by Marion Meade
She nodded.
He arched his brows. "During Lent, madame? Meat during Lent?"
"Oh. Well, in your honor, my lord. I thought—"
Suger grunted. Without saying anything more, he turned his back on the abbess again and began talking to his secretary. Heloise recalled that the abbot, a lover of luxury, wore undertunics of the finest wool and slept under fur coverlets and sheets of the most costly linen. Undoubtedly he would eat the kid when it appeared on his trencher. Lady Alais's mouth was crinkled into a wad of distress, and she kept rubbing her hands together as if scrubbing them. Heloise thought, I would not like to stand in her shoes today.
All that morning, as he had promised, Suger toured the convent and spoke with cellaress, infirmarian, and others, making comments when something displeased him. Mostly he found fault. This did not sit well with Sister Angelica and Sister Blanche, because, even though Lady Alais may have been guilty of laxity, they believed themselves performing their duties with the utmost efficiency, and by sext nearly everyone was smiling at Suger through clenched teeth. After he had poked his nose into every corner of the grounds, he called the nuns together in the chapter house and announced that anyone who had a complaint was obliged to stand up and voice it. This procedure was standard in all convents when the bishop made his annual inspection, and usually the nuns had plenty of petty gripes. Today every mouth was clamped shut. Heloise had never heard the chapter house so utterly silent.
After dinner, Suger closeted himself with Lady Alais in the abbess's quarters. In midafternoon, an anxious-looking Astrane appeared at the door of the schoolroom. Heloise, reading, jumped to her feet.
Astrane said, "My lady wants you."
"Is it bad?"
She shrugged. "He won't be happy until he crucifies her."
In the abbess's parlor, Suger sprawled in a high-backed chair, a sheet of parchment dangling from his right hand. Behind hovered the secretary, who occasionally handed him a paper or stooped to whisper into his ear. A goblet of wine waited on the trestle.
Lady Alais, her face pale, motioned Heloise to a stool in the corner; Astrane stayed by the door. Suger gave no indication that he noticed their arrival. He was speaking rapidly, now and then glancing down at the parchment sheet, which appeared to be some kind of dossier. He read a name aloud. "Isabella, daughter of Henry of Gramat. Novice." Lady Alais nodded. He said, "What about her?"
"She took her life."
"Where is she interred?"
Confused, Lady Alais cleared her throat. "Why, in the cemetery, my lord."
"A harlot in the abbey cemetery?"
"But my lord, no offense was proved. The girl was deranged." Suger sniffed. "Suicide is a mortal sin. Dig up the grave and bury her outside the walls."
"Yes, my lord."
Suger contemplated the fist again. "Custance, daughter of Estienne of Nangis."
"Died young," offered the abbess quickly.
"Of what cause?"
"A bloody flux."
Heloise remembered Sister Custance, the one with the voluptuous body. That was right, she had bled like a river, right through the straw pallet in the dorter, before someone had carried her to the mfirmary. She had been young and extremely pretty. Heloise waited for Suger to go on to the next name, but he had swiveled in his chair and was listening to his secretary.
He jerked back to Lady Alais, face cold. ''Abortion or miscarriage?" he asked dryly.
"I—" The abbess colored dark red. "My lord, nothing like that."
"My records show otherwise."
"There was some talk at the time," the abbess admitted. She looked away nervously. "But—"
The abbot took a mouthful of wine. "Very well. Let us go on. We can return to Sister Custance later." He consulted his list. "Sister Ida, daughter of William of Vezelay. What information can you give me concerning her?"
Lady Alais straightened her spine. "A priest raped her," she said without hesitation.
"Oh?"
"Father Jacques, as I recall." She glared at Suger. "During confession, and the poor girl—"
Suger didn't give her a chance. Leaning forward, he talked over her voice. "In the year of Our Lord 1094, there was a sister named Genevieve, bastard of the abbess of Notre Dame Sainte-Eulalie."
"Ten ninety-four," repeated the abbess carefully. "That was a long time ago."
"Come now. Were you not abbess at that time?"
'Yes, my lord." Paler than before, she began to chew the thumbnail of her left hand.
