The Sharp Hook of Love by Sherry Jones

it seemed.
    I leaned in to him, swaying as if blown by God’s own breath. Yes, I wanted to go with this man, to bask in his light, which seemed to shine from within. He can be very persuasive, Abelard had said. I now understood what had drawn my mother to him so irresistibly, to this man who emanated love, who smelled of it, and the fragrance was that of every flower that had ever bloomed, including, yes, roses. I wanted to dive, headfirst, into that garden, to roll in those blossoms, to smother myself—and then, remembering how the silence at Argenteuil had smothered me with its unremitting hand, how the darkness and chill of the convent had stiffened my very bones, I shrank back from him, breaking the spell.
    â€œI would like to remain in Paris for one more year,” I said, my voice tearing like flesh on a nail.
    â€œA year? That is too long—too long! The abbot needs an abbess, didn’t you hear? I will send her to you in one month!” Uncle said. I caught my breath; when Abelard returned, I would be gone.
    Robert’s eyes turned fierce; his long hair flew about his head in the shifting breeze. He gripped my hands too hard; his fingers felt coarse and rough. “Taking the veil is not your desire. It is not your calling.”
    â€œHer mother willed it, by God—willed it!” my uncle said. “She has been training for it all her life.”
    â€œAnd what is Heloise’s will?”
    I searched my mind for the answer that, of late, had obscured itself even from me. “I wish to please God,” I finally said.
    â€œGood. Good.” Robert pulled me close for an embrace that left me dizzy, as if I had taken too many breaths too quickly. “Until the spring. Come next June.”
    As we turned to leave, my uncle’s faced flushed with pleasure as if he had quaffed from the flagon and it had filled itself again.
    So my fate was decided. So would the remainder of my time with Abelard be parceled, one month at a time, a little more than one glorious year in which to dance and sing and perhaps to know true love. If Abelard loved me, the whole world and Paradise, too, would be mine, for a little while, at least. I wanted to dance in that moment, and I wanted to cry. Hurry home, Abelard. Our time is short.

7

    Your presence is my joy, your absence, my sorrow; in either case, I love you.
    â€”HELOISE TO ABELARD
    I read Abelard’s letter with a leaping joy. After two months away, he was returning to Paris at last. In the study of my uncle’s home I took my own tablet from my pouch and composed a reply.
    Glory of young men, companion of poets, how handsome you are in appearance yet more distinguished in feeling. The words flowed naturally, without artifice, as love should flow. Were Abelard beside me now instead of this messenger with red ears, I would breathe my ardor into his mouth until he overflowed with it and returned it back to me.
    He loved me. Of this I had little doubt, or no doubt at all except in Agnes’s presence. She was so beautiful and self-assured—what man wouldn’t love her? Non , it was me whom he loved, me whom he had kissed, me to whom he had sent so many messengers that Jean had asked me to answer the door. Had Abelard written passionate letters to Agnes, as well?
    A pain stabbed my breast. No; he would not. You are my sun, since you always illumine me with the most delightful brightness of your face and make me shine, Abelard had written. I have no lightthat does not come from you, and without you I am dull, dark, weak, and dead.
    When I did not reply to him as promptly as he desired—feelings of inadequacy having palsied my hand and robbed my mind of confidence—he complained. Envious time looms over our love, and yet you delay as if we were at leisure.
    Our love . A sweet tremor shook me. His words dispelled my fear, unlocking my hand, and I wrote to him not from my imperfect mind, but from my open heart.
    I read my