mighty intelligence and each publication eventually made its way to the desk of Bernard who had bit by bit become a theologian second in influence only to the Pope.
In Sic et Non, Abelard almost made parody of orthodox leadership and made it seem that the fathers of the Church could not express themselves clearly. Bernard gritted his teeth but the work was not, in and of itself, actionable. Finally, Abelard crossed the line, as far as Bernard was concerned. He believed that the eunuch’s Expositio in Epistolam ad Romanos, spat at the feet of the Church by seeming to deny the very foundation of the Atonement. Had not Christ died on the cross as payment for the sins of man by dying in their place? Well, not to Abelard! He maintained that Christ died to win men’s hearts by the example of reconciling love.
Love! This was too much.
Bernard threw the full measure of his weight to the task of crushing Abelard once and for all. The time for private warnings was over and Bernard took the matter to the Bishops of France. Abelard was summoned to the Council of Sens in 1141 to plead his case. He reckoned he would have the ability to meet his accuser openly, to debate his old friend and spar with him the way they had done during their convalescence at Ruac.
When Abelard arrived at Sens, he learned, to his horror, that the evening before, Bernard had met privately with the bishops and a condemnation had already been meted out. There would be no public debate, nothing of the kind, but the Council agreed to let Abelard have his freedom for the express purpose of making a direct appeal to Rome.
He never made it that far.
Bernard saw to it that Pope Innocent II confirmed the sentence of the Council of Sens before Abelard made it out of France, not that it would have mattered, because a few months earlier, one of Abelard’s students had coughed in his face, and had seeded his lungs with consumption.
Scant weeks after Sens he became ill. First came fever and night sweats. Then an irritated cough which progressed to paroxysms. The green flux from his lungs went from pink-tinged to streaky-red to gushes of crimson. His appetite dried up like a spent well. His weight fell.
He even lost desire for his red tea.
An old colleague and benefactor, the venerable Pierre, Abbot of Cluny, intervened when Abelard passed through his gates, as he persevered in his struggle to venture to Rome for an audience with the Holy Father.
Pierre forbade him from travelling on and confined him to bed. He obtained from Rome a mitigation of the sentence and even got Bernard to stand down when he passed word to him that Abelard was dying. Was not further earthly persecution of the monk pointless and cruel, he asked, and Bernard had sighed deeply and agreed.
Past the new year and into the spring, Abelard grew weaker. Pierre believed a sister house to Cluny, The Priory of St Marcel, was a quieter venue with more tender hands, and that is where Abelard was sent to die.
A procession of nuns on horseback snaked into the clearing. It was a windy evening in April. The men in the camp stopped their cooking and rose to their feet. There was a murmur. A gust blew the hood back from a woman who rode straight in the saddle and took the veil with it. She had long grey hair in a single braid.
One monk ran to fetch the veil and helped her dismount.
‘Welcome, Abbess,’ he said, as if they had met many times.
‘Do I know you, Brother?’ she asked.
‘I am a friend of your friend,’ he said. ‘I am Barthomieu, of Ruac Abbey.’
‘Ah, from years ago.’ She looked at him curiously but said no more.
‘Would you like me to take you to him?’ Barthomieu asked.
She exhaled. ‘Then I am not too late.’
A coverlet was drawn to Abelard’s chin. He was asleep. Even though the consumption had melted the flesh from his face, Heloise whispered he looked better than she had expected, then kneeled at his bedside and placed her hands together in prayer.
Abelard opened his eyes. ‘Heloise.’ From his weak lips the utterance sounded more like a breath than a name.
‘Yes, my dear one.’
‘You came.’
‘Yes. To be with you.’
‘To the end?’
‘Our love will never end,’ she whispered into his ear.
Despite the whisper Barthomieu heard her, and he excused himself so the two of them could be alone.
Barthomieu waited outside the hut all evening and all night, like a sentry. Heloise stayed until the first light of morning, excused herself for a short while then returned, as fresh and determined as ever to maintain her vigil. When Barthomieu asked if she needed the assistance of the infirmarer, she brushed him off and said she was perfectly capable of attending to all his needs.
Later in the day, there was a commotion when a group of men, King’s soldiers aggressively rode into the Priory. Barthomieu met them, had a word with their captain, and blanched.
‘When?’ he asked.
‘He’s not far behind us. Maybe an hour. And you are?’
‘His brother,’ Barthomieu muttered. ‘I am Bernard of Clairvaux’s brother.’
A soldier opened the door for him and Bernard emerged from his fine, covered carriage looking pale and drawn. He was fifty-two but could have been mistaken for an older man. The pressures of high office and the years of spartan living conditions had turned his skin lax and sallow and rendered him arthritic and stiff-limbed. He took stock of the ragged conditions of the camp, a pilgrims’ enclave, and the assemblage of clerics and scholars, men and women.
Will I engender as much adulation at the time of my death, he thought. Then he called out, imperiously, ‘Who will take me to see Abelard?’
Barthomieu approached. The two men briefly locked eyes, but Bernard shook his head and looked elsewhere for a moment before refocusing on the man.
‘Hello, Bernard.’
He was momentarily angered by the informality. He was the Abbot of Citeaux. Papal legates sought his counsel. He had sat by the side of popes and the current Holy Father valued his advice over any man. He was the founding benefactor to the Knights Templar. His name was uttered by Crusaders. He had healed great schisms within the Church. Who was this monk to simply call him Bernard?
He looked into those eyes again. Who is this man?
‘Yes, it’s me,’ Barthomieu said.
‘Barthomieu? It cannot be you. You are young.’
‘There is one, younger still.’ He called over to the camp fire. ‘Nivard, come here.’
Nivard came running out. Bernard had not seen him for half a lifetime, but his youngest brother Nivard would be well into his forties by now, not this strapping fellow he saw before him.
The three men embraced, but Bernard’s hugs were tentative and wary.
‘Do not fret. All will be explained, brother,’ Barthomieu said. ‘But be quick, come and see Abelard while he still draws breath.’
When Bernard and Barthomieu entered the sick house, Heloise turned to hush the intruders, then realised the great man of the Church had entered.
She rose and made her intentions clear to kiss Bernard’s ring but he shooed her back and bade her keep at Abelard’s side.
‘Your Excellency, I am-’
‘You are Heloise. You are Abbess of Paraclete. I know of you. I know of your intellect and piety. How is he?’
‘He is slipping away. Come. There is still time.’
She touched Abelard’s pointy shoulder. ‘Wake up, my dear. Someone is here to see you. Your old…’ She looked to Bernard for guidance.
‘Yes, call me his old friend.’
‘Your old friend, Bernard of Clairvaux, has come to be with you.’
A weak huffing cough signalled his wakening. Bernard appeared shocked at the sight of the man, not because
