The Sharp Hook of Love (4 page)

“He staggered into his room and did not return.”

My eyes flew open. “ ‘Your uncle sleeps' is not a statement of truth, then, since sleeping is only a possible consequence of his entering his room.” I took pleasure in Abelard's frown. “Although you stated it as a fact, ‘he sleeps' is your opinion.”

“I asked his servant to look in on him, and he reported that Fulbert was sleeping.”

“Had my uncle instructed him to do so, Jean would have said, ‘He sleeps.' Or he might have been dead, and Jean mistaken.”

Abelard combed the fingers of one hand through his curls. “My God, how your mind leaps.” His nostrils flared. “Like a caged animal.”

I retreated into my room, and Abelard followed. “Caged? How so? I move about at will.”

“But not for long,
non
? What else is an abbey if not a cage?”

“In the abbey, my mind will be free.”

“Perhaps, then, you should liberate your body.” He stepped toward me. “While yet you can.”

“Is this why you have come, then? To discuss my body?” I crossed my arms over my chest and gave him a defiant look.

“I came for your answer. Do you desire me for your teacher, or not?”

“I do.” I dropped my gaze to his feet, but resisted the urge to prostrate myself and beg him to accept me. He had already borne witness to my humiliation. “But why would you accept me, after seeing my uncle's ugly temper?”

“Forgive me, Heloise.” I lifted my eyes in surprise; now, his was the head that hung in shame. “I should have defended you from Fulbert.”

I shook my head. “Had you done so, he would have abused me more harshly once you had gone.”

“But now? Do you fare well?”

“Of course. I have my book.” I gestured toward the Ovid, which lay on my bed.

He stepped over to my bed and lifted the volume. “Ah, the
Ars amatoria
. ‘The Art of Love.' Is love an art, or artifice?”

“I have only begun to read it.”

“Would you learn about love from a book, Heloise?” His tone,
gentle but chiding, made me want to seize the volume from his hands.

He lowered his eyelids as if sheltering a secret. Warmth flooded my skin. I should order him out of my room. But why should he respect me? My mother dead, my father unknown, I was as worthless as a foundling in Uncle's eyes—and now, perhaps, in the eyes of the
magister
, as well. I struggled to find the words to restore his high opinion. Otherwise, he would never deign to teach me anything.

“The Scriptures teach us all we need to know of love.” I tossed my head, hoping I appeared more confident than I felt, and would have looked him directly in the eyes had they not followed the fall of my hair across my arms.

“ ‘How beautiful you are, my darling! Oh, how beautiful! Your eyes are doves,' ” he murmured. I knew well his allusion, having read the Song of Songs many times. What would it be like to have a man whisper such words to me? I used to wonder. Suddenly thirsty, I took from my windowsill the gourd I used to collect rainwater and drank deeply from it.

“ ‘Love is patient; love is kind,' ” I said when I had finished—returning Scripture for Scripture. “ ‘It does not envy; it does not boast; it is not proud. It does not dishonor others. It is not self-seeking; it is not easily angered; it keeps no record of wrongs.' ”

He lowered his eyelids as I spoke, hiding his reaction. When I had finished, he peered out at me from beneath curling lashes. I heard, again, the song he had sung to me—could it be that very day? So much had changed since then. I pressed my hand to the wall behind me, steadying myself.

“There are several different kinds of love, Heloise,” he said with a sly smile.

“Non, magister
, you are wrong. There is only one.”

May the bestower of every art and the most bountiful giver of human talent fill the depths of my breast with the skill of the art of philosophy, in order that I might greet you in writing, most beloved, in accord with my will.

—HELOISE TO ABELARD

M
y uncle's horse nuzzled my shoulder and I clapped the tablet shut, as if the creature might read the words written upon it. As I stood on the mounting stone, Uncle's shrewd stare made me want to hide the tablet behind my back, but I did not. I had nothing to hide, or so I told myself.

“Another letter from Petrus?” he said as I climbed onto the mare he had brought with him. “By God, I wonder if he gives so much attention to all his scholars? If I didn't know the man to be continent, I might suspect him of seducing you, heh-heh.”

I felt glad that he could not see the flush of heat that spread across my face.

To one who is sweeter from day to day, is loved now as much as possible and is always to be loved more than anything,
he had written.

“Except for love, why else would a man write so many letters to a woman—why?” Uncle said.

We joined the tide of horses with their riders swelling toward the Saint-Etienne Cathedral for the great event—the long-anticipated
sermon by the renowned orator Bernard of Clairvaux. Even the misting rain that caused my teeth to chatter and stiffened my hands did nothing, it seemed, to deter the Parisians from going to hear the man who had denounced them, and their way of life, as degraded. Uncle and I moved so slowly that I wished I had walked—but I would not want to stain my tunic with mud, not when I had hopes of seeing Abelard.

“He writes to you daily,
non
? Yesterday, I saw his messenger thrice at our door. That sort of devotion usually means one thing.”

I forced a laugh. “Why, Master Petrus is devoted to philosophy, and the teaching of it. You ought to appreciate his efforts on my behalf.”

“
Oui
, I ought, given the fortune I pay him—a fortune!” A dog darted in front of us, startling our horse. Uncle's arms, on either side of me, tightened. “Adelard of Bath commanded an equally high fee, but he didn't show such a personal interest. It makes me wonder what sort of lessons our Petrus intends for you.”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“Has he spoken of love to you? Has he touched you?”

I laughed again. “Master Petrus, in love with me? What philosopher ever squandered his time on women?”

“I have seen the way the girls crowd around him, young beauties, and wealthy widows, too, straining to touch the hem of his garment as if he were the Christ—the Christ! No man could resist such temptation.”

