The Sharp Hook of Love (35 page)

“I—” I glanced at Abelard again, but could not discern anything from his frown. “That would be impossible, Reverend Mother. I am married, and have a child.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “You are married? This is most unusual.” She turned to Abelard for an explanation.

“Yes, yes, she is my wife. We were married in secret—for obvious reasons.”

“A secret marriage?” She pressed her hands together and brought them to her lips, pondering. “We must not violate God's law. We must not encourage sin.”

“We were married before God, Reverend Mother, in God's own chapel,” Abelard said. “And as I have told you, Heloise needs a place of safety from her uncle, who has developed a taste for strong drink.” He gestured toward the blooming bruise on my cheek. “Is it a sin to help a woman escape from danger?”

“ ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.' ” Beatrice took my hand. “Welcome back to Argenteuil, Heloise. You may abide here for as long as you wish.”

“My stay will be brief,” I said when Abelard did not. “My husband plans to find lodgings for me and my son near the Nôtre-Dame de Paris Cloister as soon as possible.”

“Oui, oui.”
He nodded. “As soon as possible,
oui
.”

At the beginning, you certainly aroused my hunger for your letters, and you have not yet fully satisfied it.

—HELOISE TO ABELARD

E
xcept for the absence of the Reverend Mother Basilia, life at Argenteuil had not altered since I had walked out its front doors for the first time and, I thought then, the last. Argenteuil had not changed, but I had, which made cloistered life not only difficult for me but nearly unbearable.

The silence, always annoying, now threatened to drive me mad. No one spoke except by using signs or in the night, when whispers and muted giggles could be heard drifting through the dormitory. I longed to join those gatherings and was invited to do so, but dared not for fear of losing my residency. So I suffered through each day without speaking a word, in spite of the inquisitive eyes asking why I had returned.

I had always hated rising from bed in the middle of the night for prayers; now, doing so was a torment. Settling back to sleep had never been easy, but now the turnings of my mind, like a spinning wheel, prevented my doing so. Why hadn't Abelard written to me? When would he visit? What of our son—was he faring well, was he still, as Dagobert had written, “hale and robust”? Did his hair curl? Had his eyes remained blue?
Would he know me at all when, at last, I held him in my arms again?

Adding to my discomfort was the work that I had to do.

Abelard's one benefice, a parcel of wild ground near Champagne, yielded no income, unlike those my uncle had acquired during his years as canon. Because my husband could provide only a small amount to pay my expenses at Argenteuil, I knew I would have to perform extra work in the abbey. I had assumed that, given my education and background, I would work as a teacher or even a copyist or illuminator of manuscripts. Sister Adela, the nemesis of my youth and now a prioress, had other ideas.

“Given some notice, we might have arranged a position for you indoors.” Her eyes glinted like needles. “We placed Sister Marguerite in the kitchen last week—but you were never an accomplished cook. The sewing room might be possible—but you are not a seamstress,
non
?”

“I speak Latin fluently,” I said, although I knew she needed no reminding. She had been Mother Basilia's favorite among the oblates, but I had bested her in the classroom and gained the favor of Sister Beatrice, our teacher and, now, the abbess. Adela had spent most of our childhood in sullen resentment, trying without success to influence the other girls against me. Now she wielded power at last.

“Sister Helene helps me in the classroom.” I forbore remarking that Adela must certainly need assistance, given her poor command of Latin. “We have no need for more teachers at present.”

I suggested that I might become a scribe or illuminator, but her smile only widened. “The monks at Saint-Denis have taken those duties,” she said brightly. “But we need workers in the vineyards. You always hated the darkness of the abbey, didn't
you? Now you'll have sunshine and fresh air every day. Except, that is, when it snows.” She laughed as if she had made a clever jest.

I might have complained to the Reverend Mother Beatrice about my assignment, but could not bring myself to do so. Was I superior to the other vineyard workers? Birth counted for nothing in the abbey unless one brought a dowry, which I had not. And besides, the life that I had led with Abelard made me less worthy than the nuns, most of whom had never sinned with a man.

So I bent and pulled and pruned in the vineyard with the sisters who, like me, had nothing to give to the abbey but painful toil, and the sweat of our brows. My body ached so acutely that first week that I could not move without wincing, as if I wore Robert's iron tunic. Blisters formed on my hands, and calluses, roughening my skin as though I were a villein or a man. At last I decided to petition the abbess for a change in my work assignment, but found that she had gone to Saint-Denis to visit the deathbed of the Argenteuil provost. I felt grateful that I could not cry for I would have shed many tears of self-pity, insulting the women who worked beside me.

My real sorrow, however, came not from Argenteuil's hardships but because of Abelard's neglect. Although he did come to me the day after my arrival—and made exquisite love to me in the guesthouse, where we had found privacy—his too-brief visit left me more bereft than before. Then he disappeared. One week passed, then two, without any word from him, in spite of the letters I sent at every opportunity and at great cost until my small supply of coins had trickled away.
The cold and your absence have turned my heart to ice, if not stone,
I wrote, and also,
If the vineyards do not break my back, your neglect of me will break my spirit.
Still he did not reply.

In those weeks, all my accumulated knowledge and the wisdom of the sages faded from my mind. I thought only of Abelard and my son, longed for them, prayed only for Abelard's imminent return so that I might share life with him at last, and with our apple-cheeked little boy.