"Sister Genevieve gave birth to three brats in this convent." His eyes, unwavering, were stuck to the abbess's face.
She stared at him dumbly. "Surely not, my lord. I would remember that."
Suger took a long drink and set down the goblet with a crash. “Let us say your memory leaves a great deal to be desired. But somehow I had a feeling you would not remember that name." He actually smiled.
“I’m sorry, my lord."
Heloise hardly dared breathe. From the corner of her eye, she glanced at Astrane, who was staring openmouthed at the floor. Ten ninety-four. Surely the abbot could not go back in time much further than that; surely he would have to complete this interrogation soon.
She licked her lips, waiting. She looked at the secretary with his smooth expression and ink-stained cassock. Suddenly she heard Suger bark, "Sister Cecilia, daughter of Baldwin of Larris." Astonished, Heloise tried to keep her face a blank. God's eyes, how did Suger know about Ceci? Lady Alais had not reported Ceci's disappearance. Heloise had argued against concealment, but Lady Alais always said that she would wait a few more months—perhaps Sister Cecilia would return. Still, Heloise was stunned. There was no way that Abbot Suger could have learned about Ceci, but, incredibly, he had. She heard him repeat Ceci's name.
Lady Alais said, "Missing," and snapped shut her mouth.
Heloise watched the secretary scribble on a tablet. "Missing," echoed Suger. "Under what circumstances?"
"I don't know, my lord. She vanished one night."
"When was that?"
"Christmas." The abbess's voice quivered.
"Christmas of what year? Brother Richwin, are you writing this down?"
Heloise had a feeling that Suger already knew the answer. It was several minutes before the abbess replied. At last she said, "Eleven twenty."
Suger said calmly, "My dear lady abbess, I make that three years ago."
"Two," she corrected him. "Two years and three months."
"Very well. May I inquire why Sister Cecilia's disappearance was not reported to Saint-Denis?"
“What do you mean?" the abbess asked, in exaggerated bewilderment. "It was reported."
"No," Suger murmured, "it was not. Not at the time it occurred. Nor at any time up to the present."
"Mayhap the letter was lost or mislaid."
"Mayhap," said the abbot, agreeable. "Mayhap not. The fact remains that a runaway occurred without notification of your superiors. Or, I might add, without notification of the nun's kin. This is a serious omission. But, of course, as you stated, sometimes your memory serves you ill, lady. Perchance it slipped your mind."
Lady Alais bristled. "Such matters are handled by the prioress. Sister Madelaine was quite ill then. She died a few months later. It may have slipped her mind. No doubt that is what happened."
Suger seemed to accept her excuse. Folding the list, he handed it over his shoulder. The secretary gave him the wax tablet on which he had been writing. Suger studied it, nodded, and then handed it back. He raised his eyes to Lady Alais. "Speaking of prioresses—'' He paused. "I understand that the chapter has elected Master Abelard's leman to the office."
Lady Alais swayed on her stool. "My lord, no—"
"No?" He lifted his brows. "You say no? I have it down here."
An explosion of venom spurted into Heloise's throat. Yes, she screamed silently, I was his leman—and proud of it. The man was devilish. No fault could be found with her election, but he seemed determined to make trouble.<
br />
Lady Alais cried, "I meant, no, she was not his leman. She was Master Peter's wife, my lord."
"Leman first, wife second. Bore a brat out of wedlock. Once a whore, always a whore."
Flesh crawling, Heloise waited for Lady Alais to inform Suger of her presence in the room. But the abbess seemed to have forgotten.
"My lord abbot," she said, "Sister Heloise was best qualified for the office. She was Sister Madelaine's assistant, and she had been performing the duties prior to Sister Madelaine's death. My lord, she is quite efficient." Gulping for air, she added lamely, "There is no question of any illegality concerning her election."
"I was questioning the propriety of such an election," Suger snapped. "How many dissenting votes?"
Lady Alais moved her hands convulsively. Her face was blank.
Heloise cleared her throat. Rising, she took one step forward and said, "Eight, my lady," and stepped back.
Suger swung to face her. For a moment he stared flatly, and then turned back to Lady Alais, who was blotting perspiration from her forehead. "Who's that?" he demanded.
