The Sharp Hook of Love (23 page)

I am not a reed shaken by the wind; nor shall any severity or weakness of any kind take me from you.

—HELOISE TO ABELARD

I
n my youth, sorrow tasted of salt from the tears filling my nose and mouth as I'd sobbed at night for my mother. But having used all my tears in those days, now my sadness had a different flavor—that of the bile that rose in my throat every morning I awakened without Abelard in my life.

Every morning now, I held my aching stomach. Groaning over my basin, I would purge myself of Abelard's soft hands, his smile, his tender words—of everything that made up the sweetness of our love. Only sickness remained. I wished every day that I had never been born.

Farewell, my sweetest,
he wrote to me.
Farewell, more lovable than anything that can be named.

He wrote only to say good-bye. Is it any wonder that I did not care to arise from bed, or that I did not reply? Yet, he continued to write.

Farewell, sweeter than everything known to be sweet
.
I earnestly beg you to tell me how you are, because your good fortune is my greatest pleasure.
Why should I care about his pleasure? I copied his letters, then sent them back unanswered. I had nothing to say to
him, who had abandoned me as my mother had done, whose promises of love meant as little as discussions of the weather.

“I have news to improve your spirits!” Uncle said one day when I entered the great room and gave him his morning kiss. He lifted a wax tablet from a table near the hearth and handed it to me.

“Your dowry—my brother has agreed to pay—to pay! Your letter convinced him. You are a master of rhetoric—a master. Petrus Abaelardus has given you that much, at least.” He smacked his lips. “This comes at the most opportune time—most opportune. Now we can send you to Fontevraud. Should Robert name you as his abbess, your fame will spread throughout the realm. Galon must promote me then. He will have no choice—no choice!”

I wondered if he could hear my pounding pulse, like running footsteps. The kiss he gave before he departed for the library left a wet smear on my cheek, making my stomach turn over again. He noticed my expression, and his own hardened.

“Behold your face, like an open book!” he said, gripping my arm so tightly that I cried out. “I know what you are thinking, but it is no use, heh-heh. You will depart for Fontevraud as soon as the money arrives.”

I turned away, suppressing a shudder, and nearly collided with Jean, now recovered, who watched me with a strange expression. Heat rushed to my face and I hastened down to the kitchen to consult with Pauline about today's dinner.

But Pauline had not arrived. She had fallen ill, meaning that I would need to shop this morning, and cook—and meaning, also, that Jean would accompany me to the market. Realizing that no lock could confine me, my uncle had ceased to imprison me in my bedchambers, but Jean now followed me like a shadow whenever I left the house.
Having marked its territory, the dog will
return,
Uncle had said. The excitement in his eyes told me he hoped Abelard would do so and give my uncle an excuse to destroy him.

So I ventured forth for the first time in weeks, having been too proud to endure the humiliation of a guard. The cold weather had abated, although frost lined early-morning streets. Birds sang throaty welcomes to the warming day. I lifted my face to the sun. No matter what Fortune might hold in store for me, I had, at least, this glorious October morning. Yet not even my prayer of thanksgiving could quell my heart's skitter or dispel the dread clinging to me as persistently as my own shadow.

When confronted with the smells of the market, I felt unnaturally queasy and had to cover my nose. Capons roasting over the fire, pungent fish, and the sour odor of wet dogs and horse shit made a stew in my mouth that caused my stomach to lurch.

Was I well? Jean inquired. I nodded. Sorrow afflicted me, nothing more.

At the butcher's stall, I averted my gaze from the sausages and pigs' heads hanging overhead.

“
Bonjour
, pretty one. I have not seen you in such a long time. How does your uncle fare?” The butcher's wife greeted me with a smile that proudly displayed her rotting teeth. Her breath smelled of decay. I swallowed the water rushing to my mouth. She wagged her eyebrows and looked me up and down. “Or—do you live with a husband now?”

When I shook my head, she gave a tsk and pointed to my belly. “You poor girl! Who did this to you? I will send my husband for
his
head to hang in our display.”

I murmured, as I purchased the sausages, that I had been ill. She clucked her tongue and shook her head, her lips suppressing a knowing smile. “After the love, the repentance,
non
?”

I did not know the meaning of her remark and said so.

She laughed with her mouth wide-open. “After the feast, the belly grows. You are with child? Of course you are.”

Her coarse laugh mocked me as I hastened away, counting the weeks since my last menses. My heart began to pound as I recalled that I had missed my courses not only last month—which had scarcely bothered me, for I had missed a month before—but this month, as well. My uncle's attack and his threats, and Abelard's decision to relinquish our love, had occupied my thoughts, causing me to forget everything except my misery and twisting my stomach into knots, or so I had thought. Now I considered another cause for my illness and felt my sorrows melt away.

To bear his child! To have a part of him with me always, and to be bound to him for the rest of our days! God had heard my prayers, after all. My laughter, like the song of a bird freed from its cage, brought Jean trotting to my side.

“I am sorry I missed her jest,” he said of the butcher's wife. “She must have been quite amusing.”