Was it pity I saw in the eyes of my sisters as I sat by the courtyard, watching for messengers? The firm foundation of my trust in Abelard began to erode, leaving me as unsteady as a house built upon sand. Put out of his sight, I seemed to have vanished from his thoughts, as well. Shut off from Abelard, from our child, from love, from life itself, I felt alone as never before. I wandered the halls in silence, unable to cry, forbidden to speak, haunted by memories, taunted by doubt. Abelard, who had promised to love me forever, had abandoned me. And I, believing his promises, had abandoned our child as my
maman
had done to me.

Without Abelard's help, how would I claim my son again? I had no money that would enable me to travel to Brittany, and without Abelard's consent I doubted that Dagobert would allow me to take Astralabe anywhere. Even should I convince him, how would I care for a child? Bereft of Abelard, cut off from my uncle, I had no means of support. My arms ached for the weight of my little son; my breast yearned for his soft skin, the pats and squeezes of his tiny hands.
I pray that, someday, you will understand.
Yes, Mother, but not like this. Surely not.

Was this how she had felt while parted from me? She, at least, had the solace of Robert's love. Had she told him about me, everything might have been different. She might have taken me to Fontevraud with her, and my uncle would have been powerless to take me away. I would have posed no threat to the family's honor cloistered with her, the secret of my birth guarded like a precious heirloom. But she had not yet built an abbey when my uncle
made his demands. Perhaps she did not yet realize her strength, or her capabilities.

I, on the other hand, had been abandoned as a child and given to the convent, but with God's help had survived. I had withstood my uncle's heavy hand and managed his household profitably. In my studies I had mastered all my masters—save one. I had loved not once, but twice—my son and his father—with all my heart. Pumping through that heart was the blood of Hersende of Champagne and Robert of Arbrissel, both of whom had dared to live their lives as each felt called to do, defying the strictures of men. Wasn't I as strong?

Giving up her child had been my mother's fate, but it would not be mine. No matter what Abelard desired, I would not leave my baby to be raised without me. On the seventeenth day with no word from Abelard, I decided to seek assistance elsewhere.

I had already written to Agnes, but she had returned to the court at Anjou and her beloved Amaury, who planned to repudiate his wife and marry her, she wrote. She sent several livres, enough to send me to Brittany and back, but the question remained of where, and how, Astralabe and I would live.

To ask Etienne for help was, of course, out of the question.

I thought of the brother I had never known. Where would I find him? I considered the distant uncle willing to help me with his funds but not, it seemed, with his love. So at last, holding the image of my son in my mind, I humbled myself with a beseeching letter to Uncle Fulbert requesting my dowry.

To gain his sympathy, I told him all that had occurred: Abelard's coaxing me to seek refuge at Argenteuil, then abandoning me there; our son's remaining in the care of the Bretons despite my wishes; and my own suffering. I told of my impoverishment and hard work, how I had to pull and prune vines with blistered hands and an aching back. I wrote with no other aim but that he
might rescue me, again, from the hell in which I lived. I could not remain here. If I did, I would lose my sanity.

To my surprise, I received a summon only a few hours after sending the letter. A visitor had come, the sister signed. My pleas must have been effective, indeed, to bring Uncle Fulbert so quickly. I hurried from the vineyard to cleanse my hands and wipe the dust from my clothes, then went to the guesthouse. When I stepped inside, I greeted not my uncle but Abelard, standing in the center of the room with his arms open wide as if expecting me to run to him with joy.

“Abelard. I thought you had perished.”

”Why the frown? Are you disappointed?” His booming laugh, nearly forgotten during these silent weeks, made me jump. “I am very much alive, my sweet bride, as you can see. You, on the other hand, appear barely so. What has happened to you?”

“Argenteuil has happened to me. I told you I would wither here.”

“But I did not know you meant it literally. My God, how altered you are, in so short a time.” He stared with horror at my brown hands, my chapped face.

“Seventeen days have passed.”

“Have they?”

“Seventeen days with no word from you.”

“I wanted to write, but I was afraid.” His eyes darted from side to side. He lowered his voice nearly to a whisper. “I am being followed, Heloise.”

“Followed? By whom?”

“Shh! By Fulbert, or Guibert, or someone else who would destroy me if he could. Perhaps Suger hopes for a scandal that could damage Etienne. I possess many enemies.”

“And only one wife, whom you have neglected along with your son.”

“Astralabe is doing well. He is truly talking Heloise and not even six months of age! Of course, his superior intelligence comes as no surprise.” Abelard pulled a tablet from his pouch—from Dagobert, he said—and presented it to me. I read it hungrily, my heart leaping to imagine my son's sweet little voice sounding out words—and aching to think of him truly calling Denise “Maman” now.

“O Abelard! I cannot wait to see him, can you? Now that you have come for me, will we go to Brittany?”

“But I have not come for you, not yet. Forgive me, sweetest, but you must be patient a little while longer.”

“You rode here to tell me this?”

“Not only for that.” He stepped forward to slip his arms about my waist. “For this, as well.” Sweet touch, sweeter kisses: how easily I succumbed to him, having been deprived of embraces. The heat of my beloved's breath; the spice of his scent; his hands on my back, my waist, my breasts; the taste of his mouth, the hum of my blood through my body like the tides, surging to the places he touched; the words of love he murmured as he lifted my
bliaut
—all carried me away from my sorrows of the past weeks to that place of bliss that I had visited so many times with him. Abelard had not abandoned me but had kept himself apart for fear of discovery, and a desire not to add further fuel to the fires of speculation.

He sat in a chair and pulled me into his lap. We joined our bodies, rocking, gazing into each other's eyes. Emotion filled me, spreading like the mist over the sea, encompassing all the world with love; my thoughts constricted to leave the world and center on only Abelard, my beloved, returned to me. When, spent, we clung to each other, I felt tears on my cheeks—but they were his, not mine.