The Sharp Hook of Love (15 page)

“We have before us a living Muse, my lady!” King Louis said to the queen. “Which one of the nine might she be?”

“She would be none other than Erato, Your Grace,” Abelard said. “The Muse of love poetry.”

“Erato!” His Grace struck the arm of his throne, excited. “This marks the second time in as many days that we have heard that name.” Another poet, he said, had invoked Erato the previous evening while reciting a poem about Rhadine and Leontichus. I knew the tale from my studies in Greek: Rhadine, forced to marry, sailed away in sorrow to join her brutish husband in
Corinth, leaving behind the man she loved. But soon Leontichus rode to her, and they resumed the secret meetings they had enjoyed in their own city. When Rhadine's husband discovered their romance, he killed them both.

“Lovers make pilgrimages to their tomb,” I said, sending Abelard a daring glance and thrilling to see his gaze fixed on my chest. “They think that touching it will bring good fortune in love.”

“Ah, yes! Great fortune, indeed, to be murdered in one's bed,” Abelard said. “Your Grace, I have changed my mind. Heloise is no Erato, after all, nor any other of the nine, but rather a tenth—a new Muse, inspiring poems about
happiness
in love.”

“We did not care for last night's poem much,” the king said. “We do not enjoy tragedy, especially in our songs of love.” He patted the hand of his queen. “We are glad that the Muse Heloise does not inspire such unhappy tales.”

“As am I,” I said with a smile.

“What do you think?” Queen Adelaide said. “We have invited your poet to join our court, but he will not come without you. He needs his Muse.” Her lips made a secretive smile when she said the word
Muse
.

Your poet
. Light filled my body. Abelard had declared himself mine, in the hearing of all. No one mocked me now; I stood with him before the Queen of the Franks. Her slanting eyes said,
I know what you are doing with him.
Queen Adelaide's laugh rippled like a breeze.

I decided to give her a surprise. “If Master Pierre's claim is true, he will be of no use to you in any case. He will lose his ability to write poetry a little more than nine months from now, when I depart for the Fontevraud Abbey.”

She did not gasp, as I had expected, but instead lowered her eyes. Her mouth drooped; she lost her queenly bearing. She
reminded me of the paintings I had seen of the Virgin Mother, her face brimming with sorrow.

“To take the veil at such a young age—that ought to be a sin in itself,” she said. “God gave us the world in which to live, and the convent in which to die.”

I stared at her, remembering Agnes's words to the same effect. What did either of them know of abbey life? Not as much as I. Yet, when I wanted to argue with her, I could think of nothing to say without an argument's also springing to mind.

“But why despair over something that you cannot change?” The queen, having regained herself, lifted her
henap
in a toast. “Why not rejoice, instead, over what you possess? You have nine more months in which to love. That is more than many of us are given.”

Abelard and I rode home slowly, woozy from too much wine, starlight falling like snow on our shoulders. The warm September breeze caressed my bosom like a lover's kiss; I yet wore Agnes's gown, she being too occupied with her seigneur to help me change. I hoped my uncle would be asleep. I did not wish to feel his eyes upon my bare skin or endure his rage at seeing me so scantily attired. Abelard's stare, however, roamed like fingers of heat over my cleavage; he could barely guide his horse.

“By God, are you the same girl?” he said when I tried, without success, to pull my mantle over my chest. “My plain little nun? My bookish scholar?” He slipped to one side, then shifted back into place, laughing and yanking the reins.

“If you thought me plain before, you have concealed it well.”

“You are far from plain, as everyone in the court now knows. All of Paris would know it, as well, if you didn't conceal your virtues with high necklines and dark fabrics.”

“I did not know that parts of the body constitute virtues. But I do know better than to argue with a drunken man.”

“Drunken, me? I do not become drunken, my little cabbage. I can drink an infinite amount yet remain as sober as a horse.”

“I imagine your horse would appreciate your being sober.”

“Heloise,” he said, slurring my name. “My beautiful Muse. ‘My stars, if you should ask, are two. I know no others; I declare them to be those starry eyes of yours.' ” He sang, his rich baritone as loud as if he needed to fill King Louis's great hall with it. “By God, I love you, Heloise.” He sighed. “My beautiful Muse.”

