Stealing Heaven (32 page)

Suddenly he called, "Have you been attending mass?"

"No."

He leaned forward in his chair. "Why not?"

Cautiously, she answered, "I can't." Then: "God is unjust."

Shaking his head, he murmured, "Oh no. God's justice is all too apparent." He smiled slightly. "His judgment struck me where I had sinned. And isn't it justice that the reprisals were taken by the man I betrayed? Oh, it's absolutely perfect justice."

Shocked, she leaped up to face him. "No, my lord. I accuse God of the greatest cruelty. For us, he reversed the laws of equity. What adulterous women bring upon their lovers, your own wife brought on you."

Abelard did not reply, and when she glanced at him, she saw that he had returned to his reading. He did not look up again. She went back to the inn and allowed herself to weep.

Lammas Day came in a torrent of thundershowers. The Ile cooled off for a day and a night, but then the heat returned, more oppressive than ever. Heloise took a chill, which immediately settled in her chest. Her lungs filled with phlegm so that she was constantly coughing and spitting up greenish gobs. Jourdain ordered her to stay in bed, and he instructed the innkeeper to bring a poultice for her chest. The illness, inconsequential as it was, threw her into even deeper misery. It had not occurred to her that Abelard would take the attitude he apparently had; his humble acceptance of the castration, so utterly uncharacteristic, frightened her. She huddled on her bed, staring into emptiness, wheezing. Her mind spilled over with stray thoughts, flotsam-and-jetsam bits from twenty years of reading. Was it women's lot to ruin great men? Plenty of examples. It was the first woman, in the beginning, who had lured man from paradise; she who had been created as man's helpmate became the instrument of his downfall. And what of Delilah and Bathsheba and Job's wife, who had urged him to curse God? But she, Heloise, was not like those women, no consent of hers had been responsible for the crime.

Her chest racked by coughs, she wept and flung herself against the pillow. Why did she bother to defend herself, as if she were innocent? It was all words. She had committed too many sins to pretend freedom from guilt now. Long ago she had yielded to the pleasures of the flesh, long ago she deserved punishment. An evil beginning assures a bad end, she told herself; she should have expected it.

Abelard's reputation would be smeared, how badly she didn't want to guess, and certainly his life had been ruined. Those facts could not be altered by her or anyone. A thousand times she told herself that she would spend the rest of her life trying to make reparation to him. That, at least, she might do.

All through the early days of August, she waited for Abelard to announce their departure. He had written to Denise; she knew that because Jourdain had delivered a letter to the Nantes courier, but Jourdain did not know its contents. Heloise herself wrote a kind of letter to Astrolabe. She drew a picture of lords and ladies at a garden party, drinking, laughing gaily. In the background, she sketched a
castle with ornate spires and gables, and she drew blue and yellow flowers and an enormous mouse chasing a small dog. Her skill as an artist left a great deal to be desired, and even the theme was not original —she had once seen something like it in a book of hours. Her babe. How big he would be now. Soon he would be walking and then running. It had been so long since they had left Le Pallet—four months; no, nearly five. It was not good for a mother to leave her babe; she would not, she swore fiercely, be parted from her angel again.

Gradually her coughing subsided, and she returned to the Rue de la Huchette. Now visitors began coming to see Abelard—abbots, priests, an emissary from the bishop. Once King Louis's monk friend, Suger, came, and he spent several hours shut up with Abelard in the bedchamber. Time crawled. Hilarius taught her to play tables. They sat whispering over the dice, discussing Hilarius's secondhand information about the aftereffects of castration. Eunuchs, castrati, harem boys, philosophers like Origen who had castrated themselves. She supposed it unseemly for a lady to discuss such matters with a man, but she didn't care and Hilarius was eager to share his information. Several times she had noticed, with a nervous shock of excitement, that Abelard had a
slight erection. Did this mean that he was not completely dysfunctional? But to that question Hilarius had no ready answer. "We must wait to see God's will," he would say.

