The Sharp Hook of Love (27 page)

“Would this suffice?” I offered him one of the coins.

His eyes bulged. “Such a large amount only to deliver a message? I would do it myself for less.”

“Indeed, I meant the coin for you, should you do my bidding.” Greed leapt in his eyes. “Will you take me, then, to Fontevraud?”

“I don't know. If we lose time, we may miss our man in Nantes—the man with the livres for your delivery.” He winced as if decision-making hurt his head. I produced the second coin then, and the choice was made: we would stop at the river's confluence with the Vienne, and he would procure a horse and a guide for me. A short ride would take me to the abbey.

“You must return in a few hours,” he said. “We have several days' journey to go, and Albert the Boatman always delivers his cargo in good time. I would not miss those livres.”

As we made our way downstream, Albert paddling the boat so as to speed our progress, I thought of Robert, taken gravely ill. This hardly surprised me, as he had not appeared well when I had seen him last spring. Would he be able to answer my questions? I had hoped to hear all about my mother when I went to Fontevraud to take my vows. I'd anticipated long conversations in which he would tell me of her life, of her accomplishments, of her dreams and desires. I wanted to reminisce about her beautiful voice, her laugh like the lark's song, her fragrance like the morning breeze. I wanted to remember her, and to know her at last.

That I might learn something of my father, too, had occurred to me, but I had dismissed the notion. Robert had not known of me. I doubted my mother had told him of the man she had loved after her husband's death—for, surely, in doing so she would have mentioned the child she had relinquished. Yet, who knew what she had confessed during the long hours they'd spent together poring over building plans and discussing the administration of Fontevraud Abbey?

At the door of death,
the man in the tavern had said of Robert. I clasped the crucifix around my neck and uttered a selfish prayer that his life might be prolonged until I could ask him about my mother.

We landed in a portage teeming with cargo-laden vessels, workers, mules and horses, and men and women in monks' and nuns' garments, all journeying to Fontevraud. Albert had no difficulty procuring a ride for me with a group of sisters departing down the rue de les Soeurs.

“Sister Madeleine?” a diminutive woman with a nose like the knot on a tree said, squinting her small eyes at me. “From
Argenteuil, you say? I visited that splendid abbey months ago, but I do not recall seeing you there.”

“I lay in the infirmary, no doubt,” I lied, “ill from dysentery. It plagued me for weeks.”

“And yet, you do appear familiar.” She eyed me more closely. “Perhaps I met you on one of my earlier visits? I have been learning the art of vineyard husbandry from the sisters there.”

I told her that I had been committed to Argenteuil as an oblate.

“No, not as an oblate. I have seen you in your habit. Your face looks nearly as familiar to me as my own.” No doubt she saw my mother's features, but I would not have said so. I would not spark whispers about Mother now when she could not explain herself.

Horses, riders, people, and carts filled the rue de les Soeurs, traveling both to and from the abbey. I kept my head down lest someone recognize me and allowed the talkative nun's stream of words to flow over me as if they were water—until she mentioned Robert.

“They say he will not last the year, God bless his soul.”

“I have heard the same. What ails him?”

“Only the Lord knows for certain. But I think he is sick at heart.” She sighed. “He has not been the same since our prioress died.” She raised her eyes to my face then, and recognition flared—but, to my good fortune, the gates of Fontevraud rose before us, and the buildings behind them, gleaming white in the midmorning sun. I bade her farewell and urged my horse onward, leaving her staring after me.

I entered the abbey grounds through a high arch in a gate of white stone and found myself in another world, a dazzle of autumn flowers and manicured shrubs and a maze of white buildings with arched windows and doorways. The streets bustled with more activity than I had ever seen in the Nôtre-Dame de Paris Cloister: tonsured monks stooped beneath the building
stones weighting their backs; mules pulling carts filled with shovels and picks and other tools; sisters walking in twos and threes. Above the scene rose the impressive cathedral with its high bell tower, rounded chapels spreading in a half circle from the main building, and roof tiled in a pattern resembling the scales of a fish. Mother had overseen the building of this edifice and had perhaps contributed to its design. I heard the ring of hammers striking chisels as workmen cut building blocks from the large quarried stones; saw monks mixing mortar in large vats, sweat pouring from their brows; and watched, fascinated, as a crane, by means of a wheel turned by men on the ground, lifted the chiseled blocks to workers on scaffolding high above. Emotion welled in me as I imagined my mother directing the laborers, arguing over the placement of a spire or a buttress, and jabbing her finger against a parchment that a broad-chested man held before her—as a woman did now, at the base of the nave being constructed.

This must be Petronille of Chemillé, my mother's assistant. I hastened to her in hopes that she might lead me to Robert. A petite woman with a face weathered by the sun, she lifted large, dark eyes to me and dropped her edge of the parchment.

“Hersende,” she breathed.

“My name is Heloise. I have come to speak with Robert of Arbrissel.”

She led me across the lawn to the abbey, a square building flanked on either side by long cloisters. Inside the main building, we passed through a refectory with low, wood-beamed ceilings, lined with wooden trestle tables and benches, and into a room with a writing desk and footstool, a chair, and shelves strewn with parchment and codices.

She closed the door and blinked up at me. “Please forgive me for staring. You bear a remarkable resemblance to . . . someone I once knew.”

“You are Petronille?”

She lifted her eyebrows at the sound of her name.

“Hersende of Champagne was my mother.”

She gasped. “I had not known that Hersende had a daughter. A son, yes, she spoke of him often. But a daughter?”

“You do not believe me.”

“I may be dull at times, but I am hardly blind.”

