The Sharp Hook of Love

by Sherry Jones

  Praise for internationally bestselling author Sherry Jones

  FOUR SISTERS, ALL QUEENS

  “A well-written novel set during fascinating times. The relationship among the sisters is believable and often heartbreaking.”

  —Library Journal

  “A colorful portrait . . . and an insight into history.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Jones captures the feel of the tension-filled thirteenth century. . . . Though you may already know the ending, Jones makes it feel like something you haven’t heard of before. . . . Four Sisters, All Queens is not to be missed.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Engrossing and vividly rendered. . . . A mesmerizing tableau of what it meant to be a queen.”

  —C. W. Gortner, author of The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

  “Delightfully evokes the rich details and vivid personalities of a fascinating era. A feast for fans of historical fiction!”

  —Gillian Bagwell, author of Venus in Winter

  “Sherry Jones brings medieval Europe to life. . . . What a tale!”

  —Catherine Delors, author of For the King

  THE SWORD OF MEDINA

  “Jones’s fictionalized history comes alive with delicate, determined prose.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

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  For Bobby:

  amor, amicitia, dilectio, caritas.

  For nothing is under less control than the heart—having no power to command it, we are forced to obey.

  —HELOISE TO ABELARD

  THE ROYAL ABBEY AT ARGENTEUIL

  NORTH OF PARIS, FRANCE, DECEMBER 1114

  I was born in silence, my wails quieted by the hand of the only friend my mother could trust. In silence I spent most of my youth, amid the nuns of Argenteuil floating through the dark abbey without sound, as though we lived under the sea. Only in my dreams did I dance, laughing with my mother in the sun, her voice like water, her kisses like dew falling on my cheek. I would awaken with tears instead, and an ache like hunger that never subsided.

  Mother. Why did she leave me? Where had she gone? I begged God to return her to me. He answered me with a letter from her on my twelfth birthday, sent with a volume of Seneca’s philosophy that I would cherish all my days.

  I love you and long for you daily. Your uncle writes that you are an exceptional scholar, which brings me joy, for I, too, love to read the poets and philosophers as well as the Scriptures. I had planned to teach them all to you, but it was not to be, not in this life.

  I shall never forget your tears on the day we parted; anguish fills my breast even now at the memory. I pray that you can forgive me, my beloved daughter. Forced to choose between loyalty to your father and life with you, I sent you away. I pray that, someday, you will understand.

  In bed that night, I cried as never before. A fatal illness had not stricken my mother as it had the maman of my friend Merle, one of the other oblates. Mine had not brought me here to fulfill a promise to God, as Adela’s mother had done. God had not called me to Argenteuil at all. My mother had abandoned me of her own free will: it was her choice. My soul’s anguish gushed from my eyes, filling my mouth until I thought I would choke, in torrents that I thought would never cease. When at last I had depleted my store, I fell into a deep, dark sleep. The dreams of my mother ceased after that night, as did my tears.

  Ten years after my arrival at the Royal Abbey, the Reverend Mother Basilia marched into the classroom and interrupted the lesson I was teaching on Paul’s first letter to the Romans.

  “Heloise, you have a visitor. Go and prepare yourself, then come to my office.”

  A visitor! When had anyone called for me? The familiar pucker of the Reverend Mother’s mouth, as if she had eaten sour fruit, told me that I would be taken away. My mother had come at last! My feet seemed to sprout wings, and I flew out the door.

  I would have run to the dormitory, shouting thanks to God, were such boisterous behavior permitted. Or perhaps I would not have done so, for in my fantasies I had always presented myself perfectly to Mother, poised and mature, a proper young lady on whom she would shine beams of pride and love. I washed my face, cleaned my teeth, and rebraided my hair, then dug into my trunk for the forbidden hand-mirror my friend Merle had given me. For the first time in my life—but not the last—I wished for beauty. My mother’s hair had shone like spun gold, while mine dropped in a heavy, dark wave with a streak of pure white over my left eye. The hateful Adela used to tease me about it. Is your father a badger? I never replied, not knowing the answer myself. But I knew my mother, and now she awaited while I preened in the mirror. Vanity of vanities; all is vanity. I threw the mirror into the chest and hurried outdoors.

