The Greenest Branch

by P K Adams

  “You may remember me from my all too hurried visit to Disibodenberg six years ago, Sister.” Rudolf bowed slightly when I arrived at the hall. His full head of black hair had grown grayer around the temples, but his gaze was as lively and honest as before, and the scar on his cheek had faded to a white line barely visible under his beard. He was fuller around the waist but still had the same erect and self-assured carriage of a knight.

  “Of course.” I nodded as the servants conducted us to our seats. I was given a place between Countess Sophia and her son, and the guests from Stade faced us across the table. “Praise God, we meet under more joyful circumstances today.”

  “Indeed. It was a trying time, but the town put up a good defense, in which you had a hand.”

  The countess chimed in eagerly. “On returning from his mission, Herr Rudolf told us about how you had rallied the monks”—her countenance beamed with a maternal pride—“and other accounts reached us of how involved you had been throughout the siege. We all marveled at it, for you were scarcely more than a child.” Ever the hostess, she gestured to the servants lined up at the entrance. A moment later the hall filled with the appetizing smells of a roasted pig, capons on a bed of greens, haunches of venison in aromatic sauces, and almond balls dipped in honey. I smiled thinking of how Abbot Kuno would enjoy this table.

  “My niece credits your accomplishments with awakening her religious calling.” As wine was being poured into our cups, Count Rudolf turned to Ricardis. Her big eyes were trained on me like two shining coals. They were as intense as those of her cousin, but the similarity ended there, for her face had a pleasing symmetry of feature and a flawless complexion fresh as a spring blossom. Her beauty was unlike anything I had ever seen in another human.

  “That is why she wants to petition to enter your convent.” Rudolf’s words reached me, and I snapped out of my admiration to consider the girl more closely. The roundness of her face gave her beauty an innocent aspect, but her figure was that of a woman more than a child, with curves outlined firmly under her dress.

  “How old are you, Ricardis?” I asked.

  “I have just turned fifteen, Sister,” she replied, and the sound was like a tinkling of silver coins. Her mouth, neither small nor large but of perfect proportion to her features, was ready and generous with a smile.

  Father Hartwig interjected before I had a chance to reply. “St. Disibod is famous for Sister Jutta’s holy life and exemplary sacrifices.” He had a surprisingly deep, velvety voice—ideal for a preacher, but there was a fawning note in it. “And I am sure you have many applicants, so Countess Sophia has graciously agreed to give Ricardis her strongest recommendation.”

  The countess inclined her head, and her son lifted his cup so we could drink a toast with a wine of such quality even my abbot would approve.

  “There is much interest, that is true, and we are currently expanding our quarters to accommodate more novices.” I turned to Ricardis again. “I am happy to hear about your desire for the consecrated life. However, the sort of excitement we experienced during the siege is a rare occurrence. Mostly, our lives are spent in prayer and work, with a good dose of solitude,” I added pointedly.

  “I understand that, Sister, but I have heard so much about your convent that it is the only place where I want to fulfill my vocation!” There was a childish eagerness in her face that reminded me of how young she was.

  “We do not accept anyone under the age of sixteen.” I had decided long before on that rule, and I would never break it. That kind of life was not for a child.

  The disappointment written all over Ricardis’s lovely face was so great that I felt compelled to add, “But for an age-qualified candidate, there might be a place and a worthy occupation to pursue. For instance, I am always looking for help in the infirmary, which is full of interesting cases, and the work is rewarding.” But even as I said it, I could not imagine this girl performing menial or messy tasks. She was too refined for that.

  “My niece is well educated,” Count Rudolf assured me. “She reads the Bible, sings, plays the psaltery, draws, and embroiders. Anything you want to employ her to, she will learn it quickly.”

  I took another sip of the wine as I regarded her. She was definitely made for finer pursuits. “Your uncle says you can draw—”

  “Yes, with a small brush and colored paints.” Ricardis said. “I am most proficient in floral designs, which I can also embroider on linens, pillows, and dresses.”

