The Sharp Hook of Love Page 23

  “I am thinking of my future—of our future. Did you not refuse to marry me at first out of the same concern? I will lose my position, my book, everything if the bishop discovers that”—he glanced around and lowered his voice—“that we are married.”

  “You should have thought of that before you forced me to become your wife.”

  “Who forced you to do anything? Did my hand drag you to the altar?”

  I wished, then, not for the first time, that I could cry. Tears might have softened Abelard’s heart, causing him to relent.

  “I only want to see my son. You promised to obtain lodgings for me in Paris and bring him here to live with me. When will this happen, Abelard? Winter will soon be upon us, and I see no effort to abide by your promises.”

  “Shh,” he said. “Lower your voice, I pray.”

  “Why? So you can continue to keep our love—and our child—a secret?” He worried more about being discovered than about my despair. “I am weary of secrets!” I cried.

  Then we heard a rustle of leaves, and the sickening sound of snapping vines, like crunching bones.

  “Who goes there? Is someone in distress?” A man wearing the canon’s alb emerged from among the vines, his bald pate shining in the starlight, his little eyes like pinpricks of light focused on the sight of Abelard and me lying side by side, my bodice unlaced and skirt lifted, his braies removed and mentula exposed.

  “Roger,” I whispered, recognizing my uncle’s assistant in the Nôtre-Dame library. I rolled over and hid my face.

  Abelard cursed under his breath. “Leave this to me,” he whispered. “Good evening, Roger.” He stood, half-clothed, shielding me or attempting to do so.

  “Master Abaelardus! And—is that Heloise?” He stretched his neck to peer at me. “Mon Dieu! Please forgive me—I heard a shout, and thought—”

  “All is well. She and I have been stargazing.” Roger’s gaze dropped to our astralabes, lying where we had dropped them. “But the stars in the sky cannot compete with those in her eyes. Don’t you agree?”

  “So—it is true, what I have heard about the two of you.” Roger chuckled with pleasure, already spinning his tale in his mind, no doubt, feeding as he did on others’ misfortunes. “Canon Fulbert will be surprised to learn of it. He has defended you most vehemently against the rumors. The poor man. His shame!” Roger clucked his tongue, but continued to smile.

  “My uncle knows about us,” I said.

  Roger lifted his eyebrows, and I saw that I had erred. “Fulbert condones his niece’s affair with her magister?”

  “We are in love and would marry,” Abelard said. “But continence is required of me, as you know.”

  “Even the most devout of men may be allowed to rest in a woman’s arms from time to time,” Roger said, nodding.

  Abelard cleared his throat and, stepping forward, took Roger aside. Sitting alone under the infinite stars, I lifted my face to the rolling, restless orb of the universe. Roger would tell all, to everyone who would listen.

  I noted the grim set of Abelard’s mouth as he bade farewell to Roger and returned to me.

  “Roger loves nothing more than to talk.”

  “He enjoys talking, yes, especially about others.” Abelard mustered a smile. “But he will not talk about us.”

  How could Abelard be so certain? I asked.

  “Because as much as Roger loves slander and scandal, he loves money more. And I have promised to pay him handsomely for his silence.”

  But where would Abelard find the money? He had spent all his silver on our journeys to le Pallet. We needed more, and quickly, to seal Roger’s lips.

  I would talk to him myself, I decided, having caused our discovery. Quarreling’s the marriage dowry, the poet wrote, but I should have subdued my protests. Now my indiscretion would bring our ruin unless I convinced Roger to hold his tongue for my sake. He had always dealt with me kindly and regarded me with fondness. I had no choice but to go to him and try the methods of argument Abelard had taught to coax the tale-teller to silence.

  I hastened to the scriptorium the next morning, hoping my uncle would not be there. The Nôtre-Dame cantor, Alfred, had attained the deacon’s post my uncle had wanted, but Uncle Fulbert had risen, as well. At the request of Bishop Guibert, who had taken note of his rich voice, Uncle had taken over Alfred’s duties for the time being. Choral rehearsals now occupied most mornings.

