As I tried to make sense of this, I remembered the girl Griselda whose family could not afford for her to take the veil. It angered me that only wealthy applicants were being accepted as if buying their way into the Church. With sudden clarity, I saw a difference between what Christ had preached and what the Church was practicing, and it was a lesson that would stay with me for the rest of my life. Many years later, standing at the pulpit of the great cathedral in Cologne, I would still remember every word of that exchange.
“We must ensure that as God’s Church, we remain on the winning side,” the bishop went on in the meantime, his tone now admonishing.
“The side of the nobles of the realm like Count Stephan von Sponheim, our largest benefactor, who has been recruiting supporters to the anti-imperial cause for years.” Kuno seemed eager to show that he was not oblivious to high politics.
“That’s right. But there is one noble in particular that we should back—Lothair von Supplinburg.”
“Ah, of course. He led the alliance at Welfesholz.”
“Not only that, but the Council of Bishops believes that Lothair will be the strongest contender for the throne. When it pleases God to call Emperor Heinrich, of course,” the bishop added, perhaps realizing that he had sounded a bit too eager.
“Unless there is a legitimate heir.”
“Rumor has it that the emperor is incapable of producing one.” Otto dropped his voice confidentially. “He has been married to Empress Matilda for more than two years, but there is still no sign of a child in her womb . . .” The voices became unintelligible as they walked back toward the church, where the vesper chants had just died down.
Despite my dismay at the idea of selling novitiates at the highest prices, I was riveted by the conflicts playing out in the world from which I had been excluded. The struggles, the intrigue, the imperial couple’s need to produce an heir who would stand in the way of Lothair’s ambition brought the boredom of my existence into sharp relief once again. I craved knowledge and wanted to be part of what was happening rather than being so isolated.
Before I fell asleep that night, I knew I would have to get out of the enclosure, or I would die.
I awoke to a sensation that something was not right. The day had been calm, but now the wind had picked up, gusts howling in the eaves and corners of the abbey. I peered through the darkness illuminated by faint moonlight and made out the heads of Juliana and Adelheid. I remembered returning from matins with all three of them, but the floor where Jutta normally slept was empty. I strained my eyes again, but there was nobody there.
My apprehension deepened. According to the predictable rhythm of the conventual life, we were all supposed to be sleeping until lauds, which seemed to be some hours away. I rose noiselessly and walked to the door, hearing nothing except the regular breathing of the two sisters. As quietly as possible, I slid the wooden bolt and gently pushed the door open. It squeaked in its hinges, and I froze as one of the sleepers turned over, but soon everything was still again. I slipped out into the courtyard. The wind tugged at the sparse vine leaves on the wall, and a few stars shone behind the wispy clouds that flitted across the partial disk of the moon.
Everything was dark, and there was no sign of Jutta. At length I became conscious of a regular sound, sharp and short, accompanied by what sounded like muffled sobs. It came from the chapel, and I felt my anxiety welling up again as I walked toward it. I grasped the doorknob and slowly pulled it. At any moment, I expected the hinges to squeak and give me away, but they did not. When the door opened about an inch, I pressed my face to the crack.
At the foot of the altar, Jutta was on her knees, almost crouching on the floor, her back exposed down to the waist. My eyes widened as I saw her pale skin crisscrossed by crimson lines. I was still staring when Jutta’s right hand rose rapidly, and a swishing sound pierced the air accompanied by long dark shadows momentarily cast over her flesh. I clamped my hand over my mouth as a tearing sob rang out, followed by a plangent plea. “Why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from me and from the words of my groaning?” I recognized it as one of Jutta’s favorite psalms.
There were new smudges on her back now, welling up with red ooze that slowly trickled down. Another lash. “I cry in the daytime, but you do not hear, and in the night, and I am not silent!”
Again. And again. “Be not far from me, for trouble is near, for there is none to help.”
Each time the strips of leather crashed into Jutta’s back, my body involuntarily jerked. I was mesmerized and horrified, and my head was spinning. Why is she hurting herself? Should I call for someone? What if she dies? I recalled our talk about repentance and sacrifice—was fasting and self-denial no longer enough? Did she have to suffer this terrifying punishment too?
A wave of nausea swept over me. Moving away from the door, I leaned against the wall of the chapel. When my back touched the planks, I felt a burning sensation, as if my own skin had been flayed. Fighting a growing light-headedness, I took a few steps toward the dorter, but the effort was too much. I lifted my eyes toward the stars, but their light had lost its sharpness, and then the world went dark.
6
September 1116
Brother Wigbert’s assistant, a novice named Bertolf, conducted me to the cloister where he and Abbot Kuno waited. As we passed the scriptorium, Bertolf cast a longing gaze toward
