by P K Adams
By June, the new construction was underway, and I decided to make a journey to Jutta’s ancestral home at Sponheim, which I had wanted to do since she had died. It would be my first trip outside Disibodenberg in thirteen years, and I looked forward to putting some distance—if only for a few days—between myself and the place of so much recent grief.
I brought Gertrude with me, and we set out on the high road in the early morning the day after the feast of St. Johannes the Baptist. Our path took us between the still green barley fields before we entered the forest and turned northward. For protection, I hired Arno, a former man-at-arms who had recently quit the archbishop’s service after ten years of soldiering and now made a living escorting merchants to Trier and Mainz. The clear sky promised a serene day, and sparkling dew hung from the tips of the leaves, from which it fell like soft wet crystals on our heads. Even before we crossed the Nahe, I stopped our progress twice to collect a quantity of herbs, which I tied with strings and hung on the sides of the wagon to dry.
From the bridge, I looked back on the orchards and vineyards stretching along the river, its gleaming waters vanishing around the bend of Mount St. Disibod, crowned with the tower of the abbey church. On the other bank, the road sloped upward among the green hills of the Uplands, covered thickly by oak forest. By noon the breeze had died down, and a hot midsummer day settled over us. Each time we emerged from the shade of the woods onto a clearing, the heat drenched us in a dazzling cascade of white light, and the sawing of cicadas seemed to reach a fever pitch in the still air. With the weather so fine, we were likely to reach Sponheim before nightfall unless I found more herbs to collect.
Moving through the undulating country, whose forests were crisscrossed by narrow streams and broken up by meadows, I was reminded of the journey I had made from my own home all those years before. It had been cold then, a scent of winter in the air, but today was more like those carefree days I had spent with my siblings in the Bermersheim forest, vast and overflowing with a secret life, vigorous and green in the sunshine. I thought of Uda who was still with the family, caring for the grandchildren now. I would never partake in their lives, but reaching into the pocket of my robe, I felt the small box with the lump of salt, my link to them through distance and time.
As we entered the County of Sponheim, the road became flatter for a while, but the hills reappeared as we moved along the northwesterly course. We reached the town shortly before sunset, and I was impressed by the size of the Benedictine abbey Count Stephan had founded more than twenty-five years before that dominated the town with a gray octagonal tower. I had considered lodging there but decided to stay where Jutta had grown up. The last several hundred yards took us up a steep path toward the family’s seat—a solid-looking fortress protected on one side by the Ellerbach, a tributary of the Nahe, its walls shining wetly from an afternoon shower.
Our wagon rolled into the bailey. The keep was smaller in width than I had imagined, but at three storeys high, it had the appearance of a tower. Moments later, Countess Sophia appeared in the doorway. I had met her once before, on the night she and her late husband had visited Bermersheim and my future was decided. She had been a great beauty, and I still remembered the cascade of auburn hair that had framed a face of radiant complexion, making her seem like a celestial being from my mother’s illustrated psalter. Sophia’s low-girdled dress of green velvet, with a bodice sown with pearls and hemmed with golden thread, was still etched in my memory. Much older now, though still handsome, the dowager countess dressed more somberly these days, wearing a plain brown dress of fine linen, her head covered with a cream-colored silk veil that fell in long folds down her back and was kept in place with a silver circlet.
She was accompanied by a stoutly-built man in his early thirties who must have been her eldest son and Jutta’s brother, the current Count von Sponheim. “You do us great honor, Sister.” The countess opened her arms.
“We are grateful for your welcome,” I replied. There was something maternal about the way she embraced me, and it brought back another childhood memory that made my throat tighten. “I trust you and your family are in good health.”
“We are, God be praised.” Sophia beamed. “This is my son Meinhard. He will be married this autumn, and I look forward to bouncing my first grandchild on my knees soon.”
Meinhard inclined his head courteously. “We know how close you were to Jutta, and we assure you of the same welcome we would give our kin.”
“That is generous of you, my lord,” I said, noticing a grimace of pain flashing across the countess’s face at the mention of her daughter’s name.
“We should let our guests rest,” she said in a suddenly hoarse voice and motioned us to follow her toward the guest quarters.
Our room was furnished simply with two beds, an oak table with an oil lamp, and a chest, but it seemed luxurious in comparison with our enclosure.
“Before your nurse took you away to bed that evening at Bermersheim”—Sophia turned to me on her way out, her emotions seemingly under control again—“you said that my dress was the color of the grass in your garden in spring.”
I nodded, the memories rushing back again.
“I promised to show you my garden one day, and I am going to do that tomorrow.”
I joined the countess in the main hall for breakfast the next morning. It was the finest place I had ever seen, with brass and silver wrought candelabras gracing the corners, rich tapestries depicting hunting scenes, and numerous swords, shields, and other manner of armor once worn by the von Sponheims displayed on the walls. It reminded me of the hall at Bermersheim, much smaller and more modest, but also decorated with breastplates and weapons my forebears had worn while fighting the Christian cause in Damascus and Palestine.
