That, I must admit, was true. I had heard Herrad say as much to Uda.
“It is then, when there is nobody abroad,” he continued, “that they pronounce incantations to summon spirits to their assistance. It is a practice that is perilous to the Christian soul.”
I had no idea if that was the case or not, and I felt my shoulders slump. I had plans to expand the use of herbs at the infirmary to show how well they worked, but it seemed that nothing would come of it after all; we would go on giving patients warm wine, rosewater baths, and leeches for everything. “I know that many God-fearing women make potions,” Wigbert added with a note of indulgence, perhaps sensing my disappointment, “but all the same, the Church frowns upon it.”
I took a deep breath. Brother Wigbert, unlike Prior Helenger, was a person with whom one could at least try to reason. “I really hoped that I would be able to—that is, that you and I—would make medicines using the herbs from the garden, but also the abundance that grows in the forest.” Then I added quickly, before courage deserted me, “All plants, even the most paltry of weeds, are God’s creation, are they not? So if God gave them to us, why not use them to our benefit? We cannot know if they have healing properties if we never try. If wise women use sorcery to make herbs work, then they won’t work for us. But what if they really do have curative powers? Imagine what we could do with them!” My voice rose pleadingly.
Brother Wigbert’s face was serious but not severe. “You have a good bedside manner and a knack for healing for one so young. You also know how to argue your point even though you are a girl. But I do not want my workshop to become a playground for dangerous ideas.”
Did he really believe it, I wondered, or did he want to avoid trouble? With Prior Helenger on constant lookout for real or imaginary transgressions, it was reasonable to be cautious. I saw that there was no point in pressing it further; besides, spring was still months away. Perhaps I could take small steps, make use of the herbs we already had, and learn more.
My gaze wandered again to the three books on the shelf. “What about those medical writings?”
“Ah.” Wigbert rose from the table with surprising agility, glad of the change of topic. “These are basic texts that come very handy.” He took them down and selected a small volume whose pages were bound in hard leather. “This is De Urinis, a translation of the work of Theophilus, a Greek physician who compiled existing information on urine analysis from a variety of sources. It serves as the definitive textbook on this matter for students and practitioners alike.”
The second book was bigger and its cover was of better quality. It was an excerpt from Medicinale Anglicum, another definitive source. I examined each book reverently, but it was the last and largest volume that made me gasp. It was a translation of Galen’s treatises on diseases, symptoms, and pharmacology, a term that Brother Wigbert explained referred to medications.
The subject matter may have been dense, but the presentation filled me with delight, for the book contained exquisite images. I gingerly turned the soft vellum pages and ran my fingers over the decorative first letters of each chapter, which showed philosophers and physicians at work examining samples in glass vials, or poring over medical texts. Each miniature was superbly detailed down to the last leaf on a tree bough, the smallest star in the sky, or the lightest crease in the robe, all painted in vivid greens, scarlets, yellows, and blues, edged in gold leaf. In addition to being breathtakingly beautiful, the book had to be very expensive.
“This is my most precious possession,” Brother Wigbert said fondly, as if reading my thoughts. He went to the alembic to check on the lavender oil that was dripping slowly. “It was a gift from one of my teachers at Salerno. Abbot Kuno is good enough to let me keep it here since it serves me as a useful reference, but it should be in the library.”
“There is a real library here?” I was stunned, although it made sense on reflection. Monks copied manuscripts in the scriptorium—right next to the oblates’ schoolroom, a place I could rarely think about without bitterness—and those copies had to be stored somewhere.
“Yes. There is a small door in the back of the scriptorium that leads to it.” He returned to the table and gathered his books. “Access is strictly controlled.”
“Why?”
“Monasteries are repositories of knowledge through their collections of books, some of which may be unsuitable to uninitiated minds.” Seeing my puzzled look, he explained, “We have monastic rules, the Lives of saints, and writings of Church Fathers, but we also have a good number of Greek translations, including most of Galen’s works and some of Hippocrates, both of whom were pagans. It is their paganism that renders these writings potentially dangerous.”
From that day onward, my thoughts became filled with images of the place—so close and yet out of reach—where the monks copied ancient texts and created a growing store they could peruse whenever they wanted. I had dreams in which I descended a staircase leading deep into the belly of the earth under the cloister to a large chamber with shelves piled high with volumes and scrolls. But when I opened them, the pages were always blank. Sometimes I saw Brother Bertolf in those dreams, seated at a desk covered with inkpots, bottles of dyes, goose quills, and brushes, a blank volume in front of him, and I would awake just as he dipped his quill and was about to put his hand to the parchment. Often, I would have
