Stealing Heaven

by Marion Meade

  "Uncle." Heloise advanced into the room and set the tray on a trestle. She turned to Martin with a bow. "My lord."

  Canon Martin was studying Fulbert's Deluge tapestry as though he had never seen it before. As luxuriously as Fulbert dressed, Martin always outshone him. He wore short, fashionable cloaks and silver spurs. His hair was curled and parted, his freshly shaved skin polished with a pumice stone. He was so fastidiously groomed that he might have been taken for a woman. Summer or winter, Heloise had never seen his chubby hands without gloves. She glanced around the room. "No falcon today, my lord?"

  Martin stared into the corner. "Bellebelle is feeling poorly, lady." Neither he nor Fulbert looked at Heloise.

  "Sorry to hear it."

  There was an awkward silence. Heloise moved to the door. "Good day, my lords." Outside, she paused. The murmur of voices resumed immediately. She heard Martin shout, "Think of the honor! Our own Aristotle!"

  Fulbert's reply was jumbled. Heloise pressed her ear against the door. Just as before, Martin's voice rose. "... I told Master Peter that . . ."

  They were talking about Abelard. Although she caught a word occasionally, she could not distinguish what they were saying.

  Quickly she slipped out the front door and ran around to the side of the house by the stable. When she neared Fulbert's window, she dropped into a crouch and crept the rest of the way. That was better. From there the voices were as audible as if she had been in the room. Behind a currant bush she sat cross-legged and pulled her skirt over her knees.

  They were speaking of some proposition that Abelard had made to Martin. No, not exactly to Martin. To Fulbert by way of Martin. Apparently Martin considered the request extremely odd. But whatever it was, both men were obviously intrigued.

  Martin said, "He promises to pay whatever you ask."

  "Why me?"

  "He says your house is convenient to the school."

  Fulbert snorted. "So is your house, my friend. Why don't you take him in?"

  "Master Peter didn't ask me. It's your house he wants to live in."

  Sweet Christ! Heloise thought. He wants to live here! It wasn't possible.

  There was a long silence. Finally Fulbert said, "What the devil is he—"

  Heloise heard Martin give an exasperated grunt. “I’ve told you all I know. He says that his household problems are hindering his studies. He says that his servant robs him blind and the expense of maintaining his own lodgings is more than he can afford. That's what he says.”

  "Surely he is rich enough. All those students."

  "Oh, well. I suppose so. Listen, friend, the man is a genius and you've got to understand that these people are cracked."

  "Yes, but—"

  A hornet whirred above Heloise's head. With her palm she slapped for it and missed. She could well understand why Abelard might be unhappy living with a clodpoll like Galon. The man did not care properly for his master. And he seemed to he a thief as well.

  Martin cleared his throat and said. "If you want my advice—"

  "I don't," barked Fulbert.

  “ —my advice, friend, is to take him in. Think of the money."

  "Well, yes. There is that to consider. How much is he willing to pay?"

  "Whatever sum you think fair."

  There was another long silence. A goblet clinked, and someone belched. Heloise waited. She nearly decided that Fulbert had left the room.

  At last he said, slowly, as if thinking aloud, "Perhaps something might be arranged. Yes, you may tell the genius that I would be agreeable under certain conditions—"

  Heloise gasped in surprise. Fulbert had enunciated the word genius with a fleck of contempt. He sounded out of humor today. It did not happen often.

  "—I will provide Master Peter with a comfortable room and excellent meals for, let's say, eight deniers a week. But only on one condition."

  "Which is?"

  "He must devote all, I repeat all, his leisure time to the task of tutoring my niece."

  Heloise clapped her hand over her mouth. Fulbert was going to hire Abelard! What had made him think of such a thing?

  Martin choked in bewilderment. "Heloise? What does the wise Heloise need with a tutor?"

  Fulbert laughed. "Precisely my opinion. She doesn't need one but she thinks she does. I'll not bore you with details. Suffice it to say that Heloise might benefit from Abelard's residence here." He added, "Whether Abelard will benefit is not, of course, my concern. I'm agreeable to his plan so long as he can further my niece's education. You may tell him that."