After the meal, Sophia led me across the courtyard. It was bustling with soldiers marching in and out of the lookout towers, peasants hauling carts of vegetables to the kitchens, and servants carrying loaves of freshly baked bread and rolling barrels of beer out of the brewery. There was a sense of domesticity in the commotion, in the smells of cooking, even in the clanking noise of metal from the smithy somewhere on the other side of the keep.
We walked to a small ironbound door which Sophia unlocked to let us into a walled garden, surprisingly quiet for its proximity to the busy household. It was exquisitely maintained. Flowering rosebushes and beds of eyelets, peonies, lilies, and irises lined the gravel paths. In the center, a fountain trickled with water like molten silver in the sunlight, and along the perimeter there were benches and thick vines draping over the walls behind them.
I gazed around in delight. “This place is truly divine.” I breathed in the heady scents. “Nature is God’s gift that we must cherish and care for. And when we do, it repays us with such beauty and bounty.”
“I hear you have an impressive garden of your own at St. Disibod.”
“It is a working garden.” I tried to sound modest, but I could not keep a note of pride out of my voice. “I grow herbs for medicines. It is not nearly as pleasant as yours, but I enjoy working in it.”
“My gardener does most of the work, though I do a little bit myself.” The countess started down a path, rubbing her knuckles in the same manner Brother Wigbert had used to. “But I fear it won’t be possible much longer because I am getting old.” Walking beside her, I noticed that despite strands of gray in her hair and the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes, she still carried herself straight and walked with the same graceful gait. And her skin, though no longer as supple, had retained a great deal of its luminosity.
“I will send you a bottle of aconite oil,” I said. “It is very effective at alleviating discomfort of aching joints.”
Sophia smiled lightly. “Your reputation as a healer reached us long ago, and I must say I am not surprised. Already when I first met you, a little child that you were, I was struck by your cleverness and judgment that were
far beyond your years. I was overjoyed when I learned of your rise to the head of the convent.”
I blushed. “You do me too much honor by speaking so highly of me, Countess. Surely your daughter is far better known around these parts, as she should be.”
“It is true that Jutta’s reputation here is excellent.” Again, that strange shadow crossed her features. I would have expected more enthusiasm from a proud mother, but it was lacking in her tone. “She is best known as a martyr, and that pains me greatly.” Sophia kept her composure, but I could sense powerful emotions beneath the surface. “The news of her bodily chastisements broke my heart because no mother can remain indifferent when her child suffers harm, and by their own hand!”
She gazed at me directly, looking suddenly older. “I don’t know what compelled her. She had been such a happy child, but then the brain fever came and she was never the same afterward. The first thing she vowed upon recovery was to know nothing of the marriage bed. All she wanted was to found a convent, even though my husband had just established an abbey here in Sponheim.” She fell silent. “He was a pious man and only happy to indulge her whim”—her voice was hard with resentment when she spoke again—“but even he had never imagined what was on her mind. It is better he died not knowing of it,” she added bitterly.
I felt both admiration and pity for this dignified woman. “Perhaps you can find consolation in the thought that your daughter lived—and died—the way she desired, and that in her own way she was content.”
But Sophia did not seem to hear me. “Is it true? Did she really whip herself until she drew blood?” Her body shivered, and she grasped my arm. “Did she constantly fast until she grew too weak to walk?” Her eyes, full of pain, were fastened on mine, and I knew she desperately wanted me to deny it.
“There was evidence of mortification.” I chose my words carefully and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. It would have devastated her to know the whole truth. “But it is no use dwelling upon it. Jutta is with God now, and she is happy.” I wanted to believe it just as desperately.
The countess’s heaving chest began to slow down. “You are right.” She nodded repeatedly as if trying to convince herself. “But tell me one more thing—was it hard being cloistered with her? You seem to have such a bright outlook. It must have been difficult for you.”
“Not as hard as it might seem.” I hesitated. “In the end, Jutta accepted me the way I am, and for that I owe her a debt of gratitude.”
“Are you keeping an eye on the sisters now that you are magistra?” Sophia’s mind was still fixed on the mortification.
“Yes,” I assured her. “I modified the rules so the life that is already demanding of sacrifice doesn’t warp their minds and tempt them to engage in unhealthy practices.”
“I am glad to hear that,” she said with genuine relief. We walked in silence for a while, listening to the trills of a blackbird in the trees. “I know it is no use asking,” the countess resumed at length, “but I would give anything, and I mean anything”—she swept her arm to encompass the garden and the castle—“to know why she did it. But as it is, I am confused and sad and cannot take the pride I should in my daughter’s legacy.”
“We all have principles that guide us. Jutta had hers, and I have mine. Yet I wonder if deep inside she was truly that different from me—after all, she designated me as her successor and gave me a free hand to take the convent in whatever direction I chose.”
“Tell me about this new direction.” She turned to me like a thirsty person hoping for a drink of water.