Heloise attempted a pigeon pie, but it came out soggy, and she threw it away. She scrubbed the solar floor and covered it with rushes, and this drew criticism from Jourdain. "A noble lady shouldn't behave like a servant," he told her with a grimace of disapproval. "Master Peter must hire someone to clean."

"No," she said. "I want to care for him myself." He shot back in a whisper, "Lady, it's plain to me what you are thinking. But it's not your fault that all this happened."
 

"No? Whose then?"

He muttered, "Why, your kin. They are mad dogs."

Heloise looked away without replying. Abelard came into the solar and seated himself in his chair. Resting his elbows on the carved arms, he turned a weak smile on them. "The two of you look peaked," he said. “You could use sun and fresh air."

"My lord," answered Jourdain quickly, "you could use the same."

Abelard nodded agreeably. "I suppose." He did not appear to be offended by Jourdain's suggestion but obviously had no interest in pursuing the subject. "Lad, I won't be needing you for the rest of the day. Go find some cheerful pothouse and relax."

Jourdain looked surprised. "My lord," he began to protest.

"Go on," Abelard said. He waved him out the door.

Hands on hips, Heloise waited by the hearth, wondering if she should cut up the hare she had bought for tomorrow's stew. After the disaster with the pigeon pie, there would be little for Abelard's meal that evening.

"Heloise."

"Do you feel like having hare for supper? I don't know. It's so hot. Mayhap a light supper of fruit and cheese would be better."

"Heloise."

A fleck of nervousness in his voice, a certain jagged quality, made her look up sharply. His face was grave. "Come. Sit down. Over here." With his foot he nudged a stool toward her.

She sat facing him.

'You've had the patience of Job these past weeks."
 

"My lord, I—"

"It's true. The patience of Job. And you've been wondering when I will put on my
 

clothing—“

She smiled uneasily.

"—and get off my haunches and leave these stinking rooms."
 

“Something like that," she admitted. “You can't stay like this forever."

Abelard said, "No. I can't." He paused. "Nor can I walk through the streets of the Ile and return to my former life. There's no place for me here."

"Then we must leave at once for—"

He was going on, as if she had not spoken. "Lady, it is my intention to take religious vows and enter the abbey of Saint-Denis. There are other abbeys, but I think Saint-Denis would be best. Abbot Adam is willing to have me, and King Louis is especially eager for me to associate myself with the royal abbey."

All the while he had been talking, Heloise had held herself rigid, her mind frozen around the words "religious vows." The rest of it she had barely heard. "No," she shouted angrily, "I won't listen! You have no vocation. It's only shame speaking, not any devout wish for conversion. If it's shelter you want, it needn't be in a monastery. We'll go to Le Pallet." She stopped. 'You're a philosopher," she added in a more careful tone, "not a monk."

There was a lengthy silence. Abelard rubbed his forefinger back and forth over his upper lip. "I
was
a philosopher. Now it is my desire to become a monk. My motives may be suspect, but my resolve is firm. I will not change my mind, that I can tell you."

"And I tell you I won't let you."

"The Lord's hand touched me for an express purpose, I believe. To free me from the temptations of the flesh and worldly distractions. No more will I pursue fame and wealth."

He can be talked out of this, Heloise thought. Once they got to Le Pallet, he would hold his son and remember that he had responsibilities; he could not hide like a criminal. She leaned toward him and said, "These decisions shouldn't be made hastily. Even Abbot Adam will tell you that. You must allow yourself time to consider. Six months from now you may feel differently."

He was staring into the corner, shaking his head slowly. "Lady. This is painful for me. Don't make it worse."

She leaped up from the stool. Her bliaut soaked in perspiration, she poured two goblets of wine and brought them back. It seemed, curiously, as if all this had happened to her before. Someone had gone away suddenly, and she had beat her hands against some wooden object and screamed, pleading with them to stay, but they had not listened. She couldn't remember where or when this had happened, only the cold fear, then and now, gnawing her stomach. She gulped a mouthful of wine.

"Heloise."

She looked down at her feet. The sunlight streaking through the window had lightened the rushes to a pale golden green. Trying to think of something to say, she whispered finally, "Have you no thought for me or your son?"