“Can you tell me anything about her?”

“Hersende was the best of women: lively, intelligent, strong—very strong. No man dared to argue with her, even when she was wrong.” Petronille smiled to herself, remembering, then grew somber again. “But one felt sorry for her, too. An air of sadness surrounded her. One morning I entered this room and found her gazing out the open window, tears dropping from her cheeks. Outside, one of the girls was singing that lullaby: ‘Sing, little nightingale, sing.' ” Petronille's voice cracked as she rendered the tune, not at all musical as my mother's voice would have been, yet it evoked vivid memories of her.

“I never asked her why she cried, out of respect. Many come here to forget the past—I know that is why
I
came. Now, I think I know the reason for her sorrow.”

“She left me when I was a child, to come here.”

She eyed my habit. “And you have followed in her path, I see. So—why have you come today?”

“I must speak with Robert of Arbrissel.”

“That is not possible.” Her voice tightened. “Robert is very ill. The healers have bled him and used a green salve on his skin and the priests pray for him constantly, and yet he worsens daily.” Her mouth quivered with love.

“But I must see him. It is urgent.”

“In the morning, perhaps. He always seems improved in the mornings.”

“
Non!
Sister, please.”

The idea of sleeping here tonight, where my mother had lived and prayed and sung and commanded men, appealed to me, as did the thought of tormenting Albert the Boatman by failing to return to him that afternoon. Living by my word, however, I could not follow the promptings of my heart.

“He would want to speak with me, if he could. He has many questions, he said, about my mother, and my life. Please take me to him! Doesn't he deserve to decide for himself?”

“You have met Robert before? He did not speak of it to me.” She sounded indignant.

“He came to Paris last spring and invited me to join you here.”

“You are the woman scholar? From Paris?” She narrowed her eyes. “So you have come to us now, instead of in June. How convenient—when he is on the verge of naming an abbess for Fontevraud.” She might have hissed. Pulling back her lips from her little teeth, she reminded me of a small, vicious animal.

“I have not come to vie for that position, or any other here—I assure you. I am here to tell him that I cannot join your abbey at all. My—my plans are altered.”

“Altered?” She all but chirped the word. “Cannot join? Such a shame, my dear. Robert felt very excited to discover you. But, yes, you must tell him yourself.” Suddenly in haste to bring me before her mentor, she linked arms with me and led me briskly to a small, square building—the infirmary.

The beds lining the barren room were filled with men, one with a cough so violent that I thought he might tear out his lungs; another whose face and body oozed with sores; a sweating, red-faced youth whose every breath wheezed with exertion. In their midst, a very old man with mottled skin and a mouth tight with annoyance waved away a priest burning incense and
intoning the last rites. I gave Petronille a look of wonderment when I recognized the man as Robert of Arbrissel.

“He insists that he is not dying, but the healer says otherwise,” Petronille whispered to me. “So often does he perch on the brink that the priest administers the unction to him three times a day.” She glanced about to make certain we had no audience. “We cannot risk his death with any sin blotting his soul. We hope, when he has gone, to make a saint of him.”

When the priest had taken his leave, Petronille ventured to Robert's bed and stroked his cheek with her fingertips. The intimate gesture made me wonder if he loved her, too—but then his eyes flew open to glare at her.

“You, again?” he snapped. “I tell you, I already have an abbess. A scholar, from the best of mothers. When she arrives, you shall see. The Lord will send her to me. You shall see.”

“She is here,” Petronille's voice rang with false cheer. “She has come to speak with you.”

“Who?” He turned his head and looked at me—and something leapt in his eyes like glowing embers. He lifted his arms toward me, as if to draw me into them. “Hersende! Hersende! At last, you have arrived. My lovely angel—come to me! My darling. Let me hold you again, my dear, just once more.”

“I am Heloise, from Paris.” I moved to the foot of his bed, avoiding his grasping hands.

He widened his eyes. “Hersende.”

“I am not Hersende. I am Heloise, her daughter. We met in Paris last May. I was to take the veil here in the spring.”

“Your nun's habit confuses him,” Petronille said. “Remove your wimple,
non
?”

I did so, and he gasped. His eyes bulged. “Your hair.” He pointed. “That white streak. Dear Lord! I did not know. I did not know!”

The physician hastened to his side, glaring at me. “You have excited him. Please remove yourself, for his sake.”

But how could I do so, staggering under the weight of all my questions?
Please, God, let me learn just one thing of my father today.

Robert's gaze suddenly sharpened, and I knew he recognized me. “Heloise. Hersende's girl.” Ecstasy shone on his face, and he opened his arms again. “Daughter! Come to me, my child.”

I shrank back from him—was he mad, or merely delirious? I turned to Petronille, beheld her fear-stricken face, and knew the truth. God had heard my prayers and provided my answer.

Tears rolled like a tide over me, sweeping me into Robert's embrace. His arms enfolded me. I kissed his fevered brow. “Robert. Father, I have found you at last.”

If I were there, I would wash away all cares from you, I would wipe sweetest tears from your starry eyes, I would surround your troubled breast with my embrace, I would restore your happiness completely.

—ABELARD TO HELOISE

LE PALLET, BRITTANY

AUGUST 1116

H
e had inherited Abelard's eyes. While it is true that all newborn eyes are innocent blue, our son's gaze resembled his father's not only in color but also in mirth. At birth in early June, he uttered a delighted squeal rather than the squall of outrage with which he ought to have greeted the world. I drew him to my breast with a fullness of emotion that I had never felt before, not even for Abelard.
Little prince, baby Pierre, O mon coeur,
my heart my heart my heart.