Stealing Heaven (15 page)

Jourdain clapped quickly. "Eya!"

"Sweet it is to play."
The room filled with his voice and the rousing, vigorous rhythms. Heloise listened in awe, transfixed by the richness of his voice. She had never heard a professional troubadour, but she could not imagine any finer than Peter Abelard.

"Let age to books and learning."
His laughter rang silvery in the air.
"While youth keeps holiday. Hail Venusl Hail pleasurel Eya!"

"Bravo! Encore!"

"Admirable!" boomed Fulbert. "By St. Denis, I well remember that drinking song."

"Naturally," Abelard replied, taking a mouthful of Burgundy. "We are of an age, my lord canon."

"Good God, don't remind me." He laughed shortly.

Heloise got up to refill Abelard's cup. When she returned and placed it at his side, she sat cross-legged on a cushion near his feet. Her eyes fixed on emptiness; wine and fatigue plunged her into a delicious stupor. Now he was singing of a shepherdess tending her flock and the lord who tries to woo her. She tried to place it. Cercamon, William the Troubadour? She gave up, unsure. The guttering candles cast vaulted shadows on the walls, and over by the window, his head propped against the arras, Fulbert drowsed, his face half hidden in darkness.

Abelard rested the lute on his knees. He looked down at Heloise. "Enough?"

 
"No."

"I notice your uncle has fallen asleep. Surely it is time to be abed."
 

"Never," said Jourdain sleepily.

"It's clear that you have not yet reached twenty. When you're my age, you'll be more sensible." He slid to the floor and stretched out next to Heloise. Drinking, he then handed his cup to her. "Drink, my lady."

She glanced over at Jourdain before laughing dreamily. “Would you make me drunk?" Nervously, she twisted the ends of her girdle, and for a moment she imagined that she heard him whisper distinctly, "I would, lady." But when she looked at him, he was only humming softly. She put her mouth to the cup where it had touched his lips.

After a few minutes, he said to her, "You owe me something."

"Do I? What?"

"Why, a Christmas kiss." He bobbed his head at Jourdain. "Am I not right, lad? Doesn't Lady Heloise owe me a kiss?"

She felt herself coloring and glanced at Jourdain. The boy's head hung low. When he looked up, his eyes were flashing wildly. "Yes," he mumbled grudgingly, "she owes you."

Heloise saw Jourdain turn his head away. Suddenly she felt panicked. "My lord, no. It wouldn't—my uncle—"

He laughed. "Uncle is snoring." He sat up and patted her consolingly on the arm. "Don't look so scared. I'll not force you."

Jourdain leaped to his feet. "It's late, I'd best be going.
Joyeux Noel!"
Before Heloise could stop him, he had gone. The street door crashed noisily.

Abelard rolled languorously on his back and crossed his hands under his head. He stared at the ceiling. "I'm growing old," he sighed.
 

"You're not old, my lord."
 

"Old enough to be your father."

 
"Oh well—"

Abelard grinned. "Old. Would you like to know something? When I was a youth, younger than you, I wanted to be a philosopher. Oh, not merely any philosopher." He laughed sardonically. "No. The
only
philosopher in the world. The best."

"You are."

"Will you believe me if I tell you that it's not enough?"

Heloise could think of nothing to say. She simply did not understand how a man could feel bored being Aristotle or Socrates—or Abelard. Finally she said, "My lord, you could be anything you wished. Archbishop or pope. Anything."

Amusement flickered around his lips.
"Is
that what you would have me be? Pope?"

She was conscious of him staring at her. "No. I like you exactly as you are."

"You like me, lady?" he asked, his voice so low she almost didn't catch the words.
 

"Yes."

He studied her face. "But not well enough for a Christmas kiss."

Dumbfounded, she wrenched her head away in embarrassment. "My lord," she stammered, "I didn't say that! Please, I didn't mean to be unkind. It was just that—"

He traced his fingers lazily across the toe of her slipper. "Just what?"

Glancing furtively at Fulbert, she fell silent for a long while, and then, impetuously, she whispered, "Very well. If you like." She jerked her face toward him, mentally preparing herself, and waited. When she glanced at him, she saw that he was looking up at her, scratching his nose, not moving. God's splendor, what was he waiting for!

