The Sharp Hook of Love

THE ROYAL ABBEY AT ARGENTEUIL

NORTH OF PARIS, FRANCE, DECEMBER 1114

I

was born in silence, my wails quieted by the hand of the only friend my mother could trust. In silence I spent most of my youth, amid the nuns of Argenteuil floating through the dark abbey without sound, as though we lived under the sea. Only in my dreams did I dance, laughing with my mother in the sun, her voice like water, her kisses like dew falling on my cheek. I would awaken with tears instead, and an ache like hunger that never subsided.

Mother. Why did she leave me? Where had she gone? I begged God to return her to me. He answered me with a letter from her on my twelfth birthday, sent with a volume of Seneca’s philosophy that I would cherish all my days.

I love you and long for you daily. Your uncle writes that you are an exceptional scholar, which brings me joy, for I, too, love to read the poets and philosophers as well as the Scriptures. I had planned to teach them all to you, but it was not to be, not in this life.

I shall never forget your tears on the day we parted; anguish fills my breast even now at the memory. I pray that you can forgive me, my beloved daughter. Forced to choose between loyalty to your father and life with you, I sent you away. I pray that, someday, you will understand.

In bed that night, I cried as never before. A fatal illness had not stricken my mother as it had the maman of my friend Merle, one of the other oblates. Mine had not brought me here to fulfill a promise to God, as Adela’s mother had done. God had not called me to Argenteuil at all. My mother had abandoned me of her own free will: it was her choice. My soul’s anguish gushed from my eyes, filling my mouth until I thought I would choke, in torrents that I thought would never cease. When at last I had depleted my store, I fell into a deep, dark sleep. The dreams of my mother ceased after that night, as did my tears.

Ten years after my arrival at the Royal Abbey, the Reverend Mother Basilia marched into the classroom and interrupted the lesson I was teaching on Paul’s first letter to the Romans.

Heloise, you have a visitor. Go and prepare yourself, then come to my office.

A visitor! When had anyone called for me? The familiar pucker of the Reverend Mother’s mouth, as if she had eaten sour fruit, told me that I would be taken away. My mother had come at last! My feet seemed to sprout wings, and I flew out the door.

I would have run to the dormitory, shouting thanks to God, were such boisterous behavior permitted. Or perhaps I would not have done so, for in my fantasies I had always presented myself perfectly to Mother, poised and mature, a proper young lady on whom she would shine beams of pride and love. I washed my face, cleaned my teeth, and rebraided my hair, then dug into my trunk for the forbidden hand-mirror my friend Merle had given me. For the first time in my life—but not the last—I wished for beauty. My mother’s hair had shone like spun gold, while mine dropped in a heavy, dark wave with a streak of pure white over my left eye. The hateful Adela used to tease me about it. Is your father a badger? I never replied, not knowing the answer myself. But I knew my mother, and now she awaited while I preened in the mirror. Vanity of vanities; all is vanity. I threw the mirror into the chest and hurried outdoors.

Mother had come! My pulse pounded all the way across the dry grass of the courtyard and on the stones paving the dank halls of the abbey. I must have passed—but do not remember doing so, in my excitement—the newly built refectory with its engraved face of the Virgin Mother looking placidly over the doorway. I did not even stop to cross myself before her, or to greet her with a whispered Hail Mary, Mother of God. Why should I, when my own mother waited for me in the flesh only a few steps away?

At the abbess’s door I took a deep breath. Mothers love their children. Mine would love me no matter whether I was pretty or not, smart or not, poised or not. And I would love her, too, even if she had become as ugly and unpleasant as the Reverend Mother Basilia.

Yet my hand trembled so that I could hardly seize the latch and open the door.

The abbess stood before me, looking as if she might hit someone. Then, a rustle behind her; a movement. I prepared to greet my mother, my throat choked with unshed tears—but beheld, instead, a heavyset man with a ruddy complexion and thick, red lips.

Your uncle, the canon Fulbert, the Reverend Mother said. Her voice sounded tired—she hated to lose her daughters—but not as tired as my uncle appeared to be.

His eyes reddened at the sight of me. Dear God, how you resemble your mother, he breathed. It is as if she had come to life again.

I cried out before he had even finished the sentence, knowing at once why he had come. A hole seemed to open inside me, filled only with darkness.

