Free The Sharp Hook of Love by Sherry Jones Page A

his new target in the quest for a deacon’s post. Etienne took my hands in his and kissed my cheeks, and Agnes embraced me as though we were sisters. Engulfed by the scent of roses, I turned away from her.
    â€œDuring all the time that man spoke, he never took his eyes off me,” Agnes’s father was saying with a nervous laugh. “One might think that it was I whom he called ‘hypocrite.’ But of course, he and I are not acquainted.”
    â€œHe is known to be an excellent judge of character,” Agnes teased, making me smile. Then, as the men discussed the sermon,she took my arm and pulled me close. “You and I must talk. My parents and I leave for Anjou tomorrow. May I come to you when we return?”
    As I sought a polite way to say no—surely she wished to discuss Abelard, while I desired nothing less with her—my uncle tugged at one of my braids. “What are you girls plotting? Going to run away and join the famous nun-catcher? Nun-catcher! Heh-heh. Come, Heloise, let us introduce ourselves to Robert before the ladies devour him.”
    â€œSoon,” Agnes said before Uncle led me away toward the altar clotted with women who strove to touch Robert as though he could cure them of their sex. His gaze captured mine and pulled me across the room to him. Hersende, he mouthed. Blushing at the intensity of his stare, I pulled my veil close and lowered my eyes.
    When we had reached him, he kissed my hand. Power flowed through my fingers and into my arm, quickening my blood.
    â€œForgive me for my boldness,” he said. “You remind me of someone I used to know. More than that—you are her very likeness.”
    â€œThis is Heloise, the brightest star in Paris, and I am her uncle Fulbert, subdeacon in the Nôtre-Dame-of-Paris cloister.”
    Robert barely acknowledged him. “Perhaps you know of her,” he said to me. “Her name was Hersende. She was the widow of the Lord of Montsoreau.”
    â€œI did know her,” is all I said. I glanced at my uncle, not certain how much he wanted me to tell.
    â€œHersende was my sister—my sister!” my uncle said.
    Robert turned to me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His tanned skin stretched across high cheekbones as he smiled, revealing a chipped front tooth that only enhanced his handsome appearance. “You are related to Hersende, as well?”
    â€œAs Christ was to Mary,” my uncle said.
    â€œShe was your mother?” Robert’s lips parted. He stared at me. “How can that be? Hersende had only a son.”
    â€œAnd a daughter, too.” My uncle cleared his throat. “As you can clearly see.”
    â€œYes, the likeness is remarkable. I had not known of a daughter.”
    I began to perspire. At any moment he would ask about my father, and my uncle’s hopes would shatter. Robert’s scandalous acts had not harmed him —but he was a man. Would he appoint as his abbess a woman born in sin, without even a father’s name to call her own?
    â€œBehold your face. My God! You are her very likeness.” Robert’s hand faltered as he lifted it toward my cheek. I pulled my veil more tightly about my face, self-conscious, but in hiding my dark hair I must have increased my similarity to my mother.
    â€œHersende sent her to the Argenteuil convent for her schooling, the best in Paris for girls—the best,” my uncle said. “She is proficient in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, astronomy, music, literature, all of it—the trivium and quadrivium. She’s had an education fit for a queen—a queen! Or for an abbess, as my sister desired.” He pulled out my mother’s letter and handed it to Robert, who read it slowly, his eyes filling with tears.
    â€œYour mother was the finest of women,” he said to me.
    â€œI barely knew her,” I said, hoping he would tell me something of her. “I have only a few memories, but all of them are