by G. M. Dyrek
At length Jutta responded. “Very well, I will write to Abbot Burchard on your behalf. We should come to some arrangement for your continued education here at the Anchorage.”
Hildegard’s hands wrapped around the letter Jutta handed back to her, feeling assured that so long as her life was in God’s hands all would be well.
CHAPTER 9: A VIOLENT MANIFESTO
Abbot Burchard’s Private Quarters at Disibodenberg Monastery
Sunday, 3rd of November, Evening, Before Compline
Volmar scraped clean from the ivory-colored parchment yet another portion of what he had written. He was already regretting the size he’d cut the parchment into. The dictation was more involved than he anticipated, so every word needed to be carefully chosen.
“Brother Volmar, is something troubling you?” The Abbot sat across from his young protégé and held his hand to his brow. He rubbed his temples, a habit, Volmar noted, the Abbot exhibited whenever he was perplexed. “It’s so unlike you to make so many mistakes.”
“Father, I am troubled. If someone you knew had a remarkable mind and musical talent, should that person not be taught to use their talents: to learn to read and write better in Latin and to study musical notation?”
“By all means, my son, Christ taught us to use, not squander, our spiritual gifts. It would be a sin to knowingly repress such abilities.”
“I thought so,” Volmar mused.
“How so?” Abbot Burchard adjusted his weight, finding the wooden seat less tolerable than usual.
“I am not ready to disclose all as of yet, Father. I wrote a letter to this person and am waiting anxiously for a reply.”
“Patience is not one of your virtues, Brother Volmar. That much I do know.” The Abbot chuckled and the two men resumed the chronicle, or recording, of the week’s events. “What day did we leave off?”
“I believe, Saturday the 2nd of November.”
“Good. Be sure to add that I’ve discussed with Brother Andres the need to increase our provisions, since the farmers predict a long and bitterly cold winter ahead. All signs point to freezing temperatures well into the Lenten season.”
There was a knock at the door. “Enter,” the Abbot said, recognizing immediately the young man who came in as being from the Bishop’s own personal entourage. “We have word already of Adalbert’s release?” He rose and offered the young man a chair next to his.
“No, Father,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “I cannot stay long. I’m afraid the circumstances are quite grim for the Archbishop.”
“And Reginald, how is he holding up?”
“As well as can be expected, Father, under the circumstances. The Bishop wants you to keep him in your prayers. The Emperor has issued a violent manifesto against the Archbishop and all his treasonous followers.”
The Abbot hung his chin in his hands. “His followers are many: the Pope, the church, and the nobles, particularly in Saxony. Any word from Rome, as of yet?”
“It is too soon, Father. There’s snow just south of here. Word has it that the only pass through the Alps that isn’t blocked from the recent landslides is treacherous due to ice.”
“Has the Emperor made clear where he will celebrate the Nativity of the Lord this year? Last year, it was held in Mainz.”
“This year he is planning to celebrate the Nativity of the Lord in Goslar, Father.”
“In the Duchy of Saxony? Oh my, he is asking for trouble. God be with you, my friend. Tell the Bishop that we will pray for Reginald and the Archbishop’s timely release. Go in peace.” The young man knelt before the Abbot. “May you travel with His hedge of protection around thee. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.” He motioned the sign of the cross before touching the man’s forehead.
Still thinking, Volmar said, “More than ice needs to melt. None of it sounds hopeful.”
After the young man had disappeared down the stairs, the Abbot laid a hand on Volmar’s arm and said, “It is getting more difficult each year to keep our own little corner of the world free from the battleaxes chipping away at its very mortar.”
“Come now, Father,” Volmar said, absentmindedly twirling his quill. “If I remember correctly, Reginald spoke all too freely of his hatred towards the Emperor. I’m sure his father too had difficulty holding his tongue.”
“I know. Both men thought little of their own safety. Do you suppose that other man, the Aramaic scholar, had something to do with all of this?”
“He was not an Aramaic scholar, Father. This I can assure you of. I questioned him the next day and found his scholarly knowledge lacking. His weaponry expertise, though, was exceptional. He even gave me a few sword-fighting lessons.”
“I suspected as much. He did not know what his name Atif meant in Persian. A man gifted in languages should know such trivia.”
“I’m sure you’ve already been to the library to look up Atif’s name. What does it mean, Father?”
The Abbot grimaced. “What the man is obviously not: compassionate and sympathetic.”
CHAPTER 10: VISITORS OF IMPORTANCE
Stables at Disibodenberg Monastery
Monday, 4th of November, Early Morning, After Prime
Everyone knew that the Keeper of the Stables, Brother Hugo, still held a long-standing grudge against Volmar. Hugo felt betrayed ever since Paulus requested the boy’s assistance in the Infirmary.
Still, Volmar knew he couldn’t afford the time to wait for Hugo to come back from the village market to ask permission to borrow the small stool. Hildegard was waiting for him, and this was to be their first introductory lesson together.
