The Sharp Hook of Love Read Free

near, slamming pots and pans on the countertops and stirring the sauce for the fish with one hand and the brewet with the other, sloshing both onto the coals. She’d pressed her mouth together in a grim line when I explained my delay: I had tarried in the scriptorium, undecided which book to borrow, I’d lied, blushing with guilt. Were I tomention Abelard’s song, the smile budding on my lips would burst fully into bloom. One whiff of its fragrance, and everyone would know.
    I had carried secrets all my life, each one as a great stone about my neck. This one, however, perched upon my shoulders, as light as a bird that seemed about, at any moment, to lift off and carry me away. When I carried the brewet into the great room, I beheld the slow unfolding of its wings in Abelard’s eyes.
    I set the bowl on the table and removed the lid. Steam rose, and aromas of thyme and rosemary from the savory broth Pauline had simmered. My mouth watered, anticipating the flavors as rich as liquid gold. I glanced at Abelard, proud to present Pauline’s fare, which was, I knew, incomparable—but he was not looking at the brewet.
    â€œWill you join us?” he said to me. The fingers of his left hand caressed the tablecloth.
    I looked to my uncle, who sipped from the bowl with eyes closed in bliss—eyes that snapped open at Abelard’s suggestion.
    â€œWe would only bore her with our talk, Petrus.” Uncle’s nostrils pinched themselves together.
    â€œThen we must move to a new topic. Why speculate on who might become the next bishop of Amiens when neither king nor pope asks for our opinion? We might as well predict the weather. Sit, Heloise, I pray.” My heart increased its beating at the sound of my name on Abelard’s lips. He patted a spot on the bench beside him. “Come and tell me which writers you prefer. I noticed the Ovid you brought home.”
    I glanced at my uncle: Had he heard? He had forbidden me the Ars amatoria , calling it “lewd” and “inappropriate for a girl,” and, in doing so, had made it irresistible. If he knew I had coaxed his assistant, Roger, into lending it to me, he would take it away. To my relief, he exhibited no interest in our discussion, butappeared lost in his unhappy thoughts, his lips moving in a silent curse. I knew why he fumed: One week ago, I had offended the bishop of Paris at this very table with my assertion that Eve ought not to be blamed for Adam’s error. The bishop had colored several shades of red before abruptly taking his leave. Uncle feared I would embarrass him tonight, as well, no doubt.
    â€œI enjoy Ovid’s poetry, in particular his Heroides ,” Abelard said, oblivious of my uncle’s scowl. “I used to prefer Boethius, but lately find his assertions flawed.”
    â€œDo you?” I ventured a step toward him, my appetite whetted no longer for food, but for discourse. “Which of Boethius’s writings do you dispute?”
    Uncle leapt to his feet in such haste that he nearly caused his precious wine to tip. “Niece, I beg for a word with you.” He seized my arm and all but dragged me to the stairway. “Do you desire this man as your teacher? Then leave us,” he muttered. The bird flapped its wings. My feet might have left the floor but for my uncle’s grip. To study philosophy with Pierre Abelard would crown my achievements. I would be the most learned woman in the world, and ready to complete the task my mother had bequeathed to me.
    I returned to the kitchen, but my thoughts remained upstairs with the men. Outdoors at the cook fire, my face glowed with heat. Would the great master assent and become my teacher? I pulled the pan of simmering fish from the coals and carried it inside. I handed it to Jean, Pauline’s husband, for the table along with a green savory of parsley, thyme, dittany, sage, costus, and garlic, then assembled on a platter the carrots, onions,