The Sharp Hook of Love (26 page)

Nobody—except Death—will ever take you from me, because I would not hesitate to die for you.

—HELOISE TO ABELARD

H
ad I worried about drowning in the Loire? That first night, as the rain poured down, weighting my woolen mantle, drenching my wimple, sending rivulets streaming into my eyes and dripping from my nose, I thought I might succumb to the water from the sky before even reaching the river. I thought I might dissolve into nothing with not even my soul left intact. We trotted our horses to Orléans as briskly as we dared with only the moon to light our way, for we must meet the boat at daybreak. My cold-stiffened hands barely grasped my palfrey's reins; the
ta ga da
of hooves on the wide stone road nearly, but not quite, kept pace with my frantic heart's beat. I worried that the ride might injure the infant I carried. I wondered why Abelard had not arranged a hiding place for me that was nearer to him. Had he sent me away so that he might put me out of his mind, as my mother had done?
Non
—sending me to Argenteuil had not been her will, but my uncle's. What would Abelard say when Uncle Fulbert returned to Paris and found me gone?

When first we stopped to rest, in the ruins of an old Roman building, I decided to ask Jean for his thoughts. First I
wanted to know why he helped Abelard now when he disliked him so.

“Canon Fulbert went too far. I hate to see a man abusing a woman. It isn't right to use our God-given strength against creatures weaker than us, except our children when they need correcting.”

“My uncle yet considers me a child, I suppose.”

“Your slight figure and your quiet voice make you seem younger than your years. But Canon Fulbert should not drink so much wine as to forget himself like that.”

Distraught by my uncle's behaviors, Jean had gone to warn Abelard of the dangers I faced.

“It broke my heart to see you lying on the floor. I wanted to quit my post, but Master Pierre urged me to remain—for your protection.”

“And that of our child.”

“Pardon?” One glance at Jean's expression and I knew that I had erred. But I could not take back my words. “Pardon? Did you say something about a child?”

Being an incompetent liar, I was forced to confess the truth.

Jean's eyes narrowed. “He has impregnated you? Very careless—very disgusting! Forgive me, but I do not know which of the two is more despicable, the canon or the master. Both have wronged you and caused you to suffer.”

His face ticced with anger, which I felt compelled to relieve if I could. “No one has done anything to me, but rather I have done it to myself.” Had I the opportunity, I would have done it all again—but this I did not say to Jean, not while he sneered in contempt over Abelard's “sin” and called him the “snake in the garden.”

“I wonder on whose side you stand, Jean, my uncle's or that of Master Pierre?”

He jutted his jaw. “I stand with you.”

I grasped his hand and squeezed it as I thanked him. Jean had always shown complete loyalty to me.

In spite of my misery I was almost sorry when the rain ceased, for Jean had said it kept the robbers in their caves. It did slow our progress, however, so that when the sun's light spilled over the horizon, we had to gallop our horses over the treacherous Roman road with its slippery stones. I fretted over the baby's safety, hating to jostle it, but I feared highwaymen even more. Then, when we had almost reached Orléans, the dreaded event occurred: two mounted men emerged from within the woods and, waving knives, demanded Jean's purse. Neither wasted more than a glance at the poor, bedraggled nun.

Jean's smile shimmered like a mirror. “If you want my purse, you will have to take it from me.”

One of the men leapt from his horse, ran to me, and dragged me from my saddle. Almost without thinking I slipped my right hand into my left sleeve and grasped my knife.

“Now what do you say, old man?” the robber said, holding me fast against him. “Which do you value—your coins or her virtue?” He squeezed one of my breasts so hard that I cried out. His breath smelled of rotten eggs. As his hand moved down to pat my body—feeling for my purse, no doubt—I slashed his forearm. As he shrieked, Jean rushed forward with his own knife and stabbed him in the stomach. The robber doubled over, clutching his bleeding wound with both hands, and Jean turned to the other attacker—who turned tail to the wind and rode away. We left the injured man lying in the mud.

“We must help him,” I said.

Jean shook his head. “No, he is paying the price for wickedness, as we all must do. He is in God's hands now, or the devil's,
but you are in mine—and my task is to put you on the boat to Nantes.”

So we rode away with the poor man's whimpers scratching at my soul.

We arrived at terce, several hours later than planned—but found the boat at the appointed place. “Monsieur Pierre promised me an additional livre if I waited for you,” said the boatman, whose unshaven face made me want to scrub it with soap.

Jean frowned and said that no one had told him of the promise nor given him a sum that large. He paid the man two livres' worth of silver, causing him to scowl. “One livre pays the fare, and one is for your lodgings. You will receive two more when you have delivered the sister safely to Nantes—
if
you do so.”

“
If
I do so? Of course I will.” He cleared his throat and spat at Jean's feet. “That is what I think of your
if
, ha ha! Albert the Boatman always delivers his cargo unharmed, and in good time.”

“Bretons,” Jean muttered as he kissed me farewell. “As crude as swine, and not nearly as intelligent. I do not like leaving you in his care.”

“I will be well. As you have seen, I can take care of myself.”

Jean grinned. “Sister Madeleine, the Holy Terror. I hope that highwayman lives so that he may tell the tale.”

