The Sharp Hook of Love
Page 13
My hands shook so that I could barely hold the reins. The queen had not only agreed to meet with me, but had said she anticipated with great pleasure a morning spent sharing memories of my mother. Perhaps she would reveal something about my father, as well.
“Heloise!” Agnes’s insistent tone told me this was not her first call out to me. “Why don’t you give your reins to Amaury”—his name rolled like butter over her tongue—“so that you do not stray off the road and into the vineyards? You are roaming so freely that I fear you will trample some poor villein, or, worse, injure your horse.”
Coming to my senses, I saw that my palfrey had ventured close to the edge of the road, causing some workers to step back in alarm. I corrected its course and strove to keep my mind on the journey, but my imagination continued to spin dreams of Mother, and fanciful tales such as Bertrade might tell about her life. Surely Mother’s closest friend would know why she had put me in the convent. But did I want to know?
“This invitation is special, indeed. My sister speaks of her friend Hersende to no one,” Amaury said. “Baudri of Bourgueil interviewed Bertrade for his biography of Robert, but when he mentioned Lady Montsoreau, she sent him away.”
“The queen will tell Heloise everything she wants to know,” Agnes said. “I can be very persuasive.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” Amaury’s gaze flitted to her; he twitched his mustache.
I had to look away from them. Sly phrases, secret smiles, the sweet indulgences of blossoming love: these made up our own private language, Abelard’s and mine. Watching Agnes and Amaury together made me blush—was this how we appeared to others? The sidelong glances, the surreptitious touches, the way the air around us seemed to shimmer—we thought our riposte, spiced with allusions to carnal pleasure, the cleverest in the history of lovers. Hearing them, I blushed. Abelard and I would need to be more careful in my uncle’s presence.
The morning sun struggled upward in a tepid attempt to warm the day as we approached Hautes-Bruyères, with its elegant arched gates, stone walls, and tall trees whose red-and-gold leaves illuminated the pale sky. Amaury gestured toward the chapel with its slender spires. The priory, he told us, held two hundred women. Queen Bertrade had founded it, with Amaury’s help, to atone for her sins with King Philip. He said this with pride, as though he weren’t repeating his sister’s sins with Agnes.
Soon we were inside the gate, accompanied by a fat nun who waddled through the large, light cloister to the prioress’s study. The room impressed me: Bertrade of Montfort had furnished it in a manner befitting a queen. Colorful Persian carpets cushioned the stone floor; creamy silk tapestries lined the walls. A fire crackled in the exquisite fireplace of slender, rose-colored tiles laid in a herringbone pattern. Several lord’s chairs with high, ornamented backs and arms lined the room’s perimeter, and a large writing desk occupied a far corner. Sitting there was the prioress, who gathered herself and stood as befits a queen, her back and neck as straight as if she had been carved from ivory. She glided to us, or, rather, floated.
“Amaury, how handsome you appear! And this must be your Agnes.” She kissed them both, then turned to me. She gasped when she saw me, and I might have done the same: even in her veil, and at her age—nearly fifty, a decade younger than my mother would have been—she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her skin gleamed like polished porcelain. Her sloe eyes lifted at the corners, their color so black as to be nearly purple. When she smiled at me, the room seemed to glow.
“My dear! You have your mother’s face—her perfect little nose and her large, haunted eyes.” Her own eyes shone, luminous with tears.
She invited us to sit, and two sisters entered to move chairs before the fire.
“Alors, Heloise,” she said. “You have escaped from the convent, I see. Bonne chance! While I, the Dowager Queen of the Franks, have no other place to go.”
Amaury cleared his throat. “I have tried to make these surroundings pleasant for you.”
“They are pleasant enough, yes. But as you know, I would rather be riding a galloping steed than languishing inside these walls.” She shot a glance at me. “That doesn’t offend you? . . . Good. You are your mother’s daughter, then. But you!” She leveled her gaze at Agnes, who had pressed a finger to her lips. “Something amuses you, non?”
