The Sharp Hook of Love (21 page)

“All you have done benefits you. The more I prosper, the better your chance of success.”

“And when everyone has discovered what you have done?”

Remain calm, Heloise
. “How will everyone discover it? Are you going to tell them?”

“You're damned right I will!” He pounded the table again. “Bishop Galon deserves to know that his headmaster is a deceitful, lust-driven sinner.”

“You would destroy the career of the world's most brilliant philosopher merely for falling in love? Can you not muster even a speck of compassion for Abelard—and for me?”

“Where is he now, eh? He hides, trembling in fear over the consequences of his foul deeds without a care for your welfare. Foul deeds!”

“What did he do that countless men have not done before him?”

“What? He seduced his own student, an innocent girl brought up in the convent, one already betrothed to Christ—to Christ!”

“I am twenty years of age, and capable of choosing for myself.”

“I did think so, yes.” His voice shook. He rang for some wine, and Jean-Paul rushed in with a flagon. “You were special, Heloise, a shining jewel of virtue.” The drink Uncle took appeared to steady him. “Now Petrus Abaelardus has tarnished you. He has degraded you. And in doing so under my roof, he has degraded me and all our family.”

“I do not feel degraded by his love, Uncle. I feel exalted.”

“You poor, misguided child. I know you think yourself an adult, but you have little understanding of how the world works. Dear God, forgive me for my stupidity! I should have protected you.” He sighed. “I am as much to blame as Petrus.”

“No one is to blame.” I placed my hand on his forearm, suddenly desiring to comfort him. “From the moment we met, Abelard and I knew we were destined to be together.”

“And how could that be, with you headed to Fontevraud, and he rising like the sun in God's church? Some say he will become a bishop, as William of Champeaux did before him—a bishop, that serpent of deception! Petrus Abaelardus isn't fit to kiss the hem of my robe, I who have given up all for the Church and cannot even attain a deacon's post.”

“And if you tell Galon what we have done? How would that help you, Uncle?”

“It would fill me with joy to see that traitor ruined, as he has ruined you.” Uncle's smile flickered like a shadow. “Banished from teaching, exiled from Paris—Galon would make it so, and gladly. He appointed Petrus under pressure from the king, thanks to Etienne, but he despises his arrogance.”

“And so—you will tell the bishop about us?” Tears did not form in my eyes, yet I sniffled and wiped my cheek and so deceived my uncle. “You would destroy my reputation, too?”

“Oh, no, I would never do that—not unless I were forced. Do you think I want the world to know that my niece is a whore like her mother?” He began to eat, then, and to drink, but moderately, pouring only a cup or two of wine for himself. Of all the nights to refrain, why would he do so on this one, when I wanted only for him to fall into his usual stupor so that I might go to Abelard?

The muscles around my stomach tightened, constricting my breath. I could not eat, but walked to the great windows overlooking the street.
Abelard, where are you?
Had he gone to Etienne's? Was he faring well?
God willing, I will see you soon, my love.
A dog skulked past, his teeth bared in warning to the hostile world.

“Seeking your lover?” My uncle came to where I stood and stared out the window beside me. “It is of no use. You will never see him again, not alone. I will make certain of it.”

I wanted to laugh at his guilelessness. Did he think to keep us apart whose very spirits had mingled, whose love transcended all earthly concerns? When necessity had parted us, our souls had converged on a star. I was Abelard's, and he was mine, a fact that nothing could change.

Still, I trembled to think of the harm my uncle might do. Hoping to soften him toward me—toward
us
—I slipped my hand into his and asked again how his heart could be so hard. Had he never known love?

“I have had my share of female company.” Seeing my eyes widen, he grinned. “Beautiful women—beautiful! Heiresses, servant girls, married women.” He licked his lips.

“I do not speak of
that
sort of love.”

“I know of what you speak.” His voice was gruff. “I had it with Gisele.”

I gaped at him. How, then, could he relinquish her? He looked as if he might cry. I placed my hand over his. “It sounds as if you loved her deeply.”

“We loved each other.” His voice rasped, gruff.

“As do Abelard and I.”

He snatched his hand from mine. “Hmph. Petrus Abaelardus loves no one.”

“No, Uncle, you are wrong—”

“Don't speak to me of that traitor—traitor!” He scowled. “Petrus arranged my journey to Anjou with the bishops, saying it would bind me more closely to Galon—but now I know his true reasoning. ‘Take your manservant with you,' he said. ‘Everyone else will have theirs along.' Hmph! Having coaxed me to do his bidding, he then cajoled his way into your bed. Love—hmph! That self-server knows nothing of love.”

My uncle was mistaken about Abelard; of this I had no doubt. But I said nothing, not wanting to anger him.

Grumbling, Uncle Fulbert filled his
henap
and drained it at once, giving me hope that he might drink himself to sleep, after all. I forced a yawn and announced that I would retire to bed. Uncle sent me a suspicious glare as I stood. I slipped my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek, hoping to appease him.

“I am sorry for the pain I have caused you, Uncle. I swear that hurting you or your honor was the least of my intentions. Good night.” I took a step toward the stairs.

“Would you depart from me so soon? I have tales to tell you from my journey—many tales! Ah, but if you are tired—let me come up and build a fire for you, since Jean cannot do it.”

Only a girl harder of heart than I could watch without gratitude as my uncle carried wood from the stack outdoors up to my room. Only one with no heart at all could listen without softening to his grunts and mild curses as he struck flint to steel again and again, struggling to light the fire that would provide warmth to me as I slept. As he had said, he had given me everything, had shared with me all that he possessed. Perhaps he had loved me in the best way that he knew. In return, I had brought him only humiliation.

