by Marion Meade
Heloise's eyes widened. "But, my lord—"
"You must devote yourself to prayer and meditation."
She forced her voice patient. "Begging your pardon, lord abbot. How do you propose I do these things when there is no wall, no gate? There's no way to keep people out."
Suddenly he sighed, and the bad temper was gone. "Aye. I know. It's hard." He curled his fingers through the hair at the side of his neck. "Now, what was I thinking of? Of course, you must have a wall. I understand that."
Heloise looked at him across the trestle. Her chest burned with pity, and she longed to draw him into her arms and caress that dark head. It was curious; when she was separated from him, she squirmed with hot images of herself lying naked in his arms, their legs entwined. In his presence, however, those torturous pictures subsided and she felt calm, unaroused. She gazed beyond Abelard at Ceci, who was glowering at the wall. She was not eating anything; she would be starved by nones.
"Lady," Abelard said, "I nearly forgot. I have letters for you."
"Really?" She smiled. "Who would write to me?"
He called, "Berengar, get the abbess's mail."
There were two letters: on one she recognized the handwriting as Jourdain's and slipped it into her girdle to read later. The other she opened with some curiosity and immediately glanced at the bottom of the sheet to note the signature. "Astrane!" she exclaimed. "My lord, this is from a nun who was at Argenteuil. Ceci, it's from Astrane."
"Oh," Ceci said with a scowl. "That's nice."
Abelard said, politely, "What does she write?"
Heloise read silently. Everyone watched her. Finally she lifted her head with a dismayed expression. "She's at Sainte-Catherine's of Senlis. She has heard about our new convent." She shook her head in disbelief. "She and several others in the house wish to— She says here that she wishes to join us." She laid the letter flat on the trestle.
Ceci sat bolt upright and jabbed her elbows down hard against the board. "She said that! I don't believe it. What gall, what—"
Abelard's voice rose above hers. "That is good news indeed, lady. The Paraclete needs women. Write at once and extend an invitation."
At his elbow, Ceci was mumbling under her breath. Abelard swung toward her. "What did you say, Sister?"
"Pisspot. Limp-legged, nasty-minded pisspot."
"Stop that," Abelard warned. "Sister Cecilia, you may be excused from this table."
Ceci got up and ran outside. Heloise read the letter a second time, to see if there was something she had missed. There wasn't—Astrane was asking for an invitation.
In the evening, after the rushlight had been blown out, Heloise stirred restlessly on her pallet. She clamped her eyelids but they would not remain shut. Beside her, Ceci rolled over. "Heloise," she whispered, "what are you thinking about?"
"Astrane."
"You won't have her." It was a definite statement.
Heloise let a moment slip by in the darkness. Then she said, "Yes. Yes, I believe I will have her."
"Heloise!" Ceci sat up.
"Didn't Lord Jesus tell us if someone slaps us on one cheek, turn the other too? And to treat others as we want them to treat us? How can I refuse her!"
"Holy Cross, she betrayed all of us."
"We must love our enemies." Heloise pulled the blanket around her neck. "We get no credit in heaven by merely loving those who love us."
Ceci kept silent. She flopped down on her back, and Heloise could feel her staring in the blackness. Finally Ceci said, resigned, "Mayhap she has changed."
Heloise laughed. "I wouldn't count on it."
After a while, Ceci said sleepily, "Hard to believe we shall have a cloister here someday."
"I know."
"Shall we get a lemon tree? In remembrance of Lady Alais?"
"I think that would be nice."
Ceci was asleep. As every night, Heloise began her prayers. Our Father, who desirest that we all be saved, grant that we acquire thy love even as have the angels who do thy pleasure on high. Protect thy servant Abelard. O Lord, watch over him from thy holy place. 1 beseech thee—to protect him in all adversity— In sudden despair, she broke off and buried her face in her hands. Why was it so difficult for her to pray? Why couldn't she love God as she loved Abelard, why was it so hard for her to serve God? Why? In fairness to herself, she sometimes felt that she did serve him. But she certainly got no satisfaction from it. It seemed to her that all she ever did was remonstrate with him, as if she were some female reincarnation of Job. Lord, I believe, even though I have suffered much at thy hands. Help thou mine unbelief and rebellion, my pride and lack of contrition. She prayed, knowing that God laughed. He knew that she was neither resigned nor submissive.
