by Marion Meade
Nobody spoke. Then Marguerite said, "Where?”
"Oh," Ceci said, laughing, "you have to look carefully, but it's there."
The three newcomers, including Astrane, who had been forewarned, looked about with undisguised confusion and dismay. Heloise smiled. "Sisters, we have very little. As you can see."
"Lady," Gertrude gasped, "anyone can walk right in here."
"And anyone does," Ceci called out cheerfully.
"We are going to build a wall," said Heloise. "In fact, now that you're here, we shall have one by the end of the summer." That was far too optimistic a prediction, but Heloise made it just the same.
Suspicious, Astrane asked, "Who's going to build this wall?"
"Ah, we are," Ceci answered.
"But I've never built a wall."
Ceci laughed. "Live and learn, Sister." She chased the sheep to its pen while Heloise led the women to the sleeping chamber. It was clear that they were exhausted. They fell on the pallets and slept until vespers.
On Tuesday of the week following, after sneezing and wheezing steadily, Marguerite told Heloise that she wanted to return to Senlis. It was the proper decision, Heloise thought, and she packed off the sniffling nun with a merchant caravan traveling north. She had neither the time nor the facilities for nursing the sickly, and she had counted it one of God's blessings that she and Ceci had kept in good health. All that week, and for several weeks after it, they were busy with the harvest. With hand sickles and flails, they reaped, stacked the sheaves, and threshed. Sacks were carried home on wagons and stored in every available foot of space, including the chapel. Gertrude and Ceci went to work on the fruit trees, which hung low with plums, apples, and pears, and they all picked blackberries, sloes, and nuts, knocking the acorns from the oak trees with sticks. For the first time in many months, they left the trestle with their stomachs full.
When the sacks of grain had been taken to the Saint-Aubin mill to be ground into flour, Heloise went to see Lord Milo's master mason for advice on building a wall. She had started the foundation before harvest, and thanks to the gift of a knight from Ferreux, stone had been floated downriver from a quarry north of Saint-Aubin and stacked behind the chapel. It was enough for barely one side of an enclosure, but it would be a start. The mason came to the Paraclete to show them how to mix the sand, lime, and water, how to lay the stones on top of each other and trowel mortar between the layers. He left them a level and plumb line so they could make certain the stones were laid perfectly horizontal.
Father Gondry came to bless the first stone and stayed to help with the lifting. He knew even less about wall building than Heloise. By noon, only five stones had been set in place.
Gertrude was proving to be the fastest learner of them all. She suggested to Heloise that they might cut the expense by mixing mortar with pebbles—if they filled in the spaces that way, the large stones would go farther. When Heloise told her to try and see what happened, she fell to work with such zeal that she demurred about stopping for food. Father Gondry went back to the village and returned an hour later with a crew of children. Mainly they ran around slopping mortar in their hair and getting in the nuns' way. Finally, Heloise sent them to the fields with sacks and instructed them to gather pebbles.
Astrane poured water into the bowl of mortar. "This stuff is getting hard," she said to Ceci. "You're working too slowly. Look. You're not putting enough on that stone."
Ceci slapped at the mortar with her trowel, ignoring Astrane's pointed finger. "Don't tell me what to do."
"Somebody has to." Squinting critically, she came up with the bowl and heaved a blob of mortar onto Ceci's layer. "That stone won't hold."
Ceci's teeth began to rattle. She stared down at her work, her mouth grim. Heloise called to them, "Please, sisters. There's no time to quarrel."
Ceci's temper was up. "Of course I'm stupid compared to the brilliant Sister Astrane. I'll bet Sainte-Catherine's was ecstatic to see you go."
"Go to the devil," Astrane growled.
"I would, if I weren't sure of meeting you there."
Gertrude had dropped her trowel and was chewing her thumbnail in distress. Everybody had stopped working. Heloise took a deep breath. "My sisters, this is awful."
Astrane grunted. "Lady, I meant no harm. I have a bad habit of finding fault."
Ceci looked away, pretending that she was not grinning.
