Stealing Heaven (61 page)

Heloise sent a nun after Ceci's horse. She followed the women into the vestibule and passed out a side entrance into the garden that would serve them as a cloister. On a bench, half hidden by a leafless apple tree, sat the archbishop with his face buried in a handkerchief. He sneezed explosively. When he saw Heloise, he rose and sneezed again. "My lord archbishop." She went to him.

"Lady Heloise." He sniffed. "What a glorious day." He flashed her a watery smile.

"My lord, you sound ill."

He waved away her concern. "It's nothing. A mere cold, a simple matter of some sneezes and a sore throat." Hugo was a small man, and his voluminous archiepiscopal robe made him appear even smaller. He went on at some length about his cold. He thought that he probably caught it at his coronation, but he was not sure. In any case, he was glad of an opportunity to get out of Sens, into the pure air of the countryside, which he expected to cure him by sundown. He sat on the bench again and gestured with his soaked handkerchief that she should join him. "Tell me now, what is the schedule?"

"Dinner first. Then later the installation ceremony. Lord Anselm should be arriving momentarily."

"Amen. And the abbess. What is her name?"

"Gertrude," she replied. "A capable woman."

"Well, then,” said Hugo. He blew his nose. "There is nothing for me to do but wait for dinner." Abruptly, he added, "Did you bring wine?"

She suppressed a smile. "Aye. From our own vines. My women are unloading the stores now."

"That might help, some spiced wine. With cinnamon and nutmeg. Soothes the throat, you know." He extracted a clean handkerchief from his sleeve.

She got up and went into the house. In the kitchen, nuns had brought in wood and lit a fire, and her niece, Agathe, was laying trout in a long pan. Heloise said, "Sweet, get someone to unpack the wine and make up a spiced henap for the archbishop."

"He's a big drinker?" Agathe grinned.

"A cold." She looked at Agathe and memory caught at her heart. She was Denise's daughter, but still it was hard for Heloise to remember that. Denise had done her harm, and she had forgiven her. Not forgotten, though. Agathe had inherited nothing from her mother except her piety. "We must unpack the kitchen utensils first," she said. "Later this afternoon is time enough to start on the beds."

A group of nuns balancing part of a trestle on their shoulders inched past her in the direction of the refectory. Heloise swung around them and hurried back to the garden. Hugo was dabbing at his eyes. "Wine is coming, my lord. Now, what can I tell you about Sainte-Madelaine?"

He smiled. “There's no need to give me a report, if that's what you mean. Your order is well known. Anselm has been generous with you?"

"Very. He built a chapel and stables. And he will do more in future. He has sworn to be our protector."

Hugo muttered something. He shot a quick glance at her and said suddenly, "Speaking of protectors, what news of Master Abelard? I've heard that he joined Cluny. But mayhap that is rumor."

Heloise looked down at her lap. "You heard rightly. He is teaching there. Abbot Peter has made him master of the oblates' school." Astrane was coming into the garden with a goblet. "Here," Heloise called.

Hugo took the cup and drained half of it. "Strong," he said. "That's what I wanted." Astrane backed away, hands folded. She bowed and went into the house. "Abbot Peter is a good physician. Smart. Knows that minds should not stand idle. Abelard's health—is it better?"

"Worse."

"A pity. Terrible thing—what happened at Sens. Unfair. But Peter will look after him." Hugo finished off the cup and laid it on the bench between them. Agathe must have put the fish on the fire, because aromas were drifting into the garden.

"The abbot?" Heloise said, almost tentative. "He is a good man?"

"Largehearted," Hugo said. "Always smiling. Serene temperament, but he has plenty of spirit, if you know what I mean."

Heloise nodded. Astrolabe had written her that his father occupied himself with things of the mind—reading, prayer, and meditation. His habit had grown shabby, but he did not seem to notice. At Cluny all was peaceful, and his favorite spot there was a
lime tree where he rested with his face turned toward the Paraclete. Hugo coughed and mumbled something. "Pardon, my lord."

"I said that Arnold of Brescia has been teaching Abelard's classes at Sainte-Genevieve."

Startled, she answered, "I didn't know that."

He fingered the goblet. "And having little success, I might add. His students have dwindled to a handful. Has your son returned to the Ile?"

"No. Not yet." There was a commotion in the house, and she heard the bark of a
man's voice. Lord Anselm.

