Stealing Heaven (45 page)

Heloise sat near the wall. Brother Alain came, motioned, and led her into the yard. Her mouth was dry. She wanted to ask the porter if he had told Abelard her name, but the man looked surly. Monks were crowded around a door, screeching at the top of their voices. When they spotted her, they began to snicker. Brother Alain pushed them aside and gestured inside. "What do I do now?" she asked.

"In there," he muttered. "Wait."

The reception hall looked as if it had not been cleaned in a long time. The floor rushes smelled of rot and urine. She looked at a door at the far end of the hall, wondering if she should knock. She went over, bent her ear to the frame, but heard no sound; then she gave a soft thump. Nothing happened. She pounded.

"What is it?" somebody growled. She did not recognize the voice. Chest hammering, she pushed the door and went in.

Across the room, he was sitting behind a trestle strewn with papers and ledgers, writing, but he did not look up. When she cleared her throat, he finally lifted his eyes and stared at her.

Uncertainly he said, "Heloise?" Then: "Heloise?"

"It is I, my lord," she said, smiling softly. "It's Heloise."

"Lady." He looked puzzled. "I never thought to see you again in this life."

She wanted to reach for his hand, press her face against his chest, but she could not move. Outside, the monks' voices were raised in angry debate, and above that roared the thudding of the waves against the cliff.

"How came you here, lady?" Abelard was saying. "Forgive me, I—" He was hopping in circles about the chamber, finding a chair for her, bringing a cup of wine. She wished that he would touch her, just once. "Are you hungry?" he asked. "I can fetch you—"

"No, thank you. I need nothing."

"We must find a place for you to lodge," Abelard said.

"I have one," she told him hurriedly. "Ceci and I—we have been here a month."

Amazed, he stared at her. "A month! But—"

"No one could tell us where you were. So we waited."

"Please, tell me what you're doing in Brittany. Are you on pilgrimage?" He walked hack to the table and sat down.

It was then that she noticed the chair, the same old armchair that he'd had at Fulbert's and later in his room on the Left Bank. The sight of it made a lump rise up into her throat. She said to him, "I came to see you. We came on foot."

"You walked!" He burst into delighted laughter. "Sweet heart, you walked. Wonderful. God, what a marvelous woman you are!" The grin stayed on his face, lighting up the blue eyes and curving the mouth with warm good humor. "God knows where you get your strength. There's nothing helpless about you, is there?"

She shifted uneasily on her chair, overjoyed to hear him praising her. "Oh, it was no large thing. People—" He was sitting back, smiling that old irresistible smile, and he continued to rave about her talent, strength, and good sense. It was not true, but she could not bring herself to tell him that. She leaned back and listened, soaking up his words like a drought-stricken field.

"Lady, my sweet sister in Christ." He spread his hands, palms up. "You do me honor, as always. You are—there is no woman like you in all of Christendom. Ah, Heloise, with all my burdens here. If you only knew. How often I've thanked Our Lord that you can manage for yourself."

Heloise said nothing.

"But of course you were never one of those helpless females. I insult you by even suggesting that you might have been a burden." He smiled comfortably. "My strong, capable Heloise. If the devil himself came to your door, you would find a way to deal with him."

Heloise smiled, not trusting herself to reply.

"When Suger reclaimed Argenteuil—but, lady, you have not told me which house you've joined."

"None," she said. At the shocked look on his face, she hurried on. “I applied to several but they refused me."

"Impossible!" he cried. "The most learned woman in France, in all of—"

"Mayhap it was Ceci they didn't want. I don't know. And then Suger—he dislikes me."

He frowned again, but did not comment on Suger. "We must remedy this." He gestured smoothly toward the ceiling. "You must have another prioresship. Or an abbacy. But we can talk about that later. Where did Lady Alais go?"

"Notre Dame-des-Bois." Heloise looked away, afraid that he would see the tears begin to well up at the corners of her eyes.

"And the rest of them?"

"Various houses," she answered. "And some asked release from their vows."

He flared, "What a waste," and got up and began pacing the floor. "What a hateful loss when holy women defile themselves with carnal pleasures." Heloise blinked, amazed. "How unseemly for holy hands to perform the degrading services that women are compelled to provide."

