Stealing Heaven (42 page)

In the schoolroom, she went through her bundle, those things that Abelard had brought on the day she had taken her vows. At the time, she had not opened it, merely handed the parcel to the wardrober. On top were Abelard's letters, tied with ribbon. She would never part with them, or with the Limoges box containing her wedding ring and the amethyst he had given her soon after they became lovers. The rest of the things she took out to the bonfire.

Heloise stayed at the convent for several weeks, saying that she must leave her records and accounts in good condition. It was an excuse. She thought, I once dreaded coming here and now I dread leaving. Each day some of the nuns departed, in small bands as well as large, and each day the courtyard shuddered with the sounds of weeping. After a while, Heloise learned to numb herself. By the middle of May there remained only the cellaress and three of her assistants. Sister Angelica, who had cared for the grounds and buildings for nearly twenty-five years, thought it her duty to personally hand over the convent to the abbot of Saint-Denis, or his representative. But now that Argenteuil officially belonged to the abbey, nobody seemed in a great hurry to claim it.

Four days before Pentecost, Heloise told Sister Angelica that she and Ceci would be leaving the following morning, after prime. She wanted no formal farewell, if Sister Angelica did not mind. The cellaress, her eyes pitted with rings of exhaustion, nodded; they kissed. Later that day, Heloise placed a bunch of rosemary on Sister Madelaine's grave, and afterwards she went to the schoolroom for the last time. Opening the cupboard, she took out a map she had been saving and slid it, folded, into her girdle.

The next day, Heloise and Ceci walked quickly through the cloister, Aristotle prancing at their heels. Already the place felt abandoned—no dogs barking or parrot screeching. Only birds sang. Along the south walk, weeds were choking out the mint; a brown apple core lay near the little statue of the Virgin. At the gate to the courtyard, Heloise kicked at the grille, not wanting to look back. Ceci stopped and turned.

"Look," she said, "the abbess's lemon tree. She forgot it."

"Oh, I don't think so. Probably she left it on purpose. You can't enter a convent with a tree." Suddenly she had in her mind a
picture of Lady Alais approaching the gate of Notre Dame-des-Bois, trundling the lemon tree in a barrow, a parrot on her shoulder. She roared a wild peal of laughter.

Ceci jumped. "Sweet Mother of God, what's that all about!"

"Nothing," she answered, wiping her eyes. “Nothing. Let's go." She wondered who would water the lemon tree. It needed water at least three times a week. Sister Angelica for a
while, and then of course the monks. The thought of men inside the gate made her feel funny. "Let's go," she repeated.

The sun had not been up long, so the air still felt cool and fresh. Crossing to the convent gate, they swung it open and then pulled it shut behind them. The empty road stretched out on either side.

"Which do you want to carry first?" Heloise said to Ceci. "The bundle or Aristotle?"

"The bundle."

Heloise hauled Aristotle to her hip. They started down the road toward Paris.

 

It took them five days to reach the Ile. Heloise made that about one mile a day and she had to smile over it. But there was no reason to hurry, no place they had to be, nothing they had to do. It felt good. Heloise's face turned golden tan below her wimple, and Ceci's nose began to peel. They walked slowly, talking to other travelers, enjoying the sights. The weather was fine and warm, and at night they slept comfortably in the fragrant fields with the stars for a coverlet. Seven times each day they stopped, wherever they happened to be, to say the divine offices. They might be nuns without a home but they were still nuns.

On the road, people were friendly and generous; the begging bowls that Heloise and Ceci thrust forward were always filled with food or coins, and it was a hardhearted person who could pass Aristotle without tossing her a hit of dried beef or a morsel of bread. On the Roman road they felt safe and exhilarated, as if it were a fair day.

Paris had grown. Fine houses were going up on the Right Bank, and the Templars were putting up a palace for themselves. Across the Grand Pont, on the island, many houses had been torn down and rebuilt; in the open shops along the Rue de la Draperie, merchants stood behind counters swaddled in brilliantly dyed linen and silk. Everything seemed to be colored rose. Heloise had forgotten that the light in Paris is pinkish.

