The Sharp Hook of Love (36 page)

“How I have yearned for this—for you. Heloise, I know you must think me weak and lacking in courage. Forgive me for
neglecting you, my shining star. I swear, I never meant to cause you any pain.”

“With great passion comes great pain.” I pulled on my underclothes and smoothed my garments. “But you must not keep yourself from me for so long.”

“I will not need to do so, not anymore.” He smiled as if presenting me with a gift. He had arranged to journey weekly to the Saint-Denis monastery, not far from Argenteuil, where the abbot wanted instruction in dialectic. Abelard would visit me after every lesson. “Once a week will not satisfy my hunger for you, but at least neither of us shall suffer long from being parted.”

When, I asked, would he bring Astralabe and me to Paris as he had promised?

Soon, he said—always his answer. Seeing my displeasure, he added, “Fulbert is my greatest concern. I keep myself apart from him, but the cloister is small and, anyway, I cannot help seeing him at rehearsals and in services now that he is acting as cantor. You should behold his menacing stare! If he could accomplish with his eyes what he once threatened to do with his blade—” He shuddered.

“Abelard, you and I wed. Uncle gave me over into your care. He will not harm you. His sense of honor is too great, as is his ambition.”

“He would not harm me now, thinking as he does that I have sent you to Brittany to collect our child.”

“Did you tell him so? When?” I thought of my letter.
You spoke the truth about Abelard: he cares nothing for me. He deceived me into entering this convent and has left me here to die.

“Would I speak to your uncle directly?
Non
, for I have no wish to die. One wrong word, and out would come his knife. I planted the tale in Jean's ear and had him tell it to Pauline at the market yesterday.”

My admission about the letter perched on my lips—for his sake, Abelard ought to know the truth—but God is my witness that I could not bring myself to utter it. What good would come of increasing Abelard's fears? He already lived in terror for his life—needlessly so, in my opinion, for Uncle Fulbert would not do anything to endanger his own position. If my letter had increased Uncle's hatred, nothing Abelard could do or say would assuage him, anyway. Only I could do so—with another letter, which I would write as soon as Abelard had gone.

“But—will he believe such a tale? Does he truly think you would send me to Brittany alone?”

“I did it before, didn't I? Let us hope he believes it and ceases his spying. Perhaps he will put away his knife, as well.” Abelard grimaced. “God forbid that he should discover the truth. Were he to learn that you live here, I hate to think what rage would prompt him to do.”

Wholly guilty though I am, I am also, as you know, wholly innocent.

—HELOISE TO ABELARD

A
s soon as Abelard left for Saint-Denis—with a promise to return to me the following day—I wrote a second letter, telling Uncle Fulbert that Abelard had not abandoned me, after all. I sent it with the abbey's messenger the next morning.

Spies follow Abelard night and day,
I wrote.
I pray that, if you are having him followed, you will desist. Only when he feels himself out of danger will he bring Astralabe and me home to Paris. The more others threaten him, the longer I must spend toiling in the vineyards here.

I included the last sentence, I admit, in hope that my uncle would redress my situation, not liking the idea of his niece laboring in the fields. When Abelard returned to me the following afternoon, I felt an inner prompting to tell him what I had done. Again, I convinced myself not to do so—not for his sake, I realize now, but for my own, fearing he might abandon me again.

As we walked about, searching for a place to steal an hour's pleasure, I asked about our son. Had Abelard heard anything more of him?

“
Non
, I have no more news. Why don't we go to le Pallet and see him for ourselves?”

“Abelard—truly? Will you take me to your brother's house at last?”

“I wrote to Dagobert yesterday. Your grief moves me immensely, sweetest. I did listen to your complaints and have pondered them and found you in the right. And—Heloise! I have found us a perfect little house, with a windmill, on the ruga Saint-Germain.” His entire face seemed alight. “It is time the three of us faced the world together, openly, and left all else to God.”

I cried out, then, and clasped my hands in a prayer of thanks to heaven and Abelard.

“Shh,” he said, smiling. “Or the sisters will send me away too soon.” He winked.

The three of us together, in our own little house—with a windmill! I felt something turning in me, shifting, toward the light rather than the darkness I had imagined. Thoughts of telling Abelard about my letter to Uncle Fulbert flew from my mind. What would be the use in worrying him now? Soon we would ride to le Pallet, claim our child, and return to our home in Paris. My uncle would not dare to harm us; indeed, he would not desire to do so as long as Abelard took proper care of Astralabe and me. Our own, sweet house! And so I kept my error to myself, sowing the seeds for a lifetime of remorse.

“Of what are you thinking?” he asked, although his smile told me he already knew.

“I am thinking of kissing you.”

“Once again, we share the same thoughts. Lead the way, my lady.”

“But—there is nowhere.”

“Surely there must be some private place. What about those shrubs?” He pointed to the cloister's eastern edge, near the
refectory. As we looked around us but saw no one, he took my hand and led me into the bushes, where we kissed as though life depended on kisses and buried our hands in each other's clothes.

“My husband,” I murmured. “Heart of my heart, you are everything to me, and I will love you forever,” a vow that I have never broken nor regretted, not even for a moment.

