Stealing Heaven

by Marion Meade

  "Next time you won't be frightened. You're a good breeder and you have plenty of milk. Count your blessings."

  "Yes." She turned her head away slightly. No doubt Denise was right, but she didn't like people reminding her about counting her blessings, as though she were a child who couldn't think for herself. Denise was a good person, but her manner of speaking irritated Heloise. Next time indeed. There would be no next time, Heloise thought.

  "You're going to call him Peter, aren't you?"

  "No."

  "What do you mean, no? Who else would you name him after?" Denise sat down hard on the bed.

  "I think I'll name him Astrolabe." She smiled down into the baby's face.

  "Astro—what?"

  "Astrolabe."

  "I beg your pardon," Denise said coldly, "but I've never heard of any person called Astrolabe."

  Heloise reached down and popped a piece of cheese into her mouth. "An astrolabe," she said patiently, "is used by astronomers to chart the movement of the planets."

  I’msorry. I don't understand."

  "It's like the sextant that navigators use at sea. Only it's to chart the heavens."

  "You're going to name him for a machine?" She looked down in amazement.

  Heloise said, expressionless, "If you want to put it like that, yes."

  Denise's eyes needled into her. "I don't like the name."

  "That's obvious."

  "People will laugh at him."

  "No they won't." She hoisted the child into both arms and began to rock him.

  Denise slid off the bed and started out. Then she turned and came back to stare at them. "Nobody in our family has ever been named after a machine. And I can tell you this, lady. My lord brother will be furious." She looked really angry.

  Heloise said, "Please, Denise. I'm very happy. Don't spoil everything."

  Denise grunted. "It's a stupid name."

  Heloise slid Astrolabe under the coverlet. She said to Denise, "It's not inappropriate. He was born on Christmas."

  "Hmmm," said Denise, unconvinced. "You might as well call him Star of Bethlehem."

  “I’ll take it under consideration." Heloise grinned, but Denise did not even flicker a smile.

  Denise complained about the baby's name until Heloise's churching, but by that time everyone in the castle was calling him Astrolabe, and she finally gave up. Winter closed in around Le Pallet. It snowed off and on all through the month of January; the temperature remained frigid and the road to Nantes impassable. No letters came into Le Pallet, and none went out.

  During that time, Heloise did not open a book. Every other day she wrote to Abelard, and occasionally to Jourdain, until she had used up the castle's supply of parchment. The letters she kept locked in her Limoges box against the day when the road thawed and someone could take them into Nantes for the Paris courier. The rest of her time was spent with Astrolabe. He was too young to really play with; about all she could do was watch him, and cuddle and kiss and fondle, and this she did incessantly until Alienor warned her that he would grow up dreadfully spoiled. She should not pick him up every time he cried, Alienor instructed, nor was it necessary to give him the breast twenty times a day. Heloise smiled sweetly. Sometimes she brought Astrolabe's truckle bed down to the hearth and rocked him giddily until he laughed out loud and his plump cheeks dimpled with pleasure. And when he lay still, his mouth budded a delicate pink, she talked to him and told stories about Ulysses and Jason. The castle women laughed and shook their heads.

  "Lady." Denise grinned. "Wait a bit. He can't understand you."

  "Of course he can. He just can't answer yet."

  Denise shook her head. "And all that attention is going to make him high-strung. Mark me, by the time he's walking, he'll be a real devil."

  Heloise thrust out her chin. "What kind of woman are you? He's my son, and I'll love him as much as I please. I don't tell you how to raise your children, do I?" Her voice trembled.

  Denise stiffened and went off in a huff.

  At the beginning of Lent, Dagobert came from Nantes to hunt with a party of the duke's courtiers. In his saddlebag he had a bundle of letters for Heloise. The one from Jourdain she shoved aside to read last. Abelard's she made herself read slowly, like a starveling trying to make a crust of bread last. After a few pages, she forgot about going slow and skimmed the pages to find out when he was coming. Astrolabe began to howl, wanting to be picked up. She ignored him. In the last letter, she found what she was searching for. As soon as the weather broke, he wrote, when the roads improved, he was setting out for Le Pallet. Which, of course, told her nothing useful. How did she know what the roads near Paris were like?

