by Sherry Jones
“I hate leaving you now, when our feelings are only beginning to blossom.” He reached out for my hand and held it as though it were a flower whose petals he feared crushing. “My greatest fear is that, when I return, you might be gone.”
“Gone? But—where would I go?”
“To Fontevraud. Robert of Arbrissel will come to Paris in only a few weeks and might take you back with him.”
“Non. I want to complete my studies with you.”
“Your uncle may try to send you now. He told me so today. A widow named Petronille of Chemillé helped your mother build Fontevraud, and she hopes Robert will appoint her as its abbess. If he does, it will ruin your uncle’s plans.”
Non, I wanted to say. Would Uncle Fulbert force me into the abbey again so soon, sacrificing my happiness on the altar of his ambition? Unlike Abelard, however, I would not be permitted to choose my fate.
I lowered my eyes. “I am dependent on my uncle and must do as he says.” How could I meet Abelard’s searching gaze, equal to equal, when another ruled me as completely as though I were his slave?
“I must convince Fulbert to keep you with him for a while longer, then. I did promise to help him gain a promotion. Perhaps as his friend I might influence him.”
“He thinks you are friends now. He boasts of it even to the servants.”
“And to every canon in the cloister. You should have seen Bishop Galon’s puzzled frown on the day after Bernard’s sermon. Your uncle told everyone at the dinner with Bernard and the rest that he and I are ‘brothers in intellect.’ ”
“He thought to impress Bernard, I suppose.” I sighed. Didn’t my uncle know how Bernard hated knowledge and learning? While Abelard insisted that questioning could only strengthen one’s faith, the reformists demanded blind obedience to the Church. “He wants so badly to advance. Poor Uncle.”
Mirth filled Abelard’s eyes, but neither of us laughed. At that time, at least, we respected my uncle.
At the door of Uncle Fulbert’s house, Abelard tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, brushing my skin with his thumb and sending a shiver down my arms. He pulled the astralabe from his pouch and handed it to me in spite of my protests, telling me that he already possessed an astralabe and that he had bought this one especially for me.
Then he pointed upward to that bright and beautiful planet, pink edged in gold on that night. “The loveliest body in the sky cannot compare to the one beside me now, but she will have to suffice. Venus is not difficult to find, except when clouds veil her.” Using the astralabe, he showed me how to find her in position to the moon, and then in position to the place where we stood.
“I shall gaze at her bright face every night before bedtime and think of you,” he said. “Will you do the same and think of me?”
“Shall I send you messages, too?” I teased. “Would you hear them over the singing of the spheres?”
“That music plays ever in my heart. It commenced on the day we first met and has not ceased.”
Abelard pressed his lips to mine as softly as a sigh, making me forget, again, myself and all I had vowed I would never become. I yielded and submitted until my lips had parted to admit his tongue, whose flavor dissolved me in delicious bliss until we heard the shutters open over our heads. We looked up to see Jean in my window, searching out over the cloister for me. Abelard pressed a finger to my lips and then, after handing me the astralabe, slipped into the shadows and away.
“I am here, Jean, studying the stars,” I called softly as I stood on the mounting stone with the astralabe in my hands.
“It is neither seemly nor safe for a maiden to be out alone at night. I beg you to come indoors, my lady.” In a moment I heard the creak of the inner door, then the latch of the outer one, and there stood Jean with a lantern. As I stepped inside, my fingers felt the inscription on the mater, and I turned the astralabe over to read it in the light.
To his Venus, from her Adonis. The goddess of love and the god of beauty—and passionately in love. I smiled and might have burst into song but for Jean, who, watching me more closely than usual, narrowed his eyes. Then I remembered the rest of the lovers’ tale, and my smile disappeared. As I passed him, I pressed my fingers and thumb against the engraved words, trying, in vain, to blot them out.
6
An equal to an equal, to a reddening rose under the spotless whiteness of lilies: whatever a lover gives to a lover . . . yet my breast blazes with the fervor of love.