Quiet yourself, Heloise, the abbess snapped. You know that we do not allow such outbursts.

I should think an exception might be made in this instance, my uncle said, knitting his thick eyebrows (and showing me whence I had inherited mine). Her mother has died, after all.

His words in their awful finality hit me like a great stone thrown against my chest. I clutched a chair, dizzy and sick. Mother. I looked to my uncle for comfort and found it in the tears spilling down his face.

I have come, Heloise, to take you home with me. It was your mother’s final wish.

PART ONE

Amor

1

In you, I readily admit, there were two things especially with which you could immediately win the heart of any woman—the gift of composing, and the gift of singing.

—HELOISE TO ABELARD

THE NÔTRE-DAME CLOISTER

PARIS, MARCH 1115

He sang to me of love from under curling eyelashes. In the center of the market, amid the squawking hens, the squealing children and the barking dogs, and the wine sellers beating sticks against their bowls of vin á broche, he performed a song of incomparable beauty without minstrel or lute, drawing every eye—but singing only to me. His voice brought a warm summer rain to mind. I felt a soaring within my breast, as if a door had flung itself wide and my heart had flown through it.

When he had finished, he removed his hat with its peacock’s feather and bowed only to me in spite of the shouts of Très beau! Je t’adore! from the women who had clustered around him, pretending to understand his Latin verse. As he bent over, dark curls fell across his tonsure, which was no larger than a thumbprint on his crown—the minimum required for a canon—a mark of the irreverence that had, it was said, gained him not a few enemies. He wore purple, a brocade of silk ribbon and gold thread, and heavy boots. His lips pursed as he rose, as though he might burst into laughter or another song. His eyes gleamed triumph, as though he had won a contest with me as the prize.

My heart’s beat faltered. His broad smile beckoned; his bold gaze dared me to refuse. Something shifted inside me, like the turning of a key in a lock. For a moment, I forgot everything I had ever known: the books I had read, the secrets I kept, my destiny that no one could alter. I would be no one’s prize. Yet his smile shone like light across my face, pulling up the corners of my mouth, softening my eyes.

The cathedral bell tolled vespers. I started; his song had made me late. Uncle would want his flagon; Pauline, her capon. I bent to gather the sacks I had dropped at my feet.

A hand touched mine. I looked up and nearly fell into eyes of impossible blue. The sky at twilight could not compare. My breath caught in my throat.

Heloise. His lips formed a kiss when he spoke my name. Pierre Abelard, the most famous—and infamous—scholar in Paris, offered my name to me like a gift. A sweet ache spread through my chest. Allow me.

He took the packages from my arms: the capon in its flax-cloth sack, the flagon, and the second sack with the bread, vegetables, and strawberries, leaving me to carry the book of Ovid’s writings I had borrowed that day, my sheepskin pouch with its wax tablet and stylus, and my wonderment.

The renowned teacher and poet now hastened to keep stride with me; he carried my packages, whistling a tune and beaming with pride as if I, not he, were the world’s greatest philosopher. Envy slanted the eyes of the women we passed. They murmured his name—Monsieur Abelard, darling Pierre, so handsome—but he seemed not to notice.

As we walked, I slid glances at him. Slight of form as he was—not much taller than I, and compactly built—he yet moved through the world as though he owned everything in it. His trampling steps left his mark in the damp-soft street, while I hopped from stone to stone to avoid the mud. At one point, lightning streaked the waxen clouds. The clap of thunder that followed nearly toppled me into a large puddle, but he stretched out a hand to steady me. His eyes’ kindness made me want to lean into his arms. But why would a man of his status deign to help me, who had not even a father to give her a name?

Take care, Heloise, he said. Why don’t you ride a horse? Surely your uncle would provide one for you.

Master Petrus. How do you know me?

A pair of canons lifted their brows at the sight of us together. We began to walk again. Who, he said, has not heard of the female scholar? A gift for letters is rare in a girl.

Only because girls have no schools.

You understood every word of my song. He studied me as if I had two heads.

In fact, I had mastered not only Latin but also Greek and now studied Hebrew with a rabbi on the rue des Juiveries. But how dare I boast to the master? I might speak every tongue in Babel, yet my accomplishments would pale in comparison to his.

