21

 

 

The sun felt warm at midday now. The winter rains had stopped and the ground was beginning to dry up. Arnoul sent word that he was bringing a team of oxen and a plow to the north field.

After saying prime, Heloise and Ceci took the mare out through the fields. The strips belonging to the Paraclete were not adjacent. In addition to this one, there were two more to the east, each intermingled with strips held by Milo and the villagers so that it was difficult for Heloise to get straight where her land ended and theirs began.

It was still chilly, because the sun had just risen. They skirted the oak woods and came out into an open space where Arnoul was talking to the villeins who held their land from the Paraclete. Heloise swiveled her neck and gave Ceci a puckish grin.

"Keep your eyes open today, sweet," she said. "Because on Thursday they'll be working their own strips and the plow will be all ours."

"God's toes, when I took vows, nobody said anything about plowing." Pressing her mouth against Heloise's shoulder, Ceci began to laugh. "Look there. Those oxen look mean."

"Shhh. Act like a nun." Heloise jumped the mare over a balk of turf that divided the Paraclete's field from the adjoining one and jogged up to Arnoul. The hooded men inched back, trying not to stare. Several small boys kicked at the dirt. Heloise greeted them with a smile.

"Lady abbess," Arnoul stammered, "it was not necessary for you to come."

She slid gracefully from the mare and helped Ceci down. "Certainly it's necessary," she said. "How else will we learn?" Ceci took the horse to a tree and roped it. "Besides, we've brought your dinners."

"As you wish, lady," Arnoul answered. He looked angry.

Ceci pointed to a wooden grid that lay flat on the ground. "What's that?"

"A harrow," Arnoul said.

"A harrow," Ceci repeated uncertainly, as if it were some exotic machine never before seen in Champagne. The children giggled and nudged each other.

Tugging at Ceci's sleeve, Heloise led her to a balk, where they sat down to watch. The oxen were yoked up. One of the villeins grabbed the plow handles and began guiding it over the ground. He started just to one side of the center of the strip, plowed the entire length, then turned at the end and plowed back along the other side. After a while, Heloise grew almost mesmerized by the repetition of the motions: the coulter cutting the earth, the share breaking it, then the wooden board turning it over. "Arnoul," she called, "has this field been manured recently?"

"No, my lady. By my records, four years ago."

Under her breath she clucked fretfully. The yields would be poor, unless God decided to be merciful and made a miracle.

Two men operated the plow, one of them grasping the handles while his partner walked alongside the oxen with a goad and shouted commands. Both of them swore a lot. After them trailed the men who broke up the larger clods with plow bats.

Above, the sun was climbing the sky. Heloise felt the warmth on her forehead and hands. Three men moved into the row scattering seed broadcast—peas and beans in the furrow, corn and barley on the ridges. Shrieking and squealing, the children ran up and down the field slinging stones at the crows. Arnoul was signaling to a villein, who immediately guided his horse and harrow over the furrows just sown. Ceci jabbed Heloise with her elbow. "Look how many men it takes to do this. There are only two of us."

Heloise smiled at her. "We'll manage."

"How?"

While watching the villeins, Heloise had been thinking about it. "I'll guide the plow. You drive the oxen." 

"What about the seeding?"

"We can do half the strip, then come back and start seeding and harrowing."

"Sure. And in the meantime the crows will have a belly full." 

"We'll get Berengar and Abelard to shoo the birds." 

Ceci laughed. 

"I'm serious."

"Berengar might do it. Abelard never. You're talking about an abbot."

Heloise shrugged. "We'll see." It would do no harm to ask. Toward midmorning, they could hear the church bell tolling dimly from Saint-Aubin. While the men unyoked the oxen and fed them hay, Heloise and Ceci brought out the food. On those days that the villeins plowed for their lord, it was obligatory to provide them dinner. Wet—with ale. Or dry—without. Heloise had not tasted ale since Christmas, nor had she cash to buy it from the Quincey alewife. Her villeins would not be happy with their dry dinner, she knew. When they came up to get their fish, bread, and cheese, she made a speech explaining the missing ale and asking for their indulgence. They said it didn't matter.

Heloise offered a brief prayer, and then everybody sat on the turf banks and ate. Arnoul, chewing noisily, said to her, "Lady, there was no need to apologize. These men don't expect ale." He talked about them as if they could not hear.