—HELOISE TO ABELARD
Robert of Arbrissel limped across the altar, his bare feet slapping the wood, his cane’s tap punctuating each labored step. From behind me came a contemptuous snort. “Behold the mighty orator! He resembles a common beggar.”
“He is ill, have you heard?” another replied. “This may be his final sermon.”
“He is so thin and unkempt, how can anyone tell whether he is ill or well? His hair resembles a bird’s nest, all tangled and dirty. And behold the scabs on his chin!”
“He shaves his beard without water, it is said.”
“That tunic hangs on him like a sack, and full of holes. He ought to be ashamed, defiling God’s holy house with such filth.”
Having reached the front of the altar, the preacher lifted his cane and tossed it to the side, where it fell with a clatter onto the floor. His eyes, the same shade of gray as his wild hair, surveyed the crowded room: the canons in their white albs and rope cinctures; the priests in black; the tonsured monks in brown; the nuns, gathered like birds in their discrete flocks; and, in the front of the congregation, the colorful nobles, lords, and ladies and their families from Orléans, from Tours, from Paris itself. On a dais behind the altar, across from the choir, sat King Louis, who, although slightly younger than Abelard, appeared older by virtue of his protruding belly and the gray in his curling hair.
“Robert is overwhelmed,” someone whispered. “He didn’t expect the king to be here.”
“Nonsense,” came the reply. “Robert of Arbrissel has preached for the pope many times. He would not quaver before a king.”
Then Robert’s searching gaze fell upon me—and stopped. His lips moved. His right hand reached blindly; an altar boy handed him the cane he had dropped. He took it without moving his eyes from my face.
“He has seen you—seen you, my girl! I told you, non? You are so like your mother than he will beg you to take her place.” Uncle, standing behind me, squeezed my shoulders, sharing an excitement I did not feel—until Robert spoke.
“Where are my people? I want my people,” he cried, tapping the cane loudly on the stone floor. His voice rolled like thunder over the chapel. “I came to bring the good news of Christ’s love to the wretched, not to hypocritical clerics, wealthy monks, and men with soft hands and silk braies.”
Murmurs rustled through the room. “Why does he keep his eyes on me?” a woman said.
“Non. Not you, but me,” another said.
In fact, he spoke to me, his clear eyes holding me rapt as he lifted his fist into the air and shook it, as he raged against vanity, against greed, against simony, against injustice—but not, as Bernard had done, against the wickedness of women. I moved through the crowd in a trance, pressing to the front, desiring only to be near him, and wondering where I had seen him before.
“Vanity of vanities; all is vanity,” he was saying. “Whatever is under the sun is vanity and affliction of the spirit. Hypocrites, listen to me! The spirit of pride is bad, but the pretense of humility is worse.” He raked his eyes over the nobles swathed in finery.
“The preacher ought to remove the beam from his own eye,” the murmurer behind me said. “Dirty rags and bare legs are the worst sort of vanity if a man can afford better.”
“The spirit of envy is bad, but the pretense of love is worse.” Robert’s voice rose.
I glanced at my uncle. His dark eyes peered shrewdly about the room; his fawning smile gave his mouth a greasy appearance. He would pretend to love the devil if doing so would gain
him a promotion.
“The spirit of lust is bad”—Robert’s voice broke, and he hung his head—“but the pretense of chastity is worse.”
Silence fell over the room. I thought of Abelard, the headmaster, sworn to chastity yet touching my body with his eyes, his hands, his lips. My palms grew damp. Was this “the spirit of lust,” or something more?
The sermon finished, a crowd of women swarmed about the great preacher.
Seeing that we could not get near him, my uncle led me, instead, to greet Etienne of Garlande, his new target in the quest for a deacon’s post. Etienne took my hands in his and kissed my cheeks, and Agnes embraced me as though we were sisters. Engulfed by the scent of roses, I turned away from her.
“During all the time that man spoke, he never took his eyes off me,” Agnes’s father was saying with a nervous laugh. “One might think that it was I whom he called ‘hypocrite.’ But of course, he and I are not acquainted.”
