Stealing Heaven (22 page)

Abruptly the garden door slammed, and she heard Agnes calling, "Lady, lady!" She sounded agitated.

"Here!" Heloise lifted her voice. "With Jourdain."

He murmured, finally, "Tell me this. What do you plan to do?"

"Do?"

He motioned toward the house. "Well, you can't very well stay here."

"Certainly not." It was impossible to say what she would do. She hadn't had time to consider the consequences of her pregnancy. "Why I— As a matter of fact, I was going to write Abelard. He'll know what I should do. Stay here!"

"Lady, I—"

Before he could offer an objection, she dived into the house and took the steps two at a time. In her room, dizzy, she lit a candle and started to scrawl a note to Abelard. There was no time to think about wording or style. She was going to have a child, she wrote. It was a miracle. She overflowed with joy and gratitude to God. She loved him. He should tell her what she must do now. That was all. She had no proper wax to seal it, so she folded the parchment into a small square.

Outside, behind the house, Jourdain was slouching against the privy. He tucked the wad of parchment into his girdle and stared at Heloise. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him—what I told you." All of a sudden, she flung her arms around his neck and smiled mistily. "Oh, Jourdain, I'm so happy!"

 

Matins rasped coarsely from Notre Dame, but not until an hour later did Jourdain come with the horse. The moon kept sliding in and out from behind a flurry of low-lying clouds, so that sometimes Heloise worried that the yard would be too full of light. Under her window, she heard something bump softly in the brush. Peering down, she could distinguish a shadow.

"Ssss."

She rapped a light signal on the edge of the shutter and turned from the window. The room was pitch-black—nothing to look at for a
last time even had she wished. She left and felt her way down the staircase.

The warm night was full of rose scent and the twanging of gnats. A shape slid out of the dense shadows at the shoulder of the house. Shivering, she groped for Jourdain's arm. "Where's the horse?" she whispered.

"Up the road. Where did you put your things?"
 

"In the stable."

When she had steered him to the bundles, he began to grumble under his breath. "I said a few things."

 
"That's what I brought. A few things.”

“Shit! What the devil do you have here!"

She didn't answer. Her life, she thought to herself, or all of it she wished to keep. A Limoges casket, an amethyst ring, a looking glass, a rose wimple, and several gowns. The other, much larger parcels contained the work she had done on the Yes or No quotations and a fair number of books. She felt guilty about taking Fulbert's copies of Plato and Aristotle. But not that guilty.

A horse was tied to a tree this side of the Quai-aux-Fleurs. In the ghost light, it was too dark to tell its color; as long as it had four good legs, she didn't much care. Jourdain swung her up behind the saddle; he mounted.

"Am I going to ride pillion all the way to Brittany?" She laughed.

"Don't be silly. We're not even taking this one. Master Peter bought two fine stallions."

"Jourdain, I can't ride a stallion." She didn't even know if she remembered how to ride a mare.

"You'll get the feel of it."

They set off down the river road with its rotting Roman wall, the Seine spreading away to the left, the cadenced hoofs drumming past the silent Hospital of St. Mary. The mill wheels, unceasing, groaned with a furry sound. Jourdain swung the horse onto the Petit Pont. At the south end of the bridge, they had to pass guards at the tower gate.

"Who goes?" one of them called out.

"Lambert d'Ardres. I crossed over a half hour ago."

"Who's that with you?"

Heloise ducked her head against Jourdain's shoulder. "A friend."

In the torchlight, she could feel the guards staring at her, sense the grins racing in their voices.

"Nice," one of them shouted to Jourdain.

The gate scudded open, and they clattered onto the Left Bank. Inhaling deeply, Heloise could feel herself relax. Slightly. She still felt as if she were standing on a windy precipice; if she thought about what she was doing, she would plummet into the void. "How far to the house?" she asked Jourdain in an even voice.

"Not far."

They had turned off the cobbled Orleans road and were jogging west toward Saint-Germain-des-Pres. In this quarter, there was a lot of new construction she had not seen before—ugly modern houses that looked forlornly the same. Some now called this area the Latin Quarter because so many students congregated here. "I'm glad he's left the Ile," Heloise said. "Is his place nice?"

"You'll see. Solar with a fireplace. Behind that, a large sleeping room."