Abelard said, "Our marriage is over. I can give you no pleasure now."

"I don't care if you can never lie with me again. All I want is you, yourself. It's all I've ever wanted. You know that."

"God's eyes, stop it!" he shouted, covering his eyes with one arm.

"Abelard. Don't leave me." She went to him and cupped his hand in hers. She told him there were other alternatives besides a monastery. No matter how he felt now, there was no reason why he could not wait a while and then return to teaching. His reputation as a philosopher was too eminent to be seriously diminished by the crime. He was her husband, she was his wife—he was alive, and a long life of happiness together was still possible. Clinging to him, she pounded him gently with words, always seeking the one magical phrase that would turn him back from despair. The bars of sunlight across the trestle began to fade. Abelard stood and tramped to the window. He kept his back to her.

She said, "At Le Pallet, you said you couldn't bear to be parted from me—that was why we had to marry. I tell you that I can't conceive of a life without you. Surely you understand that."

After a long silence, he nodded. "I understand." Heloise waited, her eyes steady on his back. She took a sip of the wine. It was warm and made her feel sickish.

Abelard said, "We needn't be separated. I—" He said something more, but his words were so faint that she did not catch them.

Heloise squinted. "I didn't hear you."

"We might enter religion together," he said, his voice almost inaudible. He was still looking out the window.

For a moment, she thought that she had misunderstood him. He must have said something else. If she didn't answer, he would turn to her and repeat himself, and then she would hear his actual words. He couldn't have—

Abelard turned. She sat down hard, her eyes enormous with astonishment. "You can't—" Her hands groped blindly for the wine goblet.

Abelard said quickly, "It's the only thing to do, the best thing for both of us. I can't leave you alone. I must see that you're cared for."

She heard him rattling on. Swallowed up by the shock of the idea, she did not really listen. No, she thought
. I
want to live.

"You'll see. In the long run, it will be best for everyone. Even for Astrolabe. Denise will raise him. He'll be happy. You and I can serve God."

She thought, I don't want to serve God. It is you I wish to serve.
 

"Heloise, speak to me."

She said cautiously, "Why do you ask this of me?"

He hesitated. "You're my wife. At Argenteuil you'll he safe."

"Safe from what?" she exploded.

He looked away.

"Do you think I'll bed with someone else?"
 

"You're young. Someday you will—"

She licked her lips. "God in heaven, is that what you think? Do you know me so little that you think I'll crawl into another man's bed?" She lunged forward and grabbed his arm. "You think me wanton?"

"Lady, listen."

"Answer me! Is that what you are thinking?"

"Your blood is hot," he fired back.

Tears burning at her lashes, she bolted for the door. Halfway down the stairs, she heard him shouting her name. She was out on the open street, running, horses and carts and people streaming past in a steady blur. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She looked over her shoulder, but no one was following her. Absurd hope. She allowed her legs to slow down. He had not been out of his rooms since the assault; he would not come looking for her. She walked slowly the rest of the way to the inn.

 

Heloise flopped across the sagging bed, something thundering against her ribs until she felt as if her chest would split open. Panic. Rage. She had heard of people strangling on their own angry breath, and with each breath she willed that it should be the last. It began to grow dark. Men-at-arms came into the garden below, talking of a tournament at Le Mans and boasting of the ransoms they had collected, and then compline rang and they went to bed.

After a while, from habit, Heloise groped to the side of the bed and knelt. Prayer was not her intention. There was nothing to pray for; no help would come. This person who had been Peter Abelard, who was now someone she barely recognized, this man she loved would vanish behind the walls of Saint-Denis, and no prayers of hers could prevent it. For herself, all roads to safety were barred, on earth as in heaven. All roads, she thought, but the one leading to Argenteuil. Oh Lord, she thought dully, how terrible are thy works, and no more would she address to him.

The night stillness was broken by the watchman's staff tapping rhythmically against the cobbles. Heloise heard him call, "Pray for the dead!" and then he moved down the street.

She got into bed. In the morning, she would find Jourdain and ask him to take her to Argenteuil. It was quiet there. On her rock, she could think what to do.