mother whose love for her child caused her death. Shame, most particularly, she has found a hard emotion to subdue.

  Heloise does not fear her own death at all; the world of her youth has changed so much she cannot grieve her leaving. It is a crueller place, less tolerant of those who tread a different path; attitudes hardened, wealth grasped ever more tightly in the hands of the privileged few, women’s voices now no more than a sigh on the wind’s cold breath.

  If only all others would see how Virtue is far too beautiful not to be embraced … for when she is, she reveals her charms. Instead they vacillate too long between love and hate, never to find tranquillity, and far too often deceive themselves with yearnings for fame. Abelard’s ongoing lust for it led to his sad demise; Bernard chased glory at the expense of tolerance and simple kindness.

  As for herself, Fortune has always dealt extremes; she has loaded her with favours then heaped up correspondingly exquisite afflictions. Of all, intellectual solitude has been the hardest to remedy; her worries escalate amidst silence — though not, thank God, as obsessively as those of her dear Abelard. What makes one person more resilient than another? Certainly recognising her own balancing between hope and despair has helped her see his battle more clearly — and allowed greater forgiveness.

  She owes her survival to the lessons of her greatest masters, who stole her heart before returning it again, enriched. Never since her childhood has she changed in her belief that words hold the greatest power: they can harangue men into war, seduce another’s wife or landlord’s daughter, break open a heart or have capacity to mend one. Without the plucking of language’s fruits, this busy mind of hers would have been lost. And though she has failed to live the life of a writer, her words have graced the pages of innumerable letters, stories, songs and plays, as well as her many contributions in Abelard’s works; enough, she thinks, to leave behind this life with no writerly regrets … and now only one short letter and a final document left to write.

  She is not confident she will see Astrolabe in the morning; something about the hapless flutter of her heart suggests it will not last the night. But the comfort of knowing he loves her and will be here to kiss her in farewell is quite enough — and, if she lives to see him, it will be a glorious windfall in these twilight days.

  Heloise rises again through mulish determination and shuffles over to the desk to kiss her husband’s image. ‘Patience, my love. I am almost there.’ In her head, she hears the rich timbre of his voice: I am forever yours.

  She lifts her favourite quill, shed from the wing of a swan, and unfurls a sheet of parchment to write a short note to Astrolabe to tell him of her eternal love and pride in him. At the letter’s end, she dips the nib into the inkhorn for one final time and the words she prepares to write onto a fresh sheet come easily to her mind. This document she simply heads up: Confession of Faith.

  I, despite life’s trials, have found faith in a God who embodies Love; a God who also aspires for us to love and to apply that love with truthfulness and good intent. Not vindictive unscrupulous threats nor ever increasing inequity, instead the gentle kind of love that kept dear Mary sitting faithfully outside her saviour’s tomb — and walked with me every day to sit by Abelard’s grave to whisper of my ongoing devotion to the man and his mind’s great works. I seek forgiveness for my sins and understanding that I aimed for authenticity. I am Heloise, Abbess of Abelard’s Paraclete, Niece, Daughter, Friend, Scholar, Sister, Mother to many — and most proud of the upstanding Astrolabe — and Lover forever to only one. Pray think of me from time to time, and remember my fidelity and capacity to love …

  Low in the grave with thee

  Happy to lie,

  Since there is no greater thing left Love to do;

  And to live after thee

  Is but to die,

  For with but half a soul what can Life do?

  She signs her name beneath Abelard’s poem and rests the quill upon her desk.

  And so be it.

  APPENDICES

  MONASTIC DAILY PRAYERS, HERALDED BY BELLS

  Vigils — midnight

  Matins — 3am

  Lauds — dawn

  Prime — 6am

  Terce — 9am

  Sext — 12pm

  None — 3pm

  Vespers — 6pm

  Compline — 9pm

  HISTORICAL FIGURES AND PLACES MENTIONED IN THE BOOK

  Abbot Suger (1081–1151), French abbot and advisor to kings Louis VI and VII.

  Adelaide of Savoy (or Adelaide of Maurienne) (1092–1154), the second spouse but first Queen Consort of King Louis VI.

  Alberic of Rheims (c. 1085–1141), studied with Anselm of Laon. He was a master at Rheims 1118–1136 and Archdeacon 1131–1136, then Archbishop of Bourges 1136–1141.

