the light from the east shone on Robert of Arbrissel’s countenance and he opened his eyes, a murmur could be heard. His lips moved as if to speak, but no sound emerged, no prayer, no plea to the Lord. All that could be seen in his expression was an infinite distress; his eyelids flickered.
Bernard approached; monks and nuns knelt. We put our hands together to recite the ‘Our Father’ as the sun gradually lit up each fold of Robert’s shroud.
When we rose to our feet, Peter Abelard had opened the doors behind which the paupers and whores had gathered; they too were on their knees and from their lips the words of the same prayer were uttered.
Bernard stood up and walked over to the master of studies; he was holding his stomach as if it was burning him and his eyes were feverish.
‘. . . in the dust and in the mud,’ said Robert of Arbrissel.
‘What is he saying?’ Andrew asked, but I did not reply, being prevented from doing so by furious voices telling us to hush.
From the depths of my distress, I cry to you
Merciful God, hear my plea
And do not look upon the extent of my sins
So that justice may be accomplished,
Merciful God.
The women continued singing the Pie Deus as long as they could. When they stopped, all that could be heard was the groan that slipped from Robert’s throat.
When there was no longer any echo, it meant he was dead.
Brother Andrew and I were walking around the cloister.
‘I don’t feel like writing,’ he said.
‘You have to finish . . .’
‘A prayer is needed.’
‘You’ll compose a fine one for him.’
He turned towards me, his forehead etched with lines that might have been made by a stylet, his face the colour of old wax.
‘You already know too much for your age.’
‘I’ll keep it to myself, if you want.’
I felt overcome with an inexplicable pride. We clerks are not honoured, our shoulders are never dubbed by a sword, and our glory is a song that is passed from lip to lip without anyone knowing who wrote it. When Brother Andrew hired me, at the point at which his copyist had stopped, I simply wrote the epitaph for my confrere who had been summoned to oblivion. Anno Grade M° CXVI, obiit Ademarus; successit Wilhelmus . . .
‘What troubles me,’ Andrew continued, ‘is that I’m not sure I’m creating a saint.’
‘Why?’
‘To begin with, he’s the son of a priest. That hasn’t bothered anyone for centuries, but the times are changing. And then he spent a long time in the outside world . . .’
‘He’s not the first!’
‘He used to visit brothels . . .’
‘. . . to convert lost souls!’
‘He knew a woman, several perhaps.’
‘Augustine was no better.’
‘Look at Bernard of Fontaines . . . I’ve read that he claimed to have driven away a woman, who crept into his bed to keep herself warm, as if she were the devil . . .’
‘You’re joking! As Jerome would say, he shall walk upon burning coals and his feet shall not be burned. But very well . . . if that’s what he’s really like, he will become a saint. Become his biographer!’
He gave me a sideways glance and saw me smile.
‘A biographer of saints . . . What a life! I’m too old,’ he said. ‘Robert will be my last. And he really does frighten me.’
We took shelter in the scriptorium and Andrew said nothing while I took out the implements, the tablets for the draft, the parchment and goose quill. He paced to and fro around me, gradually immersing himself in the gilded legend of the last days of Robert of Arbrissel. His features lit up.
‘We should have killed him before now,’ he said at last.
‘Why do that?’
‘This endless slow death, it’s already taken too long, people won’t like it. And the groaning at the end . . . too sad, a suspicion of paganism, traces of doubt, not enough light. The Virgin Mary’s missing. We can do better! Come on!’
He warmed himself by the fireplace, the only one in the abbey. Light from the flames was flickering about his face.
Suddenly we heard the sound of voices coming from the north gallery of the Close. We glanced at one another. Andrew sighed. I laid down my pen.
Bernard and Peter Abelard were alone with Petronilla in the chapter room.
‘The words,’ thundered Abelard, ‘did you hear the words that came from his mouth?’
‘I heard the will of Our Lord,’ Bernard said softly.
‘There were over three hundred of us in the abbey and the Lord spoke to you alone?’
‘Keep your arguments for your students, brother, as well as your logic . . .’
‘“In the dust and in the mud.” Isn’t that what he said?’
Abelard shifted his gaze and gestures from Bernard to Petronilla. He didn’t understand. He was used to being able to convince people in a flash, with a word; but God’s reed was a resilient athlete.
Petronilla looked away. A simple and more human sorrow afflicted her. So many people wanted Robert to have his tombstone beside the altar and she was weary of the constant struggle. Then . . .
‘We shall bury him in the church,’ she said finally, not daring to look at Abelard.
He conceded defeat while Bernard raised his open hands to heaven.
‘May God’s will be done, brother.’
The two men glared at one another and neither gave way – the dark eyes of the philosopher versus the light, transparent, intense gaze of the Abbot of Clairvaux.
‘Take care,’ Abelard said eventually in a muted voice, ‘not to confuse your own will with His.
‘What can I do if He speaks to me,’ said Bernard with his steely sweetness, ‘and if I hear Him?’
The lay brothers heaved up the stone to create the space that awaited Robert.
Still more wretches arrived on foot, their hose, or the rags that were wrapped around their feet, torn to shreds along the stony pathways;
