by P K Adams
Amid such grim reflections, I was nonetheless relieved to see that they looked nothing like the crusaders Renfred had described; instead of shiny plates of armor, shields, and helmets, all they wore were gambesons without even chain mail. Clearly, they had not expected resistance.
“Lucky for us they left their armor behind to keep clean for the big battle.” Volmar’s voice reached me, echoing my thoughts.
I looked around, startled.
“Here!” He was on the wall above the herb garden, partially hidden by the fruit trees. “Be careful!” he shouted as I turned to face him.
“You too! You know how rotten those beams are.”
Volmar grinned. “I’ll be fine.”
I glanced back toward the fields and felt a twinge of apprehension. The mercenary leaders had rejoined the rest of the group but were careful not to make any gestures that would betray their intentions. I observed them with bated breath, and it seemed to stretch for eternity.
Then they moved, and my heart sank. They came about a quarter of a mile closer and reined in their horses again. Some reached into their saddlebags, pulling out bows and setting out to string them. When they were ready, the remaining men launched a final attack at speed while the archers held back to provide cover. The first arrows flew from the mercenaries’ side, and two of our men on the wall fell.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Volmar running back to the archers he had posted in the watchtower. This is not going to work, I thought desperately. There was no leader to tell the defenders when to shoot, and the timing seemed crucial.
Just then, the first arrows were launched from the town wall, and a few cheers went up. I looked around the edge of the roof as Volmar appeared at the top of the watchtower, and we could see each other across the courtyard. I jabbed a finger toward the town. You need to move there; they need reinforcements! But he was scanning the woods for a sign of an assault from there.
I understood why; the knights from Sponheim had spoken of at least eighty men. But I kept shaking my head while pointing urgently toward the town—that was where the attack was definitely happening.
Finally, Volmar signaled to his men, and I climbed down and ran into the courtyard just as they were hurrying by. “I am going to organize a watch here and send word if we see anything!” I shouted as they disappeared through the gate.
Volmar’s archers had arrived just in time. A few of the mercenaries had been hit on the way, but most had made it to the wall. The hail of stones was keeping them temporarily at bay. The new arrows swished down and laid another five dead, but more than a dozen men came all the way up to the ditch, dismounted, and tried to climb the earth rampart, swords in hand. The angle was too steep for a successful bow shot, but right then a cauldron of boiling water was hauled onto the wall. The sight of the rising steam sent the attackers fleeing, including the ones in the ditch who were now scrambling up the other side.
Renfred, proudly in charge of that part, grinned at Volmar. “These bastards must have heard tales from the crusade. Those armies were full of men for hire too.”
His assistants were about to tip the pot over when Volmar raised a hand to stop them. He had, he later told me, an idea. They looked puzzled but obeyed. The attackers were in full retreat, mounting their horses and galloping away across the field. Volmar watched them for a while, then turned to Renfred. “It is better they don’t know we only have water here. Let them think it is tar. Maybe this will keep them from coming back.”
That evening, the weary but jubilant townsfolk set up tables in the square under the clear summer sky and made a celebratory feast of roasted geese, fried bacon, cheese, and fruit pies, to which they invited the monks. After the meal, I joined the elders’ table, where the day’s events were being reviewed. The moon had risen, the fires crackled, and the mood, fueled by ale, was cheery. Everyone realized how lucky we had been, for despite the defiant posture, the town was ill-equipped for a siege or a serious fight. Volmar admitted that the archers, though they had had some success in taking out the attackers, had wasted many arrows, and their aim was far from perfect under the pressure of an unfamiliar situation. Fortunately, the mercenaries had overestimated our defenses and had chosen not to risk losses before the main battle.
Renfred offered another reason to be grateful. “Flaming arrows are a horrible weapon,” he said, his speech already a little slurred. “They land on roofs and cause fires that can destroy a town from the inside in no time without the enemy setting foot through the gate. I only thought about it after it was all over.”
We looked fearfully at one another. A few richer houses were built out of stone, but most dwellings were timber and would have burned up like heaps of twigs. “God protected Disibodenberg from a terrible fate today, praised be His name.” The abbot crossed himself.
“Amen!”
“God also chose Hildegard to send us a message of courage!” Renfred exclaimed, emboldened by the ale. “She convinced us to stay and fight. Let’s drink to her health!”
They raised their cups with a cheerful noise, splashing some of the contents. Brother Wigbert and Abbot Kuno, drinking wine, took more modest sips as befit their station.
“She also urged me to go into the town and help once the attack began,” Volmar added. “She was right that they would not attack up the hill, but at the time I wasn’t so sure.”
Everyone nodded with renewed appreciation, and I blushed under this barrage of acknowledgement. “Their surprise at seeing our defenses told me they had not expected resistance,” I said. “So it made sense that they would not have planned a sneak attack from the woods.”
As another toast followed, I noticed Griselda nearby. I excused myself and walked to the servants’ table. Someone moved over to make room, and Griselda beamed at me. “Everybody is talking about you.”
