The Greenest Branch

by P K Adams

  Increasingly, I was unhappy. I felt isolated and confined, like a caged bird allowed only a narrow glimpse of the world from which it had come. The lingering ache of separation from my family only compounded this feeling. Contemplating the sparse vine that grew out of the gray earth and clung feebly to the enclosure’s wall, I felt a sense of kinship with the plant—neither dry nor green, neither dying nor living, its viriditas, like mine, seemingly in abeyance. I longed to see beauty and feel serenity but found only dullness and melancholy around me.

  Yet I had a duty to fulfill as my parents’ gift to the Church and wanted to do everything in my power to see it through. On occasions, these conflicting feelings flared into bouts of anxiety that gave me headaches, during which light and sound seemed to pierce my body with shafts of pain. I became wan and restless, and I knew the old illness was coming back.

  But this time, Uda would not be there to take care of me.

  5

  May 1116

  I have a distinct early memory related to my recurring illness. I was six and the headache had lingered for days, forcing me to stay in a darkened room until Uda persuaded my parents to send for Herrad, her kinswoman and a healer known throughout the countryside.

  Herrad took my pulse, listened to my breath, and brought a candle up to my eyes, making them hurt at the brightness. She declared that she was familiar with the symptoms, although they rarely affected children of such tender age. “These spells will likely become more burdensome as she grows,” she opined.

  “Is there no hope, then?” My mother was crestfallen.

  “I can lessen her discomfort, but there is no permanent cure that I know of.”

  She left and returned some time later with a linen bundle and a container of greenish paste, which was a mix of mint, rosemary, and lavender. She scooped a bit of the paste and rubbed it gently on my temples, filling the room with the heady scent of a summer meadow.

  “If it pleases God, she will be improving soon.” Herrad took the silver coin my mother offered her and left the bundle. It contained crushed leaves of sweet coltsfoot from which Uda would make drafts to ease my pain.

  Now I had to do without them.

  The days grew warmer again. The trees in the infirmary garden I could see through the chapel window burst into clouds of white and pink, but the scents of flowering blossoms that wafted in after the rain seemed only to mock my senses.

  One afternoon, I felt suddenly out of breath. The glare of the slanting sunlight was too bright, and the pitch of the chant bore painfully into my head until my ears started to ring. I tried to take a deep breath, but my vision darkened and then exploded into a spray of yellow sparks. Before I knew what had happened, the chamber went upside down, and I felt the rushes of the floor under my cheek. For a moment longer, voices came through the din in my ears, then my consciousness slipped away.

  I opened my eyes to a gentle splash of water that grew more distinct at the same time as the pale wood of the dorter ceiling came into a sharper focus. I turned my head to find Sister Juliana wringing a linen cloth over a basin.

  “God be praised! We have been worried about you!” She placed it on my forehead, where it was pleasantly cool.

  I closed my eyes, wishing it was Uda or my mother bathing my forehead in fragrant rosewater. “It happens to me sometimes,” I whispered, feeling guilty for my weakness.

  “Don’t worry. Brother Wigbert has sent a medicine for you.” Juliana reached for a small stoppered flask from which she poured a measure into a cup. “Drink. It will make you better.”

  I swallowed the liquid, cringing at its bitter taste. “What is it?” I gasped.

  “Wine mixed with the oil of valerian,” Juliana replied as if she had just administered a miracle cure for every ailment in the world. “It is Brother Wigbert’s favorite; he makes it for us whenever we feel melancholy.”

  But it only made me sleepy. When I was awake, it dulled my headaches, but it also made me sluggish and disinterested. I spent much of my time in bed.

  “Do you like embroidery?” Sister Adelheid asked one day in her usual bright manner when she noticed that my eyes were open. There was a sizable piece of silk in her lap, and she was working on a pattern of golden lilies surrounded by green leaves.

  “No.” I sat up. “My sisters love it, but I’d rather do almost any other kind of work.”

