Past the new year and into the spring, Abélard grew weaker. Pierre believed a sister house to Cluny, The Priory of St Marcel, was a quieter venue with more tender hands, and that is where Abélard was sent to die.
A procession of nuns on horseback snaked into the clearing. It was a windy evening in April. The men in the camp stopped their cooking and rose to their feet. There was a murmur. A gust blew the hood back from a woman who rode straight in the saddle and took the veil with it. She had long grey hair in a single braid.
One monk ran to fetch the veil and helped her dismount.
‘Welcome, Abbess,’ he said, as if they had met many times.
‘Do I know you, Brother?’ she asked.
‘I am a friend of your friend,’ he said. ‘I am Barthomieu, of Ruac Abbey.’
‘Ah, from years ago.’ She looked at him curiously but said no more.
‘Would you like me to take you to him?’ Barthomieu asked.
She exhaled. ‘Then I am not too late.’
A coverlet was drawn to Abélard’s chin. He was asleep. Even though the consumption had melted the flesh from his face, Héloïse whispered he looked better than she had expected, then kneeled at his bedside and placed her hands together in prayer.
Abélard opened his eyes. ‘Héloïse.’ From his weak lips the utterance sounded more like a breath than a name.
‘Yes, my dear one.’
‘You came.’
‘Yes. To be with you.’
‘To the end?’
‘Our love will never end,’ she whispered into his ear.
Despite the whisper Barthomieu heard her, and he excused himself so the two of them could be alone.
Barthomieu waited outside the hut all evening and all night, like a sentry. Héloïse stayed until the first light of morning, excused herself for a short while then returned, as fresh and determined as ever to maintain her vigil. When Barthomieu asked if she needed the assistance of the infirmarer, she brushed him off and said she was perfectly capable of attending to all his needs.
Later in the day, there was a commotion when a group of men, King’s soldiers aggressively rode into the Priory. Barthomieu met them, had a word with their captain, and blanched.
‘When?’ he asked.
‘He’s not far behind us. Maybe an hour. And you are?’
‘His brother,’ Barthomieu muttered. ‘I am Bernard of Clairvaux’s brother.’
A soldier opened the door for him and Bernard emerged from his fine, covered carriage looking pale and drawn. He was fifty-two but could have been mistaken for an older man. The pressures of high office and the years of spartan living conditions had turned his skin lax and sallow and rendered him arthritic and stiff-limbed. He took stock of the ragged conditions of the camp, a pilgrims’ enclave, and the assemblage of clerics and scholars, men and women.
Will I engender as much adulation at the time of my death, he thought. Then he called out, imperiously, ‘Who will take me to see Abélard?’
Barthomieu approached. The two men briefly locked eyes, but Bernard shook his head and looked elsewhere for a moment before refocusing on the man.
‘Hello, Bernard.’
He was momentarily angered by the informality. He was the Abbot of Cîteaux. Papal legates sought his counsel. He had sat by the side of popes and the current Holy Father valued his advice over any man. He was the founding benefactor to the Knights Templar. His name was uttered by Crusaders. He had healed great schisms within the Church. Who was this monk to simply call him Bernard?
He looked into those eyes again. Who is this man?
‘Yes, it’s me,’ Barthomieu said.
‘Barthomieu? It cannot be you. You are young.’
‘There is one, younger still.’ He called over to the camp fire. ‘Nivard, come here.’
Nivard came running out. Bernard had not seen him for half a lifetime, but his youngest brother Nivard would be well into his forties by now, not this strapping fellow he saw before him.
The three men embraced, but Bernard’s hugs were tentative and wary.
‘Do not fret. All will be explained, brother,’ Barthomieu said. ‘But be quick, come and see Abélard while he still draws breath.’
When Bernard and Barthomieu entered the sick house, Héloïse turned to hush the intruders, then realised the great man of the Church had entered.
She rose and made her intentions clear to kiss Bernard’s ring but he shooed her back and bade her keep at Abélard’s side.
‘Your Excellency, I am-’
‘You are Héloïse. You are Abbess of Paraclete. I know of you. I know of your intellect and piety. How is he?’
‘He is slipping away. Come. There is still time.’
She touched Abélard’s pointy shoulder. ‘Wake up, my dear. Someone is here to see you. Your old…’ She looked to Bernard for guidance.
‘Yes, call me his old friend.’
‘Your old friend, Bernard of Clairvaux, has come to be with you.’
A weak huffing cough signalled his wakening. Bernard appeared shocked at the sight of the man, not because he looked like skin and bones, but because he looked so young. ‘Abélard too!’ he hissed.
Barthomieu was standing in the corner with his arms tightly folded around his chest. He nodded.
Abélard managed to smile. In order to speak without inducing a paroxysm he had learned to whisper, using his throat more than his diaphragm. ‘Have you come to drop a heavy weight upon my head and finish me off?’ he joked.
‘I have come to pay my respects.’
‘I was not aware you respected me.’
‘As a person, you have my utmost respect.’
‘What about my views?’
‘That is another matter. But we are finished with those arguments.’
Abélard nodded. ‘Have you met Héloïse?’
‘Just now.’
‘She is a good abbess.’
‘I am sure she is.’
‘She is a good woman.’
Bernard said nothing.
‘I love her. I have always loved her.’
The abbot shifted uncomfortably.
Abélard asked that Bernard and he be left alone and when Héloïse and Barthomieu withdrew, he beckoned Bernard closer. ‘Can I tell you something, as one friend might say to another?’
Bernard nodded.
‘You are a great man, Bernard. You perform all the difficult religious duties. You fast, you watch, you suffer. But you do not endure the easy ones – you do not love.’
The old man slumped into a bedside chair and tears filled his eyes. ‘Love.’ He said the word as if it were foreign to his tongue. ‘Perhaps, old friend, you are right.’
Abélard gave him a sly wink. ‘I forgive you.’
‘Thank you,’ Bernard answered with a touch of amusement. ‘Would you like to confess to me?’
‘I am not sure I have the time left to confess all my sins. We have not seen each other since that night in Ruac when we drank some tea together.’
‘Yes, the tea.’
Abélard had a coughing fit and stained his mouth cloth red. When his breathing was under control he said, ‘Let me tell you about the tea.’
Two days later, Abélard was dead.
Héloïse took his body back to Paraclete and buried him in a grave on a small knoll near the chapel.
She lived to be an old woman and in 1163, according to her wishes, she herself was buried next to him, certain in the knowledge the two of them would rest side by side for eternity.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Thursday, Midday
The taxi ride to the Palais-Royal was a brief one and didn’t give Luc much time to reflect on what he had just heard.
Was it possible there was a connection between the Ruac manuscript and the chaos and carnage of the present? How could a twelfth-century monk’s fanciful tale of infusions and monastic intrigue ripple through the centuries to affect his life?