by Marion Meade
"Lady," he said pleasantly, "Aristotle once said that women are inferior and uncivilized, and must needs be silent. Forget you're a woman and speak up."
Aristotle said that? "Aristotle was a pisshead." She had said it without knowing she was going to, and once having done it, she threw him a challenging grin. To her surprise, he laughed.
"I agree entirely. Nonetheless, Lady Heloise, you must define the meaning of those terms. I have no use for empty words. A man can believe only what he has first understood."
"I see," she shot back fiercely. "Then a man can't believe in God until he has understood him." She was pleased at how neatly she had trapped him.
He started, almost imperceptibly. "Well now. You are very canny indeed." He picked up a quill pen and tapped it nervously against the inkhorn. "I see you have excellent reasoning powers."
"Thank you." By this time, the room was beginning to warm and she felt her body relax. This was going to be fun, like a game almost.
He said sternly, "But you must answer the questions I put to you. Do you understand?"
It amused her to realize that he wanted the standard schoolboy definitions. Memorize and repeat by rote. Any half-wit could do it. "I understand." She slumped her elbows on the table. "Speculative. That which is concerned with speculation on the nature of things. Moral. That which is . . ."
When she had finished, he threw her a sharp glance and said, "Madame, you appear bored." He stirred the pen in the ink.
"No," she said decisively, trying to hide her panic. "Not at all." Immediately she felt terrified of displeasing him; he might discontinue the lessons. In future, she must answer with more enthusiasm.
She noticed that he was drawing something on the corner of a parchment sheet. Two straight vertical lines of equal length. Now he was connecting their middles with a straight horizontal line.
"Go on," he said to her without looking up.
At once she launched into a summary of Boethius's comments on the science of discovering and proving arguments. The room was still except for the rapid rise and fall of her voice and the scratch of Abelard's pen. Outside, snowflakes hurled themselves violently through the fluffy darkness and were snuffed out against the shutters. From time to time, a dog barked mournfully. Abelard bent his head over his drawing.
"I believe," he said at last, "that we needn't go any further this evening. You have an excellent grasp of the material." He added, "Especially for a woman." He threw down the pen.
She felt her eyes filling with tears. Pretending to rub them, she ducked her head and brushed away the moisture. "Thank you, my lord." She twisted on the stool, trying to see around his hand. Now she could make out the capital letter H. On its upper vertical he had added a wavy streamer in which he had etched hearts and violets. The pen strokes had almost a pagan flavor to them.
“Tell me what kinds of things you like to read."
"Philosophy, science, mathematics, astronomy. You know, everything."
"Theology?"
"Some."
He pushed the sheet of parchment behind a book. "Romances?" he asked with a grin.
"No." Only because she had never laid hands on one, but she wasn't going to admit that.
He pushed back his chair and walked to the window. "Would you like to know something?" He did not wait for an answer. 'You're the first female I've taught. It's not as bad as I expected."
Heloise stared at him and then burst into laughter. “You're the first man who's taught me, and it wasn't as bad as I expected."
He walked back toward her and hovered silently at her shoulder like some magnificent moth. Tense, cautious, she could not move or look at him. He said thoughtfully, "There must be a happy conjunction of the planets tonight. I think our lessons shall be a great success." He rested his hand lightly on her shoulder.
'Yes, my lord." She began to fidget.
His voice turned brisk. "It's late now," he announced. "Go to bed."
At the door, he reached for one of her hands and brought it to his lips. He wished her good sleep, he said; they would continue to work on Boethius tomorrow evening. And then he said nothing, and they faced each other, gazing into the other's eyes as if they had been promised this moment before the world began.
Tall scarlet candles all around, great opalized clouds of incense drifting among the marbled pillars. The altar at Notre Dame had been decked for midnight mass, and Heloise knelt on a cushion in the second row, thinking of how expensive the candles must be. God knew how many there were on the altar alone, not counting those in the chandeliers and wall sconces. The flickering patterns mesmerized her, and she sat there, hands clasped tightly in her lap, feeling she could weep for joy. On this night, one thousand one hundred and sixteen years ago, the Divine Child had been born in Bethlehem, and still men knelt solemnly and sang the ancient words of adoration. Gloria in excelsis Deo.