Do you truly think schools would make a difference? It is said that the female mind cannot comprehend complex ideas, he said.

Complex ideas such as those in your song? He failed to notice my wry tone. The song, so beautiful in its melody, had lacked complexity in its verse. I might have expected much more from the new headmaster of the Nôtre-Dame Cloister School.

Ah, my poetry! What do you think of it? Women swoon over my songs. Baudri of Bourgueil, on the other hand, condemned them as too worldly. Abelard showed his teeth, looking every bit the hungry wolf. His eyes twinkled. He says I ought to sing of heavenly angels, but I prefer the earthly ones.

I averted my gaze and widened the distance between us. A tonsured head, a vow of celibacy—these guaranteed nothing. To forbid the fruit only sweetens its flavor. Yet, he could not have achieved greatness at his age—not a strand of silver yet in his hair—had he whiled his hours with women. Time is the one loan that even a grateful recipient cannot repay.

Taught to respect my elders, I said nothing. The magister’s verses reminded me of a roasted peacock presented at the table with its brilliant feathers reattached: glorious to behold, but lacking in nourishment. He had sung of love as a flutter in the heart, as a burning in the loins, as a watering of the mouth. What could anyone learn from such nonsense? But I would not criticize the song he had sung especially for me.

Everyone said, ‘You must meet Heloise,’ he went on. ‘She is a master of letters, and a trove of literary knowledge.’ You are accused of inventing new words, and of writing poetry that rivals Ovid’s. He glanced at the book in my hands. Could such subtlety of thought truly belong to a woman?

I am fluent in Greek as well. And I am learning Hebrew. To prove myself, I quoted passages in both tongues, relishing the drop of his jaw.

By God, how long have I waited to encounter a woman such as you? Indeed, I never imagined such a creature existed. Where have you hidden yourself all this time?

"Not hiding from you, Master Petrus. I spend most hours at my books. I lowered my head to hide my pleasure. One does not simply absorb knowledge, which Aristotle said is necessary to wisdom; nor is wisdom gained except by questioning."

Abelard stared at me. Cringing to hear myself crowing like a cock, I closed my mouth.

She speaks in Greek and quotes from Aristotle! We resumed our walk. And I have lost my wager with Roger in the scriptorium. He told me about you, but I did not believe him.

I had to smile, thinking of men betting money on my knowledge. I hope you will not forfeit a large sum.

My purse may be empty, but my life is enriched, now that I have met you at last.

He tramped through a puddle, heedless of the mud splashing his hem, as he told of the effort he had expended to speak with me. "I stood for an hour in the place today, singing like the king’s bouffe, waiting for you to appear."

You waited for me? Who had ever taken such measures for my sake? Not my mother, who had abandoned me; not my uncle, who would return me to cloistered life as soon as he pleased.

I sang for you, yes. Or—no. I did it for myself, to alleviate the agony of watching you from afar.

He had admired me, he said, for several weeks, as I’d walked past his classroom on my daily errand to the place de Grève market. On the first warm day of spring, he moved his scholars onto the cathedral lawn, hoping to attract my attention. I had noticed him, his ringing voice, his waving arms, his excited laughter as he debated his students and always won. Feeling the eyes of his scholars upon me, I lowered my gaze as I hurried past, day upon day, increasing his frustration until, today, he ended the class and hurried after me. But I had disappeared into the scriptorium.

I sang to lure you, he said. "I saw you stop yesterday to hear a minstrel perform a chanson de geste of inferior quality. I hoped my song might please you more. He winked. Now I think it was my own pleasure that I desired to increase."

If so, he would be disappointed. If he sought pleasure from a woman, the sort that elicited winks, then he had already wasted his time with me. I would have told him so, but here came my uncle lumbering toward us, his great belly leading him like a horse pulling a cart, his face scowling at the sight of the victuals, still in sacks, that ought to be ready for his table by now. Noting my alarmed expression, Abelard turned, and Uncle’s ill temper gave way to delight.

Petrus Abaelardus! He clapped the teacher on one shoulder as though they were old friends. What a pleasant surprise—most pleasant! I hope my niece is not dulling your mind with frivolous woman’s talk. By God, does she have you carrying her packages? He took the sacks and the flagon from Abelard and thrust them at me with an admonishing frown.