21
The sun felt warm at midday now. The winter rains had stopped and the ground was beginning to dry up. Arnoul sent word that he was bringing a team of oxen and a plow to the north field.
After saying prime, Heloise and Ceci took the mare out through the fields. The strips belonging to the Paraclete were not adjacent. In addition to this one, there were two more to the east, each intermingled with strips held by Milo and the villagers so that it was difficult for Heloise to get straight where her land ended and theirs began.
It was still chilly, because the sun had just risen. They skirted the oak woods and came out into an open space where Arnoul was talking to the villeins who held their land from the Paraclete. Heloise swiveled her neck and gave Ceci a puckish grin.
"Keep your eyes open today, sweet," she said. "Because on Thursday they'll be working their own strips and the plow will be all ours."
"God's toes, when I took vows, nobody said anything about plowing." Pressing her mouth against Heloise's shoulder, Ceci began to laugh. "Look there. Those oxen look mean."
"Shhh. Act like a nun." Heloise jumped the mare over a balk of turf that divided the Paraclete's field from the adjoining one and jogged up to Arnoul. The hooded men inched back, trying not to stare. Several small boys kicked at the dirt. Heloise greeted them with a smile.
"Lady abbess," Arnoul stammered, "it was not necessary for you to come."
She slid gracefully from the mare and helped Ceci down. "Certainly it's necessary," she said. "How else will we learn?" Ceci took the horse to a tree and roped it. "Besides, we've brought your dinners."
"As you wish, lady," Arnoul answered. He looked angry.
Ceci pointed to a wooden grid that lay flat on the ground. "What's that?"
"A harrow," Arnoul said.
"A harrow," Ceci repeated uncertainly, as if it were some exotic machine never before seen in Champagne. The children giggled and nudged each other.
Tugging at Ceci's sleeve, Heloise led her to a balk, where they sat down to watch. The oxen were yoked up. One of the villeins grabbed the plow handles and began guiding it over the ground. He started just to one side of the center of the strip, plowed the entire length, then turned at the end and plowed back along the other side. After a while, Heloise grew almost mesmerized by the repetition of the motions: the coulter cutting the earth, the share breaking it, then the wooden board turning it over. "Arnoul," she called, "has this field been manured recently?"
"No, my lady. By my records, four years ago."
Under her breath she clucked fretfully. The yields would be poor, unless God decided to be merciful and made a miracle.
Two men operated the plow, one of them grasping the handles while his partner walked alongside the oxen with a goad and shouted commands. Both of them swore a lot. After them trailed the men who broke up the larger clods with plow bats.
Above, the sun was climbing the sky. Heloise felt the warmth on her forehead and hands. Three men moved into the row scattering seed broadcast—peas and beans in the furrow, corn and barley on the ridges. Shrieking and squealing, the children ran up and down the field slinging stones at the crows. Arnoul was signaling to a villein, who immediately guided his horse and harrow over the furrows just sown. Ceci jabbed Heloise
with her elbow. "Look how many men it takes to do this. There are only two of us."
Heloise smiled at her. "We'll manage."
"How?"
While watching the villeins, Heloise had been thinking about it. "I'll guide the plow. You drive the oxen."
"What about the seeding?"
"We can do half the strip, then come back and start seeding and harrowing."
"Sure. And in the meantime the crows will have a belly full."
"We'll get Berengar and Abelard to shoo the birds."
Ceci laughed.
"I'm serious."
"Berengar might do it. Abelard never. You're talking about an abbot."
Heloise shrugged. "We'll see." It would do no harm to ask. Toward midmorning, they could hear the church bell tolling dimly from Saint-Aubin. While the men unyoked the oxen and fed them hay, Heloise and Ceci brought out the food. On those days that the villeins plowed for their lord, it was obligatory to provide them dinner. Wet—with ale. Or dry—without. Heloise had not tasted ale since Christmas, nor had she cash to buy it from the Quincey alewife. Her villeins would not be happy with their dry dinner, she knew. When they came up to get their fish, bread, and cheese, she made a speech explaining the missing ale and asking for their indulgence. They said it didn't matter.
