The Greenest Branch

by P K Adams

  I turned to Fabian. “Did he eat with the rest of you in the refectory last night?” I already suspected the answer as nobody else seemed to be similarly afflicted.

  “No.” My assistant shook his head but clearly could not provide more information.

  “Herr Emmerich sent a pair of rabbits yesterday, and the cook made a pie. Father Abbot dined on it alone in his parlor,” Helenger informed me.

  Emmerich von Bernstein was a nearby landowner and a benefactor of the abbey, though his patronage was limited mainly to sending venison and smaller game to the kitchen every week, for he was an avid hunter. “He had invited me to join him, but I decided to go to the refectory because I don’t like rabbit,” the prior added, glancing with relief and faint repugnance as the abbot vomited into the basin again.

  “Some of the meat was still pink, but it was well seasoned . . .” Kuno managed through clenched teeth when the lay brother wiped his mouth with a cloth.

  That must have been the cause of the illness. The abbey rarely received rabbits—it had been years since Volmar had gone hunting and delivered them surreptitiously to the kitchen—and the current cook, with us for just over a year, probably had not enough experience to prepare them properly. A rabbit required thorough cooking before it was served.

  “How long since the spasms started?”

  “He first fell ill when we returned from matins,” Helenger answered as the abbot groaned again.

  I took Kuno’s pulse. It was still strong, but as it was almost time for lauds, it meant that he had lost a lot of water from his body, and the vomiting had to be stopped.

  I went to the workshop and returned with a draft of mint leaves and chamomile. I gave it to him to drink throughout the day, but he could not keep anything down. In the evening, I cut up my remaining piece of ginger root and sent Fabian down to Renfred’s shop for more. The ginger tonic seemed to calm Kuno’s stomach for a little while—he even fell asleep after compline—but by matins, he was awake and sick again, visibly weakening.

  What I had thought was a simple indigestion was clearly more serious. Although not frequent, cases of death caused by excessive vomiting were not unheard of. It was important to make sure the patient drank, so I kept a jug of spring water at hand in addition to the medicine, and forced a few spoonfuls down his throat after each purging.

  Toward noon on the second day, the abbot had fallen into a slumber, though his breath was labored and his skin waxen. Helenger entered the bedchamber with an ominous look. I felt my own stomach clenching.

  “I convened a Chapter meeting this morning to keep the brothers abreast of Father Abbot’s condition,” he began without asking how Kuno was faring or even so much as glancing in his direction. “They all agreed that I should take over his responsibilities to ensure that the abbey is run without any interruption, and the transition—if such becomes necessary—takes place smoothly.”

  I stared at him. “The abbot is not dead yet, and you are already thinking about the transition?” I managed finally, keeping my voice low both for Kuno’s sake and because I could not trust myself.

  “He is not, but seeing how your treatment is going, he may soon be.” He dropped his voice too, finally casting a brief glance at his superior in which there was not a shadow of sympathy. “My duty is to this abbey first and foremost.”

  The abbot groaned and clutched his stomach, and I was just in time to grab the basin and thrust it under his chin before he was sick again. After it was over, he lay back without opening his eyes. My hands shook as I wiped his mouth.

  Helenger waited as I finished, then said, his voice still low but cutting like steel, “My first decision as acting abbot is to remove you from your post in the infirmary. You will return to the convent and not leave unless you have my permission. The same will apply to Sister Elfrid.”

  I whirled around. “You cannot do that!”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Who is going to look after the infirmary?”

  “Brother Fabian.”

  “The abbot needs care. Brother Fabian cannot be in two places at the same time.” I tried to keep contempt from my voice, but I fear I failed.

  “I will have monks take turns at the abbot’s side, and Brother Fabian will check on him from time to time,” Helenger replied dismissively. “What Father Abbot needs is not your potions, but prayer, and that we can provide day and night.” He smirked, clearly enjoying my distress.

  As I stood there helplessly, he turned and opened the door, beckoning to someone waiting outside. Brother Fabian entered, looking miserable. I felt sorry for him, but also for myself and for my women.

  “You can go now,” Helenger said to me, stepping aside and pushing poor Fabian out of his way.

  I walked to the door with as much dignity as I could muster but stopped before crossing the threshold. “Boil fennel seeds and add them to the tonic I have been making,” I urged Fabian. I had just been thinking that fennel, a herb of wide-ranging curative properties, was worth trying. “Give it to him three times a day—”

  “Go!” Helenger hissed behind me.

  I ignored him. “Make sure there is always fresh water in the jug, and he is given to drink regularly—”

  “Sister Hildegard, you will listen to me!”

  “And do not bleed him under any circumstances! He has already lost a lot of vital humor,” I added, knowing that Helenger would not physically push me out. He would never touch a woman.

  Fabian nodded, though he could not help glancing fearfully at Helenger. It occurred to me that the moment I was gone, the prior might forbid my assistant from carrying out my dispositions. But I was powerless to do anything about it.

  As I stepped out of the abbot’s house—perhaps for the last time in my life—I knew that my fate truly was in God’s hands.

