Stealing Heaven (51 page)

On St. Martin's Day, Abelard rode up to Nogent-sur-Seine, to pay his respects to Lord Milo. Before noon it began to rain. He was away all day, and when he returned, his cloak soaked, he picked at his dinner and said barely a dozen words to the nuns. After the meal, Heloise waited until the others had left before she approached. She gave him some wine mixed with herbs. He drank without speaking. Hesitating, Heloise said, "Is there anything you would like to tell me?"

He looked up, wary. "Tell you? What would I have to tell you?"

"My lord. Something is wrong. I can see that."

He laughed, choking.

"Did something happen at Nogent?" She meant to discover the reason for his unaccountable bad temper.

Silence. Then: "People in these parts have a poor opinion of me." When she began to protest, he flicked his hands impatiently and would not allow her to continue. "When I left here in the spring, they said I had abandoned you, that I could have helped you and didn't. Now they're saying—" He broke off, leaning his head between his hands.

Heloise wondered who "they" were. "My lord abbot, I don't know what you're talking about. After God, you are the founder of this place. Surely you won't allow idle chatter to upset you this way."

He jerked back his head. "Idle chatter? Not at all. Malicious insinuations. Monstrous accusations."

Heloise, shaken, sat down across from him. She said, “Tell me.”

Abelard would not meet her eyes. "That I am still a slave to the pleasures of carnal desire—" "My lord—"

"That I can't bear to be parted from the woman I once loved."

Heloise turned her head away, blinded with hurt.
Once loved.

"For the love of Christ, I'm a eunuch! In my present condition, how can there be any suspicion of wrongdoing?" His voice snarled with pain.

Involuntarily, she stretched her hand to him, then laid it down awkwardly on the trestle between them. His eyes met hers briefly before jerking away. At last, Heloise said simply, "We need you here." There was no reply, and when she looked up, she saw that his eyes were closed, his body rigid. "Stay here. We need you."

He went on as if he had not heard. "What does it take to please them? I”m not a man anymore. I'm a thing. An it." He laughed hollowly, but the laugh made the skin on Heloise's neck crawl.

She waited for him to continue, but he did not. After a while, she slipped into the kitchen, sagged against the wall, and wept into her sleeve. The room stank of half-smoked flesh and dried herbs. She stared at the wall, thinking of Abelard in the next chamber. There were so many things she wanted to tell him: that she had been thinking of draining the marsh, that she was going to see the pope, that she loved him yet. She wished that he wanted to listen. It struck her that he was not really uninterested, only self-absorbed. She wiped her face and went in to him.

He was standing by the open shutters, looking out at the rain, which had settled into a steady drizzle.

"My lord, there is something I must speak about."

He glanced over his shoulder before turning to her. Her fingers picked nervously at her wimple. "My lord, I understand that the pope is at Auxerre."

"That's correct."

"Auxerre is but a short journey from here. I was thinking of— well, I had planned to—visit him."

Abelard's voice flared sharply. "By God, why! There's no reason to do that."

"I want to get a charter confirming my ownership of the Paraclete."
 

"Yes, yes. All that will be taken care of. Bishop Hatto promised me—"

"The bishop is a busy man," she said calmly. "We've been here ten months and still no charter."

"It is not proper for you to leave here." His face was turning red. "You must attend to your flock."

Heloise was surprised to find him so vehement. His own flock sat unattended, sometimes for months at a stretch. "I understand your concern, but my flock can do without me for a week. It's more important that I obtain recognition before the pope leaves France."

"Send someone else."

Heloise shook her head.

"I will go for you."

"No." She could feel her stomach knotting, waiting for him to forbid her, and then she knew that she would back down. "I wish to go myself."

Abelard lifted his shoulders wearily. He stared at her for a moment before murmuring stiffly, "Very well. Then go if you must. You give the orders here now."

Before she could answer, he had plunged into the rain.

At the end of the week, she set out for Auxerre, and she took with her as escort Arnold's second-eldest son. Abelard accompanied them as far as Sens. The town was crowded, and she was in a hurry to find the road leading south to Auxerre. Aside from that, she sensed that Abelard felt uneasy with her, that he was anxious to make his farewell and return to Saint-Gildas. Before she cried, she wanted to be away from him.