His eyes met hers. "Well?"

"Why do you wait?" she asked hotly.

"Why. sweet lady, for you to kiss me. Naturally."

What! The man was impossible. She threw back her head and flared indignantly, "See here, Master Peter, you are most discourteous. You must delight in mocking me."

Instantly his arms slid around her waist and yanked her down hard across his chest until her mouth trembled a few inches above his. "Now, sweet lady," he breathed softly. "Now."

She grazed her mouth against him for a moment before twisting away, limp. His palms tightened against the back of her neck and squeezed her forward again. His mouth parted and she felt his tongue stab into her. A tremor streaked through her body. Gasping, she wrenched away and sat up awkwardly, shooting a glance in Fulbert's direction. He had not moved.

She was conscious of Abelard deliberately not looking at her. He stood and stretched, then, as if nothing had happened, reached down for the lute. "Jourdain ran off without this," he said indifferently. "See that you return it tomorrow."

 

The next morning she was tempted to imagine that she had dreamed it, that the fantastic episode was the product of too much wine.

But it was no good pretending. She remembered everything: her breasts against his chest, the taste of his tongue, the stubbled texture of his chin. And later, jogging the stairs to her room, the wetness between her thighs, which had filled her with shame.

In the days that followed, she was careful to study Abelard's manner, his every inflection and glance. To her relief—and disappointment as well, she had to admit—nothing had changed. At the daily lessons, he expounded on Aristotle and Cicero, and only sometimes, absentmindedly, his hand would graze her shoulder or he would kiss her hand when she bade him good night.

Little by little, she concluded that she had been a silly girl, making something out of absolutely nothing. Yet on New Year's, when the traditional first-gifts were exchanged, Abelard presented her with an ornate mirror of polished steel.

She had never owned a looking glass—they were evil, she had always been told. Stammering a thank you, she turned it over in her hands, careful not to look at her face, and then she blurted ungraciously, "I don't think I want this."

"Take it," he said, expressionless. "Now you can see yourself as I do."

 

Abelard pushed Aristotle's
Categories
to the side of the table; with a yawn, he leaned back heavily in the armchair and stretched his legs. "So much for the nature of genus and species." Heloise stood up and made a fitful circle of the room. She stamped to the window and opened the shutters, inhaling deeply. It was still early, the sky a metallic blue. Below, near the Port Saint-Landry, two priests were talking.

"How in heaven's name did you manage to sit still through all those offices at Argenteuil?" he asked.

"Discipline." The river wind was moving in dampness, and she locked the shutters tightly. "Fear of Sister Madelaine's switch."

Behind her, he said, "Anyhow, I can't picture you as a nun."

Her head snapped around. "Indeed! Why not?" Bristling, she came back to the table and ducked her head, looking for her slippers. "I could have been a fine nun. Have you seen my shoes?"

"I don't think you were wearing any." He went on smoothly. "I'm not disputing your efficiency. No doubt you would have made an excellent nun, an abbess most likely. But whether you would have been content is something else."

She raised her head and grinned at him.

"My lady mother is a nun," he said offhandedly.

"I know."

He sounded bemused. "God takes special pleasure in the virtues and achievements of women—in spite of their being the weaker sex."

Sometimes he astonished her. How did he know what God took pleasure in? "Fancy that," she replied, a bit tartly.

With a reproving shake of his head, he said, "Read the great doctors of the Church, read Origen. Or Ambrose or Jerome. All of them showed special concern for women."

"I suppose." She nodded, smiling politely.

Pushing back his chair, he rose and came around to her side of the table. "Didn't God pay the highest honor to women in the person of Mary?" He pulled up a stool and sank down, his knee brushing her thigh.

The warm scent of his body rushed at her. Flustered, she said quickly, "That's right. And Elizabeth, the mother of John the Baptist ... she prophesied the divinity of Christ." She glanced at him sideways. He was so close that she could smell his soap.

"Ummm," he murmured, folding and unfolding his fingers for no apparent reason. "I dreamed about you last night."

Startled, she jerked her shoulders around facing him. "My lord?" Jesu, he had dreamed of her! She was itching to know what he could possibly have dreamed, but he was going on, as if he had not spoken about it at all.