"Fleas?"

"Not many."

She stared at the darkened houses as they passed; in a few windows she could distinguish tendrils of yellow light. Students studying late, she guessed. "He must get a servant to cook for him."

"I think Galon's coming back."

"Can't he do better than that?"

Jourdain clucked in disgust. "Nobody can tell him what to do, you know that." He slowed the horse before turning into an alley alongside an imposing shingled house. He dismounted and reached for her. She didn't move.

"What's wrong?"

The moon was out now. "Nothing," she said, sighing. "Nerves." For three months she had hungered for the sight of him; now it was almost like going to meet a stranger.

"Come on," Jourdain said and pulled her to the ground.

Inside the entrance was a vestibule with a
staircase leading straight up. Halfway, Heloise paused to lift her head. Abelard was standing on the landing. She stopped dead. He unfurled his arms and she staggered swiftly toward them, her eyes flooding with unshed tears.

"Ladylove," Abelard whispered. He folded her up tightly against his chest, rocking backward and forward. After a
while, he released her and lifted her face with one hand. He began to stroke her cheek.

The breath came back into Heloise. She couldn't take her eyes off his face; he looked tired to her. Behind her on the steps, she could hear Jourdain breathing.

Abelard nodded, motioning them through a door at the side of the landing. The solar was richly furnished, as Jourdain had implied. There was a tiled fireplace at one end of the room, Abelard's majestic armchair behind a writing table, windows fronting on the street. The windows were inset with thick glass. Heloise walked over to take a look; she had never seen glass before, except in church.

"No trouble?" Abelard asked Jourdain. "Agnes still sleeping like a
babe?"

"No trouble."

"And the guards at the Chastelet?"

"I gave a false name. All they know is a man went over to the Ile and came back with a woman. It happens fifty times a
night."
 

"There'll be questions later, you know."
 

“I know."

Heloise turned and looked at them. There was an awkward silence, and then Jourdain moved toward the door. Abelard said to him, "Stay."

He shook his head. "I have to water the horses and take care of Heloise's things. If you need anything, call." His footsteps thumped on the stairs.

Abelard turned slowly. She tensed, conscious.of her heartbeats.

"Come to me, darling," he said in a husky voice. She did as she was bidden and stood before him. In the dreamy stillness, he moved his hands calmly, silently, over her hair, her face, throat; rapt as a blind man, he touched the backs of her hands, her arms, her breasts, and then, tenderly, her belly. When he had rememorized her, he pulled Heloise close and gave her his open mouth, long, shuddering kisses that sucked out the quick of her being. She felt emptied.

Somewhere, softly, the sleepy night was pricked by a horse coughing. Taking her by the hand, he led her into the inner chamber and began to undress her methodically. Heloise stood quite still. "Jourdain . . ." she said anxiously.

"Jourdain will wait." He smiled. Naked in the rosy flickering of the candlelight, they knelt facing each other on the coverlet. "God is full of mercy," he said, reaching for her. "You're mine now. Part of me.”

"I've always been part of you," she murmured, but he wasn't listening. Shutting out everything, they rocked together, nearly insensible, conscious of only their one body, and the sounds of their loving dusted the corners of the chamber.

Later, from the crook of his arm, she saw tears drying on his cheeks. "Abelard," she said, after a long while, "don't you think we should get up?"

"Yes." He made no move to stir.

"I think it's going to be a boy."

"Indeed." He grinned. "If you say so."

"Do you care what it is? I mean, be honest."

"Honestly, no. All I care about is that you'll be safe."

She pulled away and sat up. "Oh, now I'll be safe. Nothing can go wrong now." She stood and went to look for her undertunic. A wave of dizziness overtook her, and she collapsed awkwardly on a stool.

"Lady?" Abelard said, swinging off the bed.

"I'm all right." There was so much to say and no time left. Suddenly she began to cry miserably.

"Lady, lady . . ." Abelard held her head between his palms. "Everything's going to be fine. You'll be happy at Le Pallet, and my sister will love you as I do. And after Lammas, I'll come to you. Don't be afraid."

"I'm not." She didn't want to worry him. She had no fear of the future, since everything had been decided at last. Only these last moments were unbearable, the reality of unreality. Seeing him and leaving, the best and the worst.

