The Sharp Hook of Love

by Sherry Jones

  7

  Your presence is my joy, your absence, my sorrow; in either case, I love you.

  —HELOISE TO ABELARD

  I read Abelard’s letter with a leaping joy. After two months away, he was returning to Paris at last. In the study of my uncle’s home I took my own tablet from my pouch and composed a reply.

  Glory of young men, companion of poets, how handsome you are in appearance yet more distinguished in feeling. The words flowed naturally, without artifice, as love should flow. Were Abelard beside me now instead of this messenger with red ears, I would breathe my ardor into his mouth until he overflowed with it and returned it back to me.

  He loved me. Of this I had little doubt, or no doubt at all except in Agnes’s presence. She was so beautiful and self-assured—what man wouldn’t love her? Non, it was me whom he loved, me whom he had kissed, me to whom he had sent so many messengers that Jean had asked me to answer the door. Had Abelard written passionate letters to Agnes, as well?

  A pain stabbed my breast. No; he would not. You are my sun, since you always illumine me with the most delightful brightness of your face and make me shine, Abelard had written. I have no light that does not come from you, and without you I am dull, dark, weak, and dead.

  When I did not reply to him as promptly as he desired—feelings of inadequacy having palsied my hand and robbed my mind of confidence—he complained. Envious time looms over our love, and yet you delay as if we were at leisure.

  Our love. A sweet tremor shook me. His words dispelled my fear, unlocking my hand, and I wrote to him not from my imperfect mind, but from my open heart.

  I read my letter over, not satisfied, but the messenger awaited and I would not send him to Abelard again with empty hands. When the youth had gone, I crushed the herbs in the window pot, relishing thyme’s woodslike scent, inhaling lavender’s perfume, and remembering Abelard’s fragrance, which, God willing, I would enjoy soon.

  He loved me, yes. I’d seen love in his eyes when he’d kissed me under the linden tree, felt it in his embrace at my uncle’s door. His every letter pulsed with love, and so did I, down to the marrow in my bones. It warmed me even on these chilly days, as though his arms perpetually encircled me. For the first time since my childhood, I felt not at all alone.

  From outside my window I heard my name. I opened the shutters to see Agnes of Garlande below in a green silk bliaut, her copper curls springing about her face in spite of the braids she had tried to impose upon them. I felt, again in my plain, dark tunic, like a weed in a garden of roses. I sighed. Now that she had seen me, I must receive her.

  She shimmered into the great room, all color and light. Her eyes sparkled as we embraced.

  “Pierre is returning to Paris. Did you know?” she said.

  “I received his letter today.”

  “He wrote to Uncle Etienne, also.” Her bright smile did not quite reach her eyes. “He has been away long enough, non? Paris seems dull without Pierre.”

  Jean entered and gave her the henap, whose stem she rubbed absently with her thumb and forefinger.

  “I look forward to resuming my lessons with him,” I said carefully. “I have much yet to learn.”

  “And in so short a time.” She gave me a shrewd look. “I suppose you think the abbey to be your only recourse?”

  “Is that why you have come?” My voice sounded colder than I felt, but I did not soften my tone. “You have heard of my plans to enter the abbey, and you wish to learn when I will go?”

  “I have come to help you.” She surveyed the room to make certain Jean had gone. “Heloise, I know about your father.”

  My body stiffened; my knees tensed, as though I might run. I heard my uncle’s low growl: No one must ever know.

  Controlling my voice with great effort, I asked her what she thought she knew. With whom had she spoken about me? Only her mother, she said, to exclaim over the cousin she had met.

  “Mother insisted that I am mistaken. William of Montsoreau had no daughters, and he died seven or eight years before I was born. But—aren’t you and I similar in age?”

  “Oui, and we are not cousins, as you have discerned.” I lifted my chin. “You bear no obligation to help me.”

  “But—are you truly returning to the cloistered life? How could you do so? When I mentioned Argenteuil at Uncle Etienne’s dinner, you appeared stricken, as though someone had died.”

  I thought of my mother, her tear-streaked face, the letters she did not write. My body felt heavy, too great a weight for me to carry. I lowered myself into one of chairs Jean had set before the fire.

