The Sharp Hook of Love (16 page)

Yet, to lie with him in this way, curled in his embrace, was enough. Here was where I belonged, in the arms of Abelard, my one and only love, and here would I remain—not in the abbey, not living according to the wishes of my mother, who had abandoned me, nor at my uncle's command, but only for Abelard. Here, I felt safe and protected as never before. Here, no one could harm me. Abelard's breath stroked the back of my neck like a calming hand until I slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Or did I dream? For I felt, in my slumber, the graze of his lips on my breasts, the suckle of his mouth, the sweep of his hands, again, on my skin. I saw the dark shape of his head over mine, faintly limned by the moonlight slipping in through the shutters, and heard his quick, excited pants—

And awoke to a stabbing pain between my thighs. I would have cried out but his mouth was on mine,
imbuing me with his breath, muffling my cries, which soon changed to delighted sighs. Pleasure filled me and grew with each slow stroke. I wanted this. I wrapped my legs around his waist and drew him in more deeply, reveling in the feeling of him atop me, around me, and inside me, as though we had indeed become one. It may be, as he had argued, that humans do not share the same essence, but in that moment Abelard and Heloise joined together in spirit as well
as in body. Although the night covered his face, I could see him clearly, even the blue of his eyes, as his thrusting increased in force and speed. Then he stiffened, gasped, and sighed my name once more:
Heloise, my
singuläris,
you delight me more than I had even imagined.

As he held me close, his pulse twitching against my ear, my teeth rattled with unquenched passion. I wanted more.

“Heloise, your body trembles. Have I hurt you, dearest?”

“No, my love.” My voice quavered, as well.

“What? Are you crying? Dear Lord, what have I done?”

I lifted my eyes to his face, smiling, but he could not see me in the dark. “What have you done?” I said in my sweetest voice, about to tell him that he had made me the happiest woman in all the world, but before I could do so he uttered a curse.

“I have ruined the woman I love. God help me! Heloise, what did I do? I awoke with your soft, slender body in my arms and the fragrance rising from your hair, and I forgot everything. I forgot your desire to wait; I forgot my vows.”

I drew back, dreading that he might rebuke me for our sin as Adam had blamed Eve. But how could Abelard point his finger at me? He had taken me while I slept; I had not assented. Or had I? I recalled his face above me in the dark, and the tug of his lips on my breasts. When had I awakened?

“Dear God, forgive me,” he said. “But—why should he do so? Why should you?”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

“How can you say that? I forced myself upon you, and most brutally—dear, dear Lord!” His voice broke, and when he kissed my cheek, he wet my face with his tears. “How can you ever forgive me? How will I ever forgive myself?”

“There is nothing to forgive, Abelard. I wanted it as much as you did.”

He sat up and covered his face with his hands. “Please, avert your eyes. I cannot bear for you to look at me now, despicable creature that I am.”

I sat up, too, and slipped my arms around him. Now he was the one whose body shook. Then we heard Jean's footsteps over our heads.

Abelard leapt from the bed. “Jean will find me here. I must leave you.” He leaned down to kiss me, wetting my cheeks with his tears. “Heloise, I have wronged you most grievously and cast us both into sin. Do not despise me, I pray.”

“I could never despise you.” But I did not think he heard me. Snatching up his chemise and braies, he hurried across the room and out the door to his own bed before Jean might discover him here. If that happened, neither bribe nor cajoling would convince Jean to keep our secret. He had disliked Abelard from the first time they'd met, but having to move into the attic room had planted seeds of contempt in the servant's heart. His anger surely increased each time he emptied the
magister
's chamber pot. Were he to learn our secret, he would tell it to my uncle—and who knew what Uncle Fulbert would do?

I smoothed the bedcovers where Abelard had lain, then turned onto my side and closed my eyes, feigning sleep and hoping that, when Jean came in to lay the fire, he would not hear the hammering of my anxious heart. Abelard and I had behaved carelessly, but we must not do so again. For myself I had little to fear except my uncle's heavy hand, and that my uncle might send me away sooner rather than later. But for Abelard, the consequences of betrayal would be disastrous. He'd laughed when I'd warned him of my uncle's temper, but I had felt Uncle's fist. What would he do to Abelard for betraying him under his own roof?

So much pain sprouts and thrives in my heart that not even a whole year would suffice for its description. My body, too, is sad, my spirit transformed from its usual cheerfulness.

—HELOISE TO ABELARD

P
auline's eel pie, although delectable to the tongue, gave me no pleasure at dinner the following day. I choked down only a few bites, tasting nothing yet forcing myself to eat under my uncle's suspicious glare.

“You are corrupted—corrupted!” He smacked the table with his hand. “Jean told me how you came home in a whore's dress, stinking of wine. By God! I should not have allowed you to go to that pit of iniquity.”

“I sat with the queen, at her invitation. She gave her
henap
to me and invited me to visit her again.”

“That you shall never do. That court is the wickedest place in the realm—wicked! I have heard all about it from Suger. Gamblers, adulterers, fornicators: sin oozes from the very walls. By God, I should not have allowed you to go, but Petrus promised to protect you from harm.”

“I am capable of protecting myself.”

“Indeed. Behold your pale cheeks and trembling hands.”
Uncle narrowed his eyes. “I know the ravages of excess as well as anyone.”

I met his gaze. “Indeed.”

“Chienne!”
He bared his teeth and gripped my arm so tightly I cried out. “I ought to send you upstairs to put on that
meretrix
's costume you wore last night. Then we can judge who is the greater hypocrite.”

“Agnes has already sent her servant for the gown,” I lied, pulling my arm from his grip. “But I assure you, it was no more revealing than any other costume I saw there, including the queen's own attire.”

