by Marion Meade
At the writing table, Abelard sat very still, a quill in his right fist. It was a peaceful room, the walls whitewashed, the floor tiled in blue; blasts of warm air fluttered up from the brazier. When he saw her, he tossed the quill aside and said happily, "Who won?"
Heloise made an impatient gesture with her hand, as if the matter were trivial. "We did. I suppose."
He raised his eyebrows. "Don't you know?"
Throwing her cloak over a chest, she brought a stool to the table and sat down. "We get to keep the wood."
"Wonderful."
"But Abbot Norpal gets the acorns. Which means we can't feed our pigs there."
"Huh. Clever decision, I would say. I'll wager Norpal was burning."
Heloise smiled and shrugged her shoulders. "I expect he knows that he got more than he deserves."
Abelard laughed at her. "Lady, he should have known better than to tangle with you."
She bristled. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He twisted his body toward her, still smiling. "Tell me, how many lawsuits do you have pending?"
"Why, three—against the monks of Saint-Jacques, the monks of Saint—"
"There—see what I mean?"
"My lord," she cried, indignant, "those monks are trying to take advantage of us. Because we're women, they think we won't defend our rights."
"Lady, lady," he broke in. "I'm not criticizing you. Fight on. I think the Lord fights on your side."
She smiled uncertainly. "Do you think so?"
"No doubt." He turned his eyes back to the parchment on which he had been writing. And then, unexpectedly: "I only pray that the Almighty will aid me against my enemies."
She stared at him, startled. "Enemies? You have no enemies—"
He smiled easily, as if it was of no importance. "'Enemies' is the wrong word. Let us say, instead, critics. Your friend Abbot Bernard has been to visit me twice this year."
That surprised Heloise. Generally, Bernard did not travel about making social calls. "What did he want?" she asked. "Was he friendly.''
"Oh, very. But it seems that somebody has been reading my books and taking exception to some of my statements.”
"I don't know what there is to find fault with."
"Brother William is outraged—he says I treat Holy Writ as if it were dialectics. He claims I invent a new novelty each year."
It seemed to her that Abelard, while smiling, was telling her something dangerous. "Who is this William?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Used to be abbot of Saint-Thierry, but he decided an abbacy was too grand for him. My dear old friend is now an ordinary monk. Cistercian."
"You know him?"
"Once that rascal loved me. Now he calls me a public evil. In any case, he sent Bernard a letter of protest that listed thirteen offensive statements in my Introduction to Theology." He got up, stretched, and slouched to the window. Heloise turned her eyes to follow him. He laughed. "Brother William plans to search Sic et non for mischief— when time permits."
"Bernard." Heloise took a deep breath. "What did he want of you?"
“To get me to correct my errors." He opened the shutter a crack and reached for a handful of snow. Before he could draw it in, the flakes had melted in his hand.
"You're not going to, are you?" Heloise asked very quietly.
"Certainly not." Abelard snorted, wiping his hand on his gown. "Certainly not. It would mean the end of me as a teacher and writer." He came back to the table and sat down, smiling slightly. "Bernard kept saying, ‘Faith does not discuss—faith believes.' Any departure from that stance is rank heresy to him. The thought of my standing before a class of beardless young men and asking them to question Christian doctrines is enough to try the patience of a saint. His words."
She answered wryly, "He's aiming for sainthood."
"Do you think he'll get there?"
"No." She hugged her fingers to her sleeves, suddenly chilly. "Abelard, all knowledge is good. Even the knowledge of evil. Because a good person can't guard against evil until he knows what it is."
"Precisely. It's not wrong to know anything. The evil is in doing wrong. Besides, all knowledge comes from God and therefore must be good. That fire needs charcoal."
She nodded, getting to her feet. "I'll send somebody to fix it. My lord, did Bernard go away satisfied?"
Flippant, he answered, "Well, he went away. Tell me what there is for dinner around here."
"Fish soup. But if you want meat, I think Cook could find some ham for you—"
"I'll have both. And apples and cheese. And clabbered milk, if you have it."