  Agnes took the other chair and told me of her cousin whose husband had repudiated her for barrenness after six years of marriage. In shame she had taken refuge at Fontevraud. “I visited her there. The gardens are glorious; the cathedral is splendid—and the abbey is as dank as a tomb. Convents are where women go to die, not to live.”

  I closed my eyes against the dark and the cold of the abbey; the hunger and fatigue; the feeling that, if someone did not speak, I would lose my mind. And yet, was the nun’s life worse than marriage?

  “Better to die than live as a meretrix with a man I do not love,” I said.

  “Pfft! Love is for lovers, not for husbands and wives.” She stood and took the henap from the mantel. “Women marry for money, and for children. Don’t you want children?”

  I felt a pang, thinking of the little girls at Argenteuil, their bony mischief, their shy smiles. How would it feel to hold my own baby to my breast, to kiss its fat cheeks, to sing for my child as my mother had done for me, lying together under the open window, stars spilling their light across the blanket? Sorrow pressed against my eyes.

  “I do not want marriage,” I said. “I have not imagined myself with children.”

  “But why? You come from a noble family. Who was your father?”

  I denied myself the urge to confess, which was, in the face of her sympathy, nearly irresistible.

  But my silence told her all she needed to know. “You do not know him.” She sat beside me again and touched my arm, her eyes soft. “You poor dear. Do not fear, Heloise: I will not tell a soul—not even Pierre.”

  At the sound of Abelard’s name on her lips I stood, brushing her hand away. “Is this why you have come today—to sink your teeth into a juicy tale that you can share with your friends in King Louis’s court?”

  “You are too young for the abbey, and too accomplished,” she said, wrinkling her pretty brow. “On this, Pierre and I agree.”

  I narrowed my eyes. Had Agnes written to Abelard about me? Poor Heloise. We must save her, Pierre! Apparently, she had united herself with him in a common cause: me. What a brilliant strategist! I wondered if she played chess.

  “Why concern yourself about my life?” I said. “When I am gone, you will have ‘Pierre’ to yourself.”

  “To myself?” She snorted. “To watch him preen and strut, and listen to him boast, or endure his unremitting teasing? And bear all that talk of ‘genus’ and ‘species’ and Plato and Porphyry—merci, non! Pierre amuses me most in the company of others, in riposte. His tongue is a veritable Damocles’s sword.”

  This interested me. “How so? Do his words hang as a blade over his adversary’s head?”

  “Not over his adversary’s head”—Agnes rolled her eyes—“but his own.” She did not sound, to me, like a woman in love. “And he agrees that you are too young for the convent. Of course, he has reasons for wanting you to change your mind.” She pressed a finger to her smiling lips. I looked at her askance. Was she laughing at me?

  “And are you here today on your beloved Pierre’s behalf?”

  “My ‘beloved Pierre’? Is that what you think?” She laughed again, but now the sound reminded me of a brook in springtime, frolicking over the rocks. “I am an heiress—a future countess. Would I squander my prospects on a teacher?” She grimaced as if the very word tasted sour.

  “But you lay your head on his shoulder.”
<
br />   “Pierre used to bounce me on his knee. He put frogs in my boots.” Agnes stuck out her tongue. “He is like a brother—a maddening, annoying, and very loving brother. Mon Dieu—behold your expression!” She laughed again. “It is exactly as I had hoped.” Her eyes shone. “You love him.”

  8

  You are buried inside my breast for eternity, from which tomb you will never emerge as long as I live. There you lie; there you rest. You keep me company right until I fall asleep; while I sleep you never leave me, and after I wake, I see you, as soon as I open my eyes, even before the light of day itself.

  —ABELARD TO HELOISE

  That Abelard stood before me after so many weeks away seemed a miracle, or a dream.

  No—were I dreaming, I would have thrown my arms about his neck and kissed his mouth as if it were a fountain from which I might refresh my soul, as I had done nightly in my dreams during his long absence. In the great room of my uncle’s house, it was Uncle Fulbert who kissed Abelard in greeting while I murmured a shy welcome. His laughter rang out as familiar and dear as a long-forgotten song, drowning out, I hoped, the joyous, erratic thumping of my heart.

