Illuminations: A Novel of Hildegard von Bingen

by Mary Sharratt

  “Your name, child?” I longed to screech out a warning, order her to run away while she still had a chance.

  “Adelheid.” She spoke in the long, flat vowels of those who lived in the northern reaches of Saxony. Mother of God, the girl was so far from home. “I can already write my name and the Pater Noster,” she went on. “But I would learn so much more from you!”

  Her hair was mousy and her skin was sallow, but she was bursting with intelligence. Her face shone with the hunger for knowledge that I knew so well. I wanted to crumble in a heap as she gazed at me with such hope. After my exodus, I hoped Volmar would be as kind to her as he had been to me, lending her every book she requested. Then I wondered if Jutta, with her clouded vision, was still capable of teaching a child much of anything.

  “And this is the other oblate, Adelheid’s sister, Guda,” Volmar said. He appeared troubled, his face creasing.

  Looking through the screen, I saw no other girl until I followed Volmar’s lowered gaze to a child who appeared no older than five, so tiny she could barely peep over the bottom of the screen. With her golden ringlets, she was as pretty as the wooden doll she clutched as she craned her neck to stare at me, her eyes so frightened that I lost all composure.

  “She’s too young.” I made no attempt to hide my outrage. “Blood of Christ, what was their mother thinking?”

  “Hildegard, you speak out of turn.” Jutta had crept up on me, her fingers closing like pincers on my arm as she attempted to yank me from the screen, but I planted my feet, as obstinate as a cardinal’s mule.

  “Our mother’s dead,” Adelheid said quietly.

  “Then who decided to offer you to Disibodenberg?” My voice was scathing.

  “Our aunt.” Adelheid’s face was as red as clay.

  “Am I wanted?” A tall woman stepped into view.

  Though she didn’t appear to be much older than my seventeen years, her dignity of bearing rendered her queenly. Her woolen gown was embroidered with silk and golden thread, and her veil was of whitest linen. A circlet of fine white brass crowned her brow. The pearls at her throat matched the translucence of her fair skin.

  “Kinswoman,” Jutta said from the depths of her veil, her voice almost obsequious. “Hildegard, show some deference. This is the Margravine Richardis von Stade.”

  As a margravine, she outranked even Jutta’s mother, the countess. Stade, her home, was a port on the Elbe River, close by the North Sea, where, not so long ago, Viking ships sailed in to trade and plunder. This woman with her ice-blue eyes looked bold enough to take on those Norse barbarians.

  “Lady margravine, I beg you to reconsider,” I said. “The anchorage is no place for a small child.”

  Jutta drew breath as though she were about to spit fire at me. “Hildegard, that’s enough.”

  “Magistra, let her speak.” The margravine’s cool blue eyes rested on mine. “Truly, it pleases me to know that Sister Hildegard has greater concerns for my little niece than the size of her dowry. Unlike your abbot, I must say. Lest you think me heartless, let me tell you that an even harsher fate might befall these girls outside your walls.”

  Adelheid looked from me to her aunt, then hugged her little sister’s shoulders.

  “When I was scarcely older than Adelheid,” the margravine said, “I was married off to a man thrice my age. Of the six babes I have borne him, only two sons still live. Meanwhile the girls’ mother, my sister, is dead. Their father thought to offer Adelheid in marriage, only the intended bridegroom refused her, thinking her not beautiful enough, and set his sights on Guda instead. I am their godmother, as well as their aunt. Do you think I would allow this?” The pain on her face was stark.

  Adelheid spoke up, fierce and fervent. “That man is hateful! I don’t want to die having his brats. I want to learn Latin so I can read the books in your library. Brother Volmar told me that your library is full of treasures!”

  “He speaks the truth,” I conceded, touched that my friend had taken such pains to make Adelheid welcome. “But why an anchorage, my lady? Would not a nunnery be more suitable?”

  “Sister Hildegard, what stronghold could be safer than this?” the margravine asked, as though bemused by my ignorance of the world. “Jutta’s reputation for holiness is unparalleled. Even the girls’ father and my own husband must bow before your magistra’s might.”