"Sister Heloise. Our prioress."
"I see." Suger's face registered no expression. He called to Heloise, "Come forward."
She went to him, knelt, and kissed his ring. The limp, stubby fingers smelled of garlic. Hands of a peasant, she thought. Which was exactly what he had once been. The son of a tenant farmer who had tilled the land for Saint-Denis and somehow had managed to get his bright lad enrolled as a novice at the abbey. There Suger had made friends with the son of King Philip, a chubby boy like himself, and thanks to his lifelong intimacy with Louis the Fat, he had risen to become second man in the kingdom. Heloise got up and faced him.
"So," Suger said to her. "Sister Heloise. La tres sage Heloise?" His glance was full of hostile curiosity.
She did not reply, but continued to stare at him. He hadn't even the good breeding to look embarrassed. Wash a hound and comb him, hound he is and hound he remaineth.
"You have not collected reap silver from your tenants this spring." It was an accusation.
"As you know, my lord, there has been famine. Our tenants have no money. I commuted the reap silver, and instead they will provide physical labor and cut our grain in June." This decision she had made reluctantly, but in the end she had seen no alternative.
“You could have taken their property. Kettles, stools."
"We do not wish to do to others what we would not have done to ourselves."
Suger grunted. He rubbed his nostrils with his right forefinger, gazing at her over his hand. "Manure," he said.
"Pardon, my lord?"
'Your tenants on the east fields are neglecting to put their sheep in the convent's pens at night. You will have no manure."
"Most of them own no sheep, my lord. This winter they were obliged to slaughter their stock." When he did not reply, Heloise went on. "In lieu of the manure, they will catch eels for us and I think—"
Suger was not listening. Sliding to his feet, he ambled to the window. "It's getting late," he said over his shoulder. He waved a dismissal, and his secretary began to gather papers from the trestle. A moment later, he had reached the door, Astrane bowing low as the two men passed.
From the reception hall, he called to the abbess, 'You will attend me in the yard, lady. In a quarter of an hour." Their footsteps died away.
When the door had closed, Lady Alais slipped off the stool and huddled on the floor. "Astrane, a henap." Astrane went to fetch the wine. "And don't water it," the abbess moaned.
Heloise went out, her shoulders throbbing with tension. Lady Alais was foolish to begin drinking now, with the farewells still to be said. Suger might smell the wine on her breath. Heloise sighed and rounded the corner of the abbess's garden. The sky over the chestnut trees had paled to lavender. She pulled up short. Ahead, on the walk leading to the cloister, Suger and his secretary were standing, talking. Suddenly an idea began to form in her mind. Deliberately, before she lost her nerve, she strode up to the men and looked pointedly at the abbot. He ignored her.
She coughed. "My lord abbot Suger, may I speak with you, please?"
Surprised, Suger took a step toward her.
In a rush she said, "Forgive my impertinence but—have you news of Master Abelard? How fares he at Saint-Medard? Is he in good health?" At the council of Soissons, Abelard had been condemned. The Church had ordered him to thrust his book into the fire, and afterwards he had been compelled to recite the Athanasian Creed, as if he were some stupid schoolboy. He had been committed to the abbey of Saint-Medard, a house for the perverse and licentious. Since then, Heloise had been able to learn nothing of him, although not for lack of effort.
Suger's eyes had narrowed into points of contempt. He did not speak.
"Please, my lord. You were Abelard's friend once."
"I am still his friend."
Heloise stared him down, searching his face for clues. He said, "You should not concern yourself with worldly matters, Sister. This is unseemly behavior."
"For pity's sake," cried Heloise, "just tell me if he's alive at Saint-Medard."
Suger thrust his hands into his sleeves. Abruptly, he said, "He is no longer living there—not for the past year." He nodded to his secretary and started to walk away, his short legs pumping.
Heloise went after them. "But, my lord, where is he?"
Over his shoulder, Suger hissed, "Champagne."
"In an abbey, my lord? Where in Champagne?" She was close to tears.
Suger spun around, his face scarlet with rage. Under his breath, he said, "Sister Heloise, if it were not for you, Peter Abelard would be a whole man today. Now begone."
