by Marion Meade
Impulsively, he stood and jerked her to her feet. "Isn't there some unused corner in this place?"
"You must be mad to think of such a thing!"
Yet minutes later she was leading him into the darkened refectory. The tables were bare, the shutters closed against the afternoon sun. Blindly they stumbled into a shadowy corner. She closed her eyes, grinding her hips against him.
"Ladylove," he breathed against her tongue.
Afterward she opened her eyes to meet his, but her gaze slid past him to a statue of Our Blessed Lady. "Abelard," she said, shaken, "we've done a terrible thing."
His eyes followed hers to the Virgin, and he shrugged lightly.
"God will punish us," she insisted.
"Don't be silly." He kissed her on the nose.
From what she had seen of Ceci, Heloise realized that the girl had not reconciled herself to Argenteuil. According to Sister Madelaine, Sister Cecilia was a troublemaker, and scarcely a week went by that she did not break one rule or another, and was, of course, punished. After three years, she could not be trusted to take responsibility for any duty at the convent, and the work she was given to do under the cellaress's supervision she invariably managed to botch. Worse, said Madelaine, Sister Cecilia was in the habit of slipping into the guest quarters and mingling with the pilgrims and knights.
Ceci was bitter and unhappy. Constantly she told Heloise so, whimpering resentfully that Heloise had everything—intelligence, beauty, a rich husband and a child, everything—while nothing exciting had ever happened to her. It was not fair, she cried. Heloise warned that defiance would only cause her further grief and eventually Lady Alais would be forced to expel her. And what would become of her then? She would have to beg her bread on the highroads. She must change her attitude.
"Shit," answered Ceci savagely, her eyes smoky with anger.
"You're not supposed to say words like that."
"You do."
“I’m not a nun," Heloise told her. "And you're not allowed to talk to me. I'm a guest. Sister Judith warned you not to speak with guests."
"I don't care." She turned her face away. A moment later: “Tell me about your lord. He wrote love songs, didn't he? Were they sad or happy?"
Heloise said, "Both." She was reluctant to talk about it for fear of putting ideas in Ceci's head. She should be thinking about the lives of the saints, not love. "I can help you with those medicines you're to mix. Sister Blanche said you should finish them this morning."
"If you wish." Her expression softened. "They give me stupid tasks to do."
Heloise spoke patiently. "No task is stupid, especially mixing herbs for the infirmary. That's very important." She put her arm around Ceci's shoulder.
In the afternoon, Heloise wrote a receipt for Lady Alais, who had just received a generous bequest from the father of a novice. While she was drying the ink, a lay sister came in and said there was a visitor waiting at the gatehouse. Her eyes downcast modestly, she added in a whisper, "A man."
"Young or old?" It could not be Abelard again, although it might.
"Young," the sister replied.
Jourdain was leaning against the water trough, talking to a sun-blackened pilgrim. When he saw Heloise, he waved and grinned. "Lady," he cried excitedly, "this fellow has been to Compostela. Look—he has a scallop shell!"
For a while they stood in the courtyard, questioning the pilgrim and admiring his scallop badge, the sign of a successful pilgrimage to Saint-James. Heloise took Jourdain's arm. They strolled in the direction of the guest parlor. "Fair friend," she said, laughing, "you'll not be content until you've undertaken some great pilgrimage."
"Aye," he sighed. "The Holy Land. That, please God, is where I'd like to go."
"Oh, it's too dangerous. You might be killed."
He shrugged. At the cloister gate, he paused and tried to peer through the grating. The portress on duty gave him a warning glare. Jourdain backed off with a wave and threw a denier in the alms box. He said to Heloise, "It's very pretty in there. Serene, you know."
"Hah." She snorted. The parlor was crowded with merchants unbundling their wares. A peddler was displaying an assortment of combs, assuring someone that the teeth were guaranteed to last a lifetime. Heloise found two stools and brought them to the window. She sat opposite Jourdain, smiling happily at his freckled face.
With a grin, he dived into a pouch hanging from his girdle and brought out a parcel. He handed it to her with a flourish.