Mirth leapt in Abelard’s eyes, but seeing my brightening cheeks and hearing the murmur of my apology, he stepped forth and stretched out his hands. His fingers brushed mine. I nearly dropped everything into the mud.

It is my honor to assist our cloister’s esteemed subdeacon, Canon Fulbert, Abelard said. Please allow me. And he gently took the packages from me again.

I assisted Pauline in the kitchen, simmering the fish she had pulled from the tank and gutted, preparing a salad of greens with strawberries, and ladling her capon brewet into a bowl. She worked as if the end of the world were near, slamming pots and pans on the countertops and stirring the sauce for the fish with one hand and the brewet with the other, sloshing both onto the coals. She’d pressed her mouth together in a grim line when I explained my delay: I had tarried in the scriptorium, undecided which book to borrow, I’d lied, blushing with guilt. Were I to mention Abelard’s song, the smile budding on my lips would burst fully into bloom. One whiff of its fragrance, and everyone would know.

I had carried secrets all my life, each one as a great stone about my neck. This one, however, perched upon my shoulders, as light as a bird that seemed about, at any moment, to lift off and carry me away. When I carried the brewet into the great room, I beheld the slow unfolding of its wings in Abelard’s eyes.

I set the bowl on the table and removed the lid. Steam rose, and aromas of thyme and rosemary from the savory broth Pauline had simmered. My mouth watered, anticipating the flavors as rich as liquid gold. I glanced at Abelard, proud to present Pauline’s fare, which was, I knew, incomparable—but he was not looking at the brewet.

Will you join us? he said to me. The fingers of his left hand caressed the tablecloth.

I looked to my uncle, who sipped from the bowl with eyes closed in bliss—eyes that snapped open at Abelard’s suggestion.

We would only bore her with our talk, Petrus. Uncle’s nostrils pinched themselves together.

Then we must move to a new topic. Why speculate on who might become the next bishop of Amiens when neither king nor pope asks for our opinion? We might as well predict the weather. Sit, Heloise, I pray. My heart increased its beating at the sound of my name on Abelard’s lips. He patted a spot on the bench beside him. Come and tell me which writers you prefer. I noticed the Ovid you brought home.

I glanced at my uncle: Had he heard? He had forbidden me the Ars amatoria, calling it lewd and inappropriate for a girl, and, in doing so, had made it irresistible. If he knew I had coaxed his assistant, Roger, into lending it to me, he would take it away. To my relief, he exhibited no interest in our discussion, but appeared lost in his unhappy thoughts, his lips moving in a silent curse. I knew why he fumed: One week ago, I had offended the bishop of Paris at this very table with my assertion that Eve ought not to be blamed for Adam’s error. The bishop had colored several shades of red before abruptly taking his leave. Uncle feared I would embarrass him tonight, as well, no doubt.

"I enjoy Ovid’s poetry, in particular his Heroides, Abelard said, oblivious of my uncle’s scowl. I used to prefer Boethius, but lately find his assertions flawed."

Do you? I ventured a step toward him, my appetite whetted no longer for food, but for discourse. Which of Boethius’s writings do you dispute?

Uncle leapt to his feet in such haste that he nearly caused his precious wine to tip. Niece, I beg for a word with you. He seized my arm and all but dragged me to the stairway. Do you desire this man as your teacher? Then leave us, he muttered. The bird flapped its wings. My feet might have left the floor but for my uncle’s grip. To study philosophy with Pierre Abelard would crown my achievements. I would be the most learned woman in the world, and ready to complete the task my mother had bequeathed to me.

I returned to the kitchen, but my thoughts remained upstairs with the men. Outdoors at the cook fire, my face glowed with heat. Would the great master assent and become my teacher? I pulled the pan of simmering fish from the coals and carried it inside. I handed it to Jean, Pauline’s husband, for the table along with a green savory of parsley, thyme, dittany, sage, costus, and garlic, then assembled on a platter the carrots, onions, and garden greens Pauline had prepared. This I carried to the table myself with trembling hands, eager to gain the master’s esteem, yes, but also curious to learn: With which of Boethius’s precepts did he disagree? That ill fortune is of more use to men than good fortune? In my mind, I formed arguments in Boethius’s defense. Good fortune requires nothing more from us than enjoyment. When ill fortune strikes, however, we learn to endure, to accept, even to prevail. Clearly, we benefit more from our trials. Why, then, do we curse Fortune when she sends them, instead of thanking her?