“He is known to be an excellent judge of character,” Agnes teased, making me smile. Then, as the men discussed the sermon, she took my arm and pulled me close. “You and I must talk. My parents and I leave for Anjou tomorrow. May I come to you when we return?”
As I sought a polite way to say no—surely she wished to discuss Abelard, while I desired nothing less with her—my uncle tugged at one of my braids. “What are you girls plotting? Going to run away and join the famous nun-catcher? Nun-catcher! Heh-heh. Come, Heloise, let us introduce ourselves to Robert before the ladies devour him.”
“Soon,” Agnes said before Uncle led me away toward the altar clotted with women who strove to touch Robert as though he could cure them of their sex. His gaze captured mine and pulled me across the room to him. Hersende, he mouthed. Blushing at the intensity of his stare, I pulled my veil close and lowered my eyes.
When we had reached him, he kissed my hand. Power flowed through my fingers and into my arm, quickening my blood.
“Forgive me for my boldness,” he said. “You remind me of someone I used to know. More than that—you are her very likeness.”
“This is Heloise, the brightest star in Paris, and I am her uncle Fulbert, subdeacon in the Nôtre-Dame-of-Paris cloister.”
Robert barely acknowledged him. “Perhaps you know of her,” he said to me. “Her name was Hersende. She was the widow of the Lord of Montsoreau.”
“I did know her,” is all I said. I glanced at my uncle, not certain how much he wanted me to tell.
“Hersende was my sister—my sister!” my uncle said.
Robert turned to me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His tanned skin stretched across high cheekbones as he smiled, revealing a chipped front tooth that only enhanced his handsome appearance. “You are related to Hersende, as well?”
“As Christ was to Mary,” my uncle said.
“She was your mother?” Robert’s lips parted. He stared at me. “How can that be? Hersende had only a son.”
“And a daughter, too.” My uncle cleared his throat. “As you can clearly see.”
“Yes, the likeness is remarkable. I had not known of a daughter.”
I began to perspire. At any moment he would ask about my father, and my uncle’s hopes would shatter. Robert’s scandalous acts had not harmed him—but he was a man. Would he appoint as his abbess a woman born in sin, without even a father’s name to call her own?
“Behold your face. My God! You are her very likeness.” Robert’s hand faltered as he lifted it toward my cheek. I pulled my veil more tightly about my face, self-conscious, but in hiding my dark hair I must have increased my similarity to my mother.
“Hersende sent her to the Argenteuil convent for her schooling, the best in Paris for girls—the best,” my uncle said. “She is proficient in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, astronomy, music, literature, all of it—the trivium and quadrivium. She’s had an education fit for a queen—a queen! Or for an abbess, as my sister desired.” He pulled out my mother’s letter and handed it to Robert, who read it slowly, his eyes filling with tears.
“Your mother was the finest of women,” he said to me.
“I barely knew her,” I said, hoping he would tell me something of her. “I have only a few memories, but all of them are golden.”
“Yes, that is how I remember her. As warm and golden as the sun. And her voice—ah! She sang like the angels. Do you sing, Heloise?”
“Her voice puts the angels to shame—to shame,” Fulbert said. “Even the birds stop their song to hear my niece. She is her mother’s daughter to the very core.”
“And now you would follow in her path.”
That phrase again. “Mother wished me to take my vows at Fontevraud, yes, and to be of service to you. It is my uncle’s desire, also.”
“My sister hoped that Heloise might become your abbess someday, or grand prioress,” Fulbert said.
Robert drew his brows together. “I have not replaced Hersende, for to do so seems impossible. Petronille of Chemillé hopes to be chosen, and indeed I should have appointed her by now. Together, she and Hersende built Fontevraud.”
“My sister always enjoyed being in command.” My uncle, who often said this with bitterness, smiled as though he had lived to obey her.
“God gave her a talent for it, as well as beauty, grace, intelligence, and virtue. If I have not replaced her, it is because there is no replacement. No one on Earth compares to Hersende. Until now.” The years fell away with his smile, transforming him. His eyes flashed. “We return to Fontevraud tomorrow. Come with us.”
