The Greenest Branch

by P K Adams

  In response, I received an invitation to the Chapter meeting the following day. My last appearance at the monks’ gathering had ended with an attempt to shut me permanently inside the convent. As magistra my position was different, though I was still nervous.

  On my way to the chapter house, I took stock of the improvements that had taken place over the years, many of them paid for with our money. The new tiles on the roof of the church glinted red in the October sun, providing a lively counterpoint to its bulky gray mass. Inside, there were new relics, a richly decorated Bible, and fine wall hangings rumored to have arrived all the way from France. I had also heard that the monks’ cloister now boasted a fountain carved out of marble, a stone prized for its beauty and durability by the Romans. If it was true, it would have cost a small fortune.

  But our walls had seen no major work done since the attack three years before, even though the empire’s affairs were as volatile as ever under King Lothair. As the abbey had grown richer, the main safeguard of its prosperity had gone unaddressed. We were protected by the same wood-and-earth palisade that was full of rotted beams only provisionally patched up. The monks had been lulled into complacency, and I could not keep my head from shaking as I reached the chapter house. It, too, was fitted with sturdy new oak doors bound in intricately carved iron.

  The obedientiaries had already taken their seats at the table, but it was Helenger who was presiding over the assembly. All at once I remembered that Kuno had been planning to visit a priory north of Mainz that was in the middle of trying to achieve independence from its mother house at Affligem.

  “Father Abbot is gone to Andernach to lend his support to Prior Gilbert.” Helenger confirmed my fears with a wolfish smile. “I have been given full powers to conduct business in his absence.”

  With a sinking feeling, I realized I had walked into a trap. My plea might have worked—just—with Kuno, but there was little chance I would get what I wanted from Helenger, and there might be gratuitous humiliation in store for me besides that.

  For the first hour, he went down a tedious list of business, although I was interested to hear the report on the income from that year’s harvest. It amounted to a respectable sum of three hundred twenty-five marks, far higher than the one hundred marks the abbey used to earn when I had first arrived, and a reflection of how its fortunes had risen along with the convent’s reputation. That list, I thought in frustration, included the bounty from the two dozen acres of oak forest and another ten acres of arable land Gertrude had brought with her.

  A murmur of subdued conversations brought me out of my musings. Helenger had arrived at the end of his agenda, and the monks took advantage of the break to comment amongst themselves. When the ripple died down, he turned to me with affected politeness. “Sister Hildegard has requested a meeting, and even though Father Abbot could not be here today, we will gladly hear her business.”

  I did not relish the idea of presenting my petition in a wider forum, but on reflection I realized that it might be beneficial. The monks, on the whole, respected the convent—some had even been admirers of Jutta’s ascetic ways. Perhaps Helenger would have a harder time refusing me in front of them. “I would like to submit for the abbey’s consideration,” I began without any preliminaries, “a request to renovate and enlarge the convent’s buildings.”

  The prior regarded me with an impassive face. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

  “It would be of great benefit to our community if our wooden dorter was replaced with a larger one built of stone, with separate sleeping and refectory quarters.”

  “The enclosure is too small to fit a larger building,” Helenger said complacently.

  “It could be easily expanded by incorporating a part of the smaller courtyard that is used by nobody except the servants and messengers between the abbey and the convent.”

  A smirk curled the corners of his lips. “I don’t understand,” he said, feigning astonishment. “The anchoresses vowed to live out their days in simplicity and poverty, and you are asking us to build a sumptuous residence for them?”

  “Hardly sumptuous, Brother Prior,” I replied evenly. “Rather, a more dignified place that meets our basic needs so we can fulfill our mission for the benefit of the people we serve and the glory of God.”

