Stealing Heaven (59 page)

Jourdain nudged Heloise. "She's got rouge on. Nobody has cheeks that pink."

"Rouge?" she said dully. "I wouldn't know about that, friend." Staring at the long train on the queen's gown, she felt drab and ugly. "Let's go." She turned and stumbled down the worn stone steps to the street.

 

“If you wish to understand the Word, you must love!" For more than an hour Bernard had been talking about love, and now even some of the most mesmerized of his admirers were beginning to shuffle their feet restlessly. "A cold heart cannot understand words of fire—"

Heloise, bored, crossed her arms over her chest. Bernard performed all the difficult religious duties—he fasted, he suffered—but he could not endure the easy ones. He did not love. She let her attention drift to the abbot of Clairvaux's face. He seemed on the verge of collapse, but when had he not looked frail? A plucked bird, he had called himself at the Paraclete; he looked in worse condition now, if that were possible. She stretched her neck and shoulders, sweeping her gaze around the jousting ground, over the swaying heads and faces. Suddenly, Bernard's words jolted her back to the wooden platform above her head. "This man,” he was saying, "our theologian, says nothing about love or mystery, although he speaks a great deal." Around Heloise people began to buzz Abelard's name. Furious at herself for wandering, she began to push her way closer to the platform. She could see Bernard lashing out wildly with both arms.

"—his arrogant manner. Of all the expressions in heaven and earth, there is only one that Master Abelard appears not to know." He paused and looked around. "The expression—I know not!"

Heloise blinked hotly. A ray of reddish sunlight struck Bernard's hair, throwing a rosy nimbus about his face and his white robe. From where she stood, he looked like some cadaverous emperor delivering judgment, his fiery head seeming to touch the clouds.

"Master Abelard is a monk without a monastery! A prelate without an office! He adheres to no law, has no rule to restrain him!" Whistles from the crowd corkscrewed through the fading light. "This man sweats hard to prove that Plato was a Christian. But he only ends up proving that he, Abelard, is no better than a pagan himself!"

Shocked that he would dare stoop to this low, spiteful attack on Abelard, Heloise rattled her rosary in helpless frustration. Imbecile! He knew nothing of Abelard's philosophy. Bernard was hammering out venom: "He's a Herod in the trappings of a John the Baptist!" He hopped to the edge of the platform. "He was condemned at Soissons, but his new errors are even worse than his old!" Under her breath, Heloise screamed, "Liar!"

"Master Peter and Arnold of Brescia—that pest that the pope threw out of Italy—these two heretics are actively in league against God and his Christ. This evil must be stamped out!" Bernard rocked convulsively from side to side.

Eyes burning hard, Heloise stood there for a moment, and then she turned and plunged through the onlookers. She would listen to no more. Over to her left, a woman called out, "Devil, Abelard is a devil!" Heloise thrust her hands out, fumbling for open space. Two men passed a wineskin over her shoulder. Behind them, Bernard thundered, "This man is a teacher. His pupils idolize him and, mark me, he influences their minds and hearts. His books are spreading beyond the seas and the Alps, flitting from province to province, from kingdom to kingdom." He was gasping hoarsely, "This man's voice must be stilled!"

At the edge of the field, under the shady green oaks, the air rushed spongy and cool. A sickle moon pierced the sky. Bernard was asking the crowd to pray for the unbeliever, Master Abelard, his words floating down over the field as careless as snowflakes. Heloise gathered up her skirts and ran.

 

It was just after matins when she lay back on her bed, yet sleep would not come. Her mind revolved like a rusty wheel on all that Abbot Bernard had said at the tourney field. Abelard no Christian . . . voice stopped . . . pest. The savagery behind his words still echoed in her ears. She stirred restlessly, picturing Bernard as a fanged hound on the trail of a bleeding lamb. Except that Abelard was no lamb, nor was he wounded. Tomorrow he would devour Bernard. That was the only thought that comforted her.

Heloise closed her eyes, but a moment later, it seemed, the serving-woman rapped on her door, saying that her son waited below. She shrugged on her habit and hurried down. The fire had gone out in the solar; only a single rushlight burned with a slim blue flame. Astrolabe, his face grimed with dust and sweat, stood very still in the center of the room. "Mama," he breathed quickly, "something bad has happened."

She groped for the doorway. "He's fallen sick."

Astrolabe shook his head. "He's well. It's Bernard, that bastard, son of a dog—" His eyes were murderous. Heloise, confused, stared at him.