  A stool scraped across the tile floor. Martin was clearing his throat noisily. "Aha, aha, there's something you've overlooked."

  "Ummm?"

  "Do you, uh, think it's wise?"

  Fulbert spoke sharply. "Is what wise? Jesu! Speak openly."

  There was a pause, and Martin murmured, "How can I put this delicately? Heloise is a maiden. And Abelard—"

  Fulbert broke in. "Abelard is a maiden as well. The man is chaste. As virgin as the day he was born."

  "You're certain?"

  "Absolutely. I have it on the best authority. Besides, it's a well-known fact that he has no interest in women."

  "And your niece?" Martin laughed in a high-pitched voice.

  "The damsel has no interest in men. I would put my hand in the fire on it."

  They began to talk of other matters: the sheepshearing, which had produced poor yields that summer, the hay harvest, a new tax on salt. Heloise waited a few minutes, making certain they would not return to the subject of Abelard. Then she crawled to the stable and stood up. Humming, she went into the kitchen and helped Agnes stir the apricot conserves.

  6

  "Fulbert mustn't. He must not."

  It was early evening. That day, Jourdain had not arrived at his usual time, and after waiting an hour, Heloise had decided that he must be ill. Finally, at twilight, he had come and sprawled morosely on a bench in the garden. She had never seen him so vexed. Nonetheless, she could not help feeling annoyed with him, and her temper began to rise. "Mustn't, you say! God's death, who are you to say what Fulbert must or must not do! What business is it of yours?"

  Jourdain was quiet a moment. Then he began again. "You don't understand—"

  “I understand well enough. You're jealous. You want Abelard all to yourself."

  Leaning forward, he said edgily, “I love him better than my own kin. But I still believe it's wrong for him to come here. Wherever he goes, trouble has a way of following."

  "You know nothing about it."

  “I know everything," he snapped. "It's you—you and Fulbert who know nothing."

  She walked away from him. Kneeling beside the herb bed, she tore off a stalk of mint. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of his face, white and pinched. She rubbed the mint spears across her front teeth, pretending to polish them. She did not look at him. "What do you mean—trouble?"

  "Forget I said that." His voice continued to sound angry. "He's been talking about you since the Rogation Days. Before he met you."

  She closed her eyes, smiling. "What's wrong with that?"

  "I'm serious—do you know what Fulbert told him? He is to have complete charge of you." He circled the well and came to stand behind her. "He's to teach you day or night, whichever is more convenient for him. And mark this well. If he finds you idle, he has Fulbert's permission to give you a good beating."

  Heloise bit down hard on the mint. "Oh, Jourdain!" She hooted with laughter. "Surely Uncle was joking. He himself has never beaten me. Why would he permit Master Peter to do so?"

  Jourdain wheeled and lurched back toward the well. He appeared not to have heard her. "He was amazed by your uncle's simplicity. My dear Heloise, would you like to know what he said?" He snapped his fingers. "He said that if Fulbert had entrusted a tender lamb to a hungry wolf, it would not have surprised him more."

  She looked up, uneasy. "He said that?"

  "A hungry wolf—"

&n
bsp; "He called himself a wolf? How extraordinary."

  "Think on it."

  Petronilla appeared at the kitchen door. "Master wants you," she said to Heloise.

  Heloise stood up, slowly, wearily, and spat out the mint. She passed Jourdain without looking at him. "My friend," she said, "you worry without cause." She raked her fingers over his shoulder.

  His voice was somber. "What ye sow, ye must reap."

  Thoroughly annoyed, she ran into the house. A pox take him! That was the trouble with Jourdain. He was unsophisticated. Of his sincerity and concern she had no doubt. But he was forgetting that Abelard was known as a man of high wit. A lamb and a wolf—it was terribly funny. She was surprised that Jourdain had read into his remark all kinds of nasty meanings.

  Summer was over. Allhallows went by and still Abelard did not come. Maybe, Heloise told herself, he had changed his mind. Restless, she would cross the landing to Ceci's old room and sit on the bed. When she learned that Abelard was to have this chamber, she had been surprised. But her uncle said that if Master Peter wished to tutor her at night, they would not disturb the rest of the household.

