by P K Adams
Despite myself, I was impressed with the cleric’s spirit and perseverance, and his seemingly inexhaustible energy and industry. The influence and recognition they had brought him had a powerful appeal to me.
“I have no doubt we will hear more about him,” Volmar’s voice reached me. “His dispute with Abelard is not over yet. They are both equally tenacious, and I suspect we have not seen the last of it.”
I studied Volmar again. He had been to a foreign land and lived at a great abbey where reform ideas and other weighty affairs were discussed as a matter of daily routine. “When are you going back?” I asked, unable to fathom any other course.
His gaze met mine. “I am not.”
The breath caught in my chest. “But St. Disibod must seem so dull now.” I loved the infirmary and the workshop and felt a certain attachment to the abbey, but all the same I was aware of its provincial character. “In a few months, you will change your mind.”
“I doubt it.” He averted his eyes, but the conviction in his voice was unmistakable. “I need a quiet place for my study, and the constant bustle of Cluny was a distraction.” He laughed briefly, and I thought I heard a note of relief in it. “It felt like the archbishop’s court at times.”
The dusk was deepening, and our sense of intimacy and isolation from everyone was growing. “We should get ready for vespers.” I rose as a memory buried in the recesses of my mind pushed its way into my consciousness, enhanced by the scented air of the summer night.
We crossed the garden in silence, but before we parted, Volmar turned to me. “I want you to know that no matter what the prior or any of the monks say about what you do with the convent, I will support you.”
I nodded, too moved to respond.
When I was alone again, I pressed the little book to my heart.
He had forgiven me.
Finally, I was at peace.
28
April 1129
The workshop table was littered with half-empty vials of liquids and bowls smudged with dried paste, and the washing bowl was full of used cups. I had been ill for nearly a fortnight, the pain in my head making my eyes hurt at the light and my body fold in on itself. But it was also the season of chills and fevers. The infirmary was overflowing with patients, and though I knew that Elfrid and Fabian were doing the best they could, I heaved a deep sigh. So much work to do, and I was still weak.
“I will clean it.” A voice spoke behind me, and I smiled even before turning.
Griselda, wearing a novice’s robe, stood in the door of the workshop, a rake and spade in her hands. It was the day before the Sabbath, when I normally did gardening work, but of course I hadn’t been able to when I was ill. And she had come, at this critical time of spring planting, to dig out old roots, cut dry stems off the shrubs, and loosen the soil for herbs to start growing again. She had even pruned the rosebushes. I gave her a grateful look—what would I do without her?
She had arrived at the abbey the previous autumn, barely able to contain her excitement at the chance she had thought would never come. I was excited too, but also nervous; what if someone recognized her, and her former subterfuge came to light? The charter gave me discretion over choosing my novices, but the abbot was my nominal superior and could, if he wanted to, make it difficult for me.
As it turned out, I had no reason to worry. Volmar knew, of course, but none of the others put it together. After Griselda’s blessing ceremony, I overheard one brother remarking to another that she looked familiar, but he could not think why. A few days later, an elderly monk came to the infirmary for an application of aconite oil for his sore joints, and swore that Griselda had to be related to a baron whose lands bordered those of his family further up the Glan. Something in her features reminded him of that nobleman, long dead he must be, but perhaps she was a granddaughter? He was so determined to review the family tree for me that it was all I could do to distract him from the subject, and I finally offered him a cup of undiluted elderberry wine. He drank it happily and fell asleep until vespers.
And so Griselda was with me once again, in the convent this time, and I had never seen her so content—I had never seen anybody so content there. She was perfectly happy not to have to leave the enclosure, devoting her time to serving our small community, but, as I could see now, she was as reliable outside of it as ever. Her offer of help and her very presence gave me great comfort.
I eyed the messy interior of the workshop. “Are you sure this is not too much for you? Maybe we could do it together.”
Griselda shook her head. “You had better check on the infirmary. Sister Elfrid says Brother Fabian has been a little lost.”
I sighed again. My monk assistant was the best of the ones who had come through the infirmary over the years, but he was not as passionate a healer as I or Elfrid nor as skillful. I suspected he had chosen this work to avoid the scriptorium duty, for he had even less aptitude for the patient and precise work required of scribes. But I had no choice; amid the dearth of talent, I had to take what was available. “I am going to make medicine for Angmar and go see her first. What she suffers from is much harder to cure than a cough.”
“Sister Elfrid has been making her fennel and lemon balm drafts like you did. Says she drinks them but still refuses to speak.”
I made a quick calculation. “It has been nine months, but these things take time. What she needs is wholesome food, peace, and fresh air, and what we need is—”
“Patience.”
“Indeed.” Griselda’s ability to catch my meaning and anticipate what I needed without being asked had always amazed me. I took her hand in mine. “I am really glad you are here,” I said. “There are few people I trust more than you.”
Probably no one.
Save Volmar.
And with Wigbert and Jutta gone, trust was something I needed more than ever.
