by P K Adams
I smiled. He was likely right. “I started writing down recipes for herbal treatments and noting the results,” I confessed, my voice back to a loud whisper.
“What for?”
I explained that it was my growing belief that the essence of effective healing lay in observing the outcomes, and that it was necessary to consider each patient as a unique case because not everyone responded in the same way to the same treatment. Medical texts were mainly theory, even Galen, who otherwise noted the importance of observation. I was especially mystified by his stubborn endorsement of the practice of bloodletting. I was also skeptical of the insistence on treating medical knowledge as given once and for all, which compelled physicians like Brother Wigbert to apply it without giving the results much heed.
“I daresay it should be a success!” Volmar exclaimed enthusiastically. “Maybe one day monks will study from your book, not from Galen’s! What will you call it?”
I waved my hand. “It’s just a reference for me. Women don’t write books.”
His face crumpled into an I-hadn’t-thought-of-that look, but even as it did, a question pushed its way into my mind: why not? It was clear to me that despite what Prior Helenger—and even Brother Wigbert—would say, women possessed reasoning faculties just like men did. Besides, not everything men wrote was so great. There were many things with which I disagreed in St. Augustine, including his claim that unbaptized infants went to hell, even though they had not done anything to offend God. It struck me as unreasonable, therefore, that men could freely voice such views, but a woman was not allowed to write something that was useful.
A swell of enthusiasm filled me. The notion that I might write—really write, write for others to read—seemed daring, dangerous, and utterly thrilling. It would be a challenge unlike any other, but instead of terrifying me, it made me want to do it all the more.
16
December 1120
I began to write differently: I was more thorough, checked everything twice, and made sure my Latin was as correct as it could be. Something that had been buried in the back of my mind since I was three and became lost in my family’s chapel started resurfacing in my daily thoughts.
My recurring headaches had started on that distant afternoon, but now I began to suspect that it was no ordinary illness. For, as it weakened my body, it made my mind sharper and more receptive to understanding. I still did not know what it was that had happened to me all those years ago, but I felt that I was getting closer. So I kept writing in secret from everyone except Volmar.
Then the day of my novitiate vows came.
Under the terms of my enclosure, I could become a novice only after my sixteenth birthday, which fell in October. Traditionally, the abbey held this ceremony the day after Christmas. Throughout the autumn, I had made an effort to immerse myself in the study of the Bible, but, outside of the hour I spent with Jutta each day, I had little time for it between working, attending services, and scribbling on parchment scraps whenever I thought no one saw me. So when I walked into the church on a snowy day of St. Stephanus, I was less clear on the finer points of the Holy Writ than on the best remedies for a tooth abscess or the ways to lance a boil while minimizing the pain.
Abbot Kuno, dressed in white priestly vestments woven through with golden thread, led the procession of the black-robed monks into the church. With the rest of the soon-to-be novices, I was seated in the front pew and could see melting snowflakes twinkle in the candlelight like tiny jewels on the brothers’ cowls. Behind the abbot, Prior Helenger marched in a plain robe, the expression on his face the same glum primness from my oblate blessing five years before.
As always, the Mass thrilled me with every soaring note of chant and every swing of the censer that discharged bursts of aromatic incense. I wondered if Volmar felt the same way, but his face was solemn and inscrutable. Perhaps he was worried that the novitiate would put an end to his secret hunting pastimes, as it is the Church’s view that no man can be holy who hunts. I was so engrossed in my own sensations and in thoughts of Volmar that I completely forgot about another friend, and only noticed her as I stepped down from the altar after receiving my blessing. Griselda stood in the shadows in the back of the church, observing me with admiration and a bit of envy, just as she had the day of our first encounter on the road to St. Disibod.
The snow had subsided by the time I returned to the workshop with Brother Wigbert, who was beaming with an almost paternal pride. He was pouring us wine when a servant arrived saying that Sister Jutta wanted to see me. I wrapped myself in my woolen cloak and stepped from the firelit warmth of the workshop, back into the swirls of snow the wind was still blowing from its piles.
As I walked, I was seized by a sudden fear that I might have to serve my novitiate inside the convent after all. It would be contrary to the agreement struck between the abbot and the magistra, but through Brother Wigbert I knew that the prior had been advocating my permanent enclosure. I was afraid he may have finally come up with some clever argument to achieve this, the more so since the abbot was known to give in to the prior if his own peace was at stake. Jutta could have changed her mind as well. As the founder of the convent and my superior, it was in her power to make the final decision.
As I knocked on the door, half-covered by snowdrifts, I thought I already felt a distant echo of a headache.
Sister Juliana let me in and motioned toward the chapel. Inside, it seemed to be lit by all the candles we had, and their glow made it feel cozier than usual.