"—he's condemned Father. He's got all the bishops to condemn him!"

"No!" She flared in irritation. "How could that be? This is not a trial. God's love, it's only a debate."

"It's what I said. Tonight, Bernard invited all the bishops and abbots to a private meeting. It was a supper at the canons' chapter house." His voice rose, excited. "When they finished dining, Bernard sent for Father's books."

"Go on."

"I hate him!" Astrolabe cried wildly. "He started to read certain passages. Out of context. Somehow he persuaded them that Father must be condemned. And nobody—not one—uttered a word of dissent."

"How do you know this?" Heloise asked.
 

"Geoffrey of Chartres was there. He came to Father's room afterward and told us."

Heloise took a step toward him, keeping her eyes on his face. "So then Bishop Geoffrey must also have told you that it was all a farce. A man cannot be sentenced without a trial." Her head began to pound. She heard the servant tramping about in the pantry.

Astrolabe wiped his face on the shoulder of his tunic. "Wait. Geoffrey said that everyone was drunk. The wineskins kept going around the trestles, and the men were laughing and making jokes. They called Father names."

"Bernard was drinking!" Heloise said, startled. "I can't imagine—"

"He got them drunk!" Astrolabe shouted. "By the end of the meal, most of them were half asleep and the rest were wagging their heads. When Bernard asked for condemnation, people started mumbling,
'Namus.'"

She broke into harsh laughter.
"Namus?
We swim?"

"Mama, they meant to say We condemn/
Damnamus."
He turned his face into the shadows, breathing hard.

Heloise cleared her throat and said, "What did Bishop Geoffrey have to say about
that?"

"1
don't know—nothing. He only said that Father should expect to be called to public account tomorrow, that he must either defend his views or repudiate them."

"Ah. Then the assembly is no longer a forum but a court of law."

"Geoffrey was very angry. He said that Father should refuse to appear. Go back to Paris."

"Flee?" She frowned. "He wouldn't—"

"No, he'll stay." He sank on a stool and hunched forward, his head cradled in his hands.

Heloise came to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "The servant is still awake. Can I order some wine?"

"Please." He stared at the floor. "Mama, why do people hate Father?"

Heloise was silent. After a moment, she said, "Did you notice the ribbed vaults in the cathedral? It's an entirely new principle of building. They appear to soar into the air and stand alone without any support."

He lifted his head and nodded wearily.

"Well," she said, "those vaults are like Abelard's thoughts."

He began to cry in tiny hiccuping whimpers. Heloise kissed his hair and went to find wine.

 

She woke at dawn. Through the cracks of the shutters, the sun was probing spears of brilliant yellow. It would be warm again today.

She slipped out of the covers and dressed quickly. Around her, the rest of the household still slept. She went downstairs to the pantry, took a loaf of yesterday's bread, and tucked it into her sleeve. Latching the main door behind her, she set out for the cathedral.

Already there were several dozen gowned students sprawled in the nave, having slept there all night in order to get a place. Heloise briskly marched up the aisle to a small section near the front that had been set aside for nuns. Scrambling under the rope barrier, she settled on the floor and bowed her head to say the morning office. Afterward, she brought out the bread and forced herself to chew.

By terce, the cathedral was thronged. It was just like the previous day, except that this morning's crowd was noisy and unruly. They had not come to a religious service, but to witness a tournament and defend their champion. The more blood the better, Heloise thought bitterly. The mob grew restless, stamped its feet, and spat impatient whistles. Around Heloise, the women swaddled in black whispered discreetly, while the abbess of Notre Dame-aux-Nonnains complained about the heat and the town's poor accommodations for visitors. Heloise craned her neck. The nave was packed to its last cranny.

Presently, the choir began to fill up. On one side were seated the bishops and abbots, gorgeously robed. In their midst, she caught sight of Bishop Geoffrey, who was the papal legate. Next to the bishop, stiff as a carved capital, sat Abbot Bernard in his white Cistercian wool, his hands folded in his lap. His eyes were closed, as if to shut out the vulgar assortment of humanity. On the opposite side of the choir had gathered the lay dignitaries—King Louis and Queen Eleanor with their courtiers, Count Thibaut of Champagne, the crabbed old Count of Nevers. There were many others whom she did not recognize. Everyone was sumptuous in his spring finery. A little lower down, near the choir steps, was a section crammed solid with black-robed monks. Heloise leaned around the head of the nun in front of her, trying to pick out Abelard. The crowd banged feet against the stone floor.