 

The bakery where she had first seen Abelard still stood on the corner of the Rue de la Pomme, but the baker was different. Wondering, Heloise decided that the old one had probably died. It seemed unreasonable that everything should not be exactly as she had left it, ten years earlier. She and Ceci stood on the corner with their bowls. They had to watch Aristotle—she was not used to crowds and traffic, and once a horseman narrowly missed trampling her. After that, Heloise or Ceci held the dog.

They counted their coppers and bought cheese and ham pasties from a vendor. That was a foolish waste of money, because they were not good pasties, not like the ones Heloise remembered. Still, they ate slowly, making the pies last, and drifted east in the direction of the Rue des Chantres.

Somebody was living in Fulbert's house. She could see wet linen hanging near the stables. Ceci set Aristotle down, and they went cautiously up to the door. Heloise knocked. A sour-faced young man in clerical robes opened.

"What do you want?" he said.

"Who lives here?" Heloise asked.

"This house belongs to the Church."

"Yes. But who lodges here?"

Impatient, he answered curtly, "The Grand Penitentiary," and closed the door.

They backed off, still staring at the house. It looked as if it had shrunk. Ceci said, "What's a Grand Penitentiary?"

“I'm not sure. He's employed by the bishop. Or the Holy See.

 
"To do what?"

Heloise motioned her around the side of the house. "A sort of inquisitor." She peered over the gate, trying to see into the garden.

The only things visible were the privy and part of the pear tree.
 

"Heloise. Really? You mean he questions heretics?''

"Ummm. Among others. Cases involving conscience." A suitable tenant for such a house, she thought, and turned away. They went down to watch the boats in the Port Saint-Landry.

 

 

 

18

 

 

There was a nice
feeling in Paris that lifted her—for a while. She knew it would not last. Sooner or later, she would glide up headlong against loneliness, the only thing about the Ile that she could rely upon.

Heloise and Ceci were too giddy to worry about much of anything. They slept along the river, under the willows, where the salt breeze overpowered the stench of dung and rotting garbage that hung over the Ile's streets. Day after day, that summer, they begged for alms. Most days they got enough to keep their stomachs reasonably full, with a little left over for Aristotle. When they were given little, or nothing, there were always the abbeys on the Left Bank: Saint-Victor, Saint-Germain-des-Pres, even Sainte-Genevieve, which was a bit of a walk. In the courtyards, they would line up with the other beggars and wait for distribution of leftover bread. Sometimes pea soup, but never with meat. By August, they were on friendly terms with the abbeys' porters and knew which days they could count on hot food.

On Assumption, they began following the Orleans road south, in the direction of Melun. Two years earlier, or perhaps more, Jourdain's father had died, and he had gone home to claim his fief. Heloise warned Ceci that Jourdain knew nothing of their coming, and most likely would not be living at Sancy. No doubt he had returned to Champagne and left the demesne to his stewards. In the end, after many days of debate, they decided to visit him, as they would be passing that way.

Without crossing the drawbridge, they shouted to the knight on the wall, "God greet you, is your master within?''

To their amazement, he immediately called back, "Aye, holy ladies. And awaiting you since St. John's Day."

They slept in beds again. Laughing, Heloise complained to Jourdain that the feather mattress made her back ache, so accustomed had she grown to months of resting on the hard earth. The beamed roof of the hall made her feel closed in, and she would catch herself looking up, expecting sky and clouds. Although Jourdain stayed with them much of the time, this was his busiest season. The villeins were bringing in the harvest, and after Michaelmas wheat and rye were sowed, plowing and harrowing began on the fallow fields, and hedges opened to the harvested fields so that cattle could graze on the stubble. Since it was also the end of the castle's fiscal year, the hall teemed with vassals come to settle their accounts.

Despite the remote location of Sancy, Jourdain seemed to know all the happenings of the world, and he spent the evenings chattering about the affairs of Church and courts. It was not all gossip. Heloise learned that Suger's expulsion of the nuns at Argenteuil was generally accepted, because people believed the sordid tales of their behavior. Jourdain told her that the Church was growing more corrupt each year, that while Notre Dame had banished her uncle, his name remained on its roll of canons.

"Why, in God's name?" sputtered Ceci. "He's a convicted criminal."

Jourdain shook his head. "Nothing was ever proved against him. So he suffers no dishonor. Only the loss of his canonry income."