  Trying to hide my excitement, I responded formally enough. “Then I will await a letter of application from your uncle upon my return.” If Ricardis had a talent for drawing—and images of nature, no less—then I had a job for her. “But you will have to wait until your next birthday.”

  A satisfied smile spread over Rudolf’s face. “I can think of no better house for my niece to enter and no better magistra to guide her.”

  I returned his smile, but when I looked at Hartwig I was surprised to see that he did not seem to share in the family joy. Instead, the glimmer in his eyes was one of triumph. I thought about how odd it was, for, despite our rising stature, the Abbey of St. Disibod was no Fulda or St. Gall. But the fragrant steam rising from my plate quickly distracted me, and I forgot all about it.

  We set out for home early in the morning on what promised to be another beautiful day of June, the last of that month. Well provisioned with bread, cheese, and wine, we were on the road as soon as the first rays of the sun, already hot, topped the eastern hills. Gertrude squinted and smiled placidly as the light touched her face, and I recalled the wariness with which I had welcomed her arrival at the convent. But she had since won me over with her love of singing, agreeable personality, and moderate devotion.

  “Tell me about your childhood,” I said as we entered the wooded tract dappled by shafts of sunshine streaming through the green canopy overhead. Now and then small forest creatures—hares, lizards, or squirrels—crossed our path, eliciting nervous whinnies from the horses. Otherwise, it felt like we were alone in the world, so peaceful was our passage.

  Gertrude reached back for the memories. “I was raised in a castle overlooking the Rhine, the fifth child and fourth daughter of my parents.” She paused, and I gave her time to master the emotions this may have brought up. “My early life passed mainly in play, but I began to take singing lessons when I was twelve, and my brother’s tutor taught me to read. It was a happy time.”

  “And the monastic life—what brought you to it?” I asked, although I already suspected the reason.

  “There wasn’t enough land left for me to make a good marriage.” A superfluous daughter, then; no surprise. “Before my enclosure I had travelled quite a lot; my father would take me and my brother to Mainz by boat, and I loved it.” She gave a small laugh in which there was more amusement than wistfulness. “I used to tell him that if I had been born a boy, I would have become a sailor. I still believe that.” She smiled.

  “So this life was not something you desired?”

  “Not particularly,” she replied honestly, “but neither did I dislike the idea. I am used to it now, and I am content. More content still,” she added after a pause, “after the changes you made.”

  Alerted to our approach, a deer family sprang up from behind the tall ferns on one side of the road, froze for the blink of an eye, then fled, swiftly and gracefully, deeper into the safety of the forest. We slowed down to watch them then resumed our progress under the branches of the ancient trees, sunlight filtering through and shrouding the undergrowth in a diaphanous veil.

  All at once I was transported to another summer day, when I had sat with Volmar under the big ash downhill from the abbey, telling him about the chant I had composed. O frondens virga had since become one of the convent’s favorites, preserving the memory of warmth and light during long winters, and celebrating the reawakening of life in the spring and its full glory in the summer. G
ertrude was one of the most eager chantresses, and I particularly liked her interpretation, slow and steady at first, then rising to hover on one syllable through several notes.

  “Tree branches in the summer have a certain musical quality about them,” I said musingly. “They inspire me more than anything else.”

  “Do they?” My companion was a gifted composer herself, and it piqued her curiosity.

  “Perhaps it is the way light and wind play among them. Their movement, this gentle swaying is such a pure manifestation of life’s greening force.” I closed my eyes. “O viridisima virga, que in ventoso flabro sciscitationis sanctorum prodisti.” O greenest branch, you budded in the saint’s gentle breezes.

  Gertrude began humming softly, and the music matched our step, fluctuating in a pattern similar to the swaying of the wagon and the heaving and falling of the horses’ backs.

  The images filled my mind. “Cum venit tempus quod tu floruisti in ramis tuis, quia calor solis in te sudavit sicut odor balsami.” When the time came, your boughs blossomed, for the sun’s warmth seeped into you like balsamic perfume.

