Stealing Heaven (26 page)

"God I trust. It's Uncle who worries me." They had been through this many times before.

"Pray for him," Abelard suggested.

She bowed her head and folded her hands over her nose. Ever since they had returned to the Ile, the muscles in her shoulders had been tensed hard as stone. Earlier tonight, after supper, she had soaked herself in a steaming tub, hoping for relief. But after she dressed, the muscles began screaming again. She unclasped her hands and reached around to touch her shoulder. Knots.

Even though it was spring outside, the chapel felt dank and chilly. She had so longed to see Paris again—willows budding along the tow-paths, the
talemeliers
with their baskets of hot pasties. But since their arrival three days ago, she had not gone out of the house. At the thought of the crusty pasties, her mouth began to water; she could taste them. She wanted a cheese pasty. Or eel. After the wedding she would go out, whether Uncle liked it or not.

Abelard sat perfectly still, his eyes glued shut as if he were alone in the chapel. Heloise had seen him only once since they returned, a brief formal meeting with Fulbert watching them, and they had talked of little but plans for the wedding. Heloise remembered the expression on Fulbert's face these past days; it never varied. He appeared unconcerned, listless. When she had begged his forgiveness, he had smiled phlegmatically, as if her plea was of no interest at all. His thoughts were elsewhere.

Earlier today, she had gone to his apartment and deliberately brought up the subject of the secret marriage. Would it really satisfy him, she had asked? Would he consider it sufficient reparation?

Fulbert nodded toward his writing table and pointed to a book. "Have you seen that new translation of Lucan? You must. I think it's much finer than the old one."

Heloise remembered staring at him, startled. He did not look wretched, as Abelard had described him, only older and crankier. His face was thin, the carved cheekbones more prominent. Otherwise she could see no change in him. Perhaps he was growing deaf. She had replied, finally, "I'll have a look at it tomorrow," and returned to her room.

A draft coursed through the chapel. She glanced briefly at Abelard's' head, a gray shadow at her shoulder. She thought again of the pasties. Then she blotted her mind clear and began to pray. She asked forgiveness for the pain she had caused her uncle, for the lust that had led her into sin, and she asked God's blessing on her union with Abelard. Settling on her heels, she went back as far as she could remember. I told Lady Alais that Ceci stole three sticky buns, and Ceci was punished.
Mea culpa.
I called Sister Madelaine an old bitch.
Mea culpa.
I bore hatred in my heart against my cousin Philip and Petronilla and Denise and Alienor and Alienor's boy Fulk. I lied to Uncle about . . .

Later, deep in the night, she heard the monks filing into the church and then voices grating the night office. She stared at the damp walls, remembering Ceci in exile at Argenteuil. But the image failed to upset her. Today was her wedding day. Ceci wanted this; she didn't. After lauds, she tried to go back to her prayers but could think of nothing more to say.

After a while, she raised her head. Her knees and the front of her legs ached. She saw Abelard watching her.
 

He asked, "Feel all right?"
 

"I don't know."
 

"What's wrong?"

She thought, Everything. Her breasts, full of milk, were sore. "I don't know. Nothing." Then: "It's not right."
 

"What's not right?"

"Everybody acts like they're at a wake. God's splendor, weddings should be gay."

Abelard sighed. "I would have liked a jongleur or two. I remember a fine wedding at Montboissier. They decorated the streets with tapestries and burned spices in the squares."

“They had jongleurs?"

"A good many," Abelard said. "And acrobats. And a mime who did bird calls."

Heloise swallowed. "What did they have to eat?" she demanded.
 

"The usual."

"I don't know what the usual is."

"Oh. Venison, boar, peacock. And spiced wine."

"Sweets?"

He laughed. "Certainly. All sorts of confections and wafers. Oranges, too, I think."

They fell silent. Knees creaking, Heloise stood up and stretched her arms over her head. "There was a nun at Argenteuil," she said dreamily. "When I was a little girl. I can't remember her name because she left. Or died. I don't know . . ."

"Yes."

She went to the slitted window and peered out. The dawn had not begun to come up yet. "She told me about her sister's wedding. What her sister wore."

Abelard grunted.

