In response, Helenger only gave him a cold look. Then he turned to the abbot. “Her father would never have taken that position but would task us with putting the girl in her place. In this letter”—he jabbed a long finger at the parchment—“I see the hand of that wife of his.”
“Brother Prior,” Kuno sighed wearily, “if you cannot see any other benefit, think of her dowry. As you well know, there is much rebuilding work still to be done, and we cannot afford to lose any income.”
Helenger rose. “I will pray that God does not punish us for making such compromises in the name of a few pieces of gold.” His fine features froze into such an expression of offended virtue that it made him look even more like a statue than usual. As Brother Wigbert left the parlor in Helenger’s wake, he saw the abbot sit back and cover his eyes with the tips of his fingers.
Arnwald’s laceration was producing pus, all right. Each time he returned for a new dressing, the injured arm was hotter and more painful. On the third day, Wigbert took off the bandages and gazed at the wound for a long time, shaking his head. Peering from my bed, I caught a glimpse of the inflamed flesh, red and swollen. Arnwald declined any more poultice, and Brother Wigbert dabbed some oil on the arm and wrapped it in fresh linen. Then
he gave Arnwald a cup of wine with a few drops of poppy juice for easier sleep and kept him in the infirmary for the night.
The next morning, Arnwald had a fever. He was given more wine, but although he drank it greedily, it was not much help. I offered to bathe his forehead in cool rosewater. Bertolf readily consented, for the day was getting busy. I sat with the bowl in my lap, dipped the towel, and touched it to Arnwald’s face. The empty wine cup still stood near the bed, and my nagging thoughts returned. Wine was not an effective remedy against a fever, and yet somehow it was not entirely out of place. Why was that?
All at once, it struck me. I finished my task, hands shaking with excitement, then ran to the workshop. “I know what can help Arnwald!” I exclaimed, pushing the door open and startling Brother Wigbert.
“What?”
“Wine!” I was still breathless. Then something else lit up in my head. “Or vinegar!”
I had finally remembered! When Uda had tended to our cuts and bruises, she often said that it was important to bathe them in warm wine or vinegar to prevent them from corrupting. On larger ones, she would also apply honey, whose viscous sweetness was said to protect injured flesh from bad influence.
“Wherever did you get that idea from?”
“My nurse used to use it.” I hesitated. “She knew about it from a wise woman.”
The monk shook his head, half-disapprovingly, half-indulgently. “One should not listen to wise women, child. There is no telling what effect their remedies may have because they employ pagan incantations. Greek texts are the only appropriate source of medical knowledge.”
I stared at him. Herrad was respected throughout our countryside for her healing skills, and many people owed her their lives or limbs. “Please, Brother, let’s at least try,” I implored.
“I am not going to put vinegar on his wound.” Wigbert shook his head firmly. “Vinegar is harsh and will cause him more pain than he is in already.”
“What about wine?”
He rolled his eyes. “Wine is meant to be imbibed, not poured on festering wounds.”
Puffing with effort, he climbed onto a stool to hang up bunches of fennel and thyme from the beams. For a moment, Uda’s loft stood before my eyes, warm and fragrant on September days, drying herbs rustling in the breeze that wafted through the window. Fighting another wave of homesickness, I returned to the infirmary and threw myself on my cot. I was convinced that one of those remedies would help. The abbey had both in abundance, and it was unfair not to even try them as the patient was getting worse.
Then my gaze fell to the floor where, on a tray by the door and among other dishes, there stood a cup of Brother Maurice’s wine from breakfast. It was full since he had been sleeping all day.
Swiftly, I hid it under my bed. Then I looked out the window; it was midday and the bells would be ringing for nones soon, which meant that Brother Wigbert and Bertolf would be going to the church. All I had to do was wait.
When the crunch of their footsteps had died down, I retrieved the cup and ran to the workshop. Thankfully, Wigbert had left the stove burning low. I found a small pot, poured the wine into it, and put it on the fire. Within moments its aroma filled the room, and I thought how lucky it was that patients were given undiluted wine. I poured the warm liquid into a wooden bowl and grabbed a jar of honey on my way out.
I found Arnwald awake from his fitful slumber, glassy-eyed from the fever. My heart was thumping—whether from excitement or fear, I could not tell. I put the bowl next to the bed. “I think I know how to induce your wound to heal,” I said.
The man stared at me.
“I have some warm wine with which I’d like to wash your wound. Will you let me?”
Arnwald nodded slightly and closed his eyes. He remained motionless as I gingerly unwrapped his dressing, although he groaned when I pulled a piece of cloth that had stuck to the flesh. I caught my breath at the sight of the wound and had to steady myself. It was not until I dipped a cup and poured the wine over the arm that my self-control returned. I could hardly recognize myself; my motions were spare and