She went for her cloak, slinging it over her arm. "Aren't you worried about getting fat?" she teased, moving toward the door.
"It's this country air. I—" Abruptly, his voice cracked; Heloise wheeled around in astonishment. His head sagged over the table, his shoulders crumpled beneath the black robe.
"Abelard!"
He seemed to be paying no attention. His face was hidden and she could hear him mumbling under his breath. "Dizzy—go fetch Astrolabe—"
Loath to leave, she ran to him and turned his face toward her. The eyes were shut fast. Under her fingers, his jaw was limp. Panicky, she raced into the yard, yelling for Gertrude as loudly as she dared. Across the way, Astrolabe was hurling snowballs with one of the children. Waving wildly, she called him to her. Behind him hurried Sister Gertrude. Heloise shouted to her, "Master Peter has fainted! Run to the infirmary." She caught a glimpse of Astrolabe's face, suddenly white and scared, but pulled him toward Abelard's chamber without speaking.
"Mama, wait—"
"Hurry up." Dashing ahead of him, she snatched up a fistful of snow, packed it hard between her palms, and ran inside. Hands dripping, she smacked the snow on Abelard's neck and face.
"Mama, wait—" Astrolabe grabbed his father by the shoulders; levered him off the chair, and stretched him full length on the floor. "He'll be all right. It only lasts a few minutes."
She bent down to him, catching him by the wrist. "This has happened before?" she demanded. "For God's sake, why didn't you tell me?"
"He didn't want to worry you."
"Oh, well, he didn't want to worry me. But look at what's happened now. He's ill. We must do something." She sank on her knees next to Abelard.
"He made me promise."
"Never mind your promises." Sister Claude came in with a goblet of herbed wine; she crossed the room without speaking, raised Abelard's head, and forced a little of the wine between his lips. Heloise hissed at her son, "He's ill. Why didn't he tell me?"
Abelard stirred. He opened his eyes briefly, then closed them.
Head bent next to Heloise's ear, Astrolabe whispered, "Please, Mama. It's not serious. The spells only last a few minutes, and then he's all right again. Sometimes he forgets. Listen to me. Go outside now so he won't know you saw this. Please, Mama, I'll call you when he's himself."
Sister Claude said, "I'll be here, lady. I think he's coming out of it now. These faints don't last long."
Heloise grunted. Reluctantly she got to her feet. Abelard's face shone waxy, but she could see that he was breathing normally. She backed toward the door and eased out. Two priests from Baudement were crossing the yard; they pointed at her and waved. She smiled and bowed. Her breath was coming fast. Astrolabe said it was not serious, but he was wrong. Fainting fits in a man of sixty were always serious. Crouched in the doorway, she nervously licked her lips and tasted snow-flakes.
At last, the latch clicked behind her back and she spun around to see Astrolabe beckoning. She stepped into the room. Behind the table, Abelard was sitting in the chair again, talking to Sister Claude. His fingers were curled around the goblet. When he saw Heloise, he called, "Lady, what can I have to eat?" and threw her a quick smile.
"Fish soup, my lord. Ham."
"Do you think I could have a bowl of apples and a little Brie?"
"My lord, I told you—" She looked from him to Astrolabe's expressionle
ss face.
"If it isn't too much trouble, I might take some clabbered milk."
"Yes, my lord." She turned away, shaken.
Astrolabe said, "I don't believe the faints have anything to do with Bernard. He had them before all this fuss started."
Heloise had led the boy to a quiet place next to the water mill, impatient for explanations. "Son," she said, "you say 'all this' as if it were not yet ended. I want to know—"
"Abbot Bernard has visited Father."
"Yes, yes, I know all that. But your father refused to change his books. What more can Bernard do?"
Astrolabe, leaning against the stone wall of the mill, had his back to Heloise. Hesitantly, he said, "Oh, he has written a treatise refuting Father's views. Very nasty, too. You know, sarcastic."