  Helenger’s face remained set; it was clear that my plea was not a welcome one. I wondered whether he was truly so shortsighted as to keep the convent from growing. But his next words took me by surprise, for rather than refusing outright, he decided to attack me. “Troubling news has reached us regarding—shall we say—a certain relaxation of manners at your convent. There are rumors”—he wrinkled his nose as if he had smelled something foul—“of women wearing their hair long, going about with uncovered heads, and wearing fanciful garments. I fear that you are in breach of The Rule and that you will bring God’s wrath upon us with this sacrilege.”

  His approach was to undermine my credibility, then. I regarded him with what I hoped was an equally icy look as the chapter house fell silent. “Would you care to name those offended that I may assure them they have no cause for concern?”

  Helenger waved his long hand dismissively. “I am not going to name anyone, but I will say that I fully share those misgivings, and put it to you in front of these witnesses that you are not a fit leader for the convent, and therefore in no position to make any demands.”

  A murmur of voices rose again, and I saw heads shaking and disapproving glances cast toward the prior. For the first time, I wondered about his personal popularity among the monks.

  I turned to face the tiered seats, and said loudly, so my voice would reach the back rows, “I assure you, Brothers, that we fully respect The Rule in all of the convent’s activities. Sister Jutta had imposed, as was her right, stricter regulations regarding hair and attire than those recommended by the Blessed Benedict. I have a different view in this matter, for I saw that shearing off the hair saddened and subdued the women, and there is no need for that. A religious calling fulfilled with serenity and without needless suffering is more pleasing in God’s eyes.”

  I paused, taking stock of my audience. Most of the monks listened with polite attention; only a few, whom I knew to have a sycophantic streak, were eying Helenger, ready to take their cues from him. “Regarding our robes, there is nothing fanciful about them,” I went on. “I wear a simple white one, as you can see, and so do Sisters Elfrid and Gertrude. White is a symbol of innocence—and thus we are like Eve in Paradise before the Fall—and of chastity, which makes it suitable for brides of Christ”—Jutta’s favorite metaphor for our consecrated state—“therefore it cannot be immodest, much less sacrilegious.”

  Heads were still nodding in approval when the prior’s voice thundered from the dais. “Under your oversight, the convent has departed from its anchorite ways and become an insult to God and the Church. You will be called to answer for that!”

  The accusation sent my blood boiling. I’d had every intention of dealing fairly with the abbey, but if they believed they could continue to exert unlimited control over the convent, they would have a rude awakening. “You seem to forget, Brother Prior”—I eyed him levelly—“that you are not talking to a child oblate anymore. I hold a rank as the head of the convent, and our charter gives me prerogatives which I intend to fully exercise to fulfill our mission.”

  The silence was so complete that it seemed nobody dared to breathe. Helenger looked incredulous as he opened his mouth, but no words came out. I saw that despite his anger, there was a calculating glint in his eyes. He was aware that what I had said was true.

  “Are you going to build a new convent without the abbey’s permission, then?” Derision distorted his features.

  “Of course not,” I scoffed at this weak attempt to ridicule me. Then I smiled in as friendly a way as I could manage in front of him. “Our current size allows me to accept one more novice, and th
ere are dozens of women from wealthy Rhenish families that I can choose from. I assure you the new entrant will come with a sizeable endowment over which—as you well know—I will have full control under the terms of our charter.”

  I let the unspoken implication sink in, trying to exude a posture of certainty and defiance, though, in truth, I felt neither. A fifth sister would be a big inconvenience in our already cramped quarters. I also hated having to make this argument, which amounted to blackmail, because it was beneath the dignity of my state, my office, and myself as a person.

  Helenger was still gathering his wits when Brother Peter, who had replaced Ignatius as treasurer, spoke up. Peter was relatively young for such a senior post, being only twenty-five, and he was handsome and soft-spoken with an honest, intelligent face.

  “Brother Prior, if I may,” he addressed Helenger. “I think we should consider Sister Hildegard’s petition. It is true that there is much interest from women in joining the convent, and little room to accommodate them.” I studied him, wondering if he was concerned with our welfare or merely worried about a source of income drying up, the more so since the expectations for generous gifts from local nobles had not come to fruition, as King Lothair had raised their taxes to refill the empire’s treasury, exhausted after his predecessor’s wars.