  At last, one afternoon at the beginning of Advent, a cart with Abelard's belongings pulled up to the stable. That night Agnes prepared a feast, saying that this great honor to their house deserved a special celebration, and she carried in the savory dishes fairly waddling with pride. Gilded chicken breasts with rosemary. The dilled veal wrapped in pastry, which Agnes called pomeroy. Pike and dates in a sweet tart. And, later, almond cardamom cakes and a variety of fruits and cheeses.

  Heloise forced herself to eat. She sat straight in her chair, glancing across the table at Abelard, who stuffed himself with undisguised gusto and complimented Agnes's culinary genius with every second bite. She looked at his fingernails. They were pink and shapely, more nicely manicured than her own. From time to time he smiled at her, an open smile full of generosity and good humor, and she smiled back shyly. But most of his conversation was directed to Fulbert. Nervously, she kept giving Petronilla her cup to fill, and, as a result, she began yawning before they had finished the Brie.

  "My fair niece," said Fulbert, laughing, "I see that your head is nodding into your trencher."

  Her cheeks flushed. "God's pardon, Uncle. I've had a tiring day."

  "You're sure it's not an excess of wine?"

  "No, my lord. I mean, yes, my lord. I'm sure."

  She looked across the table to see Abelard wink broadly.

  The men began to talk of Melun, where Abelard had taught before he came to Paris. Apparently, he had had a great deal of trouble there with one of his former masters, the famous William of Champeaux, who became jealous and tried to discredit Abelard. This information was new to Heloise, but Fulbert seemed to know all about it. She watched them, not listening very carefully.

  She felt hot and her temples throbbed. After a while, she crossed over to the window, where a draft was spearing in around the shutters. Standing with the side of her forehead plastered to the window, she moved her eyes back and forth between Abelard and her uncle. They were deep in some argument about prebends at the cathedral. Abelard was declaring, "As an honorary canon of the chapter, it is my belief . . ." and then her concentration was cut adrift. Soon after, the men stopped talking and rose from the table. They were heading for Fulbert's private apartments when Fulbert called over his shoulder, "You may join us if you wish, kitten."

  "No. I'll say good night now." Bilious, she felt the food rolling and heaving in her stomach. "I bid you good sleep, Master Abelard."

  Abelard came back into the solar. "Shall we begin the lessons tomorrow evening, then?"

  "Splendid," she said, trying to smile. Suddenly she felt as if she needed to be sick.

  He stood before her, his head turned away slightly as he spoke. "Let's begin with the place of logic in philosophy. I suggest you read Book One of Boethius. It's a difficult treatise, but do your best."

  She nodded silently. Two or three years ago she had read Boethius and had not found him particularly difficult.

  He was going on, giving her advice on how to study properly. Each day she was to set aside several hours for reading and make certain to give her undivided attention to the material. It would make life easier, he said, if she took notes as she went along. Once she had finished the assigned pages, she was to write a summary of what she had just read.

  Heloise swallowed hard. If only he would stop talking so that she could run to the privy.

  He took her hand and held it. Longer, she thought, than was necessary. He said, "And pray, of course. Prayer is the true path to understanding."

  "Yes, of course," she replied politely. She bobbed a half curtsy and sprinted toward the kitchen. "Agnes—"

  Agnes was standing over a vat, arms immersed to the elbows in hot, soapy water. Turning, she glanced at Heloise's greenish-white face and reached for the closest basin. "God's toenails . . ." She shoved the basin under Heloise's chin and held it with both hands. "Poor lamb, poor sick baby. There, that's better."

  Heloise moaned. Her stomach felt as if it was trying to turn itself inside out. After a few minutes, she pushed the basin aside. "Oh, Agnes, I feel very sick—"

  Agnes took her upstairs and undressed her. In the darkness, a wet cloth draped across her forehead, Heloise tried to remember everything that had happened since the carter had arrived with Abelard's things. In a little while, she gave up and pulled the coverlet over her chin. When Abelard finally came up, much later, she had been asleep for several hours.