Heloise smiled. "It does no harm to express one's feelings. I'm truly sorry I had no ale for them." She took a crust of bread and smeared cheese on it.

Arnoul went to his horse and came back with a skin of wine. He offered it to Heloise. She shook her head. A few yards away, she could hear the villeins bickering roughly and cursing. The boys were happily stoning each other. Arnoul shouted at them, and they threw down their slingshots and sat on the ground.

Heloise said to Arnoul, "After dinner I would like to take the plow." He nodded, as she had already informed him that she and Ceci would finish the plowing. "Just once or twice down the field. To get the experience of it." He nodded again and fell silent.

After perhaps five minutes, he said, "Abbot Peter. He'll stay for a while?"

"A short while. He must return to Brittany."

"Does he know that you intend to plow yourself?"

She paused to glance at his face. His eyes were bright with disapproval. "I don't know if he knows or not. It is not important."

The bailiff wiped his forehead on his sleeve. "He should hire villeins to work your land. Two women can't do it alone. You need help."

Heloise stood up. "The abbot no longer owns the Paraclete. It is Sister Cecilia and myself who would be hiring, and we have no money. You know that."

Arnoul ground his heel into the dirt. "The abbot could find the money. He could preach."

Her back straight as a board, Heloise looked down at him. "With God's assistance, I shall plow. I'm not made of rock crystal."

Arnoul stood and shouted for the men. They yoked the oxen to the plow. Heloise grasped the handles; Ceci picked up the long switch from a ditch. The villeins stood against the turf balks, watching them. Cautiously, they moved off down the field. The ground was slightly uneven, the plow much heavier than Heloise had imagined. By the middle of the furrow, her arms were beginning to ache. She concentrated on keeping the plow steady. As they neared the end of the row, she heard Ceci shout, "How the hell do I turn these beasts around?"

"With the goad!" she yelled. "Prod them!" Ceci began to scream at the oxen. A villein came running down the field and swooped the switch from her hands. Roughly he beat the team until they had turned and were maneuvered into position. Heloise dropped the handles for a moment and wiped her hands on her skirt. She waited, inhaling the good smell of freshly turned earth. Once again her hands clamped the plow, and they started moving. When they reached Arnoul and the villeins, she noticed that the men were grinning. They let out a long cheer. Heloise dropped the handles and grinned back, her face dripping sweat. Arnoul barked, "Jacques, get going. Take the plow." He scowled at the men. "Move. This isn't a feast day."

In position again, the oxen began lumbering down the strip. Ceci, panting, untied the mare. The women went home.

Later, after vespers had been said, Heloise went down to the river to find Abelard. Beneath the trees it was dank and the deepening twilight brought an aroma of rotted reeds. Abelard was sitting against the base of a birch, a book on his knees.

"Lady." He looked up at her, his eyes sleepy.

"Abbot Peter," she said in a light tone. "If I remember correctly, you once told me that as a boy you were an expert with the slingshot."

He smiled jauntily. "Champion of Le Pallet. A regular David against any Goliath."

"Good." She smiled back. "The Lord has need of you.

 

All through the spring and early summer, while the earth covered itself with juicy grass and the cabbages rounded into pale-green ovals, Heloise and Ceci rose long before prime to begin their work. Abelard had been back in Brittany for some time, and even though Heloise prayed for a letter, none came. She told herself the pope's legate must have visited by now—the monks of Saint-Gildas surely had put their feet on a more righteous path. By midsummer, the days were long and they were in the fields from dawn to dusk working alongside the villagers. Heloise felt violently happy. People made whistle pipes from reeds and played tunes on them. Out in the hay meadow, moon daisies were in bloom and dragonflies skimmed overhead. The grass there was high enough for the children to hide in. Everyone said the harvest would be plentiful.

Months had passed since Heloise had written to Astrane, telling her that she was welcome at the Paraclete but spelling out clearly the primitive conditions she would find. Ceci, who had read the letter, said Heloise had painted such a dreadful picture that Astrane would be sure to give up the idea; she was glad of this. In time, both Heloise and Ceci forgot about Astrane. There was too much to do.

The Paraclete had acquired a sheep. One. It was an old, smelly creature, not at all lovable, and whenever Ceci looked at it, she began jesting about roast mutton. In July, on sheep-washing day, they drove the animal downriver to Quincey, where the villagers had built a big pen next to the water. It hardly seemed worth the trouble to have their one sheep washed and sheared, but Heloise felt they might as well. From early morning they could hear the Quincey sheep baaing a mile away, so much racket did they make.

