The women bowed their heads, and Sister Adelheid extended her hand. I glanced at my parents, blinking away a sudden sting of tears. But I knew my duty and took the proffered hand, stepping into the dimness of the enclosure.
The door closed behind me, and everything was silent as night fell on the abbey.
This, too, my mother related to me later in her letter: early the next morning, they assembled outside the church under a gray sky. The gravestones in the monks’ cemetery were still wet from the rain, but the air was dry, and a cold wind blew from the north. From time to time, my mother glanced toward the enclosure until my father noticed her brooding aspect.
“I am impressed by the work Abbot Kuno has done here.” He tried to lift her spirits. “I reckon the abbey’s best days are still ahead.”
“It will take a long time.” She did not even bother to hide the bitterness in her voice.
“Physical decay is not nearly as bad as a spiritual one.” The previous night at supper, the abbot had complained about the lax rules, corruption, and lack of discipline found in so many monasteries that a group of French Benedictines decided to leave their house at Molesme and establish a new foundation at Cîteaux dedicated to serving God with simplicity, modesty, and rigor. “Thankfully, this abbey is guided with a firm hand,” he opined as they rode out through the gate.
The image of the abbot’s deputy, Prior Helenger, with his bloodless lips and eyebrows set in a permanent frown, stood before my mother’s eyes, and she doubted that optimism. But she kept her misgivings to herself. “Let us hope, for Hildegard’s sake, that his management of souls is at least as good as his management of the estate,” she said instead.
“I have absolute faith in Abbot Kuno,” my father assured her. “This place is going to thrive again, and our daughter will fulfill her vocation meaningfully.”
My mother did not respond. In her mind’s eye, she saw once again the cluster of plain buildings huddled in a corner of the abbey, and wondered if, even though they had done their duty by the Church, the same could be said of their duty by their child.
4
November 1115
We stood in semi-darkness, illuminated only by the taper in Sister Adelheid’s hand and a shaft of light coming from a door across the small courtyard. The sisters motioned for me to follow, and we entered a rectangular chamber with a solitary window. On the far wall, a large cross hung above a wooden altar, bare save for a breviary in a gilded binding, the only expensive object in the otherwise austere space. The furnishings consisted of three rows of plain pine benches separated by a narrow aisle, and a corner table with a pair of prayer books on it. The chamber was lit by tallow candles in bronze holders in each corner. It was barely warmer than the outside.
I thought the chapel empty until I noticed a silhouette on the ground, barefoot and clad in a sackcloth robe, lying with outstretched arms at the foot of the altar. The two anchoresses stood in reverent silence until Jutta von Sponheim rose, bowed before the cross, and turned to us. She was older than her companions—perhaps twenty-three—and much thinner. In fact, her habit seemed too large for her bony frame and hung loosely from her slight shoulders. Her features were delicate; she had a shapely nose, large dark eyes, and a full mouth, and would have been beautiful but for the unhealthy pallor of her complexion and her sunken cheeks. But her eyes shone with an intensity that rivaled the light of the candles. I was mesmerized by this woman and her severe yet soulful aspect.
My fascination only increased when Jutta spoke in a voice that had an unexpectedly deep and rich quality, like a finely tuned musical instrument. “We have been waiting for you and prayed for your safe arrival.”
With a surge of childish eagerness, I wanted to kiss the woman I had heard so much about, but Jutta made no move, and I remained in place. I recalled my mother’s advice to observe and learn the customs of my new surroundings. “I look forward to joining your convent,” I said. Then I looked around. “Where is your study?”
“This chapel serves as a place for prayer, contemplation, and learning. We do not need much room.”
This was not what I had expected, but my pulse quickened nevertheless. “And what do you learn about?” I thought back on the oblation ceremony, the chants that had stirred me, and how much more thrilling it would have been had I been able to understand more of the Latin.
“We read Scriptures and copy passages to ponder them more deeply. The sisters also take turns playing the psaltery and singing holy songs for our souls’ fortification.”
“My mother has a psaltery that used to belong to my grandmother, and she plays it for us sometimes.” I felt a sudden pang of homesickness, realizing that I would never hear that music again. “Can I learn to play too?”
A faint shadow of a smile crossed Jutta’s face, but it failed to dispel its suffering aspect. “You will when the time comes, but now let us give thanks to God for your arrival among us.” She motioned to the altar, and all of us knelt, Jutta in the front and I behind her, with Adelheid and Juliana on either side. Although I had heard that both women were nobly born—Juliana came from a Thuringian family at least as old and distinguished as the House of Sponheim—I sensed the deference they accorded Jutta as their magistra, and I imitated them. I folded my hands and bowed my head, and for
