by P K Adams
I closed my eyes, delighted by the comparison, and nestled next to him, basking in the glow that seemed to surround us. Against my thigh, I could feel the pressure of the little box in the pocket of my robe, and I imagined the pure white lump of salt inside, still unchanged even as I had grown and become a woman.
And then words flashed through my mind that sent me into a fit of laughter. Volmar looked at me quizzically but could not help smiling himself. “What’s so funny?”
“You won’t believe it,” I gasped, “but Brother Wigbert once warned me against this when he saw me alone with Griselda. He thought that she and I—”
“I can believe it!” He was laughing too, covering his face with his hands.
“Yet it has never occurred to anybody to keep an eye on us!”
The familiar twinkle of mischief returned to Volmar’s hazel eyes. “I suppose they trust novices more than they do kitchen boys.”
I grew somber again. “That was the real reason she had to go.”
“Because they thought that she—or rather he—fancied you?”
“That and the fact that she was almost grown up, and it would have been difficult to keep the secret much longer,” I said. “I felt it was my duty to tell her that, and she was heartbroken. It is my fault,” I added glumly. “I should have been honest with her from the beginning that it was a bad idea.”
“She had a few years of happiness thanks to you.”
“I told her there might be a way for her to return, but I am not sure I believe it. Not as long as—” I broke off, stunned by what had just occurred to me.
“Not as long as it is not your decision to make?” he finished quietly.
Once again, he had read my thoughts perfectly.
20
October 1122
The concordat may have been signed, but it was only when the written proclamation had reached Disibodenberg that the town resumed its normal rhythm, with the folk once again going about their business and visiting relatives in nearby villages without fear. At the scriptorium, Volmar and Bertolf worked ceaselessly, and soon I had a copy in my hands which I stayed up all night to peruse.
Awaiting the lauds bell as the gray light of dawn broke over the abbey, I set the parchment aside, rubbed my eyes, and tried to imagine the main characters in this power play. In the palace at Aachen, the emperor, wearing a trefoil crown, was poring over scrolls of vellum, plotting how to retain control over church appointments. In a parallel scene in Rome, the pope, dressed all in white and surrounded by his advisers, tried to determine how to wrest these powers from the monarchy while holding on to as much land as possible. The scope of the struggle was breathtaking, but the document before me seemed to suggest that all that scheming was finally at an end. And yet I was unconvinced.
Later that day, Abbot Kuno convened a special Chapter meeting where a report on the attack would be presented. He had invited me and Volmar, and as the two of us entered the chapter house for the first time in our lives, we found a chamber different from anything else within the abbey. It was round, and the four narrow windows around its circumference let in little light on that rain-whipped October day. Below the windows, tiered rows of seats formed a semicircle that faced an open area occupied by a trestle table and chairs, and illuminated by dozens of candles in iron holders. The abbot had yet to arrive, and a hum of subdued conversations filled the chamber, despite The Rule’s exhortation that the brethren keep silent. We took seats in the front row near the door, and a moment later, a snippet of a conversation reached our ears.
“Master Abelard’s book was condemned at a provincial synod and ordered burned,” a monk seated behind us was saying to his neighbor. “I have it from Hubert von Bernstein, and other pilgrims confirm it.”
Volmar and I exchanged curious glances. Herr Hubert was a local nobleman and an abbey patron who had travelled to Compostela in the spring and stopped at St. Disibod a few days before on his way home from the pilgrimage.
“That cannot be!” The other monk was aghast. “By all accounts, Abelard is much revered around the cloister of Notre Dame.”
“Apparently, there had been some kind of a scandal. A love affair.” A sanctimonious note colored the first monk’s voice. “And he had already fallen from grace. Then his opponents at Soissons turned the synod into a veritable trial with the Archbishop of Rheims leading the charge.”
There was a moment of silence. I would have given a lot to see their faces. Then the second monk asked, “What did they find against him?”
“The judgment said that he had committed heresy by proposing to interpret the dogma of the Holy Trinity by means of reasoning rather than by acceptance and faith.”
“God protect us!”
“I wonder if he will be allowed to return to teaching—” He was interrupted by the abbot’s entrance. The gathering fell silent as Kuno took his seat at the table, flanked by Prior Helenger, Brother Ignatius, and Brother Odo.
During the opening prayer I could not help thinking about the famous philosopher from Paris who had been bold enough to challenge the men of the Church with new ideas. It was both frightening and exciting, and something told me I had not heard the last of him. But I made an effort to listen when Prior Helenger began reading out the report in a loud, self-important voice. He had been tasked with preparing it and to that end, had spoken with the town elders, with Volmar and his archers, and even with me. I grimaced at the memory of that brief and unpleasant interview, but the report was good—detailed and faithful to what had occurred.
“Thank you, Brother Prior,” the abbot said when Helenger rolled up the parchment. “We pray every day for the souls of the five men who lost their lives that our town and abbey might be saved.”
The monks lowered their heads. After a few moments of silence, Kuno spoke again. “I believe God sent us this trial as a warning. We must learn from it so we are better prepared next time, for despite the new concordat, we still live in uncertain times.” Heads nodded all around. “We do not have military leaders living within our precincts, but Volmar proved to be an able archer and commander. I asked him, therefore, to provide recommendations on how we may cultivate this skill at Disibodenberg.” He motioned him to speak.
