by P K Adams
The monk reached across the table and patted my arm. “There, everything is fine.” I noticed that he did not deny my suspicions. “I just don’t want you to go down a troubled path. The boy is free to indulge in such fancies, but they are a distraction to a girl whose parents offered her to God.” He rose as the bell sounded a call to vespers.
“I still need help in the garden,” I said.
“I am sure I can get one of the novices to come. In fact”—he paused on the threshold, struck with a thought—“I hear that Volmar has done a fine job in the orchards; he might like this kind of work!”
* * *
On an early summer morning, I went to the town on errands, stopping first at Renfred’s shop for ginger root. He apologized for the stacks of crates piled along one wall—the consignment expected the previous week had only arrived the day before, after the unloading of the ship had been delayed at Cologne. It took him some time to locate and open the right one, all the while telling me, with all the energy and eloquence of his profession, of his recent visit to his cousin, a fruit seller in Canterbury.
I listened avidly as he described recent improvements to its famed cathedral, where the choir was bigger than the entire church of St. Disibod, and which boasted new marble floors and stained glass windows that gave the interior a multicolored glow like walking inside a rainbow. It was a change from his usual tales of the crusade, in which he, like my father, had participated more than twenty years before. I loved those tales of Christian warriors defending cities of the Holy Land from the Saracen, and Renfred was always happy to have someone with whom to share them, for most of his customers had no time or patience for anecdotes about foreign lands.
I could have stayed and listened for hours, but I had another errand to do, so before he could launch into another retelling of the siege of Antioch, I bid him goodbye and moved toward the potter’s shop to order clay bowls.
An urgent thud of hoofs rose over the stirrings of a new day when I was halfway across the square, and I saw peasants scatter in all directions as they pulled carts piled with vegetables and chicken crates to safety. A pair of knights rode through the gate at full gallop, barely slowing to shout a few words to the watchman, and continued on their foaming coursers through the main street and up toward the abbey.
Disibodenberg was a quiet enough town for this to stir curiosity among the traders opening their shops. Renfred had also stepped out and followed the riders with his gaze, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “On my way back from England, I met a merchant from Mainz who told me there were rumors of the emperor’s imminent return to Germany and a likelihood of a war with those loyal to the pope.” He crossed himself. “May God help us.”
My anxiety mounting, I looked around as if someone else could confirm or deny this. Just then, one of the vegetable-hauling peasants passed by, a thin, graying man with the bright eyes and alert face of a busybody, accompanied by a small, scared-looking woman. Seeing my monastic garb, he took off his hat. Perhaps in response to my questioning expression, he said in a half-whisper as if delivering a secret message, “There is a word of mercenary troops abroad, looting and burning.”
The news sent a chill down my spine. I exchanged a glance with Renfred—he had told me enough stories about the terrible fate of cities under siege to leave me with no doubt about the danger facing us. And Disibodenberg was no Jerusalem; it had flimsy walls and a population wholly untrained for combat. Clay pots forgotten, I ran back to the abbey. Just as I passed through the gate, I saw Brother Wigbert disappearing inside the abbot’s house.
I followed but stopped when I caught the sound of several voices inside. The knights were in conference with Abbot Kuno, who must have summoned the obedientiaries. This was serious. Just before I pushed the door open, it crossed my mind that this was not a place for a woman to be. But I was not going to miss anything that might affect the convent.
This is what a war council must look like, I thought. The abbot’s face was drawn with worry; next to him, Prior Helenger wore his usual haughty expression, which, for once, failed to mask his anxiety. Across the abbot’s desk, the two knights were about to start their debrief as several senior monks stood attentively on either side. In addition to Brother Wigbert, there was Brother Ignatius, a graying man of fifty, as tall as the prior but with a friendlier demeanor, who served as treasurer; Brother Odo, the small, lively bursar of about forty; and Brother Ordulf, the abbey’s matricularius, fat and pale, and bald as an egg. The abbot raised his eyebrows as I entered and made a small obeisance, and the rest of the group turned in my direction.
“Who is that?” one of the knights asked. His tone was curious rather than hostile, and he looked vaguely familiar.
“Nobody.” Prior Helenger’s voice rang out, prompting Brother Wigbert to send him a sharp look. “Just a novice who should not be here,” he added.
Abbot Kuno raised his hand, and Helenger fell silent but continued to glare at me from under his cowl. “Hildegard needs to hear the news, so she can keep Sister Jutta informed,” the abbot told the knights. Then he turned to me. “These messengers have been sent by the Count von Sponheim.”
I regarded the men who had come from Jutta’s father. Then I remembered—the familiar-looking one was Rudolf von Stade, the black-eyed squire who had accompanied Count Stephan on his visit to Bermersheim seven years before. I noted that the fresh scar on his left cheek had healed and was now just a pale line from his jawline to the ear. He had matured from his lanky youth and settled into the broader frame of manhood, and his raven hair had begun to thin at the crown, but otherwise he looked much the same. I, on the other hand, must have changed substantially, having outgrown my chubbiness and acquired at least two feet of height. Most likely, he did not recall me at all.