Heloise said, "Tomorrow morning we'll have a chapter meeting. For the specific purpose of complaining." The women stared at her, surprised. "Then we shall make a list of all the duties here and divide them among us."
"Can I be the portress?" Gertrude asked eagerly.
Heloise threw back her head and laughed. She went over to Gertrude and stroked her cheek. "Sister, when we have a portal, you can be the portress." They picked up their trowels and went back to spreading mortar.
Without warning, Abelard came back after All Saints' bringing news that Prince Philip was dead. While riding along the Greve in Paris, the lad had been thrown and killed when a black pig darted from a dung heap, and now his younger brother, Louis, had been anointed in Rheims Cathedral. Abelard had attended the ceremony.
His return took Heloise by surprise, although it was what she had been longing for. He slouched at the trestle drinking watered wine and shamelessly allowing the nuns to wait on him.
Heloise could see that he was making an effort to be charming. He was feeling low, that much was clear to her, but he made jests and even succeeded in thawing Ceci. Heloise leaned near the entrance to the kitchen, studying him. In the light of the yellow candles, he looked fantastically handsome. Like the Abelard of their Paris days, but it was an illusion cast by the flames. Outside, in the light of day, his cheeks sagged, and his skin was blotchy and irritated.
Heloise thought of asking why he had come back, but she decided to leave the subject alone. Whatever his reason, he had wanted to come; perhaps he had even wanted to see her. Finally, she edged forward and said to him. "How goes life at Saint-Gildas?" He had not mentioned the legate's visit or the monks' reactions.
He shrugged, impassive. "We do not transform swine into saints overnight."
"Did your sons promise to reform?"
He drained his wine and set the cup on the trestle. "No." He split his lips in a grim smile.
"None of them?" Surely he was exaggerating.
"I told you. They're crafty bastards." His tone was deliberately light. And final. He turned toward Gertrude again and began talking about Pope Innocent, who still did not feel safe returning to Rome.
Rebuffed, Heloise scooped up a platter and hurried into the kitchen.
Abelard had not been at the Paraclete a week when the uproar began. Father Gondry was the first to mention it to Heloise, but he made light of the gossip, saying that Abelard's return was none of people's business, and they had nothing better to do than meddle and criticize. Heloise sighed impatiently. What her neighbors said didn't worry her overmuch, and anyway she had more important matters to think about. Their pigs had been slaughtered—she was busy finding tubs to pickle the great pieces of pork and hanging sides of bacon near the fire to smoke. It was a job she did not relish, for handling the bloody meat made her want to gag.
On St. Martin's Day, Abelard rode up to Nogent-sur-Seine, to pay his respects to Lord Milo. Before noon it began to rain. He was away all day, and when he returned, his cloak soaked, he picked at his dinner and said barely a dozen words to the nuns. After the meal, Heloise waited until the others had left before she approached. She gave him some wine mixed with herbs. He drank without speaking. Hesitating, Heloise said, "Is there anything you would like to tell me?"
He looked up, wary. "Tell you? What would I have to tell you?"
"My lord. Something is wrong. I can see that."
He laughed, choking.
"Did something happen at Nogent?" She meant to discover the reason for his unaccountable bad temper.
Silence. Then: "People in these parts have a
poor opinion of me." When she began to protest, he flicked his hands impatiently and would not allow her to continue. "When I left here in the spring, they said I had abandoned you, that I could have helped you and didn't. Now they're saying—" He broke off, leaning his head between his hands.
Heloise wondered who "they" were. "My lord abbot, I don't know what you're talking about. After God, you are the founder of this place. Surely you won't allow idle chatter to upset you this way."
He jerked back his head. "Idle chatter? Not at all. Malicious insinuations. Monstrous accusations."
Heloise, shaken, sat down across from him. She said, “Tell me.”
Abelard would not meet her eyes. "That I am still a slave to the pleasures of carnal desire—" "My lord—"
"That I can't bear to be parted from the woman I once loved."
Heloise turned her head away, blinded with hurt. Once loved.
"For the love of Christ, I'm a eunuch! In my present condition, how can there be any suspicion of wrongdoing?" His voice snarled with pain.
