me, Heloise.â I lifted my eyes in surprise; now, his was the head that hung in shame. âI should have defended you from Fulbert.â
I shook my head. âHad you done so, he would have abused me more harshly once you had gone.â
âBut now? Do you fare well?â
âOf course. I have my book.â I gestured toward the Ovid, which lay on my bed.
He stepped over to my bed and lifted the volume. âAh, the Ars amatoria . âThe Art of Love.â Is love an art, or artifice?â
âI have only begun to read it.â
âWould you learn about love from a book, Heloise?â His tone,gentle but chiding, made me want to seize the volume from his hands.
He lowered his eyelids as if sheltering a secret. Warmth flooded my skin. I should order him out of my room. But why should he respect me? My mother dead, my father unknown, I was as worthless as a foundling in Uncleâs eyesâand now, perhaps, in the eyes of the magister , as well. I struggled to find the words to restore his high opinion. Otherwise, he would never deign to teach me anything.
âThe Scriptures teach us all we need to know of love.â I tossed my head, hoping I appeared more confident than I felt, and would have looked him directly in the eyes had they not followed the fall of my hair across my arms.
âââHow beautiful you are, my darling! Oh, how beautiful! Your eyes are doves,âââ he murmured. I knew well his allusion, having read the Song of Songs many times. What would it be like to have a man whisper such words to me? I used to wonder. Suddenly thirsty, I took from my windowsill the gourd I used to collect rainwater and drank deeply from it.
âââLove is patient; love is kind,âââ I said when I had finishedâreturning Scripture for Scripture. âââIt does not envy; it does not boast; it is not proud. It does not dishonor others. It is not self-seeking; it is not easily angered; it keeps no record of wrongs.âââ
He lowered his eyelids as I spoke, hiding his reaction. When I had finished, he peered out at me from beneath curling lashes. I heard, again, the song he had sung to meâcould it be that very day? So much had changed since then. I pressed my hand to the wall behind me, steadying myself.
âThere are several different kinds of love, Heloise,â he said with a sly smile.
âNon, magister , you are wrong. There is only one.â
3
May the bestower of every art and the most bountiful giver of human talent fill the depths of my breast with the skill of the art of philosophy, in order that I might greet you in writing, most beloved, in accord with my will.
âHELOISE TO ABELARD
M y uncleâs horse nuzzled my shoulder and I clapped the tablet shut, as if the creature might read the words written upon it. As I stood on the mounting stone, Uncleâs shrewd stare made me want to hide the tablet behind my back, but I did not. I had nothing to hide, or so I told myself.
âAnother letter from Petrus?â he said as I climbed onto the mare he had brought with him. âBy God, I wonder if he gives so much attention to all his scholars? If I didnât know the man to be continent, I might suspect him of seducing you, heh-heh.â
I felt glad that he could not see the flush of heat that spread across my face.
To one who is sweeter from day to day, is loved now as much as possible and is always to be loved more than anything, he had written.
âExcept for love, why else would a man write so many letters to a womanâwhy?â Uncle said.
We joined the tide of horses with their riders swelling toward the Saint-Etienne Cathedral for the great eventâthe long-anticipatedsermon by the renowned orator Bernard of Clairvaux. Even the misting rain that caused my teeth to chatter and stiffened my hands did nothing, it seemed, to deter the Parisians from going to hear the man who