by Marion Meade
She had never owned a looking glass—they were evil, she had always been told. Stammering a thank you, she turned it over in her hands, careful not to look at her face, and then she blurted ungraciously, "I don't think I want this."
"Take it," he said, expressionless. "Now you can see yourself as I do."
Abelard pushed Aristotle's Categories to the side of the table; with a yawn, he leaned back heavily in the armchair and stretched his legs. "So much for the nature of genus and species." Heloise stood up and made a fitful circle of the room. She stamped to the window and opened the shutters, inhaling deeply. It was still early, the sky a metallic blue. Below, near the Port Saint-Landry, two priests were talking.
"How in heaven's name did you manage to sit still through all those offices at Argenteuil?" he asked.
"Discipline." The river wind was moving in dampness, and she locked the shutters tightly. "Fear of Sister Madelaine's switch."
Behind her, he said, "Anyhow, I can't picture you as a nun."
Her head snapped around. "Indeed! Why not?" Bristling, she came back to the table and ducked her head, looking for her slippers. "I could have been a fine nun. Have you seen my shoes?"
"I don't think you were wearing any." He went on smoothly. "I'm not disputing your efficiency. No doubt you would have made an excellent nun, an abbess most likely. But whether you would have been content is something else."
She raised her head and grinned at him.
"My lady mother is a nun," he said offhandedly.
"I know."
He sounded bemused. "God takes special pleasure in the virtues and achievements of women—in spite of their being the weaker sex."
Sometimes he astonished her. How did he know what God took pleasure in? "Fancy that," she replied, a bit tartly.
With a reproving shake of his head, he said, "Read the great doctors of the Church, read Origen. Or Ambrose or Jerome. All of them showed special concern for women."
"I suppose." She nodded, smiling politely.
Pushing back his chair, he rose and came around to her side of the table. "Didn't God pay the highest honor to women in the person of Mary?" He pulled up a stool and sank down, his knee brushing her thigh.
The warm scent of his body rushed at her. Flustered, she said quickly, "That's right. And Elizabeth, the mother of John the Baptist ... she prophesied the divinity of Christ." She glanced at him sideways. He was so close that she could smell his soap.
"Ummm," he murmured, folding and unfolding his fingers for no apparent reason. "I dreamed about you last night."
Startled, she jerked her shoulders around facing him. "My lord?" Jesu, he had dreamed of her! She was itching to know what he could possibly have dreamed, but he was going on, as if he had not spoken about it at all.
"And you recall," he said, "what St. Augustine wrote about the sibyls in The City of God. In pagan times, it was women who possessed the gift of prophecy."
Careful to sieve the impatience from her voice, she said hesitantly, "My lord, you were saying before that you dreamed of me. May I ask, what was the dream?"
He turned away from her. After a long silence, he stammered, "It was—nothing of importance."
She stared at his profile. Unthinking, she teased, "Come now, my lord. Why did you bother to mention it then?"
"A slip of the tongue." He fell silent again. After a moment, he said with an air of reluctant precision, "That we were—lying together."
The meaning of his words came slowly. She stiffened and leaped to her feet, heart thumping unnaturally.
“I’m sorry."
"No—"
"I've frightened you."
"No." Nevertheless, she moved away from him. "No. How could you frighten me?"
He got to his feet. They stood warily, facing each other, separated by only a foot or two of tile floor. For a long time neither of them moved or spoke. Then Abelard reached out and touched her cheek with a timidity that she had never before seen in him. She stared at him. He dropped his hand to his side. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
"No—" Impulsively, she caught his hand and locked it into her own. She could feel him trembling, and only then did she realize that he was frightened. Some of her reserve melted, and when he pulled her against him, she made no attempt to resist. Closing her eyes, she felt his hands skim over her hair, her neck, her ears, in a slow, cautious caress. Suddenly she felt absurdly small and helpless.