  The prior turned to Peter, but instead of a fury I had expected, there was an almost anguished look in his eyes. The young monk shifted uneasily under the intensity of his gaze. “I think perhaps we should consult the brethren.” Helenger’s voice sounded strangely subdued, as if he had a hard time filling his lungs with air. “Does anyone have a view on this matter?” He turned back to the monks and cleared his throat. “Brother Hippolytus?”

  The monk named Hippolytus rose and pushed the cowl off his head. He wore a stern expression and avoided looking in my direction. During his visits to the infirmary, he had always refused to be treated by me, insisting on speaking only to Brother Wigbert. Now that the infirmarian was incapacitated, he had stopped coming altogether, sending novices to request remedies for his various—and mostly imaginary—ailments.

  “I do not like the idea of expanding the convent,” he said unhappily, bringing a satisfied smile to Helenger’s face. “In fact, I don’t think we should have a female community here at all. It was a mistake to allow Sister Jutta to establish herself at St. Disibod in the first place. Women are nothing but a source of temptation, sent among us by the Devil to confound us and turn us away from—”

  “Thank you, Brother!” Helenger interrupted sourly. He may have been as grated as Hippolytus by our presence, but even he understood its benefits. “Anyone else?”

  As nobody spoke up, he hastened to close the Chapter. “I will defer to Father Abbot on this,” he said, looking somewhere above my shoulder. “You will have your answer soon enough.”

  That night I asked Juliana to lead compline in my place, and as they sang, I reviewed the meeting again in my head. By degrees, it became clear to me that even under the most benevolent abbot—let alone Helenger, whose succession seemed a foregone conclusion—there would always be tension between us and the abbey.

  And at the center of it would be money.

  25

  January 1128

  The evening before the feast of the Epiphany was typical of a Rhenish January: blustery and cold but bright from the fresh snow underfoot and the clear stars overhead. Since I was a young child, the wintry aspect of the sky had made me wonder about those far away bodies and the source of their illumination. I was now convinced that it had to be the same as on earth, where God’s breath infused viriditas into stones and creatures alike, and that force was transferred from one body to another, from one object to another, in the never-ending cycle of rebirth and renewal.

  As I walked to the abbot’s house it occurred to me, not for the first time, that the light of the stars must reflect that of the moon. And the moon? Its brightness could only be animated by the sun’s fire. Everything served something higher, and nothing exceeded its due measure.

  I shook a few stray snowflakes off my cape as I entered the parlor. Tonight we had our monthly supper, an arrangement we had recently started so the abbot could stay abreast of the convent and the infirmary’s affairs.

  The fire was burning brightly, and I crossed to the hearth to warm my hands, my eyes alighting on a pair of new wall hangings depicting the Annunciation and the miracle of the loaves and fishes, finely woven with colorful thread. I turned my face to hide my resentment; the abbey acquired new ornaments and relics regularly—all in the hopes of attracting more pilgrims, the abbot said—but no work had yet been done on the convent, although Kuno had given his preliminary consent the previous winter. I had even accepted a new novice, Burgundia, and ceded a third of her dowry to the monks as a sign of goodwill. But that was in the year 1127. We had just welcomed the new one, and all five of us were still living with no room to spare, a community that could grow no more.

  As we sat down to a savory dish of veal stewed with carrots and onions, I took a long sip of spiced wine, letting its aroma pervade my senses as it warmed me. After a few moments, I felt the welcome sense of mellow detachment that only good wine can bring, but then a wave of nostalgia swept me.

  “Brother Wigbert always looked forward to his suppers with you. They made him happy,” I said, emotion swelling in my chest. The old infirmarian had died the previous November, and although his spirit—that which had made him Bother Wigbert—had departed long before that, I felt the loss keenly. “I miss him.”