“In his eyes, I am but a scholar, one of many under his care.”

“I hope so, for his sake—and for yours. Be vigilant, my girl! Guard your purity. Your future as an abbess depends upon it, as does my career.”

“I am well aware of that, dear uncle.” I kept my tone light, reminding myself that, when he was sober, I had nothing to fear from him.

“If he ever speaks of love or touches you in—in
that
way, I want to know. Do you understand?”

Before I could answer, my uncle's assistant, Roger, called his name and came toward us, waving his arms. “One of the deacons has fallen ill and cannot walk in the procession,” he said, beaming. “The bishop of Paris wants you to take his place. Make haste, Canon Fulbert!”

As I followed my uncle into the Saint-Etienne Cathedral, I searched for Abelard in vain. Only by some miracle would I find him amid all these people. The entire city, it seemed, waited to hear the renowned monk, filling four of the great chapel's five naves and pressing against the marble columns: monks, clergy, and canons on either side of the center aisle; nobles along the far right side, their brilliant yellows, greens, and peacock blues competing with the colorful mosaics adorning the walls; merchants and townspeople on the far left; villeins and servants in the back, stretching their necks for a view of the proceedings. My uncle secured a place for me at the foot of the altar, with the nobles, then hastened to don his ceremonial robes and join the processional. As soon as he left, I slipped the wax tablet from the pouch on my belt and resumed reading Abelard's letter.

An unclouded night: would that it were with me!

The
magister
had suggested letter writing as our first exercise, to my surprise, for I had expected to learn the art of dialectic—of debate and discussion—for which he was famous.

“I have never lost a debate,” he had said in our first lesson, his voice swaggering. “I humiliated William of Champeaux. I ground Anselm of Laon into the dust with the heel of my logic. I made Roscelin weep. The greatest teachers in the realm could not compete with me.” He thumped his chest. “I may be the only true philosopher in the world.”

“You have not debated me.”

He laughed. “Debate a woman? That would be as unchivalrous as attacking you with my sword.”

“Not so, master. You would best me with a sword.” He laughed his lion's roar, delighted with my
riposte
.

Yet, after several weeks of lessons, I had learned little of philosophy or dialectic. Instead, we wrote letters—an art at which I must excel, Abelard said, to succeed as an abbess.

“Let us write as though we were lovers,” he had said, slanting his eyes at me. “Then I shall discern how much you are learning from Ovid.”

But all the books in the world could not begin to teach what I was already learning from this man.

To her heart's love, more sweetly scented than any spice,
I wrote to him,
from she who is his in heart and body: the freshness of eternal happiness as the flowers fade of your youth.

“Here,” he said, tapping with his stylus the tablet on which I had written my first letter, “you have wished me ‘the freshness of eternal happiness as the flowers fade of your youth.' ” He smiled but his eyes held a dazed expression, as if staring into a too-bright sun.

“Do you approve of the greeting?” I thought it quite elegant and waited for his praise.

“As the flowers fade of my youth?” His smile slipped nearly off his face. “In your eyes, I am an old man.”

I blinked, uncomprehending. What philosopher had ever concerned himself with such things? Who had heeded the wisdom of Socrates before that great thinker grew his beard? Christ himself had not taught until he was nearly Abelard's age.

“I had thought that, for a philosopher, youth would be a burden,” I said.

“Not if youth is preferred by the woman he admires.”

A song began to play inside me. I closed my eyes, which always revealed too much. My uncle had flown into rages
because of my eyes. “
Chienne!
I know what you are thinking,” he would snarl, lifting his hand against me. At Argenteuil, the abbess had read my sullen thoughts and wielded the cane herself, panting, her hand trembling as she'd lifted my skirt to deliver the blows.

“Heloise,” Abelard had said. “Look at me.”

When I lifted my gaze so shyly to his face, did he behold the girl dancing inside me? Could he hear the music playing so sweetly? At night, alone in the study of my uncle's house, reading the Porphyry assigned to me and writing my arguments, I would hear that tune begin quietly, as if played by a distant piper, then increase until it had filled me to overflowing and drowned out all thoughts but those of Abelard. How intently he gazed into my eyes as I spoke, pouring out my very soul to him in our long talks. Who had ever listened to anything that I said? Who had ever responded with smiles and compliments? With him, I became utterly myself as never before—and, to my astonishment, when I looked into his eyes like mirrors reflecting myself back to me, I admired the person I beheld there. Thinking of him, bathed in that sweet music, I would take up a new tablet and write verses to accompany that tune—words not of feigned love, as in our letters, but of the elation that had seized me on the day we met, and which aroused my spirit more with every moment I spent in his presence.

For him, I'd told myself, our letters made up an elaborate game of elocution, and no more. Every teacher played similarly with his scholars, writing letters as an exercise, an amusement. Love? What had a philosopher to do with love?

To one who is sweeter from day to day, is loved now as much as possible and is always to be loved more than anything.
Standing in the cathedral, reading these words, I felt a fullness in my chest, as though my heart expanded. Who had ever loved me?

In the next instant, I berated myself. Abelard had written as a master to his scholar, from the mind and not from the heart.

Now I feared I would miss my chance to speak with him today at Bernard's sermon. Perhaps he stood in the processional outside the cathedral doors. I slipped the tablet into my pouch and turned my head to see—and heard his deep, rich laughter, already so dear. My pulse skipped a beat. There he stood, not far from me, also in the nobles' section, with a woman whose braids, shining from under a cloth of shimmering gold, rivaled the red in Abelard's tunic. Her slanting eyes gazed boldly into Abelard's; her pretty mouth curved upward as she told a tale that he seemed to find exceedingly amusing. I turned my attention to the choir. He could laugh with whomever he wished.