But when I returned to the great room, the talk had moved beyond philosophy. Jean, attending the sideboard and the cup, refilled the henap with wine while my uncle pressed Abelard into service as my teacher.

The idea intrigues me, the magister said, lifting his hand to refuse the drink Uncle offered. To teach a girl! And yet, work already fills my days and nights.

"No girl surpasses my niece—non, and few men, either," Uncle said.

She would need to possess an astonishing mind. Otherwise, why should I waste my time? I might as well teach a dog to talk as train a female in philosophy.

You err, Petrus. My niece will become a great abbess—it is her destiny. At Fontevraud, no less—Fontevraud, heh-heh! Her mother was its prioress and would have become the abbess had she lived long enough. She wanted Heloise to follow in her path and finish the work she began. When Robert of Arbrissel meets my niece, he will beg her to join him there. Teach her the art of dialectic, and you will benefit the world—the world! Think of the letters she may write. Think of the arguments she may make, and the funds she may procure for the abbey, all for the glory of God!

I closed my eyes and willed my uncle to rein in his tongue lest he make fools of us both. Of course Abelard would not desire to waste time with a girl. Teaching me would do nothing to enhance his reputation; my writings would never be published, and his detractors—who were many, I had heard—might scorn him for accepting a female student. As if to confirm my fears, he explained the demands on him. Since coming to the Nôtre-Dame Cloister a few months ago, he had expended much effort correcting the inferior teaching of the previous headmaster, William of Champeaux.

You gasp, Canon Fulbert, but I do not lie, Abelard said, touching my uncle’s arm as intimately as if the two were old friends. Watching them, I wanted, now, to take Uncle Fulbert aside for a warning. Had this man of intellect truly formed a bond so quickly with my slow-witted uncle?

William taught my scholars that, in an argument, probable consequences are as true as necessary ones, Abelard said. Noting my uncle’s bewildered frown, he added, In other words, he taught that opinion is the same as fact. Let me illustrate. Provide me with an analogy.

Uncle merely blinked, as if the light of the other man’s brilliance had blinded him.

‘If Socrates is a man, then Socrates is an animal,’ I said. Uncle’s frown told me to depart, but, for once, I defied him.

That statement is a fact, my uncle said at last. A man is, indeed, an animal.

Only if Socrates is, indeed, a man, Abelard said. "But the analogy begins with a possible antecedent—if—which can only result in a probable consequence, not a necessary one."

But one must infer that Socrates is an animal from the suggestion that he is a man. My uncle folded his arms across his chest as if he had just checkmated his opponent in a game of chess.

Truth is based on necessity, not inference, Abelard said. The consequence must be necessary to the antecedent.

My uncle appeared as a man wandering in the dark without a lantern, so I added, Master Petrus means to say that the antecedent of a true statement could not exist without the consequence.

Voilà, Abelard said, turning toward me now.

I thought you were helping Pauline in the kitchen, Uncle Fulbert growled.

So if we say, ‘Socrates is a man, therefore he is an animal,’ does the statement then become true? I persisted.

An astute question, Heloise. The beam of Abelard’s approval filled me with warmth. The argument is necessary, and so would appear to be true, but you have stated an incomplete argument.

Incomplete because— I struggled to discern what I had omitted.

Because it leaves open the possibility that Socrates does not exist.

But he did exist, by God, my uncle said.

"He did exist, yes. But, being dead, he exists no more," I said.

Exactly! Abelard leapt to his feet and grasped my hands. His eyes shone.

He exists either in heaven or hell, Uncle grumbled, but neither of us took notice. At the touch of Abelard’s fingers, my pulse had begun to thrum in my ears. I heard only my inner voices, one praising God for sending this man as my teacher and one urging me to run away, as far from him as I could go.

My uncle interrupted our moment. She forgets she’s a girl, forgets her place—her place! She is her mother’s daughter, impertinent and proud. But I always say women are why God gave men fists, heh-heh!

I withdrew my hands to myself and closed my eyes, avoiding my uncle’s drunken sneer and, worse, the teacher’s expression of pity. I had hoped to elicit his admiration, but instead I felt like a dog that had just been kicked.