The boat slipped slowly down the churning stream. Albert the Boatman never looked at me except to glare and rarely spoke. His manner suited me, as I had no desire to converse with him. I would rather he kept his eyes on the river. Merely to look at the murky water caused me to perspire; the boat's rocking motion made me grip the sides in a vain effort to steady myself. After several hours, exhausted from the nightlong ride, I curled up on the boat's bottom and fell asleep, awakening only at the lurch and scrape of our landing. I shivered and pulled my mantle close. Dusk had already begun to suck the light from the sky.

With a grunt the boatman lifted the lighter of my sacks, hoisting it over his shoulder, and left me to carry the heavier one up the bank to the tavern where we would sleep. With one look I could see that Albert the Boatman had no intention of spending Abelard's livre on lodgings. The timbered, two-story building, slumping on one side and leaning to the left, appeared as though it, too, had been built by the Romans. Inside, a crowd of men reeked of body odor and wine. The proprietor greeted the boatman with a grin and a flagon, which Albert took to a table with hardly a nod in my direction. The tavern keeper took both my sacks and led me up an unlit stairwell to a tiny room covered in grime and mouse droppings. Supper, he said, would be served downstairs.

In the dining hall, I forced down the thin, sour-tasting soup and dry, dark bread that passed for supper, thinking of the child in my womb, who needed nourishment. I kept my eyes before me, ignoring the stares directed my way. At the table beside mine, four men rolled dice and swore more loudly than necessary, and most foully—for my benefit, no doubt. When, finished with my supper, I passed them to return to my room, one of the men grabbed my habit and pulled me into his lap. I struggled to stand, my face burning. I reached inside my sleeve for my knife—but then rough hands pulled me up and tossed me aside, then flung the offender to the floor. Albert the Boatman had decided to take care of me, after all.

“I always deliver my cargo unharmed,” he said, and commanded me to my room, where I went most willingly.

I spent the night with open eyes, every sound jarring me awake whenever I began to drift off to sleep: the scratching of a mouse in the corner; the thud of footsteps on the stair, and stumbles, and curses; and, once, the rattle of the latch on my door, which I had not been able to lock. I sat up in bed with a cry. The door opened and the boatman's face appeared.

“How do you fare, Sister?” he slurred. “Never fear. I am here to protect you.” He closed the door; soon I heard the creak of hinges and, through the thin walls, his stumbling steps, as loud as if he were in my room. I heard his fall onto his bed, his mumbled curse, and, only a moment later, his snores, so jarring that I thought the groaning timbers of the hotel had given way at last. After a long while I slid back under the thin bedcovers to hunch against the cold, keep wide-eyed vigil against intruders and rodents, and ask,
Why?

Why had Abelard sent me on this treacherous journey alone, placing me in the care of this loathsome stranger whose only concern was for his purse? Six days remained until we reached Nantes, and I knew already that every night would pass as this one had, in the most disreputable and unaccommodating hovels, as Albert the Boatman hoarded his coins. Abelard had thought little of my well-being, it seemed, in his haste to send me as far away as possible. A knot formed in my throat and my eyes burned. I pulled the covers over my head and closed my eyes and waited through the night for tears or sleep, neither of which ever came.

I am the person I have been. Nothing has changed in me concerning my ardor for you, except that every day the flame of love for you rises even more.

—ABELARD TO HELOISE

A
s I had predicted, my ship's captain steered me from one pestilential port to another, each seemingly worse than before. One room lacked even a candle for light; morning revealed bloodstains on my mattress. I learned to sleep amid the cold, the filth, and the smells of rotting meat, urine, and excrement. Embarking on the river, which had terrified me at first, now came as a relief. There the air, although cold, blew fresh and moist on my face, and the banks offered an always-changing variety of sights. Villeins worked in the vineyards, collecting the remnants of the season's harvest, their voices rising in song. A herd of deer foraged at the river's edge. Trees waved their limbs in the soughing breeze, yellow leaves lighting the branches like candle flames at Christmas. A lump formed in my throat at the thought of the holiday just two months hence. I had looked forward to observing it with Uncle this year, with family for the first time since my childhood. Now I would celebrate our Lord's birth in a strange land, parted from the only one I love.

On the third night of our journey, as the tavern keeper showed me to yet another decrepit room, he asked if I were
traveling to the Fontevraud Abbey. “I hear Robert of Arbrissel has returned from his preaching, and that he has taken ill.” The man grinned. “Even as he lies at the door of death, the pretty women seek him out. By God's head, I should have been a preacher instead of a tavern keeper.”

His remarks gave me an idea. I had planned to write to Robert once I had settled in with Abelard's family at le Pallet—but, with the abbey so near, why shouldn't I visit him, instead? Perhaps I might ask him about my mother and gain some clues to my father's identity. Indeed, hearing that he lay ill made me determined to do so, lest he die and carry my mother's secrets with him. But when I presented the plan to Albert, he refused.

“I was hired to take you directly to Nantes, and to arrive on Thursday afternoon,” he said, thrusting out his jaw.

“But I must visit the abbey. Robert of Arbrissel is dying, and I must give him a message.”

“If it's only a message, we could hire someone to deliver it, had we the coin.”

I went into my room, loosened the money pouch on my girdle, and extracted two deniers.