  And she sang after me, adding her favorite melismatic flourish at the end of each phrase.

  “Nam in te floruit pulcher flos qui odorem dedit omnibus aromatibus que arida errant.” For in you the beautiful flower filled the air with sweet perfume, awakening all that was dry.

  Gertrude let the melody scale upward to expand and fill the space under the trees as if it were the dome of a cathedral. When she finished, Arno tipped his hat without dropping the reigns of his horse, and clapped for good measure, making us giggle like little girls.

  Toward midday, dark clouds from the west obscured the sun, and the birdsong ceased as a sudden stillness descended on the forest. Arno, an experienced traveler, suggested we look for shelter. Even before the words died on his lips, a distant rumble rolled across the sky. For an instant, it looked like the storm might catch us right there, but just then a wisp of chimney smoke came into view above the tree line, and we promptly turned in that direction. The rain began slowly, the first heavy drops tapping the leaves rarely, but as we entered the village, the spattering rose to a crescendo. By the time we reached the inn, it was falling in torrents that obscured everything beyond an arm’s reach.

  Nature’s rage lasted all afternoon and included a brief hailstorm, eliciting a lament from the innkeeper’s wife that her vegetable garden would be ruined. The wind howled and bent tree boughs, and it was so dark that it seemed like the night had already fallen. By the time the last of the clouds had dissolved, the sun was low and we could not hope to reach St. Disibod before nighttime; I took two rooms, and we retired shortly after the sun went down.

  The next day, as we approached the fork where the high road turned toward Disibodenberg, I beckoned Arno to my side. “I have a favor to ask you.” I took a silver coin out of my purse. “Take a message from me to the village three leagues from here across the Glan.”

  “I will be happy to do it, Sister, after I have seen you safely back to the abbey.”

  I shook my head. “It’s very important. We are but a short ride from Disibodenberg, and it’s only midday. Once on the high road, we will be within sight.”

  “I don’t want to leave you unprotected.” He hesitated but relented when I pressed another coin into his palm.

  “There is an inn at the entrance to the village run by a man named Burchard; find his daughter and tell her to come to the abbey after the harvest.” I heard a note of uncertainty in my own voice, for, in truth, I had no idea if Griselda had gone back to her parents.

  But Arno did not seem to notice. He nodded, and when we came to the crossroad, he spurred his horse on toward the bridge while the two of us continued toward the town.

  The sisters had just finished singing the afternoon service when Gertrude and I arrived. Even though we had only been gone a week, the construction had visibly progressed. The courtyard was cluttered with planks, wood shavings, and tools, but, as it was a Sunday, no work was being done. Juliana took me to the new dorter, almost complete and twice the size of the old one, though still bare of furnishings.

  “I love the smell of new timber.” I inhaled deeply, running my hand over the walls that were yet to be whitewashed. “It reminds me of when we rebuilt the infirmary . . . that sense of being on the verge of doing more, reaching farther.” I looked around. “What else?”

  “The roof replacement on the old dorter is finished, and the workers will move our beds out tomorrow so they can start converting it into the refectory.”

  “Excellent.”

  We stepped out into the courtyard again. “Oh, and”—Juliana stopped, suddenly remembering—“we had an unexpected arrival when you were away. Brother Volmar has returned.”

  27

  July 1128

  “Are you feeling unwell?” Juliana eyed me with concern. “You have gone pale.”

  “I’m fine.” I drew the back of my hand across my forehead, the summer heat suddenly intense on my skin. “Just a little tired from the road, that’s all.”

  “Shall I send for some wine?”

  I shook my head. “Thank you. I’ll manage.”

  I left her and walked to the chapel to be alone with the confusion that assailed me. I knelt before the altar, but my head swam as joy, anxiety, and so many questions I had stopped asking myself resurfaced all at once, making my thoughts swirl chaotically.