I caught my breath. Abelard had feared the preacher might take me with him, and I had dismissed his concern. My mother had left me behind; no one had wanted me since. Now I found myself torn between two men. My heart began to race—toward Abelard.
“Did you hear that, my dear girl?” my uncle said. “He wants you now. You can go, and I shall send your things along—”
“Non,” I blurted.
Uncle scowled. “You don’t—”
“I cannot, Uncle. Please! Not now. Not yet.”
“If the abbot desires you to join him now, then now you shall go. No arguments. It is your time—your time!”
I would never see Abelard again. My only chance at love, gone. And although Robert of Arbrissel would surely tell me much about Mother, I still needed to know about my father—about myself, who I was, from where I came. I would never find the truth from within the walls of an abbey.
“Non! I cannot go with you now. I—I am sorry.”
Uncle Fulbert’s face colored and he eyed me with suspicion. Abelard. The name perched on my tongue but I knew better than to utter it.
“Must I leave you so soon, Uncle? I beg to remain in Paris a little while longer. I have only lived in my uncle’s home for a short time,” I said to Robert. “He is my only family, now that my mother is gone.” Robert’s gaze turned inward; he was remembering Mother, while I had forgotten even the sound of her voice.
“Uncle Fulbert and I have become very close, haven’t we, Uncle?”
My uncle grunted. He licked his lips, thirsting, I knew, for his evening flagon.
“Please, Uncle, allow me a few more months with you. Can’t I stay until—until next spring? That would give me time to finish my studies in dialectic.”
“Dialectic is a fine course of study for an abbess,” Robert said.
“And with none other than Petrus Abaelardus as her teacher,” Uncle said.
I dropped my gaze, hiding my thrill at the very sound of his name.
“Pierre Abelard, the headmaster? That is most impressive.”
“She is his finest scholar—his finest,” my uncle said.
“By all means you must complete your schooling with him. Learn what you can of dialectic and debate, then bring your skills to me. I will introduce you to the richest, most parsimonious men in the realm, and you may convince them to fund the new oratory I want to build for the meretrices who have come to us. But—when will you join us, Heloise?” Robert held my gaze, searc
hing my soul, it seemed.
I leaned in to him, swaying as if blown by God’s own breath. Yes, I wanted to go with this man, to bask in his light, which seemed to shine from within. He can be very persuasive, Abelard had said. I now understood what had drawn my mother to him so irresistibly, to this man who emanated love, who smelled of it, and the fragrance was that of every flower that had ever bloomed, including, yes, roses. I wanted to dive, headfirst, into that garden, to roll in those blossoms, to smother myself—and then, remembering how the silence at Argenteuil had smothered me with its unremitting hand, how the darkness and chill of the convent had stiffened my very bones, I shrank back from him, breaking the spell.
“I would like to remain in Paris for one more year,” I said, my voice tearing like flesh on a nail.
“A year? That is too long—too long! The abbot needs an abbess, didn’t you hear? I will send her to you in one month!” Uncle said. I caught my breath; when Abelard returned, I would be gone.
Robert’s eyes turned fierce; his long hair flew about his head in the shifting breeze. He gripped my hands too hard; his fingers felt coarse and rough. “Taking the veil is not your desire. It is not your calling.”
“Her mother willed it, by God—willed it!” my uncle said. “She has been training for it all her life.”
“And what is Heloise’s will?”
I searched my mind for the answer that, of late, had obscured itself even from me. “I wish to please God,” I finally said.
“Good. Good.” Robert pulled me close for an embrace that left me dizzy, as if I had taken too many breaths too quickly. “Until the spring. Come next June.”
As we turned to leave, my uncle’s faced flushed with pleasure as if he had quaffed from the flagon and it had filled itself again.
So my fate was decided. So would the remainder of my time with Abelard be parceled, one month at a time, a little more than one glorious year in which to dance and sing and perhaps to know true love. If Abelard loved me, the whole world and Paradise, too, would be mine, for a little while, at least. I wanted to dance in that moment, and I wanted to cry. Hurry home, Abelard. Our time is short.