"And you recall," he said, "what St. Augustine wrote about the sibyls in
The City of God.
In pagan times, it was women who possessed the gift of prophecy."

Careful to sieve the impatience from her voice, she said hesitantly, "My lord, you were saying before that you dreamed of me. May I ask, what was the dream?"

He turned away from her. After a long silence, he stammered, "It was—nothing of importance."

She stared at his profile. Unthinking, she teased, "Come now, my lord. Why did you bother to mention it then?"

"A slip of the tongue." He fell silent again. After a moment, he said with an air of reluctant precision, "That we were—lying together."

The meaning of his words came slowly. She stiffened and leaped to her feet, heart thumping unnaturally.

“I'm sorry."

"No—"

"I've frightened you."

"No." Nevertheless, she moved away from him. "No. How could you frighten me?"

He got to his feet. They stood warily, facing each other, separated by only a foot or two of tile floor. For a long time neither of them moved or spoke. Then Abelard reached out and touched her cheek with a timidity that she had never before seen in him. She stared at him. He dropped his hand to his side. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"No—" Impulsively, she caught his hand and locked it into her own. She could feel him trembling, and only then did she realize that he was frightened. Some of her reserve melted, and when he pulled her against him, she made no attempt to resist. Closing her eyes, she felt his hands skim over her hair, her neck, her ears, in a slow, cautious caress. Suddenly she felt absurdly small and helpless.

"Lady, lady—" In a torrent his words rushed out. "My ladylove," he said, and she shivered. Hungrily he kissed her lips, and then her tongue and the soft, moist places inside her mouth. For a long time they stood pressed together. Once, far away, she was conscious of the flames wailing in the brazier.

She felt him lifting her, going toward the bed, and her body went rigid in his arms. He laid her against the fur coverlet and flung himself full length next to her. His hand covered her breast. "Don't," she murmured, rolling away.

"I won't hurt you, sweet," he said. "Just let me—“ He pulled her hack against him and lay still.

"Kiss me," she whispered. "I like that."

His mouth found hers and stayed there until she pushed him away, breathless and full of sudden anxiety.

"What's wrong?" he said, moving his lips down her throat.

"It's a fearful sin." She saw that he wasn't listening and stopped.

Fumbling at the shoulder of her bliaut, he tugged until she heard the fabric ripping. His hand cupped her breast, and then he was flicking his tongue lightly around her nipple, tracing an unending circle.

"Ah God, don't. It's a—"

"Do you like that?"

Without answering, she pushed the side of her face into the pillow. "My honey love, my sweet Heloise. It's not my intention to sin."

"I know."

"Lift your head," he murmured shakily. "If we intend no sin, it can't be one. That is my belief."

Oh yes, she thought, that is the core of your philosophy. But does philosophy apply now? She turned her back on him. "I think you may be right. But I also think we're sinning." Her voice trailed away.

"Look at me. Lady, I want to be inside you."

She nosed deeper into the pillow, refusing to glance at him.

"Heloise, I said—"

Muffled: "I heard you."

Even before he had spoken, she knew what he was going to say, and she knew, too, that she was going to do it. She could no more leave this bed without loving him than she could have killed herself. She rolled on her back and stared at the ceiling. When she did not reply or look at him, he seemed to take it for assent. Clumsily, he struggled with her bliaut, first trying to hoist the skirt over her hips, then pulling at the shoulders. She watched him through half-closed eyes, as though his awkward maneuvers were being performed on someone else. At last, he gave up in frustration and merely kissed her stomach through the bunched layers of fabric.

“I'll be cold," she said matter-of-factly.

"You won't be cold. I promise."

After a while, she sat up and stretched the gown over her head. It dropped to the floor, and the undertunic followed. Then she lay down again and stared at him coolly. She saw that he was not looking at her; his eyes were half shut.

Greedily, he crouched over her, moving his mouth across her nipples, down over the milky flesh of her stomach. With the tip of his tongue, he started to stroke the inside of her thighs. Her breath slowed to quivering gasps, and she said, in a small voice, "My legs are melting." She felt the bed spinning away from her and she grew terrified at her loss of control. Suddenly she became aware of her nakedness, of the unknown man bending over her, and she choked with shame.