  I found Roger in the library alone, on a ladder, dusting the books on their shelves. When I entered, he climbed down and led me to the back of the room, behind a curtain and into a dim space containing parchment, inks in varying colors, and a large table used to repair damaged manuscripts.

  “I need to speak with you about last night,” I said in a low voice. “Master Petrus—”

  “Has already spoken with me. Alas, he could not produce the sum he promised last night.” Roger shook his head. “The magister is rich in promises, non?”

  “How much did he offer?” I reached for my money pouch, which contained the few coins I had managed to set aside since returning to my uncle’s house.

  “Much more than you possess in that purse. But my loyalty cannot be purchased. I should have said as much to the master last night, had he not tempted me with his forty pieces of silver.”

  My hopes sank at these words. “Keeping our secret would be a betrayal? Should it become known, who would suffer more than I?”

  “And through whose fault? None other than that of Master Petrus, a man with more years and experience than you—quite a few more years—who ought to know better than to take advantage of his scholar.” Roger wagged his finger. “You, a girl of virtue as pure as snow. Master Petrus ought to be ashamed.”

  “You err, Roger. He did not ‘take advantage.’ Our love is mutual.”

  “Non. You err. A man such as Petrus Abaelardus does not love, not in the way you think. I wonder, I do, what promises he has made to you. Your uncle had every right to know about the teacher and his own niece, non? Compromising you in the vineyard, where anyone might find you! Be glad that I appeared, and not your uncle Fulbert.”

  “He—had a right to know?” I touched the wall to steady myself. “You have told my uncle about last night?”

  “I did what I thought was proper. I spent long hours on my knees about it, yes, I did. The Lord showed me the right path. I marched straight to the cathedral, found Canon Fulbert, and unburdened myself. He paid me, too, the full amount that your magister had sworn to give. An honorable man, yes, Canon Fulbert. And now he knows that, of all the men in this cloister—including Bishop Guibert, who uses him like a servant—I alone am worthy of his trust. He knows that now, which is why he confided your secret to me.” In the dark room I could see the gleam of his teeth.

  “My secret?” My mind and tongue felt equally inept, leaving me to mimic him or speak inanities, like a parrot.

  “Yes. You know—that you and Master Petrus are married.”

  “If only your words were true, how happy I should be!” I said, allowing my anguish, at least, to show.

  “I do not understand.”

  “That is most apparent.” I gave a little laugh. “Canon Roger, I am not married, although I would give my very soul to be Abelard’s wife.” As, indeed, I had done.

  “But your uncle—”

  “He is mistaken.”

  “He said there was a ceremony, in the Saint-Aignan Chapel. He said Etienne of Garlande officiated.”

  “God is my witness, Roger, that no such ceremony ever occurred.” I shook my head. “And so it has come to this. Poor, poor Uncle.”

  “ ‘Poor Uncle’?” Roger’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “Does Canon Fulbert suffer from a malady?”

  “Visions,” I murmured. Knowing he could not see my face clearly, I sniffed and wiped a feigned tear. “Or, rather, hallucinations. Delirium, Roger, brought on by his excessive love for wine. At first, he experienced terrors in the night, horrible dreams—but now they plague him during the
day, as well. I’ve begged him to cease his drinking, but he will not. I fear for his sanity, and worse—his life.”

  “Dear, dear Lord in heaven.” A fecund smell, like overripe fruit, wafted from his breath.

  “I hope I may trust you to speak of this to no one, Roger—especially not my uncle, who would treat me harshly.” I opened the closet door and stepped out with him into the library. “I assume Uncle Fulbert paid you for your silence, as well.”

  “Oh, no. Canon Fulbert urged me to scatter the news of your marriage like wheat grains at a wedding.”

  “Hmm. Well, do so at your own peril. When the truth becomes known that Master Petrus and I never married—and Guibert, hearing the rumor, would certainly ask Archdeacon Etienne—you, the spreader of the tale, might appear a greater bouffe than my uncle.”