  “Heloise.” Even as my uncle embraced him, kissing his cheeks, slapping his back, Abelard’s eyes never wavered from mine. “What a pleasure to see you”—he darted a glance at my uncle—“dear child. Have you behaved yourself while I was away?”

  “Solitude prompts us to all kinds of evil,” I teased. In fact, I had reread Abelard’s Dialectica, preparing to debate him, and I had written him letters, taken cooking lessons from Pauline, and managed the household with alacrity, knowing that, so long as I pleased Uncle, he would leave me to myself so that I could retire to my room before bedtime. There, at my window, I gazed upon our Venus at the appointed hour and sent Abelard prayers and every sweetness of which I could think. I relived every moment we had spent together, feeling anew the thrill of his lips on my lips, smiling as his words returned to me—The loveliest body in the sky cannot compare to the one beside me now—and begging God to send him home. Now here he stood, thinner, yes, and as pale as if he had not ventured out of doors the entire fall, but with the same blue eyes beckoning, over my uncle’s shoulder, like evening shadows.

  “Welcome back, Petrus.” Uncle Fulbert led him to the trestle table. “By God, if I had known you were coming, I would have had my niece buy a nice piece of salmon instead of these common eels.” I held my tongue, thinking of the pinch of my uncle’s fingers as he had parsed the coins for this meal.

  “To health,” Abelard said, lifting the henap of wine. “And to home, a word that, while bringing contentment to others, pricks me with melancholy.” He handed the cup to my uncle. “In me, my friend, you see a man with no home.”

  “What—no home? No home, man, how can that be?”

  “In Brittany, I forfeited my rights to my father’s castle, and to the fertile lands that were my birthright.” Abelard’s voice broke, and he sighed deeply. “I am a wanderer, Fulbert, an itinerant scholar since my youth. Le Pallet is the only home I have ever known.”

  “I thought giving it up was your wish,” I said, frowning. Had he wished to remain there?

  “The Lord appreciates your sacrifice, Petrus,” Uncle Fulbert said. “ ‘He who loses his life for my sake will save it,’ et cetera. You suffer now, but your reward awaits in heaven.”

  “What you say is true, my friend. Yet I yearn for a home on Earth, a place of repose and rest.”

  “But didn’t you take William of Champeaux’s house here in the cloister? I have seen it, a fine place—fine! All the comforts, non?” My uncle handed the cup to Abelard, who gave it to me. The wine warmed my blood but, alas, did not calm my nerves.

  “It is a fine house, yes—the perfect dwelling for an ascetic such as William, especially during the cold months. The winds blow inside nearly as freely as outdoors.” Abelard shivered. “I dread another winter there, hunched at the fire in my blankets and cotte, my hands frozen and stiff.”

  “I wonder that you can do your work,” I said, smirking. “How does one grip a stylus with frozen fingers or move it through cold-hardened wax?” He could well afford a warm house, I knew; the Nôtre-Dame canons earned the highest benefices of any in the realm.

  Abelard winked at me. “And the expense, Fulbert! I cannot afford even a man to empty my chamber pot.” Abelard sent a beseeching gaze to Jean, who had entered with the eels and a garden salad but, judging from his returning glance, no sympathy for the great scholar forced to contend with his own waste.

  “Too great an expense! I am surprised to hear you say so—most surprised.” Uncle drained the goblet again, shaking the last drops of wine into his mouth. “It seems to me that you might afford a castle given the price you command for teaching.”

  Uncle’s insult made me grind my teeth. Seeing Abelard’s eyes narrow, I braced myself—but rather than offer a scathing retort as he was perfectly capable of doing, he bared his teeth in a smile like that of the wolf poised to pounce on its prey.

  “I had not heard you complain of my price, Fulbert. Is it too high? Perhaps you would rather hire one of my scholars to teach your niece?”

  “Non!” I cried—then, seeing my uncle’s frown, forced a laugh. “Robert of Arbrissel finds it most impressive that I am studying under the great Petrus Abaelardus,” I said to Abelard. “It is the only reason he agreed to delay my going to Fontevraud until the spring.”