Now it was I who wanted to sing. Abelard had said it at last—he loved me! But then he slumped forward, his head drooping as though it were too heavy for his neck. He mumbled something unintelligible, and I felt my spirits plummet. He had spoken those precious words in drunkenness. Would he remember them tomorrow?

The horses stopped at my uncle's house. I paid the lantern boy while Jean helped Abelard to dismount, averting his face from his breath. I wondered if Jean smelled wine on me, as well. The
henap
had passed more times than I knew as Queen Adelaide and I had talked. Abbey life, especially, fascinated her. Her parents, the Count and Countess of Savoy, had sent her younger sister to study at an abbey, where the girl had recently taken the veil.

“I always wondered what sort of life she led there, if she was happy.”

I thought of the girls I knew at Argenteuil, their haunted eyes. I must have appeared the same, abandonment stamped on my face like the mark of the beast. “One thing I learned in the abbey is this, my lady: happiness comes from within.” Even a king may live in misery, I pointed out. If possessions or power could make one happy, those men should be the most content of all.

“And yet you left Argenteuil behind. Inner happiness did not suffice for you.” Why, she asked, would I wish to return to that life? “God made the earth and all its treasures for our enjoyment. Can
you hear the laughter of children in the convent, or an infant's cry?” I wanted to cover my ears. “Can minstrels come to play their merry music, and may you dance? And what of love?” I wanted to place my hands over her mouth, anything to stop these questions.

Her voice caught. She blinked rapidly and smiled as if she stared into the sun. “Forgive me, please. I know it is your choice. I—”

“But it is not my choice,” I blurted. “To take the veil is my . . . destiny.” I felt myself blush. The words sounded ridiculous even to my own ears.

Queen Adelaide tipped the final drops of wine into her mouth, then handed the beautiful
henap
to me—a gift, she said, for a new friend.

“What woman ever has a choice for how to live? We are like animals,
non
? Good for breeding, and nothing more. I wonder if this is what God intended when he fashioned Eve.” Clearly, she spoke of herself. I would never bear a child.

Yet I could not deny anything that she said. Men belonged to themselves, while women belonged to men. The Church had owned me once and would again; in the meantime, my uncle could do with me as he willed. As I walked to the door of my uncle's house, the
henap
the queen had given me tucked into my belt, I pulled my mantle over my chest and clutched it tightly, holding it there, hoping again that Uncle had not stayed up past his usual hour to await us. As Jean opened the door, I lowered my head, not wanting to breathe in his direction lest he detect the scent of wine. Uncle Fulbert would ban me from the court if he thought it had corrupted me. Abelard, on the other hand, had drunk all he desired and now staggered up the steps, and no one would protest.

Jean lit a fire in my room, then offered to help Abelard undress. “I will sleep in my clothes,” I heard him shout before I closed my door. In a few moments, I heard a knock.

“The master sleeps.” Jean did not bother to whisper, knowing from experience the soundness of a wine-soaked slumber. “He is intoxicated and made a clamor, but I do not expect he will disturb you now.” His gaze dropped to my exposed bust—I had removed the mantle—before I covered myself with a hand.

“You are mistaken about the master,” I said, trying to draw him in with my smile, hoping to make him forget the tightness of my gown. “Wine does not intoxicate him. He remains sober no matter how much he drinks. He told me so tonight, on the ride home.”

My jest had no effect. Jean remained as rigid as before. “Do you require anything more? If not, I will take your horses to the stable and then retire.” He began to walk away, then stopped and turned toward me again. “It appears that my young mistress drank a bit of wine tonight, as well?”

“With the Queen of the Franks.” I pulled from my belt the
henap
she had given to me and held it up for him to see. “This is her cup, my gift from her. Is it not remarkable? We became friends.” Let him tell that to my uncle, and no harm would come to me. I thrust the cup toward him, offering it for a gift. I would have no use for it in the abbey, I said—but he refused. He said that my uncle paid him amply, but I knew the real reason he declined. If he became my ally, which was the reason I had offered the cup, he could not spy on me for Uncle Fulbert.

