Stealing Heaven (11 page)

Heloise sat up and asked hesitantly, "Why do you hate it so?"

Ceci threw her an indignant glance. She said sharply, "Why did
you
hate it so?"

Heloise did not answer. While they were finishing the last of the wine, she told Ceci about her cousins at Saint-Gervais, about Mabile and her one-eyed husband, about Jourdain, whose father despised him, and about the lovely Alis, who dreamed of a fairy prince and who would, probably, die unwed in her uncle's castle.

When Heloise stopped talking, Ceci said, "So?"

"So—mayhap life outside Argenteuil is not any better than life inside it."

"You don't believe that."

No, she did not believe it. She decided to keep quiet. They had a fight over whether prayers to St. Denis were answered more quickly than those to St. Michael, and then they slept. It was late afternoon when they woke, and bells were ringing vespers. "It's time to go home," said Heloise crisply, "and we must stop at the baker's on the way."

Ants were gorging themselves on the remains of the Brie. Ceci scooped up the cloth, ants and all, and stuffed it into the basket. They walked slowly and turned down the Rue de la Juiverie, then made another turn on Rue de la Pomme. There was a line at the baker's stall, but it seemed to be moving fairly quickly. Ceci stayed outside with the basket, and Heloise queued up behind a woman carrying a trussed goose under her arm. After the nap, she felt drowsy and the roof of her mouth was dry. She should know better than to drink whole wine at midday.

After a few minutes, the line seemed to come to a dead halt. She peered over the head of the woman with the goose. A tall man was standing at the counter, pointing to one loaf and then another, asking question after question.

"Is that white bread?" he demanded. "You're sure. How about that flat loaf over there? What's that made of?"

He seemed utterly unperturbed by the baker's furious glances and by the customers stamping their feet impatiently at his rear.

Out of curiosity, Heloise began to listen more attentively. The man behaved as if he had never seen the inside of a bakery before. Now he was asking the baker for the yeast content of the barley loaves. Smiling involuntarily, Heloise edged out of line and moved around so that she could get a better look at the fellow. He did not appear simple-minded; he was clean-shaven and had shaggy dark hair, well cut. The profile revealed a handsome face, intense and sensitive. His voice was as silvery as the summer Seine on a moonlit night.

Someone behind her shouted angrily, "By St. Denis's holy farts, pay your money and move your ass!"

He turned around then and bowed deeply in the direction of the irate voice. "Madame," he said, smiling broadly, "it took Our Blessed Savior three days to rise from the tomb and he was the Son of God. The least you can allot me is three minutes to purchase a loaf of bread."

Heloise started to laugh, but the grin froze on her mouth. Paralyzed, she stared at the man's smiling face and then, when he had turned once more to the baker, at his back. She saw him drop a handful of oboles on the metal counter and shove a loaf of white bread under his arm. As he strode by her, she looked squarely into his eyes. His step faltered by half a beat. Smiling sheepishly, he said to her, "That's what comes of being wholly enslaved to one's stomach at regular intervals," and passed on.

Stumbling out of line, she darted after him into the street, only to see his back vanish into a crowd of shoppers.

Ceci ran up to her. "Heloise, you didn't get the bread."

"Did you see that man?" She pointed vaguely toward the Petit Pont.

"What—"

Her voice rose feverishly. "The man who just walked out of here. With black hair and a loaf under his arm."

Ceci frowned. "I guess. I don't know. Why?"
 

"That man is mine."

“Yours? What do you mean—yours? Heloise, what are you talking about?"

"Nothing." Her heart was pounding; she gulped for air. "I didn't mean anything." Slowly she turned and walked back to the end of the line.

 

 

 

5

 

 

Jourdain returned
as abruptly as he had departed. Two days before St. Barnaby's Day, he was back in the kitchen once more, inviting Heloise to attend a lecture at the palace garden. He was in a fever to be off because Abelard was scheduled to speak first, and if they hurried, they could still hear most of his remarks.

Avoiding the crowds, they sprinted along the towpath beside the river and ran all the way to the Cite Palace. By the time they got there, Heloise had a cramp in her side. Her lungs were burning, and she could only gasp in disappointment. The gates had been thrown back, but the entrance was thronged so tightly with students that not even a lizard could have squeezed through. Milling around outside were hundreds who had obviously arrived too late for admission. She looked at Jourdain despairingly.

