by P K Adams
Wigbert nodded like a schoolmaster acknowledging a student’s challenge. “It would appear so, but St. Augustine left a gate of hope open. If we let divine grace enter our hearts, we can be saved.”
“What can divine grace do?”
“Enlighten us so we can tell good from evil, strengthen us against temptation, and inspire us to do good works.”
As I pondered this, he finished the poppy infusion and motioned for me to follow him to the infirmary. We passed the cot where a woman from across the Glan was recovering from a hernia, another occupied by a monk with jaundice, and approached a cobbler from Disibodenberg. He was the one in need of merciful sleep, for the once stoutly built man had been reduced to skin and bones by the wasting disease. He groaned when the infirmarian raised his head to help him drink.
As we watched the cobbler drift off, I asked, “How many Church Fathers are there?”
“Eight.” Wigbert wiped sweat from the man’s face with a towel soaked in rosewater from a bowl I held for him.
“So Augustine’s teachings are not the only ones to follow?”
“No, although he is considered one of the Great Church Fathers, along with Ambrosius, Hieronymus, and Gregorius the Great, and his is an officially upheld doctrine.”
“But not all Christians adhere to it as much as Sister Jutta,” I protested, remembering Otto of Bamberg. “For example, the bishop who comes here for the feast of St. Disibod every year is fat and wears sparkling jewels like a king—”
“Keep your voice down!” Brother Wigbert hissed, casting a wary glance at the neighboring cot where the jaundiced monk was resting.
I obeyed. “What St. Augustine teaches seems so impractical,” I whispered. “It does not help those who don’t know about doctrines but want to live good lives.”
The infirmarian sighed as he arranged the cobbler’s blanket. “Let’s go back to the workshop.” As we walked past the peasant woman with the hernia, he winced and stretched his fingers. “My old joints are beginning to ache again in this damp weather.”
When we emerged into the chilly November evening, he turned to me, and his tone had something definitive about it. “We are talking about things that are not subject to debate, Hildegard. Church doctrines are not meant to be agreed or disagreed with—or critiqued, for that matter. They are to be accepted, and it is best that you remember that.”
12
April 1119
The abbot wanted an account of Jutta’s health.
“Don’t be nervous; Father Abbot is a kind man,” Brother Wigbert assured me. But it was not the idea of talking to Kuno that I was worried about. It had been eight months since the magistra had first taken ill, and the fever had returned twice. She had not let me cleanse and dress her wounds, insisting on doing it herself. Although she had recovered, I still did not know how serious her injuries were or if the cycle of the relapses could somehow be stopped.
I was also concerned that Prior Helenger—who harbored an inexplicable dislike for me, evident in the contemptuous gaze of his cold gray eyes as if my mere presence was an offense—would use my inability to help her against me, and try to send me back to the convent.
But I did not want Brother Wigbert to guess my fears, so I lifted my chin and hoped that my smile was confident enough. “I am ready, Brother.”
It was unusually hot for April and the sun was beating on our heads as we crossed the courtyard. Volmar and a young monk emerged from the cloister, each carrying a set of gardening tools. They were bound for the abbey orchards where Volmar was assigned to work that spring, and I had to fight the urge to run and join him. Instead, I inclined my head as they greeted us.
“God be with you, Brothers,” the infirmarian called out cheerfully, “and may He send you a cool breeze to make your work lighter.” Then he turned to me, wiping his brow. “On days like these I am truly grateful to be able to work in a shaded workshop.”
The abbot’s house had been rebuilt in stone, a fitting dwelling for the head of an abbey with a growing reputation in the Rhineland. The parlor was pleasantly cool, and seemed rather dim until our eyes adjusted from the glare outside. But soon the contours of a spacious, sparsely furnished chamber came into view. Arched windows gave onto the cemetery and the vineyards beyond, and a big desk carved of dark wood stood nearby to make optimal use of daylight. It was covered with a quantity of parchments and a tray with the abbey seal and a block of wax. A simple cross with an oil lamp at its foot hung on the wall, and the hearth, cold and empty now, was twice as big as its predecessor in the old house, or so Brother Wigbert later told me.