Heloise placed the parcel on her lap while she unwrapped it. She whooped, "Holy Mother, aren't you a sweet heart!" and stared down delightedly at the assortment of cakes and pies. "How did you know what I wanted?"
Jourdain laughed. "Go ahead. Eat."
Eagerly she stuffed a sinnel cake into her mouth, hardly bothering to chew. "Ooooh. Delicious! Is it obvious that I'm a pig?"
"Fairly. Don't they feed guests decently here?"
"Don't know." She took a bite from a beef and raisin pie and held it out to Jourdain. "I've been eating in the refectory. Two meat dishes a meal, but badly cooked."
"You got spoiled in Paris."
"I know. I could indulge my cravings for sweets." She glanced at him. "How's my lord?"
"Well. He bought new horses for the journey. Costly, they were. I think the price of animals has gone up since last fall."
Heloise hitched forward with a smile. "I hope he's got me a gentle one. Remember that creature I had last time—"
"Ummm."
Jourdain was silent a minute, his face turned toward the window. Heloise thought he looked exhausted; there were pouches under his eyes.
He turned back sharply. "Thibaut's in Paris."
"Oh." Heloise stopped chewing, surprised.
"Thibaut and Philip. I ran into Philip. In a tavern near the bishop's palace."
Heloise frowned, remembering the enmity between Jourdain and her cousin. "What did he say?"
"Who, Philip?" Jourdain shrugged. "He was drunk."
"He's a nasty bastard. God forgive me, he's my own blood, but it's true."
"He said my lady friend finally got what she deserved."
She stirred uncomfortably. "Your—he was talking about me?"
"Apparently," said Jourdain slowly, "apparently he thinks you're going to take the veil. He said Abelard married you and then put you in a convent. An easy way to get rid of you."
The comb peddler, smiling, appeared at Heloise's elbow, holding out a comb in each hand. She waved him away. "Count on Philip to jump to conclusions."
"Heloise." He groaned. "That's what everybody thinks." He pointed emphatically at her habit. "God's teeth, what else did you expect?"
"Well," Heloise said. She gave a short laugh. "No matter. Let them think what they like." She stood, brushed the crumbs from her lap, and sat again. "Next week classes are over and we're off to Brittany."
Jourdain nodded slowly. Abruptly, he said, Tm—I'm leaving the Ile."
"Melun?" She wrapped up the rest of the cakes, thinking of how she could sneak them to Ceci.
"Champagne," he told her hurriedly. "I was thinking of taking service with the count."
Her eyes opening wide, Heloise said, "Oh, Jourdain! You're not going to leave Abelard."
He turned his face to the window. "Lady, one can't be a student forever, you know."
"I know," she said, "but—listen, friend, you have a fief of your own."
"It's not mine yet. The Count of Champagne's service is very prestigious. Someday I might become bailiff, or keeper of the fair. I have a good education." His voice rose hotly.
For a long while, Heloise argued with him, but he would not listen. She had her future all planned out, he told her. Why should she object if he did likewise? He was twenty-two and he could not trail after Master Peter's skirts forever.
13
July came, day after day of fierce sun cooking the limestone walls. The grass in the cloister began to brown, and the cellaress had the novices dribble buckets of water
over it. From the highroad, someone dragged in a pilgrim suffering from sunstroke. He died the next day, and the abbess ordered the body to be buried immediately—in this weather, you couldn't keep anything.
That night Heloise dreamed about Abelard. They were lying in a meadow. Her head rested on a pillow of violets. The day was hot, and he pulled off her bliaut, tossing it into the air. Far away, she heard someone screaming her name, but she ignored it; she held Abelard tighter. At breakfast, she glanced around at the dark bowed heads and felt a gurgle of shame, as if she had transgressed one of St. Benedict's Rules. Moments later, she'd forgotten it and was laughing deliciously to herself. Abelard. A few more days.
In the schoolroom, she read to the children from a treatise called On Beasts and Other Things, a book she had loved in her childhood. She told them about the habits of animals, and how stags live nine hundred years, and how doves can look at themselves with their right eyes and at God with their left.
