“And how did she come by them?” His frown deepened.
“I believe she had inflicted them upon herself”—I took a deep breath—“by means of a scourge.”
The abbot’s fallen face told me he had known, or at least suspected it, for some time. “What is the extent of these . . . injuries?”
“I cannot say because Sister Jutta will not let me dress them.” I dropped my gaze, feeling inexplicably guilty. “She insists on applying the medicines herself.”
The abbot looked puzzled. “Perhaps that is just her modesty,” he said hopefully. “She follows strict rules that don’t allow another person to see her body, even if it is a physician or”—he hesitated—“his assistant.”
But I was not convinced. There was something about Jutta’s demeanor that still bothered me, and it was not just the difficulty of self-treating one’s back. It was also the length of time it had taken her to recover from what were unlikely to have been deep lesions. Then there was the fever and the relapses. But, try as I might, I could not make any sense of it.
Abbot Kuno’s voice broke through my musings. “What about Sister Adelheid? Are her indispositions also the effect of mortification of the flesh?”
“I doubt it,” I said. “Sister Jutta’s practices may be something Adelheid aspires to, but she does not seem capable of going that far. Most likely she is suffering from nerves. I make wine mixed with valerian oil for her, though it has yet to produce an improvement.”
That was hardly good news, yet he looked relieved. “Mortification may be encouraged by some in our Church, but it is not a practice I want to see spreading about this abbey,” he said as if it were my responsibility to enforce that rule. Then, before either of us could say anything, he changed the subject. “Come on Friday for our monthly supper, Brother,” he addressed the infirmarian, “and we will discuss this year’s fair. The archbishop will be joining us.”
I gasped. “The Archbishop of Mainz?! But I thought he was in prison.”
Brother Wigbert gave me a surprised look. “He was, but with God’s help, he is free now.”
I knew it was not my place to discuss politics, but I could not help myself. High matters of state held a great fascination for me. “The battle at Welfesholz must have really weakened the emperor if he released the archbishop. Does that mean the dispute over inve . . . investiture has been settled?”
The abbot stared at me; he knew nothing about my accidental eavesdropping on him and the Bishop of Bamberg three years before. “No.” He raised an eyebrow. “The papal faction’s victory caused significant losses for Emperor Heinrich, but it did not weaken him enough. He is now in Italy and no doubt plotting further mischief. But,” he added pointedly, looking from me to the hapless Brother Wigbert, “you need not concern yourself with such things.”
Taking this as a dismissal, the infirmarian rose with a reproachful look in my direction. He took his leave of the abbot, and I followed him outside. Many questions swirled in my head on the way back to the workshop, but I dared not ask them, knowing I had already tested his patience. But as we reached the garden, I saw that despite his effort to look stern, the eyes that met mine were affectionate. “I don’t understand why the emperor wants to be able to name bishops.” I risked one more question. “He is not a priest. Isn’t that the Church’s business?”
With a sigh, Brother Wigbert led me to the bench under the fruit trees. After some deliberation, he said, “I am, like Father Abbot, of the opinion that you should not spend your time contemplating worldly things. It is not for us monastics. But since I know you will keep asking until you get an answer”—he smiled half-ruefully, half-indulgently—“I will satisfy your curiosity. Better that than if you were to inquire of the archbishop directly when he is here.”
And so, shielded from the sharp glow of the early afternoon sun by the young foliage, we sat side by side as he began to explain the origins of the long-running dispute, just as he had done with medical theories.
“This investiture conflict has been going on for years and has grown more complicated with time. It is not something that will be so easily solved as you might think. Do you know of the history?”
I shook my head.
“It started more than forty years ago, when Pope Gregorius, the seventh of that name, asserted his right to install bishops over Emperor Heinrich’s father, who was then in power.
The old Heinrich, being a proud and ambitious prince, was outraged and called on German bishops to sign a letter rejecting the papal claim. He sacked those who had refused, then he demanded that the pope resign.”
“I’m sure that did not go over well with the Holy Father.”
Brother Wigbert chuckled, then grew serious again. “It did not. Gregorius excommunicated the bishops who remained loyal to the crown, then excommunicated Heinrich himself and denied his sovereignty over the empire’s lands.”
“And there has been fighting ever since?” I asked breathlessly.
“Years of struggle. Some of the nobility, mainly the Saxons, rebelled and allied themselves with the papal forces to overthrow King Heinrich. They elected Rudolf, Duke of Swabia, as anti-king. But Rudolf was defeated, and Heinrich appointed the Archbishop of Ravenna as anti-pope. I still remember his consecration . . .”
Brother Wigbert gazed into the distance at the faded images from his youth. “It was in the year 1084. I was a student visiting Rome from Salerno, and the fighting between the forces supporting the rival popes was fierce. A few days after his installment, Clement, the anti-pope, crowned Heinrich Holy Roman Emperor at St. Peter’s.” A grimace of pain flashed across the old monk’s face. “Soon afterwards the Holy City was sacked by the Normans and their Saracen allies amid a fury of plunder and rape.”
I was horrified and mesmerized in equal measure. Until then, I’d had no idea how