Angmar’s brother had first come from Brauweiler in the early autumn. By then, her frenzy had largely gone away, but there were still occasional attacks. They were followed each time by a round of exorcisms performed by Helenger, who, I suspected, was finally enjoying himself. But most of the time, she either slept or sat gazing at the opposite wall for hours.
The monks had begun to murmur that she should be sent home since there was nothing else one could to do for her. But I was not convinced; I had found signs on her body of whip lashes, which brought back memories I had been trying to forget. But Angmar’s scars were superficial, so she did not have the same zeal, or her tolerance for pain was lower. Either was good news. It also gave me an inkling into a possible cause of her breakdown.
Simon was much dispirited when he found his sister sitting with her knees drawn to her chest. She gazed at him fearfully.
“Do you think she will let me take her back home?” he asked me in a low voice.
“She is in no condition to travel.”
The young man ran a hand through his hair. “What am I going to do with her, then?”
“She should stay here until she recovers. I still believe it is possible.”
Simon shook his head. “My father cannot pay for such a lengthy treatment. What I have brought with me”—he unclasped a small leather purse from his belt—“may not even be enough to cover the costs the abbey has already incurred.” He blinked back tears as his gaze drifted toward his sister again.
I rejected the payment with a gesture. “Cost should not stand in the way of helping an anguished soul find joy again.” I had started paying a fee for Angmar’s upkeep myself, including the guest cell. “Keep it.” I pointed to the purse. “And on your way back, give it away to those who need it more.”
It was spring now, and Angmar’s condition had not changed much, even though I made sure that in addition to the nerve-soothing drafts, she ate a diet of lean poultry, fruits, and uncooked vegetables, whose cold and wet properties might help counteract the ov
erheating of the brain and return the humors to a more favorable balance. The day was sunny and mild, and I decided to take her to the infirmary garden.
At first she balked at the idea and asked to be taken back inside the moment we stepped out of the cloister. But I held her hand firmly and promised to take her to the herb garden, which was quieter and more private, and by degrees she calmed. We crossed the courtyard slowly, and I led her to the bench under the fruit trees, their branches covered with swollen buds on the verge of bursting.
We sat quietly for a while, my patient seemingly lost in her world while I admired Griselda’s work. Not a remnant of the previous year’s growth was visible anywhere. In another week or two, the garden would be greening, filling with life energy I would then capture and lock into fresh batches of medicines. And just like that, my weariness dissipated, new strength infusing the blood in my veins, and I wondered how I could make Angmar feel the same way.
As if in response, Angmar’s voice, soft and dreamy, broke the stillness of the moment. “Is it not strange that such beautiful places exist in this world?”
My heart fluttered, but I knew I had to proceed gently. “Why do you find it so?”
“It is at odds with the terrible fate that awaits us.” Her voice lost the dreamy quality then and came out bleak.
“What makes you think that?”
But she did not respond. The moment had passed, and I took her back to her cell.
Several days later, on a rainy afternoon, I came to her with medicine and a Bible in which I had marked several passages. I sat by the window and opened it on St. Paul’s first letter to the Thessalonians. Now that Angmar’s mind seemed to be returning from the dark place it had inhabited for so long, it was time to try a new approach.
“‘Rejoice always and in everything give thanks’.” I began to translate the Latin into German. “‘Quench not the Spirit, and may the God of peace make you holy and whole, and preserve your spirit, soul, and body unto the coming of our Lord’.”
“And this from Jeremiah,” I continued, turning to another passage. “‘For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’.”
Angmar raised her head, and her gaze wandered to the window where low rain clouds tumbled across the sky. It was not exactly an invitation to a conversation, but I felt an interest; she wanted me to go on. “‘Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say, Rejoice! Let your moderation be known to all. The Lord is near. Fret not, but let your requests be made known unto God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will keep your hearts and minds’.” I paused. “From a letter to the Philippians.”
A candle burned placidly on a low shelf next to the bed, and I wondered if things would have turned out differently, all those years before, if I’d had the ability to relieve Jutta’s suffering with similar readings? To counter the passages of doom with those of hope? But I had been too young and inexperienced, with nothing to guide me but my instinct, and it had told me that healing the physical pain would soothe the mind. Now I knew that sometimes it had to be the other way around.
“My parents are great admirers of Sister Jutta.” Angmar’s words shocked me with their correspondence to my thoughts. “Ever since I can remember, hardly any day passed without them mentioning her,” she continued as if to herself. “They called her ‘the holy lady.’ Following her example, we live in fear of the sin in whose shadow we are all born, and of the damnation that awaits all but those who are strong enough to resist the Devil.”
I closed the book gently. “Tell me more about it.”
