Stealing Heaven (27 page)

Watching him eat, she thought of Fulbert's sly references to Abelard in recent days. He would be talking about something, a quarrel in chapter meeting, a new edict of the king's—it could be anything—and then he would say with a half grin, "Now if only my famous son-in-law were there," or "I wonder what my esteemed kinsman would have to say about that." It angered her beyond measure, but there was no complaint she could make to him. Abelard was Fulbert's kinsman now, that much could not be denied despite the secret marriage. Abelard finished the milk and handed the bowl to her. She placed it on the floor next to the bed.

"Have some bread, sweeting," he said.

"I'm not hungry," she said. She had better tell Abelard what was going on, but he wouldn't like it. It would worry him, even if he pretended otherwise. She forced a smile. "Something funny I must tell you."

Next to her, he sat chewing on the bread, dusting the coverlet with crumbs.

"Uncle is being miserly. He wants you to pay him for my room and board."
 

"Indeed."

"He says I'm married now, and he shouldn't have to support me."

Abelard nodded. "Quite right. I should have thought of that." He yawned and said again, "He's right."

Slowly, wearily, Heloise said all at once, "Beloved, I don't want to upset you, but I don't think our secret is a secret. Petronilla knows we're married. I guess Agnes told her, and Jourdain says that one of your students mentioned it. I can't understand—"

He cut her off sharply. "Which student?"

"Jourdain didn't tell me his name. Someone in your theology classes."

Abelard looked irritable, as if she were being unnecessarily concerned. "My dear girl, you shouldn't let these things bother you."
 

"But—"

"No one has said anything to me. And if they do, I shall calmly answer, 'Sire, you are in error.' And change the subject. Simple."

He lied so coolly. She didn't know whether to admire him or be angry. She said, "All right. But that wasn't my point."

"What was your point, sweet heart?" He opened his arms and drew her close.

Heloise looked away. She understood how Petronilla had found out, but not the student. That was what scared her. If one student knew, it would soon be common gossip in every pothouse in the Ile. Probably it was already. She might have anticipated this happening—in fact, she remembered thinking it at Le Pallet when Abelard first mentioned being married secretly. Except that he had almost convinced her it would work. She was going to remind him hut changed her mind. Aloud she said, "When are we going hack to get Astrolabe?"

"June," he said, kissing her hair. "As soon as classes end."

"You must find us a place to live."

"There's plenty of time." With his fingertips, he began to stroke the inside of her thighs. "Patience, ladylove. You hate living with Fulbert. But no more than I hate being here with Galon."

Yawning, she pressed her hips hungrily against his thigh. Another month, she thought, six weeks at the most. Then it will be all right. She felt him hardening. "Don't you have to be somewhere?" She laughed. "Like in class?"

"It can wait," he whispered against her mouth.

"I'd like to stay here all day."

 

Knowing the end of her residence at Fulbert's to be in sight, Heloise suddenly found herself brimming with energy. Nerves unjangled for the first time in months, she returned to her compilation of the conflicting Yes and No quotations and soon realized she had collected nearly a hundred examples. Carefully, she copied them onto good parchment, and in several places wrote glosses in the margin. Her mind active, the days passed quickly.

During Whitsuntide, when she had been married about two months, her uncle began to behave with uncharacteristic gaiety, almost as he had in the days when she had first come to the Rue des Chantres from Argenteuil. Only more so. He made jokes, somewhat nervously, and spoke in a hearty tone and called her puss and sweet girl. Perhaps it was the Maytime holiday, because nobody did much work all that week, and the weather was unusually mild and sweet. He's got May fever, Heloise told herself, smiling, and she could not blame him for she had it herself. Even Abelard sent her a love letter, a poem actually, and enclosed a bunch of pressed violets.

They saw each other from time to time, furtive meetings at Abelard's lodgings, and exchanged letters frequently. Jourdain, as always, could be depended upon to act as courier. Abelard had been looking at cottages south of the river, a
mile or so beyond Saint-Victor. One in particular he described in some detail in one of his letters, as it had caught his fancy. It had been a bailiff's house, when that section belonged to the estate of a
wealthy knight, and somebody had taken care to panel the solar with hand-carved pine. The floors were inset with blue and white tiles, and the house had plenty of windows to let in the sunlight. A serene, pleasant place for her to study, Abelard had written enthusiastically, and he promised to take her out there some Sunday, so that she might inspect it herself.

