Fontevrault was in disarray: while on a visit to the priory at Orsan, Robert had been taken ill. In the panic that ensued, the abbess, Petronilla, had gone to be with him. On the return journey, Robert’s body fell victim to all kinds of greed and envy – from peasants and nobles alike, who wanted to cut out his heart and put it in a shrine so as to attract God’s blessing on their wretched church and some revenue from pilgrimages.
Thanks to my fine handwriting, I had succeeded in obtaining employment from the armarius, Brother Andrew, whose scribe had just died. The old man was writing the story of Robert’s life in order that he should be made a saint.
Days passed and we waited for news from a messenger or a traveller. All we had were rumours: his body had drifted away on the current, like that of Moses, or had been carried off on a chariot of fire. Brother Andrew shook his head: the life of a saint – a genuine one – was not founded on such nonsense.
The doors of the abbey opened and a hymn could be heard; outside, an unruly crowd clustered around. It was he, it was Robert who had come back to die on his own land, surrounded by his little brothers and sisters.
‘Hurry up,’ Brother Andrew grumbled at me, ‘you’ll see, there won’t be any room left in the church.’
He sighed as he watched the smoke rising from the great cones on the kitchen roofs. We hadn’t even had time to eat. I supported him, pushed him forward, dragging him and crying out: ‘Make way! Make way!’
Petronilla came at the head, walking beside the bower of branches on which Robert lay. He had been carried along byways and floated down rivers by a succession of men and women who took it in turns so that his soul did not escape during a moment of inattention. Behind the abbess came some important figures: his friend Geoffrey of Vendôme, Archbishop Léger of Bourges and a host of priests and monks who grieved for him as forsaken lovers do.
‘Is he dead or alive?’ asked Brother Andrew. ‘Tell me; I can’t see anything.’
Robert’s withered hands were folded over his cilice and his eyes were closed. And yet it seemed to me that breath still filled his lungs and that a little blood flowed through his cheeks.
‘I don’t know,’ I told Andrew.
The procession halted at the entry to the nave; far off, a lifetime away, the choir gleamed. The monks and religious did not pause for a moment: they took their places near the altar, while the poor gathered together at the back of the church. Many had to remain outside for lack of space.
Two men walked down the central aisle, moving at the same pace, but so dissimilar that it was as if they had come from separate worlds: the one dark, the other pale in appearance; the one strong and handsome, rather like a bear, the other younger, with a face that was already haggard, and with sparse hair and hollow cheeks, looking as if he were returning from travels that had subjugated all wolfish desires.
Petronilla advanced towards them. Andrew caught my sleeve.
‘Bernard of Fontaines,’ he whispered. ‘He’s just left the abbey of Cîteaux to found a monastery at Clairvaux, in a valley infested with wild beasts.
‘The tall one?’
‘No, the other one. His name is Peter Abelard. He thinks he’s the greatest philosopher in the world.’
I could see him from the corner of my eye as a slight smile raised the wrinkles in his face on which everything was always plainly written.
‘They loathe one another,’ muttered Andrew, not displeased.
‘Do they know each other?’
‘They don’t need to in order to hate each other. Anyway, watch . . .’
With a sign to the lay brethren, Petronilla gave the order for the litter to be lifted and carried up to the altar. Bernard and Peter stepped aside. She stood beside Robert and took his hands, placing one over the other.
My gaze was fixed on Peter Abelard. He was a cleric with an unkempt tonsure, bushy eyebrows and a nose that was too large; he had lively, laughing eyes that were very dark and which moved from irony to anger at the merest impulse.
Without turning round, Bernard went to close the double doors.
‘He’s young but tiresome,’ Andrew declared with a hint of respect. ‘Apparently he forced his entire family to take the veil, and he has threatened hell-fire on those women who do not submit.’
Petronilla presented the cross to Robert and his lips remained closed, as did his eyes, while on his chest there was a flutter of motion so weak it could have been that of a bird. There was general weeping, and tears on every face.
When the light from the east shone on Robert of Arbrissel’s countenance and he opened his eyes, a murmur could be heard. His lips moved as if to speak, but no sound emerged, no prayer, no plea to the Lord. All that could be seen in his expression was an infinite distress; his eyelids flickered.
Bernard approached; monks and nuns knelt. We put our hands together to recite the ‘Our Father’ as the sun gradually lit up each fold of Robert’s shroud.
When we rose to our feet, Peter Abelard had opened the doors behind which the paupers and whores had gathered; they too were on their knees and from their lips the words of the same prayer were uttered.
Bernard stood up and walked over to the master of studies; he was holding his stomach as if it was burning him and his eyes were feverish.
‘. . . in the dust and in the mud,’ said Robert of Arbrissel.
‘What is he saying?’ Andrew asked, but I did not reply, being prevented from doing so by furious voices telling us to hush.
From the depths of my distress, I cry to you
Merciful God, hear my plea
And do not look upon the extent of my sins
So that justice may be accomplished,
Merciful God.
The women continued singing the Pie Deus as long as they could. When they stopped, all that could be heard was the groan that slipped from Robert’s throat.
When there was no longer any echo, it meant he was dead.
Brother Andrew and I were walking around the cloister.
‘I don’t feel like writing,’ he said.
‘You have to finish . . .’
‘A prayer is needed.’
‘You’ll compose a fine one for him.’
He turned towards me, his forehead etched with lines that might have been made by a stylet, his face the colour of old wax.
‘You already know too much for your age.’
‘I’ll keep it to myself, if you want.’
I felt overcome with an inexplicable pride. We clerks are not honoured, our shoulders are never dubbed by a sword, and our glory is a song that is passed from lip to lip without anyone knowing who wrote it. When Brother Andrew hired me, at the point at which his copyist had stopped, I simply wrote the epitaph for my confrere who had been summoned to oblivion. Anno Grade M° CXVI, obiit Ademarus; successit Wilhelmus . . .
‘What troubles me,’ Andrew continued, ‘is that I’m not sure I’m creating a saint.’
‘Why?’
‘To begin with, he’s the son of a priest. That hasn’t bothered anyone for centuries, but the times are changing. And then he spent a long time in the outside world . . .’
‘He’s not the first!’
‘He used to visit