Stealing Heaven (25 page)

She did not want to know, not today. Leave it to Jourdain to spoil things, she said to herself wearily. Trying to reassure herself, she told herself that all this had taken place at Christmas; since then, Abelard bad made up with Fulbert Her nerves on edge, she had a
hard time falling asleep.

The next day, she washed her hair with rose water and manicured her nails. Over her head she pinned her silk wimple. Every time she heard a horse on the drawbridge, she ran to the window slit, until Alienor, smiling, said to her, "A tended kettle never boils," and everybody laughed.

After that the children teased her. When she was suckling Astrolabe or taking a
bath, they would run to her and cry, "Lady, lady, your lord's here!" and scamper away giggling. As the days passed, however, and Abelard failed to appear, she stopped wearing the wimple and running to the window at the sound of hoofbeats. Alienor was right about the tended kettle.

The week following, Dagobert and his friends went back to Nantes. The castle quieted, and Heloise began embroidering a
shift for Astrolabe. She had debated about what sort of picture he might like and finally decided on a jongleur playing a lute. She went up to the sleeping chamber to get some green thread from her chest. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she wound the threads around her fingers indecisively. Perhaps she should make the jongleur's cap red. Behind her back, the hanging tapestry began swaying, and she heard the shuffle of feet "Lady aunt," huffed Agathe, "Beelar come."

Heloise did not bother to glance around. "You mustn't tell lies. God will punish you." She would use green for the cap and give it a
bright-red plume.

The child trundled around the end of the bed and slapped a
grubby hand on Heloise's knee. "No lie," she lisped. "Gathe no lie."

"Good morning, lady," Abelard said gravely.

Heloise snapped her neck around. He was standing inside the tapestry, smiling. She pushed off the bed and stood up, staring without speaking. He came around next to her and held her so tightly that her bones cracked.

Heloise kissed him on the mouth and cheeks and hair. He had not shaved. She looked over his shoulder at the child blinking up at them. "Agathe, go down to the hall now." The girl moved away, reluctantly. "That's a good girl." She said to Abelard, "Have you seen him?"

"Who?" He sank on the bed and swung her down next to him. "Astrolabe."

"No—I just rode into the ward a minute ago."

"You must see him."

"Later. I want to look at you."

"He's adorable."

"You look marvelous. By God, this country air must agree with you."

Heloise smiled, pretending not to be disappointed at his lack of interest in the babe. "The only air that agrees with me," she said, "is the air where you are." She brushed a hair from his cloak.

"I've missed you," Abelard said abruptly.

"Is that all you have to say?"

"No." Abelard grinned at her. "Not all." He reached for her.

 

"Did you go to him," she asked, "or did he come to you?"

"I went to him." Abelard pulled his cloak against the gusts of spring wind and looked up. The sky seethed with torn gray clouds. There was rain coming. He yawned. "Poor bastard."

Heloise sat down on Radulphus's gravestone. From the top of the hill, she could see a peasant woman following her ox along the road. "He might have killed you."

"No chance. Ah, lady, you should see him. He looks like an old man."

"He's not old."

"He drags through the close with his head bowed. You can't help but pity him."

"Yes." She turned away, inhaling the briny fragrance of pine, wishing that she could feel pity but feeling nothing. She could not imagine Fulbert as Abelard described him. Then: "I'm surprised he let you set foot in the house."

"Agnes let me in."

"What did he say to you?"

"Nothing. He was as mild as a lamb."

"A lamb?" Heloise frowned.

"I swear it."

"Then he was putting on an act for your benefit."

On a bed of pine needles, Abelard squatted on his haunches and glowered at her. "Don't be ridiculous. You weren't there. How could you know?"

"Tell me what you said," she demanded. "Then we'll talk about me being ridiculous. Well, tell me."

"Oh, that," he said, seemingly careless. "Naturally I took all the blame on myself. Called it deceit and the basest treachery. I—" He shrugged one shoulder. "You know."

Watching his face, Heloise waited for him to continue. "And naturally he agreed," she prompted. "What else?"

"That's all."