In the last days of Whitsuntide, Fulbert announced that he was going to entertain, something she knew he had not done all the months she had been away, and he invited more than two dozen friends and colleagues—canons from Notre Dame, merchants and their wives, barons who owed him money, even a few masters from the school whom he knew only casually. It was to be a garden affair. Cressets would be hung in the trees and a jongleur engaged to sit behind a bush and provide tasteful selections on the lute.

Fulbert himself carefully drew up a list of melodies he wished performed and asked Heloise for her opinion. None of the selections were her favorites; for example, he had not included anything by William the Troubadour, and to her dismay, halfway down the list were several songs of Abelard's. Nonetheless, she smiled prettily and pretended to approve of his choices. For a change, it would be pleasant to hear music, any music. Scratching his head, Fulbert said to her absently, "Ah, I see that my memory is failing. I forgot to invite Master Peter. How discourteous of me."

"Uncle!" Heloise snapped. "Why do you say such things? He could not possibly come."

"Why not?" inquired Fulbert, full of innocence.

"You know very well why not," she answered impatiently.

"Mayhap your husband is ashamed of his in-laws. I admit we are not counts or dukes but—"

"I don't care to discuss it. Holy Virgin, you know why he can't come."

The day of the party, Fulbert went around the house humming. It was touching, in a queer way. Agnes had been cooking furiously— tarts, wafers, a row of cakes, as well as platters of cold ham, fowl, and cheese. The best goblets were polished, the good wine brought up from the cellar, and Agnes had hired two small boys, one to act as page and the other to look after the guests' horses. Never had Heloise known either Agnes or Fulbert to take such care with an affair. The excitement in the house proved contagious. Heloise found her old crisping iron and curled her hair, and she wore a new lavender bliaut trimmed with gold braid. Abelard had bought it for her; it was of the finest linen and, she guessed, quite expensive. Certainly she had never before owned a gown so elegant.

At dusk, the guests began to arrive. The garden was filled with the fragrance of roses and the heavier perfumes of pine and lily worn by the men. Heloise took a goblet of chilled wine and went around to greet people. A draper whom she knew slightly was standing under the pear tree with his wife, a thin woman whose expensive satin gown was obviously meant to advertise her husband's business. When the merchant saw Heloise coming, he turned away from his lady and took Heloise's hands. He said, "My lady, I've not had the pleasure of seeing you in some time."

"No," Heloise said. "I've been away. But now I'm happy to be back." She heard herself rattling on, mouthing cliches. "The Ile is so beautiful in the spring."

"The winters in Brittany are dreadful," he said. "I've not been there myself, but everyone says so."

She swallowed quickly. "Pardon, my lord?"

"Brittany. Did you not find the winter cruel?"

"You're mistaken," she said. "I was at Saint-Gervais."

The man frowned and scratched his chin. He opened his mouth, wordlessly. His wife reappeared at his elbow, and Heloise hastily moved away.

She sent the page to refill her goblet and sat down near the jongleur. He smiled at her and said, "Shall I play Master Peter's songs now, lady?"

"Why, I don't care," she said, flushing. "Play what you were told to play."

At first she listened to the music, dreary stuff in her opinion, Fulbert's church-music taste, but after fifteen or twenty minutes a group of canons came over and began speaking in Latin. One of them knew a few words of Greek and wanted to show off. The men started to discuss Aristotle's
Ethics,
about which they were totally ignorant. She had to be careful not to let on. Men. Even if they knew nothing, it didn't prevent them from talking. One of them said, smiling, "Lady, it's clear you're the protege of Master Peter."

"Aye, I was his student for a while. But certainly not his protégé."

The canon answered with a smirk. "There is nothing more pleasant than discussing philosophy with a philosopher. Except perhaps discussing love with a philosopher. Tell us your opinion, lady."

Heloise took a long drink from her goblet, and said that since she had never discussed love with a philosopher, she was in no position to comment.

Martin, who had come up to the edge of the group around Heloise, gave her a cheerful smile. He nodded to the canon who had been talking about Abelard and said, "There you are, Garin. I told you Lady Heloise is discreet."

The man cocked his head, grinning at Heloise. "Your secret is safe with us, lady."

"I don't know what you mean." She stood up, her arms hanging stiffly at her sides. Her head was beginning to ache.

