The Sharp Hook of Love by Sherry Jones Page B

pang, thinking of the little girls at Argenteuil, their bony mischief, their shy smiles. How would it feel to hold my own baby to my breast, to kiss its fat cheeks, to sing for my child as my mother had done for me, lying together under the open window, stars spilling their light across the blanket? Sorrow pressed against my eyes.
    â€œI do not want marriage,” I said. “I have not imagined myself with children.”
    â€œBut why? You come from a noble family. Who was your father?”
    I denied myself the urge to confess, which was, in the face of her sympathy, nearly irresistible.
    But my silence told her all she needed to know. “You do not know him.” She sat beside me again and touched my arm, her eyes soft. “You poor dear. Do not fear, Heloise: I will not tell a soul—not even Pierre.”
    At the sound of Abelard’s name on her lips I stood, brushing her hand away. “Is this why you have come today—to sink your teeth into a juicy tale that you can share with your friends in King Louis’s court?”
    â€œYou are too young for the abbey, and too accomplished,” she said, wrinkling her pretty brow. “On this, Pierre and I agree.”
    I narrowed my eyes. Had Agnes written to Abelard about me? Poor Heloise. We must save her, Pierre! Apparently, she had united herself with him in a common cause: me. What a brilliant strategist! I wondered if she played chess.
    â€œWhy concern yourself about my life?” I said. “When I am gone, you will have ‘Pierre’ to yourself.”
    â€œTo myself?” She snorted. “To watch him preen and strut, and listen to him boast, or endure his unremitting teasing? And bear all that talk of ‘genus’ and ‘species’ and Plato and Porphyry— merci, non! Pierre amuses me most in the company of others, in riposte. His tongue is a veritable Damocles’s sword.”
    This interested me. “How so? Do his words hang as a blade over his adversary’s head?”
    â€œNot over his adversary’s head”—Agnes rolled her eyes—“but his own.” She did not sound, to me, like a woman in love. “And he agrees that you are too young for the convent. Of course, he has reasons for wanting you to change your mind.” She pressed a finger to her smiling lips. I looked at her askance. Was she laughing at me?
    â€œAnd are you here today on your beloved Pierre’s behalf?”
    â€œMy ‘beloved Pierre’? Is that what you think?” She laughed again, but now the sound reminded me of a brook in springtime, frolicking over the rocks. “I am an heiress—a future countess. Would I squander my prospects on a teacher ?” She grimaced as if the very word tasted sour.
    â€œBut you lay your head on his shoulder.”
    â€œPierre used to bounce me on his knee. He put frogs in my boots.” Agnes stuck out her tongue. “He is like a brother—a maddening, annoying, and very loving brother. Mon Dieu— behold your expression!” She laughed again. “It is exactly as I had hoped.” Her eyes shone. “You love him.”

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    You are buried inside my breast for eternity, from which tomb you will never emerge as long as I live. There you lie; there you rest. You keep me company right until I fall asleep; while I sleep you never leave me, and after I wake, I see you, as soon as I open my eyes, even before the light of day itself.
    â€”ABELARD TO HELOISE
    T hat Abelard stood before me after so many weeks away seemed a miracle, or a dream.
    No—were I dreaming, I would have thrown my arms about his neck and kissed his mouth as if it were a fountain from which I might refresh my soul, as I had done nightly in my dreams during his long absence. In the great room of my uncle’s house, it was Uncle Fulbert who kissed Abelard in greeting while I murmured a shy welcome. His laughter rang out as familiar and dear as a