Heloise did not stir. He was a little man. She was not afraid of him. "My lord, I—"
"Get you gone!"
She stumbled away, wanting to weep because an instant earlier, while Suger had been shouting at her, she had tried to visualize Abelard's face. And could not.
Lent ended. On the day after Easter, Lady Alais departed on a pilgrimage to Compostela for, as she put it, the good of her soul and her nerves. Heloise, as prioress, was left in charge. Although she was reluctant to admit it, Argenteuil seemed to function better without the abbess, probably because Heloise was quick to make decisions and Lady Alais put them off as long as possible. Still, money worries continued, and their stores fell to a distressing low. Nobody went hungry, but meat appeared on the trestles only once a week.
Astrane was furious because Lady Alais had not taken her along. Instead, the abbess had selected a novice, Sarazanne, to accompany her as maid. Sarazanne was a complete pudding brain, but unfailingly cheerful, so Heloise understood the reason for her choice. Astrane sulked. For some reason, her displeasure at Lady Alais turned itself, once the abbess had gone, on Heloise, and she began to dispute Heloise's orders. Once, shrill-tempered, she called Heloise a whore.
Heloise shrugged. "If I was a whore,” she said, unperturbed, "it was by choice. Now I am prioress of this house and your superior. Get to work, Sister."
She heard from Jourdain in the early summer, the letter spiraling her spirits. Abelard was now living near Troyes, and Jourdain had visited him during Lent. Apparently Abelard had not stayed long at Saint-Medard, but had returned to Saint-Denis, where he immediately became embroiled in a dispute. Jourdain believed the trouble of his own making, because he had insisted that St. Denis, the abbey's patron, was not the same person as Dionysius the Areopagite, as everyone at the abbey believed. Already in disfavor with the brethren for his persistent criticism of their morals, he then found a new tempest of fury unleashed against him. As Jourdain pointed out, Abelard would have been wise to keep quiet.
Heloise was surprised to learn that Abelard had been rescued, so to speak, by Abbot Suger, who gave him a dispensation so that Abelard could teach and live without being connected to any monastery. He had gone to Champagne, where Count Thibaut had given him sanctuary, and in the end a wealthy baron had presented Abelard a gi
ft of land on the banks of the Arduzon River. It took Jourdain several pages to describe the details of this complicated transaction, and, reading between the lines, Heloise got the impression that he had been instrumental in arranging things. There, on the banks of the Arduzon, living with one clerk, Abelard had built a chapel of reeds and thatch, and he had dedicated it to the Holy Ghost. He called it the Paraclete, the Comforter who had brought him solace during his misfortunes.
Ever since the Church had condemned Abelard at Soissons, Heloise had worried incessantly about his mental state; she feared for his sanity. And sometimes she had railed against God for continuing to send one disaster after another to her beloved. Let be, she would shout in her prayers, let be! But of course he had not paid the smallest morsel of attention, and that was understandable. Now she took Jourdain's news as a good omen. Abelard's newly acquired property was deserted, a lonely stretch of wilderness along the riverbank. But it was also peaceful, Jourdain pointed out, and it provided Abelard the solitude he desired. He was reading; he was happier than Jourdain had seen him for years.
Her fears having proved groundless, Heloise grew calmer. In June, after sheepshearing, she devised a new system of accounting that allowed her to make substantial reductions in Lady Alais's debt to the bishop, going in person to present the plan to the clerks at Saint-Denis. On her return, she found waiting in Lady Alais's reception hall a peasant woman, Jehane, the widow of an Argenteuil tenant farmer.
Jehane fidgeted and took a long time in getting around to the purpose of her visit. Nervously, she kept peering into the passageway and out the window, until Heloise finally took her into the abbess's parlor and gave her a bowl of water. When she finally did begin to talk, Heloise had difficulty making sense of her story. A beggar had come to the door of her hut. When Jehane told her food was scarce and there was no money for alms, the beggar pushed her way in and refused to leave. She had insisted that Jehane visit the convent and speak to Sister Heloise. Sister would come with money, and everything would be all right.
