Read The Sharp Hook of Love Online
Authors: Sherry Jones
“Your beautiful astralabe. It is lost, because of me.” I covered my face with my hands. “Seneca warned against jealousy. Why didn't I heed him?”
“Jealousy?” He kissed my hands, pulling them away from my face. “As if you had anything to envy in anyoneâyou, the swan among clucking hens, the glittering gem in the common stones.”
“
Non
, not glittering, but dull with stupidity. And, now, deeply in your debt.”
“A debt easily repaid.” He kissed me again, more fervently than before, his breath in slow, deep pants warming my cheek while his hand caressed my waist. I longed to push him backward onto the bank, to spread myself over him like a blanket, to meld his body into mine.
But, alas, the moon shone full, exposing us to anyone who might pass, and the hour had grown late. We arose and made our way back to the place on the riverbank where we had begun, to retrieve Abelard's clothing. I sat upon a stone to wring out my hem as, whistling, he dried himself with his cloak. Let God be my witness: I averted my eyes. Yet the grace of his formâhis smooth body; the glisten of him, taut curve and sinew, like a Roman sculptureâappears in my mind even now, as though he were a blinding star at which I had stared unblinking.
“Have you seen enough?” he said with a grin. “Or shall I tarry a few moments more?” I looked down at the water, where a glint of light caught my eye. I reached forth my hand and extracted, from the mud, the astralabe.
“Behold!” I cried, lifting it up. “My debt is paid.” I offered it to Abelard, but he shook his head.
“There was never any debt, Heloise. That astralabe belongs to you.”
“
Non.
You must not reward my foolishness with such a gift.” Frowning, I held the instrument out to him.
He refused it with a laugh. “I bought it for your sake. I had it made for you.”
“For me?” I lifted an eyebrow. “For what purpose?”
“Do you mean to ask what I wanted in return? I have already received far more than I expected.” He winked.
My face burned. “Excuse me, please. I am not usually so . . . demonstrative. You saved my life.”
“Therefore, you kissed me with mere gratitude? I do not think so. I felt much more.” He lifted his eyebrows suggestively and laughed again. “But if that is how you express gratitude, then I will remind you daily how I rescued you from drowning in the Seine.”
“I cannot accept this gift. Fashioned by the king's astronomerâthis is too dear. You must keep it and bring it to our lessons for us to use together.”
“There will be no more lessons for a while.” We started up the bank together, toward my uncle's house. The breeze had stopped; the air was as still, now, as my wondering heart.
“No more lessons?” I longed, at that moment, to curl up on the sand, among the vineyards, and close my eyes. “I understand. After the way I have behaved tonight, I cannot blame you.”
“It cannot be helped.”
“You probably despise me, and with good reason.”
“Despise you?” Abelard shook his head. “The opposite is closer to the truth.”
“ââ
Anger is cruel and fury overwhelming, but who can stand before jealousy?'â”
The proverb sprang to my lips. “With my jealousy, I have driven you away.”
“Driven me away? Would that it were so, for then I might have the pleasure of changing my mind and remaining with you.”
Duty called Abelard to his parents' home in Brittany, he said. His father had become ill, and his condition worsened every day. Abelard must hasten to him, as well as sign the papers giving his brother the lands and title Abelard had forfeited so long ago in embracing the philosopher's life.
“It is a mere formality,” he said of relinquishing his birthright. “I chose knowledge and wisdom long ago over the life of a lordâthe lap of Minerva over the court of Mars, as I like to say.”
“Your father permitted you to choose?” The word coated my tongue like cream.
“My father served as a knight in the court of Anjou, where philosophy and song are revered as highly as God. He might have chosen the scholar's life for himself, had he not married my mother.” Abelard halted his steps and turned to me, his eyes bright. “Were you truly jealous of Agnes?”
Heat flooded my face. “Does that amuse you?”
“It delights me. It tells me that you care.”
My pulse throbbed sweetly. Questions filled Abelard's eyes once more, but I had no answersâonly questions of my own.
“I hate leaving you now, when our feelings are only beginning to blossom.” He reached out for my hand and held it as though it were a flower whose petals he feared crushing. “My greatest fear is that, when I return, you might be gone.”
“Gone? Butâwhere would I go?”
“To Fontevraud. Robert of Arbrissel will come to Paris in only a few weeks and might take you back with him.”
“
Non
. I want to complete my studies with you.”
“Your uncle may try to send you now. He told me so today. A widow named Petronille of Chemillé helped your mother build
Fontevraud, and she hopes Robert will appoint her as its abbess. If he does, it will ruin your uncle's plans.”
Non
, I wanted to say. Would Uncle Fulbert force me into the abbey again so soon, sacrificing my happiness on the altar of his ambition? Unlike Abelard, however, I would not be permitted to choose my fate.
I lowered my eyes. “I am dependent on my uncle and must do as he says.” How could I meet Abelard's searching gaze, equal to equal, when another ruled me as completely as though I were his slave?
“I must convince Fulbert to keep you with him for a while longer, then. I did promise to help him gain a promotion. Perhaps as his friend I might influence him.”
“He thinks you are friends now. He boasts of it even to the servants.”
“And to every canon in the cloister. You should have seen Bishop Galon's puzzled frown on the day after Bernard's sermon. Your uncle told everyone at the dinner with Bernard and the rest that he and I are âbrothers in intellect.'â”
“He thought to impress Bernard, I suppose.” I sighed. Didn't my uncle know how Bernard hated knowledge and learning? While Abelard insisted that questioning could only strengthen one's faith, the reformists demanded blind obedience to the Church. “He wants so badly to advance. Poor Uncle.”
Mirth filled Abelard's eyes, but neither of us laughed. At that time, at least, we respected my uncle.