I thought for a long moment. “There are many who believe—and they will find passages in the Bible to justify it—that God gave us this world to use as we please, but also a set of rules that we must follow to achieve salvation. According to those people, He is a severe judge who observes how well we comply, and at the End of Days, his wrath will come down on those who diverged from the path. This, to me, is inconsistent with the nature of God, which is love.
“I see the world and everything in it—living or inanimate—as connected and dependent on one another. Nature willingly offers its benefits in service to mankind, but we need to be its guardians and protectors. We must respect it like a good general respects his army, not use it like a greedy landlord until it is exhausted and barren. We are not better than the rest of creation—we are all endowed with the same life force. Mortifying the body and denying it food is not the route to redemption. The best way to please God is to constantly look for ways to restore us to harmony with the world. That is what I want the sisters to practice every day.”
The countess’s eyes were moist again, but this time I saw hope in them. “I cannot think of a better course than that, but . . . is it possible that my daughter was so gravely mistaken?”
“It is not for me to judge.” I paused. “But if you want to begin to comprehend what may have inspired her, it is significant that she was an admirer of St. Augustine, whose doctrines can be interpreted in extreme ways by prone minds.”
“Augustine.” Sophia smiled ruefully. “My own religious education always insisted upon venerating him as a great Church Father, and his doctrine of sin and redemption once had a powerful influence on me. I acquainted my daughter with his writings—was I wrong to do that?”
“I am sure your intentions were good, but it is easy to find justification for one’s beliefs by reading biblical interpretations in certain ways. When Augustine warns us that it is not sufficient to simply give up evil, but we must do painful penance and exhibit sorrowing humility, some will heed this as a call for the most severe punishment of the flesh. But,” I added, “Augustine also compares prayer’s restorative effects on the soul to food’s nourishing influence on the body.”
Sophia was becoming tired. I led her to a nearby bench from which we looked on the garden, drenched in the golden light of a summer day and full of busy life.
“As a physician,” I resumed, “I am concerned with healing the body, but I have often observed that it is the first step toward the healing of the spirit, and that is as it should be because harmony of the flesh and the soul is indispensable to salvation. Yet sometimes the health of the soul can be harder to achieve than that of the body.” I could feel her listening avidly, even though her gaze was directed ahead. “I always impress upon my patients the importance of restoring this inner balance through a sensible way of living that includes nutritious food, exercise to revive one’s vital force, and the enjoyment of beauty. In those who have the means to do so—and unfortunately there are too many who do not—the results can be astounding.”
“This seems so different from the sanctioned doctrines of our Church that put the needs of the soul above everything else.” The countess dropped her voice as if afraid that someone might overhear us.
“Do not be afraid,” I said. “None of this subverts the Church’s teachings. Augustine was a great lover of all creation. Many times he gazed on the blue waters of the sea through the windows of his house at Ostia, and their beauty was a source of spiritual elevation for him. I don’t believe the human body was hateful to him, nor did he advocate self-destruction in the process of seeking redemption. He would have considered it against nature.”
The air was becoming sultry and still, and we returned to the castle courtyard, empty as the household had retreated into the coolness of the keep’s stone interior.
“Your effort to remake the convent is the best way to honor my daughter,” Sophia said as we reached the door. “There is something I want to do for you too.” She put a hand on my arm. “Your mother wrote to me last year about a young woman named Griselda who wanted a place at St. Disibod but could not afford it. She asked me for a donation toward her dowry, but in truth I was reluctant, for I did not want another girl to go down my daughter’s path. But now”—she smiled, though there was still sadness in her eyes—“I would like to pay the whole sum.”
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sp; “That is kind and generous of you. I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing. I have no doubt that under your guidance, Griselda’s service will please God and honor the Church, and that is all we need from a religious vocation.”
She turned to enter the keep then stopped, remembering. “There will be a feast in your honor tonight.” She arched her eyebrows mysteriously. “And someone will be joining us whom I think you may have met before.”
26
Sponheim Castle, June 1128
Thus my path crossed that of Rudolf von Stade once more. He was the mystery guest, and the meeting would have profound consequences for me. But that night, I did not know that.
Unlike our two previous encounters—at Bermersheim when he was a squire in Count Stephan’s entourage, and later at St. Disibod before the town was attacked—this one was anything but accidental. When Rudolf had learned of my visit, he had sent a message to the countess that he would like to introduce his niece Ricardis to me.
The girl’s father was the previous Count von Stade, an old ally of Count Stephan’s with estates adjoining those of Sponheim. He had recently died, and Rudolf had assumed her wardship. In addition to her uncle, Ricardis came accompanied by a thin, dark-haired young man with a sallow face who wore a clerical robe. His bland features, dominated by a large, slightly crooked nose, were in stark contrast to Rudolf’s striking and masculine ones, but his black eyes—a shared family trait, apparently—were penetrating and intense. His name was Hartwig, and he was Ricardis’s cousin as well as a priest at Bremen.