  The abbot’s eyes glistened momentarily. “He is with God now and intercedes with Him on our behalf. We can only be grateful that he died so peacefully.”

  I agreed. I had seen my share of death, and the way it had taken Wigbert, without the awareness of the end approaching, seemed the more merciful way.

  “When a companion passes away, especially one not much older,” the abbot spoke again, “it puts mortality in a new perspective. It becomes less abstract, more personal.” There was a faraway look in his eyes. He was in his fifties, and I wondered what it must be like to be looking back at one’s life, rather than ahead. Was he proud and content, or were there things he regretted? He performed his duties well and had saved the abbey from oblivion, but he had also kept Helenger close all these years, tolerating his temper and behavior, which brought him into intermittent conflict with the other monks—and at times also with me.

  The abbot shook his head as if to dispel the somber reflections and brought the conversation back to more mundane business. “Are you satisfied with Sister Elfrid’s work?”

  “Greatly, Father. She is an excellent midwife and a competent nurse. Without her, I would not be able to manage the infirmary.”

  “It is certainly busy.” There was satisfaction in Kuno’s voice. Our reputation was unrivaled in the Rhineland, and although in accordance with Regula Benedicti patients were treated for free, the wealthier ones always left gifts for the abbey. “I want to ensure that you have as much help as you need. I understand that Brother Edwig”—he was referring to the latest of my assistants—“is better suited to menial tasks than medical procedures?”

  “Indeed. Not everyone has the calling for it.”

  “That is why I am going to send Brother Fabian to you for training. He is a novice who joined us six months ago and has expressed a great deal of interest in medicine.”

  An assistant with a disposition toward healing? That would certainly be a novelty. “Anything helps,” I said, “and if he turns out to have a talent for it, it will only benefit the abbey.” I had no illusions as to the self-serving nature of the offer. Kuno needed me and the infirmary more than ever.

  “Quite,” he hastened to agree.

  I decided to take advantage of the situation. “Father, I must ask again if you have given any more thought to the convent’s expansion. We see much interest from candidates but have
no way to accommodate them, and as magistra, I cannot allow this potential to go to waste.”

  He regarded me with an almost apologetic expression, and it occurred to me that it was probably the prior and his backers who had been holding it up. I felt a pang of sympathy for Kuno, caught as he was between competing interests. But he was the abbot and he would have to make a decision, and I would not back down from what was best for us.

  “I have,” he said. “We can spare a part of the smaller courtyard up to the old watchtower to enlarge your premises. I will make the announcement at the end of the month.”

  I sat back. “Thank you, Father. I know how difficult it will be to justify this to. . . some of the brothers, but I assure you it will benefit all of us.”

  Kuno closed his eyes in subtle acknowledgement. “We will use timber for the new buildings, as stone would be too expensive. Unless, of course, you want to pay for it out of Sister Burgundia’s dowry.”

  “You know it would not be enough,” I replied coolly, ignoring the sarcasm and refraining from reminding him of my own gift to the abbey. But I was glad nonetheless; under the circumstances, just seeing the convent rebuilt and expanded would be a success.

  “I am glad we understand each other, Sister. I am going to hire Master Albert.” He made a gesture to encompass his comfortable lodgings. “His skill and reputation are excellent.” The master builder, who lived in Disibodenberg, had supervised the construction of the abbot’s new house three years before.

  “I will prepare a sketch of what I have in mind,” I said, reaching for a piece of pear baked in honey that had been served for dessert. “Perhaps we can discuss it at our next supper.”

  “That would be good. Then construction can start as soon as the spring rains are over.”

  As I walked back to the convent later, snow crunching under my feet, I wondered again about Kuno’s motivations. For unlike Helenger, whose hatred for me was clear, the abbot had been mostly kind. Fundamentally, he was a good man, but the abbey’s rising stature and the reputation of his table—both of which were costly to maintain—were important to him. Whatever it was, as long as he remained in good health, my relations with the abbey would be manageable enough.