  For ten days, I had no news. We were shut off completely from the world. Even the servants who brought our food were forbidden to speak to us and only looked down when I pressed them for information about the abbot’s health. Those were the days of despair like I had never known.

  On the tenth day, I was summoned to the abbot’s house. As I crossed the courtyard, my legs were so weak I was afraid I would not make it, even though the May morning was fresh and sunny. My mind had gone blank, or rather there was only one thought in it, and that was that I had no idea who the current occupant of that house was. If it was Helenger, everything was over.

  I stopped before the door and for a long moment could not gather the courage to open it. The fact that it was completely quiet inside made it even more difficult. All at once I pictured Helenger sitting at the desk, eyes trained on the door, a rapacious grin distorting his lips. The image made me so dizzy I had to lean my forehead on the door and close my eyes to stop the world from spinning.

  I pushed the door and stepped inside. For the space of a few breaths, I could not see anything as my eyes adjusted to the dim interior from the bright day outside. Then the occupant’s silhouette became more distinct and my heart sank—the man was tall and lean, so not Kuno.

  He stood with his back to the door, gazing out the arched window over the graveyard and the vineyards, greening now with new leaves, something which had always thrilled me but now I barely even noticed. He turned slowly, and as he faced me, my eyes widened.

  “Sister.” He inclined his head.

  “Brother Peter.” My head swam in a chaos of relief, surprise, and puzzlement at seeing the treasurer in front of me. Did that mean Kuno had died and he had been elected in his place? That would have been a development I had not expected. “Or should I say Abbot Peter?”

  He smiled briefly, a pleasant and modest smile, before his features became serious again. “Oh no, I am only acting on Abbot Kuno’s orders.”

  Relief washed over me again, fully this time. He was alive! “I take it the crisis is over?”

  “It
is, but he is still very weak.” Peter pointed with his chin toward the door leading to the bedchamber. “He sleeps most of the day.”

  “I see.”

  “I wanted to speak with you to let you know that last night he reversed Prior Helenger’s decision regarding your removal from the infirmary. You may resume your duties.”

  I inclined my head in grateful acknowledgement. I wanted to know what Kuno had thought about Helenger usurping his power in eager anticipation of his demise, and if he was going to keep him as prior or replace him with someone worthier, like Peter, but I thought it prudent not to ask any of this. I would find out in time. “This is a happy development indeed, Brother,” I said. “I look forward to returning to serve my patients.”

  “Your patients have been asking for you, and they will be glad to see you back, but . . . you should know that the prior has sent Angmar home.”

  I gasped. “He did not!” She was not ready yet; she still needed care.

  “I’m afraid he did, without even bothering to summon her brother.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “He hired two men from the town to escort her to Brauweiler.”

  I gazed around in disbelief as if there were someone else there who could dispute what I had just heard. But it was true, of course. It was entirely in line with Helenger’s character.

  “Thank you for letting me know.” I took a steadying breath. “I am only glad I heard this from you and not from him.”

  “Welcome back, Sister.”

  Thus I had narrowly avoided a catastrophe, but the precariousness of my position and of the convent’s future had become clearer to me than ever before. I could not remain at St. Disibod because here, under the monks’ control, I would always be at risk of losing everything and of being relegated to oblivion.

  Still, it was one thing to want independence and quite another to have the means and the support to achieve it. In order to relocate the convent, I would need significant resources which I did not have, and the abbot’s permission—and how likely was Kuno to give it?

  But it did not matter. From that day onward, I knew I would do anything to save myself and the sisters, even if it meant breaking Regula Benedicti. Even if it meant establishing my own order, like Bernard of Clairvaux had done.

  30

  December 1129

  “I have a proposition for you, Father Abbot,” I said as we settled down to our monthly supper a few days before Christmas. Before us was laid out another excellent meal of roasted partridge seasoned with garlic and thyme, in a sauce of honey, mustard, and ale, and the smell tickled my nose pleasantly. I had come with an idea to significantly increase the convent’s income, and the only thing that dampened my excitement was the unexpected presence at the table of Prior Helenger, a fact that always carried a risk of derailing my plans.

  The abbot gave me an inquiring glance as he helped himself to a generous portion of the meat. He had almost fully recovered from his violent illness five months earlier and his appetite was back to normal, though there were still dark circles under his eyes, and he was thinner than before.

  I cleared my throat. “It recently occurred to me that if I could have copies of my medical writings made, I could sell them to Benedictine houses throughout the Rhineland, perhaps even beyond—”

  Kuno raised an eyebrow as he bit into the bird’s leg, sauce dripping down his chin. He promptly wiped it with the linen napkin the servant had laid on the side of the table.

  I continued, “I have received inquiries from the infirmarians at Lorsch and the new abbey at Schönau, and also from Fulda”—I knew that the latter would make a particular impression, Fulda being an ancient, imperial foundation—“who are interested in acquiring volumes. I would share the proceeds with the abbey, of course.”

  “That is preposterous!” Helenger had been chewing a piece of the fowl the way someone else might gnaw on a moldy potato skin. When he heard my words, he swallowed it with effort before offering his opinion. “It is unnatural for a woman to write about anything, but especially about herbs, the favorite tool of witches and sorcerers through which they seek to confound the faithful. The Church frowns upon the use of herbs for healing.” He looked at Kuno expectantly, the unspoked accusation hanging in the air.