Heloise nodded several times, because she could think of nothing to say. She folded her hands in her lap to stop their trembling. Desperate to change the subject, she broke in, "Abelard, my"—she stopped herself from saying "my beloved"—"my lord, how fare you at Saint-Gildas? I've so longed for news of you." Immediately, she regretted her choice of words, for fear he might interpret them as a rebuke, but he did not appear to notice.

'Well." He gazed up at the ceiling. "Saint-Gildas. That would fill a book. A large book. Never, God knows, would I have agreed to take this house had I not been determined to outdistance my numerous persecutors. Who have an endless supply of persistence, I might add."

She could not bear to have him start on Soissons, so she said quickly, "I've heard that the monks here have a reputation for unruliness."

He sighed. "I've tried to reform them, but it's useless. I work, but I achieve nothing." He repeated bitterly, "Nothing. Brother Jacques still couples with his niece."

"They are your own countrymen," she said.

"Exactly. And who knows better than I what stinking sons of bitches the Bretons are." He paused. "It was for these swine that I abandoned the Paraclete and my students."

"Oh, Abelard." She wanted to weep for his loneliness and despair. He read her and grinned.

"So," he said. "Here I am and here I will remain. God has put me here. Beside the harsh, roaring waves." He said it in Latin—
horrisoni undas oceani.

Heloise nodded. The roar of wind and water. There was no escape from them.

Abelard murmured, "I never liked the sound of the sea. Now I've grown to loathe it."

"The headaches?” she said. "Do you still get them?"
 

"Yes, yes." He sounded impatient.

The bell for nones began to toll. He glanced at her, turned away, and took a step toward the door. "Lady, I must leave you. Can you come back later?"

Heloise thought of staying until the office was over. But Ceci would be waiting, eager to hear what Abelard had said. He had said nothing —and everything. “Tomorrow," she said. “I'll return tomorrow."

"We must talk further."

"Yes." He was opening the door. "Abelard!"

He swiveled his head.

I'msorry," she said. "I mean, about this place."
 

He smiled at her. "Don't be. Truly the Lord is watching over both of us."

Then he was gone. She waited a
few minutes, studying the cupboards lined with books, the familiar armchair, the worn inkhorn on his trestle. When she went into the yard, the bells stopped. Some of the monks were strolling slowly toward the church, but many ignored the summons. Three men knelt in the dirt, dicing; near the guesthouse a monk whom she recognized as the sacristan mounted a
mare and headed in the direction of the gate. A falcon fluttered on his wrist. As she passed through the gate, the porter's child lisped, "Fare you well, pretty lady." The tears sliding around in her nose, Heloise went down the hill to find Ceci.

 

"I did not say I wanted to break my vows."

Abelard said, "That's the implication behind your words. What do you mean, then?"

Heloise kept her voice neutral. "I said that
if
I were to leave the order, our son would have a mother. It's one solution to all of our problems, that's all I said." She turned her head toward the wall, wishing that she were outside in the sunlight.

Abelard, silent, stretched back in his chair and pulled thoughtfully on his lip. At last he said, not looking directly at her, "Lady, I admire your efficiency. No doubt you can solve most any problem that needs solving." She opened her mouth to interrupt, but he turned her off with a glance. "But I fail to see that any problem exists. You have dedicated yourself to Christ."

"And our son?"

"Is accustomed to Denise. He's content at Le Pallet."

Heloise made herself ask the question that had burned in her gut for years. "And he thinks of Denise as his mother?"

"Well, yes. She is the only mother he's ever known."

Abelard could not know how his words cut her, true though they might be. "I wrote him many letters. But never did I get one reply."

He frowned. "Denise never mentioned any letters."

"Dozens. Why didn't Denise write me? Surely she did not imagine I'd forgotten my babe."

"Well," he grunted. "Well, I don't know. Mayhap she had her reasons. The lad is happy there with his cousins, and—mayhap she didn't want to upset him."

She shouted, "How could knowing his mother loved him upset him?" The wind had died down; the room was eerily quiet.

