Stealing Heaven

by Marion Meade

  Oh God, you know everything about me. You know that 1 am afraid. My dear beloved is gone. Don't make me stay here without him. I am old—release me—"

  Footsteps clumped on the stone behind her. "Dear friend," Ceci whispered. She came to Heloise and knelt, holding a goblet. "Drink." She twined Heloise's hands around the cup. The heavy sweet liquid burned her throat all the way down.

  "Cry," Ceci crooned to her. "There's no one to hear."

  Heloise rocked against Ceci's shoulder, trying to focus on the blurred outline of the candle's flame. She said at last, "I have no tears." Her voice faltered.

  "Stay here. I'll have Astrane call a chapter meeting and make the announcement."

  "No." Heloise pushed to her knees. She wiped her bleeding fingers on her skirt. "I'll do it myself." They went out into the sun-drenched cloister.

  "He died a monk of Cluny," Brother Thibaut said. He shuffled his feet near the doorway of the abbess's parlor.

  “I don't care about that."

  "It's the privilege of our order to keep the body in our possession."

  "Brother Abelard wished to be buried here," she almost shouted. “I have letters in his own hand to that effect. He specifically stated that wherever he might die, his body should be brought to us."

  Brother Thibaut shook his head. "I wouldn't know about that, lady. All I can tell you is that he's already been buried. It's too late."

  She snapped, belligerent, "You can unbury him."

  "Lady!" The monk gave a small sputter of astonishment.

  For the first time today she felt like screaming. She knew that it was unfair to vent her irritation on Brother Thibaut, who was, after all, only a messenger. “Tell me. Where is he buried?"

  "In the chapel, of course, as befits a great philosopher. In a niche along the south wall." Brother Thibaut threw up both hands. "Lady, the site is very close to the hole in the floor."

  "What hole?" She looked at him sharply.

  "The hole that—the opening of the well where the heathen threw our martyred St. Marcel. It's a great honor to be buried near the hole." He rubbed his hands nervously and glanced into the yard, anxious to get away.

  "I don't care," Heloise repeated. "You tell Abbot Peter—"

  Thibaut broke in quickly. "The abbot is not at Cluny."

  "Where is he?"

  “Traveling. In Castile."

  Heloise looked around the chamber. No use haranguing the poor monk. "All right," she said coolly, "all right. When is the abbot due to return?"

  "Sometime after Lammas, I think. Mayhap Michaelmas."

  "Very well. I'm sorry to have bothered you with all this." She turned away, mortally tired. She felt her shoulders burning with tension.

  The monk took a step toward her, the corners of his mouth flattened down with sympathy. "In time you'll feel differently. Brother Abelard is very happy where he is. I swear to you, lady. Truly it's a nice tomb."

  "Yes. Thank you."

  Astrane said, "These arrived before sext. I forgot to give them to you." She dropped a sheaf of letters on Heloise's writing table.

  Without looking at the seals, Heloise stacked the packets with other unread correspondence. "The pile mounts," she sighed. "Before sundown I will read them all if it kills me." She picked up a quill.

  Astrane limped toward the door. "Oh. One more thing." Heloise lifted her head. "There's a monk in the yard. He wants you."

  "Did Sister Elizabeth inquire of his business?" God forgive her for complaining, but with all these visitors she had little time for her duties.

  Astrane grimaced. "I doubt it. She was annoyed with the fellow, I could tell that. He insisted on squeezing his wagon through the gate. Parked it in the middle of the yard. I think he's selling something."

  "Since when do monks peddle merchandise?" Heloise sighed again. “Very well. Ask the good brother if he would mind waiting a few more minutes. I must finish these tithes—"

  "He won't mind. He's a jolly fellow."

  Heloise reached for the abacus, not listening. "Good," she murmured. "Show him to the guest parlor."

  The harvest had been abundant that year. Good thing, she thought. If there is fighting before the spring, who knows if we will be able to get our seed in. She had heard that King Louis had no intention of calling up his vassals for forty days' winter service; he was planning to hire mercenaries. Which meant that Champagne would be plundered. She flexed her fingers and totted up the column of figures. Perhaps it would be wise to have the gate strengthened with iron bars. Routiers had been known to sack convents. She wanted to take no chances.

