“I like it.” He looked up into the branches swaying above our heads, the shimmering sunlight streaming between the silver-bottomed leaves and dappling the ground with ever-shifting patches of light. “O leafy branch, standing in your nobility as the dawn breaks forth,” he translated. He closed his eyes, savoring the words. “Did you compose it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“How does the rest go?”
Suddenly, I felt shy. I had been working on it in secret because Jutta disapproved of music that was not about God or the Holy Virgin. I was also not sure about my Latin. “Maybe next time.” I put the tablet aside and leaned back against the trunk. “Tell me about your family.”
Volmar was the middle of three sons, but his little brother had succumbed to whooping cough before his first birthday, and his mother had died shortly thereafter. The family had extensive lands north of Mainz, and it had been a tradition for generations for the eldest son to inherit the estate, and for the younger ones to enter the Church. As a result, Volmar’s relatives numbered among the most illustrious ecclesiastics in the Rhineland. They included a dozen abbots and bishops as well as Siegfried, the long-time archbishop of Mainz during the previous century who had sided with Pope Gregorius against the old emperor. The inheritance system ensured that the family’s wealth had remained intact, and to Volmar, that arrangement was completely natural. He had been prepared for the monastic life ever since he could remember, just like I had been.
He did, however, miss hunting with his father, riding ponies, and swimming in the ponds that dotted the estate, so he had embraced the unexpected opportunity for outdoor excursions with enthusiasm and fashioned a bow from the wood of a young yew tree. With a knife pilfered from the kitchen, he had made arrows to hunt rabbits that he then stealthily dropped off among the game and poultry waiting to be cooked for supper. Sometimes he amused himself by fishing, though he had not been able to procure enough rope to make a net and had to do it with his bare hands.
“Really?” I lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Aren’t they too slippery for that?”
“I’ll show you.” He jumped up. The river was shallow where we were, and he waded up to his thighs, standing firm on the rocky bottom with the familiarity born of experience. For some moments all was still, and I held my breath as he scanned the current, the silence broken only by the waves lapping against the bank. He spotted something and bent slowly, arching his back, then thrust both arms into the river as swiftly as a heron going for a tadpole. There was a bit of commotion, and the water whirled and foamed. Volmar straightened up, water dripping from his arms and from the frantic creature he was gripping with such force that his knuckles had gone white. He had one hand just above the fish’s tail and the other between the head and the stomach, under the gills. That gave him enough control, for after a few more moments of thrashing, the fish started to exhaust itself. Soon it was quite still but for occasional spasms, like a final silent protest. When it ceased all movement, Volmar relaxed his grip and grinned triumphantly.
“The cook will find a random carp among the venison for tonight.”
“That was amazing!”
He waded back. “The carp are fat and slow this time of the year; that is why I could catch this one so easily.”
“Still!” My admiration was genuine.
“Do you want me to show you how to do it?”
My attempt ended with a lot of laughter and splashing as two fish escaped from under our feet, startled by my unsteadiness on the uneven bottom.
With the carp swinging on a rope between us, I pointed out various herbs on the way back and explained their applications. Volmar declared himself impressed with my knowledge. In a fit of pride, I showed him the cuts on my fingers, already healed to fading pink lines, from my first attempt at pruning the fruit trees in the spring.
Our chatter was interrupted by the sound of footsteps from the direction of the abbey. We froze. Even the wind seemed to subside for a moment. All was silent, and the hot air was still. The footsteps grew louder, then Griselda emerged around the bend straight ahead of us.
I let out a breath of relief as Volmar looked from me to her, puzzled. I was surprised too, for although Griselda ran occasional errands to pick up fish from the fishermen who worked the stretch of the river belonging to the abbey, she usually took a path well west of there. Besides, she was not carrying a fish bucket—or anything else.
I was in a bind; I could hardly ask Griselda what she was doing without letting on that we knew each other. That Griselda was known as a boy made it trickier. I cast a quick glance at Volmar and saw the look of tense concentration on his face that comes just before recognition lights up the darkness of confusion. It made my decision easier.
“You have probably seen Christian before.” I said. Volmar nodded. I added, “Her real name is Griselda. She is from a village across the Nahe.”
Griselda’s eyes widened in alarm, but I walked up to her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry. Volmar is my friend, and he will keep your secret.” I turned to him. “Won’t you?”
He gazed at us steadily for an exaggerated moment, then the corners of his mouth lifted and broke into a broad grin. The boy recognized good mischief when he saw it. “You can count on it! It
