by P K Adams
“No, but neither are you.”
The prior’s face paled. “This level of insolence is not to be tolerated!” His whole frame was shaking.
I thought the abbot’s chin twitched before he composed his features into a stern look. “I am concerned that you do not know your proper place, Hildegard.”
“Father, if I may,” Brother Wigbert interjected. “I will gladly remind my assistant what her role is. She has had much success in the infirmary and may think that it entitles her to express opinions on other issues and in other forums. It won’t happen again.”
His intentions were good, but I was stung nonetheless. How could he talk so dismissively about me, and as if I were not even there? I remained silent, but inside I nursed a great sense of injustice.
Helenger would not let the opportunity slip. “Why is she still allowed to walk freely around the abbey, I wonder?” His voice rose shrilly again. “Shouldn’t she be confined to the enclosure to prepare for her vows? She is of age, and her continuing presence is a distraction and a bad influence on the monks. I have seen how some of them look at her—”
“Prior Helenger!”
“Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, Father, but the second year of her novitiate is coming to an end, and instead of retiring to the convent to become an anchoress, she is taking trips to the town and usurping Sister Jutta’s role as magistra.”
“I am not usurping anybody’s role!” I protested vehemently, my cheeks burning with anger and shame at his insinuations. “Sister Jutta remains our superior.”
“You see, Father? All she does is argue like a lawyer at the emperor’s court. She needs to learn her place. There is no room for insubordination in a holy community.”
“Speaking up at Chapter without an invitation is not a grave violation of The Rule, and she has been reprimanded,” the abbot reminded him with a touch of impatience.
“She went to the fair three years ago. Alone.” The prior’s voice was suddenly calm, but it cut like a blade. “Ask Brother Wigbert if she had his permission.”
The infirmarian looked at me quizzically, and the abbot frowned. “Is that true?”
“Yes,” I admitted contritely, sending Brother Wigbert an apologetic look.
The abbot did not seem eager to pursue this further—it was a long time ago, after all—but the prior was not done. “She was also overheard questioning the validity of the Augustinian doctrine.”
My memory reeled back to the day when I had talked with Brother Wigbert about Church Fathers as he tended to the ailing cobbler. The monk with jaundice on the neighboring bed must have reported it to Helenger. Icy sweat broke all over my body as I realized that my suspicions were correct—the prior had spies everywhere.
“I was not yet fourteen, and I was learning about the Church.” I tried to retain my composure. “Surely you are not going to accuse a child of heresy?”
“You are not a child anymore,” Helenger snickered, “and who knows what views you hold now?”
“That’s enough.” The abbot rose with surprising energy, his chair scraping across the stone floor. “I will not hear another word of it. I am not going to investigate heresy among my novices. However”—he turned to me wearily—“it is true that your novitiate is almost complete, and you must prepare for your vows. You will return to the convent and stay there.”
“But Father Abbot, the infirmary!” Brother Wigbert protested.
“It worked before she arrived,” Kuno said firmly, “and it will work after she is gone.”
21
February 1123
“O nobilissima viriditas, que radicas in sole et que in candida serenitate luces.” The chant, my favorite, reminded me that nature—steady and reassuring in its timelessness even when the world of human making seemed to be falling apart—possessed an unfailing power to lift our spirits. “O noblest greenness, you are rooted in the sun, sparkling with bright serenity.”
“Tu rubes ut aurora et ardes ut solis flamma.” Among the chorus of voices was a new one, and it belonged to Gertrude, a girl of fourteen who had made the perilous winter journey from Swabia shortly after Epiphany to join our convent. She was quiet and obedient, but when it came to music, she filled the chapel with a pure and sublime sound. She had received a musical education at home including the principles of notation, and I hoped to use her talent to expand our repertoire of chants. “As morning’s dawn you glow and burn like the sun’s flame.”
The final notes climbed to their wavering heights when a loud knock on the gate reverberated throughout the enclosure. I rose and stepped into the sunless light of a February afternoon. The world around me had nothing of the verdant luxuriance praised in the chant, but I hoped the music would see me through the winter until the sparse vines animated with new leaves. Would my life be better then?
Since the previous autumn, I had been confined to the convent and found the long periods of silence broken by prayers hard. My vocation was meant to be an active one that would allow me to constantly improve my mind and better the lives of others in practical ways. But my existence was constrained and quiet, and it was not good for me.
The knocking resumed, sounding more urgent. I slid the bolt and saw the anxious face of a young monk through the grille in the door. In a nervous voice, he explained that I was to come see Brother Wigbert immediately. I asked no questions as I hastily wrapped myself in my cloak and followed him.
In the infirmary, he ushered me straight into the surgery where Brother Wigbert waited with a patient, a gangly teen with a broken arm. My medical instincts stirred immediately as I noted that the bone was dislocated but had not pierced the skin. The young monk stood quietly next to me, his eyes downcast and his face pale green.
“Thank you, Brother Edwig, that will be all.” Wigbert’s voice was calm, but I detected a note of irritation in it.