"Lady, lady—" In a torrent his words rushed out. "My ladylove," he said, and she shivered. Hungrily he kissed her lips, and then her tongue and the soft, moist places inside her mouth. For a long time they stood pressed together. Once, far away, she was conscious of the flames wailing in the brazier.
She felt him lifting her, going toward the bed, and her body went rigid in his arms. He laid her against the fur coverlet and flung himself full length next to her. His hand covered her breast. "Don't," she murmured, rolling away.
"I won't hurt you, sweet," he said. "Just let me—“ He pulled her hack against him and lay still.
"Kiss me," she whispered. "I like that."
His mouth found hers and stayed there until she pushed him away, breathless and full of sudden anxiety.
"What's wrong?" he said, moving his lips down her throat.
"It's a fearful sin." She saw that he wasn't listening and stopped.
Fumbling at the shoulder of her bliaut, he tugged until she heard the fabric ripping. His hand cupped her breast, and then he was flicking his tongue lightly around her nipple, tracing an unending circle.
"Ah God, don't. It's a—"
"Do you like that?"
Without answering, she pushed the side of her face into the pillow. "My honey love, my sweet Heloise. It's not my intention to sin."
"I know."
"Lift your head," he murmured shakily. "If we intend no sin, it can't be one. That is my belief."
Oh yes, she thought, that is the core of your philosophy. But does philosophy apply now? She turned her back on him. "I think you may be right. But I also think we're sinning." Her voice trailed away.
"Look at me. Lady, I want to be inside you."
She nosed deeper into the pillow, refusing to glance at him.
"Heloise, I said—"
Muffled: "I heard you."
Even before he had spoken, she knew what he was going to say, and she knew, too, that she was going to do it. She could no more leave this bed without loving him than she could have killed herself. She rolled on her back and stared at the ceiling. When she did not reply or look at him, he seemed to take it for assent. Clumsily, he struggled with her bliaut, first trying to hoist the skirt over her hips, then pulling at the shoulders. She watched him through half-closed eyes, as though his awkward maneuvers were being performed on someone else. At last, he gave up in frustration and merely kissed her stomach through the bunched layers of fabric.
“I’ll be cold," she said matter-of-factly.
"You won't be cold. I promise."
After a while, she sat up and stretched the gown over her head. It dropped to the floor, and the undertunic followed. Then she lay down again and stared at him coolly. She saw that he was not looking at her; his eyes were half shut.
Greedily, he crouched over her, moving his mouth across her nipples, down over the milky flesh of her stomach. With the tip of his tongue, he started to stroke the inside of her thighs. Her breath slowed to quivering gasps, and she said, in a small voice, "My legs are melting." She felt the bed spinning away from her and she grew terrified at her loss of control. Suddenly she became aware of her nakedness, of the unknown man bending over her, and she choked with shame.
"Stop," she hissed, jerking his head up to the pillow. "Don't!"
He lay still, one hand thrown lifelessly over his eyes. "Very well," he sighed. "You are quite right. Forgive me."
She looked away, not knowing what to say and waiting for him to go on. His breath was coming in slow, harsh sighs until she thought he must be dozing. Then she r
ealized that he was shaking. She could feel him shaking and sighing. She wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Do you want to lie with me?" She pressed him close, stroking his hair. "Will it make you happy?"
"Lady, lady, ladylove—" Groaning, he wound his arms around her hips.
She would do it if it made him happy. It was not in her power to say no. She whispered aloud, "I love you so much. Oh, you don't know— I'll do anything for you."
He sat up, his mouth working in distress. "Your uncle—"
"Don't speak of him!"
"We must. He's an idiot but he could—"
She broke in. “I know the dangers." She yanked his mouth against her and began to kiss him, at first only to stop his words, later with furious desire. She pulled him on top of her and thrust her tongue deep into his mouth until she felt him shuddering. She wanted to swallow him.
At last he curled his head in the curve of her throat. "Heloise."
"What, my love?"
"Are you sure?" Abelard asked.
