The Sharp Hook of Love

by Sherry Jones

  “In only a few weeks, Heloise will be my wife no more. The bishop of Paris has agreed: she is to take the veil as a consecrated nun and will remain for the rest of her life at the Argenteuil Royal Abbey.”

  The cry that sprang from my lips sounded far away. I would have snatched the tablet from Abelard, but clung to the bed, instead. Darkness spilled like ink across the room; Abelard’s voice receded. I am dying, I thought as I fell, and thanked God.

  13

  Since my mind is turning with many concerns, it fails me, pierced by the sharp hook of love. . . .

  —HELOISE TO ABELARD

  In Etienne’s chapel, the very one where Abelard and I had wed, I prayed on my knees, oblivious of the time of day or anything else except the tomb in which my husband wished to bury me, and the fate of our son. How keenly did my breast yearn for Astralabe now, when I thought I might never hold him again.

  Dear Lord, please. Take this bitter cup from me. Restore my son to me, Father, I beg you. Dear God, have mercy on my poor little babe. Do not punish him for my sins. He is innocent, as you know. Would you deprive him of his mother’s love? Mother Mary, I know you would not. I beg you, return him to me.

  Abelard! Have you ceased to love me altogether? You know I would rather die than go back to that cold place. Why didn’t you fight for me? Dear God, have mercy. Do not let them send me back to Argenteuil.

  What else could I do besides pray? I had no other recourse—a fact that made me want to laugh and also to cry. Had I thought to determine the course of my life? Even the wisdom and knowledge of the poets and philosophers through the ages could not assist me. Why, reading them, had I never realized that men reserve power for themselves alone? The huntress Atalanta had not wanted to marry. Hippomenes, desiring her, drew her eye with golden apples and claimed her for his own. How happily she might have lived, solitary and free, had he left her to herself! Instead, he took her in the temple as Abelard had taken me in the Argenteuil refectory, incurring the wrath of the Mother of the Gods. Now he and I would be chained as they had been—to the Church, our love denied for each other and for our son.

  At the thought, I felt an ache spread through my chest like blood from a wound. Love was all I had ever wanted.

  “Heloise.” A hand on my shoulder interrupted my prayers: Agnes, standing over me like the angel of that mercy for which I had pleaded. “Papa and I came as soon as we heard. Oh, you poor dear.”

  I stood to welcome her soft embrace, felt her arms twine around me. How long had it been since anyone had comforted me? Concerned for Abelard and his loss, the world, it seemed, had forgotten about me, a woman without tears and so, it was assumed, without a heart.

  “My son,” I whispered. “He wants to take my son from me.”

  “Pierre is altered, Heloise. You cannot believe anything he says, not now.”

  “Can I believe the bishop, then?” I parted from her. “He confirms everything Abelard has told me. They have decided my fate. They tell me I must take the veil and forswear my son.”

  “You must do nothing, my dear. No abbey would accept a woman against her will.”

  My laugh was bitter. “If the bishop of Paris commands it, so will it be. Why did I ever believe him, Agnes? Abelard promised to return Astralabe to me, but his promises were false.”

  “Non, he did not lie. I know Pierre, have you forgotten? He would have brought Astralabe to Paris if he could. You should have seen his tears over the child! His own son, and he could do nothing for him. Your own anguish made him suffer even more, being its cause. He loved you so, Heloise.”

  I noticed that she spoke in the past tense, as if Abelard were dead or had ceased to love me.

  “As you know, Pierre is accustomed to taking whatever he desires. But in this case, the world—and his fears—prevented him from claiming the child.”

  Suger, she said, had become increasingly powerful in the king’s court. A brilliant architect, he had convinced King Louis to spend a fortune on a grand new cathedral at Saint-Denis. When the Garlande brothers opposed the expenditure, pointing to the needs of the growing city, Suger increased his attacks on them.

  “He has turned King Louis against my father and Uncle Etienne for supporting King Philip’s marriage to Queen Bertrade. Suger called the union an abomination, when everyone knows that she and King Philip loved each other deeply. Bertrade treated Louis kindly, but Suger says she tried to poison him so that her own son would become king.”