“I beg your pardon, my lady. I had expected a different answer, given the life you have led.”
Bertrade arched one eyebrow. “You thought I had repented for my sins? Indeed I have done so, but marrying King Philip is not one of them.”
“But you built this priory to atone for it,” I said.
“A mere display, to appease the Church. Those prudish popes would have excommunicated me straight to hell otherwise—but I intend to meet my husband in heaven. We married for love, as God intended.” She turned to Agnes. “Was that what you thought I would say?”
“My lady, I thought you would say that, instead of living in this priory, you would rather be making love to the king.”
“Indeed!” Bertrade brightened. “I would rather ride Philip’s verpa than any horse.” She broke into laughter, nearly drowning out the peals of the refectory bell. I turned wild eyes to Amaury. Had we traveled all morning for this?
“Heloise has come to ask you about her mother,” Amaury said.
She arched a brow at me. “Your mother loved to laugh.”
“Did you know of me?” I ventured to ask.
“Of course. I knew everything about Hersende.”
“While I know almost nothing of her. She took me to the convent when I was seven, and I never saw her again.”
“And Fulbert?” Bertrade narrowed her eyes. “What does he say about Hersende?”
I glanced at Agnes and Amaury, hesitant to repeat my uncle’s slanders before them. The dinner bell pealed; Bertrade clapped her hands, and a young nun entered. At the queen’s command, she escorted the pair to the refectory for dinner. When they had left, the queen resumed our talk.
“If the world has been silent regarding Hersende, it is because she insisted on silence,” Bertrade said when she returned to me. “She gave birth to you in secret—I know because I was there, stifling her cries and yours. Most of her servants were gone, dismissed because she worried they’d talk about her growing belly. She felt terrified that her family would find out, all those brothers and that father of hers always talking honor, honor, honor. She hid her love affair even from me, for a time. She feared I might judge her.” Bertrade wrinkled her brow. “As if I had never loved, nor suffered for it.”
“Uncle said she was ashamed of what she did. That is why she went to Fontevraud.”
“Pfft. The mirror he holds up to others, he should turn upon himself.”
“Uncle Fulbert helped my mother.”
She rolled her eyes. “Is that what he told you? He helped Hersende to avoid disgracing his precious family, yes. But what he forced your mother to do was far more shameful. And see how you have suffered, poor child!”
“What did he force her to do?”
“Ask that question of Fulbert. Ha! I would love to be there, to watch him cringe.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Take care with him, my dear. For all his false piety, he is not a good man. Why do you stare at me so? If I held my peace, the very stones would cry out. But I have upset you, which was not my intent. I do not wish to discuss Fulbert with you, at any rate. It is dinnertime, and the very thought of that man has stolen my appetite. Is there anything more you would know about Hersende?”
“Was Mother ashamed of me, too?”
“Hersende adored you. After all, you were a part of herself—and of him, as well. She would have told the world about you, if she could. She was not ashamed of anything that she did, except, perhaps, placing you in Argenteuil at such a young age. Yet she did that, too, out of love. She didn’t hide you away out of shame—this you must know. She was forced to take you there.”
“Forced? By my father?”
“Is that why my father never acknowledged me?”
Compassion filled Bertrade’s eyes. She squeezed my hand. “My dear, he never knew you existed.”
PART TWO
Dilectio
1
Therefore my beloved, write something cheerful, sing something cheerful, live prosperously and happily. You who have almost forgotten me, my sweet, when shall I see you? Allow at least one happy hour for me.
—HELOISE TO ABELARD
PARIS
OCTOBER 1115
At my door, Abelard enfolded me in his arms and kissed me with a fervor that bruised my lips.
“If only this night would never cease,” he said, devouring my mouth, my throat, my bosom, “I would make love to you forever.”