She, Heloise, lady of the Rue des Chantres, niece of Fulbert, student of Peter Abelard, would come to this same place every Christmas Eve for the rest of her years on earth, and nothing could possibly go wrong. Benedicite, omni opera Domini. Eyes lowered, her lips moved rapidly. O all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord.
Afterward, she stood on the cathedral porch waiting for Jourdain to find her in the crowd. People with rosy cheeks were laughing and joking, and admiring each other's furs and embroidered cloaks. Burghers and barons poured forth with their families, and then, preceded by a blasting fanfare of sackbuts, King Louis with Queen Adelaide and their infant son, Philip. In the crowd milling around the king, she noticed Abelard talking to the Count of Dreux. When he saw her, he lifted his hand. The beggars crowded around banging their bowls and scurrying after the half oboles that flew through the air, and squires with flaming torches brought up their masters' horses.
Jourdain, a lute slung over his back, came out and grabbed her arm. "Fair friend, cousin Heloise," he shouted in excitement, "this is Christmas Eve! Do you know what that means?" A few steps behind him followed Abelard.
Heloise smiled, puzzled. "What, my sweet friend?"
"Why, that a girl must give all the boys a kiss in honor of Christmas. It's traditional." He flung himself against her, but she pushed him away shrieking happily.
"Master Peter," she said, laughing, "is that true?"
He replied solemnly, "Absolutely. This is a night for charity, isn't it?"
Her hair swinging against her shoulders, she bent her face and offered Jourdain a pair of frozen lips. He plastered a loud smack on them. They both giggled. "Fair sir," she gasped, not looking at him, "I've never kissed a boy before. Now you must be my betrothed, you know."
"I'm willing," he hurled at her, "but listen here. Mightn't your lord uncle hang me first?"
Heloise laughed at the top of her voice. "You're right. What a pity." She threw back her hair and linked arms with Jourdain and Abelard, the three of them zigzagging over the icy ground toward the Rue des Chantres.
Abelard said, "Dear Jourdain, don't you realize that Canon Fulbert has three loves—relics, Heloise, and money? And the greatest of the three is"—his voice rose dramatically—"money!"
Heloise, laughing uncertainly, made a face at him, but it was Jourdain who growled, "Wrong. It's Heloise."
Abelard shrugged and arched his brows cheerfully. "Listen, last week Fulbert offered to sell me some hay from the manger of Baby Jesus."
"Actually," said Heloise, grinning, "that's not a bad buy. Just stay away from St. Michael's sweat. It's rancid." They all laughed together, delighted with themselves, the company, the smoke from the bonfires, with the crowds of stars sliding across the dark sky. In the clear air, the great bells of Notre Dame flung forth glossy sheets of sound. The streets of the Ile teemed with people shouting Noel; the windows of the houses blazed with candlelight, and the moon, white as milk, rode overhead. The whole island looked as if it was going to a fair.
As they neared the Port Saint-Landry, she slid free and ran toward the house, leaping over the drifts that had n
ot been trampled into slush. Could life be more joyous? She had a new silk gown with fashionable double sleeves and red leather slippers embroidered with mayflowers. Already her mouth was watering with thoughts of the feast Agnes had been cooking since dawn, the goose and wild boar and everything people always ate on Christmas Eve. As she reached the door, a mob of students streamed from the Rue des Chantres like new wine bursting from the cask. Spotting Abelard, they began whooping, "Master Peter! Socrates of the Gauls!" The leader of the gang was wearing a woman's dress with a bullock's tail pinned to his buttocks; the others, fox-skin hoods over their heads, carried plows and bladders on sticks. When they saw Abelard and Jourdain heading for Fulbert's house, they began to cry, "Fool plow, Master Peter! Give us oboles or we'll plow your doorstep!"
Breathless, Heloise jerked back against the doorway. "Jourdain," she called, "what the devil—" The boy dressed as a woman raced up to her and waggled his tail obscenely. Jourdain bawled at him to get away. Tripping over his skirt, he somersaulted into a snowdrift The boys screeched hoarsely and whirled around Abelard in a frenzied dance. Someone shouted, "Quick, Master Peter, some oboles for poor Bessy or we'll plow your door!"