Heloise offered a brief prayer, and then everybody sat on the turf banks and ate. Arnoul, chewing noisily, said to her, "Lady, there was no need to apologize. These men don't expect ale." He talked about them as if they could not hear.
Heloise smiled. "It does no harm to express one's feelings. I'm truly sorry I had no ale for them." She took a crust of bread and smeared cheese on it.
Arnoul went to his horse and came back with a skin of wine. He offered it to Heloise. She shook her head. A few yards away, she could hear the villeins bickering roughly and cursing. The boys were happily stoning each other. Arnoul shouted at them, and they threw down their slingshots and sat on the ground.
Heloise said to Arnoul, "After dinner I would like to take the plow." He nodded, as she had already informed him that she and Ceci would finish the plowing. "Just once or twice down the field. To get the experience of it." He nodded again and fell silent.
After perhaps five minutes, he said, "Abbot Peter. He'll stay for a while?"
"A short while. He must return to Brittany."
"Does he know that you intend to plow yourself?"
She paused to glance at his face. His eyes were bright with disapproval. "I don't know if he knows or not. It is not important."
The bailiff wiped his forehead on his sleeve. "He should hire villeins to work your land. Two women can't do it alone. You need help."
Heloise stood up. "The abbot no longer owns the Paraclete. It is Sister Cecilia and myself who would be hiring, and we have no money. You know that."
Arnoul ground his heel into the dirt. "The abbot could find the money. He could preach."
Her back straight as a board, Heloise looked down at him. "With God's assistance, I shall plow. I'm not made of rock crystal."
Arnoul stood and shouted for the men. They yoked the oxen to the plow. Heloise grasped the handles; Ceci picked up the long switch from a ditch. The villeins stood against the turf balks, watching them. Cautiously, they moved off down the field. The ground was slightly uneven, the plow much heavier than Heloise had imagined. By the middle of the furrow, her arms were beginning to ache. She concentrated on keeping the plow steady. As they neared the end of the row, she heard Ceci shout, "How the hell do I turn these beasts around?"
"With the goad!" she yelled. "Prod them!" Ceci began to scream at the oxen. A villein came running down the field and swooped the switch from her hands. Roughly he beat the team until they had turned and were maneuvered into position. Heloise dropped the handles for a moment and wiped her hands on her skirt. She waited, inhaling the good smell of freshly turned earth. Once again her hands clamped the plow, and they started moving. When they reached Arnoul and the villeins, she noticed that the men were grinning. They let out a long cheer. Heloise dropped the handles and grinned back, her face dripping sweat. Arnoul barked, "Jacques, get going. Take the plow." He scowled at the men. "Move. This isn't a feast day."
In position again, the oxen began lumbering down the strip. Ceci, panting, untied the mare. The women went home.
Later, after vespers had been said, Heloise went down to the river to find Abelard. Beneath the trees it was dank and the deepening twilight brought an aroma of rotted reeds. Abelard was sitting against the base of a birch, a book on his knees.
"Lady." He looked up at her, his eyes sleepy.
"Abbot Peter," she said in a light tone. "If I remember correctly, you once told me that as a boy you were an expert with the slingshot."
He smiled jauntily. "Champion of Le Pallet. A regular David against any Goliath."
"Good." She smiled back. "The Lord has need of you.
All through the spring and early summer, while the earth covered itself with juicy grass and the cabbages rounded into pale-green ovals, Heloise and Ceci rose long before prime to begin their work. Abelard had been back in Brittany for some time, and even though Heloise prayed for a letter, none came. She told herself the pope's legate must have visited by now—the monks of Saint-Gildas surely had put their feet on a more righteous path. By midsummer, the days were long and they were in the fields from dawn to dusk working alongside the villagers. Heloise felt violently happy. People made whistle pipes from reeds and played tunes on them. Out in the hay meadow, moon daisies were in bloom and dragonflies skimmed overhead. The grass there was high enough for the children to hide in. Everyone said the harvest would be plentiful.