The day was foggy, with a damp wind that ripped at her wimple. She left Abelard near the Troyes Gate. Tipping back in his saddle, he smiled pleasantly and gazed somewhere directly behind her left ear.

Heloise said, "My lord, you won't forget to send me the psalter and the abacus."

"Of course not. I'll send them the day I get to Saint-Gildas."

"Shall I give the pope your best wishes?" She was stalling now, dreading the moment when she must turn from him. Of all the things that she needed in this world, she needed him near her. But God had willed otherwise.

"Certainly," he said. "Please do that." He nodded vaguely.

Heloise's mare stamped impatiently. The bells in the cathedral began to pound. "Farewell," she said to Abelard, miserable. “Till we meet again, my lord."

“Till we meet again."

She spurred the mare, following Arnold's boy down the path that led back to the highroad.

 

Pope Innocent, the second of that name, smiled and fingered his jeweled miter. A beefy, stoop-shouldered man with a hawk nose, he more resembled a smith than a pontiff. For a long while, he listened while Heloise talked about the Paraclete, and he continued to smile. "And when do you find time to read? Tell me that, child."

Heloise wanted to laugh at the word "child"—she was over thirty. It reminded her of Lady Alais. Arranging her face into a pious expression, she said, "At night, Your Holiness." That was only partly true. Most nights she was asleep before her head hit the pallet, but when she did read it was late in the day.

"The venerable Peter of Cluny has told me about you. He likened you to Penthesilea—"

"Your Grace," Heloise said, "I'm no Amazon. Only a frail woman in need of assistance."

Innocent shook his head. "I don't say that to flatter you. But it's clear to me that God must have set you apart when you were in your mother's womb." He scratched his nose vigorously. "Through the grace of the Almighty, you turned your zeal for learning in a far better direction."

"Yes, Your Holiness."

"Fortunately, you abandoned logic for the Gospel, Plato for Christ."
 

"Yes, Your Holiness."

Innocent beamed. "You bring supreme glory to the Creator, child."

Heloise stared at the floor, trying not to wince. After Innocent had assured her of a jeweled crown from the King of Heaven, he shouted for the clerk and began to dictate the bull.

". . . confirm to her and her sisters, as well as those who shall come after them, the perpetual possession of the Oratory of the Holy Trinity . . ."

Heloise listened, remembering Abbot Suger and his forged charter. His lies had forced her and Ceci into the road—and killed Aristotle. This time, perhaps, she would be safe.

". . . confirm the gifts which have been received and those they may receive through the concessions of pontiffs, the munificence of kings and princes, and the liberality of the faithful . . ."

The scratching of the clerk's quill grated in the small chamber.

"Given on this twenty-eighth day of November in the year of Our Lord eleven hundred and thirty-one."

Afterward, the pope offered to take the Paraclete under the personal protection of the Apostolic See, for which privilege Heloise would have to remit a sum of money annually to the Lateran Palace. Small as the amount was, it seemed enormous, and she wondered how she would be able to pay. However, she mumbled her thanks as she kissed Innocent's ring. She recognized a good bargain when she heard one.

 

 

 

22

 

 

Heloise woke shivering
. Her chamber was icy, and the raw air clawed at her body through the blankets. Without opening her eyes, she knew that someone had come into the room. Abruptly, she sat up, squinting in the dark.

"Lady Heloise." Gertrude was whispering hoarsely.

A moment longer Heloise clung to sleep, and then she dragged her mind alert. "What hour is it?"

"An hour until lauds—lady, there's a
knight at the gate." Gertrude's shoes rasped against the stone floor as she came toward Heloise's bed. "God's pardon for disturbing you, but I don't know what to do with him."

"Did you tell him we have no guesthouse?"

"Yes, lady, but—"

Now she could see Gertrude's face, a
white blob in the shadows. She rubbed her eyes to scratch the sleep from them. "Surely he understands that we can't admit him to the cloister." She could not turn him away, either—it must be close to zero outside.

"Lady, listen, it's you he wants to see. He says it's of the most extreme importance. Otherwise I wouldn't have waked you."

