by Marion Meade
Behind her, the door to the porch opened on a shaft of cool air. The door closed noisily. Someone came forward and stopped behind her right shoulder. From the corner of her eye, she realized that it was Abelard. Heloise glanced at him quickly. He looked well, his cheeks clean-shaven and ruddy from the crisp fall weather. She remembered the blue cloak. The fine soft wool had come from England, and it had been very dear. All in a rush, she realized that he was still wearing his usual clothes. Which meant that he had not taken his vows yet. He had waited for her to leave the world first. She turned away without looking into his eyes.
Abelard pulled a bundle from under his cloak and stepped around to Sister Madelaine's side.
The prioress looked annoyed. "What is this, sire?" she muttered.
"Lady Heloise's personal belongings."
Madelaine frowned. "I can't take them now, my lord. You must leave them with the wardrober."
"Very well, Sister." Abelard backed away and came around to Heloise once more. He held the bundle awkwardly under one arm and finally placed it on the floor near his feet.
Heloise stared at the altar. She heard Abelard breathing heavily behind her. Pivoting her head for a moment, she had a glimpse of his white face, and she heard him say low, "Lady."
Madelaine grabbed her hand. "It's time."
Nodding, Heloise turned to face Abelard again. Into her mind suddenly slammed a passage from Lucan, Cornelia's famous lament. She began to recite rapidly, " 'O noble husband, too great for me to wed, was it my fate to bend that lofty head?'" She felt Madelaine's hand stiffen in disapproval. "What prompted me to marry you and bring about your fall?'" Abelard's eyes widened in shock, and he looked away. " 'Now claim your due and see me gladly pay.'"
Madelaine jerked her forward, and they strode quickly, almost running, to the altar. When they reached Gilbert, Madelaine released her and went to join Lady Alais. The bishop began to pray.
Candle wax hissed and sputtered. "Let the petition be presented," the bishop announced. Sister Madelaine came up with a parchment scroll, which she handed to Heloise. Heloise offered it to the bishop, who unrolled the petition and gave it a perfunctory glance.
"Is this written in your own hand or by another at your request?"
"My own hand."
"This is your signature?"
"It is."
"Place it upon the altar with your own hand."
She nosed forward and dropped the scroll. Kneeling, she intoned, "Receive me, O Lord, according to your word, and I shall live. Let me not be confounded in my hope."
Behind her back, the refrain rose from the nuns. "Glory be to the Father."
Rising, Heloise faced the bishop. "I renounce my parents, my brothers, my friends, my possessions, and the vain and empty glory of this world." She glanced toward the nave, but she could not see Abelard. "And I renounce also my own will for the will of God, and accept all the hardships of the monastic life."
Slowly, deliberately, she walked to the far end of the line of nuns and stopped. Pitching to her knees, she prostrated herself at Sister Angelica's feet. "Pray for me," she said. Rising, she moved on to the next sister, prostrated herself, and repeated the words. Halfway down the line, her sore knees stopped aching and she began to move through the motions mechanically. Her legs and neck had no more feeling than a stick of wood. In the roar of the silence, she began to think about the package Abelard had brought. Personal belongings, he had told Madelaine. She remembered the things she had packed that last time at the Rue des Chantres. The Limoges box containing her rings and Abelard's letters, ribbons and a crisping iron and her little mirror. She wanted to laugh wildly. What would the wardrober do with those miserable remnants of a life? She glanced to her right. A dozen more pairs of shoes. She bent quickly and touched her forehead to the ground. "Pray for me." The blue tiles on the kitchen floor in Fulbert's house, the garlic and sage hanging from the rafters. Pasties soft as butter. Lutes and men laughing and the warm, safe fragrance of roses curling up to her turret window. Feather beds and sheets that rocked her in lavender, all these she renounced. "Pray for me." Creaking, she rose at last and walked to the altar.
