The prior continued: ‘You are now sixteen years old, Anna, and a child no longer. And you haven’t been one for a long time. I am afraid that you cannot hide your . . . your womanhood any longer.’
Anna wanted to object and was about to plead when the prior gestured her to stay quiet.
‘It is an indisputable fact. That’s why I have asked your parents to come for a meeting. We have to agree on what to do next. An eminent person has announced his visit, and I cannot exclude the possibility that everything could be turned upside down this time.’
‘Is it his grace, the archbishop?’ Anna blurted out.
Father Urban nodded: ‘Yes, Archbishop Konrad von Hochstaden himself. I fear that this time, he will check more than my books and accounts. Rumour has it that he is planning some fundamental changes.
Father Urban gently touched Anna on the shoulder and looked intently into her eyes.
‘You were always like a daughter to me, Anna. I have taught you everything I know about the art of healing, and I could not have wished for a better and more devoted famula than you. But nobody in the monastery must find out about the agreement I made with your parents more than ten years ago. Your father and mother entrusted you to my care because they saw something special in you, and they were right to do so. Even if at times, it was not easy to pass you off as a boy. If your true nature should ever come to light – then the Lord have mercy on us all!’
He sighed and made the sign of the cross, glancing shyly at the large crucifix on the wall behind the writing desk.
‘But given the particular circumstances, the Lord, I’m sure, will forgive a white lie.’
He turned to Anna again.
‘We took you into the monastery at the time to protect you.’
‘To protect me? But to protect me from what, Father Urban?’
Her mother leaned forward and spoke for the first time, whispering urgently: ‘It is better, Anna, if you don’t know. Believe me, it is better for all of us.’
She quickly made the sign of the cross.
Father Urban put his hand reassuringly on Anna’s mother’s hand.
‘One day she will have to be told.’
Anna felt anger surge inside her. She knew it was one of the seven deadly sins, and Father Urban had done everything to make her control it, and he punished her every time she lost her temper. Thus she had learned the hard way that self-control was a necessary virtue. But, after all, this conversation was about her. She was a child no longer, and she did not want to be treated like one. Her respect for the prior’s authority urged her to remain silent, but much as she tried, she could not manage to keep her fiery temper under control.
‘What is it that I will have to learn one day? I do know that as a girl, there would have been no way to educate me. And I am most grateful to you. But, why, I ask you, will you not tell me the whole truth?’
Father Urban touched her reassuringly.
‘There will be time for that later, Anna. Now we have to decide what to do with you. Your parents and I are of the opinion that it would be best if you joined the nunnery at Mariental zu Frauenzimmern to become a bride of Christ. Or . . . ’
He hesitated.
Anna bit her lip. ‘Or?’
‘Or you get married.’
Anna flushed. She turned to her father.
‘Father – please, you once swore to me that I might marry the man of my choice when the time came. Can you really not remember?’
Anna’s father was visibly ill at ease.
‘My child – you were only six or seven years old at the time!’
‘And so is your promise no longer valid?’
Father Urban cast a warning glance at Anna’s father and gestured him to say no more.
‘It is not a question, Anna, of what you want or what you don’t want. It is your future that is at stake! You are still young and have lots to learn. Trust me, your parents and I know what’s best for you,’ he said.
With tears in her eyes Anna replied, her voice shaking: ‘For more than sixteen years I have always been an obedient daughter and an obedient famula. But now I believe I am old enough to decide my future life for myself.’
The prior wearily shook his head.
‘Oh, Anna dear, I thought I had taught you better about the world we live in. A woman, whether of lowly origins like yourself or of noble birth – a woman must obey her father. This is the way God meant it to be, and we human beings should not question it.’
Unyielding, Anna wiped the tears from her face, tears of helpless anger.
‘But I do not wish to leave!’
She turned and ran towards the door. Her mother, trying to stop her, ran after her.
‘Wait, Anna, stay! What you are doing is a sin!’
As Anna’s steps faded down the corridor, Father Urban closed the door and leaned against it. Helplessly he spread his arms.
‘Leave her be. She will calm down and come to her senses. The Lord has blessed Anna with great intelligence. When she has had a good think about it, she will see what, as a woman, it behoves her to do, and she will give in.’
The parents looked at him with a mixture of panic and sorrow. He rubbed his temples resignedly.
‘I have been dreading such an outburst for a long time. Her spirit of contradiction is strong. Her will is unbending. But the apple does not fall far from the tree.’
Embarrassed, Anna’s father and mother looked at the floor.
Father Urban laid his hands reassuringly on their shoulders.
‘Go home with God’s blessing. Once Anna is reconciled to herself and her vocation again, and I will see to that, I will send her to you well before the archbishop arrives. I will write a letter to the abbess of the nunnery at Mariental zu Frauenzimmern asking her to accept Anna. The convent is located in the south-west of the realm. There, she will be far from the archbishop’s influence and, consequently, protected from any danger. I know the abbess; she won’t refuse my request. In two weeks’ time, I will come to see you, and by then Anna will be ready to become a bride of Christ. Believe me, Mariental nunnery can consider itself lucky to gain as talented a famula as Anna.’
