‘Master Peter! I have a wrangler here with me . . .’
The master looked at me: there was a little perspiration on his brow and weariness in his eyes. He was panting softly, rather like a wrestler, and there was a smile on his face. I noticed the silver brooch, depicting a wonderfully graceful lamb, that buttoned his cloak.
‘I know him, your wrangler . . .’
I could see the lines that ran across his forehead and furrowed his cheeks, like scars from the thrusts of swords that he had suffered in his jousting with words.
‘I came, as you see . . .’
He smiled. His eyes peered into mine: serious, intense and with that dancing light in them.
‘I was expecting you,’ he said, taking me by the arm. ‘Come with us – we’re going for a drink.’
I followed him out into the street, where a noisy, happy little group had clustered around him, trying to catch his attention. The young lady, Heloise was returning alone.
‘I’ll catch you up!’ I called to Arnold.
I walked behind her along the streets of the Close as far as her door where an angel was keeping watch.
‘Your name is Heloise.’
She turned round and smiled – her pale blue eyes misted over in the rain.
‘I said that I wouldn’t forget you.’
‘You left without telling me your name.’
‘You must believe me, William. I take my promises seriously, as well as my follies.’
‘I do believe you.’
It was as if an invisible veil that separated me from her made me shy and almost stupid. I had known women; I had never known a woman like her. I told her that Peter Abelard was my master.
‘What is he teaching at the moment? Logic, the Categories? Or is it what he blasphemously calls “Theology”?’
There was a touch of irony in her voice and she spoke with the familiarity of an equal. I mumbled. The lesson that I had just attended was still whirling around in my head.
‘He speaks powerfully and he looks upon others as if they ought only to exist in the shade of his sunlight.’
Heloise’s face was hidden in the large hood of her blue cloak. She had the insubstantiality of a dream – and she knew how to show herself off while concealing herself better. I was standing very close to her, like a miserable wretch, and I had a burning desire to speak to her, to tell her how I felt: the lure of a woman, my friend, can undo you and tear you to pieces.
‘Are you going to let me into my own house or does my uncle have to come and do battle with you?’
‘Will you come to a lesson with me?’
‘Wait and see,’ she said as she pushed open the door, her sad eyes laughing.
The rain had stopped. I ran, light-footed, holding my gown in both hands as I danced my way through the puddles.
Leaving the paved Close, I could not avoid the mud in the square. In the distance, near the Jewish quarter, I could see the philosopher and his friends. I ran and caught up with them.
Peter Abelard moved forward as if he were the only person present, chatting to people here and there.
‘Did you see?’ whispered Arnold, ‘Even the animals turn away from him.’
I looked at him to see whether he was being funny; his expression was serious. He really does believe that he has met Jesus; after all, it’s no different from what happened to the apostles. All we lack are one or two miraculous cures.
They were jostling each other with their elbows and speaking too loudly. There was a certainty about the knowledge these young men had and therefore a confidence that was naïve, pretentious and touching.
Peter the Child, the man with the chubby face, was quieter than the others. He wore the black habit of the monks from Cluny. He said that his prior sent him to Paris last winter to keep up with what was being discussed at the Schools.
‘And what have you discovered?’
‘I listen and I learn; everything is beneficial to those who wish to sing the praise of God.’
‘Why do they call you Child?’
‘Because as a child, I collected miracles. I continue to do so.’
He smiled. There was honesty in his blue eyes; a virtuousness that concealed further virtues still. I can decipher faces.
Behind the synagogue, in the heart of the maze of alleyways in the Jewish quarter, the group entered a tavern at the sign of Vulcan and a man who was actually very ugly welcomed Abelard.
‘I am your servant Samuel, Lord, here to serve you.’
‘That’s enough, Samuel, your prophecies will lead you to blasphemy.’
The inn-keeper dragged his almost dead leg as if it belonged to someone else and yet he moved about with remarkable agility. His large hands protruded from short, powerful arms and he had the shoulders of a wrestler.
We passed through a curtain and entered Vulcan’s forge: it was a curious, warlike cavern in which everything was painted dark red and the walls were decorated with shields, lances and swords.
Abelard presided at the head of the table; opposite him was Peter the Child. Then came Simeon the doctor, Robert le Roux and Cervelle, a small, slender man who spoke in a high-pitched voice. Immediately next to me was Christian, a fair-haired young prophet, bearded and hirsute like a Norman.
Arnold was helping Samuel to bring the ale and he set the goblets on the table – a thick brown, mossy liquid like milk from Sainte-Mère-du-Houblon, as warm as a fire, as a woman.
‘Where does he come from?’ Christian asked Arnold, pointing his finger at me.
‘I was born in England, at the court of a rather violent prince, near a landscape of damp hills . . . And I’ve come from Fontevrault, where I’ve relinquished my duties as a copyist . . .’
Christian swept a slender hand through his blond hair.
‘I knew it, I knew we were brothers! I, too, copy bibles at the abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. And since the monks are pleased with my delicate handiwork, I show them something of the art I learned in Northumberland, and I lay aside my pens and bring out my paintbrushes, my gold fluid, my pots of purple or saffron . . .’
‘What do you paint for them?’
‘Images that dwell within them day and night . . . Holy virgins wearing sky-blue mantles . . . but also fiendish animals coupling, worse than griffins and monsters . . .’
‘I should very much like to see them . . .’
Christian just smiled.
‘William!’ called Abelard.
I got up from the end of my bench. He gestured to me to come forward and, in spite of the swearing, I made my way among the students, being careful not to spill the ale in their goblets.
When Peter Abelard smiles, the lines on his cheeks widen and his dark eyes sparkle. And yet, even in that moment of abandon, I could not fail to notice the flicker of anxiety that glistened beneath his gaze.
‘Do you want me to call you Master?’
‘Call me whatever you wish, I don’t mind . . . With some people I insist, who knows why . . . From those who pay me, all I expect is their money . . . From those disciples who are dear to me I ask nothing – whether they call me Peter, or friend, or nothing at all.’
‘Disciples?’