  In the morning, her head felt thick. She stayed in bed until midday and then, painfully, got up and washed her hair with rose water. During the afternoon, Petronilla brought a fennel posset and repeated Agnes's instructions to drink it all. Heloise took two sips and promptly gagged. After Petronilla had gone downstairs, she dumped it out the window. She fell back into bed and dozed.

  When she woke, the bells from Notre Dame were ringing vespers, and she decided that she felt much better. Guilty now, she raced downstairs to find Fulbert's copy of Boethius. At his writing desk, she flipped through the pages, refreshing her memory and trying to recall whether Madelaine had ever commented on the assigned passages. Dear God, what a frightful way to begin her lessons with Abelard.

  In the solar, Petronilla was laying out the trenchers. Heloise noticed there were only two places. "You've forgotten Master Peter," she told the girl.

  "Didn't forget anything," Petronilla grumbled. "He's not eating."

  "Not eating," she echoed, and ran into the kitchen. Agnes was busy sifting flour through a sieve. "Isn't Abelard—"

  From behind a swirl of flour dust, Agnes peered at her with watery eyes. "Oh, you're up. Feeling better?"

  "Much. Where's Master Peter?"

  "Dining out." She tied up the flour sack and disappeared into the storeroom. When she returned, she said, "At the archbishop's, I think he said. He left a message for you."

  "You didn't tell me!"

  "Lady," Agnes replied with irritation, "you've been abed all day." Then: "After compline. He'll return and give you your lesson. If you feel well enough, he said."

  She slumped down next to the hearth thinking that it was just as well. More time to think about Boethius, not that there was much to think about. The wind whined against the shutters. From the garden behind her, she could hear the privy door banging and the long creak of a loose board. Probably there would be snow tonight. She felt jumpy.

  Agnes said to her, “I’m going to light a candle at Saint-Christofle tonight. Will you come?" "I don't think so. Agnes—"

  "Yes, lady?"

  Heloise pushed back her hair and looked at the floor. She frowned. ''Everything is different now, isn't it? I mean, with Master Peter here."

  Agnes gave her a perplexed smile. "Rubbish," she said briskly. "In heaven's name, everything's the same. Only better. Now you have a teacher. Just like a boy."

  It was almost midnight when Abelard returned. Heloise heard his f
ootfall on the steps and opened her door before he had reached the turret landing. "Good evening, my lord."

  "Good morning, don't you mean?" Melting snowflakes clung to his cloak. He opened his door and walked in. Briskly he went around lighting candles until the room shone as brightly as day.

  Jesu! thought Heloise. Uncle will have apoplexy at the waste of wax.

  Without looking at her, he said over his shoulder, "Come in, child. Come in and close the door."

  Hesitantly, she did as he said. Her legs like lead, she crossed to the table and seated herself on a stool. Abelard dragged his armchair across the floor and settled opposite her. He smiled and said, "You're still ill."

  "Oh, no. Not at all. At least not very much."

  "Very well, then." Absently, he began to fuss with some papers on the table, turning them over as if hunting for something, then stacking them up once more. He cleared his throat. "Why don't we open our introduction to logic by examining some of its characteristic properties? That is, in its genus, which is philosophy."

  She nodded.

  "As you will recall from your reading," he went on, "Boethius says that not all knowledge is philosophy. Only that knowledge which concerns the greatest things." He gave a half chuckle. "Obviously, not all wise men are philosophers, but only those whose intelligence is able to penetrate subtle matters."

  She squirmed around on her stool; the room was freezing cold. "My lord, I wonder if you would mind lighting the brazier."

  "What?"

  "The charcoal. It's very cold in here."

  "Oh. Oh, certainly." He got up and found a piece of flint. When he'd struck a flame, he returned to the table. "Now then, Boethius distinguishes three species of philosophy. Can you remember what they are?"

  She answered promptly. "Speculative. Moral. Rational."

  "Very good," he said with a bob of the head. He leaned back in his chair and made a tent with his fingers. "Now can you tell me what they mean?"

  Unsure of what sort of answer he desired, she fell silent. She noticed that his fingers were stained with ink. "What do you mean when you say, ‘Tell me what they mean'?"