Anna’s mother cried as she kissed the prior’s hand.
‘You have done so much for our child, Father Urban. May God reward you some day. My husband and I will always be grateful to you . . . ’
Suddenly there was a loud knock on the door.
‘Yes,’ Father Urban replied gruffly.
The door opened ever so slightly. It was a novice hardly daring to put his head in.
‘Didn’t I ask expressly not to be disturbed?’ the otherwise gentle prior barked at the novice.
‘Please forgive me, your reverence, but Father Antonius insisted that I inform you no matter what.’
‘So what is it?’ Father Urban asked impatiently.
‘Father Antonius instructed me to tell you that his grace, the archbishop, has just arrived with his entourage.’
At these words, Father Urban froze. His heart missed a beat before he stuttered: ‘His grace . . . the archbishop . . . is here at Heisterbach monastery?’
‘Yes. He is waiting for you in the church. Everybody is waiting for you in the church. Didn’t you want to say Mass and perform the Washing of the Feet yourself?’
Father Urban put his head in his hands. Now he could hear all too clearly the bell of the abbey church ringing for Mass.
‘For God’s sake, is it already that late . . . ’ he muttered. But he regained his wits and dismissed the novice. ‘Go ahead and announce me to his grace. I will be there shortly.’
This was just what he needed. He waited for the novice to close the door and immediately turned to Anna’s parents, who were looking at him with astonishment.
‘That without announcing his visitation, the archbishop is here already cannot augur well. Lord above – protect us!’
Father Urban ushered his visitors to the door. ‘You must leave immediately. Wa
it outside until I’m gone, then sneak out of the monastery without being seen. You had best leave through the cemetery. There’s a locked gate at the far end. Here’s the key; just leave it in the lock.’ He fumbled a key from the key ring on his girdle. ‘I’ll send Anna after you as soon as possible. Away with you now!’
Chapter II
Anna ran down the corridor to the gate which led to the cloister garden. She wanted to go to the church; after all, she had been assigned as an altar server. She wiped the tears from her face with her sleeve and hurried on as the bell for Mass was ringing. Suddenly a shadow appeared from behind a column, and a man’s hand seized her arm tightly, stopping her. The hand was that of a stout young man with curly red hair in an expensive, fur-trimmed coat. He pulled Anna around roughly and asked in an impudent tone: ‘Hey, little monk, where will I find the prior?’
It took Anna a moment to get over the initial shock. She tried to wriggle out of his tight grip.
‘And who wants to know?’ she challenged him.
The man did not let go of her. ‘Do you not recognise me? I am Gero von Hochstaden. Well?’
Anna punched him in the chest.
‘Let go of me!’
But the man, enjoying his superior strength, put a headlock on Anna, who was fighting like a cat, so that their noses nearly met. He pulled her towards him closely enough for her to feel his hot unpleasant breath and quietly asked in a threatening voice: ‘What’s the magic word, little monk?’
For a brief moment Anna stopped her wild but ineffective attempts to free herself. Gero von Hochstaden relaxed his iron grip, and that was his mistake. Suddenly she rammed her knee as hard as she could between his legs.
The man gasped for air and collapsed like a puppet whose string had been cut. Groaning, he held his crotch.
Anna bent over him. She could not resist saying: ‘You will find the prior in the abbot’s hall, sir. Down the corridor and then right. You can’t miss it.’
She turned and ran away, leaving him lying there.
When Gero von Hochstaden had recovered his breath and pulled himself up, he wanted to go straight after that damned little monk and string him up with the nearest bell rope – but only after cutting him open with a razor-sharp dagger and spilling out his intestines. He was used to enforcing the respect owed to a von Hochstaden with his sword, or the dagger hidden in his boot. Nobody dared to oppose him. And here he was, lying in the dirt by the side entrance to the refectory in his especially commissioned luxurious new coat. Never before had he been humiliated like this! And, what was worse, by a monk who only came up to his chest!
He looked around furtively as he tried to brush off the dirt. Thank God nobody had witnessed his humiliation – at least he had been spared that much. Such news would have spread like wildfire: Gero von Hochstaden, son of the powerful Lothar von Hochstaden, the archbishop’s brother, had been floored by a little rat in a monk’s habit. He would have become the butt of his cronies’ jokes, or worse: the butt of common people’s jokes.
The abbey church bells were ringing. The celebration of the Maundy Thursday Mass, the last Eucharist before Easter, had started, and so the prior whom the archbishop had sent Gero to look for must be in the church. It was time also for Gero to appear at Mass. The silly incident with the little monk had unnecessarily delayed him. After all, Gero had come to Heisterbach in his uncle’s entourage to have his feet washed by the prior.
Mass was well under way when Gero entered the abbey church through a side entrance. People were standing close together, and the nave was filled to capacity. The monks were sitting in the choir behind the choir screen, and the ebb and flow of the chant as they gave it their best created an expectant and solemn atmosphere among the faithful.
But slowly, a sort of restlessness crept in – where was the prior without whom Mass could not usually begin? Gero shrugged his shoulders apologetically when he saw the archbishop turn his questioning gaze on him.
