I opened my eyes to a gentle splash of water that grew more distinct at the same time as the pale wood of the dorter ceiling came into a sharper focus. I turned my head to find Sister Juliana wringing a linen cloth over a basin.
“God be praised! We have been worried about you!” She placed it on my forehead, where it was pleasantly cool.
I closed my eyes, wishing it was Uda or my mother bathing my forehead in fragrant rosewater. “It happens to me sometimes,” I whispered, feeling guilty for my weakness.
“Don’t worry. Brother Wigbert has sent a medicine for you.” Juliana reached for a small stoppered flask from which she poured a measure into a cup. “Drink. It will make you better.”
I swallowed the liquid, cringing at its bitter taste. “What is it?” I gasped.
“Wine mixed with the oil of valerian,” Juliana replied as if she had just administered a miracle cure for every ailment in the world. “It is Brother Wigbert’s favorite; he makes it for us whenever we feel melancholy.”
But it only made me sleepy. When I was awake, it dulled my headaches, but it also made me sluggish and disinterested. I spent much of my time in bed.
“Do you like embroidery?” Sister Adelheid asked one day in her usual bright manner when she noticed that my eyes were open. There was a sizable piece of silk in her lap, and she was working on a pattern of golden lilies surrounded by green leaves.
“No.” I sat up. “My sisters love it, but I’d rather do almost any other kind of work.”
She looked disappointed; perhaps she had hoped it would cheer me up. “I am decorating a new altar cloth for the church,” she explained. “We are expecting Bishop Otto of Bamberg for the feast of St. Disibod next month. He will be coming in place of the Archbishop of Mainz.” She put the bundle on the table and picked up a bowl of fish stew, a rarity to which only convalescents were entitled.
I swallowed a spoonful. “Your flowers remind me of sunshine and spring.” I pointed at the cloth with my chin. Indeed, the lilies were more artful and delicate than anything my sisters could ever do. “You have a talent.”
Adelheid blushed. “I volunteer whenever the church needs new vestments or when linen needs to be replaced in the guesthouse. Sister Jutta does not approve of decorations, but we are the only women here, so who else will do it? Prior Helenger?” She chuckled.
The image of the haughty-faced prior stiffly working a piece of cloth with needle and thread was so funny that I could not help smiling myself. But there was something I was curious about. “Why is the archbishop not coming for the fair?”
“He has been imprisoned by the emperor.”
An archbishop in prison? That dark, dank place where thieves, brigands, and other enemies of peace languished? “Why?” I asked, aghast.
Adelheid looked uncomfortable. “Archbishop Adalbert opposed the emperor’s seizure of certain castles and supported the excommunication that had been pronounced against him a few years ago.” She sighed as she pushed the needle through the silk. “We are living in disorderly times.”
I was aware of the dispute between the imperial faction and those loyal to the pope in Rome over the control of Church lands and appointments of bishops, a process called investiture. I had heard it discussed at Bermersheim often enough. Now for the first time, I realized that even such a distant-seeming conflict could have an effect where I lived.
Adelheid must have sensed the direction of my thoughts, for she pointed to the embroidery again. “This is a great way to spend time, especially if you are sad or bored. If you keep your hands occupied, your mind will not wander.”
“I’d rather spend my time reading,” I grumbled. Or making medicines. Despite my dislike for the valerian concoction, I liked the idea of having a medicine workshop nearby. If only there was a way for Brother Wigbert to show me around! But, of course, that would never happen. There was nothing to look forward to but a stretch of dreary days, each exactly the same as the one before it and the one that would follow.
“I think I will sleep some more.” I pushed the bowl away, still almost full, and turned to the wall.
The summer was pale, hot, and still. At least that is how it felt inside the enclosure, for the heat came without the relief of the breezes one can find only in an open field. I began to wonder if there was a way for me to fulfill my duty some other way.
In early July, the day before my first feast of St. Disibod, I was alone in the dorter when I heard footsteps outside. I was holding the lump of salt my mother had given me, its cool, pearly smoothness solid and comforting. I had just enough time to put it back in the box before Jutta came in with the unpleasant-tasting medicine.
“Why are we forbidden from going outside?” I asked, turning my head away from the flask.
The strange light in Jutta’s eyes intensified. “It is no use pining for the world, child. There is nothing in it but obstacles to the salvation of your soul.”
“Would going to the church threaten my salvation? Or if I worked in the infirmary garden?”
“Christ despised ornamented temples, and he did not pass his time tending to flowers. As His Brides, we must strive to attain Christ-like perfection by imitating his simple ways.”
“Our priest at Bermersheim says that the beauty of the world is the reflection of the divine,” I said.
“The world may be beautiful, but it is still