She clamped down on herself and mopped her face on her shift. Abelard dressed and went to the window. She heard him talking to Jourdain in the alley, the uneven ticktack of their voices floating to her ears like a dream. Over his shoulder, he called to her, "Wait—don't put your bliaut on."

"Why—"

From a chest, he brought a black bundle and thrust it at her. "Here."

"What's this?" She frowned. She shook the fabric loose and saw that it was a nun's habit. Breaking into laughter, she said, "Where did you get this hideous thing!"

"Put it on," he ordered. "I have the veil here someplace."

"But, sweeting, I don't want to wear this—"

He rested his hands on his hips and glared at her. "God's eyes, don't argue with me."

She didn't want to put it on. It was ugly. "Why must I?" She grimaced, thinking of Ceci.

"Because it's a long way to Brittany, and the roads aren't safe. Nobody bothers a nun."

"I'll be with Jourdain."

"Yes, and people at the inns might remember you and Jourdain. Nobody will remember a nun with her escort. If anybody asks, say you're joining the order at Fontevrault."

Sighing, she began to pull the habit over her undertunic. She supposed that he was right. When Fulbert began looking for her, as he was sure to do, he would never think of inquiring for a nun. She heard Jourdain come into the solar; Abelard went out and they started talking together. Heloise draped the veil over her hair and fastened it. She knew that she looked ugly. And wasn't it a sacrilege to disguise yourself as a woman of God? She sighed again. She would burn it the moment they reached Le Pallet.

When she came into the solar, Abelard glanced at her, pleased. Jourdain stared, neutral. She grinned at him. "No nasty comments, please."

"I didn't say a word," he murmured, and turned hack to Abelard. "It's going to be prime in less than two hours."

"There's an inn near Corbeil—the Three Pigeons, I think. Stop there tonight."

"And stay on the Roman road?"

"Straight through to Orleans."

"No fords?"

"No. At Orleans, you follow the Loire."

"I know. Meung. Beaugency. Right along the river."

"Right. Be careful before you hit Tours."

"My lord?"

"That's a bad stretch of road. I've run into bandits in those parts. But there's a good inn the other side of the town. Marvelous
vin rose."

"And the ferry?"

"At Angers." Abelard frowned. "But you'd better go on to Nantes and cross there. You'll have to double back a few miles, but it won't matter."

"And from Nantes? Then how far?"

"A dozen miles east. On the road to Poitiers."

Jourdain rocked back on his heels. "I don't foresee any problems."

"I gave you enough money?"

"More than enough."

"Good. Now listen to me. The Bretons can be testy bastards. Don't get into any fights. And watch your purse."

Jourdain shifted his feet and nodded impatiently.

"And for Christ's sake, be careful who you talk to. We don't want to leave a mile-wide trail."

Abelard took Heloise's arm. They went downstairs. It was still dark, but a murky color of dark. She heard him ask Jourdain, "You have a sword?"

"And a knife."

"Good." He stalked over to the horses, a chestnut and a brown stallion, and looked surprised at the size of the packs lashed to their sides. "Lady," he said, laughing, "you don't believe in traveling fight, do you? What's all this?"

"Books," she told him, shivering. "And something that I'm writing."

He pulled her to him. "Perchance you'll write a book someday," he said. His fingers tightened around her waist.

"Perchance." Deliberately, she numbed herself.

He hoisted her onto the chestnut and handed up the reins. Behind her, she heard Jourdain mounting. Abelard buried his head against her hip.

"Heloise."

She leaned over and kissed the top of his head. After a moment, he raised up and backed away. In a cracked voice, he said, "Good journey. Jourdain, be careful. Now go quickly!"

They began to move off into the night. Heloise called out softly, "God in heaven keep you, my love." She looked over her shoulder, but his face was hidden by shadows.

 

They doubled back toward the Orleans road and turned south. Water trickled down the sides of her nose, yet she had no sensation of weeping. When the rivulets reached the corners of her mouth, she licked away the salt and swallowed. Ahead, Jourdain rode in silence. They rattled briskly between fields of vineyards, past some tumbledown buildings that had once been Roman baths. Jourdain glanced at her over his shoulder. She nudged the chestnut stallion and drew up even with him. He reached out and handed her a wafer. Smiling at him, she took a bite but had a hard time getting it down.