"He plans to continue his studies, doesn't he?"

"In the spring. For now he remains with his father."

"Wise," Hugo murmured. They sat in silence until Astrane came out to announce Anselm.

All afternoon, she smiled automatically, her mind elsewhere. Lord Anselm's wife was there and his three sons, boys of Astrolabe's age more or less. Anselm had brought the keys to the house. Nose dripping, Archbishop Hugo drew up a charter of foundation and charged Anselm, overlord of the region and benefactor of the Paraclete, to care for the daughters of Christ. He was to look after their needs, for the love of God and for the health of his soul. Heloise, standing apart, watched Gertrude accept the charter.

Hugo pressed the keys into Gertrude's hand. "Welcome," he said, smiling, "welcome to this place in which henceforth you will love and serve God."

Heloise shut her eyes. She wondered what Abelard was doing.

 

Abelard insisted that Astrolabe must return to Paris. He did not want to, but Peter the Venerable talked to him and explained things. On his way north, the young man turned east and headed for the Paraclete. Heloise felt uneasy when she saw his drooping face, although she assured him that he looked splendid. Later, she told Ceci that he looked as if he had not slept for weeks.

"He doesn't like being ordered around," Ceci said. "I don't see why he couldn't have stayed."

Privately, Heloise agreed, but she knew that Abelard must have a
reason. In the morning, she brought Astrolabe bread and ale, and sat on the edge of his bed while he ate. She talked, but he sat stiff and silent, not meeting her eyes. At last, she said, "Son, I'm sorry to see you so troubled."

"I'm not troubled," he mumbled.

"Well, then. Whatever it is that's ailing you." He had a mulish temper, like his father. And his father's moods, too. He blurted, "Father's leaving the abbey."

Her lips twitched imperceptibly. "He's leaving. Where is he going?"

"Saint-Marcel," Astrolabe said.

"And what sort of house is that?" she asked evenly.

"A small priory of Cluny's. Near Chalon-sur-Saone." He tipped the ale cup, drank, and wiped his mouth. "The climate is mild in that part of Burgundy."

She took the cup from him. "Saint-Marcel. What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing. I didn't say anything is wrong with it." He sank against the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut. His face showed nothing. He repeated, "It's a fine place."

Was it really? From his description, it sounded like a house for monks who were seriously ill. "I think," she said, choosing her words carefully, "that it sounds lovely. Your father will be well cared for there?"

"Oh, very."

"Then there is no problem."

"None," he said dully.

"Astrolabe—"

"Yes?" His eyes opened.

"Look, you have a life of your own to live. Things to do. You must return to your studies." She waited for a reply. Nothing. Standing, she said at last, "Don't you want to get dressed this morning?"

"If you want me to." When she reached out her hand to stroke his hair, he pushed her away. She saw his eyes filling. He said, "Leave me alone, stop looking at me—"

Heloise reared back and looked at the wall. When she glanced at him a moment later, he was digging his face into the pillow like a rabbit homing into its hole. She could think of no words to console him. Finally she murmured, "We are all in God's hands." The words came out stiff and flat—and meaningless. He did not answer, for which she couldn't blame him. She went out.

Three days later, he set out for Paris, still grieving over a loss that had not yet taken place. In that, he was her son.

 

Easter fell late that year. The guesthouse was unusually crowded with pilgrims, among them the Countess of Champagne. The purpose of her visit was to discuss with Heloise the founding of another daughter house—Baldwin of Closfontaine would donate the land and she, Mathilde, the funds for building. It was an interesting proposal; Heloise said she would think about it. As it turned out, most of the talk that Easter was about war, a subject that concerned all of them a great deal more than any new convent. Count Thibaut was feuding with King Louis, or perhaps it was the other way round, Heloise was not certain. It was over some family matter that sounded absurd to her. Countess Mathilde told her that Louis had threatened to invade Champagne. Heloise could not imagine the monkish Louis invading anything and said so.

"Those kind are the most vicious," Mathilde retorted. "The ones who look innocent."

Heloise raised her eyebrows. "But he seems so sweet," she insisted.

"He's a Capetian, isn't he? Which is why, dear lady, blood will flow."