Heloise and Ceci stood a little way off, watching. The sheep driven into the pen were all piled up against one another. Prodded with long sticks, they were pushed screaming into the water. Melisende came up and leaned against the pen, but conversation was difficult unless you shouted at the top of your voice. Yet somehow they talked, about the only things that mattered to any of them: the haying, when the corn would be ready for reaping, most often of the weather. It had been good so far, and if it held, if no rain spoiled it, they would give thanks to God.

At noon, Melisende's eldest son, a chubby lad of ten, ran up and said that three nuns had been seen in the village. Melisende said, "You must be mistaken."

"I saw them, Mama. They're all in black."

"Pilgrims," Melisende remarked absently.

After a moment, Ceci jabbed her elbow into Heloise's side. "Do you think—"

Heloise hurried toward the road, Ceci lurching along at her heels. There was no sign of any nuns. She walked slowly toward the village, shading her eyes. At the fork in the road, under an oak, sat Astrane and two other women. When they caught sight of her, they got to their feet and came forward hesitantly. Astrane called, "Sister Heloise. I mean, lady abbess—" Her face seemed saggy, apprehensive.

Heloise looked back. Ceci had stopped some fifty feet to her rear. She was not coming. Heloise turned, went up to Astrane, and kissed her on both cheeks. She stepped back and smiled at her, then at the two women behind her. "Welcome, ladies."

Her eyes glued to Heloise's face, Astrane said quickly, "We lost our way . . . somebody gave us incorrect directions . . . where's the convent, all I've seen are corn fields ... I just can't—"

Heloise laughed. "Whoa, Sister, catch your breath. The Paraclete is up the road about a mile." She pointed north.

Ceci was stamping toward them, her face fixed in an expression that was half smile, half grimace. Heloise hoped that she wasn't going to be unpleasant to Astrane. Suddenly Ceci shouted at Astrane. "Well, Sister, we meet again on God's green earth. The Lord's will be done, I suppose."

Astrane looked away quickly, her eyes narrowed to slits. "God's will be done," she murmured, and introduced her companions, who stood smiling politely. Heloise glanced at the one called Gertrude. She was tall and her hazel eyes spouted curiosity. Whenever she spoke or looked at someone, she wrinkled her nose. The other nun, Marguerite, did not appear pleased to be there. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she kept swiping at them, and at her nose, with a wadded handkerchief. She told Heloise that grass made her sneeze.

They walked back to the pen to collect the sheep. Children and sheep and dogs clogged the dusty road. Ceci said to Astrane, "Forgive my curiosity, Sister. But how came you to leave a place where you were prioress? Surely that was not a wise move."

There was a long pause. Gertrude and Marguerite pretended that they had not heard. Astrane, shoulders sagging, was looking at the sheep. "I was not prioress," she said finally. "Abbot Suger promised me the position, but it did not come about." Her face was hard.

"So," said Ceci. "You didn't get your thirty pieces of silver after all."

"Sister Cecilia!" Heloise said sharply. Sweet Jesus, Ceci could be cruel.

Astrane nodded, looking Ceci directly in the face. "No," she said, "I did not get my thirty pieces of silver." She laughed harshly.

Marguerite began to sneeze. They started up the road to the Paraclete, everyone talking at once, Ceci prodding the sheep with a stick. Heloise thought that Astrane's limp had improved slightly; or perhaps she had merely devised a way of holding herself that made the disability less noticeable. When they came in sight of the Paraclete, Heloise said loudly, "There it is."

Nobody spoke. Then Marguerite said, "Where?”

"Oh," Ceci said, laughing, "you have to look carefully, but it's there."

The three newcomers, including Astrane, who had been forewarned, looked about with undisguised confusion and dismay. Heloise smiled. "Sisters, we have very little. As you can see."

"Lady," Gertrude gasped, "anyone can walk right in here."

"And anyone does," Ceci called out cheerfully.

"We are going to build a wall," said Heloise. "In fact, now that you're here, we shall have one by the end of the summer." That was far too optimistic a prediction, but Heloise made it just the same.

Suspicious, Astrane asked, "Who's going to build this wall?"

"Ah, we are," Ceci answered.

"But I've never built a wall."