The wind lifted a cloud of cobwebby snow. The waterwheel creaked, subsided, creaked again. Heloise, staring at his back, tried to think. It was not wise to make an enemy of Bernard, of all churchmen, and Abelard should have known better. But when had Abelard been cautious? "How sarcastic?" she demanded. "Do you mean hostile?"
"Amusing," he said. "He calls Father a dragon who has been lurking in his den and now comes into the open." He picked at an icicle with his fingernails. "He said Father was setting degrees and grades to the Trinity and was trying to compute eternity. It's all silly. Everybody in Paris is laughing."
Heloise smiled to herself—Bernard was high-strung, extreme. As usual, he had managed to overstate his case. On the other hand, he was not a fool, nor would he allow himself to be made one.
Grinning, Astrolabe turned to her. "It's a good fight. Father wrote a point-by-point rebuttal of Bernard's charges, and somebody made a lot of copies and took them around to all the taverns." He flung back his head, tossing the long hair out of his eyes. "He called Bernard a devil disguised as an angel—now, isn't that funny?"
Heloise, frowning, did not answer.
"Oh, Mama, you worry too much. The pope and the whole Roman Curia are on Father's side. He told me as much." Then: "I think Father is enjoying all this."
"Hunh," Heloise grunted and snapped her mouth closed.
They went back to Paris after Epiphany. Before their departure, Heloise gave a string of instructions to Astrolabe—he was to stick close to his father, try to get him to see a physician, of whom there were several in the Ile. Most important, he was to write her if there was news of any kind. The boy promised, although it was clear that he felt disloyal to his father.
A letter arrived from Jourdain telling her that he planned to visit the court at Troyes in the spring. It had been a bad winter at Sancy; a pox had broken out and half his villeins were sick with it, also Jourdain's wife and youngest son, but they had recovered nicely. If all went well, he was determined to travel to Champagne and naturally he would come to see her. Idly, Heloise wondered what Jourdain might look like now. There had been many letters over the years, and she knew that he had not changed in any discernible way. Still, she persisted in thinking of him as a youth, which he was no longer.
On Candlemas, she made a trip to Trainel, a half day's journey, to inspect the legacy left by Father Gondry. She had meant to wait until Lent, but an unexpected climb in temperature had melted the snow, and she wanted to take advantage of the clear roads before they had another weather change. With her she took Ced, and they went to see Lord Anselm, who ruled in that part of the country west of the Arduzon. As she told Anselm, she could sell the property or she could use it. The more she thought about it, the dearer it became to her that here was a solution to one of her problems. The Paraclete, despite its expansion program, was undeniably overcrowded. Nearly a hundred women, and still the novices came. If she could siphon off a dozen or two and put them someplace else, living would be much easier.
The limestone manor house on the edge of town was quite spacious. Attached were vineyards and a few acres, not enough to produce much in the way of crops but certainly adequate for vegetable gardens. She strolled around the house, thumping walls and talking to herself. The place gave her a nice feeling. There was no chapel, but that could always be added.
"It's cozy,” Ceci said, lagging at her heels. "No privy, though."
"We'll make one."
"It needs a lot of fixing up."
"I can see that," Heloise murmured. "But when it's done, I think we'll have something lovely." She rammed open a shutter and looked out over the brown fields. "Ceci?"
"What?"
"I think," she said deliberately, "that we should name this convent after Ste. Madelaine." And in honor of Sister Madelaine, she thought. "How does this sound? Sainte-Madelaine of Trainel."
When she turned, Ceci was grinning. "The old witch will be very pleased, wherever she is."
Unbidden, the prioress's face leaped before her eyes, the schoolroom at Argenteuil, and the flat rock above the Seine which she had used as a refuge from Madelaine's sharp tongue. How she had longed to get away from the woman, from the high walls of the convent. The stern schoolmistress and the dreamy, unhappy girl. What had she dreamed about then? Love, pretty gowns—the things all girls want. Madelaine had wanted her to take vows, become an abbess, because she could imagine no other life for a clever woman. She had understood nothing of Heloise. Ceci was clearing her throat. Heloise closed the shutters before the tears started to form in her eyes.
