The Sharp Hook of Love by Sherry Jones

Author:Sherry Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Gallery Books

6

Farewell, my bright star, golden constellation, jewel of virtues, sweet medicine for my body.

—HELOISE TO ABELARD

I was a brittle tree blown by the wind, on the verge of snapping. I was a pear left on that tree too long, bitter and rotting.

Abelard had cast me aside again, not only me but also his child, leaving us to the mercies of my uncle, who had awaited me in my room when I returned.

“You’ve been to see him, haven’t you? Whore!” he screamed as he struck me to the floor. Panting, he seized my hair; I cried out as, with his other hand, he tore at my clothes and flesh, his eyes wild until, thanks be to God, Jean ran in, waving his arms, and shouted at him to stop. Uncle had no choice, then, but to release me, but not without a kick to my back, which I had turned to him, protecting my child—our child.

As I lay on the floor, cradling my belly and moaning, Jean made my bed, then lifted me onto it. Now I remained in my room, not locked in but refusing to leave, scorning my uncle’s entreaties, fearing for my little one’s very life. Perhaps Abelard had spoken the truth, and telling Uncle Fulbert about the child would stop him from striking me, but I dared not risk his wrath again. He might hurt the baby or, worse, take it from me, as he had taken me from my mother.

My uncle had forced her to abandon me—this I knew, as surely as I knew my own name. The memories now rushed in a great torrent: the lilt and ripple of my mother’s voice, golden and warm; the powdery softness of her skin when she pressed her cheek to mine; and her fragrance, like the spring breeze. Mother! We must have had servants in our home, but perhaps, as Bertrade had said, she’d sent them away to avoid my being discovered, for in my mind there is only Mother, humming and laughing as she danced me, spinning, in her arms; Mother teaching me to read from a book of hours whose angels seemed nearly to leap from the page; Mother holding me close in her feather bed and singing me to sleep, her voice, that final night, choked with sobs.

I remembered our journey on her palfrey of gray, her arms about my waist as my uncle led us by the reins. The horse’s rocking, as steady as the beating of my mother’s heart, lulled me to sleep; when I awakened, with a pain in my neck that made me cry, she pointed to the stone buildings towering over us like rain clouds. Their gloomy appearance only increased my tears. When she bent down to kiss my cheek, her face was wet, also.

We stopped, and Uncle Fulbert came with raised arms to help me down. I clung to Mother, crying all the more, sensing that this strange man had nothing good in store for me. My mother’s tears

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