  I exclaimed. Queen Bertrade, a murderess? I could not imagine it of the woman who, on her deathbed, had sent for me so that I might know my mother had loved me.

  “What proof does Suger offer?” I asked.

  “None at all, but King Louis believes him.” Agnes narrowed her eyes. “Amaury says Suger wanted to put Bertrade on trial. An abbess, on trial! Only her death prevented that humiliation.”

  Failing in this attempt, Suger focused his efforts on discrediting Agnes’s father and disparaging Etienne for his patronage of Abelard.

  “Pierre’s songs have been banished from the court, did you know? Suger said they are too sensual, arousing sinful passions.” The monk also accused Etienne, in the king’s presence, of encouraging adulterers and fornicators.

  “Uncle Etienne swore that you and Pierre were innocent of any sin. Suger produced no evidence of anything, of course, aside from Pierre’s songs. But if it became known that you had a child . . .”

  I shook my head. “Who is Suger? A mere monk, of unknown parentage. King’s chaplain or not, he cannot harm me.”

  Agnes lifted one eyebrow. “Do not underestimate what any man might do for power.”

  I sighed. “Then you think I should take the veil?” The dark halls; the damp chill; the silence like a hand squeezing my throat.

  “At your tender age? I should hope not.” Agnes linked arms with me and led me indoors. “Being young and beautiful, you may easily marry again.”

  “Nothing could appeal to me less.”

  “Of course you feel that way today, while love for Pierre yet commands your heart. In time, though, you will forget. And with Pierre in the monastery, you will be free to do as you wish.”

  “The idea of sharing another man’s bed fills me with revulsion.”

  Agnes laughed. “You will change your mind soon enough. Otherwise, how will you live? You may live here with me until I marry Amaury. But how would you care for yourself after that?”

  “My mother had other brothers. I have a brother, as well.” I had wanted to go to him, but Uncle had forbidden it. Would he want to know what his mother had done? Would you reveal her secrets to benefit yourself?

  “Your relatives would quickly find a husband for you and increase their fortune. In our world, dear, the only doors open to women are those of the bridal chamber and the convent. Otherwise, what would you do? Wash other people’s clothes and raise your son with the beggars and rats?”

  I thought of the neighborhoods through which Pauline and I had ridden in our search for Jean-Paul, and my spirits sank. Life in a monastery would be far better for Astralabe than that miserable, hungry existence. Pauline had endured it for a short time to be with her child, but she had hopes of working as a cook and marrying. I possessed no skills except reading and writing—useless talents for a woman except in the abbey.

  “I could marry, I suppose, if doing so would return my son to me.”

  “Non, my dear friend. That child is lost to you now. Pierre is right about this: unless you would destroy the man you love, you must give up your son. Let him remain in Brittany, far from anyone’s sight. Forget about him. But—don’t look so gloomy about it, Heloise! You will give birth again.”

  After our dispute over Astralabe, Abelard returned to his studies and refused to answer any more of my questions. My eyes’ accusations, he said, rebuked his tongue to silence. Only when Agnes and her father entered his room with Etienne did Abelard finally speak.

  “They have forbidden me to teach, a more cruel punishment than
any blade could inflict,” he said, pacing the room, his pain overcome by outrage. At these words, I forgot my own travails for a moment. In their haste to rub the salt of their judgment into Abelard’s wounds, would the men of the Church extinguish the light of his brilliance? They might as well blot out the sun for fear of being burned.

  “Suger would destroy kingdoms if it would increase his status,” Agnes’s father said.

  “By God’s head, what does he gain by my diminishment? I possess nothing that he desires.”

  “Except Heloise,” Agnes said. “Do you recall that day in the Saint-Etienne Cathedral when Bernard spoke? Suger glared at her throughout the sermon—with his hands crossed before his crotch. I wonder what he was hiding?”