All on fire with desire, how could I turn him away from my bed? When he lifted me up and carried me into my room, his eyes reflecting the hearth’s flames, I forgot our vow to forbear these indulgences in my uncle’s house. The touch of his hands on my body obliterated every thought. He removed my clothing with excruciating slowness as if doing so would delay the dawn. I remember every detail: the scent of passion on his breath; the pluck of my body’s strings by his nimble fingers; his tongue between my thighs; the press of his palm against my gasping mouth, stifling my ecstatic cries. These days and nights might be the last we spent in lovemaking for who knew how long? My uncle and Jean would return soon from Anjou, where they had gone with Galon to a synod of bishops. How, then, with even the birds throating songs about our love, would Abelard and I dare to take these risks under his very nose? So we rode slowly, savoring this night, prolonging it, wishing it never had to end.
Spent after our hours of delight, we lay entwined, my hair a river flooding his chest, his heartbeat murmuring, Volupt, volupt, volupt. How could I ever have doubted his love? In truth, it had outstripped my own, conferring upon me a debt that, too soon, I must repay.
A month had passed since our reunion at Etienne’s, time spent in conversation rather than kisses, Abelard’s fear of discovery having put its left foot against his desire, and my love for him compelling me to stifle my own. Possessing Abelard’s love, I told myself, I needed nothing more. Why, then, did I feel adrift, as if set in a boat in the middle of the sea without an oar?
One day before my uncle’s journey, I had lost my way walking to the market. Upon finding it at last, I tried to purchase some eels and realized I had left my money pouch at home. At supper, I wandered in my thoughts, causing my uncle to ask if I felt unwell. In my room, I vomited in my chamber pot.
Why? I knew well the answer. The sickness in my heart had made my body ill. I did not want to go to Fontevraud, but to remain with Abelard—which would be impossible to do. Even to voice my desires would be pointless. Who had ever asked for my thoughts concerning my life? I would depart in less than eight months’ time. In the gown being sewn especially for the ceremony—the fabric bloodred, the color of sacrifice—I would take my vows to God, then be shorn of all my hair and attired in a nun’s habit and veil. I might never see Abelard again.
I did not want to go. I wanted to remain with my speciälis, not as his wife, for he could not marry, but as his mistress, as Gisele had been to my uncle, a position less honorable in the eyes of the Church but perfectly acceptable among Parisians. People in Paris pursed their lips in contempt over the reformists’ insistence that clergymen remain chaste. Forcing men to deny their God-given desires was cruel and even unhealthy, many said.
Decades after Pope Gregory’s reforms and his death, a new generation of zealots had begun to demand that priests and bishops live like monks, although, as everyone knew, monks themselves were not immune to temptations of the flesh. Unlike my ambitious uncle, however, many resisted these reforms. Abelard, who was neither priest nor deacon, might make a mistress of me without repercussions—were I not his scholar.
I lay on my bed that night, clenching my stomach. How would I tear myself from him? The wound would never heal. But I could not remain in Paris with him, either. Galon would know, then, that the rumors about us were true. He would eject Abelard from the school, covering him with disgrace. How would my dearest live? Could Etienne help him, given his own rivalry with Suger? To lift a finger on Abelard’s behalf might prove too dangerous, friend or not.
My uncle would rage, too, of course. I shuddered: his hands were large; his fists, powerful. He had hurt me more than once for impudent remarks: Just like your mother, thinking yourself above everyone else. Who knew what he would do to Abelard for this betrayal?
Non, I could not remain here. My destiny sealed, I must go to Fontevraud in June. Cold, damp memories covered my skin in gooseflesh. Would I return to the life I had hated, and live in darkness and silence for the rest of my days? And yet, loving Abelard, did I have any choice? I would destroy my own life without hesitation rather than harm a single hair on his head.
Nausea rolled over me, then subsided.