"Come on!" Clutching her hand, he made a flying frontal attack on the mass of backs wedged into the entrance. "Make way!" he bellowed. "Make way for the Lady Heloise. Move it, you turd."

Jourdain managed to pummel his way through the solid-packed wall of men, dragging Heloise behind him. Some of them inched aside, more from surprise than from any desire to let them pass; others cursed and retaliated with a volley of elbows and fists. Heloise felt a boot thud into her ankle; unknown fingers pinched her breast.

Inside, it was not much better. Men were sitting and standing on every available inch of space. Jourdain pulled her up to a trellis, but farther he could not go. Breathless, she peered through a thicket of vines at people's backs. Somewhere in the front of the garden a man was speaking, but she could not see him. Her ankle throbbed. Slowly she grew aware of a wet, sticky sensation, and when she looked down, she saw blood rolling into her slipper. Through a haze of pain, the man's voice penetrated her consciousness. It was an extraordinarily compelling voice—commanding, melodic, full of confidence and razzle-dazzle good humor—the voice of a person who knew everything worth knowing.

Glancing at Jourdain, she saw that his face was glazed with a kind of rapturous admiration. She tried hard to pay attention to the content of Abelard's words, but only a phrase now and again sank in; involuntarily her mind kept drifting away on the sound waves of the voice. Abruptly the garden burst into prolonged applause. Beside her, Jourdain was shouting at the top of his voice.

She tugged at his sleeve. "Is it
over?"
Around them the crowd began to seethe and ripple in the direction of the gate. It looked as though many people were leaving.

Jourdain beamed. "Now, isn't he everything I said? I told you, didn't I?"

"Is it over?" she repeated. "Everyone's leaving."

"Not at all," he insisted. "Three more lectures to come. But Master Peter's are the best attended." He added, "Anyway, now we can sit up close."

"Fine." She smiled.

He turned away and began stretching his neck, looking for something. "Wait here. I'll be right back."

Tides of students were pouring by, all with the same peculiar enraptured look that Jourdain had worn. Heloise clung to an apple tree for fear of being swept out of the garden. Minutes went by and Jourdain did not return. The pain in her ankle had settled into a numb ache. She sat down under the tree and dabbed the blood with the hem of her gown. What a fine mess. The slipper and the gown would be ruined. Agnes always said you must soak bloodstains immediately or they never came out. Agnes, she groaned to herself, Agnes would want to know how she had been injured, and if Heloise told the truth, Fulbert would certainly find out. And he would be hurt or angry or both that she had not asked his permission to come here. Her thoughts spun madly ahead, building catastrophe upon catastrophe.

"Heloise! There you are."

Jourdain was standing over her. She stared up at his face and beyond, past his shoulder, at the face in her dreams. Shivering, she slid her gaze smoothly over the apparition, up and up in an arc until she was looking at the sun sifting through the branches of the apple tree.

"God, you've been hurt!" shouted Jourdain. "Heloise, what happened?"

"It's nothing." She laughed nervously. "Somebody kicked me on the way in, that's all." Gracelessly, she scrambled to her feet.

Behind Jourdain, Abelard said, "Lady, I'm honored to meet you at last."

Heloise turned toward him without meeting his eyes. "Yes, my lord. I've heard a great deal about you as well." With sweating palms she shook the nettles from her skirt and smoothed the fabric over her hips.

Jourdain was glowing, his broad face grinning jubilation at having drawn together his two favorite people. Rather awkwardly, the three of them stood smiling in the early-afternoon sunlight, she and Abelard staring at each other, Jourdain darting his eyes between them. Heloise hugged her arms around her waist; her hands trembled, and she hid them in the folds of her gown. His face took her breath away: it was not only that he was extremely handsome—she had seen beautiful men—rather, it was a face made to be loved—no, adored. Now she could understand why Jourdain, why all these young men in the garden today, worshiped the man; he dazzled like the noonday sun. The magnificent grin, the hypnotic intelligence of the blue eyes, the mouth so elegant and mobile, they shouted to every passerby, "Love me, admire me, possess me if you can!" Unable to face him any longer, she looked away and said coldly, "I suppose you're accustomed to these mob scenes whenever you lecture."