Sister Madelaine and Sister Judith, carrying the habit and veil, came to stand beside her. They scooped her bliaut over her head. Shivering, she stood exposed in her shift. The black robes fell blindly over her eyes, the hands tugged and pulled, and then it was done. After blessing the veil, Gilbert moved toward her. Heloise snatched the veil from his hands and clamped it on her head. The bishop scowled. Leaning toward her, he said, "Repeat after me. I offer myself—"
"I offer myself—"
"To the Omnipotent God—"
“To the Omnipotent God and to the Virgin Mary for the salvation of my soul." She breathed noisily. "And so shall I remain in this holy life all my days until my final breath."
"Amen." Gilbert turned away, in a great hurry to get somewhere.
Later, Heloise stood just inside the cloister gate and stared into the courtyard. Abelard was saddling his stallion and beside him, already mounted, was Jourdain. With a shock, she remembered that she had not thought of Jourdain during the ceremony. She wondered where he had been standing; she should have said goodbye. Rocking forward on the balls of her feet, she pressed her face to the iron grille. Jourdain was backing his horse away from Abelard. His mouth was moving, but he was too far away for Heloise to make out words. She saw him swerve toward the gate and leave.
Abelard stood beside the stallion. After a while, he hoisted himself into the saddle and wrapped the cloak around his neck like a blanket. He was staring at his knees, the reins held limply in his hands. At last, straightening his spine, he edged the stallion to the gate. He did not look back.
For a long time, Heloise stood there. The air had turned damp. She stared at the cobbles where Abelard had sat on his horse, trying to imagine the black stallion and the blue cloak. Heavily, she turned away. There would be rain before evening.
The next day, she sent letters to Abelard and Astrolabe, cheerful lying letters that cost her a great deal to write. In her mind she had decided that Argenteuil would be tolerable if she could correspond with the persons she loved. She waited for replies until Christmas before concluding that the letters had been lost. Sister Madelaine, her temper uncertain, warned that they were a waste of time and parchment, and furthermore Heloise had broken the Rule by neglecting to show the letters to Lady Alais for approval. Angry, Heloise replied that she had no intention of submitting her mail to the abbess, and if Madelaine wished to report the offense in chapter meeting, she should feel free to do so. After that, the prioress stopped objecting and Heloise wrote again to Abelard, this time sending the letter to the abbey of Saint-Denis.
"He won't answer," Madelaine insisted. "He's finished with you. Why don't you stop beating a dead mule?"
"I wish you would mind your own business. You know very well that letters can go astray."
"That's true, but—"
"Especially in winter."
"Especially," Madelaine grunted.
"But the one I sent to Saint-Denis will not. I gave it to the abbot's courier when he last brought messages for Lady Alais. I put it in his hand myself." She glared at Madelaine, challenging her to continue.
"Oh well. In that case."
"There is no possibility of his not receiving it."
Madelaine's mouth curled into a grin. "Oh, I'm not saying he won't get the letter. I said don't expect a reply."
Heloise flinched with hurt. "Why do you hate me?"
"I don't hate you." The prioress looked surprised. "What a notion."
Sister Madelaine's health was deteriorating, although she had good periods when she spent ten hours a day at her table with accounts and correspondence. At other times, however, she seemed on the brink of wasting away, and then Sister Blanche would insist that she move into the infirmary and be nursed with fortifying broths and meat dishes. Heloise took over the ledgers and conducted the children's classes. Astrane, cold as ic
e, assisted her.
Christmas was bad. Night after night, Heloise suffered from sleeplessness; rather, she rested well enough during the early part of the evening, but after getting up for the night office, she could not fall back to sleep. Thoughts racing in circles, she worried herself sick about her husband and son. Or she fretted over the laziness and inefficiency of the nuns. Lady Alais, in her opinion, was one of the worst offenders because, as abbess, she should be setting an example for her flock. Instead, she pushed nearly all the administrative duties onto Sister Madelaine and concerned herself exclusively with courting aged, wealthy barons who might wish to make donations for the good of their souls. These efforts, Heloise had to admit, were not entirely unsuccessful, and it was true that in the past year Argenteuil had collected several bequests and two extremely wealthy novices. Still. There was more to being an abbess than accumulating bequests. And now, during the season of the Lord's Nativity, Lady Alais suddenly burned with a passion for travel. On the pretext of making a Christmas pilgrimage to Vezelay, she had set off for her home in Burgundy, where her niece was being married to a third cousin of the duke. By Epiphany she still had not returned, and Astrane said, uncharitably but no doubt truthfully, that they should count themselves fortunate if they saw her before Candlemas.
