The Sharp Hook of Love (42 page)

As I ordered a restorative soup for him and some greens from the garden, a servant entered the kitchen with a wax tablet in hand. “A letter has arrived from Master Abelard's brother in
Brittany. Shall I deliver it now or wait until His Grace and the monk have gone?”

I took it from him and went to the courtyard to sit and read what Dagobert had to say of our child, and when he might return to me. Two more weeks without him had passed, and the crack in my heart surely had widened.

Astralabe. My arms ached to hold him; I longed for the press of his soft cheek, the smell of his baby's skin. Had Dagobert and Denise told him that his mother was coming for him?
I will not be much longer, little one.

I broke the seal and opened the tablet to read the letter, which was disappointingly short.
Denise will marry soon, and her husband does not wish the boy to accompany her to his household. Are you coming for him, as you said? My wife is with child again and cannot care for him. If he remains with us when Denise has departed, we must declare the boy abandoned and send him to a monastery.

I pressed a hand to my thumping chest and willed my legs to be still, for they would have run up the stairs to Abelard before his visitors had gone. Coveting le Pallet for their own sons, Dagobert and his pinch-faced wife would stop at nothing to ensure their inheritance—including making an oblate of their own little nephew. Even Denise, who supposedly loved him, would forsake our boy. None, it seemed, had room in their lives or their hearts for Astralabe.

Yet, was I any different? I had abandoned him first of all, his own mother who had given him life and ought to give him a home. I closed my eyes, remembering how I had cried for my mother at Argenteuil. Thinking that I had not been good enough for her, I made myself obedient in hopes that she would return. I became a shining star of goodness, placating the Reverend Mother Basilia, submitting to my uncle's will, and, lately,
considering Abelard's happiness over my own. Now, however, my child needed me. In my never-ending desire to please others—and to protect Abelard—I had failed my son as my mother had failed me. I was her child through and through, as my uncle had said.

But I was also the child of Robert of Arbrissel. He had endured slander and speculation far worse than anything being said about Abelard and me, never straying from the path to which God had called him. He had sinned, yes, but had then atoned for that sin by building Fontevraud Abbey and placing my mother at its head—elevating her in the esteem of the world and, more important, in the eyes of God. Had he known about me, would he have helped me, as well? His sickbed plea, his stricken eyes, told me that he would have done so. Now it was time for me to find my father's strength within myself and demand that our son come home to Paris. Astralabe needed me.

The servant came to say that Suger and the bishop had gone. I headed upstairs with the tablet in my hand, taking deep breaths in attempt to calm my jumping pulse. The brevity of the interview told me that the men had, indeed, presented only a few questions. Now I had more than a few of my own to ask.

Abelard lay in the same position in which I had left him, in bed, facing the empty fireplace, his back turned to the room. What had the bishop said? I asked. He merely grunted, expecting me, no doubt, to press him for details. But I had more interest in speaking than in listening.

“A letter arrived from your brother this morning.”

Abelard remained quiet for a long moment before turning onto his back, pushing himself to sitting, and asking to see the letter. He frowned when I handed it to him, remarking on its broken seal.

“I wanted news of our son,” I said, feeling myself flush and berating myself for it. Wasn't I his wife? I had been within my rights.

He opened the tablet and read his brother's note, then snapped it shut and closed his eyes. The servant entered the room. Dagobert's messenger wished to know if he should wait for Abelard's reply.

“No reply.”

I cried out, stopping the man as he turned to depart. “You must write something to him, Abelard. He will send Astralabe to a monastery.”

“He would never do so.”

“But he says that Astralabe is a burden. Our son, Abelard!”

The servant lifted his brows in surprise. I sent him away for the time being, telling him to offer the messenger something to eat while he awaited our response.

“Dagobert says we must come for him now.”

Abelard closed his eyes. “But of course, we cannot do so.”

I snatched away the tablet. “You think only of what
you
want.” I called for a blade and stylus.

“What are you doing?”

“If you will not reply, then I shall.” Blade in hand, I began to scrape Dagobert's words from the wax. “I shall tell your brother to expect us within the month.”

“That is quite impossible.”

“Why?” I fumbled with the tablet; it slipped with a crash to the stone floor. With shaking hands I tried to put the pieces back together.

“Do you see? We are not meant to respond.”

“Do not be ridiculous,” I snapped. “Why can't we go and retrieve our son? If you cannot make the journey, then send me with a servant as you did before.”

“That will not be. I am sorry, Heloise, but Astralabe must remain with my brother and his wife. We have no choice.”

“What are you saying?” I let the tablet fall at my feet. “I want my son. I insist that you write to Dagobert now and tell him so.” I called for another tablet.

“Have you forgotten?” Abelard gestured with his hands over his lap. “I, too, am broken, Heloise. Nothing is as it was before.”

“Do you think our son cares about that? Do you think that I care?” I sat beside him and took his limp hand between both of mine, then pressed it to my breast. “Abelard, look at me. Please, dearest. Look at your Heloise.”

At last he lifted his gaze to meet mine fully, gracing me with the beauty of his blue eyes—eyes that, I noted, held neither their former tenderness nor the mocking humor I had both hated and loved. I saw no expression of any kind in their depths. Had Jean's knife severed Abelard's soul, as well?

The man came in with the tablet, which I took and thrust at Abelard. “Write to your brother,” I pleaded. “Tell him we are coming. Tell him that I am coming alone, and that he may give the child to me.”

Abelard shook his head.

“If you will not write to him, then I shall do so.” I took the stylus in hand.