  She looked disappointed; perhaps she had hoped it would cheer me up. “I am decorating a new altar cloth for the church,” she explained. “We are expecting Bishop Otto of Bamberg for the feast of St. Disibod next month. He will be coming in place of the Archbishop of Mainz.” She put the bundle on the table and picked up a bowl of fish stew, a rarity to which only convalescents were entitled.

  I swallowed a spoonful. “Your flowers remind me of sunshine and spring.” I pointed at the cloth with my chin. Indeed, the lilies were more artful and delicate than anything my sisters could ever do. “You have a talent.”

  Adelheid blushed. “I volunteer whenever the church needs new vestments or when linen needs to be replaced in the guesthouse. Sister Jutta does not approve of decorations, but we are the only women here, so who else will do it? Prior Helenger?” She chuckled.

  The image of the haughty-faced prior stiffly working a piece of cloth with needle and thread was so funny that I could not help smiling myself. But there was something I was curious about. “Why is the archbishop not coming for the fair?”

  “He has been imprisoned by the emperor.”

  An archbishop in prison? That dark, dank place where thieves, brigands, and other enemies of peace languished? “Why?” I asked, aghast.

  Adelheid looked uncomfortable. “Archbishop Adalbert opposed the emperor’s seizure of certain castles and supported the excommunication that had been pronounced against him a few years ago.” She sighed as she pushed the needle through the silk. “We are living in disorderly times.”

  I was aware of the dispute between the imperial faction and those loyal to the pope in Rome over the control of Church lands and appointments of bishops, a process called investiture. I had heard it discussed at Bermersheim often enough. Now for the first time, I realized that even such a distant-seeming conflict could have an effect where I lived.

  Adelheid must have sensed the direction of my thoughts, for she pointed to the embroidery again. “This is a great way to spend time, especially if you are sad or bored. If you keep your hands occupied, your mind will not wander.”

  “I’d rather spend my time reading,” I grumbled. Or making medicines. Despite my dislike for the valerian concoction, I liked the idea of having a medicine workshop nearby. If only there was a way for Brother Wigbert to show me around! But, of course, that would never happen. There was nothing to look forward to but a stretch of dreary days, each exactly the same as the one before it and the one that would follow.

  “I think I will sleep some more.” I pushed the bowl away, still almost full, and turned to the wall.

  The summer was pale, hot, and still. At least that is how it felt inside the enclosure, for the heat came without the relief of the breezes one can find only in an open field. I began to wonder if there was a way for me to fulfill my duty some other way.

  In early July, the day before my first feast of St. Disibod, I was alone in the dorter when I heard footsteps outside. I was holding the lump of salt my mother had given me, its cool, pearly smoothness solid and comforting. I had just enough time to put it back in the box before Jutta came in with the unpleasant-tasting medicine.

  “Why are we forbidden from going outside?” I asked, turning my head away from the flask.

  The strange light in Jutta’s eyes intensified. “It is no use pining for the world, child. There is nothing in it but obstacles to the salvation of your soul.”

  “Would going to the church threaten my salvation? Or if I worked in the infirmary garden?”

&nb
sp; “Christ despised ornamented temples, and he did not pass his time tending to flowers. As His Brides, we must strive to attain Christ-like perfection by imitating his simple ways.”

  “Our priest at Bermersheim says that the beauty of the world is the reflection of the divine,” I said.

  “The world may be beautiful, but it is still full of temptation.”

  My eyes filled with tears as I remembered the sunny afternoons picnicking with Uda and my siblings. Homesickness swept over me in a numbing wave.

  “Idle activities foster idle thoughts and bring about idle laughter, making us forget the evil that has taken hold of God’s people,” Jutta droned on. “As anchoresses, it is our duty to bemoan their plight and constantly pray for their deliverance.”

  There were many things I wanted to say in response—that I had never been closer to God than when I was running through the Bermersheim forest or sitting by the village stream listening to its silvery whisper. Or that I never felt more camaraderie with my companions at St. Disibod than when we were making music together. But when I looked into Jutta’s eyes, I knew that her beliefs were unshakeable, and that I would have to find a way to live with them without letting them displace what I held so dear.

