by P K Adams
There were new smudges on her back now, welling up with red ooze that slowly trickled down. Another lash. “I cry in the daytime, but you do not hear, and in the night, and I am not silent!”
Again. And again. “Be not far from me, for trouble is near, for there is none to help.”
Each time the strips of leather crashed into Jutta’s back, my body involuntarily jerked. I was mesmerized and horrified, and my head was spinning. Why is she hurting herself? Should I call for someone? What if she dies? I recalled our talk about repentance and sacrifice—was fasting and self-denial no longer enough? Did she have to suffer this terrifying punishment too?
A wave of nausea swept over me. Moving away from the door, I leaned against the wall of the chapel. When my back touched the planks, I felt a burning sensation, as if my own skin had been flayed. Fighting a growing light-headedness, I took a few steps toward the dorter, but the effort was too much. I lifted my eyes toward the stars, but their light had lost its sharpness, and then the world went dark.
6
September 1116
Brother Wigbert’s assistant, a novice named Bertolf, conducted me to the cloister where he and Abbot Kuno waited. As we passed the scriptorium, Bertolf cast a longing gaze toward the desks full of scrolls, quills, and inkpots. At any other time, I would have done the same, but I was about to have a meeting that might change my life, and my mind was fixed on what lay ahead.
I had spent the past two months as an infirmary patient after the sisters had found me in the convent’s courtyard. I was feverish, and they had trouble bringing me back to my senses. For nearly a fortnight, I lingered in that state before the fever broke. But my recovery had been slow; I had only taken a few steps around the infirmary until that day, and I still felt weak.
As we approached the inner courtyard of the cloister, I could hear steps echoing off the flagstones as the two monks paced the arcade, talking in low voices. The morning had been rainy, but now the sun came out, and droplets of water on the yellowing grass of the garth gleamed like jewels. Bertolf halted at the entrance, and we waited for them to make the final turn.
I had heard that Abbot Kuno and Brother Wigbert often took walks together to discuss points of theology or administrative matters. Today, however, they were to decide what to do with me. Already before my illness, the abbot had received reports that my residence at the convent was an uneasy one. Based on the monastic hierarchy, he should have consulted Prior Helenger. But when it came to such delicate matters, he preferred old Wigbert, a gentle and considerate soul benevolently disposed toward everyone. People trusted the infirmarian and felt comfortable around him, a rare gift even in a monastic setting. It was an especially fortunate trait in a physician. Kuno was also proud to have someone so educated among his brethren, for Wigbert had attended the famous medical school in Salerno, where young men from all over Europe went to study ancient texts.
When they came up to us, the abbot considered me for some moments, his face inscrutable. He seemed to tower over me—a squat and round type of tower, not a narrow and lofty one. But as nervous as I was, I was not afraid, for his eyes rested on me with kindness. “How are you feeling, child?”
“Much better. Thank you, Father,” I replied with a small curtsy.
“She has been taking a few steps daily, and it will be a while before she can resume her duties at the enclosure,” Brother Wigbert said. “But I am confident she will recover fully.” He was ten years older than the abbot and similar in stature and roundness of figure, but the curly gray hair around his tonsure was already thin.
“Praise God.” The abbot patted my shoulder. “Your parents entrusted you to us to keep you safe.” Then he turned to the infirmarian. “Do you know what brought this crisis about?”
I tensed. Wigbert had asked me that question, and although I told him I had walked out of the dorter in the middle of the night and felt ill, I had not revealed my discovery of Jutta’s nocturnal activities. I did not understand what it was that I had witnessed, and, truth be told, I wanted to forget about it.
“I do not.” He raised his shoulders in a puzzled gesture. “The sisters say she had fainted once before, in the chapel during a service.”
“Could it be the falling sickness?”
“I have not seen any evidence of that.” The infirmarian shook his head. “She has not suffered convulsions, although I must observe her longer to be certain—sometimes they come months apart.” Then he praised, “Hildegard has a serious disposition for a twelve-year-old and takes a keen interest in my workshop. Asks a lot of questions about herbs and medicine.”
“Hmm.” The abbot studied me again, and my cheeks grew warmer.
“She is eager to regain her strength so she can go outside and see my garden,” the infirmarian added. Over the past few weeks, we had grown fond of each other. I liked his warmth and kindness, and I think my curiosity had injected a certain spark into his monotonous routine.
“Is she equally eager to return to the convent?” the abbot asked, addressing him but looking at me.
My breath caught in my throat. I knew what the right answer was, and I knew what the truth was. They were not the same, and I was happy to let Brother Wigbert answer. I had already told him.
“No.” He looked at his superior honestly. “In fact, she doesn’t want to go back at all.”
Kuno’s eyebrows went up. “You really are a most peculiar child.” He spoke to me directly this time. “Your parents claimed you were docile, but from what I hear, you have a mind of your own.”
This left me puzzled, for I did not know that having ‘a mind of my own’—which I took to mean that I knew what I wanted and what I did not want—was a wrong thing.
