Three written requests over winter, each less courteous than the last. One group of clergy from Mainz, knocking on our gates. They asked to inspect our burial ground, but if they thought the placement of the vegetable garden odd, they did not say so. They confronted me in the privacy of our library. I responded that in the matter of Matthias’s burial, as in all matters, I would not act against God’s will. The clerics stayed for supper. We fed them cabbage soup.
And now, a letter from the church authorities. I expected castigation. I anticipated some form of punishment. But this… How can this be borne?
I break the news to my sisters at the supper table, in place of the usual reading from scripture. I can hardly bring myself to say it. With an effort I make my voice steady. “Sisters, it is an interdict. From this moment on, we are forbidden to celebrate Mass at Rupertsberg. The Divine Office may no longer be sung before a congregation. Indeed, it may not be sung at all. We must whisper or murmur, and only behind closed doors.”
My sisters gasp in distress; their faces are stricken. The music is our spirit. It is the powerful voice of God, sounding from our weak human instruments. It is joy and celebration, adoration and mystery, sacred discipline and spiritual freedom. Our music is everything.
“Sisters,” I tell them, “I will pray for God’s guidance. You must do the same. Meanwhile, if you would not risk excommunication, you must abide by the interdict, as I will. We will not hear the music with our ears; but it will sound in our souls.”
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I pray for a vision. I pray for some wisdom to illuminate the way forwards. The interdict is a dark cloud hanging over Rupertsberg—not only over my sisters and me, but over the good folk accustomed to making their way up the hill to hear us sing Mass, the folk whose daughters, drawn at least in part by our music, have chosen to join us and dedicate their lives to God. This has cut a jagged rent in our whole community. How can anyone believe it is God’s will?
I spend long hours on my knees, so long that I become too ill to continue, and must submit to the ministrations of our Infirmarian, Sister Clothilde. She tells me I should remember my age and not expect so much of myself. My response is somewhat short.
In the past, in times of strife or crisis, I have prayed for divine guidance, and it has always come. God has sent me a vision, often hard to understand, but containing the seeds of wisdom I needed, provided I could interpret them correctly. This time there is no illumination. As I have grown older, God has chosen to visit me in this way less and less often. I am too close, perhaps, to the moment when I will see Him face to face and make my final confession. But I wish He would grant me just one more answer. If not for myself, then for my sisters, for young Barbara and the other girls whom I have set to work with Brother Guibert, to be educated as the clever young men of a monastery might be. What Guibert does not teach them—how to speak up, how to be heard—I will impart myself. But I want them to have the music, too, for the scholarship is hard work, and the music is sheer joy.
I hope I am not selfish. But I would be well pleased if, after I die, my sisters might lay me in earth to O quam mirabilis in my own composition. I hope I am not arrogant.
Though I have respected the church authorities all my life, as was proper, I have never lain down and let them walk over me. I will not do so now. Only, in the past, I have always had the strength of my visions, sanctioned by the Pope himself. That authority, backed up by my sound arguments, has rendered me persuasive. But this time God remains silent, and therefore so do we. Our Divine Office is a sorry thing, conducted with sombre faces and in an undertone. We move about like sad ghosts; the whispering extends itself to daily conversation, as if our natural energy has been somehow dampened. An odd phenomenon; I wonder if I have time to write about it?
As I lie sleepless on my pallet, waiting for the vision that does not come, I hear that insidious voice again. Use your imagination, Hildegard! Create what you need. Tell the authorities God wants the interdict lifted. Invent a vision to fit; you’re more than capable of that. Indeed, you’re a fool not to do so. What harm will it do?
I do not dignify this with an answer. I will die soon; if he thinks I want to die with a lie of that magnitude on my conscience, it’s the devil who is a fool. But I am tempted, all the same. It would indeed be easy. And my heart aches to think that my last days will be devoid of music. Besides, I am quite certain I am right. Why would God want this interdict? God forgives sinners as long as they repent. Matthias repented; he was absolved. Therefore he should lie in hallowed ground. Why would God want our voices silenced?
To teach you humility, Hildegard. This is what I hear as I fall asleep at last, but whether the voice is God’s or that of my own conscience, I cannot tell.
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Days pass, and the grey silence that has fallen over Rupertsberg remains unabated. I pray each night for a vision, and nothing comes. I wish God had devised a lesson in humility that did not extend itself to our entire community.
Guibert tells me he is writing an account of my life and works. I cannot imagine what will be in it. I hope Guibert’s book does not end with the convent in silence and myself dead in my cell, taken while still praying for answers. I tell my scholarly brother, as courteously as I can, that I would greatly prefer him to spend his time teaching our young women, who are soaking up their learning eagerly. I tell him I trust their education will continue once I am gone, and that I am taking steps to ensure that will happen. Guibert smiles a little strangely, and says he hopes he can find time for both. How odd to think that folk will learn of my life through that man’s words. I wish Volmar had written my life instead.
