Stealing Heaven (40 page)

He regarded her gravely. "And your son? What news of him?"

"None." She tried to think of something more to add, but there was nothing. The pain of his loss had dulled, although it remained with her constantly, like a chronic toothache. Shrugging, she repeated, "None."

"That is wrong of Denise," he sighed. "And bad for the boy as well. He has two living parents. Denise should bring him to visit you."
 

"Ah, Jourdain, you know she will never do that."
 

"Heloise."

"Yes, yes." Uncomfortable, she was on the verge of changing the subject when he asked suddenly, "Have you found peace here, my friend?"

The question startled her. "Do you mean have I made peace with God?"

"Forgive me. That was a stupid question."

She hesitated, but only for an instant. "I am here for love of Abelard and none other. That has not changed."

"Heloise!" Jourdain was dumbfounded. "Surely you owe loyalty to God first. For certain God sees everywhere. I—you must know that you're endangering your soul."

"I know," she said. "I know."

Leaning forward, Heloise said to him tremulously, "Listen, Jourdain, there is not much time. I pray you—Jourdain, he never loved me, did he?"

"Of course he did." But it was obvious that his response was automatic. She watched his face and knew that he wanted to spare her.

"I don't think so," she insisted. "Everyone says he didn't love me."

Jourdain took her hand. "This is what I think. I think he did love you and I think he still loves you. But in his own way." He looked away. "It is not your way."

She didn't believe him. If Abelard had written only once, she would have believed in the truth of Jourdain's words.

His gaze wandered over the garden, the fountain, the cherry trees straining to bud, the carefully tended beds of costmary and Our Lady's bedstraw. "Do you know what his students call him now?" he said, smiling.
"Rhinoceros indomitus."

In spite of herself, she laughed. "The rhinoceros that can't he tamed? But wait a bit—what students?"

"Thousands. I think Paris must be empty."

"But where do they live?" she asked, bewildered. "There are no houses. You said it's a wilderness."

"Was. They've built themselves huts along the riverbank. The place looks like a good-sized city. Really. You should see it."

"I can't imagine—how do they live?"

"On herbs and coarse bread. And they sleep on mattresses of thatch and straw."

Heloise got to her feet, excited, and began to pace up and down. "It's just like the old days, isn't it?"

"They look after him," Jourdain was going on. "He'd built a small chapel of thatch. Well, some of the students are rebuilding it from stone and wood."

She felt easier; he was all right then, still the philosopher of all philosophers. Sext began to chime. Jourdain stood and stretched, and slowly they began strolling toward the courtyard.

Waving his hand in a circle, he drawled, "How peaceful it is here. Surely that is something to be thankful for,"

"Appearances deceive. A spy lives in our midst."

He grinned quizzically. "Come now."

Heloise jerked her head at him. 'Tell me something, friend. What do you know of Abbot Suger?"

"Why—what everyone knows, I suppose. He's shrewd and ambitious —and powerful."

"Is he evil?"

"Evil?" He paused to think. "I don't know—why do you ask?"

"He has threatened to close Argenteuil."

"On what grounds?" Jourdain snorted. "Bah!"

"Oh, Jourdain. He's gone back into the archives and found old cases. I don't think he has proof of course, but—" She remembered Ceci. She should have told Jourdain, but it was too late now. A groom was bringing up his horse. Swiftly she said, "Suger hates me. He calls me Abelard's leman."

Jourdain scowled. "Probably he hates all women. But I know one thing. The abbot is just about the only true friend that Abelard has in the Church." He grinned at her. "Suger was just blowing hot air. How can he close Argenteuil? God's blood, it's been here two hundred years."

"Three hundred. Or more."

"Well." He laughed heartily. "You see."

The troops had passed on. The yard echoed with bursts of excited laughter: people jostling and yelling, and a knot of beggars clamoring for their dinner. A lay sister appeared carrying two enormous baskets of bread. Sister Esclarmonde, hands on hips, was surveying the yard with haughty indulgence, as if saying to them,
Don't kill each other. Your bellies will be filled.
Heloise stood there trying to shake off her sense of dread. She said, "Jourdain, sooner or later, he means to destroy us. And I think it will be sooner."