“It was a common effort.”
“Of course.” She paused, eyeing me closely. “What’s wrong? You look downcast. You must be tired.”
“I am.” I nodded. Then I took a breath. “Can we talk? Alone?”
We walked to the porch of the parish church, where we would not be overheard.
“Is something wrong?” Griselda repeated.
I cleared my throat, feeling suddenly weary. “I think you should leave the abbey—when it becomes safe to do so.”
Griselda’s eyes widened, but she said nothing.
“I made inquiries about your family,” I went on. “Your father’s inn has become quite prosperous.” The village was also safe, being located in the opposite direction of where the mercenaries were marauding. “I am sure they will be happy to see you back. You are almost seventeen,” I added, for there was still no response, “and you won’t be able to keep up your disguise much longer.”
I had expected tears, bargaining, perhaps even anger; instead, Griselda’s face paled into a look of resignation. “You are right,” she said finally. “I have been lucky to be able to pass for a boy for so long, but it is bound to end, and then I will be in trouble.”
I was relieved, but the meekness that was so much a part of Griselda’s character made it harder.
She dropped her gaze. For a moment I thought she would cry, but she looked up again, almost serene, although her eyes glistened. “I only wish that I had found a way—”
“It was never going to work like that, but don’t despair,” I said gently. “By putting some distance between yourself and the abbey, you will be able to give it more thought. Who knows, maybe once you return to the world, you will find it more to your liking than before. I know this is what you desire,” I hastened to add, seeing tears well up in her eyes as she shook her head. I put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t lose hope.”
But in truth, I had no idea how this might be accomplished. I wondered if I should write to my mother to borrow a modest sum for Griselda’s dowry, but with the cost of my sisters’
marriages, that was probably not feasible. As always, thoughts of my mother—though less frequent these days—gave me a pang of longing, and my throat tightened. Blinking to relieve the pressure behind my eyes, I reminded myself that things had a way of working out in the end—my own life was proof of that.
“I will always think of you as a sister, and I will miss you,” I said. “But this is for the best—one day you will see I was right.”
Instead of returning to the table, I went back to the infirmary and climbed the ladder to the roof again. The night, like the day before it, was clear, and the near-full moon cast a silvery glow on the fields, making the woods stand out darkly in the distance.
Listening to the muffled sounds of the celebration still going on below, I shuddered at the thought of the horrors that could have been visited on the town had the mercenaries had better knowledge of our defenses. It had been a hard day. I had seen men killed and had assisted Brother Wigbert as he extracted arrowheads from wounds and used cautery to stop bleeding.
As I reviewed the events in my mind, my sadness deepened at the thought that men would so freely endanger themselves and others for no better reason than greed. And I understood that wars had to be avoided at all costs because it was not the emperor or the pope, not even their fighting men, who paid the highest price, but ordinary folk caught in the middle of conflicts they did not understand and in which they had no stake.
But that was no longer true of me. I had had a taste of power and saw that the life I had been born into gave me an opportunity to act in ways that many others could not. And that realization left me breathless with an expansive feeling of freedom I had never known before.
19
September 1122
The weeks that followed were tense. People were afraid to venture out of the town even to fetch firewood until news arrived in the early autumn that negotiations at Würzburg had forestalled direct confrontation between the rival forces. Armed men had been ordered to stand down, and anyone caught breaking the peace of the land would be punished severely.
Disibodenberg greeted this with relief, but soon another worry emerged, for the skirmishes had ruined fields and delayed harvest in much of the Rhineland. There was a shortage of laborers too, as those who had lost their homes to the pillaging had picked up what belongings they could salvage and left in search of other places to settle. For the abbey, that meant that all the able-bodied residents, except the anchoresses, were needed to help.
Brother Wigbert helped me obtain an assignment at the orchards alongside Volmar, and together we worked briskly in the crisp air of a September morning, shaking the branches to loosen the ripe fruit, then taking turns climbing the ladder to pick off what was left. As we progressed, I could not help but notice how Volmar had changed from the boy I had met four years before. He was taller than me now, and the golden fuzz on his upper lip had begun to darken and spread to his cheeks. The years of running through the forest and hunting had made him quick, lean, and strong.
We arrived at the edge of the orchard, by the fence that divided it from the vineyards. On one side, the slow-moving band of the Glan shimmered in the sun. It was a secluded spot where we could talk at ease because Volmar had just shared with me confidential information from the scriptorium, where he now trained as a scribe.
“How can you be sure it’s not just another rumor?” I was skeptical. “There have been so many these last few weeks, and they all turned out to be false.”
“Father Abbot is quite certain this time.”
“But the messengers didn’t even bring a copy!”
“They were in a hurry to get to Mainz with the announcement,” Volmar explained. “It was so urgent they hadn’t even waited for copies to be made, but they assured Father Abbot that the archbishop’s trusted man would deliver one to us as soon as it was ready.”
