The Sharp Hook of Love

Praise for internationally bestselling author Sherry Jones

FOUR SISTERS, ALL QUEENS

“A well-written novel set during fascinating times. The relationship among the sisters is believable and often heartbreaking.”

—Library Journal

“A colorful portrait . . . and an insight into history.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Jones captures the feel of the tension-filled thirteenth century. . . . Though you may already know the ending, Jones makes it feel like something you haven't heard of before. . . .
Four Sisters, All Queens
is not to be missed.”

—
Fresh Fiction

“Engrossing and vividly rendered. . . . A mesmerizing tableau of what it meant to be a queen.”

—C. W. Gortner, author of
The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

“Delightfully evokes the rich details and vivid personalities of a fascinating era. A feast for fans of historical fiction!”

—
Gillian Bagwell, author of
Venus in Winter

“Sherry Jones brings medieval Europe to life. . . . What a tale!”

—Catherine Delors, author of
For the King

THE SWORD OF MEDINA

“Jones's fictionalized history comes alive with delicate, determined prose.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

For Bobby:

amor, amicitia, dilectio, caritas.

For nothing is under less control than the heart—having no power to command it, we are forced to obey.

—HELOISE TO ABELARD

THE ROYAL ABBEY AT ARGENTEUIL

NORTH OF PARIS, FRANCE, DECEMBER 1114

I
was born in silence, my wails quieted by the hand of the only friend my mother could trust. In silence I spent most of my youth, amid the nuns of Argenteuil floating through the dark abbey without sound, as though we lived under the sea. Only in my dreams did I dance, laughing with my mother in the sun, her voice like water, her kisses like dew falling on my cheek. I would awaken with tears instead, and an ache like hunger that never subsided.

Mother.
Why did she leave me? Where had she gone? I begged God to return her to me. He answered me with a letter from her on my twelfth birthday, sent with a volume of Seneca's philosophy that I would cherish all my days.

I love you and long for you daily. Your uncle writes that you are an exceptional scholar, which brings me joy, for I, too, love to read the poets and philosophers as well as the Scriptures. I had planned to teach them all to you, but it was not to be, not in this life.

I shall never forget your tears on the day we parted; anguish fills my breast even now at the memory. I pray that you can forgive me, my beloved daughter. Forced to choose between loyalty to your father and life with you, I sent you away.
I pray that, someday, you will understand.

In bed that night, I cried as never before. A fatal illness had not stricken my mother as it had the
maman
of my friend Merle, one of the other oblates. Mine had not brought me here to fulfill a promise to God, as Adela's mother had done. God had not called me to Argenteuil at all. My mother had abandoned me of her own free will: it was her choice. My soul's anguish gushed from my eyes, filling my mouth until I thought I would choke, in torrents that I thought would never cease. When at last I had depleted my store, I fell into a deep, dark sleep. The dreams of my mother ceased after that night, as did my tears.

T
en years after my arrival at the Royal Abbey, the Reverend Mother Basilia marched into the classroom and interrupted the lesson I was teaching on Paul's first letter to the Romans.

“Heloise, you have a visitor. Go and prepare yourself, then come to my office.”

A visitor! When had anyone called for me? The familiar pucker of the Reverend Mother's mouth, as if she had eaten sour fruit, told me that I would be taken away. My mother had come at last! My feet seemed to sprout wings, and I flew out the door.

I would have run to the dormitory, shouting thanks to God, were such boisterous behavior permitted. Or perhaps I would not have done so, for in my fantasies I had always presented myself perfectly to Mother, poised and mature, a proper young lady on whom she would shine beams of pride and love. I washed my face, cleaned my teeth, and rebraided my hair, then dug into my trunk for the forbidden hand-mirror my friend Merle had given me. For the first time in my life—but not the last—I wished for beauty. My mother's hair had shone like spun gold, while mine dropped in a heavy, dark wave with a streak of pure white over my left eye. The hateful Adela used to tease me about it.
Is your
father a badger?
I never replied, not knowing the answer myself. But I knew my mother, and now she awaited while I preened in the mirror.
Vanity of vanities
;
all is vanity.
I threw the mirror into the chest and hurried outdoors.

Mother had come! My pulse pounded all the way across the dry grass of the courtyard and on the stones paving the dank halls of the abbey. I must have passed—but do not remember doing so, in my excitement—the newly built refectory with its engraved face of the Virgin Mother looking placidly over the doorway. I did not even stop to cross myself before her, or to greet her with a whispered
Hail Mary, Mother of God.
Why should I, when my own mother waited for me in the flesh only a few steps away?

At the abbess's door I took a deep breath. Mothers love their children. Mine would love me no matter whether I was pretty or not, smart or not, poised or not. And I would love her, too, even if she had become as ugly and unpleasant as the Reverend Mother Basilia.

Yet my hand trembled so that I could hardly seize the latch and open the door.

The abbess stood before me, looking as if she might hit someone. Then, a rustle behind her; a movement. I prepared to greet my mother, my throat choked with unshed tears—but beheld, instead, a heavyset man with a ruddy complexion and thick, red lips.

“Your uncle, the canon Fulbert,” the Reverend Mother said. Her voice sounded tired—she hated to lose her daughters—but not as tired as my uncle appeared to be.

His eyes reddened at the sight of me. “Dear God, how you resemble your mother,” he breathed. “It is as if she had come to life again.”

I cried out before he had even finished the sentence, knowing at once why he had come. A hole seemed to open inside me, filled only with darkness.

“Quiet yourself, Heloise,” the abbess snapped. “You know that we do not allow such outbursts.”

“I should think an exception might be made in this instance,” my uncle said, knitting his thick eyebrows (and showing me whence I had inherited mine). “Her mother has died, after all.”

His words in their awful finality hit me like a great stone thrown against my chest. I clutched a chair, dizzy and sick.
Mother.
I looked to my uncle for comfort and found it in the tears spilling down his face.

“I have come, Heloise, to take you home with me. It was your mother's final wish.”

In you, I readily admit, there were two things especially with which you could immediately win the heart of any woman—the gift of composing, and the gift of singing.

—HELOISE TO ABELARD

THE NÔTRE-DAME CLOISTER

PARIS, MARCH 1115

H
e sang to me of love from under curling eyelashes. In the center of the market, amid the squawking hens, the squealing children and the barking dogs, and the wine sellers beating sticks against their bowls of
vin á broche
, he performed a song of incomparable beauty without minstrel or lute, drawing every eye—but singing only to me. His voice brought a warm summer rain to mind. I felt a soaring within my breast, as if a door had flung itself wide and my heart had flown through it.