Abbot Kuno motioned us to sit across his desk. As the prior was nowhere in sight, I felt my nervousness ebb away.
“Father, we bring good tidings from the convent where Sister Jutta seems to be on the road to recovery again,” Brother Wigbert announced.
“God be praised,” the abbot replied, a little wearily, I thought. “She is a holy woman and a great treasure of this abbey.”
“Indeed. And Hildegard deserves the credit, for she has spent these last few months treating Sister Jutta with remedies of her own making,” the infirmarian added. “Her accomplishments in the art of healing rival those of students twice her age.”
The abbot regarded me thoughtfully, and I blushed at this acknowledgment of my skill. I always found it hard to bask in compliments, which made me shy. I held his gaze nonetheless.
“And what sort of remedies are those?”
“Diluted vinegar to wash the cuts; plasters of betony, sorrel, and lovage to dress them; and a honey rub to soothe and protect the skin,” I replied.
I waited with bated breath for him to object to the use of the ‘wild’ ingredients, but something else caught his attention. “So her fever resulted from cuts?” He frowned.
I shot a glance at Brother Wigbert who gave a slight nod. “Yes, Father. I believe so.”
“And how did she come by them?” His frown deepened.
“I believe she had inflicted them upon herself”—I took a deep breath—“by means of a scourge.”
The abbot’s fallen face told me he had known, or at least suspected it, for some time. “What is the extent of these . . . injuries?”
“I cannot say because Sister Jutta will not let me dress them.” I dropped my gaze, feeling inexplicably guilty. “She insists on applying the medicines herself.”
The abbot looked puzzled. “Perhaps that is just her modesty,” he said hopefully. “She follows strict rules that don’t allow another person to see her body, even if it is a physician or”—he hesitated—“his assistant.”
But I was not convinced. There was something about Jutta’s demeanor that still bothered me, and it was not just the difficulty of self-treating one’s back. It was also the length of time it had taken her to recover from what were unlikely to have been deep lesions. Then there was the fever and the relapses. But, try as I might, I could not make any sense of it.
Abbot Kuno’s voice broke through my musings. “What about Sister Adelheid? Are her indispositions also the effect of mortification of the flesh?”
“I doubt it,” I said. “Sister Jutta’s practices may be something Adelheid aspires to, but she does not seem capable of going that far. Most likely she is suffering from nerves. I make wine mixed with valerian oil for her, though it has yet to produce an improvement.”
That was hardly good news, yet he looked relieved. “Mortification may be encouraged by some in our Church, but it is not a practice I want to see spreading about this abbey,” he said as if it were my responsibility to enforce that rule. Then, before either of us could say anything, he changed the subject. “Come on Friday for our monthly supper, Brother,” he addressed the infirmarian, “and we will discuss this year’s fair. The archbishop will be joining us.”
I gasped. “The Archbishop of Mainz?! But I thought he was in prison.”
Brother Wigbert gave me a surprised look. “He was, but with God’s help, he is free now.”
I knew it was not my place to discuss politics, but I could not help myself. High matters of state held a great fascination for me. “The battle at Welfesholz must have really weakened the emperor if he released the archbishop. Does that mean the dispute over inve . . . investiture has been settled?”
The abbot stared at me; he knew nothing about my accidental eavesdropping on him and the Bishop of Bamberg three years before. “No.” He raised an eyebrow. “The papal faction’s victory caused significant losses for Emperor Heinrich, but it did not weaken him enough. He is now in Italy and no doubt plotting further mischief. But,” he added pointedly, looking from me to the hapless Brother Wigbert, “you need not concern yourself with such things.”