Feeling the pressure of time, he walked quickly to the stables. The distinctive livestock smell hit him as he swung open one of the large wooden doors. He lifted the iron latch and locked it firmly behind him so the wind wouldn’t disturb the resting beasts. He couldn’t help but notice two fine black steeds, handsome animals for mere villagers from Disibodenberg. He studied the insignia on the saddles, an eight pointed white star on a red shield, the same symbol he remembered from Atif’s and his father Symon’s rosary. They must be travelers from the Knight’s Hospitaller visiting the monastery. There were two other horses without any insignia. Judging by the horses’ care and breeding, there were two more visitors of importance. By the Benedictine Rule, the monastery was required to give food and shelter to any traveler who asked for them. Hopefully these strangers might leave a few coins as a gift to compensate for their brief stay. Generosity, though, could not always be expected, especially from those of power and position.
“Good day, Brother Volmar.” Brother Albertus’ eyes fell upon the stool.
“God’s Grace to you, Brother Albertus. Please inform Brother Hugo that his stool will be returned promptly before prayers will be said during Nones79 at three.”
“You’re taking quite a risk there, are you not?” Albertus added with interest. “You of all people should know that Brother Hugo has a good arm with a whipping stick.” Albertus sighed, then started massaging his lower back.
Volmar waited, anticipating a comment about the weather. No one could forecast the weather with such accuracy as Albertus. His body was a remarkable gauge. An ache here or a pain there gave his predictions the exactness of a sage.
Sure enough, Albertus turned towards the leaden sky. “Ah, we should have snow tomorrow night. I should water,” he said, and added dismissively, “I’ll mention the stool to Brother Hugo if I see him in the fields.” He took off down the hillside. Albertus looked after the kitchen gardens and the paradise garden outside of the monk’s cemetery. It was his duty to keep the traditional altar flowers and the lilies required for burials. To Volmar it didn’t make sense how Albertus always watered his tender plants before a freeze. Miraculously, though, it worked. The next morning they would lie well protected in a thin layer of ice.
CHAPTER 11: A SWEETER MISSION
Anchorage Window at Disibodenberg Monastery
Monday,
4th of November, Mid-Morning, After Terce
Volmar approached the Anchorage. Samson showed up and curled lazily next to him as he sat on the milking stool in front of the small arched window. A panel at each end was hinged and was now swung open. The leather flap used to block the chill of the winter winds was rolled up and tied. Hildegard’s face was obscure in the dark shadows of the window’s opening. Hiltrud was sitting with her mending in her lap, illuminated by a beam of late morning light. Her presence was necessary in observance of the unspoken rule that a nun should never be alone with a man. There was a long and awkward silence between them.
Volmar took a moment to consider where they should begin. “Very well, Sister Hildegard, let’s start with conjugations in Latin. Repeat after me: amo, amas, amat, amamos, amatis, amant.80” Volmar listened to Hildegard’s flawless recitations. As they continued the lesson, Volmar realized that he had greatly underestimated Hildegard’s knowledge of Latin.
He concluded their lesson with the ninth stanza of an old hymn, Vexilla Regis Prodeunt81. “O Crux ave, spes unica, hoc Passionis tempore! Piis adauge gratiam, reisque dele crimina.82” She had understanding far exceeding what he had expected of a young girl trained by widow women. It was incredible how she repeated the words, they were not entirely spoken. The recitations were being sung. Her voice sounded clear, tuneful and strong, the same haunting voice he’d heard in the tree, only richer and with more emotion. The music moved through her entire body and somehow reached out to his soul, calming his restlessness.
When the lesson came to its conclusion, Volmar furrowed his brow, noting his young student’s distraction. “Did you receive my message about Judas?”
“Yes, a tragic tale of greed, power and betrayal. Do you feel, dear brother, he is in our midst?” she inquired, almost playfully.
Volmar paused, intrigued once again by the thought that his new student possessed the ability to somehow see future events and to “hear” the thoughts of others. This, coupled with her obvious love of being taught new things and absorbing whatever he said with great enthusiasm, was truly remarkable. For a moment he had to catch his breath. It was something he had never attempted before. He was to be her mentor, her adviser, her faithful scribe. The thought brought him considerable trepidation. Of all people, he was most unworthy. How could one so contrary to acceptable wisdom and teachings be entrusted with such a great responsibility?
“Silence can speak volumes, you know,” Hildegard said with a smile.
Volmar grinned sheepishly, his heart beating rapidly. He was scarcely able to speak, so ensnared by her charms. Then he added slowly, searching for the right words, “I have something for you, for your studies.” Through the window’s opening he passed a ten-stringed psaltery. “Brother Hans, the choral director, made me promise to give it only to one gifted in music. It is yours.”
“Oh, it is beautiful.” Hildegard had difficulty suppressing her joy. She leaned forward into the beam of light. Volmar could see how she cradled the instrument like a child. “Look, Hiltrud,” she said, lightly running her fingers over the strings, “there are ten of them, each with a different sound and when you hold the handle like this, the strings have even a richer, deeper sound.” She turned to Volmar. The look on her face far exceeded any repayment for the personal effort he’d gone to. “I will learn to play it right away. Thank you so much, Brother Volmar.”
“Music,” Volmar answered, recalling the old woman’s prophecy. “I cannot fathom a sweeter mission to have, in a world lost to decay and disharmony.”