At last Father Urban hurried into the choir. Still adjusting his vestments and slowing his step, he respectfully greeted the front row of guests and, with solemnly raised hands, turned his face to the altar. He began with the profession of faith which the community, relieved that everything was now taking its usual course, murmured along with him:
‘Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem, Creatorem caeli et terra . . .’
A warm wind had swept away the last clouds, and after the endless weeks of late winter, the sun had at last climbed high enough to send its rays through the richly decorated windows onto the altar. Just at that moment, in an almost supernatural light, it displayed all the colours of the rainbow. Unimpressed by this almost tangible epiphany which caused a murmur among the common people in the nave, Gero was looking for his place in the front row, where eleven of the faithful, hand-picked by the archbishop, were waiting for the prior to wash their feet, just as it was written in the Gospel of St John. That Gero was among the chosen ones he owed to his influential father, who spotted him at just that moment. He had kept a seat for him between himself and the archbishop. Perhaps the father hoped that through the sacred Washing of the Feet his son might still be led to the path of faith as the archbishop demanded. The archbishop sharply criticised Gero’s occasional brushes with the law – but covered them up nevertheless, for his brother’s sake and the sake of the good name of the family.
Gero approached the altar, genuflected and made the sign of the cross before sitting down next to his father with his head humbly bent. Both his father and his uncle shot him stern, reproachful glances.
For Gero and his father as well as for the other representatives of the realm, the prior’s washing of their feet was not only a ritual but also a political gesture and a demonstration of status. Showing themselves to the common people next to the archbishop clearly signalled who in the realm stood in the archbishop’s grace and, consequently, in God’s grace.
After the ‘Amen’, the prior turned to the faithful as the monks’ chant again swelled impressively in the vault of the nave. Father Urban nodded to the right and two altar boys entered with a bowl and a towel. Solemnly they followed the prior, who descended the altar steps towards the twelve faithful who were now uncovering their feet. To his surprise, Gero noticed that the novice with the towel was none other than the little monk from the cloister garden, and suddenly he felt his anger rise. He had to force himself not to get up there and then and strangle the damned altar boy with his own towel. The altar server handed the towel to the prior after the archbishop’s feet had been washed so that Father Urban could dry them off. When it was Gero’s turn, the novice briefly looked him in the eyes, lowering them again immediately. But that moment was enough for Gero to see the eyes of the altar boy flash, quite possibly in Schadenfreude. But Gero was struck by another insight: this young monk was possessed by the devil! Or perhaps he was even Lucifer incarnate! Different-coloured eyes proved it. Gero tried with all his might to make the novice look at him again but, with his gaze firmly on the ground, the novice did everything to avoid Gero’s gaze.
When the Washing of the Feet was over and the choir’s Latin chant had faded away in the nave, the altar servers disappeared through the screen in front of the altar. Gero was fuming. He hadn’t finished with this novice. On the contrary, he would think of a terrible punishment. It would be an act of expiation which, once he was finished with this monklet, would find its satisfactory conclusion in a bog. This had happened several times before with the help of his cronies Oswald and Lutz when somebody had crossed him. The thought brought a smile to Gero’s lips.
The congregation knelt to receive the prior’s blessing. Lost in revenge fantasies, Gero remained standing, and his father had to elbow him roughly before he reacted. At last Gero knelt, but the vindictive grin did not leave his face.
Chapter III
It was very late. In the abbot’s reception hall Father Urban was sitting by the fire, its flames reflected in his eyes. The exhausting ceremonies lasted the whole day;
guests had to be greeted and entertained and petitions read and assessed. The archbishop had retired from the refectory after vespers. He sent word that he was not feeling well and needed to rest. Father Urban offered to have a potion made up for him by the famulus, but the offer was brusquely turned down.
Father Urban guessed why. He had, after all, asked for an audience with the archbishop, and he did not want to delay this conversation any longer, as he liked to deal with unpleasant things immediately. But this time he found himself in a quandary. He really had wanted to have this delicate conversation with the abbot. But now that Archbishop Konrad von Hochstaden was making his annual visitation of Heisterbach monastery earlier than usual, Father Urban, whether he liked it or not, had to confide in his higher superior. Otherwise, there was a distinct danger that everything he had found out during his abbot’s absence would be pinned on him, should the archbishop discover it later. And he, rather than the guilty party, would be suspected and judged.
Father Urban also understood his role as prior to be one of serving the truth. This could involve interpreting what the truth actually was. The truth could be turned into something good or evil if enriched with half-truths, exposed in public at the right (or wrong) time or covered it up altogether. Truth was a delicate matter, especially when it involved matters of the Church or the realm.
Father Urban sighed and was taking a sip from his cup of diluted wine when he heard the bell toll twice. It was two o’clock in the morning, and the archbishop had kept him waiting since Vespers. For the third or fourth time he compared the two books which he kept ready for the archbishop. Nobody knew about it; he had kept the discovery to himself, the matter being far too delicate to be shared. He was so lost in thought that he almost did not hear the repeated knock on the door.
‘Come in, please!’
He turned around and saw the lay brother who was in charge of locking up and who now announced the late visitor.
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