I had spent the past two months as an infirmary patient after the sisters had found me in the convent’s courtyard. I was feverish, and they had trouble bringing me back to my senses. For nearly a fortnight, I lingered in that state before the fever broke. But my recovery had been slow; I had only taken a few steps around the infirmary until that day, and I still felt weak.
As we approached the inner courtyard of the cloister, I could hear steps echoing off the flagstones as the two monks paced the arcade, talking in low voices. The morning had been rainy, but now the sun came out, and droplets of water on the yellowing grass of the garth gleamed like jewels. Bertolf halted at the entrance, and we waited for them to make the final turn.
I had heard that Abbot Kuno and Brother Wigbert often took walks together to discuss points of theology or administrative matters. Today, however, they were to decide what to do with me. Already before my illness, the abbot had received reports that my residence at the convent was an uneasy one. Based on the monastic hierarchy, he should have consulted Prior Helenger. But when it came to such delicate matters, he preferred old Wigbert, a gentle and considerate soul benevolently disposed toward everyone. People trusted the infirmarian and felt comfortable around him, a rare gift even in a monastic setting. It was an especially fortunate trait in a physician. Kuno was also proud to have someone so educated among his brethren, for Wigbert had attended the famous medical school in Salerno, where young men from all over Europe went to study ancient texts.
When they came up to us, the abbot considered me for some moments, his face inscrutable. He seemed to tower over me—a squat and round type of tower, not a narrow and lofty one. But as nervous as I was, I was not afraid, for his eyes rested on me with kindness. “How are you feeling, child?”
“Much better. Thank you, Father,” I replied with a small curtsy.
“She has been taking a few steps daily, and it will be a while before she can resume her duties at the enclosure,” Brother Wigbert said. “But I am confident she will recover fully.” He was ten years older than the abbot and similar in stature and roundness of figure, but the curly gray hair around his tonsure was already thin.
“Praise God.” The abbot patted my shoulder. “Your parents entrusted you to us to keep you safe.” Then he turned to the infirmarian. “Do you know what brought this crisis about?”
I tensed. Wigbert had asked me that question, and although I told him I had walked out of the dorter in the middle of the night and felt ill, I had not revealed my discovery of Jutta’s nocturnal activities. I did not understand what it was that I had witnessed, and, truth be told, I wanted to forget about it.
“I do not.” He raised his shoulders in a puzzled gesture. “The sisters say she had fainted once before, in the chapel during a service.”
“Could it be the falling sickness?”
“I have not seen any evidence of that.” The infirmarian shook his head. “She has not suffered convulsions, although I must observe her longer to be certain—sometimes they come months apart.” Then he praised, “Hildegard has a serious disposition for a twelve-year-old and takes a keen interest in my workshop. Asks a lot of questions about herbs and medicine.”
“Hmm.” The abbot studied me again, and my cheeks grew warmer.
“She is eager to regain her strength so she can go outside and see my garden,” the infirmarian added. Over the past few weeks, we had grown fond of each other. I liked his warmth and kindness, and I think my curiosity had injected a certain spark into his monotonous routine.
“Is she equally eager to return to the convent?” the abbot asked, addressing him but looking at me.
My breath caught in my throat. I knew what the right answer was, and I knew what the truth was. They were not the same, and I was happy to let Brother Wigbert answer. I had already told him.
“No.” He looked at his superior honestly. “In fact, she doesn’t want to go back at all.”
Kuno’s eyebrows went up. “You really are a most peculiar child.” He spoke to me directly this time. “Your parents claimed you were docile, but from what I hear, you have a mind of your own.”
This left me puzzled, for I did not know that having ‘a mind of my own’—which I took to mean that I knew what I wanted and what I did not want—was a wrong thing.
“With your permission, Father,” Brother Wigbert came to my rescue, “the rigors of an anchorite life are great and can be especially burdensome for one Hildegard’s age. Even before her illness, they had often made her melancholy.”
“But what are we to do, Brother?” The abbot frowned. “She was destined for the cloister at birth and never defied her parents’ wish.” He held my gaze, as if demanding a confirmation.
“No, Father,” I whispered, dropping my gaze to the ground, then raising it to Brother Wigbert with an unspoken plea.
“We could find another arrangement, something less onerous,” he suggested cautiously. “At least for now. She could help me with patients for a few hours each day.” The infirmarian glanced at Bertolf, who had been standing silently behind me. I knew that both of them would be satisfied with that solution.
The abbot grunted—this was clearly not a complication he cared for—but his frown relaxed. “I would have to ask her father before I can make any changes,” he said finally, and there was a note of hope in his voice. Hope that my
