“The wound is no longer fresh, so it may take a bit,” I said, scooping up some honey and dabbing it onto the flesh. Then I wrapped the arm so it looked exactly as before, and rolled up the wine-soaked linen. “Perhaps we should not mention this to Brother Wigbert for now,” I added, clearing my throat. “It is a folk remedy, and he does not approve of such methods.”
Arnwald smiled and winked. He was of a peasant stock, after all.
“I will save more wine tomorrow,” I promised.
I returned the cup to the tray and was about to go back to the workshop with the honey and the dishes when Arnwald’s voice sounded hoarsely behind me. “Thank you, young lady. You have a talent.”
I turned and gave him a conspiratorial smile. I had begun to suspect as much.
Again through Brother Wigbert, I learned the details of Abbot Kuno’s consultation with Sister Jutta regarding my new arrangements. He had gone to the enclosure armed with my father’s response. The messages between him and the magistra were carried by Sister Juliana, for Jutta never came out to speak with outsiders.
“We hope it pleases God to restore Hildegard to health and return her to us swiftly,” Juliana told him through the small opening for provisions in the door, the usual way the sisters communicated with the world.
“She is recovering well,” the abbot informed her. “However, together with her parents, we have decided that she should not return to the convent permanently. At least for a while.”
Juliana gazed at him apprehensively. “What are you saying, Father?”
“It appears that Hildegard’s health is being affected by the rigors of your chosen life.”
She lowered her eyes and remained silent.
“It may be that she is too young,” the abbot resumed. “Whatever it is, things have to change if you are to be able to conduct your holy mission without further disruption.”
“Am I to tell Sister Jutta that Hildegard is leaving us?”
“No. Her parents have not asked for it. But we must find a different arrangement, and I want to ask Sister Jutta’s leave to make new dispositions.”
“Let me confer with her, Father, if it pleases you to wait.”
Kuno folded his arms into the sleeves of his robe and assumed a posture of patient expectation. After a while, Juliana returned. “Sister Jutta is greatly saddened by your news.” Her tone was more official. “She is, as we all are, praying for Hildegard’s deliverance both from bodily suffering and from the spiritual weakness that has caused her to reject our sacrificial way of life.”
The abbot stirred uneasily. It would greatly complicate matters if the magistra were to cast me out and declare me unworthy.
“But we are ready to accept her back with compassion, even if she only spends part of her time with us,” Juliana added. “And we will continue to pray for her to be delivered from this turmoil.”
Kuno tried to hide his relief. “I applaud you for this most Christian attitude, Sister. I am hopeful we can find a solution that will allow Hildegard to pursue her calling with a serene heart.”
When he returned to his lodgings, the abbot sent for Brother Wigbert to present him with his plan: I was to become the infirmarian’s helper and work from midday until vespers every day but Sunday.
After five days of the wine-and-honey cure, Arnwald’s injured flesh began to lose its crimson flush. We both heaved a great sigh of relief, though for different reasons, for I had begun to have doubts about my memory of these remedies. But the deterioration had stopped. The wound was still tender, but the pus was gone and the fever had gone down. When I took the bandages off, it was no longer soft, and the first scabs had started to form. Arnwald said it was itchy, and we looked at each other hopefully; itchiness meant it was healing.
Brother Wigbert examined the arm and announced that it was finally on the mend and that Arnwald could return home. I handed Brother Wigbert clean pieces of linen as he bandaged it for the road. “A week ago, the wound was festering and you were consumed by fever, but today you are on your way to health,” he said, shaking his head. “No earthly force has brought this about. God willed it, and it happened. Praised be his name!”
“Amen.” Arnwald winked at me over the monk’s tonsure. “It will be good to be back home, Brother. The first thing I will ask my good wife to do is warm up some wine.”
I turned my head away to hide a smile.
Moments later, I watched Arnwald walk toward the abbey gate with more spring in his step than he’d had in days. I was about to close the infirmary door as the gate swung open to let him out, when I saw a boy. He had evidently just come up from the town. He approached the porter with what seemed like palms joined in supplication. But he was no beggar—his clothes were plain but neat, and he looked well-fed—and there was something familiar about him. I stood gazing a moment longer but could not think of where I might have seen him before. After all, the only boys I had ever known were my own brothers.
Then I closed the door and ran back to Brother Wigbert, for I was eager for my new life to begin.
7
March 1117
The access to Brother Wigbert’s workshop, his inner sanctum, was from the herb garden. In the early days of March, the withered growth of the last season was poking desolately through the melting snow. Even so, the air of the workshop had that peculiar scent of dry herbs mixed with old timber that reminded me of Uda’s