At a gesture from the abbot, the knights spoke. Emperor Heinrich had returned from Italy and accused the nobles of fomenting chaos in his absence. The papal faction had rejected those allegations as a pretext for grabbing even more privileges for the crown, to which the emperor responded by challenging Archbishop Adalbert to battle. The emperor was marching on Mainz after calling on all loyal men to join him in standing up to those to whom he referred as “the enemies of the empire.”
“It is a quest for revenge for his defeat at Welfesholz at the hands of the Duke of Saxony,” Rudolf concluded. Most worryingly, mercenaries from Bavaria and Swabia had been streaming into the Rhineland to pillage villages and undefended towns around Mainz and Ingelheim for supplies and entertainment as they awaited the confrontation. “However,” he added, “papal supporters now have information that some of these bands have been spotted farther south, and that Disibodenberg might be in their sights.”
Tense silence descended on the parlor until it was broken by Prior Helenger’s voice, imperious as usual but with a tremble that he was not quite able to hide. “Surely they would not dare raise their hand against a house of God!”
Rudolf inclined his head respectfully, but his tone left no doubt about the seriousness of the threat. “For the safety of everyone here, I would not make that assumption, Brother Prior. Mercenaries, far away from home and unencumbered by the laws and customs of their land, have been known to attack monasteries and slay holy men for profit.”
Helenger opened his mouth to reply, but the abbot interjected before he could do so. “What options do we have?”
“You can evacuate the monks, the anchoresses”—Rudolf’s dark eyes flicked toward me—“and the townspeople across the Nahe as there is no indication of marauders in those parts. Or you can stay and defend yourselves.”
“Defend ourselves?” Kuno’s eyes widened. “But we are not a burg. These walls offer little protection.” I thought of all the breaches Volmar and I had crept through over the years and shuddered. They offered no protection at all. “Also, except for a few old crusaders,” the abbot went on, “there is nobody here with any military experience. Can the count offer us assis
tance?”
Rudolf von Stade shook his head regrettably. “Count Stephan wishes to warn you of the danger so you can make preparations, but he is unable to provide reinforcements as a battle with the imperial army is expected.”
This statement was followed by another interval of silence. I looked around the room and saw varying degrees of helplessness on the monks’ faces.
“I will not abandon the abbey,” Kuno said at length. His voice was quiet but firm. “It is my duty to stay here and share its fate, but I won’t stop anyone from leaving or the town from evacuating.”
It was courageous of him, but it hardly solved anything. My mind was working fast. “How large is the band heading our way?” I asked.
Rudolf blinked. “Not very large—eighty, maybe a hundred men, but they can wreak havoc in a small town like this.”
“We should head across the river,” Helenger announced as if it were his decision to make. “From there we can pray for deliverance, for our faith is the strongest armor.”
The abbot stirred impatiently and turned to the obedientiaries who had remained silent thus far. “What do you think, Brothers?”
They looked at one another uncertainly. They, too, had a duty toward the abbey, but it was obvious they had no idea what to do if they stayed. “As Brother Prior has said,” Brother Ordulf ventured weakly, “we must trust that Christ will shield us—”
But I was already shaking my head, barely able to contain my impatience. “The town can be defended if we reinforce it and mobilize the people.” I was thinking clearly now; the threat came from only a handful of rogue men, not an army of forty thousand that had covered the fields outside of Antioch with canons, catapults, and other siege machines. Eighty men-at-arms were nothing to be complacent about, but it would be foolish to abandon the people’s livelihoods and the abbey’s treasury to them. “The town wall is shorter but more solid than the abbey wall,” I went on, merely explaining my observations, “and we could dig a ditch to make it harder to scale it. The abbey wall has breaches in several places through which men could enter if they found them, but we could disguise them or patch them up.”
The knights dipped their heads in agreement, but the monks visibly struggled to comprehend. I felt a wave of irritation. The plan was simple and logical, and they would not be so stunned if they had ever bothered to talk to ordinary people about life in the wider world, the threats they faced, and how they dealt with them. But the monks considered such fraternizing beneath them.
“I think it can be done if we start immediately,” I urged.
“This is preposterous!” Helenger’s nostrils flared with anger. “I suggest we evacuate immediately, there are—”
“Brother Prior, please.” The abbot cut him off and gave me an intent look as if the defense instructions were written on my forehead. Taking advice from a woman was highly unusual, but he had enough sense to recognize a feasible plan, especially if it could save his monks from the disgrace of abandoning the abbey. “Now tell us,” he asked a little acidly, but it was clear that he was eager for an answer, “how are we to accomplish this feat of fortification?”
I ignored the sarcasm. “We are on a hill, surrounded on three sides by the forest and the rivers, and that gives us natural protection.” I took a deep breath. “So the main threat comes from the high road and the fields, which means that we must concentrate on strengthening the town’s western wall.