Songbirds returned to the willows along the Arduzon and the Easter pilgrims to the highroads; the plowing and sowing and harrowing were finished, the vines tended. The Paraclete's tenants brought their sheep tithes. On the other side of Ferreux, a serf killed his master and burned the manor house—it was a bad business. Just before noon on Good Friday, Jourdain came to the gate with a large party of horsemen, among them Count Thibaut and Countess Mathilde. There was a frantic rushing about while Gertrude tried to decide where to put such distinguished guests. In the end, Abelard's wing was made ready for the noble couple and the rest of them tucked into odd corners of the guesthouse.
During Easter weekend, between the many special services, Heloise made time to speak privately with the Count of Champagne, and by the time his party left on Tuesday morning, he had promised to donate a barrel of wheat annually, together with the produce of the fishing grounds near his mills at Pont-sur-Seine.
"He adores you," said Jourdain, who had remained behind. After three days of walking all over the convent grounds that were open to guests, he had told Heloise that she had created a miracle. He was still shaking his head, his plain, amiable face vaguely astonished.
Heloise searched his face, still looking for the awkward boy. "I told you," she said. "People have been incredibly generous to us. God be thanked."
"Because you are a model abbess and this is a model convent."
"Oh, certainly," she said lightly, turning away from him. "People see only the facade."
Jourdain fingered his beard. "You still," he said, "think of yourself as a failure." He had grown stout, and his hair had thinned on the crown.
She smiled, her mouth tight. "I built this house for Abelard. Nothing was done for God."
"No, I think you're wrong." She wheeled to face him. "God works through people. Mayhap by serving your lord, you are serving your Lord."
Heloise shrugged. "Intention is all that counts." She merited no applause from heaven. The sun was going down. She led him into Abelard's apartment, fit the candles, and ordered wine and wafers. Jourdain sat drinking white wine from the Paraclete's own vintage.
He gazed about the room. "Master Peter must find this to his taste. Peaceful." Abruptly, he went on. "You've heard about the joust, of course."
Heloise tried to smile. "Joust? Is that what it's become?"
"It's no longer a private quarrel. Bernard has been writing letters to various cardinals and bishops."
There was a long pause. Heloise said finally, with an effort, ''Denouncing Abelard for heresy."
"He's gotten no support."
"It makes me nervous."
Jourdain
smiled at her, his forehead pitted with tiny wrinkles. "I think Master Peter will fix the abbot of Clairvaux once and for all at Sens. Bernard will retire to his cell and never come out again."
Heloise frowned and sat up straight. "In heaven's name, I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sens," he answered impatiently. "The octave of Whitsun. There's to be a big display of relics, and even the young king is coming. I thought you—"
She had received the circular invitation weeks ago. Archbishop Henry Sanglier had summoned abbots and abbesses and rural priests from every corner of the archdiocese. It was to be a great assembly—churchmen of every rank, as well as nobles and commoners.
"Are you going?" Jourdain asked.
She nodded.
"Then you will see Master Peter there. He's challenged Bernard to a debate."
Heloise stared. "That's very interesting. But whatever for? Bernard isn't a debater."
"He's going to outline his views and defy Bernard to refute them. Inspired plan, isn't it?"
"Do you mean to tell me," she said sharply, "that the archbishop agreed?" Outside in the yard, she could hear someone shouting; she hoped that Gertrude would quiet him.
Jourdain, yawning, drained his goblet. "Why should he refuse?"
"Jourdain," Heloise murmured, moving her stool closer. "You've known me since I was a girl—you know that I worry about everything. But isn't this something to worry seriously about? Isn't this very foolish of Abelard?"
"I don't think so. Because this way he can show everybody how pure his teachings are. It's the only way now that he can expose Bernard's attempts to discredit him."
"I don't know." In a debate, Bernard would be demolished. She could not imagine the frail little abbot defeated. "Bernard has accepted?"
“I told you. It's going to be the theological joust of the century."
"Has Bernard grown stupid, do you think? Do you think he realizes what he is doing?" Her voice climbed to a high-pitched laugh of jubilance. "Abelard will win, won't he?"
