The Sharp Hook of Love (25 page)

“Does it matter what I say? He will kill me, anyway.”

“ ‘There's no fairer law than that the murderous maker should perish by his art.' ” I could quote from Ovid as readily as he.

“How can you speak so callously? Don't you care about my fate?”

“And what of mine?” My voice rose. “I hoped you would take me in—that you would bring me here to live with you.”

“Are you possessed?” He stared at me as though I were strange to him.

“The child is growing, Abelard. Soon my condition will become visible. What will happen to me once my uncle notices?”
What he forced your mother to do was more shameful.
Queen Bertrade's words struck me with foreboding, like a fist to my chest. I sat on the bed's edge, trying to calm my careening pulse. Uncle would deprive me, too, of my child; indeed, he must do so in order to send me to Fontevraud.

“You, at least, do not have to fear for your life.”

“If he takes our child from me, I shall kill myself.”

“Take the child? Why would he do so?” Abelard frowned. “You are inventing difficulties before they arise.”

I stood and crossed the room to him, holding out my hands, taking his in my own. “You will not allow it, will you, Abelard? You will protect us?”

“Protect you—from that demon? I could not defend you before.” He withdrew his hands. “Indeed, the best protection for us both would be your return home, and an end to these meetings of ours.”

I gasped. “Would you abandon me again? Would you cast aside the mother of your child? Would you leave me to the mercy of my uncle?”

“You speak of Fulbert as though he were a monster, or a demon. He will not harm you, Heloise, not when he learns about the child. The worst he would do is send you away, which might be better for us both.”

“May God damn you!” I shouted. “You care only about yourself, and nothing for me.
Non.
Do not bother to protest. I see the expression on your face. A few moments ago, when my body was a source of pleasure to you, your eyes were as soft as a kitten's. But in the instant I mention responsibilities, you shut the door of your heart.”

“At least I possess a heart.”

“And I do not?”

“Our world is crumbling, I stand to lose my very life, and you have just cursed me. Where is
your
heart, Heloise? Where are your womanly tears?” His eyes flashed defiance; he thrust out his chin. “Do you realize that I have never seen you cry? It makes me wonder, yes, whether you possess a heart.”

“And I wonder where are your
colei
.”

“I appreciate your concern for my testes, now that I stand an even greater chance of losing them.”

I looked around for an object to hurl at him but, finding nothing, threw words, instead—words that would haunt me until the end of my days.

“If losing them would diminish your incredible arrogance, then I would cut them off myself.”

Farewell, my bright star, golden constellation, jewel of virtues, sweet medicine for my body.

—HELOISE TO ABELARD

I
was a brittle tree blown by the wind, on the verge of snapping. I was a pear left on that tree too long, bitter and rotting.

Abelard had cast me aside again, not only me but also his child, leaving us to the mercies of my uncle, who had awaited me in my room when I returned.

“You've been to see him, haven't you? Whore!” he screamed as he struck me to the floor. Panting, he seized my hair; I cried out as, with his other hand, he tore at my clothes and flesh, his eyes wild until, thanks be to God, Jean ran in, waving his arms, and shouted at him to stop. Uncle had no choice, then, but to release me, but not without a kick to my back, which I had turned to him, protecting my child—
our
child.

As I lay on the floor, cradling my belly and moaning, Jean made my bed, then lifted me onto it. Now I remained in my room, not locked in but refusing to leave, scorning my uncle's entreaties, fearing for my little one's very life. Perhaps Abelard had spoken the truth, and telling Uncle Fulbert about the child would stop him from striking me, but I dared not risk his wrath
again. He might hurt the baby or, worse, take it from me, as he had taken me from my mother.

My uncle had forced her to abandon me—this I knew, as surely as I knew my own name. The memories now rushed in a great torrent: the lilt and ripple of my mother's voice, golden and warm; the powdery softness of her skin when she pressed her cheek to mine; and her fragrance, like the spring breeze. Mother! We must have had servants in our home, but perhaps, as Bertrade had said, she'd sent them away to avoid my being discovered, for in my mind there is only Mother, humming and laughing as she danced me, spinning, in her arms; Mother teaching me to read from a book of hours whose angels seemed nearly to leap from the page; Mother holding me close in her feather bed and singing me to sleep, her voice, that final night, choked with sobs.

I remembered our journey on her palfrey of gray, her arms about my waist as my uncle led us by the reins. The horse's rocking, as steady as the beating of my mother's heart, lulled me to sleep; when I awakened, with a pain in my neck that made me cry, she pointed to the stone buildings towering over us like rain clouds. Their gloomy appearance only increased my tears. When she bent down to kiss my cheek, her face was wet, also.

We stopped, and Uncle Fulbert came with raised arms to help me down. I clung to Mother, crying all the more, sensing that this strange man had nothing good in store for me. My mother's tears exceeded mine as she pulled my hands from around her neck and told me she was sorry, that she loved me, and that she would write to me often. Then my uncle carried me, squeezing the breath from me, through the great wooden doors of the Argenteuil Abbey. I flailed and kicked, screaming for my mother. He smacked my bottom so hard that, for days afterward, it hurt me to sit down.

“Keep still,” he said. “My sister has spoiled you. He who spares the rod hates his child.”

Inside the abbey's outer door, he set me down, his hand grasping my hair to stop me from fleeing.

“Dry your tears, now, and act like a lady. Our family is known here. Do you want to bring shame on us all?” When I wailed for my mother, he shook me so hard my teeth rattled. “They won't spare the rod here, do you hear me?”

Then, seeing that I did not comprehend, he snarled, “If you ever want to see your mother again, you will do as I say, and mind the abbess.” No girl was ever so compliant, then, as I—until now.