Months had passed since Heloise had written to Astrane, telling her that she was welcome at the Paraclete but spelling out clearly the primitive conditions she would find. Ceci, who had read the letter, said Heloise had painted such a dreadful picture that Astrane would be sure to give up the idea; she was glad of this. In time, both Heloise and Ceci forgot about Astrane. There was too much to do.
The Paraclete had acquired a sheep. One. It was an old, smelly creature, not at all lovable, and whenever Ceci looked at it, she began jesting about roast mutton. In July, on sheep-washing day, they drove the animal downriver to Quincey, where the villagers had built a big pen next to the water. It hardly seemed worth the trouble to have their one sheep washed and sheared, but Heloise felt they might as well. From early morning they could hear the Quincey sheep baaing a mile away, so much racket did they make.
Heloise and Ceci stood a little way off, watching. The sheep driven into the pen were all piled up against one another. Prodded with long sticks, they were pushed screaming into the water. Melisende came up and leaned against the pen, but conversation was difficult unless you shouted at the top of your voice. Yet somehow they talked, about the only things that mattered to any of them: the haying, when the corn would be ready for reaping, most often of the weather. It had been good so far, and if it held, if no rain spoiled it, they would give thanks to God.
At noon, Melisende's eldest son, a chubby lad of ten, ran up and said that three nuns had been seen in the village. Melisende said, "You must be mistaken."
"I saw them, Mama. They're all in black."
"Pilgrims," Melisende remarked absently.
After a moment, Ceci jabbed her elbow into Heloise's side. "Do you think—"
Heloise hurried toward the road, Ceci lurching along at her heels. There was no sign of any nuns. She walked slowly toward the village, shading her eyes. At the fork in the road, under an oak, sat Astrane and two other women. When they caught sight of her, they got to their feet and came forward hesitantly. Astrane called, "Sister Heloise. I mean, lady abbess—" Her face seemed saggy, apprehensive.
Heloise looked back. Ceci had stopped some fifty feet to her rear. She was not coming. Heloise turned, went up to Astrane, and kissed her on both cheeks. She stepped back and smiled at her, then at the two women behind her. "Welcome, ladies."
&
nbsp; Her eyes glued to Heloise's face, Astrane said quickly, "We lost our way . . . somebody gave us incorrect directions . . . where's the convent, all I've seen are corn fields ... I just can't—"
Heloise laughed. "Whoa, Sister, catch your breath. The Paraclete is up the road about a mile." She pointed north.
Ceci was stamping toward them, her face fixed in an expression that was half smile, half grimace. Heloise hoped that she wasn't going to be unpleasant to Astrane. Suddenly Ceci shouted at Astrane. "Well, Sister, we meet again on God's green earth. The Lord's will be done, I suppose."
Astrane looked away quickly, her eyes narrowed to slits. "God's will be done," she murmured, and introduced her companions, who stood smiling politely. Heloise glanced at the one called Gertrude. She was tall and her hazel eyes spouted curiosity. Whenever she spoke or looked at someone, she wrinkled her nose. The other nun, Marguerite, did not appear pleased to be there. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she kept swiping at them, and at her nose, with a wadded handkerchief. She told Heloise that grass made her sneeze.
They walked back to the pen to collect the sheep. Children and sheep and dogs clogged the dusty road. Ceci said to Astrane, "Forgive my curiosity, Sister. But how came you to leave a place where you were prioress? Surely that was not a wise move."
There was a long pause. Gertrude and Marguerite pretended that they had not heard. Astrane, shoulders sagging, was looking at the sheep. "I was not prioress," she said finally. "Abbot Suger promised me the position, but it did not come about." Her face was hard.
"So," said Ceci. "You didn't get your thirty pieces of silver after all."
"Sister Cecilia!" Heloise said sharply. Sweet Jesus, Ceci could be cruel.
Astrane nodded, looking Ceci directly in the face. "No," she said, "I did not get my thirty pieces of silver." She laughed harshly.
Marguerite began to sneeze. They started up the road to the Paraclete, everyone talking at once, Ceci prodding the sheep with a stick. Heloise thought that Astrane's limp had improved slightly; or perhaps she had merely devised a way of holding herself that made the disability less noticeable. When they came in sight of the Paraclete, Heloise said loudly, "There it is."
