Stealing Heaven (37 page)

Aristotle sprinted headlong down the embankment and sniffed cautiously at the water. When a frog croaked, she began to yap furiously. Laughing, Heloise shouted, "Go get it, beastie! Go on!" The dog looked at her uncertainly. "Aaah, what kind of a fighter are you?" She hoisted her onto her hip and climbed up the rock. "Sit. Aristotle, sit."

After a dozen repetitions, Aristotle gave in, reluctantly. She hunkered on her hindquarters and stared out at the water. "Good girl, good Aristotle." The dog rarely left Heloise's heels and even tried to follow her into church for the offices. Since this was strictly forbidden, Heloise usually tied her up. She was a plump little creature, probably because Heloise overfed her.

Smiling, Heloise nudged her with a toe. "Hullo, sweeting. A long fast is what you need. That's right—a fast." She took out the letter, breaking its seal with her thumbnail. The first part was devoted to Count Thibaut and some insult he had received from Count Ralph of Vermandois, who was King Louis's cousin. Since Heloise knew nothing of the feud, she could make little sense of its significance. If there was any. Jourdain sometimes liked to include trivia if they were sufliciently titillating. More gossip: William the Troubadour had installed a leman in his palace at Poitiers. His wife had withdrawn to Fontevrault Abbey, where she died of a broken heart. Heloise laughed skeptically. Jourdain could be terribly melodramatic. Broken heart indeed. No doubt the duchess had some bad fish.

At the bottom of the sheet, her eye caught the words "Master Peter." She skipped over the Duchess of Aquitaine and got to Abelard. Jourdain explained that he had written a book on the nature of God—
Discourse on the Trinity.
According to Jourdain, who said he had read the treatise several times, it was a distinguished piece of writing. Still.

When Heloise read the word "still," she sensed trouble. Apprehensive, she skimmed the page. Names of churchmen: Roscelin, Alberic of Rheims, Lotulph of Lombardy. The latter two, she recalled, had been fellow students when Abelard had studied at Laon under Anselm. They had been jealous of him. Why was Jourdain being so poky in getting to the point? She knew there must be one. On the next sheet there was a defense of Abelard's book—he was only trying to combine Christianity with human reason. His students demanded explanations.

"My dear friend," Jourdain went on, "Master Peter intended to say nothing heretical, nothing that is not already implied in the Church's teachings. But he has never been cautious, as you well know."

She knew. Spine stiffened, she raced on. These two enemies, Alberic and Lotulph, charged that Abelard had preached and written that there are three Gods. They had denounced him as a heretic.

"Oh God," Heloise moaned aloud. "When will you have done torturing this man? Leave him be, for pity's sake."

"Dear Heloise, he is summoned to a Church council at Soissons, in July I think, and ordered to bring his book with him. I see no cause for worry, friend; there are few who can debate with Peter Abelard and win. Besides, he wrote me that if there is anything in the tract that dissents from the faith, he will readily correct it." He had written Jourdain? Jealousy stabbed at her. "Set your mind at ease. There is nothing in the book to condemn him."

There was more. The
White Ship,
King Henry's royal vessel, had been wrecked off Barfleur, slammed into the rocks by a drunken helmsman—Prince William had drowned and now there was no heir to the throne of England. She folded the letter and tucked it into her sleeve. To accuse Abelard of heresy was utterly mad. These enemies of his must be very stupid men. Pulling Aristotle onto her lap, she sighed and closed her eyes.

 

 

 

16

 

 

The new abbot of
Saint-Denis was short and fat, like a gargoyle with its chin encased in lard, and the top of his tonsured head barely reached Heloise's shoulder. His silk vestments were embroidered with stiff gold thread, and on each of his fingers flashed a precious stone. When the portress announced the arrival of Abbot Suger's retinue, Heloise had accompanied Lady Alais into the courtyard. The abbot's splendid livery, the gilded spurs and fringed saddles, rivaled anything that a king might own. Heloise stared with intense curiosity at the little man. She had seen him once, when he had come to visit Abelard after the castration. In the bedchamber of Abelard's quarters, she had served them goblets of wine, but Suger had not bothered to glance at her, as if she were a
varlet. "God's greetings, my lady abbess," Suger said briskly. "A fine house you have here. Venerable. It was once a
house for men, you know."

