My eyes filled with tears as I remembered the sunny afternoons picnicking with Uda and my siblings. Homesickness swept over me in a numbing wave.
“Idle activities foster idle thoughts and bring about idle laughter, making us forget the evil that has taken hold of God’s people,” Jutta droned on. “As anchoresses, it is our duty to bemoan their plight and constantly pray for their deliverance.”
There were many things I wanted to say in response—that I had never been closer to God than when I was running through the Bermersheim forest or sitting by the village stream listening to its silvery whisper. Or that I never felt more camaraderie with my companions at St. Disibod than when we were making music together. But when I looked into Jutta’s eyes, I knew that her beliefs were unshakeable, and that I would have to find a way to live with them without letting them displace what I held so dear.
On the feast of St. Disibod, I asked to be excused from the Divine Office. The anchoresses showed no vexation at being excluded from the festivities, but my heart was heavy. I would have loved to attend Mass in the big church, which I imagined decorated with all kinds of flowers for the occasion, their sweet fragrance mixing with the more pungent scent of incense.
Toward noon, the buzz of activity grew markedly louder. The shutters of our dorter windows normally stayed closed during the day, but I opened one just enough to allow me to observe the proceedings in the main courtyard, my chin resting on my palms. Bishop Otto’s cortege had just entered through the abbey gate, where Abbot Kuno was waiting to receive him.
I immediately identified the bishop by the dazzlingly white tunic and purple cassock adorning his large figure, a splash of luxuriant color among the simple black habits of the monks. After nearly a year surrounded by enforced poverty, my eyes widened at the sight of the large gem-studded cross hanging on a golden chain from his neck, the stones sparkling brightly in the sun. An attendant handed him his staff, and as he grasped it, I saw a glint of his great ring. The bishop had ridden in on a mule, after the fashion of churchmen, but it was a fine beast, muscular and shiny-coated, that would hold its own against any palfrey.
Preceded by the abbot, Otto of Bamberg entered the church, followed by his entourage and the monks. After that, the lay people crowded at the entrance, and I imagined them spilling into the cool interior of the church, filling every corner. Most were peasants, judging by their drab outfits and deferential air, but there were also pilgrims with walking sticks and provisions packed in bundles on their backs. The rest were townsfolk, including several merchants, similar in their dress and confident bearing to the salt traders whom I had seen at Alzey.
During the Mass there was a lengthy sermon delivered in a loud, commanding voice, which I guessed was the bishop’s. If I had been born a boy, I mused, I would be able to participate in such ceremonies instead of having to grasp at distant echoes. Feeling dejected, I went back to bed and, lulled by Otto of Bamberg’s peroration, dozed off.
I was awakened by the vesper bell. The festivities were over, but shortly after the sound of the bell had died down, I heard two voices in the small courtyard, just outside the convent. The speakers must have chosen the hour when the monks would be in the church and the anchoresses in their chapel to have a private conference.
“The emperor’s defeat at the hands of Lothair von Supplinburg at Welfesholtz strengthens the Church’s prospects,” one of the men said.
On the other side of the dorter wall, I was all ears.
“May this bring peace and relief upon our people who have suffered greatly from these constant uprisings.” I recognized the other voice as belonging to Abbot Kuno.
“Yes, of course,” his companion hastily affirmed, “but what this means for us is that we will be in a better position to preserve our lands. The emperor has long wanted to trade his investiture rights for control over ecclesiastical estates.”
The speaker, commanding and confident, could only have been the bishop.
“That is certainly welcome news,” Kuno said, “although ours is a poor abbey with only a few vineyards, an orchard, and a mill. Hardly the kind of property the crown would be interested in.”
I was ready to turn away and return to bed, satisfied the events had little to do with us, when Otto spoke again. “Perhaps not, but there is another way you can benefit.” His voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “Now the emperor is weakened, I hear the barons will oppose new taxes, perhaps even demand lowering the current ones, which will leave more gold in their purses.”
“And how does that favor us?” The abbot’s voice was uncertain.
“It favors you because,” the bishop was beginning to sound impatient, “they will have more money to support holy places like this one.” I imagined him making a sweeping gesture with a bejeweled hand.
“But will they?” Kuno sounded skeptical.
“Father Abbot, what I am saying is that you should ensure that each novice brings in as large an endowment as his family can be expected to pay under these new circumstances.” There was a moment of silence, and then the bishop added, as if in response to some grimace on Kuno’s part, “Abbeys like St. Disibod need to use this opportunity to stop pinching every penny. Poverty limits our holy ministries.”
“But how am I to judge who can afford what, Your Excellency?”
“I have thought of that.” The bishop assured him smoothly. “My clerks are drawing up a list of noble families throughout the region who have sons or daughters destined for the consecrated life. We have sources that can help us estimate their wealth and therefore what they can be expected to pay in ecclesiastical dowries. I will
