The Sharp Hook of Love Read Online Free PDF Page A

had denounced them, and their way of life, as degraded. Uncle and I moved so slowly that I wished I had walked—but I would not want to stain my tunic with mud, not when I had hopes of seeing Abelard.
    â€œHe writes to you daily, non ? Yesterday, I saw his messenger thrice at our door. That sort of devotion usually means one thing.”
    I forced a laugh. “Why, Master Petrus is devoted to philosophy, and the teaching of it. You ought to appreciate his efforts on my behalf.”
    â€œ Oui , I ought, given the fortune I pay him—a fortune!” A dog darted in front of us, startling our horse. Uncle’s arms, on either side of me, tightened. “Adelard of Bath commanded an equally high fee, but he didn’t show such a personal interest. It makes me wonder what sort of lessons our Petrus intends for you.”
    â€œI do not know what you mean.”
    â€œHas he spoken of love to you? Has he touched you?”
    I laughed again. “Master Petrus, in love with me? What philosopher ever squandered his time on women?”
    â€œI have seen the way the girls crowd around him, young beauties, and wealthy widows, too, straining to touch the hem of his garment as if he were the Christ—the Christ! No man could resist such temptation.”
    â€œIn his eyes, I am but a scholar, one of many under his care.”
    â€œI hope so, for his sake—and for yours. Be vigilant, my girl! Guard your purity. Your future as an abbess depends upon it, as does my career.”
    â€œI am well aware of that, dear uncle.” I kept my tone light, reminding myself that, when he was sober, I had nothing to fear from him.
    â€œIf he ever speaks of love or touches you in—in that way, I want to know. Do you understand?”
    Before I could answer, my uncle’s assistant, Roger, called his name and came toward us, waving his arms. “One of the deacons has fallen ill and cannot walk in the procession,” he said, beaming. “The bishop of Paris wants you to take his place. Make haste, Canon Fulbert!”
    As I followed my uncle into the Saint-Etienne Cathedral, I searched for Abelard in vain. Only by some miracle would I find him amid all these people. The entire city, it seemed, waited to hear the renowned monk, filling four of the great chapel’s five naves and pressing against the marble columns: monks, clergy, and canons on either side of the center aisle; nobles along the far right side, their brilliant yellows, greens, and peacock blues competing with the colorful mosaics adorning the walls; merchants and townspeople on the far left; villeins and servants in the back, stretching their necks for a view of the proceedings. My uncle secured a place for me at the foot of the altar, with the nobles, then hastened to don his ceremonial robes and join the processional. As soon as he left, I slipped the wax tablet from the pouch on my belt and resumed reading Abelard’s letter.
    An unclouded night: would that it were with me!
    The magister had suggested letter writing as our first exercise, to my surprise, for I had expected to learn the art of dialectic—of debate and discussion—for which he was famous.
    â€œI have never lost a debate,” he had said in our first lesson, his voice swaggering. “I humiliated William of Champeaux. I ground Anselm of Laon into the dust with the heel of my logic. I made Roscelin weep. The greatest teachers in the realm could not compete with me.” He thumped his chest. “I may be the only true philosopher in the world.”
    â€œYou have not debated me.”
    He laughed. “Debate a woman? That would be as unchivalrous as attacking you with my sword.”
    â€œNot so, master. You would best me with a sword.” He laughed his lion’s roar, delighted with my riposte .
    Yet, after several weeks of lessons, I had learned little of philosophy or dialectic. Instead, we wrote letters—an art at which I must excel,