“Give it to me.” Abelard snatched the tablet and stylus from me, then began to write, scratching into the wax, reciting his words as he did so. “ ‘Circumstances prevent my doing as you wish. We are unable to retrieve our son from your home, now or in the future.' ” I cried out, but he continued to write. “ ‘We pray that you will keep Astralabe in your care and give him the love he needs. He is, after all, your nephew.' ”

“What are you saying?” I tried to wrest the tablet from his
hands, but enough of his strength had returned so that he easily pushed me away. “
Non
, Abelard,” I begged.

“I tell you, I have no choice in the matter. The bishop of Paris has commanded me to enter the abbey at Saint-Denis.”

“So he has not banished you from teaching?”

“Not as a teacher, Heloise. As a monk.”

“My God,” I whispered. “Abelard, no.” How often had we derided the monks we saw in the cloister, laughing at their glumly pious faces, their bellies made fat from too much poverty? Abelard, one of them? I could not imagine it, or his living out his days in silence at Saint-Denis, shut off from the world. The cloistered life had been all but unbearable for me, but it would kill Abelard.

“As my wife,” he continued, “Heloise will naturally do as I command. I have arranged for her to become a bride of Christ.”

I laughed, thinking that he must surely be jesting. “Have you asked our Lord for his assent? Surely he knows that I am already married to you.”

“In only a few weeks, Heloise will be my wife no more. The bishop of Paris has agreed: she is to take the veil as a consecrated nun and will remain for the rest of her life at the Argenteuil Royal Abbey.”

The cry that sprang from my lips sounded far away. I would have snatched the tablet from Abelard, but clung to the bed, instead. Darkness spilled like ink across the room; Abelard's voice receded.
I am dying,
I thought as I fell, and thanked God.

Since my mind is turning with many concerns, it fails me,
pierced by the sharp hook of love. . . .

—HELOISE TO ABELARD

I
n Etienne's chapel, the very one where Abelard and I had wed, I prayed on my knees, oblivious of the time of day or anything else except the tomb in which my husband wished to bury me, and the fate of our son. How keenly did my breast yearn for Astralabe now, when I thought I might never hold him again.

Dear Lord, please. Take this bitter cup from me. Restore my son to me, Father, I beg you. Dear God, have mercy on my poor little babe. Do not punish him for my sins. He is innocent, as you know. Would you deprive him of his mother's love? Mother Mary, I know you would not. I beg you, return him to me.

Abelard! Have you ceased to love me altogether? You know I would rather die than go back to that cold place. Why didn't you fight for me? Dear God, have mercy. Do not let them send me back to Argenteuil.

What else could I do besides pray? I had no other recourse—a fact that made me want to laugh and also to cry. Had I thought to determine the course of my life? Even the wisdom and knowledge of the poets and philosophers through the ages could not assist
me. Why, reading them, had I never realized that men reserve power for themselves alone? The huntress Atalanta had not wanted to marry. Hippomenes, desiring her, drew her eye with golden apples and claimed her for his own. How happily she might have lived, solitary and free, had he left her to herself! Instead, he took her in the temple as Abelard had taken me in the Argenteuil refectory, incurring the wrath of the Mother of the Gods. Now he and I would be chained as they had been—to the Church, our love denied for each other and for our son.

At the thought, I felt an ache spread through my chest like blood from a wound. Love was all I had ever wanted.

“Heloise.” A hand on my shoulder interrupted my prayers: Agnes, standing over me like the angel of that mercy for which I had pleaded. “Papa and I came as soon as we heard. Oh, you poor dear.”

I stood to welcome her soft embrace, felt her arms twine around me. How long had it been since anyone had comforted me? Concerned for Abelard and his loss, the world, it seemed, had forgotten about me, a woman without tears and so, it was assumed, without a heart.

“My son,” I whispered. “He wants to take my son from me.”

“Pierre is altered, Heloise. You cannot believe anything he says, not now.”

“Can I believe the bishop, then?” I parted from her. “He confirms everything Abelard has told me. They have decided my fate. They tell me I must take the veil and forswear my son.”

“You
must
do nothing, my dear. No abbey would accept a woman against her will.”

My laugh was bitter. “If the bishop of Paris commands it, so will it be. Why did I ever believe him, Agnes? Abelard promised to return Astralabe to me, but his promises were false.”

“
Non
, he did not lie. I know Pierre, have you forgotten? He
would have brought Astralabe to Paris if he could. You should have seen his tears over the child! His own son, and he could do nothing for him. Your own anguish made him suffer even more, being its cause. He loved you so, Heloise.”

I noticed that she spoke in the past tense, as if Abelard were dead or had ceased to love me.

“As you know, Pierre is accustomed to taking whatever he desires. But in this case, the world—and his fears—prevented him from claiming the child.”

Suger, she said, had become increasingly powerful in the king's court. A brilliant architect, he had convinced King Louis to spend a fortune on a grand new cathedral at Saint-Denis. When the Garlande brothers opposed the expenditure, pointing to the needs of the growing city, Suger increased his attacks on them.

“He has turned King Louis against my father and Uncle Etienne for supporting King Philip's marriage to Queen Bertrade. Suger called the union an abomination, when everyone knows that she and King Philip loved each other deeply. Bertrade treated Louis kindly, but Suger says she tried to poison him so that her own son would become king.”

I exclaimed. Queen Bertrade, a murderess? I could not imagine it of the woman who, on her deathbed, had sent for me so that I might know my mother had loved me.

“What proof does Suger offer?” I asked.

“None at all, but King Louis believes him.” Agnes narrowed her eyes. “Amaury says Suger wanted to put Bertrade on trial. An abbess, on trial! Only her death prevented that humiliation.”