by P K Adams
Brother Fabian looked up at me, a silent question in his eyes. The girl was beginning to weaken, her struggle subsiding and her voice falling to a gasping whisper as she continued to mumble her exhortations.
“She needs rest and something to calm her nerves—”
“This woman is possessed!” Helenger interjected authoritatively, materializing out of nowhere. “What she needs is an exorcism!”
“Humors in her brain are out of balance, Brother Prior,” I said patiently. “It is an illness like any other—”
Before I had a chance to finish, Angmar burst out of the men’s loosened grip and ran toward the church, tearing at her clothes and hair. Two lay brothers intercepted her at the door, and she swayed between them, flecks of white foam appearing in the corners of her mouth. “You are all going to hell if you don’t beg God for forgiveness!” Her eyes darted around wildly. “You must do it now! There can be no more delay!”
“Father Abbot, you can see that this is a case a mere draft will not cure.” The prior sneered. “She needs more powerful medicine—holy water and the rites!”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Kuno shook his head to forestall further argument. “Man’s remedies are insufficient in these situations. This poor girl needs help that is not of this world . . .”
I did not hear the rest, for that was when I saw him, not five paces away in the church’s doorway. I felt blood leaving my face as our eyes locked. Those eyes I knew so well, clear and deep, were full of pity for the wretched woman and contempt for the prior, but they softened when they met mine. I looked back down at Angmar, my mind blank as I tried to remember what to do.
“. . . you will still be able to make her a calming draft.” The abbot’s voice finally broke through the fog and brought me back to the matter at hand. “Put her in one of the empty guest cells at the far end of the cloister,” he addressed the lay brothers, “so she does not disturb the peace of this place any further. Sister Hildegard will bring her medicine, and we will perform the exorcism after vespers.”
I watched as Angmar was taken away, still swaying. Back in control of myself, I was already thinking about the best way to deal with what was clearly an acute case of melancholy. This affliction was sometimes attributable to a bodily illness, sometimes to a loss or a fearful experience, and sometimes it had no discernible cause at all. But I never believed the popular notion that God sent it as punishment, much less that it was the work of the Devil. Still, even though I was skeptical of exorcisms, it would not hurt for Angmar to be prayed over, and as long as I could take care of her, she might yet stand a chance of recovering.
But even as I plotted the treatment, I remained keenly aware of his presence. I did not look in his direction, but I knew he remained by the door after the courtyard had emptied. Every fiber in my body pulled me toward him to tell him of my joy at this meeting I had thought would never happen, yet a sense of pride kept me where I stood.
Why had he not come to find me in the workshop, even though I had been back from Sponheim for nine days? Perhaps he did not want to, and if so, why should I care? After all, he was the one who had left without one word of farewell.
After one more moment of hesitation, I turned on my heel and walked back to the infirmary, feeling—or imagining—his eyes following me. But then, perhaps he was gone already.
Angmar slept all afternoon after I had prevailed upon her to drink a cup of wine infused with valerian and lemon balm mixed with honey. But when I returned shortly before vespers with some bread, she was restless again. She refused to eat and took to whimpering and repeating her exhortations about sin, damnation, and the flames of hell.
In that state she was taken to the church and I followed, curious about the rite I had only seen performed once before. On that occasion, it had been an old monk who had started seeing the Devil in various nooks and crannies of the abbey. Helenger had conducted that exorcism, after which the monk took to his bed and died a few days later. Of course, the prior would once again be the one to perform the rite, which I suspected was one of his favorite.
The monks stood as witnesses as Angmar was brought before the altar. She was supported in a kneeling position by her father and brother, although she kept sliding toward the ground, alternately moaning and sobbing, and appearing faint at times. Helenger, in priestly vestments and accompanied by a novice holding a basin of holy water and a cross, planted himself in front of her. Sensing him, Angmar flinched, her eyes widening with fear.
