Peter Abelard by Helen Waddell

Author:Helen Waddell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan
Published: 2018-06-28T14:07:20+00:00

CHAPTER IV

The Easter Mass was ended. Heloise, kneeling beside Denise, had listened to her lover’s voice triumphant in the Victimae Paschali,

“Dux vitae mortuus regnat vivus,”

transcending and yet carrying with it the sparrow chirping of the little choir-boys, who stared at him round-eyed, worshipping. That he who was so nearly their lord should take his place surpliced among them seemed to them a more stupendous condescension than any unintelligible Incarnation. Through the east window Heloise saw a budded limetree, holding up its small translucent cups of light: and her heart rose with it. From the moment she had wakened that morning with the west wind breathing on their faces through the open doorway, the doom and terror of the night had seemed only a bad dream: his arm was under her head. “Pour forth upon us, O Lord, the spirit of thy love, that by thy loving kindness thou mayest make to be of one mind those whom thou hast fed with the sacraments of thine Easter.” She was of one mind with him: come what might, she was content to go his way.

She stood by the well in the courtyard, waiting for him. Denise had left her to go into the bakehouse, where ever since daybreak there had been a cheerful clatter of tongues and the crackling of sticks under the great oven, in preparation for the Easter feast. Heloise would have followed her, but Denise refused.

“Child, there’s plenty here to get under my feet without you. Wait for Peter. Let him have his day.”

She saw him now, coming up the causeway, side by side with Hugh the Stranger in companionable silence. Then Hugh turned and went into the stable, and Abelard came towards her.

“Let’s go down to the river,” he said. He looked at her, a little discontented with the white coif that hid her hair. “Heloise, do you know that I have never done what all the lovers do, made you a spring garland? Do you know that until now we have wasted all our spring in a town?”

“If you knew how I have wanted you,” said Heloise, “these April dusks in the fields.” They had gone through the gate, and were going down the uneven track to the ford. “And yet the pain of it seemed the richest thing I have ever had.”

“Amore crucior,

vulnere morior,

quo glorior,”

said Abelard under his breath. “Do you know the garland I am going to make you, Heloise? I was thinking of it this morning, before you wakened. If it were May, I thought it would be wild roses. I do not know why, but it must have a thorn in it. The wild roses were all over when we were riding down to Brittany last July. And then I looked at your dark hair and the small white face sleeping there, and I knew what it would be. First I shall plait you a crown of green rushes, so that I can fasten the twigs in it and not hurt you: and then it will be Flos de spina, flower of the thorn.

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