  Mother had come! My pulse pounded all the way across the dry grass of the courtyard and on the stones paving the dank halls of the abbey. I must have passed—but do not remember doing so, in my excitement—the newly built refectory with its engraved face of the Virgin Mother looking placidly over the doorway. I did not even stop to cross myself before her, or to greet her with a whispered Hail Mary, Mother of God. Why should I, when my own mother waited for me in the flesh only a few steps away?

  At the abbess’s door I took a deep breath. Mothers love their children. Mine would love me no matter whether I was pretty or not, smart or not, poised or not. And I would love her, too, even if she had become as ugly and unpleasant as the Reverend Mother Basilia.

  Yet my hand trembled so that I could hardly seize the latch and open the door.

  The abbess stood before me, looking as if she might hit someone. Then, a rustle behind her; a movement. I prepared to greet my mother, my throat choked with unshed tears—but beheld, instead, a heavyset man with a ruddy complexion and thick, red lips.

  “Your uncle, the canon Fulbert,” the Reverend Mother said. Her voice sounded tired—she hated to lose her daughters—but not as tired as my uncle appeared to be.

  His eyes reddened at the sight of me. “Dear God, how you resemble your mother,” he breathed. “It is as if she had come to life again.”

  I cried out before he had even finished the sentence, knowing at once why he had come. A hole seemed to open inside me, filled only with darkness.

  “Quiet yourself, Heloise,” the abbess snapped. “You know that we do not allow such outbursts.”

  “I should think an exception might be made in this instance,” my uncle said, knitting his thick eyebrows (and showing me whence I had inherited mine). “Her mother has died, after all.”

  His words in their awful finality hit me like a great stone thrown against my chest. I clutched a chair, dizzy and sick. Mother. I looked to my uncle for comfort and found it in the tears spilling down his face.

  “I have come, Heloise, to take you home with me. It was your mother’s final wish.”

  PART ONE

  Amor

  1

  In you, I readily admit, there were two things especially with which you could immediately win the heart of any woman—the gift of composing, and the gift of singing.

  —HELOISE TO ABELARD

  THE NÔTRE-DAME CLOISTER

  PARIS, MARCH 1115

  He sang to me of love from under curling eyelashes. In the center of the market, amid the squawking hens, the squealing children and the barking dogs, and the wine sellers beating sticks against their bowls of vin á broche, he performed a son
g of incomparable beauty without minstrel or lute, drawing every eye—but singing only to me. His voice brought a warm summer rain to mind. I felt a soaring within my breast, as if a door had flung itself wide and my heart had flown through it.

  When he had finished, he removed his hat with its peacock’s feather and bowed only to me in spite of the shouts of Très beau! Je t’adore! from the women who had clustered around him, pretending to understand his Latin verse. As he bent over, dark curls fell across his tonsure, which was no larger than a thumbprint on his crown—the minimum required for a canon—a mark of the irreverence that had, it was said, gained him not a few enemies. He wore purple, a brocade of silk ribbon and gold thread, and heavy boots. His lips pursed as he rose, as though he might burst into laughter or another song. His eyes gleamed triumph, as though he had won a contest with me as the prize.

  My heart’s beat faltered. His broad smile beckoned; his bold gaze dared me to refuse. Something shifted inside me, like the turning of a key in a lock. For a moment, I forgot everything I had ever known: the books I had read, the secrets I kept, my destiny that no one could alter. I would be no one’s prize. Yet his smile shone like light across my face, pulling up the corners of my mouth, softening my eyes.

  The cathedral bell tolled vespers. I started; his song had made me late. Uncle would want his flagon; Pauline, her capon. I bent to gather the sacks I had dropped at my feet.

  A hand touched mine. I looked up and nearly fell into eyes of impossible blue. The sky at twilight could not compare. My breath caught in my throat.