I sit at my desk with quill, ink and parchment before me, knowing that any letter I write will not be in the clear hand I learned long ago, but in the uncertain script of a sick old woman. I should ask one of the others to pen it for me. But I cannot. I am on the verge of giving in to the devil’s counsel and writing a lie. This has gone on too long, this silence, these whispers, the feelings of shame and unworthiness that come with the interdict, when we have done nothing but follow God’s word. Is there a way to write this letter without fabricating a vision? The quill shakes in my hand; ink splashes onto the parchment, a careless waste of precious materials. I cannot do it.
Sister Clothilde makes me take a draught to ease the pain in my joints and help me sleep. At first I refuse it; if God wanted me to be without pain, he would not visit on me the maladies of old age. Clothilde reminds me that I myself set out the ingredients for this potion in my Natural History, making especial note of its efficacy for conditions such as the one from which I currently suffer. I swallow the draught, if only so that she will leave me in peace. I lie down on my pallet. Dear God, let me have the blessing of music once more before I die.
I sleep, and dream. I dream of angels, rank on rank of them, and if their faces are beautiful to behold, their voices are beyond loveliness. I see among them my beloved friend Volmar, and Sister Richardis who was so dear to me. I see my mother and father, my departed brothers. I see Jutta, a young woman as she was when first she took the child Hildegard under her wing, and I see Matthias the repentant sinner and many others, their faces familiar, their names forgotten. The singing rises and falls in patterns too complex to analyse, celestial, transformative, rich with the mystery of God; a music far beyond the human voice. When I wake before dawn, my old cheeks are bathed in tears. Dear God! You have given me a foretaste of Heaven.
I write my letter. It is to Archbishop Christian of Mainz, and it takes a very long time. But I will not entrust this to a younger, firmer hand; I must do it myself. There is no longer any need to pray for a vision. The dream has brought me the arguments I require, clear and perfect in every detail.
In the past, however hot my anger, however pressing my need to see justice done, I have kept the tone of my letters humble, courteous, self-effacing. Always, my missives have spoken of God’s will, not the will of
Hildegard. I have done my best to be His true servant.
This time my voice is less conciliatory. I set out, first, the doctrinal arguments in support of my decision to provide Matthias with burial in hallowed ground. I tell the Archbishop of the shadow that lies over our convent now that our music has been silenced. I speak of Adam’s voice as he sang in the Garden, before the Fall—so pure and powerful that we weak mortals could not have borne to hear it. Truly the voice of an angel. I tell how God in His wisdom allows the faithful to raise their lesser voices in songs of praise, and to compose music, and to make instruments on which it may be played—weak echoes of that first voice, indeed, but nonetheless gifts of beauty and meaning. It is God’s intention that we use them in His praise. I expound on that point at some length.
The devil, I write, is driven mad by such music, for in it he hears the divine beauty of that which he left behind when he quit the Heavenly realm, and it is to him a torment and punishment. So he seeks to silence it, by setting ill thoughts in the hearts of certain authorities, and leading them to acts of repression against those who would lift their voices in the adoration of God.
My quill moves more quickly now, urged forward by the argument that stirs my blood. I end my letter with the wisdom of last night’s wondrous dream. Those who silence the praise of God without sound reason, I write, should beware. For when, after death, they rise to Heaven, they will find themselves unable to hear the voices of the angels. God in His eternal wisdom has shown this to His humble servant, this weak woman, I write, reverting briefly to my more usual mode of expression. There is no need to state precisely how God has done so. No need to mention that this time, it was not through a vision. My heart tells me that the dream, as clear and direct as Sister Barbara’s soaring voice, was a gift straight from Heaven.
The letter is finished. I sign it: Hildegard of Bingen. In orderly fashion I sprinkle the parchment with sand to help it dry; wipe the quill; cap the inkpot. My heart is beating too fast. Angelic music rings in my mind, though the scriptorium is silent save for the voices of birds out in the garden. I sit awhile, breathing slowly, thanking God for my life, for the visions, for the music and the scholarship and the fine friends along the way. For the warmth of morning sun; for the taste of vegetables fresh from the garden; for the smiles of young women who love learning. I thank Him for the gift of a good intellect and the opportunity to use it. I thank Him for the challenges—there have been many—and the strength I have gained from them. I wonder, for a little, what course my life might have taken had I spoken out about the visions when I was younger, and not waited to share them until my life was half over. What will Guibert put in his book about those thirty years of silence? I do not suppose I will be here to read it. Dear God, I pray, let this letter achieve its purpose. Allow an old woman one selfish wish. Let me hear Lauds sung at Bingen one more time.
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The letter is despatched, and we wait. We study, we pray, we harvest our spring vegetables, we tend to the sick, and we whisper our way through the Office. Guibert teaches my girls and writes his book; he does not speak to me of the interdict.
The weather warms. Blossoms appear on the trees, and one of our hens settles hopefully on a clutch of eggs. I am aware, through certain messages that pass between our convent and the foundation at Disibodenberg, that witnesses have been heard in the matter of Matthias’s absolution, and that certain influential clerics have argued our case, while others have continued to condemn our action.