"Aye." She kissed the top of his head. "Do you doubt I know my own mind?"
"I want to make certain you won't be sorry tomorrow."
"I won't be sorry," she said, smiling.
They curled together and listened to the night hurtling noisily against the shutters. At last he inched out of her arms and slid to the edge of the bed.
"Don't leave me!" she cried. "Where are you going?"
"Hush." He grinned. "To remove my clothes."
"Oh." Then: "Must you?"
"It's customary, I believe."
Unable to watch, she lurched on her side and waited, repeating over and over to herself in a kind of astonishment, Then he loves me, he loves me.
When she heard the mattress creak, she squirmed to face him. There was a flash of pale lemon light from the candle before he jerked the bed hangings. Behind the rosy cloth, shadows plunged as swift and light as fishes. He stretched himself along her body, like a river rushing to meet the sea; her eyes widened at the softness of his skin. Again his mouth pressed against her and his fingertips began drawing wavery lines on her breasts and flanks, propelling her into the whirlwind.
"Your feet feel like ice," she told him, her words slurred.
"Love me," he breathed against her ear.
For a long time, they touched and stroked until they forgot to think at all and gave themselves up to the fire.
7
At prime, while the sky was still a dirty white, she tiptoed barefoot across the landing with her clothes over her arm. On her bed, the coverlet and pillows lay smooth and unwrinkled; she pulled down the covers, slid in, and rolled about vigorously for a few minutes. Then she rose and put on a fresh bliaut and combed her hair. In the looking glass, she inspected her face for changes. There seemed to be none, but the color of her skin was ruddy and flushed. She splashed water on her face and went down to breakfast.
Agnes was standing at the hearth, stirring a kettle and tossing in liberal pinches of cinnamon every now and again. "Good morning, lady," she mumbled, fretful with sleep. "Did you rest well?"
"Thank you, yes."
"Porridge? It's well spiced." She licked the cinnamon from her fingers.
Heloise shook her head. "Bread. And ale. I'm thirsty."
She ate slowly, careful to make appropriately sympathetic replies to Agnes's complaints about the pains in her knees. When she had finished, she went to hunt for a book she had left in the solar. She was climbing the stairs when Abelard's door opened. She stopped and waited. On the second-floor landing, his hand caught her arm. In a loud voice she boomed, "Good morning, my lord."
"How do you, lady?" he asked in a dignified tone.
"Well." She glanced at his face for the first time. "And you?"
He was grinning at her. "I think," he whispered, "that my equipment is broken," and quickly scrambled past her.
She bit her lip to keep from laughing. At the bottom of the steps he wheeled and silently mouthed the word "tonight" up at her. The door banged and he was gone.
In her chamber, she settled herself by the window and opened St. Jerome to the place at which she had stopped yesterday. The sun came out strong, as if it didn't know that it wasn't really spring yet. At midday, she was still sitting there, having turned not a single page. Her cheeks burned with memories; in the silence of her mind she played over and over the scenes of their lovemaking, the words he had whispered to her, what she had answered, until her groin began to throb and she wanted him badly.
She went on re-enacting scenes, arguing, talking to herself. It was clear that she had taken a violent leap into some foreign country. She supposed that a wise girl would have resisted a man who tried to take her maidenhead without marriage—no wonder Sister Madelaine had called her a noodle—but she, la tres sage Heloise, could not be wise about Peter Abelard. The only thing that alarmed her was whether or not she had committed some mortal sin. Abelard said no, and she wanted desperately to believe him, but in her heart there were misgivings.
She sighed deeply. Was it God's will that she should love Abelard? Certainly it must be so; he was her destiny, and it seemed fantastic that God should not condone their loving. First this way and then that, she turned her mind in circles, constructing a jumble of syllogisms and letting them melt:
God willed our love.
Our love caused us to lie together.
Therefore, God wills our lying together.