One morning after chapter meeting, Heloise went to the river and stood stock-still on the rock. The wind scudding off the water was fierce, and she did not finger long. In the distance, across the bend in the river, she could see the roofs of Saint-Denis looming against the cloudless sky. It comforted her a little to know that beneath one of those roofs lived Abelard. He was not so far away, after all, very close really.
After vespers, the portress's girl came to tell her that a Lord Jourdain was waiting in the guest parlor. Heloise bounded to her feet and then, with an effort to control her steps, she sedately followed the girl out the cloister gate, cursing her slowness.
He stood before the hearth, his cloak bundled clumsily about his waist. The first thing she noticed was that he had put on weight, the second that he had aged. She had always thought of him as a boy, but he certainly was not that now. Probably he had not been a boy for some time, but she had failed to notice.
"Sister Heloise, friend—" He came forward, his eyes gleaming gently.
Blinking away tears, she kissed him on both cheeks. "Ah, ah," was all she could say. They stood awkwardly before the fire, shifting from one foot to the other and murmuring stiff remarks about the weather and each other's health.
She had to bite her tongue to keep from asking about Abelard. Finally she said, "Tell me, what is happening in the world?" Her arms were trembling.
Jourdain sighed. "He took his vows three days after you."
"Three?" She swallowed. "You mean he has been at Saint-Denis since September?"
"Of course."
"Please, Jourdain. Forgive me for asking questions."
"I forgive you." He grinned.
"How does my Lord? Have you seen him? Did he speak of me?"
"Whoa, lady. I saw him yesterday. He asked me to— Look, Heloise, I have something for you."
Unwinding his cloak, he drew out an untidy ball of white fur. Heloise began to laugh. "I have no use for furs here," she said, and then she saw the fluffy mound twitch. "Why, it's a—"
"It's asleep. Little mite."
"Oh, Jourdain," she gasped. "Oh look, it's a sweet little thing."
"It is that."
Taking the dog from him, she cradled it in the crook of her arm. It opened black eyes and gazed up at her. She stared, transfixed. It nuzzled its nose against her breast and then closed its eyes again.
"Poor little thing is tired." Heloise bent to kiss the dog's head. "It's a babe."
"Two weeks, I think. Lady, something you would like to know—"
Smiling happily, she looked up.
Jourdain said, "The dog is from Master Peter."
"Oh." She closed her eyes and opened them. "Oh, Jourdain, he thinks of me." Helpless with happiness, she sank down on a bench and let the tears gush out of her eyes. She lifted the dog to her wet face and pressed her lips to its nose, paws, ears. "Jourdain, you don't know—"
"I know," he said. "Lady, it's good to see you smile." He sat down next to her and scratched behind the dog's right ear.
"Jourdain, is my lord well?"
"Completely recovered.
"And happy?"
"It appeared so."
"Did he sound cheerful?"
"I suppose."
She turned impatient. "What does that mean? 'I suppose.' I'm sorry. I only meant is he his old self? You know."
Hesitantly, Jourdain answered, "Lady, that is too much to expect. And remember, he's a monk now. All I can tell you is that he smiled and even made a few jests."
"About what?" For an hour, she pumped him about the smallest details of his visit to Saint-Denis, and when there was no more to learn, she fell silent and stroked the puppy. It sat up, wobbly-legged, and looked around. "What shall I name him?"
"Her," Jourdain corrected. "It's a she."
"All right. She. I think I shall name her Aristotle."
Jourdain hooted. "Lady. I said the dog is a female."
"Well, I don't care. I would name her for a great philosopher, so she must be called Aristotle. Or Plato."
"Aristotle. She doesn't look like a Plato."
