“What can divine grace do?”
“Enlighten us so we can tell good from evil, strengthen us against temptation, and inspire us to do good works.”
As I pondered this, he finished the poppy infusion and motioned for me to follow him to the infirmary. We passed the cot where a woman from across the Glan was recovering from a hernia, another occupied by a monk with jaundice, and approached a cobbler from Disibodenberg. He was the one in need of merciful sleep, for the once stoutly built man had been reduced to skin and bones by the wasting disease. He groaned when the infirmarian raised his head to help him drink.
As we watched the cobbler drift off, I asked, “How many Church Fathers are there?”
“Eight.” Wigbert wiped sweat from the man’s face with a towel soaked in rosewater from a bowl I held for him.
“So Augustine’s teachings are not the only ones to follow?”
“No, although he is considered one of the Great Church Fathers, along with Ambrosius, Hieronymus, and Gregorius the Great, and his is an officially upheld doctrine.”
“But not all Christians adhere to it as much as Sister Jutta,” I protested, remembering Otto of Bamberg. “For example, the bishop who comes here for the feast of St. Disibod every year is fat and wears sparkling jewels like a king—”
“Keep your voice down!” Brother Wigbert hissed, casting a wary glance at the neighboring cot where the jaundiced monk was resting.
I obeyed. “What St. Augustine teaches seems so impractical,” I whispered. “It does not help those who don’t know about doctrines but want to live good lives.”
The infirmarian sighed as he arranged the cobbler’s blanket. “Let’s go back to the workshop.” As we walked past the peasant woman with the hernia, he winced and stretched his fingers. “My old joints are beginning to ache again in this damp weather.”
When we emerged into the chilly November evening, he turned to me, and his tone had something definitive about it. “We are talking about things that are not subject to debate, Hildegard. Church doctrines are not meant to be agreed or disagreed with—or critiqued, for that matter. They are to be accepted, and it is best that you remember that.”
12
April 1119
The abbot wanted an account of Jutta’s health.
“Don’t be nervous; Father Abbot is a kind man,” Brother Wigbert assured me. But it was not the idea of talking to Kuno that I was worried about. It had been eight months since the magistra had first taken ill, and the fever had returned twice. She had not let me cleanse and dress her wounds, insisting on doing it herself. Although she had recovered, I still did not know how serious her injuries were or if the cycle of the relapses could somehow be stopped.
I was also concerned that Prior Helenger—who harbored an inexplicable dislike for me, evident in the contemptuous gaze of his cold gray eyes as if my mere presence was an offense—would use my inability to help her against me, and try to send me back to the convent.
But I did not want Brother Wigbert to guess my fears, so I lifted my chin and hoped that my smile was confident enough. “I am ready, Brother.”
It was unusually hot for April and the sun was beating on our heads as we crossed the courtyard. Volmar and a young monk emerged from the cloister, each carrying a set of gardening tools. They were bound for the abbey orchards where Volmar was assigned to work that spring, and I had to fight the urge to run and join him. Instead, I inclined my head as they greeted us.
“God be with you, Brothers,” the infirmarian called out cheerfully, “and may He send you a cool breeze to make your work lighter.” Then he turned to me, wiping his brow. “On days like these I am truly grateful to be able to work in a shaded workshop.”
The abbot’s house had been rebuilt in stone, a fitting dwelling for the head of an abbey with a growing reputation in the Rhineland. The parlor was pleasantly cool, and seemed rather dim until our eyes adjusted from the glare outside. But soon the contours of a spacious, sparsely furnished chamber came into view. Arched windows gave onto the cemetery and the vineyards beyond, and a big desk carved of dark wood stood nearby to make optimal use of daylight. It was covered with a quantity of parchments and a tray with the abbey seal and a block of wax. A simple cross with an oil lamp at its foot hung on the wall, and the hearth, cold and empty now, was twice as big as its predecessor in the old house, or so Brother Wigbert later told me.
Abbot Kuno motioned us to sit across his desk. As the prior was nowhere in sight, I felt my nervousness ebb away.
“Father, we bring good tidings from the convent where Sister Jutta seems to be on the road to recovery again,” Brother Wigbert announced.
“God be praised,” the abbot replied, a little wearily, I thought. “She is a holy woman and a great treasure of this abbey.”
“Indeed. And Hildegard deserves the credit, for she has spent these last few months treating Sister Jutta with remedies of her own making,” the infirmarian added. “Her accomplishments in the art of healing rival those of students twice her age.”
The abbot regarded me thoughtfully, and I blushed at this acknowledgment of my skill. I always found it hard to bask in compliments, which made me shy. I held his gaze nonetheless.
“And what sort of remedies are those?”
“Diluted vinegar to wash the cuts; plasters of betony, sorrel, and lovage to dress them; and a honey rub to soothe and protect the skin,” I replied.
I waited with bated breath for him to object to the use of the ‘wild’ ingredients, but something else caught his attention. “So her fever resulted from cuts?” He frowned.
I shot a glance at Brother Wigbert who gave a slight nod.