Apparently, representatives of the emperor and the pope had signed a concordat in the town of Worms, not far from Bermersheim, four days before. The agreement was supposed to regulate the relations between the monarchy and the Church and end the conflict that had torn our land apart for so many years.
“And your task will be to make copies for the abbey?” I asked to confirm. I could barely contain my excitement at the thought of so important a document being available there.
“Yes,” Volmar said proudly, “together with Brother Bertolf.”
I gazed over the river, thinking. A solution to the crisis would benefit not just the parties involved, but ordinary people who bore its brunt. I wondered about the details of the agreement that managed to satisfy both sides. “Brother Wigbert told me how many privileges and rights the Church and the empire have claimed for themselves over the years,” I said. “It seems that what they want above all is to be able to meddle in each other’s affairs. I cannot imagine how they were able to reconcile such ambitions.”
Volmar shrugged. He did not have much interest in high matters of state and was more absorbed by the prospect of being able to copy the concordat than its contents or future success.
“Can I ask you a favor?” I turned to him, biting my lip.
“Of course.”
“Would you let me read your copy when it is ready?”
He hesitated. “It would be difficult to get you inside the scriptorium without anyone noticing.” But my gaze must have been so imploring that he added, “I might be able to take it out for a few hours.”
I leaped to my feet excitedly, and we went back to work, laughing and chatting until we broke for a midday meal of bread, cheese, and wine. Resting in the shade of a tree, I was suddenly reminded of a trip I had once taken with Griselda to the forest which she had turned into a picnic by bringing a bit of food from the kitchen. She was gone now, having taken her leave after the Feast of the Assumption.
“Brother Wigbert has always been good to me, but until Griselda arrived, I had been lonely.” The urge to confide came unexpectedly, and I knew it was my guilt speaking.
“It must have been hard.” Volmar’s tone was sympathetic. “It was not easy for me at first, either, and I at least had the company of other boys.”
“My circumstances were special.”
He nodded. My story was in some ways similar to his own. He had also been given to the Church at an early age, but nobody had attempted to impose total seclusion on him.
I shook my head to dispel those thoughts. “But it all turned out rather well, don’t you think?” I swept an arm toward the abbey. “This place has truly opened my mind to ideas I did not know existed. I am grateful for that, and I am happy now.”
“Despite the attack?”
“Yes.” I thought back on that near-disaster two months before. “It was terrifying, but we stayed and fought, and that made me feel strong.” I paused, then lowered my head. “Losing a friend is much worse because there is nothing you can do about it.”
“I am your friend too.” There was a note in Volmar’s voice I had not heard before. When he was with the other novices, his voice was as loud and as militant as theirs during the recreation hour when they sometimes played in the courtyard until Prior Helenger came out and put an end to the merriment. But now there was a tenderness in it that made it strangely sweet. “And I am still here,” he added, sending my heart fluttering like a bird batting its wings inside a cage.
“I know.” I heard my own voice borrowing his emphasis. “You are a dear friend.”
His gaze, when he turned his head, made my heart skip a beat altogether. We were sitting shoulder to shoulder, and he shifted toward me so that our faces were closer than ever before. I was frozen in place. The next moment, his lips were on mine, tentative and timid at first, then increasingly more assured, powered by some unseen force. Blood swooshed from my head and seemed to all go into my fingers and toes. I felt dizzy, but there was also a heaviness in my limbs that made me want to melt into the ground.
Volmar’s hand found mine, then moved up my arm and stopped at my shoulder, hesitating for a moment before sliding across my chest. My belly tightened into a knot, painful but not unpleasant, and when his fingers brushed my breasts again under the thin fabric of my robe, the knot relaxed and flooded me with a warm and tingling sensation. With effort, I broke away from him. But we remained only inches apart, listening to each other’s breaths, before we fell back on the soft yellowing grass under the apple tree.
The river, low after a hot summer and lazily pursuing its course toward the Rhine around sandy shallows, sparkled in the afternoon sun. So this is how it feels, I thought, my body still holding on to this novel sensation, my heart slowing from its furious pace. I knew little about relations between men and women, except that they resulted in offspring whose birthing process was of considerable medical interest to me. But it was all shrouded in mystery, sometimes hinted at during those births in code words that were pronounced with embarrassment, or, alternatively, with ribald humor.
I remembered the couple in the alley during the feast of St. Disibod. I had wondered what made them so giddy and impatient, and now I knew. It was nice. Then I remembered how the Church—of which I was to become a consecrated member one day—viewed these matters.
Yet how could this sweet, tender thing be wrong? I stole a glance at Volmar, lost in his own thoughts with the serious look I liked so much, and I could feel no regret. He felt my movement and turned to me. For some moments, his eyes traced the lines of my face as if he were about to set off on a long journey and wanted to remember every detail of it. Then he reached and touched my hair, loose after my veil had slipped off. It had grown out long again now that Jutta’s frequent illnesses had caused her to abandon her rule about keeping it shorn. “It is like ripe wheat,” he said in a marveling tone as he ran his fingers down my tresses.