Lady Alais made a deep bow and sank to her knees. "Why, no, I— no, my lord. I didn't know." She went on, stammering, "Of course it has been owned by Saint-Denis for centuries, but Theodrada, er, the daughter of Charlemagne—"

Suger broke in tightly. "I know who Theodrada was." He stretched forth a chubby hand. For a
moment, the abbess stared in confusion, unsure which ring to kiss, and finally settled on an enormous garnet. Standing, she gave the abbot one of her dimpled smiles, wrinkled up her nose, and fluttered her lashes helplessly. At fifty-five, Lady Alais was no longer adorable, the fact of which she was unaware.

Abbot Suger paid no attention to the dimples. "I hope you've made no elaborate preparations for my visit," he said, waving his escort to come forward. His rings flashed in the sunlight.

"Why, no, my lord," Lady Alais squeaked. She turned away and led him over the bleached cobbles toward the cloister gate. Groaning to herself, Heloise followed. For a week, the convent had been in a frenzy preparing for this day, and a
sumptuous dinner would be served in the dining hall reserved for royalty and other distinguished guests. Kids had been roasting since dawn.

"This morning,'' he said sharply, "I will inspect the buildings, the tenant farms, and the vineyards. Later we shall review the convent's financial affairs."

"Yes, my lord."

"And of course I shall wish to view the sacred tunic and any other relics you own."

"Certainly, my lord abbot. We have the collarbone of St.—" Her voice trailed off; the abbot had turned his attention to his secretary, who was whispering into his ear.

The yard glistened under a hard blue sky. It was spring again, the universal season for pilgrimages, and the roadsides were choked with daisies and lemon cuckooflowers. Already visitors were coming in a steady trickle, and in a few weeks there would be hordes, palmers who had spent the winter grayness crowded around their hearths and shivering in dim garrets, now liberated, feet propelling them toward Saint-Denis, Compostela, Rocamadour. Mouths to feed, Heloise thought, and she wondered how Argenteuil would manage until the first harvest came in. If the squat little Abbot Suger could suggest solutions for their money problems, she would count this a blessed day. But she doubted it. The abbess was trotting to keep up with Suger, and Heloise took her elbow, steadying the old woman as she stumbled over the crannies between the cobbles. For a fat man, who virtually waddled, the abbot moved fast. Wheeling around, he suddenly said to Lady Alais, "Is that meat I smell cooking?"

She nodded.

He arched his brows. "During Lent, madame? Meat during Lent?"

"Oh. Well, in your honor, my lord. I thought—"

Suger grunted. Without saying anything more, he turned his back on the abbess again and began talking to his secretary. Heloise recalled that the abbot, a lover of luxury, wore undertunics of the finest wool and slept under fur coverlets and sheets of the most costly linen. Undoubtedly he would eat the kid when it appeared on his trencher. Lady Alais's mouth was crinkled into a wad of distress, and she kept rubbing her hands together as if scrubbing them. Heloise thought, I would not like to stand in her shoes today.

All that morning, as he had promised, Suger toured the convent and spoke with cellaress, infirmarian, and others, making comments when something displeased him. Mostly he found fault. This did not sit well with Sister Angelica and Sister Blanche, because, even though Lady Alais may have been guilty of laxity, they believed themselves performing their duties with the utmost efficiency, and by sext nearly everyone was smiling at Suger through clenched teeth. After he had poked his nose into every corner of the grounds, he called the nuns together in the chapter house and announced that anyone who had a complaint was obliged to stand up and voice it. This procedure was standard in all convents when the bishop made his annual inspection, and usually the nuns had plenty of petty gripes. Today every mouth was clamped shut. Heloise had never heard the chapter house so utterly silent.

After dinner, Suger closeted himself with Lady Alais in the abbess's quarters. In midafternoon, an anxious-looking Astrane appeared at the door of the schoolroom. Heloise, reading, jumped to her feet.

Astrane said, "My lady wants you."

"Is it bad?"

She shrugged. "He won't be happy until he crucifies her."

In the abbess's parlor, Suger sprawled in a high-backed chair, a
sheet of parchment dangling from his right hand. Behind hovered the secretary, who occasionally handed him a paper or stooped to whisper into his ear. A goblet of wine waited on the trestle.

Lady Alais, her face pale, motioned Heloise to a
stool in the corner; Astrane stayed by the door. Suger gave no indication that he noticed their arrival. He was speaking rapidly, now and then glancing down at the parchment sheet, which appeared to be some kind of dossier. He read a name aloud. "Isabella, daughter of Henry of Gramat. Novice." Lady Alais nodded. He said, "What about her?"