  My next destination was the Royal Palace, where Agnes had invited me for dinner. I entered her chambre and found her sitting on her bed in her saffron tunic and white turban, surrounded by covered dishes and reading Guibert of Nogent’s Dei gesta per Francos. Her seigneur had stimulated in her not only an interest in Latin, it seemed, but also a newfound love for reading.

  “It’s a fascinating account of the first campaign to Outremer, but I have yet to find a mention of my grand-père.” She put it aside and stood to embrace me. “My dear, you look as if you want to cry! What has happened? Tell me all.”

  I did, and she burst into laughter. “Now Canon Roger will tell everyone that your uncle is a delirious drunk. This is perfection! But why do you frown?”

  “Uncle is a proud man. I don’t enjoy belittling him.”

  “Pfft! Canon Fulbert belittled himself by confiding your secret to the biggest mouth in Paris. And he urged Canon Roger to spread the news of your marriage, did he?” Her eyes glinted.

  Hunching as though my uncle were already beating me with his whip, I slumped to her bed. “We would not have been discovered if not for my harping at Abelard.”

  “Harping? You have waited how long for your child? I would have ridden to Brittany and fetched the babe myself before now. Do not blame yourself for anything. Someone would have discovered the two of you eventually. No one keeps a secret in Paris.”

  “We had concealed ourselves well until last night.”

  “Heloise, I summoned you here for a reason. I, too, have heard talk about you and Pierre. Roger is not the first to have espied you together. Soon all of Paris will whisper about your illicit love, and Canon Fulbert will tell everyone that you are married.”

  “And I will continue to deny it. The rumors will surely cease, then.”

  “What teller of tales ever concerned himself with their veracity? You predicted this would occur, or have you forgotten? Your marriage will soon be known to all, including the bishop of Paris.”

  I hung my head. “I have abandoned my baby for naught.”

  “Not for naught, but for the love of his father.”

  “The same reason why my mother sent me to Argenteuil. Agnes! You should have heard little Astralabe’s cries as we rode away. Dear God, what have I done? What can I do?”

  “What would you have wished your mother to do?” She narrowed her eyes. “Your son needs you, and you him. You must convince Pierre to take you to le Pallet. Should he refuse, come and talk with me again. With my money and your wits, we shall find a way to reunite mother and child.”

  3

  There is nothing worse than a foolish man blessed by fortune.

  —ABELARD TO HELOISE

  I greeted Uncle as always, with his cup and a kiss. He knocked the henap from my hand, splashing wine like blood across my sleeve.

  “The kiss of Judas,” he spat. “Keep your traitorous lips far from me.”

  I stepped back, out of his reach. He reminded me of a rabid dog with his bared teeth and red eyes rolling. I took a calming breath and asked what was the matter.

  “Deceitful woman. How dare you slander me?”

  “If you are referring to Roger, I only adhered to the terms of our agreement.” As you did not, I wanted to add.

  “By spreading malicious tales? By God, he has told all who will listen that I imagined your wedding while drunk on wine! ‘Your niece said your condition has worsened, and that you are prone to delirium,’ he said. That is a fine story to reach the bishop’s ears.”

  “Bishop Guibert surely knows, as does everyone, how Roger loves to talk, and with little regard for accuracy.” Everyone also knew of my uncle’s love for wine, a point that I did not think wise to make.

  “And so what would you tell the bishop about your marriage to Petrus?”

  “I would deny it, of course. We all agreed, did we not, to a secret wedding? Abelard cannot marry and yet continue to teach.”

  “And what of my position?” My uncle snatched up the empty goblet and filled it with more wine from the flagon on the table. “You speak freely against the one who has given you everything to enhance the one who has taken everything from you. You could not be more like your mother.”

  “My father gave my mother more than you know. Much more.” I turned away from him, unable to bear the disgust that smeared his mouth when he spoke of my father.

  “He gave her his verpa, of that I am certain. But did he provide even a single coin with which to feed you, or give you his name? Hersende was never one to complain; none of us is.” How distorted was the mirror in which my uncle viewed himself! “But neither did she thank me for placing you in Argenteuil, and so discreetly. No one in the world knew of her sin—no one, not even Robert of Arbrissel, who made her his prioress. And yet for the rest of her days she refused my letters, blaming me, she said, for your loss—”

  “She blamed you? Why?”