"Heloise, please—"

"Am I some slut who drops her babe in the field and leaves him there?"

"Stop." He clapped his hands over his ears. "You're distorting everything."

She got up and went to the window. Turning her back on him, she clutched the sill to steady herself.

“Lady, let's not quarrel. I know you love the boy, but there is no cause for worry. I swear it. He's a fine, happy lad. Just like the others at Le Pallet."

She did not want him to be just like the others. "Tell me, have you seen him?"

"Last year. Or the previous one. I don't remember. Lady, stop fretting. He's a fine lad."

"Yes, you said that. What does he look like?"

Behind her, Abelard's chair skidded on the tiles. "Why, like you. Tall, blond, handsome—" He sounded as if she should know all that.

He was standing behind her, quite close, but she did not turn to face him. "Lady," he said quietly, "put your mind at rest." She nodded, suddenly aware of the closeness of his body. Her chest began to pound.

She did not speak, nor did he. He slid nearer, so near that when she twitched her shoulder blade, it brushed lightly against his chest. An inch from her ear, through her veil, she could feel his breath. She closed her eyes, waiting for him to touch her, but he did not, and she sensed that his fists were clenched at his sides.

They stood, rigid, listening to each other's breathing, and still neither of them moved. At last, Heloise let the muscles in her back and hips slip, so that the whole back of her body eased against him. Instead of stepping away, he pressed himself against her. Through the rough cloth of his robe, she could feel his belly, ribs, thighs. Slowly she felt something move and stiffen against her buttocks. Inhaling a gasp, she let her mind race forward to clutch at hope. Her groin began to tingle. She wanted him inside her, and if he could not be, there were other ways to give and receive pleasure. Surely he remembered. Had they not once tried everything? She bit her tongue to keep from moaning aloud.

And then abruptly it was over. She heard him groan and he jerked back so suddenly that she almost lost her balance. Gracelessly she wheeled around. He was leaning against the back of his chair, his mouth working silently.

"Abelard—"

"Hush." She hugged her arms around her waist and stared at him. Stiffly, he said, I beg your forgiveness, Lady."
 

"Please, no—"

"Lust. That has been the root of my misfortunes. Lust and pride." His voice swam with self-loathing. "The merciful Lord takes thought for the salvation of my soul, but I persist in my sins." He softened. "Go. Please go."

Numb, Heloise began to glide toward the door. Reaching blindly for the latch, she lifted it and stepped into the reception hall and out into the yard. Some monks were saddling their horses. She went toward them and then stopped, darting a fast look over her shoulder. Abelard was standing in the doorway, watching. She walked quickly toward the gate.

 

They left Saint-Gildas that afternoon. Ceci asked no questions, and for that Heloise felt grateful. They started back along the road to Nantes, leaving the sea at their backs.

After a week, Heloise was able to think of Abelard with a kind of detachment. Naturally, she had not expected to find him unchanged after a decade, that was too implausible an idea even to contemplate. Yet, at their first meeting, he had not seemed terribly different, and she had been able to jolly herself into believing him the man she had loved. She amended that thought—still loved, and would go on loving to the grave.

What she had not expected, what shook her at the core, was to find that he had been truly converted to God in a way that she had not dreamed possible. The things he said to her that morning, before she brought up the subject of Astrolabe, were what the most zealous of abbots or bishops might say. Rather, those extremely holy abbots, like Bernard, who despised the things of this world. Abelard the sensualist had vanished; Abelard the property of God stood in his place. And viewing it that way, she could not fault him. By anyone's standards, even her own if she thought calmly about it, it had been wrong of him to stand behind her as he had, making her want him. Although God and all the saints knew that she had needed no encouragement. But really he should not have done that.

South of Nantes, on the road to Poitou, they were picked up by a
farmer hauling home a
cart of provisions. Heloise remembered him because he had come to visit William occasionally, but he obviously did not connect the pregnant girl of years ago with the black-robed nun. She and Ceci sat on top of the cart, lazily watching the fields roll by. Throughout the morning, the sun beat steadily on their heads. The farmer grumbled about his vines and the avarice of a
certain priest in Nantes and other matters of interest to him. The sky was full of lacy clouds.