Stealing Heaven (29 page)

Skirts rustling, the nun came to within three feet of her and stopped; she muttered in her throat. Something about the sound of the woman's gurgle made Heloise's heart beat faster. Her right hand pressed against her collarbone, she thrust out her neck and peered uncertainly into the grimy face. "Ceci?" Heloise stretched out her hands. But the nun stood motionless, gaping. "Ceci, it's me. Don't you remember me?"

With a sob, Ceci rushed at her. "I knew it," she moaned against Heloise's shoulder. "I prayed every day. God answered. I knew you'd come ba—"

"Shhh. Calm yourself."

"Madelaine said you'd never be back."

"Hush now. She was right."

"No, you've come."

Already Heloise could feel her muscles tensing in annoyance, the effect Ceci always had on her sooner or later. This time, apparently, sooner. She was such a child. Except that now she no longer looked like one. She had the face of a mature woman, a woman older than her age. "Holy Mother, why don't you listen!"

"Don't curse in the cloister."

"I'm not cursing." Lowering her voice, she said, "I'm married. But I need a place to stay for a few weeks, and my husband brought me here. It's only till July. So stop saying I'm back. All right?"

Ceci drew back. "Oh. Married, you say?" She smiled crookedly.

"That's right."

"You have a husband."

"And a child. A son. He's six months old."

“What's his name?"

"Astrolabe."

Ceci laughed.

'What's funny?"

"Astrolabe." She laughed again. "That's just like you. Nobody but you could pick a name like that."

Heloise grinned. She spit on the sleeve of her gown and dabbed at Ceci's face. "Doesn't anybody wash around here? You're filthy."

 

Every morning, Heloise visited the schoolroom. It smelled of ink and wax and old parchment. As she had done as a child, she sat at a carrel by the window and gossiped with Madelaine, sometimes filling the inkhorns and laying out the tablets before the others arrived. Now, of course, there were new boarders, those noble young ladies whose fees helped Argenteuil eke out its resources. At most convents, the curriculum was weak: grammar, singing, needlework, a little Latin. Writing was discouraged lest it lead to clandestine love letters. Argenteuil was not most convents, however, and Madelaine would not tolerate laziness among her students.

Now there were eight boarders, as well as the lame novice Astrane, who, Madelaine said, showed potential. Heloise was surprised, because the child seemed to her the epitome of stupid subservience, a pretty emptyhead always groveling at the abbess's heels and cleaning up parrot droppings. But Madelaine said no—appearances sometimes lie, and Astrane had a fairly good memory.

Sitting with Madelaine one morning, Heloise suddenly had a thought. Something had seemed missing in the convent, and now she remembered. The abbess's parrot, Baby. She wondered what had happened to the bird.

"Oh. That," Madelaine said. After her initial testiness, she had warmed and obviously was enjoying Heloise's visits. "Somebody poisoned the bloody thing. Help me correct these lessons." She handed Heloise a stack of wax tablets.

Heloise glanced at the neat script on the top tablet. "How would anyone here have access to poison? Mayhap the bird died of natural causes." She ran her eyes down the composition and decided that it had a nice style. "Whose is this?" she asked Madelaine.

"Astrane's. Quick mind. Wicked heart."

"Oh, come." Heloise laughed. "That little thing have a wicked heart. Oh, I see. You're trying to tell me she poisoned Baby?"
 

"No," she said. "Not Astrane. Somebody else.”

“Who, then?"

Madelaine shrugged. I have a good idea. But no proof."

Heloise began to laugh. "Somebody who hates the abbess?" she prompted, her eyes on Madelaine's face.

Madelaine turned away with a grin. "I'm not saying." She began dragging stools to the center of the room and aligning them in rows.

"Here," said Heloise, taking a stool from her. "Let me do that. You shouldn't exert yourself." Madelaine was ill, she knew. Her face had a yellowish cast, even the whites of her eyes had turned a sickly yellow, and Heloise noticed that she ate practically nothing. "Can't you get someone to help you around here?"

"Bah! I have more work to do than ever. When Baby died, Lady Alais mourned for two weeks. Never came out of her apartment. You should have seen the accounts after that."

"I thought you did the accounts."