  She paced the floor near her bed, suddenly sick with missing him. The self-control she had clamped on herself as month had passed into month, the deliberate putting him out of her mind, began to spin away from her. She wanted him with a physical hunger that made her stomach churn.

  After a while, she sat down and calmly read all the letters. That made her feel better. He had, he wrote, been to see Fulbert. The two of them had spent the evening together and everything had been arranged. Heloise was not to worry, because her uncle bore them no ill will. Abelard repeated the sentence "Everything has been arranged" several times, once underlining it for emphasis. But precisely what he and Fulbert had arranged he did not reveal. If Fulbert would allow her to return to Paris with Astrolabe, she would kiss the ground under his feet. That must be what Abelard meant. She could not stay at Le Pallet, that much she had decided even before Astrolabe had come. Already half of her mind was dead, and if she remained, the rest would slowly rot from disuse. She longed for the Ile and for the stampeding students shouting in Latin, for her uncle's quiet turret chamber with the only sounds those of parchment pages turning and the scratch of her pen.

  She sighed. With Astrolabe, there would be no such quiet in her uncle's house. Perhaps he would not allow her to come, after all. He had no love for infants. Hadn't he sent her to Argenteuil as a babe? On the other hand, he had not, apparently, objected to Agnes's babes, and of course Petronilla had been raised there. She lay down on her bed and turned over the problem in her mind. If he would not have her and her child at the Rue des Chantres, then she would find other lodgings. One room, that was all she needed for herself and Astrolabe. The solution was simple enough, and she chided herself for having fretted over nothing. She went downstairs to tell Denise about Abelard's visit.

  That night, getting into bed, she found Jourdain's letter, and again she was seized by anxiety. Visiting Melun at Christmas, he had ridden over to Saint-Gervais once. He did not wish to worry her unduly, but she should stand warned that Thibaut and Philip had talked a great deal about Abelard and Heloise, and the talk had been ugly. Threats of cutting Abelard's throat and throwing him into the Seine. Of course, Jourdain allowed, it could be talk for talk's sake. Yet he felt, as her friend, that she would like to know.

  She did not want to know, not today. Leave it to Jourdain to spoil things, she said to herself wearily. Trying to reassure herself, she told herself that all this had taken place at Christmas; since then, Abelard bad made up with Fulbert Her nerves on edge, she had a hard time falling asleep.

  The next day, she washed her hair with rose water and manicured her nails. Over her head she pinned her silk wimple. Every time she heard a horse on the drawbridge, she ran to the window slit, until Alienor, smiling, said to her, "A tended kettle never boils," and everybody laughed.

  After that the children teased her. When she was suckling Astrolabe or taking a bath, they would run to her and cry, "Lady, lady, your lord's here!" and scamper away giggling. As the days passed, however, and Abelard failed to appear, she stopped wearing the wimple and running to the window at the sound of hoofbeats. Alienor was right about the tended kettle.

  The week following, Dagobert and his friends went back to Nantes. The castle quieted, and Heloise began embroidering a shift for Astrolabe. She had debated about what sort of picture he m
ight like and finally decided on a jongleur playing a lute. She went up to the sleeping chamber to get some green thread from her chest. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she wound the threads around her fingers indecisively. Perhaps she should make the jongleur's cap red. Behind her back, the hanging tapestry began swaying, and she heard the shuffle of feet "Lady aunt," huffed Agathe, "Beelar come."

  Heloise did not bother to glance around. "You mustn't tell lies. God will punish you." She would use green for the cap and give it a bright-red plume.

  The child trundled around the end of the bed and slapped a grubby hand on Heloise's knee. "No lie," she lisped. "Gathe no lie."

  "Good morning, lady," Abelard said gravely.

  Heloise snapped her neck around. He was standing inside the tapestry, smiling. She pushed off the bed and stood up, staring without speaking. He came around next to her and held her so tightly that her bones cracked.