"A red silk tunic trimmed with vair. Over it, a velvet cloak embroidered with gold thread and a mantle edged with lace—and she had slippers worked with gold."

In spite of herself, she felt like crying. It was foolish, she knew. For all her gibbering about never wanting to marry, now that the time had come, she felt deprived at not having new clothes and jongleurs. Childish, she thought.

Abelard called, "Are you distressed?"

"Of course not."

"Of course not." He snorted gruffly. "Come over here. My dear love, we don't need shoes and oranges. We have—"

"I know." She sat down next to him and pulled her shawl tightly around her chest. Looking down at the floor, she thought of Astrolabe in his truckle bed. She thought of Denise, who barely attended her own babes, and of Astrolabe wondering where his mother had gone to. She wished that they had brought him to Paris. He might have stayed with her in the turret room, bundled under the furs, and they would have slept with their bodies touching, his tiny fat one and her very long one. She closed her eyes. Sweet darling. Dearest little bunny.

Abelard got to his feet and went to the door of the chapel. She heard him talking with someone. Shortly he came back and told her the priest had come, and they must speak with him. In the church, the priest was holding an open book and a gold ring. He began asking questions in a low voice. Were they of age? Did they swear they were not within the forbidden degree of consanguinity? Did their parents consent? And so forth.

Jourdain appeared at Abelard's shoulder. When Heloise crossed to him and clasped his hands, he shot her a shaky grin. A few minutes later, the others arrived—Fulbert, Agnes, Canon Martin. Beaming, Abelard walked over and, one by one, kissed them. Fulbert, his face a mask, smiled pleasantly at Heloise.

The priest took them into the chapel and waited while Agnes, sallow-faced, pinned a red silk veil over Heloise's hair. She and Abelard went to the altar and stood before the priest. He began to talk about the Flood and how the Lord had saved all the married creatures, and then he told them that if the Blessed Virgin had not been married, God would not have been born from her womb. Heloise glanced at Abelard and saw him smiling slightly. He looked happy. Her palms began to sweat.

The priest was blessing the ring. He handed it to Abelard, who took her left hand and slipped on the ring, first on one finger and then a second, saying each time, "In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost." Agnes was weeping. Heloise's fingers were clammy, and the ring stuck slightly when Abelard tried to pull it off. Finally he fitted the band on her third finger. "With this ring I thee wed," he whispered, so low that the priest asked him to repeat it. Heloise wondered how Abelard had known about the three fingers; the priest must have told him.

After mass, the priest gave Abelard the kiss of peace, and Abelard transferred it to her. He took her arm, and they started out of the chapel, through the nave of the church to the portico. Outside, it was still gray and moist, and mist nudged the tops of the abbey buildings. Martin went to get the horses.

"Oh, Uncle," Heloise said, "we could all go back home and have some wine."

Fulbert frowned slightly and looked at Abelard. Heloise glanced at Jourdain, who shrugged and turned away.

Abelard said, "I don't think— I have a class soon." He looked annoyed.

Dazed, Heloise mounted and flexed her fingers around the reins. She looked at the gold ring and then at the unsmiling mouths of the wedding guests. Suddenly she felt enraged. She had not been angry before, but now she wanted to slash all those dead, grim eyes, stab and smash until they ran away screaming and left her alone with Abelard. All their yammering about the honor of Saint-Gervais. What difference did it make, she thought, what did she care about their honor? Making her face show nothing, she raised her arm at Abelard in a weary salute. Fulbert spurred his stallion, and they moved down the road leading to the Rue de Garlande.

 

Fulbert's house remained unchanged: Agnes scrubbed and baked, and promptly at noon the canon sat down to dinner and reached for his silver henap. On Sundays, Martin came to see him, and they sat by the fire in Fulbert's apartment and bickered over the chessboard. One Friday evening, Petronilla and her new husband visited Agnes, this apparently not a usual event, because Agnes put on a new shift and made walnut cake for the occasion. Petronilla was pregnant—five or six months, she said—and all she talked about was birthing and babies. Heloise stood listening, and when Petronilla asked about her confinement, she supplied all the details she could recall. Petronilla patted her arm familiarly once and referred to them as both married women; starting inwardly, Heloise drew back. Agnes changed the subject in a hurry.