Abbot Bernard stood and walked briskly to the center of the choir. Silence dropped. Heloise waited to hear how he would open the assembly. It was a few moments before she realized, to her intense astonishment, that he had no intention of opening it. Instead, he was beckoning to somebody at the side of the choir. A white-robed monk advanced, his arms laden with books, and he laid them on a
table near Bernard.

The abbot ignored the books. He took a step forward and said, "At Master Abelard's request, the archbishop of Sens wrote to me and asked if we might meet, so that Master Abelard might defend his propositions which I have condemned. My initial reaction was to refuse." A murmur eddied through the nave. Bernard gave a
fey smile. "For one thing, he has been a
debater from the cradle, just as Goliath was a
warrior. Compared to him, I'm merely a child."

Heloise grunted under her breath.

Bernard was going on. "For another, I felt it was unseemly that the cause of the faith should be defended by the feeble arguments of one man."

The abbess of Nonnains twisted to the nun at her side. "What did he say?" she shouted.

"That he didn't want to come," said the nun.

 
Heloise looked up sharply. "Shhh."

An angry voice growled, "Pox take you! Get on with the debate!"

Ignoring the catcalls, the abbot said loudly, "On several occasions, I've asked Master Abelard for a statement of his faith. He has been given the opportunity to deny that he writes heresy. Or to amend his works in a spirit of humility." Triumphant, he gazed about the choir. "He has refused!"

In the monks' section, men were muttering openly and darting comments over each other's heads. An angry claque began down in the nave, awkwardly bawling, "Master Peter, Master Peter . . ." Something sailed through the air, splattering against the choir steps, and the claque still yelled, "Master Peter . . ."

Face working intensely, Bernard lifted his arms. "It is not I who condemn his writings. He is condemned by his own words," From his sleeve he whipped a sheet of parchment and unfolded it. "Those who have ears to hear, let them hear." Without pausing for breath, he started to read: "Heresy Number One. Christ is not one of the three persons in the Trinity. Heresy Number Two. Free will is sufficient, without the help of grace"—suddenly Abelard sprang to his feet—"to ensure our ability to do good."

Heloise straightened and watched Abelard's face. Scarcely breathing, she waited for him to interrupt Bernard. But he stood motionless, rapt and shockingly white, his lips pressed together. The claque swung into clapping, and some of the monks in the choir picked it up. Reluctantly turning to face Abelard, the abbot shouted over the racket, "Master Peter, do you deny writing Heresy Number Two? Feel free to answer without fear and in whatever way you choose."

Instantly, the enormous cathedral was quiet. Her habit clammy with perspiration, Heloise strained to see. Abelard's face was glazed; he did not move or speak, and after a moment he looked down at his feet.

"Heresy Number Three," Bernard said, raiding the parchment sheet. "There is no sin without consent to sin." He darted a quick shake of the head to King Louis. "The man stubbornly refuses to speak. Heresy Number—“

Swaying like a man walking in his sleep, Abelard slowly began to move forward. Bernard broke off. Stepping into the aisle that divided the choir, Abelard stopped, turned his head toward the bishops, and then swiveled and slowly surveyed the young king. The voice that had enthralled two generations of scholars filled the choir and nave. "I refuse," he cried out, "to be judged like a guilty clerk. I appeal to Rome."

The choir enclosure broke into a hum of confusion, like a wind scattering sleet through the forest. Bernard shrugged. Wheeling, Abelard made a gesture toward his right and strode down the choir steps, down the aisle past Heloise, back through the nave to the west portal. After him ran Astrolabe and a half dozen others.

The cathedral broke into a roar. The dismayed prelates sat gaping at the astonished faces in the nave. Only Abbot Bernard appeared unperturbed.

With a flourish of disgust, the abbess of Nonnains turned to Heloise and demanded loudly, "Do you mean it's over? Where has Master Peter gone? What on earth—" Heloise paid no attention. She sat like a ghost, shivering and invisible, and rocked forward until the half-eaten bread crumbled in her sleeve. She felt sick to her stomach. All around her, people were muttering and yelling; they had come to be entertained, but the main attraction had suddenly bolted the arena. Rising slowly on trembly legs, she pushed her way to a side entrance and staggered into the hot sunshine. A monk rushed up to her. "Sister," he asked, "do you know why Master Abelard left? Is it true, did he walk out?"