Uncle would deprive me of my child, as well. How could I stop him? Being my guardian, he might do as he pleased. Even were I to murder him—I banished the thought as soon as it occurred—I would lose our baby, for the Church or the king would hang me by the neck for such a crime.

For days I heard nothing from Abelard, as I had expected. I knew well enough, by then, the vagaries of his temperament, how he shifted like the winds between desire and fear. My uncle's knife-waving threats had turned his dreams into nightmares—or, rather, night-stags.
Your uncle is not a good man.
I, too, feared Uncle Fulbert, and well understood Abelard's impulse to hide himself. If my uncle learned that Abelard had impregnated me, he certainly would hurt him.

But what of my sorrowing heart, and of my yearning for Abelard's words of comfort? Occupied with his own travails, he could not concern himself with me now—but I knew he would not stay away for long. My news had stricken him like a bolt of lightning; I had seen fear's glimmer in his eyes, and his hands' tremble. In time he would recover and tell me what we must do, and I would consent. In all the world, I never cared to please anyone else but Abelard.

I sat at my window, waiting for a message from him, or a sign. On the third day, I received his tablet—brought, to my great surprise, by Jean. Godfrey, the bishop of Amiens, had died. Bishop Galon and a delegation including my uncle would depart in the morning for his funeral.
Gather your belongings and come to me tomorrow at nightfall. Jean will help you. He has become our ally against Fulbert.

The following night I packed my clothes, my astralabe, and our letters. Jean carried them as he followed me through the shadowed alleys to Etienne's courtyard, where Abelard waited with two saddled horses. He pulled me into his arms and kissed my mouth as Jean averted his gaze.

“Where are we going?”

Abelard jerked his chin toward Jean. “Not
we
, my love, but you and Jean.” He could not abandon his classes and his students, especially in light of the complaints lodged against him. “Jean will care for you in my stead, won't you, Jean?”

“I shall give Heloise my full attention,
magister
.”

“But where are we going?”

Abelard took me by the hand and led me indoors, to his chambers. “I am sending you away. Fulbert shall never find you.”

“Away from you? But why can't I remain here?”

He pressed his lips together. “You know why.” Soon my belly would grow, presenting proof of our sin to all and increasing my uncle's hatred.

“Jean told me what Fulbert did, how he hit you with his fist,” Abelard said. “You cannot remain with him, and you cannot live here. Etienne has enemies and detractors of his own at court. We must not involve him in our troubles, especially if they involve a scandal.”

In the face of these arguments I could only agree, but with the heaviest of hearts.

“But you will not part from me completely. I am sending you to Brittany, to my family's manor, to give birth to our child in the same room where I was born. Your wish, my love, will come true at last: you will greet my relatives. I only hope that, when all is finished, you will love me yet.”

I fell upon him, then, with kisses and embraces and tears. “Nothing can alter my love for you.”

His laughter rang like music. How I would long to hear that song during all the months that followed!

“You speak rashly, I fear,” Abelard said. “You do not know my family.”

J
ean and I traveled through the night, I wearing a nun's habit that Etienne had provided. Agnes had assisted me with the cumbersome garment, so weighty and voluminous that I wondered how I would sit upright on the horse for long. To complete the disguise, she enfolded my head and neck in a wimple. My severe appearance reminded me of the Reverend Mother Basilia at Argenteuil.

“I hope that Jean will be guard enough for you on the highways,” Agnes said as she adjusted the wimple. She arched her brows at Abelard, who stood ready to help me onto my horse.

“Jean grew up a villein, butchering his lord's cattle,” Abelard said. “He knows well how to wield a knife.”

“But will one man suffice to protect her against highwaymen? Journeying at night is especially dangerous.”

“No one would attack a habit-wearing nun,” Abelard said. “Even marauders fear for their mortal souls.”

“Those who possess souls fear for them,” Agnes said. “Didn't you hear of the two sisters traveling together last month? They were on pilgrimage to Saint-Jacques-de-Compostelle when
robbers—knights, I heard—snatched them off their horses, raped them, and took their purses.”

“But they did not contend with Jean,” Abelard said, “or with the fearsome Sister Madeleine.” He reached inside my habit and tied a knife in its sheath under my arm. The looks he gave me were meant to reassure, but I saw concern in his eyes. He handed me a purse filled with silver, which I tied to my girdle, also hidden under the folds of cloth. Jean would accompany me to Orléans, where a boatman would steer me down the Loire to Nantes, a journey of about seven days. From there, Abelard's brother Dagobert would escort me from Nantes to le Pallet, the family's manor.

A boat? I shuddered. Abelard knew well that I couldn't swim.

“It is the safest way for you, far from the reach of highwaymen.” He tossed his head, proud. “And so, you see, I have thought of everything and have arranged all to ensure your safe passage.”

“But—seven days on a boat?” I remembered my fall into the Seine, how water had poured into my mouth and nose, how my tunic had dragged at my feet, pulling me down.

“Where is your strength, Heloise? You can do this. You must do it—for me, and for our child.”

I mounted the horse—with difficulty, given the weight of my garments—and Abelard bowed to me. “Sister Madeleine, may God go with you.”

Satisfied with the disguise he had given me—never mind the sin of wearing a nun's habit when I had not taken the veil—he smiled broadly, as though sending me on a voyage for pleasure. My own smile wavered. I did not want to leave Abelard; indeed, doing so was the furthest thing from my desires. Yet, in doing his bidding, I knew that I embodied the highest love. I had cast aside my own desires for his sake—he who mattered more to me than anyone else, including myself.