 

It had rained during the night, and by the time she reached the Latin Quarter, her bliaut was spattered with mud. Along the Rue de la Huchette, most of the shops were still shuttered and the dawn light opaqued the houses a dirty pink. Glancing around, she paused outside an apothecary shop and tried to get her bearings. Possibly she had misjudged the distance from the Petit Pont to Abelard's house. It had been dark, that night last year, and she had been on horseback.

Slowly more people began moving up and down the street—good-wives towing children and shopping baskets, yawning students in wrinkled black gowns. A vendor, half asleep, called limply, "Good Champagne cheeses, good cheese of Brie." At the next square she stopped, hopelessly confused. More than likely she had passed Abelard's house without knowing it. A grocer was setting out baskets of onions. Behind him, in the doorway, squatted a monkey with a crumpled sign around its neck.
Requiescat in pace.
She watched the monkey for a while; at last, she went up to the grocer and asked if he knew where Peter Abelard lived.

The man grinned and looked her up and down. Waving in the direction from which she had come, he told her to look for a green door, across the road from the Bloody Saracen pothouse. Jogging, Heloise retraced her steps until she found the house. Across the road, she stopped under a hawthorn tree and scanned the second-story windows of the house. Presently a man with tousled red hair opened the shutters and leaned over the sill. Galon. She was surprised that Abelard still kept him.

Beneath the tree it was damp, and when the wind stirred the leaves, a shower of drops sprinkled her hair. A few minutes later, Galon emerged carrying a bowl, and crossed to the Bloody Saracen. When she saw him enter the tavern, she ran across the road and ducked into the green door.

On the second-floor landing, she took a breath and shoved lightly against the door. It was unlatched. She tiptoed through the empty solar and into the bedroom where Abelard lay sleeping. For a long time she sat very still on the edge of the bed and watched him, her mind at ease.

He half opened his eyes and squinted blindly past her face. Motionless, he scowled. "You look like Heloise."

"I am Heloise." After a moment: "Good morning, my friend. Did you sleep well?"

Startled, he sat up with a jerk and gripped her arms. "Lady, how did you get in here?"

"Walked in." She grinned happily. "You should lock your door. Any maiden could walk in here and rape you."

"You look very pretty."

"Thank you."

He flung both hands around her waist and cuddled his head against her breast. "Where's Galon?"

"At the Bloody Saracen. I thought you had a bodyguard to protect you."

"From what?" He kissed her. "I let him go. Take off your clothes."

"Would you care for breakfast first?" she said. "A cup of ale?"

"Not now." She began to wriggle out of her gown. "My stomach can't digest ale in the morning anymore. I take a little clabbered milk and bread."

She slid under the coverlet and wrapped her legs around his. She hoped that he wasn't ill. It must be his age, she thought. Even Fulbert had trouble with digestion, and Agnes was always preparing special possets. Abelard pulled her on top of him, and she straddled his thighs, guiding his stick into the center of her. His fingers tightened over her buttocks, stroking, kneading, pressing her forward. She worked her pelvis slowly, all the while inspecting his face. Poor sweet heart. There were bags under his eyes, if she wasn't mistaken. He needed looking after. Below her, he lay with his eyes widened, his breath coming in tiny gasps. "Oh God." From the adjoining room, she heard the door bang and the sound of a bowl being squeaked along a trestle top. She felt Abelard explode inside her, the spasms bursting in rapid succession. A moment later, she slid off him, her belly sticky with sweat.

"Stay here," he said in a muffled voice.

"Galon's back."

"Lady, forgive."

She blinked. "What for?"

"You had no pleasure."

"Oh, I did." She dismissed his words with a wave. "Anyway, that position—I can't do it that way."
 

"You used to."

She laughed. "Out of practice, I guess. Shall I get your breakfast now?"

She threw on her undershift and swung open the door to the solar. When Galon saw her, he started violently and stared. She forced herself to meet his gaze. "Good morning," she said stiffly. "My lord would like his milk now."

Pointing dumbly to a covered bowl, he swayed to his feet.

Motioning him back, she took the bowl and a half loaf of bread. In the bedroom, Abelard was sitting up against the pillows. She gave him the sweet-smelling milk, undressed, and rolled back clumsily into bed.