"That's what I thought." Heloise giggled. She set the dog on the ground. It waddled a few steps, looked around indecisively, and squatted, leaving a sizable puddle. "Oh, look at that!" she cried in amazement. "How cunning."
"Heloise, you are silly. It's not a toy."
They laughed together. Aristotle snorted twice and began to root furiously among the rushes.
"I have another bit of news," Jourdain said. "Your uncle."
'Tell me."
"Condemned and banished. The bishop's court took away his canonry and all his prebends. Everything. He can never return to Paris."
She turned her face away, trying to think of something to say. "Where has he gone?"
"One of his farms near Melun. With Agnes. He won't suffer much. More's the pity."
Heloise slid off the bench and went to get the dog. "He shall roast in the flames of hell for all eternity. That is for certain."
Jourdain nodded. He said slowly, "Lady, I must leave you now. It's growing late. I—I don't know when we shall meet again. I leave for Troyes."
"Jourdain."
"The Count of Champagne has taken me into his service. It's all arranged."
"Of course. I remember." She went to him, the dog resting on her hip, and gripped his hand. "God give you peace."
They talked for a few minutes longer, and then Jourdain was gone. Heloise cuddled Aristotle in her arms, took a big breath, and stamped toward the cloister gate. The sky was black and starry. She had missed supper, but it did not matter. Cutting through the cloister, she hurried down the north walk in the direction of the kitchen. Cook must give her a bowl of milk for Aristotle.
15
Madelaine sat motionless at her table, parchment piled at her elbow. Her eyes were sunk deep in their sockets.
"You can expect no help from Sister Astrane today," Madelaine murmured wearily. "She's ill."
"I heard."
"Lady abbess is in a fret. With Astrane in bed, who will take the pouch to Saint-Denis?"
Heloise's scalp prickled under the wimple. She said, "One of the lay brothers from the farmyard." Every Tuesday, Astrane delivered official correspondence to the abbey, and, as the abbess's pet, she was the only nun at Argenteuil to regularly leave the convent. Once, in desperation, Heloise had asked her to inquire about Abelard. Astrane had given her a look of such disgust that Heloise had flinched and turned away. She never asked again.
Sister Madelaine was shaking her head. "There will be documents to sign in the abbess's name. I must go myself." She glanced at Heloise. "Or send someone literate."
Heloise said nothing. Madelaine was in no
condition to travel; she could barely stumble from the dormitory to the schoolroom. The prioress began to fumble with a stack of bills. After ten minutes of grumbling, she scratched her chin and told Heloise that she might go.
"I must be crazy," Madelaine muttered.
"God's pardon, Sister," stammered Heloise, "but I am perfectly capable of conducting the business satisfactorily."
"That wasn't what I meant."
"Well, what did you mean?"
"Don't do anything to disgrace us. Promise me."
"Thank you," she said, flushing, "for your confidence."
In the late morning, it began to drizzle, and by the time Heloise reached the abbey of Saint-Denis, the rain had settled into a steady downpour. Her veil hung like a sodden rag about her shoulders. The royal abbey was constructed very much like Argenteuil, but it was vastly larger. Over five hundred monks were in residence. One of them was Brother Peter Abelard. Heloise dismissed the lay brother who had ridden her there and presented herself to the porter. Soon a monk came and led her through a maze of passageways to Abbot Adam's offices. She was ordered to wait on a bench until one of the abbot's assistants could see her.
Clasping the leather pouch to her stomach, Heloise tucked her skirt around her ankles and pretended to keep her eyes demurely on the floor. Somewhere within these walls, he was reading or writing. Or praying. She wanted to scream his name aloud. From the corner of her eye, she inspected every monk who passed. The door leading to the abbot's secretariat opened and closed regularly. From inside came a steady hum of voices. Two merchants brushed by, looked at her with curiosity, and sat on a bench near the window.
"Sweet Jesu," she heard one of them say. "An afternoon's wait just to collect fifty livres." His companion laughed.
Heloise wanted to be sick. Our Father who art in heaven, she thought. Just once. Let me see him once more. That wasn't very much to ask. God, why did you bring me here if I can't see him? In everything you taunt me.