"Oh, of course." She sucked her wrinkled cheeks into a grimace. "But she is supposed to administer this place, not I."

After that conversation with the prioress, Heloise went to the schoolroom several times a day. She took over the Latin and mathematics classes, which delighted the children since, unlike Madelaine, she was kind and cheerful and spurred them to work harder. In the evenings, after vespers, she worked on the convent's accounts and wrote whatever official letters required composing. Madelaine did not object, and that made Heloise feel useful. She was surprised to discover that she enjoyed teaching children, and she thought a lot about Astrolabe and made plans in her mind as to how she would instruct him when the time came.

Madelaine did not mention again the subject of Heloise's marriage, or the fact that her visit to Argenteuil would be temporary. Heloise was content to leave the subject alone, and sometimes she went out of her way to avoid talking about her life outside the convent. But one Friday afternoon just before St. John's Day, while she was in the schoolroom writing a letter to Abelard, Madelaine said mildly, "That husband of yours. Is he as brilliant as everyone says?"

Heloise looked up. The children had acted badly in church that morning, making noise and giggling, and they were being punished with an extra-long singing lesson. The room was empty. "He is. He's brilliant and handsome, and he writes verse and he plays the—"

"Verse?" Madelaine frowned. "Tell me something. Did he teach you anything of worth?"

Heloise nodded. "I was his private pupil for a while."

"That isn't what I asked you. Did he teach you anything you didn't know already?"

Heloise hesitated. "Well"—she cleared her throat—"honestly?"

"Honestly."

"No. Not much."

Madelaine grunted in satisfaction. "Didn't think so."

Guilty over having made that admission, Heloise went back to her letter. She wrote, "You would be horrified at the food they serve here. I'm dying for a cheese pasty and a cup of good Burgundy—and for you, beloved." She put down the quill. It was not Abelard's fault the lessons had failed. They had been too interested in each other's bodies. She sensed Madelaine staring at her, as if she were reading her thoughts, and her face colored pink. Across the carrel, she heard Madelaine saying, "I was wrong."

She looked up. "About what?"

Madelaine tugged at her veil. "Your destiny was not the Church." She sighed deeply and gave a little sniff. "And you have no vocation anyway."

Heloise stared.

 

Abelard said, "God, the time drags," and kicked at the pebbles with his shoe. The air was a hot blue. Clots of white clouds floated across the roof. In the abbess's private garden, into which she invited only distinguished guests and merchants who wished to contribute money, there was the gentle whir of bumblebees and the jetting of the fountain. Heloise looked over her shoulder toward the abbess's apartment. "It drags more here than in the Ile. I think Lady Alais naps the whole afternoon."

Abelard followed her gaze with a yawn. "I could use a nap. Do you think she would lend us her bed?"

"Abelard!" She was genuinely shocked. "That is very wicked."

He grinned at her. "She's extremely accommodating in every other respect."

"She thinks you're charming."

"Well, of course.”

"You did that deliberately," Heloise said in a mock-accusing tone. "To charm her, I mean."

Abelard stood up and walked down the path to the fountain. "I want her to treat you like a countess." He splashed water on his face and came back to the bench beside her. The breeze blew a lock of hair over his forehead. She reached up to brush it back. He caught her wrist and pressed his mouth to her fingers.

Nervous, she twisted around toward the abbess's window. Inside, by the open shutter, she saw Astrane watching them. "Don't," she whispered, "someone can see us."

He dropped her hand. Abruptly, he said, "I had a letter from William."

"Oh, Abelard, what does he say about Astrolabe!"

"Healthy and growing."

"Is that all?" Heloise asked impatiently.

"I think he said the boy is crawling." He went on talking, about Le Pallet and then about plans for their journey. They would travel in easy stages—there was no hurry—and they could have a holiday and enjoy the countryside. He knew of several good inns in the Loire Valley. On their way home, they might take a boat up the Loire. "It will be fun for the babe," he said, smiling.

Happiness filled her eyes with tears. She so wanted a holiday, a real one such as other people had. And to be alone with Abelard and their son—her family—that would be heavenly. She moved close to him, the side of her hand touching his thigh.

He said softly, "How is your pretty little garden?"

A shiver ran down her body. "Shhh."