  Heloise kissed him on the mouth and cheeks and hair. He had not shaved. She looked over his shoulder at the child blinking up at them. "Agathe, go down to the hall now." The girl moved away, reluctantly. "That's a good girl." She said to Abelard, "Have you seen him?"

  "Who?" He sank on the bed and swung her down next to him. "Astrolabe."

  "No—I just rode into the ward a minute ago."

  "You must see him."

  "Later. I want to look at you."

  "He's adorable."

  "You look marvelous. By God, this country air must agree with you."

  Heloise smiled, pretending not to be disappointed at his lack of interest in the babe. "The only air that agrees with me," she said, "is the air where you are." She brushed a hair from his cloak.

  "I've missed you," Abelard said abruptly.

  "Is that all you have to say?"

  "No." Abelard grinned at her. "Not all." He reached for her.

  "Did you go to him," she asked, "or did he come to you?"

  "I went to him." Abelard pulled his cloak against the gusts of spring wind and looked up. The sky seethed with torn gray clouds. There was rain coming. He yawned. "Poor bastard."

  Heloise sat down on Radulphus's gravestone. From the top of the hill, she could see a peasant woman following her ox along the road. "He might have killed you."

  "No chance. Ah, lady, you should see him. He looks like an old man."

  "He's not old."

  "He drags through the close with his head bowed. You can't help but pity him."

  "Yes." She turned away, inhaling the briny fragrance of pine, wishing that she could feel pity but feeling nothing. She could not imagine Fulbert as Abelard described him. Then: "I'm surprised he let you set foot in the house."

  "Agnes let me in."

  "What did he say to you?"

  "Nothing. He was as mild as a lamb."

  "A lamb?" Heloise frowned.

  "I swear it."

  "Then he was putting on an act for your benefit."

  On a bed of pine needles, Abelard squatted on his haunches and glowered at her. "Don't be ridiculous. You weren't there. How could you know?"

  "Tell me what you said," she demanded. "Then we'll talk about me being ridiculous. Well, tell me."

  "Oh, that," he said, seemingly careless. "Naturally I took all the blame on myself. Called it deceit and the basest treachery. I—" He shrugged one shoulder. "You know."

  Watching his face, Heloise waited for him to continue. "And naturally he agreed," she prompted. "What else?"

  "That's all."

  "Hah! Come, my lord—"

  Abelard spoke briskly. "I reminded him that I had done what any man in love would do. That, er, since the beginning of the human race, women have brought the noblest men to ruin."

  She turned away, furious to the bottom of her heart. "Gramercy."

  "Heloise." He stood up. "Don't be foolish. I had to use words he would understand."

  "Oh. Did he?"

  Abelard smiled. "Completely. I begged his forgiveness and promised to make any amends he thought proper."

  Heloise disliked his careless tone. She lounged against Radulphus's stone and gazed dully over the furrowed fields below. Fringing the fields, the poplars were thrusting forth leaves. In Paris, the chestnuts would soon be in bloom. "And what did Uncle suggest?"

  "To make a long story short—"

  "Don't. I want the long story."

  "He said his house had been irrevocably dishonored and there was nothing I could do to wipe out the stain. And I said yes there was"— he paused and shrugged—"I could marry you."

  She staggered to her feet, catching a pine branch to steady herself.

  "I wronged him. I'll make it right. All I asked was that the marriage be kept secret, so as not to damage my reputation." Abelard grinned. "You should have seen his face. That was more than he ever hoped for."

  She had to bite her lips to keep from screaming. "And what did he say?" she asked.

  Abelard wrinkled his forehead. "Why, what would he say? He was overjoyed. We drank a cup together to seal our reconciliation."

  "Do you believe him!" she cried.

  'Yes. Don't you?"

  "No."

  "He kissed me."

  "Judas kiss. The easier to betray you."

  "Well, lady," he muttered thickly, "I don't understand you. I've solved this entire mess. I've humbled myself before your idiot uncle and yet you have no word of thanks for me."

  "God's pardon, sir, you've solved nothing. Because I'm not going to marry you."

  He stared at her. At last he said, rather sharply, "Oh?"