After the lesson, Sister Judith came and took the children away for their catechism. The morning was hot, drowsy. Heloise wandered around the cloister. With departure imminent, she found herself viewing the convent with an emotion close to affection—these past few days, the singing of the offices brought tears to her eyes; at night the bells rocked her to sleep and she woke happy. Under her breath she sang, thinking of the rolling countryside along the Loire, the good rose wines that the innkeepers chilled in their wells and served in earthen goblets. She walked through the cloister, past the lavatory, and out through the postern gate, toward the river.
An hour later, hungry, she trudged slowly back to the convent. They would be ringing the refectory bell soon. Coming in the postern door, she saw the portress's assistant bouncing toward her.
"Lady," she called breathlessly, "I've been seeking you everywhere. There's a man asking for you in the yard."
Heloise's heart began to pound. Could Abelard have come for her already? But he had said Friday or Saturday. She said, "I'm coming right now," and trotted behind the nun toward the cloister gate.
In the yard, she craned her neck from side to side. Near the gatehouse there was a clump of people, the usual beggars waiting for alms, pilgrims, a caravan of merchants. She headed toward them. The portress's assistant picked at her sleeve and pointed to a man slouching alone in the corner near his horse. Despite the heat, he was wearing a hooded cape that covered most of his face. Disappointed not to find Abelard, she started slowly toward him, the heat of the cobbles burning through her slippers. "Brother, did you want to see me?"
"Heloise," Jourdain said, throwing off the hood.
She smiled, surprised. "Friend—I—did not expect you."
Jourdain looked over his shoulder at the travelers milling around the portress's lodge. Moving toward a bush near the wall, he beckoned Heloise to follow. She ran after him. "What news from the Ile?" she asked excitedly. "Have you seen Abelard?"
Jourdain did not answer.
"When is he coming for me?"
Jourdain said haltingly, "I have a message for you." Then he fell silent again. He leaned against the wall, looking down at his boots.
She smiled quizzically. "What's the matter with you? Aren't you going to tell what it is?"
Silence. Now, for the first time, she noticed his face. He looked pale and frightened. "Friend, what is it—"
He murmured at last, "Master Peter has been hurt."
She stepped back, shocked, not wanting to believe him. "Hurt? What kind of a jest— Who hurt him?"
He was watching her through narrowed eyes. "Your cousin Philip . . . Thibaut . . ." Her hands began to sweat. "They did him—an injury."
"What do you mean?" she asked carefully. "What kind of an injury?"
"I told you." He clamped his lips.
She flung both arms straight at him, as if to shake him. "For the love of Christ, speak! What is it?"
He said, expressionless, "They castrated him."
She looked down at her hands.
"Castrated. Gelded." He began talking wildly. "Those sons of dogs, they gelded him. Like an unclean beast—"
The sound of Jourdain's voice echoed hazily in her ears. The sun beat on the nape of her neck. Face still lowered, she stared down at the ground. In the mud crevice between two stone cobbles was wedged a rusty nail, and a line of ants skibbled madly up and over it. Heloise raised her head and looked at Jourdain. He had stopped talking and was watching her. To his right, a dozen strides along the wall, the portress was yelling at a pilgrim and scratching the side of her head through her wimple. The pilgrim nodded angrily at Sister Martha. Some of them tried to stay longer than two nights, even though they knew it was against the rules. Some people always tried to take advantage.
"Friend," Jourdain said.
She rocked backward a step and steadied the soles of her feet against the cobbles. The heat slithered brightly around her head. Any time now, they would be ringing the bell for dinner. Some kind of fish soup. She had smelled it cooking before she went to the river. Her arms ached. She saw Sister Martha coming toward her.
Sister Blanche crossed herself and said "Name of God" twice. She would not permit Heloise to leave the infirmary, and when Heloise tried to force her way past her, she took away her clothes and locked them in a cupboard. Under no circumstances would she allow a patient to go roaming around the courtyard. She pushed Heloise back into bed. Heloise should not assume her husband was dead, there was no reason to jump to conclusions, and in fact the young man from the Ile had distinctly said Abelard was not dead. Sister Blanche sent a novice to fetch Lady Alais. The abbess, her face white, stood above Heloise's bed without speaking, and then she walked to the doorway and talked with Sister Blanche. After she had gone, Sister Blanche had Heloise bled.