“She was, indeed.” I refrained from kissing his cheek, dancing in the
place
, falling to my knees in thanks. “I found her exceedingly delightful.”

Now I am tired, I cannot reply to you, because you are taking sweet things as burdensome, and in doing so you sadden my spirit.

—HELOISE TO ABELARD

M
y uncle's incessant talk barely drew my notice at dinner that day. Noting my distracted state, Uncle glowered, but why would I care? He would not touch me once he knew of my condition. Nor would Abelard allow me to come to harm. Given my precious cargo, he would certainly remove me at once from Uncle Fulbert's home and his reach.

I could hardly wait to share my news with Abelard. How his chest would puff at the proof of his virility! Even the humblest of men felt pride in their offspring—how much more so would Abelard boast, certain of the superiority of any child he might produce. Despair over his failures would disappear, replaced by joy at this blessing—for it
was
a blessing, a gift from God and a sign of his will for our lives. Without a doubt, the Lord desired that we should be together.

My spirits rose as I contemplated how Fortune's wheel had turned in my favor. I would not go, now, to Fontevraud or any abbey, but would bring up our child here, in Paris, in a home that Abelard would establish for us. I would spend my life not
in dreary, damp halls but in a sunny house; living not in silence but in laughter and play with our blue-eyed boy or girl; suffering not the twin aches of longing and need as I lay at night in my cold bed but enjoying Abelard's continued presence and, once Urania returned to inspire him, his joy. This child would join us together forever. As for the rest, God would provide.

Seeing my curving mouth and bright eyes, Uncle grinned. “There's the girl I know, heh-heh.” He squeezed my knee under the table. “I thought I might never see your smile again. Ever since Petrus came here to live, you have been much altered—altered! You thought I didn't notice? A blind man would have seen it. You couldn't take the time to talk with your old uncle after supper anymore. You could hardly eat, eager for your nightly lesson.”

His expression darkened. He poured the cup's contents down his throat, then slammed the
henap
onto the table.

“By God,” he said, reddening. “You were with him all the while, weren't you—all the while! As I sat here alone with only the servants for company, the two of you rutted like beasts over my head. Laughing at my ignorance, no doubt—at your stupid, naïve uncle.” He lowered his head, reminding me of a bull before the charge. “I ought to beat you until you're black-and-blue. I ought to hurt your body the way you've pained my heart.”

Does a stone feel pain?
I wanted to retort. My uncle's pride, not his heart, had suffered—but I held my tongue. He must have read my thoughts in my eyes, for the hand with which he had patted my knee now gripped my thigh cruelly, sinking his fingernails into the skin. In another moment, he would strike me. Thinking of the child's safety, I lowered my gaze and begged his forgiveness. I had thought only of my own selfish
desires, and not of him at all, I said, an easy admission since it was true.

When I had placated him, I gave him a kiss on the cheek and, yawning, excused myself for a
relevée
nap. I would need to tell my uncle very soon that I carried a child—but first I must go to Abelard.

On my way to the staircase, I heard a knock at the front door and opened it to Agnes, who appeared as spring itself in a saffron
bliaut
embroidered with birds. I embraced her, wondering if she felt any rounding of my stomach. One question from her in my uncle's presence might arouse his suspicions—and cause him to lock me in my room again. I took her hands and led her into the garden, away from listening ears.

“Dear Lord, what has happened to you?” She perused my face and form with startled eyes. “You're as pale as a wraith. Have you been ill?”

I hesitated. Dared I tell her? But she knew of my love for Abelard and had encouraged it. Pressing a finger to my lips, I pointed to my womb.

She grasped my meaning in an instant; delight filled her eyes. “May it be so!” She took my hands in hers. “Then we might keep you with us. Yes, I am selfish. I don't wish to give you up to the convent.” She pulled me close and held me, O splendid embrace, human touch elusive to me all my days and nights except those spent with Abelard. The warmth of her, her beating heart, the circle of her enfolding arms: Was that a tear of gratitude on my lashes? I lifted my finger to touch it, but it was gone.

“You must go to Pierre with your news,
non
?” She clapped her hands. “Then when you have seen him, tell us if he is faring poorly or well. He has barred himself in his quarters—to work, he says. I think he's nursing his broken heart. At any rate, he cannot turn
you
away, not now.”

I frowned. That he might refuse my call had not occurred to me, for he had never done so before. Yet he had begged me to depart from him forever. Would my news change his mind, or would he resent me for interfering again in his work?

“I cannot bear the thought of his rejection,” I said, pleading with my eyes. “What if he is displeased? Will he point the finger at me, as if I had conceived the child without his assistance?”

She laughed. “Such is the way of great men,
non
? They think themselves infallible, as they must.”

I grasped her hands. “Agnes, will you tell him for me? Then you could send me a note informing me of his response. A note would not distress me nearly as much as seeing his eyes fill with bitterness.”

She shook her head. “I would help you if I could, but he will not speak to me. When last I visited, he would not open his door—to me, and I have known him all my life. He sees no one. He eats very little, Ralph says; he doesn't sleep, but burns the lantern all night. He is working, but Uncle Etienne thinks he has lost all the pleasure his writing once provided him.”