She sighed again, reminding herself that Abelard would do nothing evil or harmful, and it followed that he would be incapable of guiding her into sin. Still, there was Holy Scripture, which said . . . Insoluble dilemmas demanding solutions. What could she hope to settle? She didn't want to think about them now. Later—she would think about them later.
They stood at the window in the half-light. Gently he rested his fingers over hers. "Dearest love," he whispered, "give me your hand. What say you, shall we fly straight out, over the tops of the trees?"
"Above the river," she murmured, "high over the Petit Pont. And then to what country shall we go?"
"Oh, far away." He laughed. "Most assuredly far away. Past cities and towns, beyond night and day. We'll follow the fading star until we reach morning."
"We won't set down until we reach the sea sands, hard by a dense forest. Deep in the greenwood we'll come to a glade, the perfect place that has been planned for us—but oh, Abelard, really I care nothing where we go—"
"Shhh." He caught a handful of her hair to kiss. “I’ll build you a bower of lilies."
"Roofed with leafy branches."
"Aye. And with the freshest grass for a floor."
"We'll live together in our little kingdom—"
"Forever," he said and stroked her head. "My ladylove."
She closed her eyes and leaned very quiet against his shoulder, not thinking. In a little while the great bell of Notre Dame sounded, and she heard him cry, "Oh God, how quickly comes the dawn."
Every night she went to his bed. Sometimes, when they had spent themselves and sprawled in each other's arms, he told her lewd tales about priests taking women behind the altar, and once a hilarious story about a pregnant nun named Rosala who claimed to have been raped 440 times by Jesus. From Ovid he read aloud erotic passages on how to prolong their pleasure; he called her ladylove and teased her about the pretty little garden between her thighs, her oyster, her jewel, her little pink bud. In the spring, they opened the shutters and let the breezes lave over them, and one night he showed her a lute he had just purchased. After that, he wrote poems for her and set them to music, most of them love lyrics but others so bawdy that she could not help squirming with delicious embarrassment.
That year, it did not turn really warm until St. John's Day, and then nearly every day was humid and stifling. She went around the house barefoot, in her undertunic, and still perspiration rolled down between her breasts. In the afternoons, she found a shady spot in the garden, and, even though Abelard had abandoned all pretense of lessons, sh
e continued to read on her own, just in case Fulbert asked. She discovered that she could live quite well on little sleep, but in the great heat of the afternoons she found herself gradually dozing, her book sprawled on the hot pebbles at her feet.
Much of her attention, in one respect or another, was devoted to her body. She badgered Fulbert into colored hose embroidered with gladioli and bliauts in the latest fashion, her knowledge about these matters garnered from Abelard's observations of what the court ladies were wearing. Her lover gave her a gold ring, set with an amethyst, but since she dared not wear it, he bought a Limoges casket with a lock and key and she kept the ring hidden. She also acquired a crisping iron for curling her hair, although Fulbert grumbled about all those crimple-crispings and christy-crosties sending her straight to the gates of hell. She ignored him and sat in the kitchen, Petronilla holding her looking glass, and made herself a headful of ringlets. That hot summer when she was seventeen she felt as though she were the most beautiful woman in Christendom.
About that time, too, Abelard's former servant, Galon, began skulking around their stable. Soon, growing bold, he crept into the garden and banged at the kitchen door, snuffling like an old hound for food. He was a small man, short in the thighs, with a lumpy pudding body and little neck to speak of. He appeared ragged and genuinely hungry, and Heloise felt sorry for him. Agnes, however, called him an able-bodied wastrel who could work if he wished. At first, she grudgingly handed out stale bread, but after that, when he started showing up every day, she slammed the door in his face. Curiously, he never came when his former master was there, although one day, finally, the two men met more or less by chance and Abelard cursed him furiously, calling him "ball-less turd" and threatening to send for the king's bailiff. The end of it was that he gave Galon a purse of deniers and ordered him to stay away. Far from grateful, the man snarled "Pinch-arse" at Abelard and ran off howling.