  At that, Jutta shouldered past me to welcome her oblates. “Only virgins may know the heights of heavenly bliss, my children.”

  Evidently the margravine and Adelheid had made up their minds and no words of mine could dissuade them. Indeed, it was no secret that men stooped to arranging marriages for girls as young as Guda, although presumably the consummation of such a match would not take place until the child was of age.

  Trying to look at it through the margravine’s eyes, I could understand how, for some, the anchorage might appear to be a refuge. There were parents who liked to deposit their daughters within cloistered walls, sheltered from the ravages of war and the machinations of dynastic marriages. Some were not above whisking their daughters back into secular life when they thought it prudent and could arrange a more advantageous betrothal. I imagined that even our abbot could be persuaded to release Adelheid and Guda with the right sort of bribery, though he would be sure to hold fast to their dowries.

  The whole matter galled me.

  Hours later, when the veil of darkness descended, I knelt behind Jutta and stared through the screen at the church alight in funeral tapers. My sweating hands were clenched in a mockery of prayer while the awfulness I had spent nine years struggling to forget swam before me. The abbot and archbishop, the monks and priests, my brother Rorich among them, chanted “Veni creator” while the Margravine von Stade led Adelheid and Guda toward the bed of grave dust and naked branches. Clad only in their scratchy hair shirts, the girls shivered and quaked, their bare feet treading the cold stone floor.

  Little Guda gazed up at her aunt as once I had gazed at my mother, as though trusting that her kinswoman would sweep her up in her arms and take her home. But the margravine stood firm until the child did as she was bid.

  Two girls buried forever with a skull-faced madwoman. As the bile forced its way up my throat, I silently mouthed Rorich’s name. Once, twice, I caught him glancing at the screen. If it was too late to save these children, I could at least save myself.

  Jutta drew back her veil to smile at me with her black stumps, as though she divined exactly what I conspired and she expected no better of me. Again and again, I had proved myself to be the most wretched sinner, utterly unfit for this vocation. My visions were aberrations that rendered me a heretic. Let the Church spit me out as unworthy. Cowering behind my brother, I would creep away from this place.

  A white cloud burst before my eyes, its light leaving me faint. A pale blue woman towered above me, so mighty that her crowned head reached into heaven. Ecclesia, the Mother Church, she whom I’d seen before, her arms embracing a company of maidens, their long, unveiled hair flowing free. Not a single sad anchorite among them, they rejoiced, the sun gleaming on their faces, gold and jewels adorning their brows. Consecrated virgins to whom God’s service was perfect freedom, unbridled bliss. My fists against my temples, I tried to force away the shimmering vision.

  The first hammering blow struck our blocked-up doorway.

  Jutta did nothing to stop me from lurching forward as close to the shuddering stone as I dared. Fragments of mortar and chipped brick hit my face until finally the pick struck all the way through, allowing in a draft of cold air scented with frankincense. The drone of chanting filled my head with an unbearable buzz that vibrated down my bones.

  Chisels and picks kept hacking away as though the monks were miners searching for the motherlode, a vein of gold. First the opening was only big enough for my hand, then it widened into a passage broad enough for an infant to pass through. I caught glimpses of torchlight, those many assembled bodies, and the oblates in their hair shirts, their faces g
hostly with smeared ash. Adelheid dared to dip her head and peek through the aperture, her eyes, stark with fear, meeting mine as though I had the power to soothe away her terror.

  With the monks working steadily, the opening grew to a size big enough for Guda to squeeze through, but they would have to keep on laboring until it was large enough to admit a grown man. I remembered how, during my own induction rite, the old Archbishop of Mainz, now dead, had entered the anchorage to admonish Jutta and me to obey God before he left us there, giving word to the monks to brick up the passage.

  My moment would come soon and be all too fleeting. Rorich had begged me to act. Before the archbishop stepped in, I must shoot forth. I searched the throng for my brother’s face, but everything was a blur of smoking torches and cloudy incense. Please God, let Rorich stand where I could see him. If I just flew out in a blind panic, Adilhum or Cuno could force me back inside.