  “Having lived at Saint-Denis since he was a child, Suger knows nothing of women except what the Church has taught,” Etienne said. “His own lustful thoughts terrify him. Forced to deny his natural desires, he blames women as the cause of his sin.”

  “Daughter of Eve,” Agnes teased, seeing the color rise to my face.

  “If so, then why wouldn’t he blame me instead of Abelard for our sins?”

  “I’m certain that he does blame you,” Agnes’s father said. “But to attack Pierre is to attack the brothers of Garlande. By diminishing us in King Louis’s eyes, Suger aims to elevate himself.”

  “And now he would lock me away at Saint-Denis, where he can watch my every movement,” Abelard said.

  “As the abbot’s secretary, he will do more than watch,” Etienne said. “He will work to discredit you in every way, so as to harm my brother and me.”

  “That is all the more reason why Heloise ought to take the veil,” Abelard said. “Then Suger could not threaten her, or any of us by accusing her.”

  Heat rose to my face. “Why should I sacrifice myself on the altar of that man’s secret shame? Let him say what he desires. Our spotless lives shall speak for us.”

  As eagerly as I had longed to hear Abelard’s laughter again, the sound now brought me no joy. “Spotless, did you say? With what soap have you cleansed your past?”

  “I believe it is called marriage,” I said tersely.

  “God does not agree, or so it appears,” he said.

  When they had gone, Abelard slumped upon his bed. “I am finished.”

  “Why do you say so? Can the breath of any mortal blow out such a flame?” I went over to sit beside him and placed my hand on his, but he drew himself away.

  “Of what benefit is a flame that burns where none can see its brightness or feel its heat?”

  “Then—remain with me, Abelard. I shall be as a mirror reflecting your light for all to see. Pass on your wisdom and knowledge to our son. In time, the world will forget your shame and will welcome your music and your arguments again.”

  “The world will never forget. Or, if it did, the Church would not. No, Heloise, I must do as the bishop commands if I would continue my work. Guibert promised to disseminate my Sic et Non if I comply.”

  “Do as you must, then.” I stood and brushed my palms together. “I shall do the same.”

  “You are my wife. You do as I command.”

  “Before husbandly rights come husbandly duties, none of which you desire to fulfill.”

  “As if desiring could make me a man again.”

  “Manhood comes not from the body, but from the willingness to do what is right.”

  “I know what is right for you.”

  “As you have demonstrated so competently in the months since our marriage? My son wrested from me, myself shut away in the very manner which you now dread, yourself attacked and now planning to abandon me—”

  “I have made better arrangements for you than you ought to have hoped. Argenteuil would not admit you again, not after what we did there, without my help.” Someone, it seemed, had spied us in the refectory—Sister Adela, I felt certain—and reported our transgression to the Reverend Mother. My face burned.

  “You have done all for naught. I will not return to Argenteuil.”

  “You will. The bishop of Paris has declared it so.”

  “The bishop does not rule my life, as he seems to rule yours. I will retrieve our son and care for him myself.”

  “You mean to say that you will remarry.” The spark of life returned to Abelard’s eyes. “That I would never allow.”

  “Marry, and place myself under another man’s control? I would sooner enter the convent.”

  “With what, then, do you intend to feed our child?”

  “With the love that he is not getting now.”

  “And do you think love will sustain him? Come now, Heloise. If you will not take the veil, then you must marry. I will not be able to provide for you while I am cloistered.”

  “I shall write to my brother and my other uncles. They would not allow harm to befall me or our son.”

  “Why would your family aid you now, covered as you are with the dung others have heaped upon us? We reek, Heloise. No one can come near us without gagging from the stink of our sin.”

  I stared at him, uncomprehending. What had happened to my Abelard? Whence had gone the boaster, the swaggerer, the arrogant who had so confidently proclaimed that our love, far from being sinful, was God’s most precious gift?

  “We have atoned for our sins, if we ever sinned at all,” I said, but my voice lacked conviction. “I always considered the pleasures we shared to be the most innocent of delights, given to each other with the highest intention, that is, love.”

