—ABELARD TO HELOISE Of course my uncle entertained a guest that night: Roger, his assistant in the library, best known in the cloister for his wagging tongue. For a man who everyone knew could not keep a secret, he seemed privy to the most lurid details of people’s lives—which he shared freely with us that evening. Canon Gaspard had fired his housekeeper after he’d dreamt of fornicating with her; some monks from Saint-Denis, visiting the Argenteuil Royal Abbey, had been discovered spying on the nuns in the bathhouse; Bishop Galon was said to be secretly married to a girl from la Marche; King Louis’s most constant bed companion was not his queen, Adelaide, but his favored monk, Suger. “That tale is ridiculous,” I said. “I attended a feast in the court last week, and the king could hardly tear his gaze from the queen. Anyone who sees them together knows he loves her.” “You may be right, you may be right, indeed! And what of the queen, hmm? Does her head truly ache at night, or is she avoiding her conjugal duties?