In my room, I undressed and lay on the bed to gaze at the fire and contemplate the night—the courtiers' glinting stares; Abelard's beautiful songs; the love for me that he had proclaimed; Queen Adelaide's knowing laugh and her disapproval of my plans to take the veil.

“Your poet loves you,” she had said. “How can he permit you to do this?”

I longed to tell her about my past, and my parents—perhaps, then, she might understand that I had no choice—but I did not dare. Although I sensed that she would sympathize, I did not want to violate my uncle's trust. Or was that the reason I had held my tongue? I did not believe Queen Adelaide would betray any secret I confided to her. Tales, too, of my years at Argenteuil had formed on my lips, but I had swallowed them rather than reveal the unhappiness I had endured there. Admitting it to her meant admitting to myself the awful truth, one that would not serve me—and which might destroy me.

I did not want to go.

I sat up in bed, my pulse frantic.

At that moment, another knock sounded on my door, so quiet that I might have imagined it. I stared at the fire, gasping for breath. Something shifted inside me. I did not want to take the veil. I wanted—

The knocking sounded again, more loudly now, accompanied by Abelard's murmur. My heart leapt. I pulled on my pelisse, then opened the door and pulled him into my arms, sighing with wonder. He wrapped himself around me and kissed me, murmuring my name,
my precious love, more beautiful than any song
, filling me with his scents, clove and aniseed and wine, and with a certainty of life that I had never before known. I felt as though I might lift off the floor and glide to the heavens. Love in all its terrible beauty had presented itself to me, or, rather, God in his mercy had sent it to me so that I might know, at last, not only the true meaning of the word but also the purpose of life. How had Christ lived his own brief years on Earth? Had he begun a school or tonsured his head and retreated into an abbey or become a hermit in the woods?
Non
. He had drunk deeply of the flawed world, to the very dregs, healing the sick, helping the poor, touching the men and women around him every day with
the perfect love of God. Now, the Lord had sent Abelard to relieve my loneliness, and to fulfill the promise of God's love for me. Would I forsake his gift?

“Ma chère,”
Abelard panted, kissing my throat. “My only love.” My blood quickened. My body seemed suddenly to ripen, filling with moisture, swelling me until I felt I might burst open like a juicy peach. He pulled open my pelisse and moved his hands over my skin, cupping my breasts, which were heavy with desire, and eliciting a moan from my throat.

“You were the most beautiful woman in that castle tonight,” Abelard whispered. “A hundred men ravished you with their eyes—but only I have the privilege of doing so with my body.”

He picked me up and lowered me to the bed, where I opened my arms and welcomed him. I wanted
this
; I wanted
him
. As we kissed, my very essence seemed to overflow like a river flooding its banks and pour from my mouth into his.

“Dear God, how I want you,” he rasped, his breath hot on my neck, my ear, my cheek. “Heloise, let me come in. I must feel you encompassing me! I need to become one with you at last.”

This was not the first time Abelard had asked for union with me, but it was the first time his
mentula
had prodded my inner thigh while he begged to enter. Never had we come so close to the precipice. I wanted him, but I could not succumb—thinking of the pain, yes, but also of the danger that we might be heard. I worried, also, about Abelard's intoxicated state. Tomorrow, when he had sobered, would he regret breaking his vow of continence? Would he blame me for his sin? I, who could find no iniquity in loving, dreaded his pointing the finger of shame at me. So, consulting my heart and finding it timid, I thought it best in spite of my body's promptings to delay our joining until we both possessed ourselves fully and could unite in joy.

“I—I have drunk too much wine. I cannot, not tonight. But tomorrow, Abelard! Our minds, and hearts, will be clear then.”

He sighed. The room fell into silence save for the cracks and pops of the fire. He rolled over and lay beside me, and I asked him to hold me for a while before returning to his bed. He slipped his arms around me and, kissing my hair and neck, murmured the sweetest words of love ever uttered. I pressed myself into him, molding myself to his form, wishing I might slip through his skin into his body and truly become one with Abelard.