"Hah! Come, my lord—"

Abelard spoke briskly. "I reminded him that I had done what any man in love would do. That, er, since the beginning of the human race, women have brought the noblest men to ruin."

She turned away, furious to the bottom of her heart. "Gramercy."

"Heloise." He stood up. "Don't be foolish. I had to use words he would understand."

"Oh. Did he?"

Abelard smiled. "Completely. I begged his forgiveness and promised to make any amends he thought proper."

Heloise disliked his careless tone. She lounged against Radulphus's stone and gazed dully over the furrowed fields below. Fringing the fields, the poplars were thrusting forth leaves. In Paris, the chestnuts would soon be in bloom. "And what did Uncle suggest?"

"To make a long story short—"

"Don't. I want the long story."

"He said his house had been irrevocably dishonored and there was nothing I could do to wipe out the stain. And I said yes there was"— he paused and shrugged—"I could marry you."

She staggered to her feet, catching a pine branch to steady herself.

"I wronged him. I'll make it right. All I asked was that the marriage be kept secret, so as not to damage my reputation." Abelard grinned. "You should have seen his face. That was more than he ever hoped for."

She had to bite her lips to keep from screaming. "And what did he say?" she asked.

Abelard wrinkled his forehead. "Why, what would he say? He was overjoyed. We drank a cup together to seal our reconciliation."

"Do you believe him!" she cried.

'Yes. Don't you?"

"No."

"He kissed me."

"Judas kiss. The easier to betray you."

"Well, lady," he muttered thickly, "I don't understand you. I've solved this entire mess. I've humbled myself before your idiot uncle and yet you have no word of thanks for me."

"God's pardon, sir, you've solved nothing. Because I'm not going to marry you."

He stared at her. At last he said, rather sharply, "Oh?"

"You might have consulted me before you went to the bother of humbling yourself. You could have saved yourself the trouble." She was beginning to shout. "Oh, you and Uncle, you mighty male protectors, you arrangers of people's lives! Have I no say in all this?"

Smiling slightly, he reached for her hand. "You are right to be angry. I should have told you first. Now, what say you, lady? Will you be my wife?"

She said, "I will not," and held her breath.

Abelard's face flushed crimson. He dropped her hand and took a step backward. "You chaffer me wickedly, ladylove. I've no sense of humor in this matter." His voice was dangerously quiet.

She went to him and folded her arms around his shoulders. A huge drop of rain pelted her forehead. "Sweet heart," she whispered in a coaxing way.

"You should not have said that."

"I know." She clung to him. "But all the same, I won't marry you."

"Isn't my name honorable enough for you?" His voice was dulled with hurt.

"Honor. Don't speak of honor. What honor could there be in a marriage that would dishonor you and humiliate both of us?" Water splattered her hair and nose. "Nature creates philosophers for all mankind, not for a single woman. Think of what people would say—what a sorry scandal that would be!"

"Never mind what people will say—"

She put her hands on her hips. "Why don't you admit it? Marriage would disgrace you."

"Lady, you keep talking about disgrace and dishonor. Let me remind you that nothing prevents me from marrying." He turned his back on her and stood gazing out at the horizon darkened with black clouds.

"St. Paul said—"

"Don't quote St. Paul at me!"

"If you don't care about the words of the Apostles, at least you might listen to what the philosophers have said. Theophrastus, Jerome, Cicero. They wrote about the endless annoyances of marriage in considerable detail."

"Lady, can I—"

"You can't devote your attention to both a wife and philosophy— St. Jerome. Have you forgotten?"

"All right. There are difficulties." He twisted around to face her. "I admit that the idea of a married philosopher is extraordinary."

"Unique, you mean."

"Very well, unique. But what of it?
Fortes fortuna juvat.
The extraordinary doesn't scare me. There's a first time for everything."

"Do you want to be a philosopher or not?" she cried.

"Now, what do you mean, do I
want
to be? I
am."
He stopped and loolced at her unhappily.

'You have absolutely no idea of what married life is really like."

"Eh?" he said coldly. "I think I have a fair idea."

"No you don't. It's—undignified."