"Come on," said Martin, laughing. "There's no reason to pretend. You're among friends."

The jongleur began playing Abelard's most popular love song, the one in which a lover cries passionately that the dawn comes too soon. At first he ran through only the melody, then he began to sing the words. People stopped talking; the garden grew hushed. When he had finished, a few clapped and Fulbert called to the jongleur, "Splendid. Well done." He turned to somebody behind Martin and said in a loud voice, "An appropriate piece, don't you think? Now that our families are joined."

Heloise started violently. There was an embarrassed silence, and somebody coughed. She looked around and caught the eye of the draper. Shaking his head, he winked at her. "I thought you were chaffing me earlier. Let me be the first to give my congratulations, lady."

"About what?" she asked, tight-lipped, trying to maintain her composure.

Fulbert circled around to face Heloise. "My niece is a modest girl," he said. "Of course the marriage is secret, and we all understand the reasons for that. It would never do if the information were made public." Wily as a snake, he kept his eyes on Heloise. "But, between friends, there is no harm in admitting that Master Peter and Lady Heloise are wed."

Heloise reddened. "That's a lie!"

Fulbert threw her a reproachful glance. "God will punish you for lying."

"I'm not married."

He said to the draper, "Brother, she has a child by Abelard."

"You fool, keep quiet!" Involuntarily, she stepped toward Fulbert, shaking her fist as if she would throttle him.

"You're overwrought." Fulbert laughed harshly. To the guests who were standing with open mouths, he repeated, "Pay no attention. She's overwrought."

Heloise stared at him, rigid with anger. Fulbert motioned the jongleur to resume playing. He turned to a trestle and snatched up a slice of roast fowl. Over his shoulder, he said to Canon Garin, "She's married, I swear it. Ask Martin. Is that not so, Martin? You witnessed the marriage."

Martin nodded agreeably. Happy to be the center of attention, he began describing the ceremony and said that Master Peter had hurried off to class afterward. He went on talking, ignoring Heloise as if she were a hundred miles away.

"Damn you,"
she lashed out. "May God damn your soul for all eternity."

Martin's mouth dropped, and he fell silent. Fulbert said to her pleasantly, "I'm warning you."

She took a deep breath, sucking in rage. Her eyes full of tears, she shouted ferociously at him,
"Liarl"

His hand made a fist and shot toward her. She made no attempt to back away. The blow chopped her on the side of her jaw. Blindly, she spun around and ran into the house.

An hour later, after the last of the guests had departed, Heloise heard him climbing the stairs toward her chamber. She stood up and waited, her throat clogged with nausea and loathing. When he opened the door, she gave him a look so laden with hatred that he flinched. Flustered, he said, "Niece, you acted badly tonight."

"You promised to keep it a secret."

"I promised nothing." He put down the candleholder on her writing table and turned. "And I do not like to be called a liar before my friends. You have picked up very bad manners from that Breton dog. Pardon, my distinguished Breton-dog kinsman."

"I hate you," she whispered.

"Shut up. I saved you from whoredom. You would have ended as Master Abelard's discarded cunt."

She ran past him toward the door. He reached out, clutching at the sleeve of her gown, "In future, you will obey me," he wheezed. "When I tell somebody you're married, you will hold your tongue. Understand?"

"No." She pulled away and heard the sleeve rip. "No. I won't obey you."

With an open hand, he slapped her across the mouth. She braced herself. The second blow bumped the side of her head. Her ear ringing, she grabbed his hand and bit it. With both hands, he drove his fists into her face; she felt something crack on her face, her mouth filling with blood. Suddenly she bounced on her back and thudded against the bed. Fulbert stood over her. Sucking in her breath, she raised up both feet and kicked blindly at his stomach. Gasping, he fell back into a crouch. "Bitch!" He panted. He plunged toward her, gripping her by the shoulder to hold her still. Again and again he knocked her across the chest and belly and legs until she felt her flesh give way. Limp, she wrapped her arms around her head. In her mouth she kept tasting blood. Fulbert stood up, and she heard him walking toward the door. She lay quietly, not thinking. Some time later, perhaps only a few minutes—she did not know—she swayed to her feet. Throwing a shawl over her head, she hurtled out of her room and down the stairs. Outside, in the Rue des Chantres, she began to run toward the river.