  She rose, washed her hands, and walked to the courtyard. The day was half gone and she had accomplished little. She felt annoyed with herself. A huge wagon was standing in the middle of the yard. Objects with odd shapes had been stacked under the canvas, so that the entire thing resembled a misshapen pyramid. Nearby, four black-robed monks were sitting on their heels chewing dried meat; their habits were gray with dust. She stopped to look, then stamped around the wagon and went toward the guesthouse. She thought, Those shutters need painting. A bearded monk was sitting on the steps, reading. As she approached, he lifted his head and flashed her a wide grin.

  Her steps faltered. It was something about the man, his smile, the expression of complete kindness around his mouth. She had never met him, she was certain of that, but still—she squinted, searching his face.

  "My very well beloved Lady Heloise." He got to his feet eagerly and started toward her, the book tumbling to the cobbles.

  Intuition sent her plummeting to her knees. "Your Reverence," she cried, “I had no idea—"

  "Of course not. Forgive, my lady." His eyes shone. ‘I should have sent word ahead."

  Heloise's poise scattered. “I’m amazed," she stuttered. “I can't tell you—" She felt like a fool.

  Peter of Cluny smiled. He caught her by the wrist and lifted her up. Heloise thought, Other than his smile, he looks like an ordinary man. There is nothing exceptional about him but the grin, which is joyous. Now she burst into delighted laughter. "Your Grace, permit me to welcome you to the Paraclete."

  He broke in, sawing the air expansively, staring around the yard. "You don't know how much this means to me." His eyes fixed on her face. "Lady, may I be frank with you?"

  She nodded happily.

  "Dear lady, I love you." He uttered those odd, inappropriate words simply, and when she gaped at him, he laughed. "Oh, it's not today that I have begun to love you—this is an old malady. I was not even a young man yet, hardly more than a boy, when I first heard about you."

  "From Jourdain."

  "No." Peter shook his head. "No, I knew about you before Jourdain met you. Don't ask me where. There was talk of this girl who devoted herself to the pursuit of knowledge, and nothing could distract her. Not even the frivolities that young girls usually indulge in. You surpassed all women—and nearly all men."

  She shot him an anguished glance. "You overpraise me. Please."

  "My very dear sister in Our Lord," he said. "I don't say it to flatter you." He stooped to pick up his book, which lay open on the cobbles. Straightening, he said, "It's my humble way of encouraging you."

  Heloise squinted at him. "To do what, Your Reverence?"

  "Safeguard this place, finish what you've begun. You must go on firing the hearts of your women—and other women too. Does that sound reasonable?"

  "Aye, but you're speaking of something that's not easy for me. Firing people's hearts."

  He grinned. "Don't think about it. You burn and illumine naturally. Don't think about it."

  "Easier to say than do." Abruptly, she clenched his arm. "I miss him so terribly!"

  "Ah well, but that is always the temptation. To dwell in the past. Your life is far from over."

  Staring down, she kicked her toe against the cobbles. "No. It is over."

  His voice boomed out forcefully. "Dear lady, would you deny reality?"

  She looked up, surprised.


  "Your Abelard is dead. That is one reality." He shook the dust from the hem of his habit. "You have your own life to live—that is an even greater reality and that's what you must cling to. Everything else is unimportant now. What do you think?"

  She smiled crookedly. After a long pause, she said, “I suppose— you're right."

  Across the yard, Sister Elizabeth was opening the gate. A party of merchants, trailed by several packhorses, rode in and reined their palfreys near the well. Heloise swept her gaze over the merchants, past Sister Elizabeth, and up to the covered wagon that Peter had brought. She froze. The abbot was saying, "This is a large convent. I don't know why I expected something much smaller."

  Unable to speak, Heloise pointed dumbly to the wagon. She weaved toward it, her legs suddenly unsteady. Peter followed. She turned to look at him. "How did you—"

  "The rules forbid," he said solemnly, "the removal of any monk who dies in our order. So there was only one way."

  Her eyes widened.

  Peter grinned the tiniest of grins. “I stole it. Naturally."

  "Oh."

  “I think God will understand." He called to the monks sitting alongside the wagon, asking them to cut the ropes.