"I dream of it." His voice lowered to a whisper. "The day I come to take you out of here, we'll go directly to the nearest inn."

Her eyes roved hungrily over his face. Groaning, she leaned toward him. "Please. Don't."

Impulsively, he stood and jerked her to her feet. "Isn't there some unused corner in this place?"

"You must be mad to think of such a thing!"

Yet minutes later she was leading him into the darkened refectory. The tables were bare, the shutters closed against the afternoon sun. Blindly they stumbled into a shadowy corner. She closed her eyes, grinding her hips against him.

"Ladylove," he breathed against her tongue.

Afterward she opened her eyes to meet his, but her gaze slid past him to a statue of Our Blessed Lady. "Abelard," she said, shaken, "we've done a terrible thing."

His eyes followed hers to the Virgin, and he shrugged lightly.

"God will punish us," she insisted.
 

"Don't be silly." He kissed her on the nose.

 

From what she had seen of Ceci, Heloise realized that the girl had not reconciled herself to Argenteuil. According to Sister Madelaine, Sister Cecilia was a troublemaker, and scarcely a week went by that she did not break one rule or another, and was, of course, punished. After three years, she could not be trusted to take responsibility for any duty at the convent, and the work she was given to do under the cellaress's supervision she invariably managed to botch. Worse, said Madelaine, Sister Cecilia was in the habit of slipping into the guest quarters and mingling with the pilgrims and knights.

Ceci was bitter and unhappy. Constantly she told Heloise so, whimpering resentfully that Heloise had everything—intelligence, beauty, a rich husband and a child, everything—while nothing exciting had ever happened to her. It was not fair, she cried. Heloise warned that defiance would only cause her further grief and eventually Lady Alais would be forced to expel her. And what would become of her then? She would have to beg her bread on the highroads. She must change her attitude.

"Shit," answered Ceci savagely, her eyes smoky with anger.

"You're not supposed to say words like that."

"You do."

“I'm not a nun," Heloise told her. "And you're not allowed to talk to me. I'm a guest. Sister Judith warned you not to speak with guests."

"I don't care." She turned her face away. A moment later: “Tell me about your lord. He wrote love songs, didn't he? Were they sad or happy?"

Heloise said, "Both." She was reluctant to talk about it for fear of putting ideas in Ceci's head. She should be thinking about the lives of the saints, not love. "I can help you with those medicines you're to mix. Sister Blanche said you should finish them this morning."

"If you wish." Her expression softened. "They give me stupid tasks to do."

Heloise spoke patiently. "No task is stupid, especially mixing herbs for the infirmary. That's very important." She put her arm around Ceci's shoulder.

In the afternoon, Heloise wrote a receipt for Lady Alais, who had just received a generous bequest from the father of a novice. While she was drying the ink, a lay sister came in and said there was a visitor waiting at the gatehouse. Her eyes downcast modestly, she added in a whisper, "A man."

"Young or old?" It could not be Abelard again, although it might.

"Young," the sister replied.

Jourdain was leaning against the water trough, talking to a sun-blackened pilgrim. When he saw Heloise, he waved and grinned. "Lady," he cried excitedly, "this fellow has been to Compostela. Look—he has a scallop shell!"

For a while they stood in the courtyard, questioning the pilgrim and admiring his scallop badge, the sign of a successful pilgrimage to Saint-James. Heloise took Jourdain's arm. They strolled in the direction of the guest parlor. "Fair friend," she said, laughing, "you'll not be content until you've undertaken some great pilgrimage."

"Aye," he sighed. "The Holy Land. That, please God, is where I'd like to go."

"Oh, it's too dangerous. You might be killed."

He shrugged. At the cloister gate, he paused and tried to peer through the grating. The portress on duty gave him a warning glare. Jourdain backed off with a wave and threw a denier in the alms box. He said to Heloise, "It's very pretty in there. Serene, you know."

"Hah." She snorted. The parlor was crowded with merchants unbundling their wares. A peddler was displaying an assortment of combs, assuring someone that the teeth were guaranteed to last a lifetime. Heloise found two stools and brought them to the window. She sat opposite Jourdain, smiling happily at his freckled face.

With a grin, he dived into a pouch hanging from his girdle and brought out a parcel. He handed it to her with a flourish.