In the darkness, later, she opened her eyes. She lay rigid, holding the terrible images at the edge of her mind. The thoughts were there, but she would not permit them full life. She remembered Jourdain sobbing in the yard, but she had not. It was long ago. At her core, something felt obliterated.
Not that evening, but the one following, Sister Blanche unlocked her clothes and said she might see Jourdain in the abbess's garden. She sent two heavyset nuns with Heloise in case of a fainting attack.
At the entrance to the garden, Heloise paused a moment. Jourdain saw her and lurched forward. "Friend—"
"He's dead." She mouthed the words without speaking. "No."
She shook her head sluggishly, disbelieving.
"Lady, he's alive. I swear. He's not going to die."
She stood still. Tears began to trickle thinly down her face, and she brushed at them with the back of her hand.
"Galon has been caught," he said. "They castrated and blinded him." He dropped on a bench and stared at his knees. "And your cousin Philip as well. Thibaut got away."
Heloise blinked. Galon? What did Galon have to do with it? She could not understand why Abelard's servant had been punished; he did not even know her kin.
"I was there earlier. At supper. I left him before compline. They bribed Galon to open the door after Abelard was asleep." He fell silent, shuffling his feet against the pebbles.
Heloise waited, her fists clenched. Fulbert did this. Jourdain had not mentioned Fulbert's name. She heard the sisters from the infirmary whispering beyond the garden gate. It was beginning to grow dark.
Jourdain went on rapidly. "The following morning the whole city was gathered before his house. People were weeping and groaning. Thousands. God, I have never seen anything like it. Indescribable." He flung back his head. "Traffic was halted all the way to the Petit Pont."
She nodded. Something gagged in her throat. She swallowed and thought, Judas.
"The schools closed," Jourdain was saying. "They made Galon tell everything. He said that your uncle—"
Heloise stared at him.
"—your uncle plotted the whole thing. Oh, he's denied it. Swore he knew nothing about it. He spent the night in the cathedral. There were witnesses. Lady,
are you listening?"
She bobbed her head once, her mind screaming.
"The king's bailiff tried to enter the close and take him. But the bishop refused him. Violation of clerical immunity. The bishop's court will try him. I wish to Christ—" He broke off.
At last she spoke. "Was I born to be the cause of such a crime?" Her voice sounded far away.
"Don't talk stupidly."
Heloise walked slowly toward the shadows by the gate, not listening. "God is cruel. We were both to blame. He alone was punished."
"Please," Jourdain answered severely. "You don't know what you're saying." He rose and followed her.
The stallion raced steadily. Heloise sat behind Jourdain, her arms curled tightly around his waist. The road to Paris was dark and misty and the moon had gone. For a long while, they passed no one, but Jourdain told her that was good. Usually the only people abroad at night were evildoers—whores and cutpurses. As they pounded by Montmarte, she could see over his shoulder streaky tints of light in the hollow below. They went on. Torches flamed from the walls of the stockade. They reached the Saint-Merri gate, paid their toll, and entered. Coming to the Chastelet, Jourdain slowed the horse to a walk and mumbled something, but Heloise did not catch the words.
"What did you say?"
His voice was unsteady. "Master Peter."
"Yes."
"You must expect to find him changed."
Then the thoughts that she had held off for the past two days, for sanity's sake, swam around her. Closing her eyes, she slumped against Jourdain's back and sobbed in small, retching cries. Jerking away, she flung her head over the horse's side and vomited into the black road. Jourdain put his hand on her shoulder.
Bonfires smoked in the road outside Abelard's house. The crowds were still there, perhaps a hundred or more people choked around the fires or stretched out like shapeless parcels on the ground. A pasty vendor was doing brisk business, and wineskins littered the road. Jourdain cursed under his breath. By the side of the house, he reined in and pulled Heloise to the ground. They ran for the door.