Volmar stood up and turned to face the monks. There was a barely perceptible tremble in his voice, whether from excitement or nervousness I could not tell. “At Father Abbot’s request”—he nodded respectfully toward the table—“I consulted with the town elders, and we believe that from now on, archery should be more than a pastime. We must conduct regular drills for all the able-bodied men over the age of fourteen. The town has ranges set up for competition by the Glan, and I offer to conduct the training myself.” A slightly boastful note had entered his voice in a decidedly non-monkish fashion, and I had to stifle a smile. “We will also need to keep a store of arrows on hand. They can be purchased at fairs, but we should also have a resident fletcher. I offer to train him, as I learned how to make bows and arrows at my father’s house.” A murmur of admiration swept the rows of seats, and many heads nodded again. “Furthermore, we should consider training younger men in swordsmanship. I am not a swordsman myself, but there are former fighting men in the town, and they would be eager to share their expertise.”
“These are reasonable proposals,” the abbot said. “Does anyone care to comment?” He paused, but there was no response. “Good. Brother bursar will make a note that we need to find funds to support equipping the menfolk with bows and arrows and some swords, and pay those who will train them. And now”—he was eager to move on with the agenda—“I ask Hildegard to say a few words regarding our walls, as a sign of appreciation for her encouragement on the day we learned about the danger facing us.”
Sitting to his right, the prior had so far ignored me but now turned resentful eyes in my direction. I rose, and although I had treated many of the monks, they seemed uncomfortable and shif
ted uneasily in their seats. But there were a few curious faces too, and Bertolf’s was positively friendly as he gave me an encouraging nod.
“Brothers.” I inclined my head. “I have talked to pilgrims, merchants, and journeymen about the defenses they had seen elsewhere, and it has been very instructive.” I sought to inject an extra dose of assurance into my voice. “It appears that wooden walls are becoming obsolete, as towns are choosing stone as a longer-lasting and sturdier material, not to mention less prone to catching fire. I recommend rebuilding our walls in the same fashion.”
There was an eruption of voices from the tiered seats, and the abbot raised his palm. “Silence! If you have opinions or comments to offer, do so one at a time. Brother Ordulf?”
The matricularius stood up. “Wood is a perfectly good and time-tested building material and is available in abundance,” he said. “New Benedictine houses like the Laach priory have used it. We should mend and strengthen the existing walls instead of incurring the expense and nuisance of tearing them down and raising new ones,” he concluded, staring at me down the length of his nose.
“I agree.” Brother Ignatius, the treasurer, chimed in. “There are ongoing renovations that still need to be paid for.”
I saw that this was going to be about money and the vanity projects the abbey had under way. A lavish new chapel was being constructed, paid for by an endowment from a wealthy landowner. The treasurer was already salivating at the idea of the relics, precious vessels, and ornaments that would have to be acquired to fill it to the glory of God. One glance at the abbot told me that he shared that view. It was hardly surprising; Kuno had been on a quest for new relics for months now, huddling with itinerant sellers in search of the perfect set that would attract more pilgrims to the abbey.
“Brother bursar, what say you?” He turned to Odo.
“I would have to know the estimated cost to make a definitive judgment, of course,” the bursar replied deferentially, “but I suspect it wouldn’t be cheap. Our income is not likely to allow for this kind of expense.”
The abbot turned to me. “We shall keep your suggestion in mind for when we receive a new endowment. In the meantime, we can set smaller sums aside for repairs.”
My heart sank. Had he forgotten our narrow escape? He had just talked about the need to learn lessons but was already thinking of half-measures. “But Father, if I may—you have said that these are uncertain times. Solid and reliable walls are a life-saving priority, not a luxury, and we forego them at our peril!”
Kuno did not miss my emphasis on the word luxury. “We are not a wealthy house,” he replied coolly. “A new chapel and new relics are our gift to the saints that they may continue to protect us.”
I sat down, defeated. I knew better than to argue, but it was a bitter pill to swallow. It was worrisome too, because as long as the peace held, however fragile, there would always be a more important vanity to indulge before practical considerations.
The abbot’s voice rang out again, “Now let us turn to the matter of the agreement recently signed at the Worms cathedral.” Forgetting my disappointment, I was suddenly all ears. For a moment, I expected to be asked to leave, but the abbot continued. “As many of you know, we received the text of the agreement struck between His Holiness Pope Calixtus and Emperor Heinrich, and our scribes have made copies, one of which will be kept at the library if you want to peruse it. My purpose today is to inform you of the chief benefits of the concordat for our Holy Church.” He paused for effect, and the tension in the room was palpable as all eyes watched his lips. “From now on,” he resumed, “the election of bishops and abbots will be left to their constituents—that is to say, cathedral canons and monks, respectively. No more arbitrary appointments of the emperor’s men and other loyalists.” An excited murmur rose over the chamber. “And the Church has been freed from the noxious control of secular authority by removing the right of kings to invest bishops with the insignia of spiritual power—the ring and the crosier.”
