Stealing Heaven (49 page)

"Send a papal legate to Saint-Gildas. My old friend, Geoffrey of Chartres. No doubt the worst offenders will be excommunicated and expelled and the rest severely warned." Abelard leaned on the spade, smiling exuberantly.

Heloise nodded. If the legate planned to visit Saint-Gildas soon, it meant that Abelard would not remain with her long. She smiled back at him, trying not to think of it. "God be praised," she said. "Now everything will be fine."

He began digging again. “I spoke to Innocent about you. He's going to extend you papal recognition as the new owner of the Paraclete."

"That's splendid." She smiled. "My lord, I do thank you from the depths of my heart."

In the kitchen, she built a fire and looked fretfully at the basket of eels on the floor. Ceci had trapped them early this morning, before Abelard and Berengar had come, and clearly there were not enough to feed four. The two of them had been living on onions, garlic, acorns, and coarse barley bread—and the gifts of visitors. When they had time, they fished, but this was not always possible. She slapped the eels into a pan. Into a deep kettle she threw beans, onions, and water, and hooked it over the fire, hoping that by evening it would turn into soup. Oh, she thought, what I wouldn't give for a garlic sausage. Even a small one.

When she finally set the food on the trestle, it seemed more inadequate than she had expected. The eels must have shrunk during cooking. Nobody mentioned the spareness of the meal. Berengar, courteous as always, complimented her on her skill with the eels. He said, "Sister Cecilia tells me that you do not lack for visitors."

Abelard looked at him sharply. "What does that mean?"

Before Berengar could reply, Heloise said hastily, "People have been very kind. They wish to know us—and offer assistance."

For reasons which she could not explain, Abelard sounded cross. "Have men come here?" he demanded roughly.

"Certainly, my lord. Arnoul and some of the villeins from Quincey and—"

"Others?" Abelard ripped off a chunk of bread and lifted it to his lips.

"And others."

He was staring at her as if she had done something wrong. "Lady abbess," he murmured at last, "the more rarely you allow yourself to be seen, the more highly valued will be your appearances in public and your spiritual guidance."

Heloise's eyes widened. "But, my lord—"

"You must devote yourself to prayer and meditation."

She forced her voice patient. "Begging your pardon, lord abbot. How do you propose I do these things when there is no wall, no gate? There's no way to keep people out."

Suddenly he sighed, and the bad temper was gone. "Aye. I know. It's hard." He curled his fingers through the hair at the side of his neck. "Now, what was I thinking of? Of course, you must have a
wall. I understand that."

Heloise looked at him across the trestle. Her chest burned with pity, and she longed to draw him into her arms and caress that dark head. It was curious; when she was separated from him, she squirmed with hot images of herself lying naked in his arms, their legs entwined. In his presence, however, those torturous pictures subsided and she felt calm, unaroused. She gazed beyond Abelard at Ceci, who was glowering at the wall. She was not eating anything; she would be starved by nones.

"Lady," Abelard said, "I nearly forgot. I have letters for you."

"Really?" She smiled. "Who would write to me?"

He called, "Berengar, get the abbess's mail."

There were two letters: on one she recognized the handwriting as Jourdain's and slipped it into her girdle to read later. The other she opened with some curiosity and immediately glanced at the bottom of the sheet to note the signature. "Astrane!" she exclaimed. "My lord, this is from a nun who was at Argenteuil. Ceci, it's from Astrane."

"Oh," Ceci said with a scowl. "That's nice."

Abelard said, politely, "What does she write?"

Heloise read silently. Everyone watched her. Finally she lifted her head with a dismayed expression. "She's at Sainte-Catherine's of Senlis. She has heard about our new convent." She shook her head in disbelief. "She and several others in the house wish to— She says here that she wishes to join us." She laid the letter flat on the trestle.

Ceci sat bolt upright and jabbed her elbows down hard against the board. "She said that! I don't believe it. What gall, what—"

Abelard's voice rose above hers. "That is good news indeed, lady. The Paraclete needs women. Write at once and extend an invitation."

At his elbow, Ceci was mumbling under her breath. Abelard swung toward her. "What did you say, Sister?"

"Pisspot. Limp-legged, nasty-minded pisspot."