Ceci laughed. "Live and learn, Sister." She chased the sheep to its pen while Heloise led the women to the sleeping chamber. It was clear that they were exhausted. They fell on the pallets and slept until vespers.

On Tuesday of the week following, after sneezing and wheezing steadily, Marguerite told Heloise that she wanted to return to Senlis. It was the proper decision, Heloise thought, and she packed off the sniffling nun with a merchant caravan traveling north. She had neither the time nor the facilities for nursing the sickly, and she had counted it one of God's blessings that she and Ceci had kept in good health. All that week, and for several weeks after it, they were busy with the harvest. With hand sickles and flails, they reaped, stacked the sheaves, and threshed. Sacks were carried home on wagons and stored in every available foot of space, including the chapel. Gertrude and Ceci went to work on the fruit trees, which hung low with plums, apples, and pears, and they all picked blackberries, sloes, and nuts, knocking the acorns from the oak trees with sticks. For the first time in many months, they left the trestle with their stomachs full.

When the sacks of grain had been taken to the Saint-Aubin mill to be ground into flour, Heloise went to see Lord Milo's master mason for advice on building a wall. She had started the foundation before harvest, and thanks to the gift of a knight from Ferreux, stone had been floated downriver from a quarry north of Saint-Aubin and stacked behind the chapel. It was enough for barely one side of an enclosure, but it would be a start. The mason came to the Paraclete to show them how to mix the sand, lime, and water, how to lay the stones on top of each other and trowel mortar between the layers. He left them a level and plumb line so they could make certain the stones were laid perfectly horizontal.

Father Gondry came to bless the first stone and stayed to help with the lifting. He knew even less about wall building than Heloise. By noon, only five stones had been set in place.

Gertrude was proving to be the fastest learner of them all. She suggested to Heloise that they might cut the expense by mixing mortar with pebbles—if they filled in the spaces that way, the large stones would go farther. When Heloise told her to try and see what happened, she fell to work with such zeal that she demurred about stopping for food. Father Gondry went back to the village and returned an hour later with a crew of children. Mainly they ran around slopping mortar in their hair and getting in the nuns' way. Finally, Heloise sent them to the fields with sacks and instructed them to gather pebbles.

Astrane poured water into the bowl of mortar. "This stuff is getting hard," she said to Ceci. "You're working too slowly. Look. You're not putting enough on that stone."

Ceci slapped at the mortar with her trowel, ignoring Astrane's pointed finger. "Don't tell me what to do."

"Somebody has to." Squinting critically, she came up with the bowl and heaved a blob of mortar onto Ceci's layer. "That stone won't hold."

Ceci's teeth began to rattle. She stared down at her work, her mouth grim. Heloise called to them, "Please, sisters. There's no time to quarrel."

Ceci's temper was up. "Of course I'm stupid compared to the brilliant Sister Astrane. I'll bet Sainte-Catherine's was ecstatic to see you go."

"Go to the devil," Astrane growled.

"I would, if I weren't sure of meeting you there."

Gertrude had dropped her trowel and was chewing her thumbnail in distress. Everybody had stopped working. Heloise took a deep breath. "My sisters, this is awful."

Astrane grunted. "Lady, I meant no harm. I have a bad habit of finding fault."

Ceci looked away, pretending that she was not grinning.

Heloise said, "Tomorrow morning we'll have a chapter meeting. For the specific purpose of complaining." The women stared at her, surprised. "Then we shall make a list of all the duties here and divide them among us."

"Can I be the portress?" Gertrude asked eagerly.

Heloise threw back her head and laughed. She went over to Gertrude and stroked her cheek. "Sister, when we have a portal, you can be the portress." They picked up their trowels and went back to spreading mortar.

 

Without warning, Abelard came back after All Saints' bringing news that Prince Philip was dead. While riding along the Greve in Paris, the lad had been thrown and killed when a black pig darted from a dung heap, and now his younger brother, Louis, had been anointed in Rheims Cathedral. Abelard had attended the ceremony.

His return took Heloise by surprise, although it was what she had been longing for. He slouched at the trestle drinking watered wine and shamelessly allowing the nuns to wait on him.

Heloise could see that he was making an effort to be charming. He was feeling low, that much was clear to her, but he made jests and even succeeded in thawing Ceci. Heloise leaned near the entrance to the kitchen, studying him. In the light of the yellow candles, he looked fantastically handsome. Like the Abelard of their Paris days, but it was an illusion cast by the flames. Outside, in the light of day, his cheeks sagged, and his skin was blotchy and irritated.