Taking this as a dismissal, the infirmarian rose with a reproachful look in my direction. He took his leave of the abbot, and I followed him outside. Many questions swirled in my head on the way back to the workshop, but I dared not ask them, knowing I had already tested his patience. But as we reached the garden, I saw that despite his effort to look stern, the eyes that met mine were affectionate. “I don’t understand why the emperor wants to be able to name bishops.” I risked one more question. “He is not a priest. Isn’t that the Church’s business?”
With a sigh, Brother Wigbert led me to the bench under the fruit trees. After some deliberation, he said, “I am, like Father Abbot, of the opinion that you should not spend your time contemplating worldly things. It is not for us monastics. But since I know you will keep asking until you get an answer”—he smiled half-ruefully, half-indulgently—“I will satisfy your curiosity. Better that than if you were to inquire of the archbishop directly when he is here.”
And so, shielded from the sharp glow of the early afternoon sun by the young foliage, we sat side by side as he began to explain the origins of the long-running dispute, just as he had done with medical theories.
“This investiture conflict has been going on for years and has grown more complicated with time. It is not something that will be so easily solved as you might think. Do you know of the history?”
I shook my head.
“It started more than forty years ago, when Pope Gregorius, the seventh of that name, asserted his right to install bishops over Emperor Heinrich’s father, who was then in power.
The old Heinrich, being a proud and ambitious prince, was outraged and called on German bishops to sign a letter rejecting the papal claim. He sacked those who had refused, then he demanded that the pope resign.”
“I’m sure that did not go over well with the Holy Father.”
Brother Wigbert chuckled, then grew serious again. “It did not. Gregorius excommunicated the bishops who remained loyal to the crown, then excommunicated Heinrich himself and denied his sovereignty over the empire’s lands.”
“And there has been fighting ever since?” I asked breathlessly.
“Years of struggle. Some of the nobility, mainly the Saxons, rebelled and allied themselves with the papal forces to overthrow King Heinrich. They elected Rudolf, Duke of Swabia, as anti-king. But Rudolf was defeated, and Heinrich appointed the Archbishop of Ravenna as anti-pope. I still remember his consecration . . .”
Brother Wigbert gazed into the distance at the faded images from his youth. “It was in the year 1084. I was a student visiting Rome from Salerno, and the fighting between the forces supporting the rival popes was fierce. A few days after his installment, Clement, the anti-pope, crowned Heinrich Holy Roman Emperor at St. Peter’s.” A grimace of pain flashed across the old monk’s face. “Soon afterwards the Holy City was sacked by the Normans and their Saracen allies amid a fury of plunder and rape.”
I was horrified and mesmerized in equal measure. Until then, I’d had no idea how relentless and violent that conflict had been. The notion that kings would claim the right to control who occupies Church offices, and to interfere in its affairs in such a blatant way, angered me. “Did the old emperor ever reconcile with Pope Gregorius?”
Wigbert shook his head. “Not with Gregorius, nor with the three or four popes who succeeded him. Heinrich went to his grave at loggerheads with the Church’s authorities, though he remained popular among lower clergy. And his son, our current emperor, had good relations with Rome at first but eventually followed in his father’s footsteps. In fact, he has gone even farther, putting forth demands for Church lands to be turned over to the crown. The Archbishop of Mainz is firmly opposed to this, and that is what had cost him his freedom.”
“The emperors have been treating the Church as their plaything,” I said hotly. “No wonder the archbishop preferred to go to prison in its defense like a true martyr!”
In the silence that followed, the chirping of the birds and the buzzing of the insects suddenly seemed more intense, as if they too were expressing their indignation.
Then Brother Wigbert spoke again in a measured tone. “The Church certainly has the right—nay, the duty—to preserve its spiritual domain and its property. But . . .” he paused, reflecting. “The fault lies on both sides, not only with the emperors. Beginning with Gregorius, popes have been trying to assert their authority beyond the godly realm to include worldly power as well. Many clerics agree with that line, but to me it has never been clear that it is in the Church’s best interest to interfere in secular affairs.”