  "You might have consulted me before you went to the bother of humbling yourself. You could have saved yourself the trouble." She was beginning to shout. "Oh, you and Uncle, you mighty male protectors, you arrangers of people's lives! Have I no say in all this?"

  Smiling slightly, he reached for her hand. "You are right to be angry. I should have told you first. Now, what say you, lady? Will you be my wife?"

  She said, "I will not," and held her breath.

  Abelard's face flushed crimson. He dropped her hand and took a step backward. "You chaffer me wickedly, ladylove. I've no sense of humor in this matter." His voice was dangerously quiet.

  She went to him and folded her arms around his shoulders. A huge drop of rain pelted her forehead. "Sweet heart," she whispered in a coaxing way.

  "You should not have said that."

  "I know." She clung to him. "But all the same, I won't marry you."

  "Isn't my name honorable enough for you?" His voice was dulled with hurt.

  "Honor. Don't speak of honor. What honor could there be in a marriage that would dishonor you and humiliate both of us?" Water splattered her hair and nose. "Nature creates philosophers for all mankind, not for a single woman. Think of what people would say—what a sorry scandal that would be!"

  "Never mind what people will say—"

  She put her hands on her hips. "Why don't you admit it? Marriage would disgrace you."

  "Lady, you keep talking about disgrace and dishonor. Let me remind you that nothing prevents me from marrying." He turned his back on her and stood gazing out at the horizon darkened with black clouds.

  "St. Paul said—"

  "Don't quote St. Paul at me!"

  "If you don't care about the words of the Apostles, at least you might listen to what the philosophers have said. Theophrastus, Jerome, Cicero. They wrote about the endless annoyances of marriage in considerable detail."

  "Lady, can I—"

  "You can't devote your attention to both a wife and philosophy— St. Jerome. Have you forgotten?"

  "All right. There are difficulties." He twisted around to face her. "I admit that the idea of a married philosopher is extraordinary."

  "Unique, you mean."

  "Very well, unique. But what of it? Fortes fortuna juvat. The extraordinary doesn't scare me. There's a first time for everything."

  "Do you want to be a philosopher or not?" she cried.

  "Now, what do you mean, do I want to
be? I am." He stopped and loolced at her unhappily.

  'You have absolutely no idea of what married life is really like."

  "Eh?" he said coldly. "I think I have a fair idea."

  "No you don't. It's—undignified."

  He threw back his head and began to laugh. "Sweeting—" He reached for her arm, but she flung him off. Backing away, she started to scramble down the slope, wet brambles catching at her skirt. "Sweeting, come back." When she refused to stop, he plunged after her, yelling her name.

  The next day, Abelard rode off to Nantes.

  Heloise knelt to pray in the chapel. God must guide her now, give her a sign about what to do. Halfway through the Credo, her mind strayed to Abelard swaggering in his saddle that morning. He looked like a knight about to enter a tournament. Dashing and refreshed. That had surprised her. They had argued most of the night.

  She thought, He's the most stubborn man. For all his protestations, he knew nothing about family life and wouldn't listen when she tried to explain. Look around you, she had finally yelled, do you want to live like this? And he had assured her that he had no intention of living like his kin at Le Pallet; it would be different for them.

  Again she started the Credo, and this time managed to finish it. Then she asked God whether she should marry. More accurately, she told God she should not marry and asked for his confirmation. Then she curled her fingers tightly and prayed to the Blessed Virgin, asking her intercession. She thought, Uncle is shrewd. Even if Abelard had offered to marry her openly, Fulbert would not have truly forgiven him. And certainly not for a secret marriage. How would that expunge the dishonor to Saint-Gervais? It would not, and she couldn't understand how Abelard failed to recognize this. All at once, she remembered Fulbert's expression that morning be had found them in bed. No, it had been a Judas kiss.

  She stood up and went back to the ward, careful to avoid the puddles from yesterday's rain. When Abelard returned, late that night, he began talking comfortably about their marriage, as if it were all settled. The next week, they would ride back to Paris, as Fulbert had requested, and be wed in a secret ceremony. Then she would live at her uncle's house, as before. If anyone remarked upon her absence, she could say that she had been living at Saint-Gervais.