At the door of Uncle Fulbert's house, Abelard tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, brushing my skin with his thumb and sending a shiver down my arms. He pulled the astralabe from his pouch and handed it to me in spite of my protests, telling me that he already possessed an astralabe and that he had bought this one especially for me.
Then he pointed upward to that bright and beautiful planet,
pink edged in gold on that night. “The loveliest body in the sky cannot compare to the one beside me now, but she will have to suffice. Venus is not difficult to find, except when clouds veil her.” Using the astralabe, he showed me how to find her in position to the moon, and then in position to the place where we stood.
“I shall gaze at her bright face every night before bedtime and think of you,” he said. “Will you do the same and think of me?”
“Shall I send you messages, too?” I teased. “Would you hear them over the singing of the spheres?”
“That music plays ever in my heart. It commenced on the day we first met and has not ceased.”
Abelard pressed his lips to mine as softly as a sigh, making me forget, again, myself and all I had vowed I would never become. I yielded and submitted until my lips had parted to admit his tongue, whose flavor dissolved me in delicious bliss until we heard the shutters open over our heads. We looked up to see Jean in my window, searching out over the cloister for me. Abelard pressed a finger to my lips and then, after handing me the astralabe, slipped into the shadows and away.
“I am here, Jean, studying the stars,” I called softly as I stood on the mounting stone with the astralabe in my hands.
“It is neither seemly nor safe for a maiden to be out alone at night. I beg you to come indoors, my lady.” In a moment I heard the creak of the inner door, then the latch of the outer one, and there stood Jean with a lantern. As I stepped inside, my fingers felt the inscription on the mater, and I turned the astralabe over to read it in the light.
To his Venus, from her Adonis
. The goddess of love and the god of beautyâand passionately in love. I smiled and might have burst into song but for Jean, who, watching me more closely than usual, narrowed his eyes. Then I remembered the rest of the lovers' tale, and my smile disappeared. As I passed him, I pressed my fingers and thumb against the engraved words, trying, in vain, to blot them out.
An equal to an equal, to a reddening rose under the spotless whiteness of lilies: whatever a lover gives to a lover . . . yet my breast blazes with the fervor of love.
âHELOISE TO ABELARD
R
obert of Arbrissel limped across the altar, his bare feet slapping the wood, his cane's tap punctuating each labored step. From behind me came a contemptuous snort. “Behold the mighty orator! He resembles a common beggar.”
“He is ill, have you heard?” another replied. “This may be his final sermon.”
“He is so thin and unkempt, how can anyone tell whether he is ill or well? His hair resembles a bird's nest, all tangled and dirty. And behold the scabs on his chin!”
“He shaves his beard without water, it is said.”
“That tunic hangs on him like a sack, and full of holes. He ought to be ashamed, defiling God's holy house with such filth.”
Having reached the front of the altar, the preacher lifted his cane and tossed it to the side, where it fell with a clatter onto the floor. His eyes, the same shade of gray as his wild hair, surveyed the crowded room: the canons in their white albs and rope cinctures; the priests in black; the tonsured monks in brown; the nuns,
gathered like birds in their discrete flocks; and, in the front of the congregation, the colorful nobles, lords, and ladies and their families from Orléans, from Tours, from Paris itself. On a dais behind the altar, across from the choir, sat King Louis, who, although slightly younger than Abelard, appeared older by virtue of his protruding belly and the gray in his curling hair.
“Robert is overwhelmed,” someone whispered. “He didn't expect the king to be here.”
“Nonsense,” came the reply. “Robert of Arbrissel has preached for the pope many times. He would not quaver before a king.”
Then Robert's searching gaze fell upon meâand stopped. His lips moved. His right hand reached blindly; an altar boy handed him the cane he had dropped. He took it without moving his eyes from my face.
“He has seen youâseen you, my girl! I told you,
non
? You are so like your mother than he will beg you to take her place.” Uncle, standing behind me, squeezed my shoulders, sharing an excitement I did not feelâuntil Robert spoke.
“Where are my people? I want my people,” he cried, tapping the cane loudly on the stone floor. His voice rolled like thunder over the chapel. “I came to bring the good news of Christ's love to the wretched, not to hypocritical clerics, wealthy monks, and men with soft hands and silk braies.”
Murmurs rustled through the room. “Why does he keep his eyes on me?” a woman said.
“
Non.
Not you, but me,” another said.
In fact, he spoke to me, his clear eyes holding me rapt as he lifted his fist into the air and shook it, as he raged against vanity, against greed, against simony, against injusticeâbut not, as Bernard had done, against the wickedness of women. I moved through the crowd in a trance, pressing to the front, desiring only to be near him, and wondering where I had seen him before.
“Vanity of vanities; all is vanity,” he was saying. “Whatever is under the sun is vanity and affliction of the spirit. Hypocrites, listen to me! The spirit of pride is bad, but the pretense of humility is worse.” He raked his eyes over the nobles swathed in finery.
“The preacher ought to remove the beam from his own eye,” the murmurer behind me said. “Dirty rags and bare legs are the worst sort of vanity if a man can afford better.”
“The spirit of envy is bad, but the pretense of love is worse.” Robert's voice rose.
I glanced at my uncle. His dark eyes peered shrewdly about the room; his fawning smile gave his mouth a greasy appearance. He would pretend to love the devil if doing so would gain him a promotion.
“The spirit of lust is bad”âRobert's voice broke, and he hung his headâ“but the pretense of chastity is worse.”
Silence fell over the room. I thought of Abelard, the headmaster, sworn to chastity yet touching my body with his eyes, his hands, his lips. My palms grew damp. Was this “the spirit of lust,” or something more?