He threw back his head and began to laugh. "Sweeting—" He reached for her arm, but she flung him off. Backing away, she started to scramble down the slope, wet brambles catching at her skirt. "Sweeting, come back." When she refused to stop, he plunged after her, yelling her name.

 

The next day, Abelard rode off to Nantes.

Heloise knelt to pray in the chapel. God must guide her now, give her a sign about what to do. Halfway through the Credo, her mind strayed to Abelard swaggering in his saddle that morning. He looked like a knight about to enter a tournament. Dashing and refreshed. That had surprised her. They had argued most of the night.

She thought, He's the most stubborn man. For all his protestations, he knew nothing about family life and wouldn't listen when she tried to explain. Look around you, she had finally yelled, do you want to live like this? And he had assured her that he had no intention of living like his kin at Le Pallet; it would be different for them.

Again she started the Credo, and this time managed to finish it. Then she asked God whether she should marry. More accurately, she told God she should not marry and asked for his confirmation. Then she curled her fingers tightly and prayed to the Blessed Virgin, asking her intercession. She thought, Uncle is shrewd. Even if Abelard had offered to marry her openly, Fulbert would not have truly forgiven him. And certainly not for a secret marriage. How would that expunge the dishonor to Saint-Gervais? It would not, and she couldn't understand how Abelard failed to recognize this. All at once, she remembered Fulbert's expression that morning be had found them in bed. No, it had been a Judas kiss.

She stood up and went back to the ward, careful to avoid the puddles from yesterday's rain. When Abelard returned, late that night, he began talking comfortably about their marriage, as if it were all settled. The next week, they would ride back to Paris, as Fulbert had requested, and be wed in a secret ceremony. Then she would live at her uncle's house, as before. If anyone remarked upon her absence, she could say that she had been living at Saint-Gervais.

She thought wearily, How can a whole year be erased? She said aloud, "And what of the babe?"

"He can stay here."

"But I don't want to leave him."

"In June we'll come back to get him. That's only three months."
 

"And then?" she asked fretfully, looking down. “I'll find a nice house near Paris. There are some lovely villages beyond Sainte-Genevieve. You and the boy can live quietly."

"Where will you be?"

He gave her a sour look. "God, with you of course. But I'll keep my rooms in the Latin Quarter for studying."

She almost laughed aloud. What kind of secret marriage was that going to be? Within a week, the whole of Paris would know where Master Abelard spent his nights. She thought, For a teacher of logic, this man is surely befuddled. She said to him, "Good. I'm glad you have it so nicely planned. But you're returning to the Ile without me."

"Sweet Christ, lady! Don't you listen?"

"It's you who don't listen. I said I wasn't going to marry you." People in the hall were beginning to stare at them. She turned away swiftly and went upstairs. After undressing, she blew out the candle and slid into bed. A while later, he came up and began bumping around in the dark. When he pitched himself under the covers, she pretended to be asleep.

He stretched out next to her, not touching. "Heloise."

"What?"

"Nothing."

She said, "Mark me. This secret marriage isn't going to satisfy my uncle. I doubt if anything will. He hates you." Minutes passed. She could hear Abelard breathing by her side.

At last he spoke. "Why don't you love me?"

"I love you more than my life." She squeezed her face against his shoulder and began to weep, deep, shuddering sobs that shivered down the length of her body.

Abelard gathered her up and rocked her gently. He pulled the coverlet over her neck.

“I love you, Heloise," he said. "I love you."

 

 

 

11

 

 

After matins
, they were permitted to enter the abbey church at Saint-Victor, Abelard having made arrangements with the prior. A white-haired porter unlocked the door and led them through the nave to a chapel behind the altar. Abelard pressed some coins into the old man's hand, and he hobbled off without speaking.

Heloise went to the front of the chapel, where a row of candles smoked. The place smelled of mold and incense. In the shadows behind her, Abelard's footsteps clattered on the stone. He came up and took her hand, and they knelt side by side.

"Heloise."

"What?"

"Relax. We'll be all right."

She smiled faintly. "You're so trusting."

"That's right. I trust Our Lord to forgive sins.
Deus misereatur."