Abelard rubbed his jaw with a benign grin. "Idiots." He drew out a purse and grandly tossed them a handful of coins. "Havo, Arnold! Here's one for you. Get along, boys. Have a drink on me." Yelping like dervishes, they scattered in the streets leading to Saint-Pierre-de-Buef.
Heloise yanked the door and smelled meat roasting. In the solar, thick logs crackled brightly on the hearth, and Agnes had festooned the chamber with holly and pine and bay branches. By the time Fulbert arrived, they had already drunk several cups of hot spiced wine. Even Agnes, between trips to the kitchen, managed to gulp down her share, and she allowed Abelard to swing her in a circle and kiss her resoundingly on both cheeks.
Finally they sat around the white-draped table, Fulbert at the head, Jourdain and Abelard at his right, Heloise across from them. She watched Fulbert ceremoniously carving the boar, which Agnes had decorated with a crown of ivy leaves. And then into her mind nudged a picture of Ceci in her black robes, Ceci whom she thought of rarely, Ceci who seemed now a bothersome child who had died. Trembling, she saw in her mind's eye Christmas Eve at Argenteuil, the church columns decorated with pine and apples, the sweet remembered voices singing the night office, the parchment star that someone always hung atop Lady Alais's lemon tree. The best time of the year at Argenteuil happened to be Christmas, but it was not like this. It lacked—she searched for the word she wanted—froth. And they had no banquets.
Quickly, almost angrily, she pushed away the image of Ceci, and then she forgot everything but the pleasures of the table. When they finished one dish, Petronilla brought out another: venison, goose, lamb dressed with sauces and spices. The wine jug circled the table, the water in the hand basin turned greasy. Heloise yawned and loosened her girdle.
Afterward, they sat drinking Burgundy on cushions before the fire. Fulbert asked Jourdain to bring his lute.
He tugged at his tunic sheepishly. "Gladly, my lord, but—" He looked away in confusion.
"Come, lad. You're not bashful."
"No, sire. But Master Peter sings much better than I—"
"Is that a fact?" Fulbert's eyes widened. He turned to Abelard. "Well, my friend, you must do us honor."
Jourdain darted into the hall and returned with the lute and pick. He thrust them at Abelard, who settled himself on a low stool and cradled the instrument. Tilting his head, he began a song: O Fortuna, velut luna—
"Oh no!" yelled Heloise and Jourdain gaily in unison. "Too sad!"
Abelard bowed from the waist and grinned at Fulbert. "I defer to the wishes of youth. How about this"—he leaned into the lute and slapped his foot against the tiles—"Let's away with study . . ."
Jourdain clapped quickly. "Eya!"
"Sweet it is to play." The room filled with his voice and the rousing, vigorous rhythms. Heloise listened in awe, transfixed by the richness of his voice. She had never heard a professional troubadour, but she could not imagine any finer than Peter Abelard.
"Let age to books and learning." His laughter rang silvery in the air. "While youth keeps holiday. Hail Venusl Hail pleasurel Eya!"
"Bravo! Encore!"
"Admirable!" boomed Fulbert. "By St. Denis, I well remember that drinking song."
"Naturally," Abelard replied, taking a mouthful of Burgundy. "We are of an age, my lord canon."
"Good God, don't remind me." He laughed shortly.
Heloise got up to refill Abelard's cup. When she returned and placed it at his side, she sat cross-legged on a cushion near his feet. Her eyes fixed on emptiness; wine and fatigue plunged her into a delicious stupor. Now he was singing of a shepherdess tending her flock and the lord who tries to woo her. She tried to place it. Cercamon, William the Troubadour? She gave up, unsure. The guttering candles cast vaulted shadows on the walls, and over by the window, his head propped against the arras, Fulbert drowsed, his face half hidden in darkness.
Abelard rested the lute on his knees. He looked down at Heloise. "Enough?"
"No."
"I notice your uncle has fallen asleep. Surely it is time to be abed."
"Never," said Jourdain sleepily.
"It's clear that you have not yet reached twenty. When you're my age, you'll be more sensible." He slid to the floor and stretched out next to Heloise. Drinking, he then handed his cup to her. "Drink, my lady."
