The Sharp Hook of Love (9 page)

The sermon finished, a crowd of women swarmed about the great preacher.

Seeing that we could not get near him, my uncle led me, instead, to greet Etienne of Garlande, his new target in the quest for a deacon's post. Etienne took my hands in his and kissed my cheeks, and Agnes embraced me as though we were sisters. Engulfed by the scent of roses, I turned away from her.

“During all the time that man spoke, he never took his eyes off me,” Agnes's father was saying with a nervous laugh. “One might think that it was I whom he called ‘hypocrite.' But of course, he and I are not acquainted.”

“He is known to be an excellent judge of character,” Agnes teased, making me smile. Then, as the men discussed the sermon,
she took my arm and pulled me close. “You and I must talk. My parents and I leave for Anjou tomorrow. May I come to you when we return?”

As I sought a polite way to say no—surely she wished to discuss Abelard, while I desired nothing less with her—my uncle tugged at one of my braids. “What are you girls plotting? Going to run away and join the famous nun-catcher? Nun-catcher! Heh-heh. Come, Heloise, let us introduce ourselves to Robert before the ladies devour him.”

“Soon,” Agnes said before Uncle led me away toward the altar clotted with women who strove to touch Robert as though he could cure them of their sex. His gaze captured mine and pulled me across the room to him.
Hersende,
he mouthed. Blushing at the intensity of his stare, I pulled my veil close and lowered my eyes.

When we had reached him, he kissed my hand. Power flowed through my fingers and into my arm, quickening my blood.

“Forgive me for my boldness,” he said. “You remind me of someone I used to know. More than that—you are her very likeness.”

“This is Heloise, the brightest star in Paris, and I am her uncle Fulbert, subdeacon in the Nôtre-Dame-of-Paris cloister.”

Robert barely acknowledged him. “Perhaps you know of her,” he said to me. “Her name was Hersende. She was the widow of the Lord of Montsoreau.”

“I did know her,” is all I said. I glanced at my uncle, not certain how much he wanted me to tell.

“Hersende was my sister—my sister!” my uncle said.

Robert turned to me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His tanned skin stretched across high cheekbones as he smiled, revealing a chipped front tooth that only enhanced his handsome appearance. “You are related to Hersende, as well?”

“As Christ was to Mary,” my uncle said.

“She was your mother?” Robert's lips parted. He stared at me. “How can that be? Hersende had only a son.”

“And a daughter, too.” My uncle cleared his throat. “As you can clearly see.”

“Yes, the likeness is remarkable. I had not known of a daughter.”

I began to perspire. At any moment he would ask about my father, and my uncle's hopes would shatter. Robert's scandalous acts had not harmed
him
—but he was a man. Would he appoint as his abbess a woman born in sin, without even a father's name to call her own?

“Behold your face. My God! You are her very likeness.” Robert's hand faltered as he lifted it toward my cheek. I pulled my veil more tightly about my face, self-conscious, but in hiding my dark hair I must have increased my similarity to my mother.

“Hersende sent her to the Argenteuil convent for her schooling, the best in Paris for girls—the best,” my uncle said. “She is proficient in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, astronomy, music, literature, all of it—the trivium and quadrivium. She's had an education fit for a queen—a queen! Or for an abbess, as my sister desired.” He pulled out my mother's letter and handed it to Robert, who read it slowly, his eyes filling with tears.

“Your mother was the finest of women,” he said to me.

“I barely knew her,” I said, hoping he would tell me something of her. “I have only a few memories, but all of them are golden.”

“Yes, that is how I remember her. As warm and golden as the sun. And her voice—ah! She sang like the angels. Do you sing, Heloise?”

“Her voice puts the angels to shame—to shame,” Fulbert said. “Even the birds stop their song to hear my niece. She is her mother's daughter to the very core.”

“And now you would follow in her path.”

That phrase again. “Mother wished me to take my vows at Fontevraud, yes, and to be of service to you. It is my uncle's desire, also.”

“My sister hoped that Heloise might become your abbess someday, or grand prioress,” Fulbert said.

Robert drew his brows together. “I have not replaced Hersende, for to do so seems impossible. Petronille of Chemillé hopes to be chosen, and indeed I should have appointed her by now. Together, she and Hersende built Fontevraud.”

“My sister always enjoyed being in command.” My uncle, who often said this with bitterness, smiled as though he had lived to obey her.

“God gave her a talent for it, as well as beauty, grace, intelligence, and virtue. If I have not replaced her, it is because there is no replacement. No one on Earth compares to Hersende. Until now.” The years fell away with his smile, transforming him. His eyes flashed. “We return to Fontevraud tomorrow. Come with us.”

I caught my breath. Abelard had feared the preacher might take me with him, and I had dismissed his concern. My mother had left me behind; no one had wanted me since. Now I found myself torn between two men. My heart began to race—toward Abelard.

“Did you hear that, my dear girl?” my uncle said. “He wants you now. You can go, and I shall send your things along—”

“
Non
,” I blurted.

Uncle scowled. “You don't—”

“I cannot, Uncle. Please! Not now. Not yet.”

“If the abbot desires you to join him now, then now you shall go. No arguments. It is your time—your time!”

I would never see Abelard again. My only chance at love, gone. And although Robert of Arbrissel would surely tell me
much about Mother, I still needed to know about my father—about myself, who I was, from where I came. I would never find the truth from within the walls of an abbey.

“
Non!
I cannot go with you now. I—I am sorry.”

Uncle Fulbert's face colored and he eyed me with suspicion.
Abelard
. The name perched on my tongue but I knew better than to utter it.

