We breathed a sigh of relief, although Griselda’s was much louder. I felt she trusted my judgment.
“But I want to know why you are pretending to be a boy.” Volmar’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “It looks like there is a lot going on around here that Father Abbot has no idea about, and I wonder if your reasons are as good as ours.”
“They are,” Griselda spoke for the first time, softly but firmly. “I am sure Hildegard will tell you all about it, but now I have to speak as to my reason for seeking her out.” She turned to me. “Sister Jutta is fallen gravely ill, and Brother Wigbert is looking for you everywhere.”
11
August 1118
The infirmarian’s grave countenance welcomed me at the door of the workshop. I had already decided to offer no explanation for my absence unless he asked, but he had other things on his mind.
“Sister Jutta is delirious with a fever but will not be brought to the infirmary,” he spoke in a clipped tone of urgency. “The anchoresses are asking for a medicine to restore her.” He held out a stoppered flask which I knew contained diluted oil of valerian, most likely not what she needed.
“I will go right away. I will need some wine,” I added, for the convent did not keep a store of its own.
“I already sent a flagon.”
I took the flask and hurried to the enclosure. I had been expecting this for a while, what with Jutta’s sleepless nights, poor diet, and harrowing spiritual regimen. In fact, I was surprised that whatever it was—and it had to be serious for the sisters to seek outside help—had not happened years before.
I found her in the dorter, lying on Juliana’s pallet. When I approached, Juliana, who had been bathing Jutta’s forehead in cool water, rose silently and moved back. A layer of perspiration covered the magistra’s face, and her skin was flushed and warm to touch.
“What other symptoms does she have?” I asked.
“Nothing more than this sudden weakness and fever. She was with us in the chapel but faltered at the end of nones and never rose from her knees.”
Hearing our voices, Jutta opened her eyes and a grimace of discomfort crossed her emaciated face. I leaned closer. “Sister, can you speak to me about what’s ailing you?”
But there was no recognition in her eyes. They were glossed over with the unnatural shine of the fever. She closed them again, and her features relaxed in a sign that her senses had left her once more, taking the pain with them.
I rubbed my forehead. This was no ordinary fever. The season of chills had not arrived yet. Besides, they came with coughs and congestion. As I pondered this, I became aware of the stifling air inside the chamber. I moved to open the shutters. It was late August and still light out despite the evening hour. A fresh breeze wafted in, scented with the earthy aroma of the approaching autumn.
“You can go,” I said to Juliana as the vesper bell rang out. “I will keep watch over her.”
When she was gone, I pulled down Jutta’s blanket to allow her feverish body to cool. It was then that the faintly sweet, unmistakable odor of a festering wound assailed my nostrils. I surveyed the sackcloth-clad figure and found nothing immediately amiss, but of course I knew what her back was regularly subjected to. It had to be the source of the infection. It would also account for the high fever, which could be deadly given her weakened condition.
After vespers I went back for a bottle of diluted vinegar and some leaves of betony, sorrel, and lovage—Uda’s old remedies—I had collected by the river and kept in a clay jar in a corner of the workshop.
When I returned, Juliana and Adelheid were keeping a vigil together at the sickbed. They raised inquiring eyes to me, and I wondered if they knew about our superior’s nocturnal activities.
“The fever is likely from an infection of a cut . . . or cuts. I have brought vinegar and fresh plasters to dress them.”
Their faces expressed no great alarm or surprise, which answered my silent question eloquently enough. I could not help wondering if either of them, or both, also practiced mortification of the flesh. But I dismissed the thought and focused on the task at hand.
“We must turn her over and strip her back bare,” I said.
They stood in silence, unsure how to proceed, so I slid my palms under Jutta’s left flank. It was so meager that I could feel every rib as if the only thing that stood between them and my fingers was the coarse fabric of her robe. “If you take hold of her hip”—I motioned to Juliana “and you her shoulder”—I turned to Adelheid—“we should be able to turn her.”
But as we moved to heave the left side of her body—surprisingly light even for one as thin as Jutta—her eyes flew open so suddenly that we gasped and let go. Juliana took a step back and Adelheid clung to my side, and I realized that in the last three years I had grown taller than the diminutive anchoress.
Jutta stared at us. Although there was no telling if she recognized us, she looked terrified.
“Sister,” I ventured. “You are ill and you need medicine. We must take off your robe.”
“No!” Jutta protested, firmly enough. “No!”
“It is necessary, otherwise you will not heal.” I touched her shoulders, hoping that there might be persuasion in action.
“No!” she cried. Her voice, suffused with pain, stopped me in my tracks.
Adelheid fell to her knees and started praying.
“You will die if you don’t let me treat you.”
But Jutta crossed her hands over her hips and thighs in a protective gesture that might have been virginal modesty had there not been something wild in her face. The alarm that had brought her out of her stupor was beginning to take its toll; her