The monk withdrew hastily, and the infirmarian shook his head. “The boy has a weak stomach, and he cannot make drafts that would at least bring patients some relief as recompense for their poor taste,” he sighed.
“I am sorry to hear that.” I was struck by Wigbert’s decline. Since last I saw him, his movements had noticeably slowed. As he rubbed his joints, I noticed with dismay that his fingers had become more gnarled.
Our eyes met, and I knew that he had guessed my thoughts. “I sent for you,” he said, “because I can no longer set bones safely. I had hoped to guide Edwig through the process, but he almost fainted.” His face was serious, but his eyes shone with affection. There was also a glimmer of pain in them, and it was more than the physical ache of his sore joints. It betrayed the realization of fading away as a physician, a role he had embraced for most of his life which was probably more important to him than that of a monk.
I averted my gaze and set out to prepare for the procedure. Moments later, I was working under Wigbert’s experienced eye, although I had assisted him so many times, I would have been able to do it alone. When the bone was back in its place and the patient sent on his way, the infirmarian motioned for me to follow him to the workshop.
“I am glad to see you.” He lowered himself on to the bench with a groan, relieved to be off his feet. “You are the best student I have ever had.”
I flushed with pleasure at the compliment, and at the sense of our old camaraderie that I missed so much.
“Poor Edwig is trying hard, but he has two left hands with my glass vials,” Wigbert went on. “He cannot begin to comprehend the first thing about the balance of humors, and urine analysis repulses him. He is too soft.” He sighed. “Meanwhile, your talent is going to waste.”
My throat tightened, for he had echoed a frequent and desperate thought of mine over the last four months. “I am content.” I tried to sound convincing. “I have a great deal to do at the convent.” That part was true at least; Jutta was almost always ill with fever, and Juliana preferred that I lea
d them during services, even though she was my senior. And we were constantly receiving letters from candidates, which it was my job to review before passing any recommendations on to the abbot. “Sister Jutta needs me.”
But the old monk was not fooled. “It is a waste,” he repeated, waving his hand. “And as for Jutta, it is only a matter of time before she loses her life to those practices.”
“She may be misguided, but few women deserve to be called holy more than she does.”
A mixture of surprise and amusement crossed Wigbert’s face. “And to think that only a few years ago, you were rebelling against the self-flagellations while I was the one attempting to justify them.”
“I try to understand. It doesn’t mean I approve.”
“Are you taking a more indulgent view of St. Augustine now too?”
I shrugged. “His teachings on the virtue of moderation are similar to those of our founder, and I agree with them. But I find his stance on the issue of infant baptism unjust and unmerciful.”
“You are a thinker.” Brother Wigbert smiled. “And that is why I need you back here.”
My heart fluttered with a tiny glimmer of hope, but my reply was sober. “Father Abbot will not permit that.”
“He already has. We have had enough mishaps to draw his attention. Two weeks ago, a woman suffering from an excess of yellow bile almost died when Edwig made her a draft of milk thistle, black pepper, valerian root, and I don’t know what else. She convulsed on the floor, and it took two of us to hold her down to prevent her from choking. But I don’t blame the boy,” he added in his usual kind-hearted way. “He did not volunteer. Prior Helenger sent him. I should have overseen him better, but I am old and it is hard for me to keep an eye on everything.”
“I am sure you are still of great help to your patients.”
Wigbert shook his head. The pain in his eyes was gone, replaced by the same serene resignation I had seen in Sister Adelheid when she had faced her mortality. I wondered if I would have the same courage to accept the inevitability of passing when my time came.
“I am becoming useless,” he said, speaking over my attempt to protest again. “If we are to be able to fulfill our Benedictine duty to the sick, you must come back. The abbot recognizes that and has authorized your return. Besides”—he smiled with pride—“patients are asking after you.”
I could not help smiling back. “If I am needed, I will gladly accept the task.”
“It is decided, then.” He was visibly relieved, though his relief could not have been greater than mine.
“Brother . . .” I hesitated.
“What is it?”
“There are things we need at the convent—like charcoal and lamp oil—that we are unable to procure ourselves. We are out of funds.”
Wigbert looked dismayed. “I will have them sent today. Is there anything else you need?”
“Fresh rushes and some wool to mend our winter robes would be good too.” Then I added, “I don’t understand why we have no money, especially as Gertrude brought fifty silver marks with her not two months ago.”
I was certainly not prepared for what I heard next. “Sister Jutta cedes the anchoresses’ dowries to the abbey,” the infirmarian said. “I thought you knew,” he added, seeing my mouth fall open.
My mind reeled. Why would she do that? But I already knew the answer; Jutta believed in utter poverty and cared nothing for comforts. Yet her stance would only hurt us in the long run. “I must speak with Father Abbot,” I said, gripped by a sense of desperation. “Can you arrange that, Brother?”
“Speak about what?” He blinked.
“A permission to enlarge the convent.” I knew I did not have the authority to make such a request, but Jutta was beyond caring, and the convent could not go on like this for much longer.