I nodded, now understanding the complexity. This was my second lesson in Church politics, and it would one day pit me against its hierarchy. But only the top hierarchy, for common clergy, like Brother Wigbert, seemed to understand that simple truth.
13
July 1119
The month of July, when the feast of St. Disibod, the patron saint of the abbey, was celebrated, was always a merry time at Disibodenberg. Before High Mass, a procession of all able-bodied townspeople would follow the relics around the church, and afterwards the fair would officially open in the town square. The monks avoided the market, for it was hardly a holy event, full as it was of itinerant musicians, jugglers, soothsayers, pet monkeys, and hawkers of all manner of goods vying for customers’ attention. Only Brother Wigbert took interest—and only professionally so—by preparing the infirmary for the inevitable bloodied noses, cut lips, and broken arms.
For me, the day could not come soon enough. I still remembered that first summer when I’d had to listen to the celebration from inside the convent. This time I would go to the church with everyone and see the notorious Archbishop of Mainz.
But there was another reason for my impatience. For weeks I had been planning my most daring escapade yet—a foray into the town, dressed in my boy’s outfit and a hooded caftan procured by Griselda. It was a precaution I had to take because ever since Wigbert had started sending me on errands, I had become recognizable. I had even made friends with Renfred, the fruit and spice seller, who liked to regale me with tales of his adventures in the Holy Land when I stopped by for ginger root and cinnamon.
At Mass I had a clear if distant view of the archbishop from my perch in the novices’ pew. Amid the chants, the incense, the murmur of prayers, and the sermon about Disibod’s harrowing journey from Hibernia to the Rhineland, I was struck by how different he was from Bishop Otto of Bamberg. He was taller and carried none of the extra flesh that betrayed the other’s weakness for food and leisure. In fact, Archbishop Adalbert’s entire posture and spare movements exuded humility and modesty, which stood in stark contrast to Otto’s imperial manner. It was yet more proof that the Church and its men were not as uniform as I had been accustomed to thinking.
The afternoon was conveniently visited by occasional showers, which made wearing the hood less suspicious. I slipped through the breach and was soon walking in the town square among the stalls loaded with bales of cloth, embossed leather, hot buns, and sweetmeats. I admired the wares sellers were hawking from their trays, which included
wooden flutes, ribbons, copper bracelets, and amulets to ward off evil spirits. An old hag was selling love potions in the form of a brownish liquid in little stoppered bottles.
I was reflecting on the irony of such spells being offered under the monks’ very noses when another hawker came within my earshot loudly extolling the benefits of pills that would “help a man last longer.” This promise set my inner healer on high alert, and I turned curiously, wondering what exactly they were for. Did they boost stamina for long days of work in the fields? That would be most useful as the harvest was to start in a few weeks. Or maybe these remedies gave men stronger heads for evenings of drinking at the alehouse? After all, so many women who came to the infirmary complained about their husbands coming home drunk out of their senses and being useless the next day. And what were these pills made from? I was about to ask the small, shifty-looking man who was shaking a box full of them at the passersby, when straight ahead of me I saw none other than Prior Helenger.
I froze in place; he was the last person I had expected to find there. Even Abbot Kuno would have made for a less out-of-place presence at the fair. Was he there to keep an eye on other monks? None were to be seen, and the prior was standing by a stall, looking over a cutler’s shiny tools with seeming interest.
However, as the pill seller came closer and raised his voice again in praise of his remedy, Helenger turned toward him slowly and purposefully, as if he had been waiting for this opportunity. An expression of contempt mixed with outrage colored his features.
I was still unable to move, and everything seemed to slow down around me. Even the crowd had become quieter as if its noise was coming through a closed door. At the same time, I was acutely aware that if the prior, now standing on the other side of the piller, shifted his gaze only slightly, he would see and, without a doubt, recognize me.