  “She refused to see the truth of her situation. By God, I do not know what she thought—that she could stay with you in that manor forever, hiding you from the world? She was as blind to the consequences of her acts as you have been, and as ungrateful for my help.”

  “Help her? How? By forcing her to relinquish her child?” I snarled.

  “Everything that you have become today is because of me.” He jerked his thumb toward his chest. “As soon as she wrote to me, begging me for money, I knew what must be done—and I did it: found her a count to marry and arranged a place for you in a reputable abbey, all for my sister, who had cared for me when we were young, and whom I loved. But was she grateful? Are you?”

  All was exactly as Queen Bertrade had said. I looked him in the eyes. “You forced Mother to abandon me.”

  He snorted. “I saved you, stupid girl. You had the best upbringing money could buy, the finest teachers, a pampered life in the Royal Abbey—the Royal Abbey! You wanted for nothing.”

  I had wanted for nothing except love.

  “You, Uncle, are the reason she went to Fontevraud.” Without me.

  “She did so of her own volition, once you had gone. I did not require it. In fact, I offered her a dowry should she wish to remarry, but she refused. And—behold the edifice which she built! Fontevraud is hers, they say, and I do not doubt it. Had she lived, she would be its abbess today.” Then, remembering his ambitions for me, he scowled again.

  “And at what cost?” I cried, thinking of our little son, and my own empty arms. “You cannot imagine a mother’s anguish at losing her child.”

  He shrugged and drew his bushy brows together. “Had Hersende revealed the father’s name, she would have lost nothing. I would have given anything to learn it, for the sake of our family’s honor. But she would say nothing of him.” Of course she could not. The scandal would have destroyed Robert and undone all his good works.

  “And besides—what do you know of a mother’s anguish?” Uncle said. “The only product of all your reading, as far as I can see, is an overactive imagination.”

  “I know a mother’s anguish,” I said, barely hearing my own words over the frantic pounding of my heart. “I know it all too well—for I have a child of my own.”

  “You”—he
dropped his goblet onto the floor—“have a child?”

  I sat on the bench. Employing my meekest voice, I told my uncle about Astralabe. I hoped, I suppose, that his sense of family would inspire him to bring my child to Paris. No sooner had I begun than did I realize my error. My uncle’s complexion darkened, and he raised a fist.

  “You left your son in that godforsaken place? My own flesh and blood, suckling at the teat of a Breton?”

  “Abelard thought you would prefer it to scandal.”

  “When has that self-important cock cared about what I preferred—when? He has made a hostage of your child for his own protection, the same as he did to you. If you have left your baby with his family, it is for his sake, not mine.”

  His words resonated, having struck a chord my thoughts had played.

  “A babe in your arms would still the tongues wagging about you now. Nothing makes a women more respectable than motherhood.”

  “Then—you will help me to bring him home?”

  Uncle laughed. “That is between you and your husband—your husband! Soon all of Paris will know of your marriage, anyway. I see no harm the babe could do at that point. I, of course, will pretend to have known about it all along.” He rubbed his palms together. “An illegitimate child will give me the perfect excuse for revenge against that traitor.”

  “Uncle,” I said, standing. “Do not lay a hand on Abelard.”

  “By God’s head, why not? What has he ever done for you—or for me?”

  “He has spoken on your behalf to Bishop Guibert. You may become the next cantor. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “He swore to make me a deacon! His promises are as empty as his heart.”

  I averted my gaze from his challenging eyes.

  “How quickly you have forgotten all Petrus’s wrongdoings. What did he care about your reputation? What thought did he give to your future, to your plans to become abbess at Fontevraud?”

  “I never wanted to be an abbess. The scheme was yours, not mine.”

  “Had you an idea of your own, I would have listened to it, although God knows what it might have been. Unable to marry, no inheritance—how did you expect to live? On whose income?”