Oblivious, Helenger put both hands on her head and asked in a sonorous voice, “Demon, who are you, and whence do you come?”
He paused dramatically, but the only voice that could be heard was Angmar reciting her implorations in a frantic half-whisper, “Christ protect me . . . God forgive me . . . do not cast me into the pit!”
The Devil having failed to respond, Helenger cleared his throat and intoned the Benedictine formula for warding off evil spirits, raising his voice above the girl’s mumbling.
Crux sacra sit mihi lux, Non draco sit mihi dux
Vade retro satana
Numquam suade mihi vana
And the monks repeated:
Let the Holy Cross be my light, Let not the dragon be my guide
Step back Satan
Never tempt me with vanities.
As the echo of their voices died down, so Angmar’s cries began to diminish, and the prior cast a triumphant glance in the abbot’s direction. But Kuno’s face remained impassive, and Helenger proceeded to sprinkle holy water on the girl. Then he took the cross from his assistant’s hand and made a sign with it, stretching his arm up, down, and to each side as far as it would go as another novice rang a hand bell urgently. The prior paused, waiting for the Devil to resist, but there was no evidence of any demonic activity; in fact, Angmar appeared to have fallen asleep on her knees, and an awkward silence fell on the gathering.
Helenger looked slightly disconcerted and clearly disappointed at not being able to demonstrate his strength against so formidable an enemy. Meanwhile, Angmar’s exhaustion and the half-measure of the valerian infusion I had given her just before the ceremony were now causing soft snores to rise from her chest. I worked hard not to laugh, and in the light of the candles around the chancel, I saw the same struggle on the faces of some of the monks.
The prior delivered a hurried final blessing and motioned for Angmar to be taken away, and I followed again to ensure that she was comfortable. Earlier, Simon had told me his sister had always been a good-natured girl, and that the illness had taken everyone by surprise. It may have been unexpected, I thought, but it was not without a cause, and I needed to discover what painful experience had brought a healthy young woman to such a wretched state.
The chirping of crickets outside the window grew louder as the sounds of the summer day began to die down. I was in the surgery, recording my observations of the herbs encountered on the way to Sponheim. I could hear the usual sounds of activity as Elfrid and Fabian went about their work in the ward next door.
A knock on the door caused my hand to jerk sideways and make a horizontal line on the parchment with the stylus.
I knew immediately. Years had passed, but the sound was unmistakable. “Come in.” The words came out as a whisper, and I had to clear my throat. “Come in!”
Volmar’s face, when he entered, was serious, but I could see a smile flickering behind his eyes. The amber-green depths of those hazel eyes hid so many memories and so much meaning. I dropped my gaze so he would not read my thoughts or see the joy that filled me to overflowing and pushed out the last vestiges of my resentment.
“I did not think I would see you again.”
“And yet I am here.” His voice had a deeper, warmer timbre than I remembered, and suddenly I was out of breath. “Let’s go outside.” I motioned to the open door that led to the infirmary garden. “It’s a fine evening.”
Outside, a few patients ambled among the flowerbeds. I led the way to a bench at the far end by the hedge as the last rays of the sun spilled over the abbey wall, flooding the middle of the garden with fiery light. I studied Volmar discreetly. He was more mature now, the lean silhouette of youth having given way to the fuller frame of manhood.
“So you are magistra now,” he said as we settled side by side. His features had lost the mischievousness of childhood and the melancholy of adolescence, and assumed a look of quiet serenity. “I cannot say I’m surprised.”
“Prior Helenger was.” I grinned, recalling my moment of triumph in a decidedly non-Benedictine fashion. Volmar was still the only person who could bring that kind of smile to my face. “But all that is past, and I am taking the convent down a different path.”
“Father Abbot mentioned it, but it was the prior who felt it his duty to fully apprise me of this scandalous development.” Volmar shook his head in mock despair. “Some things never change.”