“Must I leave you so soon, Uncle? I beg to remain in Paris a little while longer. I have only lived in my uncle's home for a short time,” I said to Robert. “He is my only family, now that my mother is gone.” Robert's gaze turned inward; he was remembering Mother, while I had forgotten even the sound of her voice.

“Uncle Fulbert and I have become very close, haven't we, Uncle?”

My uncle grunted. He licked his lips, thirsting, I knew, for his evening flagon.

“Please, Uncle, allow me a few more months with you. Can't I stay until—until next spring? That would give me time to finish my studies in dialectic.”

“Dialectic is a fine course of study for an abbess,” Robert said.

“And with none other than Petrus Abaelardus as her teacher,” Uncle said.

I dropped my gaze, hiding my thrill at the very sound of his name.

“Pierre Abelard, the headmaster? That is most impressive.”

“She is his finest scholar—his finest,” my uncle said.

“By all means you must complete your schooling with him. Learn what you can of dialectic and debate, then bring your skills to me. I will introduce you to the richest, most parsimonious men in the realm, and you may convince them to fund the new oratory I want to build for the
meretrices
who have come to us.
But—when will you join us, Heloise?” Robert held my gaze, searching my soul, it seemed.

I leaned in to him, swaying as if blown by God's own breath. Yes, I wanted to go with this man, to bask in his light, which seemed to shine from within.
He can be very persuasive,
Abelard had said. I now understood what had drawn my mother to him so irresistibly, to this man who emanated love, who smelled of it, and the fragrance was that of every flower that had ever bloomed, including, yes, roses. I wanted to dive, headfirst, into that garden, to roll in those blossoms, to smother myself—and then, remembering how the silence at Argenteuil had smothered me with its unremitting hand, how the darkness and chill of the convent had stiffened my very bones, I shrank back from him, breaking the spell.

“I would like to remain in Paris for one more year,” I said, my voice tearing like flesh on a nail.

“A year? That is too long—too long! The abbot needs an abbess, didn't you hear? I will send her to you in one month!” Uncle said. I caught my breath; when Abelard returned, I would be gone.

Robert's eyes turned fierce; his long hair flew about his head in the shifting breeze. He gripped my hands too hard; his fingers felt coarse and rough. “Taking the veil is not your desire. It is not your calling.”

“Her mother willed it, by God—willed it!” my uncle said. “She has been training for it all her life.”

“And what is Heloise's will?”

I searched my mind for the answer that, of late, had obscured itself even from me. “I wish to please God,” I finally said.

“Good. Good.” Robert pulled me close for an embrace that left me dizzy, as if I had taken too many breaths too quickly. “Until the spring. Come next June.”

As we turned to leave, my uncle's faced flushed with pleasure as if he had quaffed from the flagon and it had filled itself again.

So my fate was decided. So would the remainder of my time with Abelard be parceled, one month at a time, a little more than one glorious year in which to dance and sing and perhaps to know true love. If Abelard loved me, the whole world and Paradise, too, would be mine, for a little while, at least. I wanted to dance in that moment, and I wanted to cry.
Hurry home, Abelard. Our time is short.

Your presence is my joy, your absence, my sorrow; in either case, I love you.

—HELOISE TO ABELARD

I
read Abelard's letter with a leaping joy. After two months away, he was returning to Paris at last. In the study of my uncle's home I took my own tablet from my pouch and composed a reply.

Glory of young men, companion of poets, how handsome you are in appearance yet more distinguished in feeling.
The words flowed naturally, without artifice, as love should flow. Were Abelard beside me now instead of this messenger with red ears, I would breathe my ardor into his mouth until he overflowed with it and returned it back to me.

He loved me. Of this I had little doubt, or no doubt at all except in Agnes's presence. She was so beautiful and self-assured—what man wouldn't love her?
Non
, it was
me
whom he loved, me whom he had kissed, me to whom he had sent so many messengers that Jean had asked
me
to answer the door. Had Abelard written passionate letters to Agnes, as well?

A pain stabbed my breast. No; he would not.
You are my sun, since you always illumine me with the most delightful brightness of your face and make me shine,
Abelard had written.
I have no light
that does not come from you, and without you I am dull, dark, weak, and dead.

When I did not reply to him as promptly as he desired—feelings of inadequacy having palsied my hand and robbed my mind of confidence—he complained.
Envious time looms over our love, and yet you delay as if we were at leisure.

Our love
. A sweet tremor shook me. His words dispelled my fear, unlocking my hand, and I wrote to him not from my imperfect mind, but from my open heart.

I read my letter over, not satisfied, but the messenger awaited and I would not send him to Abelard again with empty hands. When the youth had gone, I crushed the herbs in the window pot, relishing thyme's woodslike scent, inhaling lavender's perfume, and remembering Abelard's fragrance, which, God willing, I would enjoy soon.

He loved me, yes. I'd seen love in his eyes when he'd kissed me under the linden tree, felt it in his embrace at my uncle's door. His every letter pulsed with love, and so did I, down to the marrow in my bones. It warmed me even on these chilly days, as though his arms perpetually encircled me. For the first time since my childhood, I felt not at all alone.

From outside my window I heard my name. I opened the shutters to see Agnes of Garlande below in a green silk
bliaut
, her copper curls springing about her face in spite of the braids she had tried to impose upon them. I felt, again in my plain, dark tunic, like a weed in a garden of roses. I sighed. Now that she had seen me, I must receive her.

She shimmered into the great room, all color and light. Her eyes sparkled as we embraced.

“Pierre is returning to Paris. Did you know?” she said.