She glanced over at Jourdain before laughing dreamily. “Would you make me drunk?" Nervously, she twisted the ends of her girdle, and for a moment she imagined that she heard him whisper distinctly, "I would, lady." But when she looked at him, he was only humming softly. She put her mouth to the cup where it had touched his lips.
After a few minutes, he said to her, "You owe me something."
"Do I? What?"
"Why, a Christmas kiss." He bobbed his head at Jourdain. "Am I not right, lad? Doesn't Lady Heloise owe me a kiss?"
She felt herself coloring and glanced at Jourdain. The boy's head hung low. When he looked up, his eyes were flashing wildly. "Yes," he mumbled grudgingly, "she owes you."
Heloise saw Jourdain turn his head away. Suddenly she felt panicked. "My lord, no. It wouldn't—my uncle—"
He laughed. "Uncle is snoring." He sat up and patted her consolingly on the arm. "Don't look so scared. I'll not force you."
Jourdain leaped to his feet. "It's late, I'd best be going. Joyeux Noel!" Before Heloise could stop him, he had gone. The street door crashed noisily.
Abelard rolled languorously on his back and crossed his hands under his head. He stared at the ceiling. "I'm growing old," he sighed.
"You're not old, my lord."
"Old enough to be your father."
"Oh well—"
Abelard grinned. "Old. Would you like to know something? When I was a youth, younger than you, I wanted to be a philosopher. Oh, not merely any philosopher." He laughed sardonically. "No. The only philosopher in the world. The best."
"You are."
"Will you believe me if I tell you that it's not enough?"
Heloise could think of nothing to say. She simply did not understand how a man could feel bored being Aristotle or Socrates—or Abelard. Finally she said, "My lord, you could be anything you wished. Archbishop or pope. Anything."
Amusement flickered around his lips. "Is that what you would have me be? Pope?"
She was conscious of him staring at her. "No. I like you exactly as you are."
"You like me, lady?" he asked, his voice so low she almost didn't catch the words.
"Yes."
He studied her face. "But not well enough for a Christmas kiss."
Dumbfounded, she wrenched her head away in embarrassment. "My lord," she stammered, "I didn't say that! Please, I didn't mean to be unkind. It was just that—"
He traced his fingers lazily across the toe of her slipper. "Just what?"
Glancing furtively at F
ulbert, she fell silent for a long while, and then, impetuously, she whispered, "Very well. If you like." She jerked her face toward him, mentally preparing herself, and waited. When she glanced at him, she saw that he was looking up at her, scratching his nose, not moving. God's splendor, what was he waiting for!
His eyes met hers. "Well?"
"Why do you wait?" she asked hotly.
"Why. sweet lady, for you to kiss me. Naturally."
What! The man was impossible. She threw back her head and flared indignantly, "See here, Master Peter, you are most discourteous. You must delight in mocking me."
Instantly his arms slid around her waist and yanked her down hard across his chest until her mouth trembled a few inches above his. "Now, sweet lady," he breathed softly. "Now."
She grazed her mouth against him for a moment before twisting away, limp. His palms tightened against the back of her neck and squeezed her forward again. His mouth parted and she felt his tongue stab into her. A tremor streaked through her body. Gasping, she wrenched away and sat up awkwardly, shooting a glance in Fulbert's direction. He had not moved.
She was conscious of Abelard deliberately not looking at her. He stood and stretched, then, as if nothing had happened, reached down for the lute. "Jourdain ran off without this," he said indifferently. "See that you return it tomorrow."
The next morning she was tempted to imagine that she had dreamed it, that the fantastic episode was the product of too much wine.
But it was no good pretending. She remembered everything: her breasts against his chest, the taste of his tongue, the stubbled texture of his chin. And later, jogging the stairs to her room, the wetness between her thighs, which had filled her with shame.
In the days that followed, she was careful to study Abelard's manner, his every inflection and glance. To her relief—and disappointment as well, she had to admit—nothing had changed. At the daily lessons, he expounded on Aristotle and Cicero, and only sometimes, absentmindedly, his hand would graze her shoulder or he would kiss her hand when she bade him good night.
Little by little, she concluded that she had been a silly girl, making something out of absolutely nothing. Yet on New Year's, when the traditional first-gifts were exchanged, Abelard presented her with an ornate mirror of polished steel.