At last an answer comes, carried to Rupertsberg by young Brother Johannes, a long-legged country boy. I read the document in the scriptorium, with Sisters Elisabeth and Clothilde hovering at the door. I must show my sisters an example. I must be strong and calm, even if this is bad news.
I break the seal; cast my eyes over the first line or two. My heart leaps. God be praised! I blink back sudden tears.
“The interdict has been lifted.” My voice shakes. But I will not weep, either before my sisters or alone in my cell. “Please let our sisters know that we will sing Vespers this evening. And send someone down to the village with the news. Thank Brother Johannes and offer him food and drink before he starts his long walk home.”
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Later, as the voices of my sisters rise in a hymn of praise, their echoes ringing back from every corner of our chapel, I ask myself whether I have won this dispute on the strength of a half-truth. A dream is not a vision. A vision is from God; a vision holds you in its grip and will not let go until a time of its own choosing. I know this. A dream might be from anywhere. Even, perhaps, from the devil himself. Yet that dream, surely, could not be the devil’s work. The music in it was all divinity, all spirit, ineffable, unknowable, holy and pure. Dear God, I pray, if I have sinned, forgive me as you forgave Matthias. If I have taken too much upon myself, if I have indulged in prideful action, I am sorry. Humility has always been my hardest lesson. But in the end we are all dust. I suppose, very soon, my earthly remains will be in the garden out there, providing good nourishment for a new crop of plants. And to become compost is a humble state indeed. Dear God, thank you for this music. For the voices of women and of angels. Spread your sheltering hand over my sisters. When I am gone, let them walk on with piety, courage and, above all, wisdom. Let each in her own way sing.
“Hallowed Ground” by Juliet Marillier
GLORIOUS
Faith Mudge
I grieve and dare not show my discontent;
I love and yet am forc’d to seem to hate;
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant;
I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.
— Elizabeth I
Dear God, that I should be brought to this!
It is nearing a month since I was brought to Whitehall and the queen has at last decided what to do with me. She did not summon me to tell me so herself; no, Mary would rather pray for my miserable soul than see my living face. She sent Sussex and Winchester to deliver my sentence.
I am to go to the Tower. Oh God in Heaven help me, I am to go to the Tower.
I demanded to see Mary; when this was denied, I begged leave to write her a letter. Winchester would have refused even that, but Sussex overrode him. It will be of little use, I am sure—there is no woman in England more implacable than my sister—but I may win myself a respite, be it only a day, be it only an hour.
While I wait for the paper and ink to be brought, I cross to the window, staring out across the river and folding my hands tightly to hide their shaking. Bitter words burn my lips from the inside. You prove our father wrong, Mary! He thought no woman could rule because no woman could be as ruthless as he, but he did not know you at all. Is this righteous, sister? How heavy is his crown?
“My lady,” Sussex murmurs, “pray write.”
I walk slowly to the chair and seat myself, straightening my skirts meticulously before taking up the pen. I have often been complimented on my fine penmanship. In that, let this letter do me credit!
If any ever did try this old saying that a king’s word was more than another man’s oath, I most humbly beseech your M. to verify it in me and remember your last promise and my last demand that I be not condemned without answer and due proof, which it seems that now I am, for that without cause proved I am by your Council from you commanded to go unto the Tower, a place more wonted for a false traitor than a true subject…
Never have I written with more care and made less sense. My mind measures the minutes, for if I can only delay long enough, the changing tide will not be safe for travel. Even Queen Mary cannot command the Thames.
Their lordships grow impatient, even the courtly Sussex. When they press me to be done, my pen scurries with obedient speed, only to be recalled by a blot or mistake. I write a word—I cross it out—I sigh and bow my head, the image of contrition. I know how to don that guise. Were it a dress, it would be ragged with wear.
At length, my inspiration runs dry. I sign th
e last page and hesitate; there is nothing left to say, yet I am reluctant to leave any space for a forger’s falsehoods, so I score lines across the paper, lest my plea become a confession before it reaches my sister’s hands.
“God’s oath!” Winchester mutters. “She writes slower than a blind brat.”
“Watch your tongue, man. She is the queen’s sister.”
Winchester raises his voice. “Is it written, my lady?”
I incline my head. He snatches the missive with a hasty bow and goes to quit the room, but is stopped at the door by Sussex. They confer again in whispers, but the room is quiet and my ear is keen. I hear enough.
“It’s too late. We have missed the tide.”
“The queen has commanded she be taken today!”
“The next tide is not until midnight. If we take her by darkness, I fear an ambush. The lady Elizabeth must remain here until the morrow.”
It is a small victory, but sweet. I keep my head bent and my smile hidden.
Mary must not know I smiled.
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It was not always this way between us. Once, we understood each other. Who else can know what it is like to be a princess one day, and a royal bastard the next?
Three children by six wives is a disappointment in anyone’s arithmetic. For two of the number to be daughters was an injustice of fate that preyed ever on our father’s mind. When Mary’s mother lost favour, he threw her aside so that mine might take her place; when the Pope refused to grant him a divorce, he threw Rome aside and married the woman he wanted regardless.
Cranky Ladies of History Page 35