Then, in the thick of passion, we heard voices, and a cough. Peering out, I spied Adela and a visiting priest walking toward us, engaged in deep conversation. My blood ran cold at the thought of them glimpsing us in the bushes, against the cold stone wall, groping and panting like wild creatures. Quickly we arranged our clothing and slipped inside the nearest door, over which hung a likeness of the Virgin Mother. Her expression, normally sorrowful, appeared stern to me now.
Mother of the Gods.
I shuddered, remembering the fate of Atalanta and Hippomenes, the lovers in Ovid's
Metamorphoses
who had dared to defile Cybele's temple.

This was the refectory, the large dining hall now empty save for the benches and dismantled trestle tables lining the perimeter. Light poured in through high, arched windows and bounced off the floor of smooth white clay, limning Abelard with gold. His hair shimmered, throwing off sparks. I felt giddy with light.

“Heloise. Behold your radiance. You look as if you might ascend into paradise.”

“I feel as if I were already there,” I breathed as he pulled me close.
Astralabe! We are coming for you.

“No—not yet,” he murmured. “But the kingdom of heaven is at hand, my love.” He led me toward a bench and sat me down beside him and commenced the gentle rubbing and tender pinching and delicate nips of teeth that always made me forget myself. I shuddered as he moved his fingers more deeply, searching, probing, stroking—but the echo of my moans, bouncing
from the ceiling to the stone walls and back to my own ears, awakened me as though from a delightful dream.

“
Non
, my love—wait! We cannot do this here.” I pushed against him with my hands.

“Why can't we? The hall is empty. No one can see us, or hear us. And I want you, my beautiful dove.”

“This hall is sacred.” I gasped as he nuzzled my throat, sending chills down my spine and making my teeth gnash. “Dedicated to the Virgin Mother.”

“Had you forgotten that we are married? There is no sin in this, Heloise.” He slid his hand under my skirt, up my thigh.

“But we will defile her temple!” I thought, wildly, of Atalanta and Hippomenes, changed into lions as punishment.

Abelard knelt on the floor and pulled me down with him. “This is no temple, but a dining hall. But if you insist, I will pray. Thank you, Lord,” he said, kissing my face, my neck, my breasts. “Thank you for my beautiful wife.”

O Abelard! How could I resist his touch, his eyes of beseeching blue, his dimpled smile with its promise of bliss? Never once in our two years together did I say no to him, or, rather, although I begged him more than once to desist, I could not deny him anything he wanted from me. He pleasured me in that sacred hall until I quaked the building, not daring to loose the screams that had gathered like thunderclouds in my chest but lifting my voice, instead, in hushed, exultant song.

“Do you fare well?” he asked when, in the aftermath, I lay still as death beneath him, save for my heart's fist banging on my chest.

“My body fares well, yes. More than well. But my spirit feels torn and bruised.” He raised himself to gaze into my eyes, but I averted them—half fearing, I think, that I would see a yellow mane covering his smooth neck, and his fingers bent into claws.

“Why be so worried, my only joy? No one has seen us except God, in whose eyes we are one.” He arranged his clothing and I did the same, but with a burning face and shaking hands. We had defiled the sanctuary, just as Atalanta and Hippomenes had the temple of the Mother of the Gods. As punishment, Cybele had turned them into lions—creatures that could not mate with each other, so the Greeks had thought. What penalty would our Mother of God exact from Abelard and me?

While I should be groaning over the sins I have committed, I can only sigh for what I have lost. . . .

—HELOISE TO ABELARD

I
didn't have to worry for long about the penalty for defiling the Virgin's refectory. Mere days after our transgression, vengeance came in the tug of Sister Adela's hand on my sleeve. Someone awaited me in the guesthouse, she signaled. Adela's eyes glinted, as they had since Abelard's last visit—making me wonder if she had seen us enter the refectory together.

With a fluttering pulse and thoughts of our son I hastened across the courtyard, through the gardens, heedless of stares and the clapping of someone's hands meant to slow me down. I may have been the first person ever to run through those quiet halls and across those serene and sacred grounds. I pressed my hand to my chest, trying to quell my galloping pulse. Why had Abelard come again so soon? I could think of nothing except Astralabe.
Let him be safe, O Virgin, I pray.
But I thought my heart might stop altogether when I pushed open the guesthouse door and found Jean inside, his tall frame hunched over his hat, which he twisted in both hands, his eyes red and wild, his mouth a rictus of grief.

“A terrible accident,” he said. My heart seemed, for a moment, to stop. Abelard! Had my uncle read my letter and avenged
himself as he had so often threatened to do? But it was my uncle who lay in his bed, gravely injured, calling for me. I must depart for Paris without delay.

I turned to Sister Adela, who stood behind me with narrowed eyes, and asked her to inform the Reverend Mother Beatrice that I had gone, and why. As she protested that I could not simply leave the convent without settling my accounts, I turned and ran to the dormitory for my mantle and then out the abbey door to mount Jean's horse with him. I had taken no vow and did not wear the veil, and paid no heed, now, to the convent's rules or Adela's opinion of me.

I closed my eyes against the cold wind, clinging to Jean's waist as our horse sped down the wide road to Paris. Every bad thing I had done to my uncle replayed itself in my mind: my many deceptions with Abelard; the dislike I had tried, without success, to hide from him; the bitter words I had spoken; and, worse, the lies I had told against him to Roger, knowing they would be spread. Yet in spite of all, he called for me now. Perhaps he loved me, after all.