  The abbot closed his eyes with a sigh.

  “Benedictine monasteries have kept collections of herbals for centuries,” I countered. “Hippocrates and Dioscorides wrote about plants extensively, in addition to surgery, bloodletting, and leech treatments. We have copies of both at St. Disibod.”

  The abbot nodded once. By now I knew that when he refused to speak, it was a sign for the prior to drop the subject, which, to his credit, Helenger always did, though not without letting his dissatisfaction become apparent through headshakes, exasperated murmurs, or scowls.

  “How do you propose to do that, Sister?” Kuno asked, taking a sip of the spiced wine.

  I saw that my offer had piqued his interest and took heart from that. “With your permission, Brother Volmar could do the copying. It would take him about two months to complete one.”

  “What price would a copy like that fetch?”

  “I estimate eight silver marks.” I was ready with the answer. “With six copies done in a year, it would bring us about fifty marks.” A small fortune.

  I studied his reaction as I took my first bite of the savory partridge. His bushy eyebrows went up, and underneath them his eyes showed me that he was already thinking about how such income could be spent—to the glory of God, of course. “We have four scribes now,” he said. “I think we could spare Brother Volmar?” The latter question was directed toward Helenger, but the prior pretended not to understand the abbot’s intention.

  I smiled. It was time to get to the crux of my plan. “Eight marks is no small sum, but if we had each copy illuminated, it could sell for much more than that.”

  “How much more?” The greed was now plain on the abbot’s face. Even Helenger’s eyes flickered with a faint interest.

  “At least ten, maybe even as high as twelve marks, depending on the workmanship.”

  The abbot scratched his chin. “We only have one illuminator,” he said unhappily.

  “How about”—I threw my head back as if the thought had just occurred to me—“we train one of the sisters? Young Ricardis has a talent for drawing and painting; we could apprentice her to Brother Einhard.”

  Ricardis had been with us since the summer, having turned sixteen in May, and had already captured our hearts with the bright and happy way she had about her. Already, we could not imagine the convent without her cheerful presence, perpetual smile, the confidence she exuded in her own charm, and the sense of occupying her rightful place.

  She had become our pet of sorts, as we admired her glossy black hair and rosy, supple skin, caressing her cheeks after she read a passage or sung a chant, even though her voice was not nearly as beautiful as Gertrude’s. I delighted in Ricardis, finding her exquisite form a reflection of God’s basic principles for the universe—those of harmony and balance that tend toward perfection. She was eager to please me in devotions and study, and whenever I praised her, which was often, the pink of her cheeks grew deeper with pleasure.

  “Absolutely not!” Helenger wiped his mouth with one vigorous stroke and threw the napkin aside.

  Kuno raised his hand to silence him. “It is a difficult art to master; are you sure she is capable?”

  “I have seen her work. It is exceptional.” It was true. Ricardis had a sure hand but a delicate touch. We had no dyes in the convent, but from what she had told me about her work at home, she had a good eye for colors. And her favorite designs were animals and flowers—perfect illustrations for my guidebook. “Sometimes she draws for us in wax. Her gift is a rough gem that needs a little polishing under an experienced eye.”

  The servant brought in candied cherries and apricots which the abbot
and I sampled eagerly under the prior’s disapproving gaze. Kuno sat back, thinking as he munched on the sweets, and I sought to give him more assurance. “I have faith in Ricardis’s talent, and I trust her completely.”

  Those words had a strange effect on Helenger. His scowl morphed into an ironic lift of his thin eyebrows, giving him a calculating look as if he were trying to decide if I were telling the truth.

  “It is an interesting idea,” the abbot said at length, casting an almost imploring glance at the prior.

  Helenger turned to me, and just as I was expecting another outburst, he said stiffly, “I think it is a reasonable proposal.” We must both have stared at him, for he added, “Sister Hildegard’s reputation is undeniable”—he said that with a grimace one might make after biting into something bitter—“and if it can benefit us—benefit both of our houses, that is—then we should work together.” The statement had about as much enthusiasm as consenting to having one’s limb amputated.

  The relief in the abbot’s face was all too plain. “It is decided, then.” He raised his cup and the tree of us toasted, though only the abbot and I drank our wine. “Have Ricardis come to the scriptorium tomorrow morning, and I will arrange for Brother Einhard to start training her.”

  I smiled broadly, hoping, for the sake of Benedictine modesty, that my smile was not too triumphant. “By the time Brother Volmar finishes the first copy, she will be ready to start her work. And you won’t regret it, Father.”

  The next morning it was Sister Juliana’s turn to read from the Bible, and her monotonous voice provided a steady background to the sound of spoons scraping against the wooden bowls of porridge. Once in a while, she would lift her eyes from the holy book to cast a somber, almost disapproving glance across the table, where the contrast of mood could not be greater; that was where Ricardis was seated between Elfrid and Gertrude, radiating beauty and enthusiasm even in the quiet act of breaking her fast.