  Brick and stone crumbled to the ground until at last the doorway was free. Now, now, now. But I could see Rorich nowhere. Had he lost his nerve? What consequence would he face if he went through with this, what dire penance? I edged forward. Even if I failed, this was my only chance.

  Shaking as though palsied, I took my first step, placing one foot in the rubble. But then the archbishop himself was blocking my escape. The holy water he flicked ran down my face like tears. Be bold. Squeeze past him. Quick. Another faltering step, this one over the rubble, my sandaled foot in the courtyard. Friendless except for Volmar, I was of no importance to the brothers of Disibodenberg. They could discard me as easily as they would a moth-eaten rag.

  In the courtyard I whirled round, seeking Rorich. Stumbling on, I spotted my brother’s face at last. His lips silently mouthed my name.

  A small hand clutched mine. I looked down to see Guda gazing up at me, scared and imploring, begging to be comforted.

  “Magistra,” she lisped.

  I shook my head. “Jutta is your magistra, not I.”

  Rorich jerked his head, urging me to come quickly to his side.

  Adelheid took my other hand and smiled bravely. “Our godmother told us we could trust you.”

  Far from seeing me as a Judas attempting to escape, these girls thought that I had emerged from the broken doorway to welcome them into their new and eternal home. Adelheid squeezed my hand while Guda clung to my skirts as though I were her new mother. The little girl broke my heart, the way she hugged my legs as though she’d never let me go.

  Nine years ago I had made my solemn promise before the old archbishop to love God and love my neighbors. Now the enormity of my vow overshadowed me. I didn’t care for poverty or renunciation. Obedience rankled me most of all. But it was the commandment to love that held me in its grip. The plight of these girls loomed greater than my own misery, even my own freedom. Someone must guide them, protect them, mother them, save them from despair and the specter of Jutta’s long and languorous dance with her true bridegroom, who was not Christ but Death.

  The tears spilling from my eyes blinded me to my brother’s imploring face. I was a sinner through and through. But even I couldn’t bear to abandon these young souls to Jutta. This was the moment my true vocation began.

  I shall never forget the look Jutta threw me when I staggered back into the anchorage with my arms around those frightened children who were meant to be her oblates, her protégées. Though her eyes were dimmed, they raked me over, sharp and accusing, as I held the girls instead of letting them lie like corpses on the floor while the archbishop spoke his blessings over them. My heart in my throat, I crooned to Guda to still her sobbing as the monks blocked up the doorway again, brick by brick. Smoothing the ashes from the girls’ hair, I whispered stories about the halcyon bird laying her eggs and the mother bear tenderly licking her unformed cubs into shape before I finally eased the shivering children to sleep in the new pallets prepared for them.

  Afterward, my Bridegroom came to me in a vision, sapphire blue, his wounded palms outstretched. In me, the weak are made strong and mock the mighty. Gazing straight into the sun, I cried out to him, the most beautiful youth, whose Light eclipsed me.

  7

  JUTTA SOON TURNED away from her oblates, as I knew she would, sinking back into her sepulcher of deprivation.

  The reality of the children in our anchorage, their sheer physical presence and noise, little Guda’s inability to stay awake through the endless night office of Matins, their inevitable tantrums and defiance drove Jutta to despair. She couldn’t fathom that, even in this tomb, Guda was still a little girl who needed to play. The child was forever scooping the rushes off the floor and bundling them into dolls that she hid up her sleeves until I finally found where Jutta had hidden the baby Jesus doll she had once tried to give to me.

  Jutta with her skeleton hands and corpse breath—the girls called her Lady Death behind her back. At first Guda and Adelheid were amazed at how our magistra could survive on so little sustenance, but near the end of their first week of captivity, Jutta’s ravaging hunger left her so greedy that she stole the food off the oblates’ trenchers, leaving me no choice but to surrender my own portion to the children.

  The entire care of those girls fell upon me, the one with heretical visions. Even my hopeless infatuation with Volmar was swept aside as I struggled to infuse the children with some spark of purpose, some tiny light of happiness.

  My first task was to educate the oblates. Wax tablet in hand, I did my utmost to delight them with the miracle of my scratches in the wax transforming letter by letter into the psalms we sang for the Divine Office. But Guda writhed in boredom before bolting away to the courtyard. Even Adelheid seemed listless, the fierce fire of her hunger for learning dwindling from the lack of air in this suffocating place.