  On the feast of St. Disibod, I asked to be excused from the Divine Office. The anchoresses showed no vexation at being excluded from the festivities, but my heart was heavy. I would have loved to attend Mass in the big church, which I imagined decorated with all kinds of flowers for the occasion, their sweet fragrance mixing with the more pungent scent of incense.

  Toward noon, the buzz of activity grew markedly louder. The shutters of our dorter windows normally stayed closed during the day, but I opened one just enough to allow me to observe the proceedings in the main courtyard, my chin resting on my palms. Bishop Otto’s cortege had just entered through the abbey gate, where Abbot Kuno was waiting to receive him.

  I immediately identified the bishop by the dazzlingly white tunic and purple cassock adorning his large figure, a splash of luxuriant color among the simple black habits of the monks. After nearly a year surrounded by enforced poverty, my eyes widened at the sight of the large gem-studded cross hanging on a golden chain from his neck, the stones sparkling brightly in the sun. An attendant handed him his staff, and as he grasped it, I saw a glint of his great ring. The bishop had ridden in on a mule, after the fashion of churchmen, but it was a fine beast, muscular and shiny-coated, that would hold its own against any palfrey.

  Preceded by the abbot, Otto of Bamberg entered the church, followed by his entourage and the monks. After that, the lay people crowded at the entrance, and I imagined them spilling into the cool interior of the church, filling every corner. Most were peasants, judging by their drab outfits and deferential air, but there were also pilgrims with walking sticks and provisions packed in bundles on their backs. The rest were townsfolk, including several merchants, similar in their dress and confident bearing to the salt traders whom I had seen at Alzey.

  During the Mass there was a lengthy sermon delivered in a loud, commanding voice, which I guessed was the bishop’s. If I had been born a boy, I mused, I would be able to participate in such ceremonies instead of having to grasp at distant echoes. Feeling dejected, I went back to bed and, lulled by Otto of Bamberg’s peroration, dozed off.

  I was awakened by the vesper bell. The festivities were over, but shortly after the sound of the bell had died down, I heard two voices in the small courtyard, just outside the convent. The speakers must have chosen the hour when the monks would be in the church and the anchoresses in their chapel to have a private conference.

  “The emperor’s defeat at the hands of Lothair von Supplinburg at Welfesholtz strengthens the Church’s prospects,” one of the men said.

  On the other side of the dorter wall, I was all ears.

  “May this bring peace and relief upon our people who have suffered greatly from these constant uprisings.” I recognized the other voice as belonging to Abbot Kuno.

  “Yes, of course,” his companion hastily affirmed, “but what this means for us is that we will be in a better position to preserve our lands. The emperor has long wanted to trade his investiture rights for control over ecclesiastical estates.”

  The speaker, commanding and confident, could only have been the bishop.

  “That is certainly welcome news,” Kuno said, “although ours is a poor abbey with only a few vineyards, an orchard, and a mill. Hardly the kind of property the crown would be interested in.”

  I was ready to turn away and return to bed, satisfied the events had little to do with us, when Otto spoke again. “Perhaps not, but there is another way you can benefit.” His voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “Now the emperor is weakened, I hear the barons will oppose new taxes, perhaps even demand lowering the current ones, which will leave more gold in their purses.”

  “And how does that favor us?” The abbot’s voice was uncertain.

  “It favors you because,” the bishop was beginning to sound impatient, “they will have more money to support holy places like this one.” I imagined him making a sweeping gesture with a bejeweled hand.

  “But will they?” Kuno sounded skeptical.

  “Father Abbot, what I am saying is that you should ensure that each novice brings in as large an endowment as his family can be expected to pay under these new circumstances.” There was a moment of silence, and then the bishop added, as if in response to some grimace on Kuno’s part, “Abbeys like St. Disibod need to use this opportunity to stop pinching every penny. Poverty limits our holy ministries.”