Heloise thought of asking why he had come back, but she decided to leave the subject alone. Whatever his reason, he had wanted to come; perhaps he had even wanted to see her. Finally, she edged forward and said to him. "How goes life at Saint-Gildas?" He had not mentioned the legate's visit or the monks' reactions.

He shrugged, impassive. "We do not transform swine into saints overnight."

"Did your sons promise to reform?"

He drained his wine and set the cup on the trestle. "No." He split his lips in a grim smile.

"None of them?" Surely he was exaggerating.

"I told you. They're crafty bastards." His tone was deliberately light. And final. He turned toward Gertrude again and began talking about Pope Innocent, who still did not feel safe returning to Rome.

Rebuffed, Heloise scooped up a platter and hurried into the kitchen.

 

Abelard had not been at the Paraclete a week when the uproar began. Father Gondry was the first to mention it to Heloise, but he made light of the gossip, saying that Abelard's return was none of people's business, and they had nothing better to do than meddle and criticize. Heloise sighed impatiently. What her neighbors said didn't worry her overmuch, and anyway she had more important matters to think about. Their pigs had been slaughtered—she was busy finding tubs to pickle the great pieces of pork and hanging sides of bacon near the fire to smoke. It was a job she did not relish, for handling the bloody meat made her want to gag.

On St. Martin's Day, Abelard rode up to Nogent-sur-Seine, to pay his respects to Lord Milo. Before noon it began to rain. He was away all day, and when he returned, his cloak soaked, he picked at his dinner and said barely a dozen words to the nuns. After the meal, Heloise waited until the others had left before she approached. She gave him some wine mixed with herbs. He drank without speaking. Hesitating, Heloise said, "Is there anything you would like to tell me?"

He looked up, wary. "Tell you? What would I have to tell you?"

"My lord. Something is wrong. I can see that."

He laughed, choking.

"Did something happen at Nogent?" She meant to discover the reason for his unaccountable bad temper.

Silence. Then: "People in these parts have a poor opinion of me." When she began to protest, he flicked his hands impatiently and would not allow her to continue. "When I left here in the spring, they said I had abandoned you, that I could have helped you and didn't. Now they're saying—" He broke off, leaning his head between his hands.

Heloise wondered who "they" were. "My lord abbot, I don't know what you're talking about. After God, you are the founder of this place. Surely you won't allow idle chatter to upset you this way."

He jerked back his head. "Idle chatter? Not at all. Malicious insinuations. Monstrous accusations."

Heloise, shaken, sat down across from him. She said, “Tell me.”

Abelard would not meet her eyes. "That I am still a slave to the pleasures of carnal desire—" "My lord—"

"That I can't bear to be parted from the woman I once loved."

Heloise turned her head away, blinded with hurt. Once loved.

"For the love of Christ, I'm a eunuch! In my present condition, how can there be any suspicion of wrongdoing?" His voice snarled with pain.

Involuntarily, she stretched her hand to him, then laid it down awkwardly on the trestle between them. His eyes met hers briefly before jerking away. At last, Heloise said simply, "We need you here." There was no reply, and when she looked up, she saw that his eyes were closed, his body rigid. "Stay here. We need you."

He went on as if he had not heard. "What does it take to please them? I”m not a man anymore. I'm a thing. An it." He laughed hollowly, but the laugh made the skin on Heloise's neck crawl.

She waited for him to continue, but he did not. After a while, she slipped into the kitchen, sagged against the wall, and wept into her sleeve. The room stank of half-smoked flesh and dried herbs. She stared at the wall, thinking of Abelard in the next chamber. There were so many things she wanted to tell him: that she had been thinking of draining the marsh, that she was going to see the pope, that she loved him yet. She wished that he wanted to listen. It struck her that he was not really uninterested, only self-absorbed. She wiped her face and went in to him.

He was standing by the open shutters, looking out at the rain, which had settled into a steady drizzle.

"My lord, there is something I must speak about."

He glanced over his shoulder before turning to her. Her fingers picked nervously at her wimple. "My lord, I understand that the pope is at Auxerre."

"That's correct."

"Auxerre is but a short journey from here. I was thinking of— well, I had planned to—visit him."