"Stop that," Abelard warned. "Sister Cecilia, you may be excused from this table."

Ceci got up and ran outside. Heloise read the letter a second time, to see if there was something she had missed. There wasn't—Astrane was asking for an invitation.

 

In the evening, after the rushlight had been blown out, Heloise stirred restlessly on her pallet. She clamped her eyelids but they would not remain shut. Beside her, Ceci rolled over. "Heloise," she whispered, "what are you thinking about?"

"Astrane."

"You won't have her." It was a definite statement.

Heloise let a moment slip by in the darkness. Then she said, "Yes. Yes, I believe I will have her."
 

"Heloise!" Ceci sat up.

"Didn't Lord Jesus tell us if someone slaps us on one cheek, turn the other too? And to treat others as we want them to treat us? How can I refuse her!"

"Holy Cross, she betrayed all of us."

"We must love our enemies." Heloise pulled the blanket around her neck. "We get no credit in heaven by merely loving those who love us."

Ceci kept silent. She flopped down on her back, and Heloise could feel her staring in the blackness. Finally Ceci said, resigned, "Mayhap she has changed."

Heloise laughed. "I wouldn't count on it."

After a
while, Ceci said sleepily, "Hard to believe we shall have a
cloister here someday."

"I know."

"Shall we get a lemon tree? In remembrance of Lady Alais?"

 
"I think that would be nice."

Ceci was asleep. As every night, Heloise began her prayers.
Our Father, who desirest that we all be saved, grant that we acquire thy love even as have the angels who do thy pleasure on high. Protect thy servant Abelard. O Lord, watch over him from thy holy place. 1 beseech thee—to protect him in all adversity—
In
sudden despair, she broke off and buried her face in her hands. Why was it so difficult for her to pray? Why couldn't she love God as she loved Abelard, why was it so hard for her to serve God? Why? In fairness to herself, she sometimes felt that she did serve him. But she certainly got no satisfaction from it. It seemed to her that all she ever did was remonstrate with him, as if she were some female reincarnation of Job.
Lord, I believe, even though I have suffered much at thy hands. Help thou mine unbelief and rebellion, my pride and lack of contrition.
She prayed, knowing that God laughed. He knew that she was neither resigned nor submissive.

 

 

 

21

 

 

The sun felt warm
at midday now. The winter rains had stopped and the ground was beginning to dry up. Arnoul sent word that he was bringing a team of oxen and a plow to the north field.

After saying prime, Heloise and Ceci took the mare out through the fields. The strips belonging to the Paraclete were not adjacent. In addition to this one, there were two more to the east, each intermingled with strips held by Milo and the villagers so that it was difficult for Heloise to get straight where her land ended and theirs began.

It was still chilly, because the sun had just risen. They skirted the oak woods and came out into an open space where Arnoul was talking to the villeins who held their land from the Paraclete. Heloise swiveled her neck and gave Ceci a puckish grin.

"Keep your eyes open today, sweet," she said. "Because on Thursday they'll be working their own strips and the plow will be all ours."

"God's toes, when I took vows, nobody said anything about plowing." Pressing her mouth against Heloise's shoulder, Ceci began to laugh. "Look there. Those oxen look mean."

"Shhh. Act like a nun." Heloise jumped the mare over a balk of turf that divided the Paraclete's field from the adjoining one and jogged up to Arnoul. The hooded men inched back, trying not to stare. Several small boys kicked at the dirt. Heloise greeted them with a smile.

"Lady abbess," Arnoul stammered, "it was not necessary for you to come."

She slid gracefully from the mare and helped Ceci down. "Certainly it's necessary," she said. "How else will we learn?" Ceci took the horse to a tree and roped it. "Besides, we've brought your dinners."

"As you wish, lady," Arnoul answered. He looked angry.

Ceci pointed to a wooden grid that lay flat on the ground. "What's that?"

"A harrow," Arnoul said.

"A harrow," Ceci repeated uncertainly, as if it were some exotic machine never before seen in Champagne. The children giggled and nudged each other.