  Heloise swayed toward him. "Didn't your sons at Saint-Marcel object?"

  Peter looked at the monks tugging at the ropes. "If they'd been given a chance, they would have." He turned back to Heloise. "I pretended to make a visitation to the priory. One night while they slept, I had the body disentombed, and we loaded it on the wagon and left. See?"

  Incredulous, she said, "In the middle of the night?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  Languidly, the monks wound the ropes into coils. One of them reached for the canvas and pulled. The first thing Heloise saw, perched high atop the wagon, was Abelard's armchair. A monk scooped it from the cart and set it jauntily on the cobbles. The four of them returned to the wagon and began to haul up the coffin, wrapped in black linen. Easing it over the side, they grunted and levered the box to the ground. Heloise went to it; she stroked her fingertips across the cloth.

  Peter came to stand beside her. "This man," he said, low, "belonged at your side. But Divine Providence gave us the honor of his presence for a while. He was a true philosopher of Christ, Master Peter was."

  She swallowed hard. "Can they take him into our chapel?"

  He went to the monks and said something. They hoisted the coffin on their shoulders and started toward the cloister gate. Heloise and Peter walked slowly behind, Peter swiveling his neck from side to side. "Wonderful. This is truly an astonishing place. Master Peter told me there was nothing here but a chapel when you arrived."

  She did not answer. Eyes on the coffin, she felt a sob start somewhere deep in her chest and bubble up into her throat.

  "Lady Heloise," Peter said softly, "Your Abelard is not in that box."

  "I— know."

  "He's in a far country. Never doubt that he will be restored to you."

  They turned down the west walk of the cloister. Two nuns leaned from a window, whispering behind their hands. The heads disappeared and the shutter slammed. Heloise said, "I never wanted to possess him, the way other women want their husbands. I only wanted him near me at times. Our Lord did not grant that desire."

  Peter said calmly, "He is the other half of you. God is keeping him for you."

  God was keeping Abelard for her. His words wrapped around her like the heady fragrance of good incense. She thought, My beloved is not dead, only waiting. Astrane darted around the corner and slid to a breathless halt at Heloise's elbow. Heloise smiled. "Sister, the abbot of Cluny has brought Master Peter home."

  Astrane knelt for his blessing; the cloister began to fill with nuns. Straightening her spine, Heloise watched as the abbot strolled a circle around the cloister, smiling a greeting at even the smallest child. When he returned to her side, she said, "Your Reverence, this is a day of rejoicing for us. A visit from you—" She was going to make a speech, but he smoothly cut in.

  "My spirit must have visited here before," he said. "I feel at home. Even though this is a flying visit."

  "You'll stay the night, won't you?"

  "Of course. And say mass tomorrow, if it pleases you." He smiled. "You know, this is a dangerous country at the moment. With young Louis's cutthroats expected momentarily."

  "Then you believe there will be war?"

  He shrugged. "Pray God not. It looks bad, though."

  Slowly, they made their way back to the cloister gate. "Elizabeth," Heloise called, and the portress came running. "Show His Reverence to the guesthouse." She turned to Peter. "What is your pleasure? Ale, a bath—"

  "A nap, lady." His eyes twinkled wearily.

  "Then I'll see you at supper. Sleep well." Turning away, she heard him call her name. When she swung around to look back, he was pulling from his girdle a packet tied with string.

  He murmured, "These were in Master Peter's chest when he died. Perchance you want them."

  "Thank you." She glanced down at the packet, startled to see her own nunnish handwriting. Saint-Gildas-de-Rhuys. Abelard had saved her letters.

  Hurrying across the cloister, she pushed a door and followed the corridor into her room. She went straight to the corner and loosened a stone, and from the niche she drew out a small locked box. Hesitating, she held the box in one hand, the letters in the other. She should burn them; it was madness to keep those incriminating pages, so full of her despair and unspeakable longings.

  After a moment, she turned and went to her table. The stool was gone, and in its place someone had left Abelard's chair. Smiling, she sank down very slowly on the seat and set the letters and the box on the table. Tomorrow was time enough; tomorrow she would destroy the letters, hers and perhaps Abelard's as well. She rested her cheek against the coolness of the chair's carvings. A dying sun sprayed rays of fire across the table.