  Anacletus II (Pope) (d. 1138), born Pietro Pierleoni, an Antipope who ruled from 1130 to his death, in a schism against the contested, hasty election of Pope Innocent II.

  Anselm of Laon (Anselmus; d. 1117), properly Ansel (Ansellus), a French theologian and founder of a school of scholars who helped to pioneer biblical hermeneutics.

  Astrolabe, son of Abelard and Heloise (Petrus Astralabius, according to the obituary of the Paraclete). Became a canon of Nantes, following his uncle Porchaire; possibly to be identified with Astralabe, a monk of Cherlieu after 1157 and fourth abbot (c. 1162/63–c. 1171/72).

  Benedict (Saint) (c. 480–543), founder of Western monasticism. His Rule formed the basis for monastic behaviour.

  Berengar of Poitiers, a younger contemporary and zealous adherent of Abelard. Possibly son of Dagobert, Abelard’s brother.

  Bernard of Clairvaux, Saint (c. 1090–1153), French abbot and the primary builder of the reforming Cistercian order. Canonised by Pope Alexander III, 18 January 1174. Pope Pius VIII bestowed on him the title of Doctor of the Church.

  Bertrada (Bertrade) de Montfort (c. 1070–14 February 1117). In 1092 she left her husband Fulk and took up with King Philip I of France. Philip married her on 15 May 1092, despite both having living spouses. He refused to leave her even when threatened with excommunication.

  Boethius (c. 480–524), a Roman senator, consul, magister officiorum and philosopher of the early sixth century.

  Charlemagne (c. 742–814), also known as Charles the Great or Charles I. King of the Franks who united most of Western Europe during the early Middle Ages and laid the foundations for modern France and Germany.

  Cîteaux Abbey, mother house of the Cistercian order, located in Saint-Nicolas-lès-Cîteaux, south of Dijon, France, and founded in 1098.

  Clairvaux Abbey, Cistercian monastery in Ville-sous-la-Ferté, founded in 1115 by St Bernard.

  Cluny Abbey, Benedictine monastery in Cluny, Saône-et-Loire, revitalised under Abbot Peter the Venerab
le.

  Conon (or Cono) (d. 1122), papal legate and cardinal bishop of Palestrina at the time of Abelard’s trial at Soissons in 1121.

  Dagobert (c. 1082-1129), Lord of Le pallet, brother of Abelard.

  Daimbert (d. 1122), Archbishop of Sens during the reign of Philip I.

  Denyse (c. 1083-1129), sister of Abelard.

  Dionysius (Saint), philosopher. Thought to have been converted by St Paul, and patron saint of France.

  Fontevraud Abbey, founded in 1101 by the itinerant preacher Robert of Arbrissel. The centre of a new monastic order, composed of double monasteries, housing both men and women in separate quarters.

  Fulbert, uncle and guardian of Heloise. First named as canon of Notre-Dame in Paris in 1102. Last mentioned 1126.

  Geoffroi, Bishop of Chartres 1116–1149.

  Gilbert, Bishop of Paris 1116–1123.

  Guibert of Nogent (c. 1055–1124), a Benedictine historian, theologian and author of autobiographical memoirs.

  Guy of Castello (d. 1144), defender of Abelard, a senior cardinal who became Pope Celestine II in 1143.

  Guy of Cherlieu, first abbot 1134–1148 of Clairvaux’s seventh daughter house, likely to be the Guido who reformed plainchant for the Cistercian Order.

  Heloise of Argenteuil (c. 1093–1164), wife of Peter Abelard and mother of Astrolabe. Abbess of the Paraclete.

  Henri (1127–1181), Count of Champagne 1152–1181, eldest son of Count Thibaut II of Champagne (who was also Count Thibaut IV of Blois) and his wife, Matilda of Carinthia.

  Henry Sanglier, Archbishop of Sens (1122–1142), hosted a Council in June 1141, at which Peter Abelard sought to defend himself against accusations being made by Bernard of Clairvaux.

  Hersende, remembered as the mother of Heloise in the obituary of the Paraclete. Hersende is also the name of a noblewoman, widowed in 1093, who gave the land of Fontevraud to Robert of Arbrissel, became an enclosed nun there at its opening in 1101, and is reported as having died 29 November/1 December 1112 or 1113.