Involuntarily, she stretched her hand to him, then laid it down awkwardly on the trestle between them. His eyes met hers briefly before jerking away. At last, Heloise said simply, "We need you here." There was no reply, and when she looked up, she saw that his eyes were closed, his body rigid. "Stay here. We need you."
He went on as if he had not heard. "What does it take to please them? I”m not a man anymore. I'm a thing. An it." He laughed hollowly, but the laugh made the skin on Heloise's neck crawl.
She waited for him to continue, but he did not. After a while, she slipped into the kitchen, sagged against the wall, and wept into her sleeve. The room stank of half-smoked flesh and dried herbs. She stared at the wall, thinking of Abelard in the next chamber. There were so many things she wanted to tell him: that she had been thinking of draining the marsh, that she was going to see the pope, that she loved him yet. She wished that he wanted to listen. It struck her that he was not really uninterested, only self-absorbed. She wiped her face and went in to him.
He was standing by the open shutters, looking out at the rain, which had settled into a steady drizzle.
"My lord, there is something I must speak about."
He glanced over his shoulder before turning to her. Her fingers picked nervously at her wimple. "My lord, I understand that the pope is at Auxerre."
"That's correct."
"Auxerre is but a short journey from here. I was thinking of— well, I had planned to—visit him."
Abelard's voice flared sharply. "By God, why! There's no reason to do that."
"I want to get a charter confirming my ownership of the Paraclete."
"Yes, yes. All that will be taken care of. Bishop Hatto promised me—"
"The bishop is a busy man," she said calmly. "We've been here ten months and still no charter."
"It is not proper for you to leave here." His face was turning red. "You must attend to your flock."
Heloise was surprised to find him so vehement. His own flock sat unattended, sometimes for months at a stretch. "I understand your concern, but my flock can do without me for a week. It's more important that I obtain recognition before the pope leaves France."
"Send someone else."
Heloise shook her head.
"I will go for you."
"No." She could feel her stomach knotting, waiting for him to forbid her, and then she knew that she would back down. "I wish to go myself."
Abelard lifted his shoulders wearily. He stared at her for a moment before murmuring stiffly, "Very well. Then go if you must. You give the orders here now."
Before she could answer, he had plunged into the rain.
At the end of the week, she set out for Auxerre, and she took with her as escort Arnold's second-eldest son. Abelard accompanied them as far as Sens. The town was crowded, and she was in a hurry to find the road leading south to Auxerre. Aside from that, she sensed that Abelard felt uneasy with her, that he was anxious to make his farewell and return to Saint-Gildas. Before she cried, she wanted to be away from him.
The day was foggy, with a damp wind that ripped at her wimple. She left Abelard near the Troyes Gate. Tipping back in his saddle, he smiled pleasantly and gazed somewhere directly behind her left ear.
Heloise said, "My lord, you won't forget to send me the psalter and the abacus."
"Of course not. I'll send them the day I get to Saint-Gildas."
"Shall I give the pope your best wishes?" She was stalling now, dreading the moment when she must turn from him. Of all the things that she needed in this world, she needed him near her. But God had willed otherwise.
"Certainly," he said. "Please do that." He nodded vaguely.
Heloise's mare stamped impatiently. The bells in the cathedral began to pound. "Farewell," she said to Abelard, miserable. “Till we meet again, my lord."
“Till we meet again."
She spurred the mare, following Arnold's boy down the path that led back to the highroad.
Pope Innocent, the second of that name, smiled and fingered his jeweled miter. A beefy, stoop-shouldered man with a hawk nose, he more resembled a smith than a pontiff. For a long while, he listened while Heloise talked about the Paraclete, and he continued to smile. "And when do you find time to read? Tell me that, child."
Heloise wanted to laugh at the word "child"—she was over thirty. It reminded her of Lady Alais. Arranging her face into a pious expression, she said, "At night, Your Holiness." That was only partly true. Most nights she was asleep before her head hit the pallet, but when she did read it was late in the day.