"She took her life."

"Where is she interred?"

Confused, Lady Alais cleared her throat. "Why, in the cemetery, my lord."

"A harlot in the abbey cemetery?"

"But my lord, no offense was proved. The girl was deranged." Suger sniffed. "Suicide is a mortal sin. Dig up the grave and bury her outside the walls."

"Yes, my lord."

Suger contemplated the fist again. "Custance, daughter of Estienne of Nangis."

"Died young," offered the abbess quickly.

 
"Of what cause?"
 

"A bloody flux."

Heloise remembered Sister Custance, the one with the voluptuous body. That was right, she had bled like a
river, right through the straw pallet in the dorter, before someone had carried her to the mfirmary. She had been young and extremely pretty. Heloise waited for Suger to go on to the next name, but he had swiveled in his chair and was listening to his secretary.

He jerked back to Lady Alais, face cold. ''Abortion or miscarriage?" he asked dryly.

"I—" The abbess colored dark red. "My lord, nothing like that."

 
"My records show otherwise."

"There was some talk at the time," the abbess admitted. She looked away nervously. "But—"

The abbot took a mouthful of wine. "Very well. Let us go on. We can return to Sister Custance later." He consulted his list. "Sister Ida, daughter of William of Vezelay. What information can you give me concerning her?"

Lady Alais straightened her spine. "A priest raped her," she said without hesitation.

"Oh?"

"Father Jacques, as I recall." She glared at Suger. "During confession, and the poor girl—"

Suger didn't give her a chance. Leaning forward, he talked over her voice. "In the year of Our Lord 1094, there was a sister named Genevieve, bastard of the abbess of Notre Dame Sainte-Eulalie."

"Ten ninety-four," repeated the abbess carefully. "That was a long time ago."

"Come now. Were you not abbess at that time?"

'Yes, my lord." Paler than before, she began to chew the thumbnail of her left hand.

"Sister Genevieve gave birth to three brats in this convent." His eyes, unwavering, were stuck to the abbess's face.

She stared at him dumbly. "Surely not, my lord. I would remember that."

Suger took a long drink and set down the goblet with a crash. “Let us say your memory leaves a great deal to be desired. But somehow I had a feeling you would not remember that name." He actually smiled.

“I'm sorry, my lord."

Heloise hardly dared breathe. From the corner of her eye, she glanced at Astrane, who was staring openmouthed at the floor. Ten ninety-four. Surely the abbot could not go back in time much further than that; surely he would have to complete this interrogation soon.

She licked her lips, waiting. She looked at the secretary with his smooth expression and ink-stained cassock. Suddenly she heard Suger bark, "Sister Cecilia, daughter of Baldwin of Larris." Astonished, Heloise tried to keep her face a blank. God's eyes, how did Suger know about Ceci? Lady Alais had not reported Ceci's disappearance. Heloise had argued against concealment, but Lady Alais always said that she would wait a few more months—perhaps Sister Cecilia would return. Still, Heloise was stunned. There was no way that Abbot Suger could have learned about Ceci, but, incredibly, he had. She heard him repeat Ceci's name.

Lady Alais said, "Missing," and snapped shut her mouth.

Heloise watched the secretary scribble on a
tablet. "Missing," echoed Suger. "Under what circumstances?"

"I don't know, my lord. She vanished one night."

"When was that?"

"Christmas." The abbess's voice quivered.

"Christmas of what year? Brother Richwin, are you writing this down?"

Heloise had a feeling that Suger already knew the answer. It was several minutes before the abbess replied. At last she said, "Eleven twenty."

Suger said calmly, "My dear lady abbess, I make that three years ago."

"Two," she corrected him. "Two years and three months."

"Very well. May I inquire why Sister Cecilia's disappearance was not reported to Saint-Denis?"

“What do you mean?" the abbess asked, in exaggerated bewilderment. "It was reported."

"No," Suger murmured, "it was not. Not at the time it occurred. Nor at any time up to the present."

"Mayhap the letter was lost or mislaid."

"Mayhap," said the abbot, agreeable. "Mayhap not. The fact remains that a
runaway occurred without notification of your superiors. Or, I might add, without notification of the nun's kin. This is a serious omission. But, of course, as you stated, sometimes your memory serves you ill, lady. Perchance it slipped your mind."