  “And now we are ruined!” Tears filled Abelard’s eyes as he stepped toward me. I stood as if in a dream, unable to believe that he was opening his arms to me at last.

  “I have nothing to offer you, Heloise, except the little influence I still wield.” Warmth filled me as I anticipated his embrace, but he only placed his hands on my shoulders. His eyes gazed into mine. I sought tenderness there but saw only pity—for himself.

  “Your love is what I need,” I said.

  “Your obedience is what I need.”

  “I cannot do as you ask.” I would have turned away but I dared not, for fear of losing Abelard completely again.

  “You must, or your death will be on my head.”

  I smiled. “I have no plans to die anytime soon. I have a school to begin.”

  I told him of my plan, the seed of which had been planted long ago, when, denied my request to attend his class because of my sex, I began to think of opening a school for girls. Yes, I knew the arguments against such a school, but I also knew there was nothing else for me to do. Hadn’t he taught me that I might accomplish anything to which I aspired?

  “I can teach your dialectic to them,” I said quickly, not daring to let him speak. “Your name and your teachings will live on then, even should the pope himself cast your books into the fire.”

  “Poor Heloise.” He shook his head with a smile so condescending that, unable to bear it, I closed my eyes. “The Church would never allow what you want. Men would never allow it. Women are for bearing children and bringing them up—the matters of the home. The matters of the world are best left to men.”

  “You seemed to enjoy having a thinking wife.”

  “I am not like other men. And you are not like other women.”

  “Plenty of women would enjoy using their minds for more than needlework and nursery rhymes.”

  Yet my words rang feebly in my own ears. I thought of Agnes, who had been given the best tutors and yet possessed only a rudimentary grasp of Latin and none of literature. What would be the use of filling my head with such nonsense? she had said with a shrug—until Amaury came along. Now, however, she read not for her own edification, but to impress him. I thought of the ladies at King Louis’s court, who, upon hearing Abelard’s new, more sophisticated songs, had pronounced without shame that they preferred the simpler verses of his earlier works.

  “Oui, and a place exists for women who crave the scholar’s life,” Abelard said. “There they may read and discuss to thei
r heart’s delight, without threatening the balance of the world that men have made for themselves. It is called the abbey, Heloise. If you aim to teach, as do I, then the abbey is the only place for us.”

  14

  When I was powerless to oppose you in anything, I found strength at your command to destroy myself.

  —HELOISE TO ABELARD

  I went at his command, that is to say, willingly, although with ponderous steps, as though dragging my legs through water. Was this how my mother had felt in the ceremony at Fontevraud? But she had joined the man she loved there, rather than putting herself away from him. She had not given up her life for my father’s sake, but at my uncle’s insistence.

  Now, stepping with Abelard into the very life I dreaded, I understood at last. Mother might have kept me with her, but at what price? My uncle, with his brothers’ assent, had forced her into abbey life sooner than she desired—for she would have gone to Robert eventually, I imagine—but he had not taken me from her. She had relinquished me willingly for the sake of her beloved, had left me fatherless for his sake, abandoning not only me but also herself for the sake of love.

  What is the meaning of love? Abelard and I had argued this question many times, but now, walking beside him with my hand in the crook of his arm, I remembered something he had written to me.

  In this way will our love be immortal: if each of us strives to outdo the other in a friendly and loving contest and if neither of us agrees to be outdone by the other. Wasn’t this what Christ meant when he said, “Love your neighbor as I have loved you”? In giving his life for us, he created a debt that we can only repay by loving one another in turn. And so, only one type of love exists, as I had argued. Its authentic expression comes not in the uttering of words or in sweet gazes or even a fullness felt in the heart. To truly love, we must be willing to give of ourselves, even our very lives.

  On that day in the Argenteuil chapel, in the gown I had worn for our wedding, I married Abelard as I had not done before, that is, with all my being and all my soul. Now, he must repay the debt. Elation soared in me at the thought. We, whose spirits had merged, whose bodies had dissolved and melded together, whose hearts had beat as one with the great and generous pulse of the world, had not finished, but had only begun.