The Sharp Hook of Love (2 page)

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.