“An excellent idea,” Brother Wigbert agreed. “I will keep her in the infirmary until the matter is settled.”
The abbot hesitated, then nodded. “So be it. I will write tonight and send a messenger first thing tomorrow.”
The sun was already well on its downward course, the top of the cloister wall reflecting its fiery glow. The bell started issuing summons for vespers. The two monks proceeded to the church, and Bertolf took me back to the infirmary. I had earned more time.
The next day, I assisted at my first medical case. Brother Wigbert called me to the consultation room after breakfast, where a patient was waiting, an alehouse owner from Disibodenberg named Arnwald. The left sleeve of his shirt was rolled up, exposing a lacerated arm.
As Bertolf washed off the blood, Arnwald explained that he had been taking a barrel of beer down from a shelf when the accident happened. “I lost my grip, and the blasted thing—I beg your pardon, Brother,” he added apologetically, “tumbled down and took the skin off my arm.”
Brother Wigbert must have been used to salacious language from his suffering patients. Unperturbed, he examined the wound, which was not deep but stretched from the shoulder to the elbow.
“But at least it fell next to my foot, not on it.” Arwald went on. “God watched over me today, Brother, for it would be the death of my family if this work tool”—he tapped his left foot—“came to harm.”
“You are lucky, my good man, that all you have are badly bruised muscles, and you will be sore for a few days.” The infirmarian went to his workshop and returned with a plate filled with a moist substance that had a pungent smell and the consistency of thick porridge. From the corner where I sat, I craned my neck to follow the procedure as he spread the poultice onto a piece of linen with a wooden spatula and applied it to the wound. Then he wrapped another cloth around it and told the man to return the next day for a change of dressing.
When Arnwald had gone, I asked Brother Wigbert what was in the poultice.
“Mainly bran, softened and warmed.”
“But it smelled.” I wrinkled my nose.
“That is because I added goat dung to it,” he explained. “It draws out the pus.”
I was puzzled. “What for?”
Wigbert puffed his chest authoritatively. “Greek medical texts recommend it. A wound will heal properly when it oozes pus with which the evil humor comes out.”
I thought it wise to say no more. Uda had made poultices that included various grains, and ointments of lovage, betony, sanicle, or mugwort, but I could not recall her ever adding dung to them. I wondered if it would really speed up the healing and decided that I would soon find out.
When a kitchen servant brought supper for the patients, I took a few bites of the bread and cheese and climbed into bed. I was tired and my head hurt, but my mind kept circling around Arnwald’s case. By all accounts, Wigbert was a caring physician. He devotedly nursed Brother Maurice, who was weak in the mind due to old age and spent his time slumbering on a nearby cot. I had also seen him deftly set a leg of one of the monastery grooms and expertly lance several neck boils. But there was something odd about the dung treatment, and I racked my brain until I succumbed to sleep without putting my finger on it.
Within four days, Abbot Kuno had a response from my parents. They consented to the new arrangement whereby I would be allowed to spend time outside the convent and be employed in a manner that was acceptable to the monks of St. Disibod. The letter concluded with this assurance:
It is our belief that if our daughter has more freedom within the monastery, she will come to better appreciate the consecrated life, and when the time comes, she will profess her vows with deeper conviction and purer faith, for we know that her dedication is unaltered.
Brother Wigbert repeated those words to me, and they brought tears to my eyes. They were tears of longing, for I knew that, although written by my father’s hand, the message had come from my mother. But they were also tears of relief that I would not be confined to the enclosure anymore.
Brother Wigbert told me that the abbot had summoned Prior Helenger to show him the letter. Upon reading it, Helenger had snorted. “Surely, Father, you are not going to indulge this kind of behavior? For all we know, it may be a ruse.”
“Nobody who has dealt with her over the last year has any reason to doubt that her ailments are real,” Kuno had said.
Brother Wigbert, who had also been present, nodded in affirmation.
“This has already caused a lot of distraction,” the prior insisted, “and it is going to lead to even more confusion if you let her outside the convent. Inside is where she belongs.”
“Why would it cause a distraction? She has been in the infirmary for the last two months, and there have been no problems. I am sure we can find an arrangement that will satisfy everyone.”
“Such as keeping her permanently as a patient or a companion to Brother Wigbert?” Helenger sneered.
“Do not exaggerate, Brother Prior.” Abbot Kuno’s normally mild eyes had flickered with impatience. “The infirmary is busy enough; we will find a useful occupation for her.”
“It is against our rules to have women around.”
“She is a child, and she has struggled with the rigors of the enclosure,” Brother Wigbert interjected. “We must be compassionate, Brother, for ours is a hard life, and we need not add burdens to it beyond what one can bear. Our faith has produced a great many hermits and anchorites, but I have never seen, nor heard of, a child of twelve among them. She is at a tender yet lively age, and it is unnatural to keep her so confined. We
