Stealing Heaven by Marion Meade Page A

Rue Saint-Pierre," he told Heloise. "You should see my landlady, she's a dreadful old witch. But sometimes I stay on the Left Bank with my master. He gets lonely and likes to have someone there in the evenings, and I—"
    Heloise cut in. "Tell me something, friend, which master do you study with? If only you knew how I envy you!"
    "With Master Abelard, of course." He laughed a little self-consciously.
    His laugh pleased her; she liked his voice, by turns grave and then merry as a cricket. "Why do you say 'of course'?"
    "Because he's the best teacher in the world. He has more than three thousand students." He laughed again. "What can I say? Believe me, there's no way to describe such a man. He's a prince, a reincarnation of Socrates, a . . ."
    Alis turned away with a loud cluck of annoyance. "God's blood, can't you talk about anything but your poxy master!"
    "Poxy to you," Jourdain flared, "because your head is empty. I'm very proud that he's my master—and my friend."
    Making a face, she snorted at him and ran off to play with Claude.
    Heloise leaned over the top of the snow castle. Perhaps this trip could not he counted a loss after all; it might even prove to he fun. "Come up," she said to Jourdain.
    "No room. Come down."
    She slid to the ground and crawled out through the tiny opening. "Your master sounds splendid." She had heard others speak admiringly of Peter Abelard. Even Fulbert, who tended to be critical of other people.
    The afternoon shadows were lengthening. The hunting party clattered over the drawbridge, leaving a trail of blood on the hard-packed snow. Those in the meadow followed slowly. In the ward, Heloise's cousin Philip stood by his steaming horse, and as they passed, she was surprised to see him shoot Jourdain a look of venom.
    "Still kissing ass for Peter Abelard?” Philip said with a grin.
    Jourdain jolted by without replying. Upstairs in the hall, Heloise said, "He doesn't like you."
    "No." His voice was quiet and controlled.
    "Nor Abelard?"
    "No. Philip hates anyone above him."
    That night, for the first time since her arrival at Saint-Gervais, Heloise found herself feeling contented. Alis had been right about one thing: the arrival of Jourdain had turned the day splendid. Heloise felt easy with him, and as her tongue loosened, out rolled stories about Sister Madelaine and Ceci, critiques of Lucan and St. Augustine, her fears of marriage to some old, toothless lord, all the misty unsaid debris littering some segment of her mind.
    "But don't you want to marry at all?" he asked, obviously curious.
    "Not very much." When she saw him staring, she added quickly, "Oh, I suppose. Later. Much later." She laughed. "St. Paul said it's better to marry than to burn."
    Â 
    On the morning after New Year's, they rode back to Paris with Jourdain accompanying them. The sky was overcast, and a sleeting wind kept conversation to a minimum. Heloise had worried about Fulbert's reaction to her friendship with Jourdain, but he did not seem overly concerned one way or another, nor, in the weeks that followed, did he object to Jourdain's visits. At least once a day, the boy appeared at the Rue des Chantres, sometimes bearing a book for Heloise, or merely to sit in the kitchen and drink a cup of ale with her and Agnes. He had a stock of stories, rumors, and humorous gossip, all of which Agnes adored, and she stuffed his book bag with cakes. For Heloise, his cheerful face brought a predictable bit of fun into her day; his mere presence was like a draft of healthful tonic, good for whatever ailed her.
    It was some time before she realized that Jourdain brought with him into Fulbert's house the unseen presence of his master. Since he spent many hours of the day in Abelard's company, both in class and at his lodgings, he was forever chattering about the minutiae of his teacher's personal life: Master Peter threw his servant down the stairs because Galon had bought four-day-old turbot and pocketed the remainder of the