Heloise, Abelard said, but I could not meet his gaze now. Heat flooded my skin. For the first time, I thanked God that I was unable to cry.

Do you wish to study with me?

The spoon in my hand clattered to the floor. Why do you ask me—a mere girl? I could not resist answering. One might as well ask a hound whether it wishes to hunt, or a horse for its opinion regarding the bit in its mouth.

My uncle’s gasp should have warned me, but Abelard’s laughter drew my eyes to him until Uncle leapt up and struck me in the face.

"Impudent girl! Another remark such as that one, and you’ll feel my riding crop on your asne. My cheek burned. My hands gripped the edge of the tabletop. Pardon my niece’s manners—very bad! All her years at Argenteuil—and at no small price—failed to teach her respect for her elders."

I reserve my respect for those who deserve it, I wanted to say—but my years at Argenteuil had taught me the futility of arguing with a tyrant.

You will need to discipline her, Petrus, my uncle said. I grant you full permission to do so.

But, Abelard pointed out, he had not agreed to teach me. First, he must have my consent. An unwilling pupil learns nothing except how to vex his teacher.

A lump formed in my throat. No one had ever asked for my consent regarding anything.

Sit with us, Heloise, I pray. Then we may become better acquainted and determine if we might work well together.

I thank you, but I cannot do so this evening. My uncle’s slap still burned on my cheek, as though he had struck me with a hot iron. I turned toward the stairs, my shoulders hunched, my arms folded across my chest.

Niece! I command you to return—return! The master requires your presence, Uncle said, his speech slurring.

"Some other time, please, magister. My head aches, and I have lost my appetite for food." How could I sit at table with him now, reduced as I was even in my own eyes? I hastened to my room, a pulsing in my ears like laughter, away from the sound of my uncle’s fist pounding the table and his voice shouting my name.

2

What king or philosopher could match your fame? When you appeared in public, who—I ask—did not hurry to catch a glimpse of you, or crane her neck and strain her eyes to follow your departure? Every wife, every young girl, desired you in your absence and was on fire in your presence.

—HELOISE TO ABELARD

My uncle’s insulting words, his heavy hand—the memories clung to me like a bad smell. I placed a bowl of herbs and ointments in the window of my bedroom and let the scented breeze carry him away, then remembered the volume of Ovid that I had brought home. I might have been the only scholar in the world who had not read his Ars amatoria. The prioress had not taught it at Argenteuil, although we had studied the Heroides and his Metamorphoses. Roger, my uncle’s assistant in the scriptorium, had praised the Ars amatoria as one of the great works of literature.

Now the first task for you who come as a raw recruit

Is to find out whom you might wish to love.

The next task is to make sure that she likes you:

The third, to see to it that the love will last.

What would Ovid recommend—that the man sing to his beloved as she walked by?

I dismissed the thought. Curiosity, not any hope of love, had sent the teacher to me: the novelty of a lettered female. Yet, if a man wished to attract a woman, what better way to draw her eye as well as her heart? Every woman in that crowd had envied me. My shame melted away at the memory, and a smile touched my lips.

Pierre Abelard had sung only for me. Who in the world had not heard of him, the poet whose verses rang out in every place, the philosopher whose brilliance blinded all who dared to peer into his light? As headmaster of the Nôtre-Dame School, he had reached the pinnacle of success. I had known him the moment I first saw him, months ago, surrounded by scholars shouting questions, challenging him, scowling as he drove home the final riposte, sharper than any sword. They always returned for more. Having spent only a few moments in his presence, I could easily discern why.

The memory of his eyes returned to me now, not only their dark blue beauty, like sapphires, but also the intensity of his gaze, as though he beheld my naked soul. When he took the parcels my uncle had so rudely thrust into my arms, his eyes had danced with amusement. For the first time, I’d seen Uncle not as a brute to be feared but as a sort of bouffe, graceless and awkward and as full of wind as a storm—and, as storms always pass, so did his temper. Why hadn’t I thought to laugh at his clumsy antics, his fumbling words? Entering the cheerless convent at such a young age had stifled my joy—until today, when Abelard’s eyes had prompted its return, and I had felt merriment bubbling in my mouth.

But why would a man of his eminence sing in the place for me? My star might rise, but would never shine as brightly as his.