 

She was wrong. It took the abbot of Saint-Denis five years to fulfill his vow.

 

 

 

17

 

 

"Lady Virgin! Holy Alais!"

Heloise glared at the parrot. This bird, also called Baby, was a good deal smarter than its predecessor, and Lady Alais had taught it a few words, which it usually managed to scramble.

"Holy Lady! Virgin Alais!" It inched along the window bench, leaving a trail of droppings. Heloise made a mental note to avoid sitting there. From the abbess's bedchamber came the muffled rustling of clothes being pulled on. She went to the half-open door and tapped lightly, so that the abbess would understand she was still waiting. "My lady," she called, "this matter is of some urgency. But if you would liefer I came back later—"

Lady Alais came out, her eyes pouchy with sleep, and she flicked her gaze around the floor. "Where's beastie?"

"I left her in the schoolroom."

"Why?"

Heloise bit back her irritation. "My lady, you know her barking upsets Baby. Lady, please. I beg you, attend me. This is extremely important." She bore down on the word "extremely."

Yawning, Lady Alais sat down at the trestle and took a long gulp of ale. She raised her head, a spasm of weariness brushing her face, and said to Heloise, "Proceed then."

"Have you had any private communications from Abbot Suger?"

Lady Alais gave her a puzzled look.

"Any personal messages?"

"Why, child," the abbess answered, "you read all my correspondence." She turned toward Baby and puckered her lips into a kiss.

"I know that. But has there been anything that perchance you forgot to show me? Anything at all. Think."

The abbess frowned. She didn't like to be bothered with matters that required thinking. At last she said, "Nothing I can recall."

"Have you had any letters from the bishop? From Pope Honorius?"

"Merciful Mother, why would the pope write to me?" Lady Alais turned away, apparently losing interest in the conversation.

Heloise remained silent for a moment. Abbot Suger was an underhanded son of a dog, that fact she had understood for several years now. But she had not imagined that he would initiate eviction proceedings against Argenteuil without some kind of formal warning. Or without allowing the nuns to defend themselves. She crossed to the trestle and sat down opposite the abbess.

Heloise pulled a sheet of parchment from her sleeve and laid it flat between them. "I have here an announcement of a synod council to be convened in Paris on the second day of February. It is to be held at the abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Pres."

Lady Alais broke in, smiling. "The second. That's Thursday, isn't it? My, my, is it February already?"

"Yes, lady. Or it will be tomorrow. Please, lady, permit me to continue." She did not wait for the abbess to reply but hurried on, making sure to speak slowly and precisely so that Lady Alais would grasp the situation. "Now. The purpose of the council is to consider the question of reforming the monastic rule in several abbeys where zeal is thought to have waned. I am quoting, lady. Are you following me?" She looked up sharply.

"Certainly," Lady Alais said.

"Now follows a list of the abbeys to be considered. There are six, seven, eight of them down here. The second on the list is Sainte-Marie of Argenteuil."

Lady Alais's smile dried up. "There must be a mistake," she snapped.

"No mistake." Out of patience, she slid the sheet across and pointed. Lady Alais peered for a second and then slammed the paper back at Heloise. "Now—"

"Stop saying now constantly!"

"Yes, my lady. Now we get to the interesting part of this announcement. It goes on to state that a claim has been presented by Abbot Suger, to the effect that our lands and buildings belong to the abbey of Saint-Denis—and that we are, er, trespassing."

Lady Alais stared at her. "The abbot must be daft," she said slowly. "Charlemagne gave this abbey to his daughter. It says so in our cartulary. There is no question of its belonging to Saint-Denis."

Heloise held out the paper. "This announcement says that Suger will present documentary evidence to prove that Argenteuil was founded in the reign of King Pepin as a priory of Saint-Denis's." She had sat up until matins last night with a tallow candle, going through chests of dusty archives. Suger lied. Argenteuil had been founded a century earlier than Pepin, in the reign of King Clothair, by a nobleman, Hermenricus, and his wife, Numma, and—Suger was correct about one thing—they had presented the land to Saint-Denis. Probably men had inhabited the premises then. But under Charlemagne, it was declared autonomous and turned into a nunnery for his daughter. There had been some talk of its reverting to Saint-Denis after Theodrada's death, but this had never taken place. Argenteuil had been handed down, from abbess to abbess, for over three hundred years.