  “But how am I to judge who can afford what, Your Excellency?”

  “I have thought of that.” The bishop assured him smoothly. “My clerks are drawing up a list of noble families throughout the region who have sons or daughters destined for the consecrated life. We have sources that can help us estimate their wealth and therefore what they can be expected to pay in ecclesiastical dowries. I will send this information to every abbey under our jurisdiction.”

  As I tried to make sense of this, I remembered the girl Griselda whose family could not afford for her to take the veil. It angered me that only wealthy applicants were being accepted as if buying their way into the Church. With sudden clarity, I saw a difference between what Christ had preached and what the Church was practicing, and it was a lesson that would stay with me for the rest of my life. Many years later, standing at the pulpit of the great cathedral in Cologne, I would still remember every word of that exchange.

  “We must ensure that as God’s Church, we remain on the winning side,” the bishop went on in the meantime, his tone now admonishing.

  “The side of the nobles of the realm like Count Stephan von Sponheim, our largest benefactor, who has been recruiting supporters to the anti-imperial cause for years.” Kuno seemed eager to show that he was not oblivious to high politics.

  “That’s right. But there is one noble in particular that we should back—Lothair von Supplinburg.”

  “Ah, of course. He led the alliance at Welfesholz.”

  “Not only that, but the Council of Bishops believes that Lothair will be the strongest contender for the throne. When it pleases God to call Emperor Heinrich, of course,” the bishop added, perhaps realizing that he had sounded a bit too eager.

  “Unless there is a legitimate heir.”

  “Rumor has it that the emperor is incapable of producing one.” Otto dropped his voice confidentially. “He has been married to Empress Matilda for more than two years, but there is still no sign of a child in her womb . . .” The voices became unintelligible as they walked back toward the church, where the vesper chants had just died down.

  Despite my dismay at the idea of selling novitiates at the highest prices, I was riveted by the conflicts playing out in the world from which I had been excluded. The struggles, the intrigue, the imperial couple’s need
to produce an heir who would stand in the way of Lothair’s ambition brought the boredom of my existence into sharp relief once again. I craved knowledge and wanted to be part of what was happening rather than being so isolated.

  Before I fell asleep that night, I knew I would have to get out of the enclosure, or I would die.

  I awoke to a sensation that something was not right. The day had been calm, but now the wind had picked up, gusts howling in the eaves and corners of the abbey. I peered through the darkness illuminated by faint moonlight and made out the heads of Juliana and Adelheid. I remembered returning from matins with all three of them, but the floor where Jutta normally slept was empty. I strained my eyes again, but there was nobody there.

  My apprehension deepened. According to the predictable rhythm of the conventual life, we were all supposed to be sleeping until lauds, which seemed to be some hours away. I rose noiselessly and walked to the door, hearing nothing except the regular breathing of the two sisters. As quietly as possible, I slid the wooden bolt and gently pushed the door open. It squeaked in its hinges, and I froze as one of the sleepers turned over, but soon everything was still again. I slipped out into the courtyard. The wind tugged at the sparse vine leaves on the wall, and a few stars shone behind the wispy clouds that flitted across the partial disk of the moon.

  Everything was dark, and there was no sign of Jutta. At length I became conscious of a regular sound, sharp and short, accompanied by what sounded like muffled sobs. It came from the chapel, and I felt my anxiety welling up again as I walked toward it. I grasped the doorknob and slowly pulled it. At any moment, I expected the hinges to squeak and give me away, but they did not. When the door opened about an inch, I pressed my face to the crack.

  At the foot of the altar, Jutta was on her knees, almost crouching on the floor, her back exposed down to the waist. My eyes widened as I saw her pale skin crisscrossed by crimson lines. I was still staring when Jutta’s right hand rose rapidly, and a swishing sound pierced the air accompanied by long dark shadows momentarily cast over her flesh. I clamped my hand over my mouth as a tearing sob rang out, followed by a plangent plea. “Why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from me and from the words of my groaning?” I recognized it as one of Jutta’s favorite psalms.