Behind her head, the shutters rattled, and in the distance she could hear horses nickering. "Very well, I'm coming." Quickly she threw back the covers and fumbled for her shoes. "This man. Did he mention the nature of his business?"

"Take your cloak. It's very cold."

"Did he—"

"No, lady. Only that he's in the service of a
Lord Jourdain of Sancy. Does that mean anything to you?"

Heloise stiffened. "Yes," she said, "that means something." Fear struck her in the chest. It had been more than a year since she had last seen Abelard, or had heard from him. There had been only a
baffling silence. God forbid that Jourdain's messenger should be bringing news of Abelard.
Don't let him be dead, please don't let him be dead.
She followed Gertrude through the nuns' sleeping chamber and out into the half-built cloister.

Shafts of moonlight dusted bluish shadows against the snow. In the darkness, Heloise covered her mouth with her hand and sucked in her own moist breath. She puffed along behind Gertrude, her toes numbing before they had reached the gatehouse.

It was bitter inside Gertrude's lodge. A cresset flamed weakly on the wall. The knight, clutching his cloak around his ears, stared curiously at Heloise. When she held out her hand, he hobbled toward her on frozen feet and dropped to his knees. "Lady Heloise, excuse me for this discourtesy."

He was a young man with a short blond beard and watery eyes. As he pressed his lips to her hand, she realized that he threatened to collapse from exposure and exhaustion. "What is your name, son?"

"Garin, my lady. I serve Lord Jourdain, who is castellan of—"

Impatiently, she gestured him to his feet. "Yes, yes, I know all that. You have some message for me?"

Garin stood up. "My lady," he said, uncertainly, "I'm bound for the court at Troyes. My mission is to deliver this, er, letter—I mean document—to, er, Count Thibaut." He swallowed several times. "I can't tarry because I've been delayed, you see. The snow—" He began describing the drifts around Sens when Heloise broke in.

“I don't understand. What does all this have to do with me?"

"Oh, yes. Well, it has something." Scratching his chin, he glanced at Gertrude and then back at Heloise. "Lady, I'd better start again. I'm getting confused."

"I'm sorry. Go on." She waited.

"My lord Jourdain has given me this packet for Count Thibaut. I'm to show it to Lady Heloise. She may read it, but I am not to leave it with her. It's for the count. You see?"

Heloise nodded, smiling slightly. “I see." Garin did not move. "Well then, suppose you give it to me."

Garin crossed to a saddlebag that had been dumped by the door. A moment later, he handed Heloise a package wrapped in skin and bound with a string. "This is a treatise of some sort?"

"No, my lady. A letter."

"Really?" She tugged off the skin and saw that the bundle contained perhaps a hundred sheets of parchment. "A long letter. And when am I to read this?" She smiled at him.

"Why, now," Garin said. He yawned into his beard.

She smiled at Gertrude. "In the middle of the night?" In her opinion, the lad was a little simpleminded. She glanced at the first page; the handwriting was neat but unfamiliar. There was no inscription, but at the top left corner she noticed a few small words in Jourdain's hand.
Abelard's letter of consolation to his friend.
Heloise's throat dried up. She gasped, "This is a letter of Abelard's?"

Garin nodded.

"But it's not his handwriting."

 
"A copy, my lady."

She sent Gertrude to the kitchen to get food and drink for Garin. There was little in their stores, barely enough for one meal a day if they ate sparingly, but she trusted Gertrude to find some morsel. Garin dropped on a stool. Shaking with excitement, Heloise glanced at the opening lines of the letter.

"There are times when example is better than precept for stirring or soothing human passions; and so I propose to follow up the words of consolation I gave you in person with the history of my own misfortunes, hoping thereby to give you comfort in absence." Heloise frowned, wondering to whom Abelard had written these words. "In comparison with my trials you will see that your own are nothing . . ."

"When she looked up, Garin's chin was slumping on his chest. "Sir Garin, I'll go now and read this. Sister Gertrude is getting food. You can sleep here—" As she turned toward the door, he called after her.

"I forgot something," he said. "Lord Jourdain said to be sure and tell you—he does not send the letter to hurt you. You may not like what you read, but he thought you would like to see it." He added solemnly, "My lord got furious over it."