“As you helped to nurse him, the abbot has invited you to the funeral,” Brother Wigbert told me the next morning before leaving to take his turn at the vigil.
I had the workshop to myself. I was looking forward to going to the big church for the first time since my oblate blessing ceremony, but I also had a cold. The rosehips tincture had only gone so far, and now I was beginning to have a sore throat. I went to the shed and returned with two bunches of dried horehound and proceeded to crush the fuzz-covered leaves with a pestle. In a clay pot, I mixed honey with water and added the herbs as I heated the viscous mixture until it started to give off a mild aroma. After it had boiled and thickened, I used a wooden spoon to scoop up small amounts onto a plate to form round shapes. When they cooled and hardened, I peeled one lozenge off and tried it for taste. It was quite agreeable, but it reminded me of home, and my eyes filled with tears as the sticky sweetness melted in my mouth.
By then it was midday, and I threw on my cloak as the resounding knell of the church bell broke the quiet of the abbey. Despite the solemn occasion, I ran down the gravel path before slowing to a more decorous pace when I reached the courtyard. In the back of the church there was a large group of lay people, for Brother Maurice had spent many decades at St. Disibod and was well loved in the area. But I was a member of the holy community and felt a surge of pride walking to the section reserved for oblates and novices.
My heart was beating fast as I took a seat in the third pew behind the oblate boys. I folded my hands and tried to concentrate on the prayers, but I was seized by an irresistible urge to look around and take in the sights of a real Mass, with the incense, the candlelight, and the chants whose notes quavered sublimely as they echoed off the stone walls.
As the proceedings went on, the oblates in the front pews began to fidget, nudging each other and whispering. I noticed that one of them, an antsy boy of about eleven, was particularly given to pranks, reaching over two or three of his neighbors to pull on the back of someone’s cowl. But they all bent their heads in unison and assumed postures of utter devotion whenever the sharp gaze of Brother Philipp, the novice master, fell on them.
A few pairs of eyes swiveled in my direction from the chancel where the monks sat, mostly curious, except for Prior Helenger, whose disapproving look sent a chill down my spine with its almost physical coldness. My excitement vanished and my mind filled with doubt. What was I doing here? Among all these men and boys, I must be breaking who knows how many rules. But then I caught the gaze of Brother Wigbert, and he gave me a slight nod to signify that everything was fine.
After that, I kept my eyes judiciously fastened on Brother Maurice’s shrouded body, lying on a bier at the foot of the altar with two large tapers burning on both sides. The service was just coming to an end when sounds of a commotion floated from the outside and grew louder as someone called for help. Disconcerted, Abbot Kuno gave a signal to pause and sent a couple of junior monks to investigate. They came back reporting that there had been an accident.
Brother Wigbert rushed outside, and I followed him. There, we found that one of the men working on the chapter house roof had fallen from the scaffolding as he rushed to finish the work before the first frost. He was sprawled on the ground, groaning as he clutched his legs. That he could move was already a good sign, I knew. His fellows explained that he had been on his way down and fell less than twenty feet. Brother Wigbert examined him and found that both of his legs were broken, and the workers improvised a stretcher from two planks to carry him to the infirmary.
By then, most of the mourners had come out of the church. As the monks looked on with quiet solemnity, the oblate boys resumed their horseplay, glad for a distraction from the tedious service. A few of them cast shy glances at me—they were not used to seeing girls around the abbey—but the one I had noticed before considered me with frank curiosity, then gave me a wide grin, his hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. I was a little abashed, though I had to admire the cheekiness of the youngster who stood at least a head shorter than me. No boy had ever smiled at me before except my brothers, and they did not count.
The funeral resumed with the procession heading for the cemetery while Wigbert and I returned to the infirmary. The bone setting must have been terribly painful, for the patient groaned and cried out and had to be held down by two men. But as the infirmarian wrapped his legs tightly with bandages, I knew that he would be fine. I had seen Brother Wigbert’s surgical skills many times on broken ribs, legs, or arms. Few who came in with such injuries were ever left lame. My teacher may have been a reluctant herbalist, but he was a first-rate surgeon.
We returned to the workshop, and Wigbert poured wine for us while I added logs to the stove. Then he noticed the lozenges and stood over them with a puzzled expression. “What is that?”
I had forgotten all about them. “I—I made some horehound pills . . . for the throat.”
“Is it one of those things you learned from your wise woman?” His brows furrowed.
“From my nurse, who learned it from