  “Heloise.” His lips formed a kiss when he spoke my name. Pierre Abelard, the most famous—and infamous—scholar in Paris, offered my name to me like a gift. A sweet ache spread through my chest. “Allow me.”

  He took the packages from my arms: the capon in its flax-cloth sack, the flagon, and the second sack with the bread, vegetables, and strawberries, leaving me to carry the book of Ovid’s writings I had borrowed that day, my sheepskin pouch with its wax tablet and stylus, and my wonderment.

  The renowned teacher and poet now hastened to keep stride with me; he carried my packages, whistling a tune and beaming with pride as if I, not he, were the world’s greatest philosopher. Envy slanted the eyes of the women we passed. They murmured his name—Monsieur Abelard, darling Pierre, so handsome—but he seemed not to notice.

  As we walked, I slid glances at him. Slight of form as he was—not much taller than I, and compactly built—he yet moved through the world as though he owned everything in it. His trampling steps left his mark in the damp-soft street, while I hopped from stone to stone to avoid the mud. At one point, lightning streaked the waxen clouds. The clap of thunder that followed nearly toppled me into a large puddle, but he stretched out a hand to steady me. His eyes’ kindness made me want to lean into his arms. But why would a man of his status deign to help me, who had not even a father to give her a name?

  “Take care, Heloise,” he said. “Why don’t you ride a horse? Surely your uncle would provide one for you.”

  “Master Petrus. How do you know me?”

  A pair of canons lifted their brows at the sight of us together. We began to walk again. “Who,” he said, “has not heard of the female scholar? A gift for letters is rare in a girl.”

  “Only because girls have no schools.”

  “You understood every word of my song.” He studied me as if I had two heads.

  In fact, I had mastered not only Latin but also Greek and now studied Hebrew with a rabbi on the rue des Juiveries. But how dare I boast to the master? I might speak every tongue in Babel, yet my accomplishments would pale in comparison to his.

  “Do you truly think schools would make a difference? It is said that the female mind cannot comprehend complex ideas,” he said.

  “Complex ideas such as those in your song?” He failed to notice my wry tone. The song, so beautiful in its melody, had lacked complexity in its verse. I might have expected much more from the new headmaster of the Nôtre-Dame Cloister School.

  “Ah, my poetry! What do you think of it? Women swoon over my songs. Baudri of Bourgueil, on the other hand, condemned them as too worldly.” Abelard showed his teeth, looking every bit the hungry wolf. His eyes twinkled. “He says I ought to sing of heavenly angels, but I prefer the earthly ones.”

  I averted my gaze and widened the distance between us. A tonsured head, a vow of celibacy—these guaranteed nothing. To forbid the fruit only sweetens its flavor. Yet, he could not have achieved greatness at his age—not a strand of silver yet in his hair—had he whiled his hours with women. Time is the one loan that even a grateful recipient cannot repay.

  Taught to respect my elders, I said nothing. The magister’s verses reminded me of a roasted peacock presented at the table with its brilliant feathers reattached: glorious to behold, but lacking in nourishment. He had sung of love as a flutter in the heart, as a burning in the loins, as a watering of the mouth. What could anyone learn from such nonsense? But I would not criticize the song he had sung especially for me.

  “Everyone said, ‘You must meet Heloise,’ ” he went on. “ ‘She is a master of letters, and a trove of literary knowledge.’ You are accused of inventing new words, and of writing poetry that rivals Ovid’s.” He glanced at the book in my hands. “Could such subtlety of thought truly belong to a woman?”

  “I am fluent in Greek as well. And I am learning Hebrew.” To prove myself, I quoted passages in both tongues, relishing the drop of his jaw.

  “By God, how long have I waited to encounter a woman such as you? Indeed, I never imagined such a creature existed. Where have you hidden yourself all this time?”

  “Not hiding from you, Master Petrus. I spend most hours at my books.” I lowered my head to hide my pleasure. “One does not simply absorb knowledge, which Aristotle said is necessary to wisdom; nor is wisdom gained except by questioning.”