“We could dig a ditch on both sides of the gate and use the earth to plug the holes in the abbey wall. I can show you one, and Vol—some novices know about others.” I saw the corners of Rudolf von Stade’s mouth lifting. The abbot raised his chin, and I continued, “As far as weapons, we may have more than we think. Many townsmen own bows, and they can shoot because they compete in the meadow by the Glan every summer. They can be posted along the wall, and we can gather stones and have those who don’t shoot sling them at the attackers. People also have pickaxes, hammers, and other sharp tools”—I enumerated on my fingers—“that could be useful in a fight. The blacksmith probably has a few swords in store, although I don’t know if anyone besides Renfred knows how to use them—”
“A few might,” Kuno said, hope coloring his voice. “There are at least three other former crusaders living at Disibodenberg, and I believe the brewer had a stint in the archbishop’s army. It is not much, but it is something.”
“The monks could organize and supervise the preparations,” I suggested.
The abbot thought for a moment, then turned to the brothers. “I call a grand meeting for this afternoon. See to it that the announcement is made in town.”
18
July 1122
Disibodenberg’s leading citizens arrived at Abbot Kuno’s conference. Renfred was there, as well as Johann the blacksmith, Gunther the stonemason, and several craftsmen and traders whose businesses provided services to the abbey. The town’s parish priest, Father Diepold, came as well. They all vowed to stay and defend the town, and by the end of the day, vulnerable points were identified, plans drawn, and roles assigned for the work that was to begin the next morning. At nightfall, a rotating system of sentries was set up to supplement the watch at the gate, where the regular guard was known to take naps on duty.
After prime, the abbot and Brother Wigbert went down to the town square where all the able-bodied men over the age of fifteen had already assembled. Those who had been selected to dig the ditch had brought spades and went off to start immediately, working south and north of the high road all the way to the forest. Another group was dispatched to procure supplies of food and firewood, and the rest followed the monks to the abbey, where Volmar and I showed them the areas where rotten beams left the compound open to intrusion. Those gaps would be filled with the earth from the ditch and strengthened with the timbers from dismantled scaffoldings.
When we came to the hole at the back of the garden, I could not tell from Brother Wigbert’s face if he suspected anything. Not that it mattered in that moment.
“Shouldn’t we dig a ditch around the abbey too?” Kuno asked anxiously.
“The forest is too close,” I repeated what I had said the day before. “It would be cumbersome to bring horses up the slope through the trees. If they approach here, it will be on foot.”
“So despite the hill and the cover of the woods, this wall is still vulnerable?” The abbot looked at me as if I were some battle-tested general.
I spread my hands. “There is no guarantee, I suppose.”
“Then we will have to use the old watchtower and have archers there as well,” he decided, which impressed me, for he was clearly scared. As was I.
“Father, I am a good archer,” Volmar offered, not without a boasting note in his voice. “I can supervise the defenses here.”
The abbot looked surprised, but this was no time to ask questions. In a place of scant military expertise, any talent was welcome. “Very well. Now let’s inspect the tower to ensure the steps are solid. If need be, we will have the master carpenter fix them.”
As we crossed the courtyard, I felt cautiously optimistic that we might yet defend ourselves.
After four days of intense work, Disibodenberg was as prepared as it could be, but there was no sign of the mercenaries. The plan was that if the sentries spotted anything, women, children, and the infirm would be moved into the abbey precincts, and everyone else would take their pre-assigned positions—with bows and arrows or slings along the walls, and with any tools they had in their possession below to try to fight off those who managed to get inside.
During those preparations, Renfred regaled anybody who would listen with tales of the battering rams and catapults the crusaders had used to break down Saracen defenses to recapture holy sites in Outremer. At one point, he recalled how the infidel had taken to pouring boiling tar down on the attacking Christians during the siege of Antioch, decimating their ranks. Disibodenberg did
not have enough tar to turn into such a weapon; instead, someone suggested having large cauldrons of boiling water at the ready, and women were dispatched to gather brushwood for bonfires to be set up in the square.
Another week went by, and the state of high alert had begun to wane. The emergency plan was still in effect, but taverns and public areas filled again with people eager for gossip and entertainment to take their minds off worrisome thoughts.
Then, at dawn on a Monday, a group of peasants from an outlying village arrived on foot, barely alive with fear and exhaustion, soot covering their faces and clothes. Their homes and granaries had been burned and their bread, cheese, and livestock carried away. They had barely escaped with their lives. Disibodenberg was put back on alert, and just in time because an urgent sound of bells broke the tense quiet of the early afternoon, signifying that the enemy was in sight.
One of the lookouts came running to the abbot to report that a force of about sixty men had emerged from the forest to the west. When they had seen the ditch and the defenders on the walls, they had stopped to confer in the fields about a mile from the gate.
“Are they still at it?” The abbot was composed and efficient, but his face was taut with fear. We had just come out of the vestry of the parish church that had become a headquarters of sorts.
“They are, Father,” the boy replied.
I split from the group and hurried up to the infirmary. I climbed a ladder to the roof and perched at the edge. It was a perfect vantage point because it rose above the abbey wall, and I could see over the roofs of the town all the way into the fields on both sides of the high road.
And there, surrounded by yellowing barley gently undulating in the summer breeze, a band of soldiers was milling about as their leaders held council apart, restraining their warhorses and casting occasional glances toward Disibodenberg. These men, I realized, already had innocent blood on their hands and were looking for more. How was such a sin to be redeemed? Certainly not by anchoresses flogging and starving themselves.
