The Sharp Hook of Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

cloth of shimmering gold, rivaled the red in Abelard’s tunic. Her slanting eyes gazed boldly into Abelard’s; her pretty mouth curved upward as she told a tale that he seemed to find exceedingly amusing. I turned my attention to the choir. He could laugh with whomever he wished.
    The choir halted its chant and the procession entered the cathedral, stepping slowly down the center aisle: the master of the boys, followed by four boys singing a verse and response; the cloister subdeacons, including my uncle, and deacons in green chasubles carrying oil, balsam, and candles; a boy holding the ceremonial cross; and the bishops and abbots in their vestments of white and gold. Galon, the bishop of Paris, stepped weakly on his aged legs, squinting to see with his rheumy eyes. Etienne of Garlande, the archdeacon of Paris and the king’s chancellor, flashed his gold rings and looked over the crowd as though he were, as rumored, more powerful than the king. Then came Abelard’s nemesis William of Champeaux, now bishop of Châlons-sur-Marne, flaring the nostrils of his long, sharp nose, followed by Bernard, in a hooded tunic of undyed wool. His head, tonsured nearly to baldness with only a small fringe of hair, glistened with perspiration; his face held a glum expression, as though he marched at his own funeral.
    When they had ascended the stair to the altar, Galon stepped up to the pulpit. A hush fell over the room. In the voice he usedfor services—high, almost singing, pretentious—he introduced Bernard. The young monk had come on an important mission, Galon said: to denounce the spread of decadence in the Church.
    â€œI have come to talk about decadence, yes,” Bernard said when Galon had ceded the pulpit. In contrast to Galon’s whine, his voice resonated like a struck bell.
    â€œIn particular, I wish to discuss the degradation occurring in our most sacred places. A foul influence corrupts what should be pure, namely, the hearts and souls of those of us chosen to serve the Almighty God.” His stare fell upon Abelard’s red-haired companion like an accusing finger, then shifted to me.
    â€œBrothers,” he said, “answer me this: If dogs defecated on the cathedral steps, would you not scrub them clean? Do you allow lepers to handle your saints’ relics, or to urinate in your baptismal fountain?”
    Murmurs spread in a low rumble, then swelled to a clamor. Abelard’s friend waved an ivory fan before her face. Abelard wrapped a hand around her arm, as protective as a sibling—but his intimate glances were anything but brotherly.
    â€œThen why,” Bernard said when the din had settled, “do I see women in this cloister?”
    His eyes flew open to stare at me with such loathing that I dropped my gaze all the way to the floor, my face as hot as if I had been caught in some unspeakable, indecent act.
    â€œWomen—daughters of Eve!” he cried. “Nay, you are Eve, the gateway of the devil. The one who unsealed the curse of the forbidden tree. The first to turn her back on the divine law. You are the one who persuaded him whom the devil was not capable of corrupting; you easily destroyed the image of God, that is, Adam.”
    I winced under the force of his words. For this occasion, why had Bernard resurrected a speech by Tertullian, the ancientRoman whose disgust for women permeated his writings? ‘Daughters of Eve’? Would the Church visit the iniquities of the mother upon the daughters? Didn’t the Scriptures say, Each one shall be put to death for his own sin ?
    Bernard had become a monk only after the death of his mother, to whom he was said to be deeply attached. Now he praised the Virgin Mary as the supreme example of womanhood, apparently forgetting that, had his mother remained chaste, he would not have been born. Did only virgins merit God’s love? Why, then, had the Lord given us wombs? And why did such men as Bernard blame