  Abelard stared at me. Cringing to hear myself crowing like a cock, I closed my mouth.

  “She speaks in Greek and quotes from Aristotle!” We resumed our walk. “And I have lost my wager with Roger in the scriptorium. He told me about you, but I did not believe him.”

  I had to smile, thinking of men betting money on my knowledge. “I hope you will not forfeit a large sum.”

  “My purse may be empty, but my life is enriched, now that I have met you at last.”

  He tramped through a puddle, heedless of the mud splashing his hem, as he told of the effort he had expended to speak with me. “I stood for an hour in the place today, singing like the king’s bouffe, waiting for you to appear.”

  “You waited for me?” Who had ever taken such measures for my sake? Not my mother, who had abandoned me; not my uncle, who would return me to cloistered life as soon as he pleased.

  “I sang for you, yes. Or—no. I did it for myself, to alleviate the agony of watching you from afar.”

  He had admired me, he said, for several weeks, as I’d walked past his classroom on my daily errand to the place de Grève market. On the first warm day of spring, he moved his scholars onto the cathedral lawn, hoping to attract my attention. I had noticed him, his ringing voice, his waving arms, his excited laughter as he debated his students and always won. Feeling the eyes of his scholars upon me, I lowered my gaze as I hurried past, day upon day, increasing his frustration until, today, he ended the class and hurried after me. But I had disappeared into the scriptorium.

  “I sang to lure you,” he said. “I saw you stop yesterday to hear a minstrel perform a chanson de geste of inferior quality. I hoped my song might please you more.” He winked. “Now I think it was my own pleasure that I desired to increase.”

  If so, he would be disappointed. If he sought pleasure from a woman, the sort that elicited winks, then he had already wasted his time with me. I would have told him so, but here came my uncle lumbering toward us, his great belly leading him like a horse pulling a cart, his face scowling at the sight of the victuals, still in sacks, that ought t
o be ready for his table by now. Noting my alarmed expression, Abelard turned, and Uncle’s ill temper gave way to delight.

  “Petrus Abaelardus!” He clapped the teacher on one shoulder as though they were old friends. “What a pleasant surprise—most pleasant! I hope my niece is not dulling your mind with frivolous woman’s talk. By God, does she have you carrying her packages?” He took the sacks and the flagon from Abelard and thrust them at me with an admonishing frown.

  Mirth leapt in Abelard’s eyes, but seeing my brightening cheeks and hearing the murmur of my apology, he stepped forth and stretched out his hands. His fingers brushed mine. I nearly dropped everything into the mud.

  “It is my honor to assist our cloister’s esteemed subdeacon, Canon Fulbert,” Abelard said. “Please allow me.” And he gently took the packages from me again.

  I assisted Pauline in the kitchen, simmering the fish she had pulled from the tank and gutted, preparing a salad of greens with strawberries, and ladling her capon brewet into a bowl. She worked as if the end of the world were near, slamming pots and pans on the countertops and stirring the sauce for the fish with one hand and the brewet with the other, sloshing both onto the coals. She’d pressed her mouth together in a grim line when I explained my delay: I had tarried in the scriptorium, undecided which book to borrow, I’d lied, blushing with guilt. Were I to mention Abelard’s song, the smile budding on my lips would burst fully into bloom. One whiff of its fragrance, and everyone would know.

  I had carried secrets all my life, each one as a great stone about my neck. This one, however, perched upon my shoulders, as light as a bird that seemed about, at any moment, to lift off and carry me away. When I carried the brewet into the great room, I beheld the slow unfolding of its wings in Abelard’s eyes.

  I set the bowl on the table and removed the lid. Steam rose, and aromas of thyme and rosemary from the savory broth Pauline had simmered. My mouth watered, anticipating the flavors as rich as liquid gold. I glanced at Abelard, proud to present Pauline’s fare, which was, I knew, incomparable—but he was not looking at the brewet.