The Monday after Easter, the countess went back to Troyes; the guesthouse emptied and the yard was strangely silent. The lull that comes after a big feast day. Heloise sat at her trestle, catching up on correspondence. She reread a letter from Astrolabe. Not really a letter, more of a memorandum. The boy could be maddeningly uncommunicative on occasion, and this was one of them. He had signed up with a master but neglected to mention names or course titles. Paris was extremely crowded and he had had trouble finding a room. Finally he had taken lodgings on the Rue de Petite-Orberie, which, he explained, was near Notre Dame. Sometimes he seemed to forget that she had once lived in the Ile, or perhaps he did so deliberately. Heloise remembered the street; it was not far from the Rue des Chantres. A picture of Fulbert's house blinked into her mind. Just as swiftly she pushed it out, got up, and went to the window.

In the cloister, the morning sun was washing the ferny new grass and the gravel paths bordered with fleur-de-lis and pansies. A group of schoolgirls huddled around the fountain, dipping their fingers into the water and spraying each other's bliauts. As Astrane came by, they stopped and sprawled gracelessly on the grass. When they noticed Heloise at the window, they laughed and waved.

She walked around to the door and went out. One of the children called, "Lady Heloise, come here! Marie, tell her."

Smiling, she came slowly down the path toward them, and turned to the youngest of the boarders, a girl of five with an aureole of frizzy blond hair. 'Tell me what, sweeting?"

Marie said eagerly, "We're going to get a war." She said it as if she were talking about a sweetmeat.

"Do you know what a war is?" Heloise asked gravely.

Marie shrugged her scrawny shoulders. "When soldiers fight with swords," she piped proudly.

"Yes. And when many people who are not soldiers get killed and their houses and fields burned."

The child's mouth gaped into an O. "Dead, you mean? People get dead?" Heloise nodded. "Why does King Louis want us to get dead, why, lady?"

Heloise kicked a clump of loose dirt back into the flower bed. "King Louis doesn't want us dead. He's angry at the count."

"Why?" Marie insisted. 'Tell me, I'll understand."

Heloise sat down on a bench and pulled the child into her lap. Marie twisted one arm around Heloise's neck. "Because," Heloise said, "the king's cousin put aside Count Thibaut's niece so that he could marry Queen Eleanor's sister. Now, does that make sense to you?" It certainly made no sense to her. Marie nodded vigorously. The portress was hurrying across the walk, signaling Heloise. When Marie saw her, she scrabbled off Heloise's lap.

"Sister Elizabeth, listen—do you know something?" The portress ignored her. "Sister, I have something—"

Elizabeth stopped a yard from Heloise. "Lady abbess, a visitor for you. A monk. Brother Thibaut."

Heloise looked up vaguely, still thinking about Queen Eleanor and her sister. "What does Brother Thibaut wish to see me about?" She stifled a yawn.

"Wouldn't say. For your ears only, he told me." Elizabeth scowled. "Shall I send him away?"

"No, no. Don't do that. I'm coming."

Marie tugged at Elizabeth's skirt. "Sister—"

“Later, lovey," she said. “Later." She wheeled briskly and started toward the courtyard. Heloise strolled behind.

The yard was deserted. Brother Thibaut sat on a shady bench under the wall, his hands folded. When he saw her, he stood and bowed. Heloise came forward, smiling. "God's greeting. What can I do for you, Brother?"

"Lady." His voice was the texture of cobblestones. "I come from Saint-Marcel."

Heloise tensed. She raked his face with her eyes, asking the question without speaking. He nodded. "When?"

"Nearly a week ago." He watched her curiously. "The twenty-first day of April."

The twenty-first. Frantically she cast back in time, struggling to remember that day. It must have been the Wednesday after Palm Sunday. What had she been doing that day? She couldn't remember. Abelard had gone and she had not missed him; no dream, vision, or portent had warned her. She thought, I have been living without him for five days. She said to the monk, "What hour of the day did he die?"

"Around nones. Shortly after."

"In bed? Was his mind clear? Brother, don't hold back." Her voice rose. "Tell me everything."

"He was sitting under a walnut tree. Reading, I think. He was always bent over his books. Never let a moment pass without praying or reading." He added, "Insofar as his health would permit."

Heloise nodded. She looked up at the gatehouse. A crow strutted along the edge of the roof. "Yes," she said.

Brother Thibaut said, "His sickness worsened during Lent. But he wouldn't keep to his bed. He said that he felt better when he sat outside. He had his chair—"