  May 16, 1163

  It was past compline now, and the nuns were coming back from chapel. The stars had gone behind some clouds, and there were shadows all across the sky; the infirmary room seemed to have grown brighter and smaller. Heloise writhed her head to the side and watched Father William as he opened a box and drew out a small black vial, which he set lovingly on the trestle. Sister Claude was perched on a stool next to the bed.

  "Father's preparing the oil," the infirmarian said. "Are you comfortable, can I get you anything?"

  "No." There was nothing for Claude to do now. Then: "Sister?"

  "Yes, my lady."

  "I'm so very—happy."

  Claude stroked her hand. Eyes blurring, Heloise saw her gesture with her head to someone near the doorway. Moments later, there was the sound of oak smacking against oak, a single crash, then echoing silence, then another crash. The smacking noise receded as the sister with the death board shuffled slowly into the cloister to summon the nuns.

  She thought, Twenty-one years since Abelard died. And still she woke each morning hungry for his face. Sister Claude got up and brought a standing candle and placed it behind Heloise's head. She looked at Claude and scratched her fingers at the coverlet. She breathed, "Bury me"—Sister Claude inclined her ear close to Heloise's lips—"with my lord." Claude, white-faced, nodded.

  The nuns filed in so lightly that she was not aware of their entrance, only, later, of gold-flecked shapes massed above her head. Claude glided back, and the priest took her place; the prayers began. He tipped the vial, and she felt him trickle a drop of oil onto her eyelid. "Through this holy unction and his own most tender mercy, may the Lord pardon thee whatever offenses thou hast committed by sight." The hand moved away. She sensed it, rather than saw it.

  The priest's voice dived lower, surfaced again, but she did not listen.

  Unbidden, fragments kept weaving their way into her mind. She had seen the world rush on: all the events, great and small, that the chroniclers set down; all the people, good and evil, who had made them happen. She had stayed behind her cloister walls, removed
supposedly from worldly matters; but she had watched. The war in Champagne had not touched the Paraclete, but a thousand souls in Vitry-sur-Marne had been burned alive in their church when Louis's soldiers set it afire. She remembered that, and of course the crusade that had failed. So when poor Louis got back to France afterward, there were some who wanted him to abdicate. But, in the end, people forgot. In her mind, she saw Abbot Suger, who had ruled France for Louis, the little fat man who had hated her and who was dead now. And Queen Eleanor, who had got Louis to divorce her and only a few weeks later married Henry Plantagenet, a lad young enough to be her son. And the boy Tom Becket, who had risen to the archbishopric of Canterbury. The same boy who had been Abelard's student long ago. How many years had that been? She did not want to count. There were no great masters at Paris now. Oh, there were plenty of teachers, men who called themselves philosophers, but none with the wit and brilliance of her Abelard.

  She had not returned to the Ile since his death. Nor had she heard the sound of a lute for twenty years. She knew why.

  At the Paraclete, after the crusade, they had become prosperous, and the hard years when they had plowed and built walls faded to curious memories. Papal bulls from a half dozen popes, royal charters, six daughter houses founded in twenty years. Their property holdings extended from the Marne to the Yonne. She had done her duty.

  "Whatever offenses thou hast committed by touch—" Father William was repeating the unction; the oil dribbled over her hands. It would soon be finished. Absolved, shriven, unblemished as the moment she had come into the world. Where had the years gone, those billion lungfuls of breath inhaled and exhaled, squandered without her noticing? She thought, We begin to die from the moment we are born. This is but the end that was promised at the start.

  She remembered the day that Ceci left, a bright September afternoon with the leaves rioting to saffron and Ceci tramping off into the oak woods to walk, or perhaps run—Heloise never knew exactly what she did there. That was something Ceci had never learned—to stay meekly within the cloister. And she remembered Sister Elizabeth streaking across the cloister with her skirts swirled up about her knees, and she, Heloise, coming out to see the hunters whose arrow had glanced from an oak. They had carried Ceci home under a rag blanket, her bloody corpse pierced like a wild boar. How many Septembers ago had that been? Five, and she remembered ramming her head against the door of the gatehouse, howling, Ceci, don't leave me, what will 1 do without you! and being amazed that she had felt that, let alone uttered it.