  “You want to learn more than the psalms,” I said, thinking that if I proved I understood Adelheid, she might grow to trust me. “I’ll ask Volmar to send us the bestiary. It has the most wondrous illuminations. Even Guda will love it.”

  Adelheid regarded me contemptuously, as though I had insulted her intelligence.

  “What use is a bestiary?” she asked. “The only creatures we’ll see here are spiders and mice.”

  The girl’s resentment filled the room like black smoke.

  “You said you wanted to learn about the stars,” I said, desperate to coax a smile from her. “Why, I’ve heard about a Moorish instrument called the astrolabe—”

  The roar and crash echoing from the courtyard made my heart leap out of my chest. Next came Jutta’s outrage as the racket jolted her from her prayers.

  “Demon spawn! The child is possessed.”

  Dropping the tablet, I raced to the courtyard. Little Guda was tearing around, smashing every herb pot she was strong enough to lift. Howling in her fury, she’d kicked off her sandals. I winced to see her bare feet stomping on the jagged shards.

  “Darling, stop. You’ll hurt yourself.” Falling to my knees in the spilled dirt and broken pottery, I took hold of her arms.

  Wriggling loose, the little girl clawed my cheeks and spat in my eyes.

  “You’re an ugly witch! I hate you!”

  Jutta smiled like a lizard while administering Guda’s penance.

  The child was to stand out barefoot in the late November cold until our magistra deigned to let her back inside. I awaited her with a blanket and a pan of burning embers to hold under her stiff blue feet.

  “It’s all right,” I whispered as I chafed the little girl’s skin to coax back the flow of life-giving blood. “This time of year, the plants were sleeping. We’ll sow new seeds in the spring. Together we’ll watch them grow.”

  Guda screwed up her face and hurled herself at the screen, pummeling the closed wooden shutters as she bawled for her aunt, who had departed for faraway Stade weeks ago. When I tried to soothe her, she roared, not letting me touch her. What a powerful pair of lungs she had—if she would only allow me to teach her to sing. At last Adelheid caught hold of her. Guda buried her face in her sist
er’s skirt and sobbed as though she’d never stop.

  Watching the little girl break down in the terrors of our prison, I relived my own shattering. I’d sacrificed myself for these girls in vain. Adelheid threw me a stony look, as though she now hated me as much as Guda did and blamed me for all their misery.

  That winter an ague spread through the monastery, with more than a dozen monks languishing in the infirmary. Before long, I, too, succumbed. In my dizziness, my soul floated over my body to gaze down dispassionately at that wretch below, that seventeen-year-old drained of every hope. Even my memories of Rorich brought no solace, for I had strayed beyond his reach, my one chance of freedom dashed to pieces. I was like a dead branch severed from the living tree, no more sap left inside me.

  As I lay drenched in cold sweat, I heard Jutta order the oblates to stay away from me lest they, too, catch the sickness. Except the children refused to obey her. Instead of shunning me, Adelheid and Guda hovered by my bed.

  “I’m sorry I killed your herbs.” Guda’s eyes were solemn and huge.

  “Brother Volmar promised us seeds and new pots of earth,” Adelheid said. “We’ll plant them again for you, we promise. Now drink this.”

  She gave me an herbal brew steeped in warm honeyed wine while her little sister offered me a hunk of soft bread, still warm from the oven. The girls fed me a bowl of turtle broth.

  As I shivered and tried to speak, my vision shifted. Before my eyes, Adelheid grew into a serene young woman, brimming with quiet power. Her once mousy hair shone in the sun, streaming long and free, and she was crowned in gold. In her arms, she held a book. See me, Hildegard. I am Sapientia. God’s Wisdom. A ray of light from her heart touched mine.

  Guda had grown into a beauty with her golden curls and emerald eyes, crowned like Adelheid. She offered me a cup overflowing with blood-red wine, her eyes brimming in joyful welcome. Know me, Hildegard. I am Ecclesia, the true and hidden Church.