Tugging at Ceci's sleeve, Heloise led her to a balk, where they sat down to watch. The oxen were yoked up. One of the villeins grabbed the plow handles and began guiding it over the ground. He started just to one side of the center of the strip, plowed the entire length, then turned at the end and plowed back along the other side. After a while, Heloise grew almost mesmerized by the repetition of the motions: the coulter cutting the earth, the share breaking it, then the wooden board turning it over. "Arnoul," she called, "has this field been manured recently?"

"No, my lady. By my records, four years ago."

Under her breath she clucked fretfully. The yields would be poor, unless God decided to be merciful and made a miracle.

Two men operated the plow, one of them grasping the handles while his partner walked alongside the oxen with a goad and shouted commands. Both of them swore a lot. After them trailed the men who broke up the larger clods with plow bats.

Above, the sun was climbing the sky. Heloise felt the warmth on her forehead and hands. Three men moved into the row scattering seed broadcast—peas and beans in the furrow, corn and barley on the ridges. Shrieking and squealing, the children ran up and down the field slinging stones at the crows. Arnoul was signaling to a villein, who immediately guided his horse and harrow over the furrows just sown. Ceci jabbed Heloise with her elbow. "Look how many men it takes to do this. There are only two of us."

Heloise smiled at her. "We'll manage."

"How?"

While watching the villeins, Heloise had been thinking about it. "I'll guide the plow. You drive the oxen."
 

"What about the seeding?"

"We can do half the strip, then come back and start seeding and harrowing."

"Sure. And in the meantime the crows will have a belly full."
 

"We'll get Berengar and Abelard to shoo the birds."
 

Ceci laughed.
 

"I'm serious."

"Berengar might do it. Abelard never. You're talking about an abbot."

Heloise shrugged. "We'll see." It would do no harm to ask. Toward midmorning, they could hear the church bell tolling dimly from Saint-Aubin. While the men unyoked the oxen and fed them hay, Heloise and Ceci brought out the food. On those days that the villeins plowed for their lord, it was obligatory to provide them dinner. Wet—with ale. Or dry—without. Heloise had not tasted ale since Christmas, nor had she cash to buy it from the Quincey alewife. Her villeins would not be happy with their dry dinner, she knew. When they came up to get their fish, bread, and cheese, she made a speech explaining the missing ale and asking for their indulgence. They said it didn't matter.

Heloise offered a brief prayer, and then everybody sat on the turf banks and ate. Arnoul, chewing noisily, said to her, "Lady, there was no need to apologize. These men don't expect ale." He talked about them as if they could not hear.

Heloise smiled. "It does no harm to express one's feelings. I'm truly sorry I had no ale for them." She took a crust of bread and smeared cheese on it.

Arnoul went to his horse and came back with a skin of wine. He offered it to Heloise. She shook her head. A few yards away, she could hear the villeins bickering roughly and cursing. The boys were happily stoning each other. Arnoul shouted at them, and they threw down their slingshots and sat on the ground.

Heloise said to Arnoul, "After dinner I would like to take the plow." He nodded, as she had already informed him that she and Ceci would finish the plowing. "Just once or twice down the field. To get the experience of it." He nodded again and fell silent.

After perhaps five minutes, he said, "Abbot Peter. He'll stay for a while?"

"A short while. He must return to Brittany."

"Does he know that you intend to plow yourself?"

She paused to glance at his face. His eyes were bright with disapproval. "I don't know if he knows or not. It is not important."

The bailiff wiped his forehead on his sleeve. "He should hire villeins to work your land. Two women can't do it alone. You need help."

Heloise stood up. "The abbot no longer owns the Paraclete. It is Sister Cecilia and myself who would be hiring, and we have no money. You know that."

Arnoul ground his heel into the dirt. "The abbot could find the money. He could preach."

Her back straight as a board, Heloise looked down at him. "With God's assistance, I shall plow. I'm not made of rock crystal."

Arnoul stood and shouted for the men. They yoked the oxen to the plow. Heloise grasped the handles; Ceci picked up the long switch from a ditch. The villeins stood against the turf balks, watching them. Cautiously, they moved off down the field. The ground was slightly uneven, the plow much heavier than Heloise had imagined. By the middle of the furrow, her arms were beginning to ache. She concentrated on keeping the plow steady. As they neared the end of the row, she heard Ceci shout, "How the hell do I turn these beasts around?"