  After some moments, the upheaval began to subside. My mind cleared, though a new concern presented itself. Had Juliana noticed anything? The news had come so abruptly I had no time hide its impact, and what had Juliana’s stare signified if not a recognition of the truth? Was it condemnation I saw in her eyes? But Juliana, of all people, would have understood.

  I was also unsettled by the fact that a mere mention of Volmar’s name had caused my pulse to quicken and cheeks to grow pale, only to burn the next moment. I had thought that chapter of my life closed and felt betrayed by my body that refused to follow the dictates of my will.

  For two days, every knock on the infirmary door or sound of footsteps on the gravel caused my heart to leap to my throat. I dropped a glass vial when Elfrid entered the workshop to collect some powdered oak bark, and she looked on with surprise and concern as I fell to my knees to pick up the shards, laughing off my clumsiness. That evening I was to sup with the abbot to apprise him of my visit to Sponheim, and I walked to his house on weak knees hoping—or fearing—to see Volmar at any moment, but I did not.

  Kuno made no mention of his return, and I began to doubt the truthfulness of the story. Perhaps Juliana had misheard, or he had paid a brief visit and was gone again. He might not have remembered me anymore . . . The idea filled me with dismay, but I could not bring myself to ask the abbot. I did not trust myself to be able to talk about Volmar as if he were merely an old acquaintance.

  The feast of St. Disibod came and went with only a few broken noses and arms to set, and the morning after was relatively quiet. I had just administered drafts of lemon balm, lavender, and skullcap to several revelers to soothe the excess heat in their heads from drink, when a woman’s scream, prolonged and anguished, reached us from the abbey courtyard. It ceased as suddenly as it had started but rent the air again a moment later. Although muffled by the infirmary walls, it was still heart-wrenching; the next time it sounded, it turned into a pitiful wail before trailing off. I thrust the flask into the hands of a nearby patient and ran out to find a scene of confusion outside the church.

  A young woman—a pilgrim by the look of her, and no more than seventeen or eighteen—was half-kneeling on the ground, her arms held by two men. Held, but just barely, because she was in a fit that seemed to endow her with a strength that was unlikely to habitually reside in her slender frame.

  As I approached, she managed to wrest her arms free and fell to her knees, folding her hands and bursting into sobs. T
he younger of the two men who supported her was white-faced with shock, but the other, perhaps the father, tried to comfort the girl, though his soft words were being drowned by the wailing amidst which I could discern a few phrases, “Lord, save me . . . forgive my sins . . . do not condemn me to the fires of hell . . . I am damned . . . I am lost!”

  The commotion began to attract curiosity as monks streamed out of the church, and the stable boys ran from their work to look on.

  “What is happening here?” The abbot stepped in front of the group, looking alarmed.

  “We came as pilgrims, Father.” The older man dropped the girl’s writhing arm and bowed deeply. Brother Fabian, who had followed me from the infirmary, took over from him and tried to keep her steady. It required some effort, although he was a big man at least a head taller than everyone else. “Since we arrived she has refused to eat and sleep, and we have been unable to reason with her,” the man added, his face a picture of tenderness and concern. “She knelt all of last night in the middle of the room praying, then this morning as we were preparing to take our leave, she suddenly ran outside and started screaming.” He twisted his cap in his hands with a puzzled and pained look.

  As he spoke, I bent down and put a hand on the girl’s head. “What is your name?”

  She ceased to struggle and hung her head. “My name is Sin, my name is Damnation.”

  “Her name is Angmar,” the youth spoke for the first time, his voice shaking. “I am her brother, Simon. We came all the way from Brauweiler for the feast and to pray at Holy Jutta’s grave.” He looked to be a year or two younger, and like his sister, he was dressed neatly but not expensively. A trader family, I guessed.

  Angmar began to wail again, softly at first, then in more agonizing tones. “We are all damned if we don’t repent! Pray for mercy on your sinful souls before He comes again in terrible judgment!” Tears were streaming down her face, red and contorted in a frightful grimace, and she was panting heavily.