“With your permission, Father,” Brother Wigbert came to my rescue, “the rigors of an anchorite life are great and can be especially burdensome for one Hildegard’s age. Even before her illness, they had often made her melancholy.”
“But what are we to do, Brother?” The abbot frowned. “She was destined for the cloister at birth and never defied her parents’ wish.” He held my gaze, as if demanding a confirmation.
“No, Father,” I whispered, dropping my gaze to the ground, then raising it to Brother Wigbert with an unspoken plea.
“We could find another arrangement, something less onerous,” he suggested cautiously. “At least for now. She could help me with patients for a few hours each day.” The infirmarian glanced at Bertolf, who had been standing silently behind me. I knew that both of them would be satisfied with that solution.
The abbot grunted—this was clearly not a complication he cared for—but his frown relaxed. “I would have to ask her father before I can make any changes,” he said finally, and there was a note of hope in his voice. Hope that my father would say no, most likely.
“An excellent idea,” Brother Wigbert agreed. “I will keep her in the infirmary until the matter is settled.”
The abbot hesitated, then nodded. “So be it. I will write tonight and send a messenger first thing tomorrow.”
The sun was already well on its downward course, the top of the cloister wall reflecting its fiery glow. The bell started issuing summons for vespers. The two monks proceeded to the church, and Bertolf took me back to the infirmary. I had earned more time.
The next day, I assisted at my first medical case. Brother Wigbert called me to the consultation room after breakfast, where a patient was waiting, an alehouse owner from Disibodenberg named Arnwald. The left sleeve of his shirt was rolled up, exposing a lacerated arm.
As Bertolf washed off the blood, Arnwald explained that he had been taking a barrel of beer down from a shelf when the accident happened. “I lost my grip, and the blasted thing—I beg your pardon, Brother,” he added apologetically, “tumbled down and took the skin off my arm.”
Brother Wigbert must have been used to salacious language from his suffering patien
ts. Unperturbed, he examined the wound, which was not deep but stretched from the shoulder to the elbow.
“But at least it fell next to my foot, not on it.” Arwald went on. “God watched over me today, Brother, for it would be the death of my family if this work tool”—he tapped his left foot—“came to harm.”
“You are lucky, my good man, that all you have are badly bruised muscles, and you will be sore for a few days.” The infirmarian went to his workshop and returned with a plate filled with a moist substance that had a pungent smell and the consistency of thick porridge. From the corner where I sat, I craned my neck to follow the procedure as he spread the poultice onto a piece of linen with a wooden spatula and applied it to the wound. Then he wrapped another cloth around it and told the man to return the next day for a change of dressing.
When Arnwald had gone, I asked Brother Wigbert what was in the poultice.
“Mainly bran, softened and warmed.”
“But it smelled.” I wrinkled my nose.
“That is because I added goat dung to it,” he explained. “It draws out the pus.”
I was puzzled. “What for?”
Wigbert puffed his chest authoritatively. “Greek medical texts recommend it. A wound will heal properly when it oozes pus with which the evil humor comes out.”
I thought it wise to say no more. Uda had made poultices that included various grains, and ointments of lovage, betony, sanicle, or mugwort, but I could not recall her ever adding dung to them. I wondered if it would really speed up the healing and decided that I would soon find out.
When a kitchen servant brought supper for the patients, I took a few bites of the bread and cheese and climbed into bed. I was tired and my head hurt, but my mind kept circling around Arnwald’s case. By all accounts, Wigbert was a caring physician. He devotedly nursed Brother Maurice, who was weak in the mind due to old age and spent his time slumbering on a nearby cot. I had also seen him deftly set a leg of one of the monastery grooms and expertly lance several neck boils. But there was something odd about the dung treatment, and I racked my brain until I succumbed to sleep without putting my finger on it.
Within four days, Abbot Kuno had a response from my parents. They consented to the new arrangement whereby I would be allowed to spend time outside the convent and be employed in a manner that was acceptable to the monks of St. Disibod. The letter concluded with this assurance:
It is our belief that if our daughter has more freedom within the monastery, she will come to better appreciate the consecrated life, and when the time comes, she will profess her vows with deeper conviction and purer faith, for we know that her dedication is unaltered.
Brother Wigbert repeated those words to me, and they brought tears to my eyes. They were tears of longing, for I knew that, although written by my father’s hand, the message had come from my mother. But they were also tears of relief that I would not be confined to the enclosure anymore.
Brother Wigbert told me that the abbot had summoned Prior Helenger to show him the letter. Upon reading it, Helenger had snorted. “Surely, Father, you are not going to indulge this kind of behavior? For all we know, it may be a ruse.”
“Nobody who has dealt with her over the last year has any reason to doubt that her ailments are real,” Kuno had said.
Brother Wigbert, who had also been present, nodded in affirmation.
“This has already caused a lot of distraction,” the prior insisted, “and it is going to lead to even more confusion if you let her outside the convent. Inside is where she belongs.”
“Why would it cause a distraction? She has been in the infirmary for the last two months, and there have been no problems. I am sure we can find an arrangement that will satisfy everyone.”