“And where was Petrus? I hold him responsible. You are degraded—degraded! He is to blame. Now I know why he did not come to dinner today.”

My food stuck in my throat. I lowered my gaze lest my uncle note my distress. Why, indeed, had Abelard not come? Except for his months in Brittany, he had not missed a meal with us.
Men revel in the hunt,
Agnes had said during the feast in King Louis's court. Having finally claimed the prize he had pursued all these months, would he now forsake me?

I should not have opened my door to him. Or I should have sent him back to his bed rather than inviting him to lie with me. Now we shared the guilt in an act so unspeakable I could not even face him this morning. I had remained in bed all morning, feigning illness—not a falsehood, since I felt sick both in my head, which throbbed from too much wine, and in my heart, because of Abelard's remorse over what we had done and my part in it.

Agnes had suggested the revealing gown, but I had agreed to wear it, imagining, in truth, Abelard's arousal at seeing me so daringly attired. I had stirred his passions, then passed the cup with Queen Adelaide too many times, aware all the while of his gaze, which fixed itself again and again on my exposed bosom. My
own desire stirred by his, I had welcomed him into my room when I should have turned him away. Had I heeded my own inner warnings against overindulging in wine, I should never have done so.

I had hoped to talk with him after dinner today, during
relevée
, while my uncle napped. Where had Abelard gone? To Etienne's house, to confess the act for which he felt only shame and self-loathing? I had rejoiced in our union, thinking only of myself even in the face of his torment.

After dinner I retired to my room, exhausted. I closed my shutters and lay down to wait until supper and the opportunity to face my love again. Did he despise me now, or did he yet love me after all? One look into those blue eyes, and I would know.

But at supper I sat again at the table with only my uncle. Abelard had not come. Neither had he sent a message excusing himself, a lapse that caused Uncle Fulbert to point the finger at me.

“Why isn't he here? Your face has guilt written in every pore. Tell me, girl—has something happened?” He narrowed his eyes. “By God's head, if you embarrassed him, or me, last night—”

“Nothing has happened, except that I have neglected to relay his message to you,” I lied, a sin that paled next to the others I might confess. “King Louis invited him to court again this evening for a private lecture on philosophy.”

“Good, good.” Uncle nodded. “He may attempt again, if he forgot last night, to speak with Suger about supporting me for the deacon's post. Why do you frown?”

“I do not like Suger. He has the eyes of a vicious creature—the sort that lives underground and only emerges for the kill.”

“He also has the ear of the bishop of Paris—the bishop!—and the heart of the king of the Franks.” My uncle's eyes bulged. “By
God, did you tell him you are my niece? Did he see you in that whore's gown?”

I closed my eyes, remembering the monk Suger's accusing stare.
So begins the debasement of a great man,
he had murmured, unheard by anyone but me
. For his sins, God will banish Petrus from the garden of knowledge—and you, his temptress, will be crushed under your lover's heel.

That night in my room, I tried to study while listening for the sound of my beloved's footsteps. Would he come for our lesson? My pulse quickened at the thought.

At last I heard his heavy tread. My heart beating wildly, I sprang across the room toward the door, ready to receive Abelard—but it opened to reveal Pauline.

“I am glad you are faring better, miss.” From the sack in her hand she pulled the bedsheet, stained with the blood of my lost virginity, which she had removed from my bed and laundered. I sucked in my breath, but she only smiled.

“I know many remedies for female troubles. If you need it, I could provide you with something for your pain.” I thanked her—but nothing could soothe me now.

The surge of energy Pauline's footsteps had produced now caused me to pace my floor from window to door and back again. If Abelard did not come to me when he arrived, I would approach him. I imagined the scene: his sorrowful eyes; my assurances that all was well; our joyous reunion. I tried to read, but not even Seneca could distract my thoughts. Minutes became hours; hours became lifetimes. The night deepened.

At last, I realized that Abelard would not return to my uncle's house that night. Perhaps he felt too ashamed to face me. Or perhaps Agnes had been right. What had she said of her future count?
Once he has taken what he wants from me, he will lose interest
.

I returned to my window, seeking Abelard's form on the street, but saw only shadows and stars. Even the dogs slept at this hour. What if I never saw him again? Of course he would return to me, whom he loved. But what if he did not? I knew where he taught; I knew where, in all probability, he spent this night. Tomorrow, if he did not come to dinner, I would find him—and, God willing, I would soothe his anxious heart and bring him back to me.

I
did not have to wait long for word from Abelard. The next morning, after my uncle had left for the cathedral, a message arrived.
Are you faring well?
I replied that I was, and that I wished to see him—but he did not respond. Was he faring well?

That afternoon, I ventured to Etienne's house in search of him. At the door, Ralph, Etienne's cold-eyed servant, turned me away with a face as impassive as stone. I stood in the gusting winds, hair stinging my eyes—for winter had swept in suddenly—watching his lips form the word
non.
Abelard was not there, he told me. I did not believe him, but what could I do? I would not see him that day, wherever he might be. The wind shifted course as I walked, pushing me home.

I returned to Uncle's house to find Agnes there, her expression eager under her hat of snow-white ermine, her rosy cheeks reflecting her
bliaut
of blood red.

“I have news for you,” she said into my ear as we embraced. “Take me to your room?”

“No fire is lit, and Jean is out feeding the horses. It will be quite cold.”

“Not cold to me, not under all this fur.” She lifted her mantle. I marveled: ermine lined her cape in white, save for the black-tipped tails of the creatures, which lined the border. She
also carried in her hands an ermine muff, similarly trimmed with tails.