I was surprised to find Jutta sitting in a pew instead of kneeling or lying on the floor. She gestured for me to sit by her side. “My heart is glad today,” she said. “You have taken the first step on the road on which I embarked many years ago.” My face must have registered some alarm, for she added, “I am aware that your vocation is of a different nature than mine, and that you will chart your own way.”
I swallowed. “Yes, Sister.”
Jutta spoke again in a tone that, for once, lacked the martyr-like quality. “I have been observing you since that night you stood before me for the first time, a mere child yet undaunted. You faced me and this life seemingly without fear. I may have wished for you to take a path similar to the other sisters, but I knew even then that it was not to be.” She paused, gazing pensively at the oil lamp at the foot of the cross. Something akin to a smile fleeted across her lips. “God bestowed a gift on you in your talent for healing, and you have made a good use of it. For a long time, I found it difficult to accept,” she added honestly, “but this abbey needs you, and it shall have you.”
Relief washed over me, but I was careful not to show it. “All I want is to make you and this convent proud.”
“You have been successful at healing broken bodies,” Jutta resumed, “but I hope that as you continue to perfect that art, you will also learn how to heal broken souls.”
I looked at her uncertainly. We had duties as women of the Church, but ‘healing souls’ sounded like something that priests and bishops were more suited to do.
“It is a task that has a greater value than medicine, for it restores us to everlasting life,” she said. “It also requires much wisdom and strength.”
“I don’t feel that I possess either,” I confessed.
“We are none of us born with these qualities. But you have an agile mind and an open heart; that is all you need.”
I always felt ill at ease when others praised me, and this time was no different. “You think so highly of me, Sister, because I have learned to provide relief to the sick, but it is God who created the ingredients for these medicines. Besides, caring for the unfortunate is what The Rule requires us to do.”
Jutta gazed at me with an expectation in her face that at first surprised me, and then I knew . . . The words tumbled out of me. “I have suffered from headaches for many years that leave my body weak and spent but my senses unusually acute, so that
all light is brighter, all sound sharper, and I seem to float in the air like a feather.” It was the first time I had shared this with anyone. “Once, when I was little, I heard a voice inside that light that spoke to me and said things I could not understand then, but now I am beginning to.”
“It told me to speak and tell what is shown to me, for He who rules every creature bestows enlightenment on those who serve Him, and eternal vision on those who act with justice.” I closed my eyes as the words, hidden for so long in the depths of my mind, came back to me.
A long silence ensued. A pale wintry sun had come out and its tepid rays shone directly through the window, illuminating Jutta’s face. “Is it possible that God spoke to me?” I asked.
“To you,” she said softly, “and He is still speaking through you.”
“Through me?”
“Yes.”
“But who am I, Sister? Why hasn’t God chosen you? With all the . . . sacrifices you are willing to endure, surely—”
Jutta shook her head, and it was obvious that it pained her. “Evidently He sees you as a better instrument in His hands. Do not fight it. It is a gift that you must accept and use wisely. Let Him speak so that others may know.”
“But what if I speak and nobody listens? Or they think that my wits have left me?”
“Then write.” Her gaze on me, despite her body’s weakness, was powerful, magnetic. “As you have done already.”
And with that, she rose and left the chapel, and I was speechless once again.
17
May 1122
I had never been happier about the arrival of spring than in the year 1122. The melancholy that had descended on the convent after Adelheid’s death seemed to have intensified that winter, leaving me with strong headaches and causing Juliana to become even more withdrawn, so that weeks had gone by without her talking to anyone. I infused hypericum in wine for both of us to stem the excess of black bile, and when the weather turned milder, I persuaded her to help me prune the vine that covered the wall. The fresh air helped me, but its effect on Juliana were more limited.
Perhaps that was because she really did have nothing left, whereas I had the infirmary, my books, and my writing. I had come to believe that writing was what I was meant to be doing—besides treating patients, of course. It had not yet crossed my mind that I could write about anything other than herbs; I was simply happy to have found a way to share my knowledge with others as the voice in the light had told me.
Abbot Kuno had finally agreed to the expansion of the kitchen garden, which meant that we had more space for healing plants. On a pleasant April afternoon, I was busy gardening when the gate squeaked and Griselda walked in, as she did sometimes at that hour before supper preparations started in the kitchen. She picked up a hoe that rested against the workshop wall and made her way toward me. She was sixteen, but with her cropped hair, pointy chin, and small breasts—which she flattened even more with cotton bandages—she could easily pass for a boy. Indeed, in some ways, she seemed more like a boy than a girl; when her monthly bleeding had started, she had come to the infirmary in tears, and it took me a while to convince her that she was not dying. She calmed down eventually and accepted practical suggestions for handling the flux, but the episode had left her shaken.
We began digging up old roots to make room for new plantings. Griselda was a competent gardener, and we worked in contented silence for some time, but at length she leaned on her hoe and sighed.