I glanced over my shoulder and saw the monks nodding with satisfaction, no sign of skepticism on any of their faces. I waited for someone to offer a comment or ask a question, but nobody did. The abbot’s complacent look suggested that he was not about to qualify his statement any further.
Before I knew what I was doing, I bolted from the bench as if pushed by an invisible hand. “But Father Abbot,” I protested, “the emperor retains the right of arbitration!”
A ripple of gasps swept the chapter house, and I felt Volmar tugging at my sleeve. The abbot frowned. His intention, it seemed, had been to present the concordat as a complete success of the papal faction. Still, he answered patiently enough. “That is less privilege than what the monarchy had previously enjoyed. It returns the emperor into the ranks of laymen and allows the Church to govern itself.”
That was true. The agreement was a defeat of the notion that kings were God’s anointed and as such imbued with the divine right to influence ecclesiastical affairs. Yet giving the emperor the right to have the final say in disputed elections was akin to preserving his right to appoint men that suited him, for, as everyone knew, episcopal contests were notoriously fractious. “The emperor will still invest bishops with the lance, after having witnessed their election in person or through his representatives, and perhaps having cast the deciding vote,” I persisted, firm in the opinion I had formed last night. “He effectively retains the power of appointment, and that means that little will change—his successors will take advantage of this right whenever possible, and the conflict will continue. This agreement solves little.”
A profound silence descended on the gathering as all eyes turned to the abbot, except Brother Wigbert’s, whose pleading gaze was trained on me from across the chamber. As Kuno weighed his response, a range of emotions crossed his face from irritation to amazement to impatience.
Prior Helenger, on the other hand, had no trouble deciding. “How dare you speak without permission?” He was barely able to contain himself. “We will not sit here and listen to your opinions on matters of state!”
“Chapter is a forum for an open discussion, and I was asked to attend, so I assumed that I had the same right to speak as anyone else,” I replied, lifting my chin. “And I have doubts whether this concordat will help the Church achieve a separation and autonomy from the empire.”
The prior scoffed. “You obviously don’t know what you are talking about. The Church does not want to be separate from the state. The Church must oversee the state because all power proceeds from God, and it is our task to ensure that the monarchy conducts its affairs based on Christian principles.”
In a flash, I remembered Brother Wigbert’s explanation of the origins of the conflict and how the fault lay on both sides. It suddenly made sense. Helenger’s words had revealed a complex game on the part of the Church, the mirror image, in fact, of the monarchy’s ambitions. After all, had not Pope Gregorius excommunicated the emperor’s father, denied his sovereignty, and instigated the appointment of an anti-king? The Church had been fighting for the same thing—the entirety of power, rather than its own separate domain. And this despite Christ’s admonition that His kingdom was not of this world.
Abbot Kuno, as if guessing what was going through my mind, said in a tone that was almost gracious, “We must rejoice that the investiture settlement gives the Church a spiritual autonomy. It will also ensure peace throughout the realm.”
“I am not sure about that, Father.” I pulled my arm discreetly against another tug from below. “The emperor will still be able to put pressure on the clergy as he did to Archbishop Adalbert when he put him in prison.”
The abbot grew suspicious. “How do you know so much about the concordat?”
I faltered, belatedly realizing that I might get Volmar in trouble. But then Helenger renewed his attack. “How?” he snarled. “It’s obvious—she’s a witch! The Devil let her into the scriptor
ium at night and she read the copies!” His voice rose hysterically.
For the first time, I saw the abbot redden with anger. “I will not have this kind of talk in Chapter or anywhere else within this abbey! This meeting is over!” He turned to the monks. “You are dismissed. And you”—he pointed a finger at me—“will see me in my parlor.”
He exited hastily, and the monks followed at a more leisurely pace amid a buzz of talk and occasional glances at me. Rising from the bench, Volmar gave me a reproachful look. I held my hand out in an apologetic gesture, but he walked away. As the chamber emptied, Brother Wigbert came over, shaking his head resignedly. “I will go with you,” he said, “and you better show some contrition.”
The fire crackling in the hearth banished the autumn gloom and spread a pleasant warmth throughout the parlor. The abbot was sitting at his desk, and the prior occupied the usual place at his right shoulder, standing with his hands folded inside the sleeves of his robe. The orange glow danced on their faces, one weary and the other maliciously alert. When I walked in, the abbot asked without any preamble, “Are you aware that novices are not allowed to speak up during Chapter meetings unless specifically invited to do so?”
“I am now, Father,” I replied humbly, mindful of Brother Wigbert’s admonition, although it was all I could do to stop myself from reminding him that I had, in fact, been invited to speak—just on a different subject. “I beg your indulgence.”
“This was your first infraction, so I am going be lenient. You are not to leave the convent for three days, and you will lie flat through each service of the Divine Office as penance during that time.”
“Yes, Father.”
“You should thank Father Abbot for not putting you on bread and water,” Helenger
growled, unhappy with so light a sentence. “Still, this will teach you not to speak on matters you don’t understand. Who do you fancy yourself to be now—a papal representative?”