Abelard's voice flared sharply. "By God, why! There's no reason to do that."

"I want to get a charter confirming my ownership of the Paraclete." 

"Yes, yes. All that will be taken care of. Bishop Hatto promised me—"

"The bishop is a busy man," she said calmly. "We've been here ten months and still no charter."

"It is not proper for you to leave here." His face was turning red. "You must attend to your flock."

Heloise was surprised to find him so vehement. His own flock sat unattended, sometimes for months at a stretch. "I understand your concern, but my flock can do without me for a week. It's more important that I obtain recognition before the pope leaves France."

"Send someone else."

Heloise shook her head.

"I will go for you."

"No." She could feel her stomach knotting, waiting for him to forbid her, and then she knew that she would back down. "I wish to go myself."

Abelard lifted his shoulders wearily. He stared at her for a moment before murmuring stiffly, "Very well. Then go if you must. You give the orders here now."

Before she could answer, he had plunged into the rain.

At the end of the week, she set out for Auxerre, and she took with her as escort Arnold's second-eldest son. Abelard accompanied them as far as Sens. The town was crowded, and she was in a hurry to find the road leading south to Auxerre. Aside from that, she sensed that Abelard felt uneasy with her, that he was anxious to make his farewell and return to Saint-Gildas. Before she cried, she wanted to be away from him.

The day was foggy, with a damp wind that ripped at her wimple. She left Abelard near the Troyes Gate. Tipping back in his saddle, he smiled pleasantly and gazed somewhere directly behind her left ear.

Heloise said, "My lord, you won't forget to send me the psalter and the abacus."

"Of course not. I'll send them the day I get to Saint-Gildas."

"Shall I give the pope your best wishes?" She was stalling now, dreading the moment when she must turn from him. Of all the things that she needed in this world, she needed him near her. But God had willed otherwise.

"Certainly," he said. "Please do that." He nodded vaguely.

Heloise's mare stamped impatiently. The bells in the cathedral began to pound. "Farewell," she said to Abelard, miserable. “Till we meet again, my lord."

“Till we meet again."

She spurred the mare, following Arnold's boy down the path that led back to the highroad.

 

Pope Innocent, the second of that name, smiled and fingered his jeweled miter. A beefy, stoop-shouldered man with a hawk nose, he more resembled a smith than a pontiff. For a long while, he listened while Heloise talked about the Paraclete, and he continued to smile. "And when do you find time to read? Tell me that, child."

Heloise wanted to laugh at the word "child"—she was over thirty. It reminded her of Lady Alais. Arranging her face into a pious expression, she said, "At night, Your Holiness." That was only partly true. Most nights she was asleep before her head hit the pallet, but when she did read it was late in the day.

"The venerable Peter of Cluny has told me about you. He likened you to Penthesilea—"

"Your Grace," Heloise said, "I'm no Amazon. Only a frail woman in need of assistance."

Innocent shook his head. "I don't say that to flatter you. But it's clear to me that God must have set you apart when you were in your mother's womb." He scratched his nose vigorously. "Through the grace of the Almighty, you turned your zeal for learning in a far better direction."

"Yes, Your Holiness."

"Fortunately, you abandoned logic for the Gospel, Plato for Christ." 

"Yes, Your Holiness."

Innocent beamed. "You bring supreme glory to the Creator, child."

Heloise stared at the floor, trying not to wince. After Innocent had assured her of a jeweled crown from the King of Heaven, he shouted for the clerk and began to dictate the bull.

". . . confirm to her and her sisters, as well as those who shall come after them, the perpetual possession of the Oratory of the Holy Trinity . . ."

Heloise listened, remembering Abbot Suger and his forged charter. His lies had forced her and Ceci into the road—and killed Aristotle. This time, perhaps, she would be safe.

". . . confirm the gifts which have been received and those they may receive through the concessions of pontiffs, the munificence of kings and princes, and the liberality of the faithful . . ."

The scratching of the clerk's quill grated in the small chamber.

"Given on this twenty-eighth day of November in the year of Our Lord eleven hundred and thirty-one."

Afterward, the pope offered to take the Paraclete under the personal protection of the Apostolic See, for which privilege Heloise would have to remit a sum of money annually to the Lateran Palace. Small as the amount was, it seemed enormous, and she wondered how she would be able to pay. However, she mumbled her thanks as she kissed Innocent's ring. She recognized a good bargain when she heard one.