  “You are going . . . in the spring?” Suddenly, Abelard looked like a child who had lost his way.

  “She leaves in June, yes, if I can afford to send her.” My uncle called for more wine, although he had not taken more than a few bites of eel. “To attain a high position, my niece will need a substantial dowry. Her mother gave all her fortune to Robert. And now I am giving mine to you, in payment for Heloise’s lessons.”

  “I would not hinder your niece’s success, not for all the livres in France. And yet, I must have income. As you know, my position at the Nôtre-Dame School is precarious. Roscelin, Anseau, even William of Champeaux, burn with hatred for me.”

  “They burn with envy,” I said. “The student outshines his masters.”

  “Would that I possessed their influence,” Abelard said. “William of Champeaux, in particular, would love to cause my ruin—and he has the ear of the bishop of Paris. Etienne is my only protection, but only so long as King Louis loves him. Should the brothers from Garlande fall out of favor in the royal court, I would be forced to flee Paris.”

  “Where would you go, having signed away your inheritance?” I said.

  Abelard shrugged. “I may claim it again at any time. That is my birthright, as my father’s heir. To do so, however, would be far from my desire.” Losing his position here would necessitate opening his own school, but how, when he had no money saved? The church demanded a high percentage of his students’ fees.

  “We must make a canon of you here, in Nôtre-Dame,” Fulbert said. “You would receive a benefice with a substantial income, as well as prebends. When I become a deacon, I shall use my influence on your behalf.”

  “And as I have promised, I shall assist you in your bid for a promotion,” Abelard said. “As archdeacon of Paris, Etienne will certainly aid in the cause.”

  “We will help each other.” Uncle Fulbert’s cheeks flushed with wine and excitement. “Help each other, as friends—friends!”

  “Oui, but I want to help Heloise, too. Such a brilliant and capable girl deserves the best teaching.” Abelard furrowed his brow, pondering—then brightened. “Fulbert—you possess a spare room, non?”

  “The room on the top floor would accommodate one man. But it is a narrow, cramped space, far removed from any hearth.”

  “Believe me when I say that it cannot be colder than the warmest room in my house. How pleasant it would be to come home to you, my dear friend”—Uncle Fulbert wriggled with pleasure—“and Heloise, my brightest pupil. And your house is closer to the cathedral than my own.” I looke
d down at my hands, scarcely able to believe what I heard.

  “Not the attic, non,” my uncle said. “The room is not worthy of you.”

  Jean returned to clear away the food.

  “But your hearth is warm and your cook is exquisite. I would pay a king’s ransom not to take another meal in the refectory.” Abelard laughed. “I think the cook there procures his meat from the gallows at the place de Grève.”

  “A king’s ransom, for my attic room?” My uncle shook his head. “I would not demand such a high rent. No, I would accept only the amount you charge to instruct my niece.”

  Listening to their negotiations, I pressed a hand to my skipping heart. Abelard, live here! The Lord had answered my prayers, and more: to spend every evening of our remaining months together was more than I had dared to ask.

  I winced to hear my uncle’s demands, however. Would he turn Abelard away for money’s sake, rich as Uncle Fulbert was? He needed no rent; he had paid for his house long ago and earned as much as a count from his benefice. But even the greatest wealth cannot extinguish insatiable greed.

  Abelard unleashed his lion’s roar of a laugh and sent me another wink, dispelling my fears. “Fulbert, you fox! Are you suggesting I waive my teaching fee in exchange for a room in your attic?”

  “Indeed not.” My uncle glanced at Jean. “For that price I will give you Jean’s room and move him into the attic.”

  Jean’s eyes darted from side to side as he wiped the table. “You are giving my bedchambers to the headmaster? But who will guard Heloise? Didn’t you place me next to her for that purpose?”

  “That was your idea—yours. I never thought she needed guarding, and indeed she has not, chaste and devout girl that she is. They taught her well in the convent—very well! When I am away, however, your duty will be to watch the house—and, on all days, to empty Master Petrus’s chamber pot.” As my uncle laughed, Jean turned away with the dishes in hand—sending a dark look Abelard’s way before stomping from the hall. When he had entered the kitchen, we heard a crash, then a string of expletives.