“Is something on your mind?” I had just started to demarcate the beds for rue, sage, and oregano, and was too absorbed to pause my work.
“No.” She resumed digging but stopped again a few moments later. “Yes,” she said shyly. “I am wondering if the convent is going to fill the vacancy?”
“The vacancy?”
“After Sister Adelheid’s passing.”
I was trying to estimate the yield from the new herbs and was momentarily confused. I put down the trowel, straightened up, and wiped my hands on my apron. “What about it?”
“Is Sister Jutta looking for a novice to fill her place?”
I scratched my temple. It had been more than two years, and although we had received many letters of inquiry, the abbot had been reluctant to give us permission to admit a new candidate. Lately, though, Brother Wigbert had mentioned a discussion in Chapter about the possibility of accepting a female novice, and the news had clearly spread. I considered Griselda, surprised to see her usually dreamy eyes fastened intently on my face. “I don’t know of any immediate plans,” I said truthfully. “But it will probably happen sooner or later.”
I must have frowned as I said it, for she asked, “Does that worry you?”
“A little,” I admitted. “Sister Jutta’s reputation is strong in these parts and is likely to attract candidates who think bodily mortification is a virtue.” Despite my best efforts to keep it quiet, somehow word had gotten out that Jutta lashed herself with a leather whip until she bled. It was being further reported that the practice regularly led her to the brink of death, from which God mercifully brought her back each time so she could continue to be an exemplar of piety and sacrifice. The details and the magnitude of what went on were often distorted, but the effect was powerful. We were seeing more and more pilgrims with purses full of gold and silver coins, and wealthy parents were offering their sons and daughters to St. Disibod like never before.
“Would Father Abbot want that?” Griselda asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” But I could hear the uncertainty in my voice. Kuno had been concerned about Jutta’s practices before they had become common knowledge, but now that they were making the monks rich, I could no longer be sure.
“Do you think . . . that I could join the convent?” Griselda asked, her eyes boring into mine like two shining green gems. I was aware that for a few moments she was not breathing at all. “As a novice,” she added in a whisper.
I cleared my throat and moved toward the bench under the fruit trees, their branches covered in swollen buds on the verge of bursting into a fragrant white cloud. “You know that I would like that, but it is not possible,” I said as we sat down. How had I not seen this coming? “Not at the moment, anyway,” I added, seeing her face fall. “Things may be different in the future.”
“What do you mean?”
I thought carefully before answering. I did not have the heart to tell Griselda that any one of the women queuing up to become a novice could offer much more than she had saved from her kitchen wages. Instead, I tried a different tack. “You have been living here for four years as a boy; imagine the monks’ reaction if they found out who you are.”
“I suppose they would be very surprised.”
“Yes.” I nodded slowly. “And also angry.” I paused to let it sink in. “I doubt they would let you join under such circumstances.”
Tears rose to Griselda’s eyes, though she fought them back. “So now I will never be able to become an anchoress?”
I felt a wave of frustration. What kind of a world was this where the monastic life was often imposed by threat or force on those who did not want it and denied to those who did?
“I did not say that,” I said gently. “It may be possible, but you will have to go about it in a different way.”
“But how?” There was a note of helplessness in her voice.
I did not have an answer then any more than when I had first learned of Griselda’s disguise. “Perhaps by going away for a while,” I suggested. “You could find better-paying work and save more . . .” I faltered, knowing the futility of such a plan.
“But I don’t want to go away! There is nothing for me outside. My family has renounced me, or they think me dead. This is my home now.”
I was casting around for an answer when the gate creaked again, and Brother Wigbert walked in. He halted when he saw us and pretended to survey t
he garden, but I saw him glancing sideways at us. He beckoned me to join him in the workshop, and I rose from the bench as Griselda went to pick up our tools to return them to the shed.
Brother Wigbert was stoking the fire in the stove, for the afternoon was getting chilly, and wine was already warming on the top. He seemed pensive as he poured me a cup, and I wrapped my fingers around it, letting the heat permeate them as I sat across from him. His face was kindly but also serious.
“I feel obliged to tell you that your association with young Christian has come to the attention of the abbey.” He shifted on his bench.
“What association?” I was puzzled.
Wigbert cleared his throat. “You are spending a lot of time with this young man, and it may appear unseemly now that you two are no longer children.” He looked uncomfortable now. “It is not easy for me to talk about such things; they don’t often happen in a place like this.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Gris—Christian is very useful in carrying messages, helping me in the garden, and—” I broke off as comprehension dawned on me, and I felt myself blushing at the implication.
“I know you have not done anything wrong,” Wigbert hastened to assure me, “but it would be for the best if he did not come here anymore. It would save you suspicion from . . . some quarters.”
“Some quarters!” I scoffed. “I know exactly what quarters this is coming from.” I put my nose in my cup sullenly.