"God's eyes, no," he sighed, "but it seems to be the price of fame." His eyes never left her face. "Men seldom have the option of choosing between anonymity and notoriety. They are thrust upon one."

A kind of careless pride, perhaps complacency, in his voice jarred her into criticism. "One might refuse fame."

"In that case, I trust one would rightly be called a fool."

Jourdain stirred uncomfortably at the turn in the conversation; Abelard gave him a grin and whacked him on the shoulder. “What do you say we get out of here? Let's find some congenial pothouse with a garden. A pitcher of chilled wine to celebrate this occasion?"

"Splendid, but"—Jourdain glanced at Heloise—"my friend came to hear the lectures. And so far she's heard practically nothing."

"No, Jourdain, I'll leave you now. I've had enough for today." Her ankle ached intolerably. Without looking, she knew that it was already swelling. She took a few stumbling steps toward the gate, but the limp could not be hidden.

Abelard reached out to steady her. "Ah, lady, why didn't you tell us? You're in pain. We must take you home."

"Please, I have no wish to inconvenience you. I shall do perfectly well by myself."

"Shhh. Don't be a martyr." He grinned. "Any lady injured at one of my lectures shall have the best service that influence can buy." With that, he strode down a path toward the front of the garden. Heloise began remonstrating with Jourdain, to no avail.

A few minutes later, Abelard returned with a heavy blond man puffing along at his heels. "I don't think anything's broken," Abelard was saying. "Probably only a flesh wound. But we will need a horse, if you would be so kind, my lord."

"Certes, certes," answered the blond man, smiling a sweet, concerned smile at Heloise. "If you can manage to reach the gate, child, I'll have a horse brought around. Careful now. Take my hand."

With King Louis holding one arm and Abelard the other, Heloise was lifted onto a stallion; a palace guardsman, his blue and gold banner snapping the fleur-de-lis, escorted her to the Rue des Chantres and carried her into the house.

 

Fulbert coughed. He paced from the kitchen door to the herb beds at the rear of the garden. Across the wall, in the close, two drunken students were skirmishing over a skin of wine. Hearing them, Fulbert jerked his head in annoyance and heaved himself on a bench.

"People like that aren't fit company for a niece of mine," he told Heloise. "Why can't you understand—you must not go among them. After what happened today—" He reached for his henap and drained it. Petronilla came up and refilled it; he did not acknowledge her presence.

"Heloise," he said, exasperated, "I don't know how to raise a child."

"I'm not a child." She was sitting under the pear tree, her swollen leg planted in a bucket of salt water. "I'm a woman who disobeyed you, that's all." She thought of apologizing for her offense but decided against it. She had not meant to defy Fulbert; her intentions had been pure.

"You did not disobey me," he corrected. I never forbade you to go." He drained the henap in one long gulp. "If you had asked me, no doubt I would have given my permission." He turned his face away.

"Still, you are angry with me."

"I'm incapable of anger toward those I love." He smiled, his eyes resting on her gently. "Didn't you know
that?"

"No." To hide her embarrassment, she ducked her head and peered down at her ankle. The purplish bruise looked even more grotesque under water. "Why did you leave me at Argenteuil?" she asked.

"I told you. I don't know how to raise children. And you can't imagine what it was like at Saint-Gervais during the crusade. None of those women would have cared about you. They would have treated you like a varlet. At least the nuns—"
 

Did they hate my mother?"

Fulbert stared into the henap so long that she thought he was not going to answer the question. She pulled her foot from the water and propped it against the splintered edge of the bucket. The toes were wrinkled and dead-looking.

"I'm trying to decide," Fulbert said. "They didn't hate Hersinde, but they didn't love her, either. She was too pretty. Too perfect."

Heloise dried her foot with a towel and eased on an old slipper. With conscientious soaking, Agnes had promised, the swelling would be gone in three days. Heloise tried to imagine having a mother, a perfect mother who was beautiful and kind. Smiling wryly, she said to Fulbert, "So now you have me and I'm far from perfect."

He looked away. "Tomorrow I must begin to think seriously about your future."