In losing Abelard, I would lose a part of myself. Who else had ever listened to my deepest thoughts and encouraged me to dream? Who else among men considered anything that I had to say? Abelard engaged my ideas and challenged me to defend them. His arguments sharpened my mind and, at times, my tongue, and yet, as with everyone else who had ever tried, I had never defeated him. After each debate, though, he praised my intelligence and skill.
Who else had ever burst into song while walking through the place with me? Gesturing with open arms one rainy afternoon, he’d dropped my packages in the mud, spoiling our supper, but had returned to each vendor and purchased every item anew—as well as candied chestnuts for me. I, insisting now upon carrying the capons and bread, had encouraged him to resume his songs, but he’d only laughed and fed the sweets to me one by one as we walked. Who, now, would buy me candied chestnuts? Who would feed them to me and then lick the sugar from his own fingertips, declaring them sweeter for having touched my lips? Who, now, would make me laugh?
And who, when my uncle began to curse me, would lighten his mood with an amusing tale? Since moving into our home, Abelard had protected me from my uncle’s anger. No longer did Uncle Fulbert raise his hand against me, not when Abelard’s presence filled the room—non, it filled the entire house—blinding Uncle to my impertinences and dazzling us with bold, mirthful light.
If only we might continue in this manner forever. A prayer rose to my lips—but how could I speak it? Although I cherished the love, and life, we shared, I also hated deceiving my uncle. He trusted us, and we betrayed him whenever the opportunity arose: in his home, in the cloister stables, on the riverbank at night, and even—I cringed to think of it now, while my skin filled with heat—in the chapel behind Etienne’s house. Our sins had increased in number until we had ceased counting them. We must end our deceptions soon or we would be discovered, torn apart, and cast into shame.
No, I must go to Fontevraud as planned, fulfill my destiny, and allow Abelard to fulfill his own—apart from me, but not completely. A part of me would remain with him for all time.
Love is not self-seeking. I remembered the Scripture I had recited to him to demonstrate my knowledge of love. Soon the time would come for me to practice what I had preached to Abelard that day. I would take my nun’s vows to protect him, loving him as Christ had loved. And he, thinking I wanted to go, would never realize my sacrifice.
Knowing that the Scriptures admonish us not to boast of our good works, I resisted the temptation to confess the truth to Abelard. Instead, I demonstrated my feelings in other ways, offering love from my mouth as a fountain, or a spring, in the kisses we shared in my bed after my nausea had passed and the house was quiet.
And, oh! When he had carried me to heights never before known—into other worlds, it seemed—I clung to him, dizzy, as if the earth had turned itsel
f over. When he peered into my eyes from under those sultry, half-lowered lids, I saw questions whose answers I had never thought to ponder. Now, alone with him in the house, entwined in my bed, the fire that he had just fed roaring in the hearth, I began to ask questions of my own. Why, I wondered, had he sung of our love to all the world, endangering us both?
“My love for you filled my body to overflowing.” He smiled. “Had I tried to hold it in, I would have burst apart. You would not have wanted that to happen, non?”
“But what of my honor? Surely you heard the courtiers’ murmurs that night in the palace. Surely you saw how they looked at me, as though I had fornicated with you on the floor before them all.”
“They were only amusing themselves.”
“And doing so at my expense!”
“They are nobles.” He shrugged. “They amuse themselves at everyone’s expense.”
I sat up. “Noble birth ought to impose a higher standard of behavior, not excuse a lower one.”
“And one might think that a girl so highly born would disregard the opinions of others. Indeed, such a girl might even laugh at her detractors.”
“One might think that the man who loved that girl would defend her against defamatory remarks—if he were truly a man. And if he truly loved her.”
“Were we on the field of battle, you might need my protection. For riposte, however, you are as well equipped as I.”
“You said not a word to that disgusting old baron and his wife, who insulted me to my face.”
“Would you rather that they did so when your back was turned?”
“Do not obscure my point with rhetorical questions.”
“That old baron is a friend of Etienne’s,” Abelard said.
“What use could Etienne find in that decrepit old goat?”