Elfrid came out to help a patient on a crutch back inside and cast a curious glance in our direction. We sat quietly for a while, and I relished the eloquence of our silence. We were still friends, accomplices, and, judging by his garb, we had chosen the same way of life after all, a fact that delighted me more than I ever would have expected. Until a few days before, I had imagined him—and it had been a bittersweet image—with a wife and children somewhere in the rolling countryside on the other side of the Rhine.
“I am glad you ruffle their feathers.” Volmar laughed quietly when we were alone again, and I savored the gentleness of the sound. “It’s not good for them to lead a stuffy existence without fresh ideas or new ways of doing things. You are doing them a favor.”
I made a dismissive gesture. “There is not much anyone can do to change the way Helenger sees the world, and that is not my goal. What I want is to make the convent as great as it can be using the authority our charter gives me.” I lowered my voice, for I could not be sure that any of my patients did not report to the prior. “Who knows, maybe one day I will find a way to remove us from under their control once and for all.” It was the first time I had confided this to anyone, and I was glad I did, even if Volmar was likely to disapprove.
But he did not. Instead, he turned to me with an honest look. “I think you will. Confines are not for you, they make you unhappy—” He broke off as he realized the intrusion of our past. He changed the subject. “Few people I met in France know anything about the Abbey of St. Disibod except that it has an accomplished physician in you, and that its infirmary has the reputation for being the best in the Rhineland.”
I blushed. “Surely it cannot be known as far as France!”
“But it is. Abbot Bernard himself questioned me about it when he found out I had been a novice here.”
“Abbot Bernard, the Cistercian who is leading the movement for monastic reform?!” I exclaimed, astonished. Bernard’s fame had spread throughout Europe like wildfire. He had founded a small reforming house at Clairvaux not long before, and it had already grown to the point where its monks were being sent to establish new foundations in France and beyond. He had gained a devoted following for his strict observance of Regula Benedicti, which was rumored to have once brought him to the brink of death after an extended period of extreme fasting. It was also said that his cell at Clairvaux was too low to stand upright in and his bed too short to fully stretch his legs. It was he who had been instrumental in condemning Master Abelard and having his writings on the doctrine of the Holy Trinity burned.
“The same.” Volmar nodded. “I met him when he visited Cluny, where I took my vows.” Then he told me the story.
After leaving St. Disibod, Volmar had gone back to his father’s estate, thinking to abandon the monastic life. But he soon realized that the world held no interest to him, and before the year was over, he was on his way to Cluny and the grandest Benedictine abbey in the world. It turned out to be all he had hoped for—a place of great learning, with a magnificent library and monks from all over Christendom copying and translating ancient manuscripts, including Mahometan writings. It had the largest church he had ever seen, full of splendid ornaments and rare relics that made the treasures of St. Disibod pale by comparison.
It was among that opulence that he saw Abbot Bernard for the first time, and the famed monk was not happy. He had come to see Abbot Peter—to whom Volmar served as a scribe—about a dispute within the reform movement. They met in the abbot’s parlor, a room the size of the entire monks’ refectory at St. Disibod. Volmar was sitting at a small desk in a corner, and Bernard did not see him at first. He was just as Volmar had heard him described: small in stature and reedy thin with a careworn air as if the lot of the entire Church rested on his meager shoulders. But when he spoke, the intensity of his conviction made him fill the chamber with his presence.
“It has been almost four years since Abbot Pons was forced out, but I see that the brothers have not lost their taste for choice food,” Bernard had said by way of a greeting, and his eyes blazed with pious outrage. “I hear that delicate veal, juicy chickens, and plump pigeons are served regularly at the table.”
“I admit that things are still a little lax, for the extravagance was deeply rooted,” Peter replied coolly. “Change takes time.”
“How much time is necessary to do away with those soft robes? Luxury is a vice that devours the brothers’ souls.”