"The venerable Peter of Cluny has told me about you. He likened you to Penthesilea—"
"Your Grace," Heloise said, "I'm no Amazon. Only a frail woman in need of assistance."
Innocent shook his head. "I don't say that to flatter you. But it's clear to me that God must have set you apart when you were in your mother's womb." He scratched his nose vigorously. "Through the grace of the Almighty, you turned your zeal for learning in a far better direction."
"Yes, Your Holiness."
"Fortunately, you abandoned logic for the Gospel, Plato for Christ."
"Yes, Your Holiness."
Innocent beamed. "You bring supreme glory to the Creator, child."
Heloise stared at the floor, trying not to wince. After Innocent had assured her of a jeweled crown from the King of Heaven, he shouted for the clerk and began to dictate the bull.
". . . confirm to her and her sisters, as well as those who shall come after them, the perpetual possession of the Oratory of the Holy Trinity . . ."
Heloise listened, remembering Abbot Suger and his forged charter. His lies had forced her and Ceci into the road—and killed Aristotle. This time, perhaps, she would be safe.
". . . confirm the gifts which have been received and those they may receive through the concessions of pontiffs, the munificence of kings and princes, and the liberality of the faithful . . ."
The scratching of the clerk's quill grated in the small chamber.
"Given on this twenty-eighth day of November in the year of Our Lord eleven hundred and thirty-one."
Afterward, the pope offered to take the Paraclete under the personal protection of the Apostolic See, for which privilege Heloise would have to remit a sum of money annually to the Lateran Palace. Small as the amount was, it seemed enormous, and she wondered how she would be able to pay. However, she mumbled her thanks as she kissed Innocent's ring. She recognized a good bargain when she heard one.
22
Heloise woke shivering. Her chamber was icy, and the raw air clawed at her body through the blankets. Without opening her eyes, she knew that someone had come into the room. Abruptly, she sat up, squinting in the dark.
"Lady Heloise." Gertrude was whispering hoarsely.
A moment longer Heloise clung to sleep, and then she dragged her mind alert. "What hour is it?"
"An hour until lauds—lady, there's a knight at the gate." Gertru
de's shoes rasped against the stone floor as she came toward Heloise's bed. "God's pardon for disturbing you, but I don't know what to do with him."
"Did you tell him we have no guesthouse?"
"Yes, lady, but—"
Now she could see Gertrude's face, a white blob in the shadows. She rubbed her eyes to scratch the sleep from them. "Surely he understands that we can't admit him to the cloister." She could not turn him away, either—it must be close to zero outside.
"Lady, listen, it's you he wants to see. He says it's of the most extreme importance. Otherwise I wouldn't have waked you."
Behind her head, the shutters rattled, and in the distance she could hear horses nickering. "Very well, I'm coming." Quickly she threw back the covers and fumbled for her shoes. "This man. Did he mention the nature of his business?"
"Take your cloak. It's very cold."
"Did he—"
"No, lady. Only that he's in the service of a Lord Jourdain of Sancy. Does that mean anything to you?"
Heloise stiffened. "Yes," she said, "that means something." Fear struck her in the chest. It had been more than a year since she had last seen Abelard, or had heard from him. There had been only a baffling silence. God forbid that Jourdain's messenger should be bringing news of Abelard. Don't let him be dead, please don't let him be dead. She followed Gertrude through the nuns' sleeping chamber and out into the half-built cloister.
Shafts of moonlight dusted bluish shadows against the snow. In the darkness, Heloise covered her mouth with her hand and sucked in her own moist breath. She puffed along behind Gertrude, her toes numbing before they had reached the gatehouse.
It was bitter inside Gertrude's lodge. A cresset flamed weakly on the wall. The knight, clutching his cloak around his ears, stared curiously at Heloise. When she held out her hand, he hobbled toward her on frozen feet and dropped to his knees. "Lady Heloise, excuse me for this discourtesy."
He was a young man with a short blond beard and watery eyes. As he pressed his lips to her hand, she realized that he threatened to collapse from exposure and exhaustion. "What is your name, son?"