“Such as keeping her permanently as a patient or a companion to Brother Wigbert?” Helenger sneered.
“Do not exaggerate, Brother Prior.” Abbot Kuno’s normally mild eyes had flickered with impatience. “The infirmary is busy enough; we will find a useful occupation for her.”
“It is against our rules to have women around.”
“She is a child, and she has struggled with the rigors of the enclosure,” Brother Wigbert interjected. “We must be compassionate, Brother, for ours is a hard life, and we need not add burdens to it beyond what one can bear. Our faith has produced a great many hermits and anchorites, but I have never seen, nor heard of, a child of twelve among them. She is at a tender yet lively age, and it is unnatural to keep her so confined. We want to make sure we help Hildegard along in her vocation, rather than making it more difficult for her.”
In response, Helenger only gave him a cold look. Then he turned to the abbot. “Her father would never have taken that position but would task us with putting the girl in her place. In this letter”—he jabbed a long finger at the parchment—“I see the hand of that wife of his.”
“Brother Prior,” Kuno sighed wearily, “if you cannot see any other benefit, think of her dowry. As you well know, there is much rebuilding work still to be done, and we cannot afford to lose any income.”
Helenger rose. “I will pray that God does not punish us for making such compromises in the name of a few pieces of gold.” His fine features froze into such an expression of offended virtue that it made him look even more like a statue than usual. As Brother Wigbert left the parlor in Helenger’s wake, he saw the abbot sit back and cover his eyes with the tips of his fingers.
Arnwald’s laceration was producing pus, all right. Each time he returned for a new dressing, the injured arm was hotter and more painful. On the third day, Wigbert took off the bandages and gazed at the wound for a long time, shaking his head. Peering from my bed, I caught a glimpse of the inflamed flesh, red and swollen. Arnwald declined any more poultice, and Brother Wigbert dabbed some oil on the arm and wrapped it in fresh linen. Then
he gave Arnwald a cup of wine with a few drops of poppy juice for easier sleep and kept him in the infirmary for the night.
The next morning, Arnwald had a fever. He was given more wine, but although he drank it greedily, it was not much help. I offered to bathe his forehead in cool rosewater. Bertolf readily consented, for the day was getting busy. I sat with the bowl in my lap, dipped the towel, and touched it to Arnwald’s face. The empty wine cup still stood near the bed, and my nagging thoughts returned. Wine was not an effective remedy against a fever, and yet somehow it was not entirely out of place. Why was that?
All at once, it struck me. I finished my task, hands shaking with excitement, then ran to the workshop. “I know what can help Arnwald!” I exclaimed, pushing the door open and startling Brother Wigbert.
“What?”
“Wine!” I was still breathless. Then something else lit up in my head. “Or vinegar!”
I had finally remembered! When Uda had tended to our cuts and bruises, she often said that it was important to bathe them in warm wine or vinegar to prevent them from corrupting. On larger ones, she would also apply honey, whose viscous sweetness was said to protect injured flesh from bad influence.
“Wherever did you get that idea from?”
“My nurse used to use it.” I hesitated. “She knew about it from a wise woman.”
The monk shook his head, half-disapprovingly, half-indulgently. “One should not listen to wise women, child. There is no telling what effect their remedies may have because they employ pagan incantations. Greek texts are the only appropriate source of medical knowledge.”
I stared at him. Herrad was respected throughout our countryside for her healing skills, and many people owed her their lives or limbs. “Please, Brother, let’s at least try,” I implored.
“I am not going to put vinegar on his wound.” Wigbert shook his head firmly. “Vinegar is harsh and will cause him more pain than he is in already.”
“What about wine?”
He rolled his eyes. “Wine is meant to b
e imbibed, not poured on festering wounds.”
Puffing with effort, he climbed onto a stool to hang up bunches of fennel and thyme from the beams. For a moment, Uda’s loft stood before my eyes, warm and fragrant on September days, drying herbs rustling in the breeze that wafted through the window. Fighting another wave of homesickness, I returned to the infirmary and threw myself on my cot. I was convinced that one of those remedies would help. The abbey had both in abundance, and it was unfair not to even try them as the patient was getting worse.
Then my gaze fell to the floor where, on a tray by the door and among other dishes, there stood a cup of Brother Maurice’s wine from breakfast. It was full since he had been sleeping all day.
Swiftly, I hid it under my bed. Then I looked out the window; it was midday and the bells would be ringing for nones soon, which meant that Brother Wigbert and Bertolf would be going to the church. All I had to do was wait.
When the crunch of their footsteps had died down, I retrieved the cup and ran to the workshop. Thankfully, Wigbert had left the stove burning low. I found a small pot, poured the wine into it, and put it on the fire. Within moments its aroma filled the room, and I thought how lucky it was that patients were given undiluted wine. I poured the warm liquid into a wooden bowl and grabbed a jar of honey on my way out.
I found Arnwald awake from his fitful slumber, glassy-eyed from the fever. My heart was thumping—whether from excitement or fear, I could not tell. I put the bowl next to the bed. “I think I know how to induce your wound to heal,” I said.