A shadow of irritation crossed the abbot of Cluny’s face, but his reply was respectful. “Faith and commitment matter more than the robes we wear, and I can vouch for the strength of our reforming spirit.”
“What about this vast church with all its glitter and adornments?” Bernard was implacable as he shook his bony arm in the direction of the church. That shrine had numerous chapels and belfries clustered around its apse, and it was so tall that anyone who looked down from the top gallery of one of its octagonal towers could barely distinguish any human shapes below. One had the sensation, Volmar said, of having left the earth and arrived among the airy realms inhabited by the angels. “All this ostentation is mocking God, deflects the attention of those who pray, and hinders their devotion. And the living quarters are furnished with every worldly comfort!” Bernard continued argumentatively.
“We extend hospitality to travelers, as you well know, Father.” Peter’s patience was beginning to wear thin. “We must provide what they expect, or they will go elsewhere. The income we thus earn supports our holy work.”
The Abbot of Clairvaux’s face softened, but only slightly. “I love my Cluniac brothers well and hold them in high esteem, and that is why I encourage a renewal of the spirit of modesty, sacrifice, and humility so dear to our Lord.”
“I assure you of my great admiration and sincere friendship too.” Abbot Peter inclined his head. “Your abbey truly is the City of God upon earth, but I am not sure that your interpretation of The Rule would find quite the same resonance here.”
Bernard responded that a lack of fervor was no excuse for not trying harder to reign in the excesses, and Volmar felt sympathy for his abbot because Peter really was intent on reforming the order. He must have shifted in discomfort because his stool screeched on the stone floor, and Abbot Bernard turned in his direction, still shaking with disapproval.
Abbot Peter was visibly glad at the distraction. “This is my assistant, Brother Volmar. He is from the Rhineland and spent time as a novice at St. Disibod.”
Bernard’s eyes lit up in his gaunt face. “Is that not the place where Jutta von Sponheim founded a holy community of anchoresses?”
“It is.”
“She was a saint, a true martyr!”
Volmar was surprised. “What do you mean ‘she was’, Father?”
“She is gone to God.” Bernard’s eyes rose heavenward. “And the little abbey is seeing m
ore pilgrims than ever before.”
Volmar had no idea Jutta had died. “Do you know who replaced her at the head of the convent?”
“The sister who runs the abbey’s infirmary and who is said to be a capable physician,” Bernard replied. “Though I know nothing about her mortification practices,” he added regretfully.
At that point in the story—fascinating though it was—I looked at Volmar in alarm.
“I did not say anything.” He raised his hands in a mock defensive gesture. “I did not want to disappoint him.” He laughed and reached for a small packet he had brought with him. “I have something for you.”
It was wrapped in soft cloth, and when I pulled back the folds, I saw a small book. The inscription on the title page read De Gratia et libero arbitrio, written by Bernard, Abbot of Clairvaux. I was filled with admiration and uncertainty in equal measure. Abbot Bernard’s asceticism was alarming, but what was indisputable was his power and sway; after all, he had scolded the abbot of the greatest Benedictine house like a little boy. His other work, De gradibus humilitatis et superbiae, was read and debated in abbeys and churches under the jurisdiction of Mainz, and he was known for travelling and preaching widely. There had even been rumors of his involvement in conflicts among Parisian bishops, a highly unusual and audacious move for a monk.
“He had given it to me before he left Cluny, and I think you should have it. He considers grace in ways that hark back to Augustine,” Volmar explained, adding with his mischievous grin of old, “and I know your special interest in that particular saint.”
I turned the pages. The copy had been made recently, the ink still fresh, but its bare nature was striking. It had none of the colorful images typical of religious works.
“Abbot Bernard is apparently also against illuminations.”
“He rejects embellishments on principle. The scriptorium at Cluny is as big as our entire cloister, and the most talented illuminators from around the world work there with the finest paints and brushes, but he was adamant that nothing but basic copying work be done on his manuscripts.”