To my surprise, he did not object to my raising the idea—perhaps the monks already understood Jutta’s waning role—but that did not mean that they would accommodate me. “I doubt he will agree.”
“Why not? It is too small for the four of us; we sleep, eat, and study in the same room.”
“You are arguing about the convenience of women who have chosen to lead an anchorite life.”
He had a point. “What about future income?” I asked. “There is much interest in our convent, and we could admit more novices if we expanded our quarters. And as things stand”—I could not help the bitterness in my voice—“the abbey would benefit the most.”
Wigbert chuckled. “Now that is an argument that might convince Father Abbot.”
Thus I returned to the infirmary. Brother Edwig was relegated to menial tasks, which he was only too happy to perform. I came every afternoon, and although I was no longer allowed to go into the town, I was nonetheless grateful to be able to practice medicine again. The abbot heard my plea for the expansion and promised to think about it, but if the abbey wall was any indication, nothing was likely to come of it any time soon.
All through those months Griselda was never far from my thoughts. I finally wrote to my mother to ask for a small loan to secure Griselda’s admittance. Afterwards, I sat listening to a May shower pattering on the roof, and my thoughts drifted back to my first year in the convent when I had been lonely and homesick. Those feelings had abated over time, but I still felt nostalgic every Christmas when the annual letter from Bermersheim arrived. The news had been mostly good: marriages, new nieces and nephews, good harvests, and salt production from the Alzey mine that continued to provide the family with a respectable income.
There had been only one mournful letter in those eight years; it had announced my father’s death the previous winter. My eldest brother Drutwin had taken over the management of Bermersheim, and my mother lived with his family on a small income from her widow’s inheritance. As I sealed my letter, I recalled one of the last conversations I had with her, about how unfair it was for poor people not to be able to pursue a religious vocation in the same way that wealthy ones could. A surge of pride welled inside me that I always felt when I thought about my mother who—even if she did not often get her way—had never been afraid of making her opinions known.
I smiled as sunshine pierced through the clouds, wondering whether my own stubbornness had come from her. It had to have, because my father, God rest his soul, had always preferred to stick to familiar traditions and the surety of unquestioned beliefs.
After the midday service I went to the infirmary. It was quiet, and Brother Wigbert informed me in a matter-of-fact tone that Volmar had just been there asking for me. “I told him to see if you were in the workshop,” he added as he disappeared into the ward with a bottle of gout medicine.
I turned on my heel and hurried to the herb garden, for I had not seen Volmar in months. But I was not prepared for my reaction when I turned the corner and almost ran into him.
How can I explain it? My throat went dry, and I felt so light-headed that for a brief, stunning moment, I thought my legs would buckle under me. The realization of how much I had missed him crashed over me. “You wanted to see me?”
He nodded, and I noticed how serious he was, almost grave.
“Are you unwell? You should have asked Brother Wigbert—” I broke off as he shook his head, tightly but firmly.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Of course.” I moved past him, my puzzlement growing, and he followed me into the workshop.
By now there was not a cloud in the sky. As we stepped inside I inhaled the aromatic air, a mixture of dry herbs and old timber warmed by the sun. We sat facing each other across the table where I had spent so many hours studying medical texts. Volmar’s freckles had faded now that he was spending much of his days in the scriptorium, but his brown hair shone golden where sunlight touched it, just like it always had. It also curled slightly above his ears, a sight that made me feel inexplicably tender.
Hi
s expression remained impenetrable, and it made me nervous because I was usually able to guess his moods. “Are you unwell?” I repeated, feeling immediately awkward. He had already said he was not. “Can I make you a draft?’ The second question was even worse.
“I’m fine,” he replied distractedly. He seemed to be considering something.
I jumped from the bench. “Do you want some wine?”
“Thank you.”
I poured two cups and returned to the table. Volmar’s closeness increased my nervous excitement, and the robust scent of spring wafting from the garden did little to mitigate it.
Since that day at the orchard the previous autumn, the way I thought about him had changed. It was not the simple joy of our early trips that I recalled; rather, a flash of a smile or a hand gesture would intrude on my thoughts during my studies, in the chapel, or when I was boiling roots, and it would make me feel hot and breathless even on a cold day. I closed my eyes and took a long sip of the wine so he would not guess my thoughts.
But before I put it down, he said abruptly, “I have come to ask you about your vows.”
I swallowed. “My vows?”
“Yes. Are you preparing for them?”
“Uh, yes . . . though I have still much to do.” I rolled my eyes in mock despair, but he did not seem amused. “I have been so occupied with medicine these last few years that I have much ground to make up in theology,” I explained.
“It can be tedious.”
I laughed more loudly than I intended. “It certainly can, but it has made me think of ways to combine nature and healing with God’s teachings. I believe”—I leaned forward, warming quickly to my theme, as I did whenever I discussed my studies—“that He left us clues as to His purpose and our destiny in the way He organized the world. There is still much I don’t understand, but perhaps with time it will become clearer.”
I thought my excitement would lift Volmar’s mood, but he only arched his eyebrows. “You have no doubts, then, that this is the path you want to take?”