She was quiet for a long moment, then resumed. “When I was a child, there was a priest in Brauweiler who liked to quote the Book of Revelation . . . all those prophesies of God’s wrath, the plagues, the eternal fire . . .” She rubbed her forehead with a frantic gesture that, for a moment, made me worry that she would relapse. But then she dropped her hand in her lap. Gazing at the small wooden crucifix of the sort commonly carried by pilgrims that she was clutching, she said, “Father would repeat them to us when we misbehaved, and though my brother was not much bothered by those images, they terrified me, especially the prospect of being thrown into hell.”
“And why would that happen? You are a good person. You have nothing to fear.”
“Am I, Sister? Am I?” She spoke with sudden passion, and her lips quivered as she drew a loud breath. “Devotion, charity to the poor, chastity—that is easy enough. The body can be controlled, but thoughts are more fickle; it is not always possible to master them as we would wish.” She looked down again and her cheeks flushed.
“There is a young man, isn’t there?” I put my hand on hers.
The flush rose higher. “A neighbor’s son. Even though I don’t want to, I cannot always stop myself from thinking about him.” She wrung her hands.
“God is forgiving, especially with weaknesses of that nature!” I assured her with a zeal that made her look up.
Suddenly my cheeks were burning too, but before I had a chance to be embarrassed, Angmar’s look melted back into the familiar despair. “God is vengeful!”
I squeezed her arm in what I hoped was a comforting gesture. “Is that what terrified you when you came here on your pilgrimage?”
“Mother and Father had always wanted us to visit Sister Jutta’s grave.” Her voice was flat again. “Simon had already made one pilgrimage when he had turned sixteen; this was his second time, and he came to accompany me. Both times he had looked forward to it, but I had grown more and more worried as the day approached. And when I was finally here, I felt as though the prophesy would be fulfilled at any moment—my belly would not tolerate any food, my lungs refused to inhale the air, and the ground seemed to sway under my feet.”
“And yet nothing happened.”
“I don’t know why!” Angmar looked around, bewildered, as if she expected the walls to cave in.
“Nobody knows when He will come again; what we do know is that He is loving and merciful.”
“Was Sister Jutta wrong, then?”
She was a clever girl. Sensitive and clever. The former made her more prone to a breakdown like the kind she had suffered; the latter gave me hope that she might yet be helped. “Sister Jutta had a selective way of interpreting God’s word,” I said. “There are apocalyptic passages in the Holy Scriptures, but there are even more joyful ones. I have given you some of them so you may feel fortified in the promise of salvation.”
Angmar watched the rain silently for some time. “So the sin we are born with does not condemn us?”
“Some in our Church are greatly concerned with it, but we must not forget that baptism washes it away.” I said. “Then we are left only with the gifts bestowed on us at birth—the capacity to love, to know justice, and to feel compassion—and we must decide what to do with these blessings.”
A flicker of light animated Angmar’s eyes. “Blessings,” she repeated wonderingly. “They are original, just like the sin.”
I still remember the satisfaction that leading Angmar—leading both of us, really—to that realization gave me. “Yes, let us call them original blessings,” I said. “And instead of looking back at what you have been freed from, direct your gaze to the future, and nurture these seeds so they may reach their fullest expression in the time you have.” I reached for the cup with the fennel draft, which she accepted with what came as close to a smile as I had yet seen on her face. “Now drink this and rest. This has been a lot for you.”
She looked toward the window again. “The night is falling early with this storm, but tomorrow the sky will be clear again.”
And those words, more than anything else, showed me that she was back.
I stayed with Angmar until her breath softened and steadied, listening to the rain lashing against the stone of the cloister. I tucked the blanket around h
er shoulders like I would do to a child I would now have if I had chosen a different life. But that was a sacrifice I’d had to make, and moments like this made it worthwhile.
I left the cell quietly, not knowing that I was about to come close to losing everything for which I had worked so hard.
29
April 1129
We were awakened in the middle of the night by a loud banging on the gate. Gertrude ran to see what was happening and returned saying that the abbot had been taken violently ill.
Within moments I was dressed and rushing to his house. The rain had stopped, but water was still dripping from the roofs and eaves, their soggy splashes amidst the predawn silence providing an eerie background to my rapid steps. I was frantically trying to imagine what could be ailing Kuno. He had always been a healthy man, still robust and full of vitality at the age of fifty-four. But I was a healer—my duty to deliver the best care to my patient—and for that I needed to be clearheaded and banish all other thoughts, especially those crowding at the edges of my consciousness telling me what my future would be if the abbot died that night.
Kuno’s private chamber was crowded, but the monks withdrew when I entered, leaving only a bleary-eyed Brother Fabian and Prior Helenger, looking focused and alert as if he had never slept—or needed sleep, for that matter. The abbot was in the throes of a spasm that made him clutch his stomach as it heaved. A lay brother crouched by his bed with a basin into which the abbot emptied the contents of his stomach, their pungent, acidic odor filling the room even though the shutters had been thrown open. He was pale, beads of sweat stood on his forehead, and his skin was cool and clammy to touch. Those manifestations, their suddenness and violence, told me that the illness had originated from the food he had eaten.