The abbess had screwed her face into a scowl. "The abbot can prove nothing," she said firmly.

"I agree.” Heloise paused. "Unless he produces a forgery."

"Don't be silly," she murmured. "It is a mistake, that's all."

"Lady, don't you think it's strange—Abbot Suger has made these charges, but the synod has not asked us to refute them." For that matter, the announcement had not arrived until the previous day, stuffed in carelessly among other Church circulars in the pouch from Saint-Denis. Since it was dated January 5, obviously the letter must have been delayed at Saint-Denis—deliberately, she suspected. She said to the abbess, "We should have been given an opportunity to answer."

Lady Alais stood and took a crust of bread to Baby. Squawking furiously, the bird tore it from her fingers. "Baby hungry?" she crooned, tilting back her head. "Baby wants breadie? Child, what is the use of answering such ridiculous charges? No doubt the Church realizes that."

"Listen, my lady. There is still time. You could go to Paris and—"

"I?" The abbess seemed shocked. "I, go to a synod meeting? Among all those men?"

Heloise put the letter away. "I merely thought—"

"Besides, I was not invited. No, child. You'll see. Next week we shall get a
letter apologizing for this mistake. Mark me, nothing will come of it." She hoisted Baby to her shoulder. "Do you know whether Sister Marie has finished the silk cushion she is sewing for me? She promised it several days ago."

"I don't know, lady. I'll remind her." She rose and moved swiftly toward the door, anxious to get away. Through her mind flashed a picture of Suger, standing in that very room, questioning her about Ceci. It had happened so long ago that she had gradually discounted his threats. I underestimated the abbot, she thought angrily. Not that taking him at his word would have prevented this.

In the cloister, snow was melting and the walks were covered with rivulets of slush. God's elbows, she hated the winters; she should have entered some house in Provence or Toulouse. Along the east walk, a shower of droplets cascading from the roof splattered against her forehead. Ducking back, she slowed her steps and finally shuffled to a complete stop. To be sure, Abbot Suger hated her. But would he expel ninety-three women from a religious retreat for that reason? It seemed absurd—surely no sane person would consider such a step. And then too he had continued to help Abelard. Three years earlier, when attacks on his writings had made further residence at the Paraclete impossible, had not Suger arranged for him to be elected abbot of Saint-Gildas-de-Rhuys?

She leaned up against a stone capital and traced her fingers over the acanthus-leaf carvings at its base. These walls and pillars had seen thousands of women live and die, and events had not always been peaceful, either. She laughed, remembering that last night she had come upon a notation in the archives that had cheered her. In the ninth century, during some war or other, an army of Normans had swept the countryside and stormed the walls of Argenteuil. The abbess, one Ertrude, had led her daughters in hurling boiling oil on the besiegers, and the Normans had fled. Unfortunately, Lady Alais was no Ertrude.

Sighing, she started across the cloister toward the cellaress's quarters. She had enough to do today without worrying about Suger and his trumped-up documents.

Ceci hurried out of the refectory door with an armful of laundry. When she caught sight of Heloise, she ran to her and grabbed her arm. "What did she say?" she cried.

Heloise shrugged. "Shhh. Nothing much. She thinks it's a mistake."

"She didn't swoon?"

"I told you. She's not terribly concerned. She says nothing will happen."

Ceci, solemn, studied her face. "Do you think she's right, Heloise?"
 

“I don't know."

 

Every day, Heloise taught Latin, totted up her accounts, and waited for news from Paris. The fiercest part of the winter had passed. Without mishap, the spring crops had been sown—oats, peas, barley, and vetches—and she looked forward to a splendid harvest that summer. On Shrove Tuesday, she told herself that no news was good news. And when the last day of February arrived and still no word came, she had almost talked herself into believing the synod had thrown Suger's claim off the agenda.

During the afternoon recreation hour, Heloise took Aristotle to the laundry house and dunked her in a trough of soapy water, the dog squirming miserably and staring at her with accusing eyes. The laundress was watching, arms folded in amused disapproval.