And yet—would I have done anything differently? Certainly not, for now I plotted to deceive him again.

“Good night, my dear child,” he said, kissing my brow. “This day has gone hard for us both, but the worst is over now.” If only his words had been true.

I walked to the hearth and held my hands up to the blaze, whose crackles and pops obscured the sound for which I listened—that of my uncle's steps descending the stairs. They did not, however, block the distinct sound of a turning key in my door.

I hastened to the door and rattled the latch, to no avail. “Uncle Fulbert!” I cried, banging on the wood. “What are you doing? Please, unlock my door.”

“And have you run to your lover while I sleep tonight? I have been a fool—a fool!—but no more.”

“But—how long shall I remain here? You cannot lock me up forever.”

“Do not worry, you shall be free soon enough, heh-heh—when I have ensured that Petrus Abaelardus will never touch you again.”

My soul thirsts with incomparable love for the source of your image, and it can never lead a happy life without you.

—HELOISE TO ABELARD

I
mprisoned in my room, I hadn't the presence of mind to think of escaping, or to worry about my uncle's threats. I could think of nothing but Abelard. I went to the window and gazed up at our planet, the “bright queen of the sky,” shining as brilliantly as my love for him. Had he lain in my arms only this morning, holding me close, filling my senses with his fragrance and his delicious heat? Now he had gone, I knew not where—although I could surmise—but this I believed: even as I looked up at Venus, Abelard gazed at her, too, and yearned for me as I for him.

Soon, exhausted by the day's travails, I slept and dreamed of him—or, rather, of a man who said he was my father, although he had Abelard's dark curls and eyes of laughing blue.

“Why do you worry?” he said. “I will take care of you.”

I awoke and stared into the dark, thinking of the man for whom my mother had given up her only daughter. How she must have loved my father, to endure pregnancy, childbirth, and motherhood alone and in utter secrecy, all for his sake.

Queen Bertrade knew him; of this, I felt certain. Kindness had filled her eyes when she'd spoken to me of him, and when I asked her to reveal his name, she'd bitten her lower lip in indecision. At last, she'd refused. Mother had wanted the secret kept, and Bertrade must honor her wishes.

“You will discover the truth for yourself, in time,” she said. “You are closer now than you have been before.” I departed from the Hautes-Bruyères Priory feeling as heavy as if all my hopes had turned into stones. To come so near to learning the truth pained me more than if I had not gone to Queen Bertrade at all.

“You should not have allowed her to send me off to dinner,” Agnes said as we rode home. “I would have persuaded her to reveal all.” Knowing my friend's fondness for scandal, I could not agree with her. Although she had helped me, I would not trust her with such a secret.

Yet, what a comfort it might have been to know my father. Even were I unable to contact him, I might have taken solace in some virtue of his, strength or courage or piety or loving-kindness, that I might claim as my own. I could say, “I am my father's daughter.” Instead, I had never felt so alone. Even God seemed to have abandoned me; when I prayed, I heard the hollow wind in response and felt only its chill blowing in my window.

But I was not alone. Abelard was with me in spirit, at least. Knowing this provided me with some comfort, but I nonetheless ached for some word from him. My uncle's rage, like a sudden torrent sweeping him out of my reach, had brought a bitter end to the sweetest hours of my life.

During our week together, my heart had opened to Abelard, my precious light, as the tightly furled rosebud expands its petals to the sun.
My lily, my privet,
he'd murmured while filling me with his sweetness, increasing my delight with every touch.

In the morning I tried the latch again, to no avail. My
stomach churned with worry. Had Abelard suffered from his fall down the stairs? What further harm would my uncle wreak? Perhaps Uncle's night's sleep had dulled his anger's edge. I arose and dressed, shivering in the cold, perspiring and dizzy. My stomach felt as though it were falling; water filled my mouth. I lurched to the basin and retched and heaved, but nothing emerged except bile from my empty stomach. I pushed open the shutters and reached for my gourd filled with water from the light rain falling, slicking the street with mud. The lantern boy walked toward our house, waving something to beckon his drenched, mud-plastered dog. When he saw me, the two increased their pace, slapping the mud and dodging a donkey and cart of fish trundling to the market. I nearly cried out: his waving hand carried a wax tablet. Abelard had written to me.

The dog yelped; I lifted a finger to my lips and the boy slowed, murmuring to the animal. I regarded the street and, seeing no one, stripped the cover off my bed and lowered it, leaning over far so that the boy could grasp it. When he had tied the tablet into the cloth, I pulled it up again, then held up one finger.
One hour,
I mouthed: enough time to read the message and form a response.

My pulse ticced against my throat as I sat on my bed and broke the seal.

If that old bull Fulbert harms you, Uncle Etienne shall cut off his horns. Are you faring well, my dear friend? Please write and let me know when I may visit.
Abelard had not written, after all, but Agnes. Yet, she knew something of what had occurred. She must have spoken with Abelard; she might be with him now.

I replied saying that I was well, but locked in my room.
Has Abelard taken refuge with Etienne? I must meet with him. Please tell him to write with a time and place.

An hour passed. The lantern boy returned for my messages,
for I had written not only to Agnes but also to Abelard:
Caged like a bird, I would yet fly to you. Choose a suitable time for our meeting and let me know.
Another hour passed, then another, with no reply. I paced the floor of my room, imagining the worst.

Hunger gnawed at my stomach. Pauline came to the door with fruit, cheese, and bread, but shook her head when I asked her to free me.

“I cannot, or Canon Fulbert will dismiss me. He has already reprimanded me most severely for failing to report your . . . activity . . . with Master Pierre.”