'Which he didn't need anyway," Heloise broke in. "God, there's no justice in this world."

Jourdain shrugged. "They say he is senile now. I don't know. All I know is that he's rich."

Heloise said suddenly, "Is Agnes alive?"

"I suppose," he answered. "I've heard nothing to the contrary."

At compline, the two women went to the chapel for the office. When they returned to the hall, Ceci went up to bed and Heloise settled on a stool before the hearth. The hall smelled of spices and sizzling fat. Beside her, Jourdain was throwing a ball of twine for Aristotle, tossing it into the air and trying to catch it before she did. Heloise laughed. The next time Aristotle, tongue hanging down, darted past her feet, she reached over to catch her. She tucked the dog firmly in her lap. "My treasure"—she smiled—"you're an elderly dame now. Those games are for pups." Jourdain was watching her. "Do you know something, my friend?" she said. "In my mind, I always date my entry into religion from the time I got Aristotle. Not from . . ."

Wordlessly, he nodded. He brought her a cup of wine, poured half into the flames, and filled up the space with water. His own he sipped whole, sitting on a chest. "We are approaching middle age, you know." Jourdain grinned.

"Aye. I don't mind." She watched his face with its slightly receding hairline, the beard glinting reddish in the firelight. She said, "It must be lonely for you here. Sancy needs a mistress and you need someone. Why don't you marry, friend?"

"It's crossed my mind." He smiled. "There's a maiden the other side of the forest. I'm waiting for her to grow up."

"How old is this maiden?"

He pulled at his lip sheepishly. "Four."

"Jourdain."

"Well, I'm in no hurry, and neither is she."

Aristotle flipped her body into a ball, resting her chin on her paws. Heloise picked bits of rushes from her fur. "This child. Is she intelligent?"

"Very. Lively and smart."

Heloise glanced at him. "Pretty?"

He hesitated a moment, said "Not unattractive," and they both burst out laughing. She remembered. That was what he had told Abelard, before they had met and Abelard had asked for a description. Not unattractive, Jourdain had said.

She said to him, "I could have killed you on the spot. Jesu, how vain I was."

"No, lady, you were right to be angry. It was not courteous of me." He fell silent. After a moment, he broke out bitterly, "Would to God I had told him you were ugly. Then none of this would have happened."

"No," Heloise said calmly. "Destiny can't be brushed aside that easily. What happened had to happen."

He took a long drink from his cup. "All of it?" he asked her, looking into the cup.

"No," she said slowly. "Not all. I serve God but I accuse him, as ever. Senseless cruelty, that's all it was."

"When are you going to stop fighting with Our Lord?"

"Never."

Jourdain stood and waved to someone at the side of the hall. His squire, Andre, came up with a fresh jug of wine. Easily, Jourdain moved around the hearth, refilling their cups. Heloise stared into the fire.

"In any case," she said finally, "my lord must be happy now."

"Well." Jourdain shrugged slightly. "He is an abbot, that's true."

"The equal of Suger and Bernard of Clairvaux and—"

"Aye." He paused. "Equal in theory but not in fact."

She jerked up her head, suspicious. "What do you mean?"

"I can't say. I've heard . . . things."

"Eh?" She sat upright, her heart banging.

"Ah, Heloise. You know that Saint-Gildas sits on some rock on the wild edge of the Atlantic. Miles from anywhere. What kind of life could that be for a man like Abelard?" He spat into the fire. "And there's been gossip about those monks for years. The Bretons can be bastards."

Frowning, Heloise lifted Aristotle to the floor. She stood and went to Jourdain. "What have you heard?"

"That they are unruly. But, mark me, all Bretons are unruly. It's likely just gossip." His face was guarded.

She said firmly, "Abelard can handle them. He's a Breton himself."

"Not very much. Le Pallet lies in Brittany, but it's more Poitevin than Breton. Besides, I doubt if Abelard even understands their dialect."

Her shoulders had tensed into two hard balls. Painfully, she arched her back, willing them to relax. "What are you trying to tell me?" she asked stiffly.

“Tell you? Nothing."

Andre brought up a dish of gingered pears. She scooped a handful and placed one on the tip of her tongue, sucking out the sweet flavor. "These are good."