BOOK 6: DECEPTION
CHAPTER 1: HUMBLE MINISTRATIONS
Infirmary at Disibodenberg Monastery
4th of November, Late Evening, After Compline
Paulus drew back the blanket as Atif laid his old friend, Matthias, down onto the cot. The Infirmarian watched as the Persian leaned forward and whispered something in the older man’s ear, which caused Matthias to smile. Atif moved away, frustrated that he could do no more for his friend. “Do all you can for him, Brother, I owe him my life.”
Sophie, in her nightdress and embroidered coat, brought Paulus clean towels and stared down at their new patient. “The miraculous healer,” she uttered in surprise. Sophie turned to Paulus. “He’s the one I told you about, the stranger in the clearing, who healed my Grandfather two summers ago.”
Matthias met the young girl’s eyes with recognition and a steady gaze, remembering too that night long ago in the woods. “I remember well the incident in the clearing . . . the last stages of holy fire. How fares your grandfather now?”
Sophie swallowed hard. “He died from a fall last year—he hit his head.” She hadn’t mentioned her grandfather to anyone since the funeral.
“I’m so sorry.” Matthias leaned forward, attempting to straighten his hurt leg, and winced from the pain.
Sophie noticed that on both hands he wore thumb rings of gold. Quietly she resumed her duties, turning to the barrel and drawing out a mug of ale for the Arab foreigner. Paulus studied Sophie with consternation; rarely did he think of her as she once had been, a fragile little girl who showed up at the Infirmary clinging to her dying grandfather. Now she was like his right hand, sitting up late into the night feeding the elderly and wiping their feverish foreheads with tireless patience. Her sensitive nature made her a natural comforter for suffering women and children especially, who came to the Infirmary seeking Paulus’s help. As he predicted, her skillful hands could turn a mere wooden stick into a delicate instrument he could maneuver and use to hold back the healthy flesh while he cut off the dead or diseased parts.
Where he was lacking, she was not. When did she become this capable young woman? Was it the way she filled out her new clothes that accented her maturity, or had her rich wardrobe only brought it glaringly to his attention? This must be like the feeling fathers have for their grown children, Paulus thought, with fond admiration.
Paulus gazed down at his patient with renewed respect. “When you are stronger, I’d like to hear more of your remedies, especially in dealing with holy fire. For now, you must accept our humble ministrations; even healers need help now and then.” Paulus turned to Matthias’s injured leg. “You seem to have suffered a bite of some sort, more than likely from a wild dog. Is that right, sir?”
Matthias grimaced and said between his clenched teeth. “A pack of them caught me by surprise two nights ago.”
“That must have been some fight. Some of those males can stand a full three feet high at the shoulder. It is a testimony to your courage that you survived.”
“I’m well protected,” Matthias said, mysteriously patting the pouch under his shirt. “I will not die so long as it’s with me.”
Atif was in such a dark mood and so engrossed in watching Paulus’s ministrations that he didn’t bother to question Matthias’s strange assertion. He accepted Sophie’s mug of ale with nothing more than a brief nod of gratitude.
Gently, Paulus removed Matthias’s worn boot. Then, with a small knife, he cut through the cloth Atif had wrapped around the wound and, with a sponge, he slowly began bathing the wound in warm wine he had boiled and allowed to cool.
Matthias’s eyes pinched closed in pain, but he said nothing.
“Atif,” Paulus said, “why don’t you take that sweet substance there on the nightstand and simply rub it on Matthias’s teeth while I dress his wound. It will help with the pain, and soon he’ll be able to sleep.”
Atif lifted the small dish. “What’s in it?” he said, sniffing it with interest.
“Believe it or not, the original recipe had at least 70 different ingredients. I’ve been playing around with the necessity of each of them for years.”
“Let me guess. There’s honey, castor oil, opium, myrrh, frankincense, the dried flesh of a viper, and spikenard, the very ointment Mary applied to the feet of Jesus.”
“I’m impressed. Where did you learn of the healing arts?”
“I had a remarkable teacher. I was Matthias’s young
assistant, many years ago in a hospital in Jerusalem. Back then we called this mixture Theriac.”
“That it is. Galen’s own recipe,” Paulus said with pride.
Atif carefully smeared it over Matthias’s gums.
“The longer he stays off of that foot, the quicker it will heal.” Paulus rose and stood over Atif, watching as he administered the last of the salve.
Atif looked up. “Is that enough?”
Paulus nodded.
Atif put a hand to Matthias’s forehead. “You’ll feel light-headed in a moment, my friend; don’t fight it. Give in to the sensation. It will help you sleep.” He extended his hand and gripped Matthias’ frightfully cold palm in his. “Life is long. We will meet again another day, in a better place than this.”
Matthias nodded with understanding and struggled to reply. “You’ve been away too long from your own people. God be with you.”
Atif rose hesitantly. Paulus showed him a basin where he could wash his hands, and gave him a towel to dry off. “Come, we will know by morning if our efforts have helped. You need a good night’s rest as well, my friend. The cot beside your friend is free for the night.”
“Thank you, Brother Paulus, you have been most kind. If my friend is better by morning, I’ll take my leave.”