Wigbert shook his head. “Not with Gregorius, nor with the three or four popes who succeeded him. Heinrich went to his grave at loggerheads with the Church’s authorities, though he remained popular among lower clergy. And his son, our current emperor, had good relations with Rome at first but eventually followed in his father’s footsteps. In fact, he has gone even farther, putting forth demands for Church lands to be turned over to the crown. The Archbishop of Mainz is firmly opposed to this, and that is what had cost him his freedom.”
“The emperors have been treating the Church as their plaything,” I said hotly. “No wonder the archbishop preferred to go to prison in its defense like a true martyr!”
In the silence that followed, the chirping of the birds and the buzzing of the insects suddenly seemed more intense, as if they too were expressing their indignation.
Then Brother Wigbert spoke again in a measured tone. “The Church certainly has the right—nay, the duty—to preserve its spiritual domain and its property. But . . .” he paused, reflecting. “The fault lies on both sides, not only with the emperors. Beginning with Gregorius, popes have been trying to assert their authority beyond the godly realm to include worldly power as well. Many clerics agree with that line, but to me it has never been clear that it is in the Church’s best interest to interfere in secular affairs.”
I nodded, now understanding the complexity. This was my second lesson in Church politics, and it would one day pit me against its hierarchy. But only the top hierarchy, for common clergy, like Brother Wigbert, seemed to understand that simple truth.
13
July 1119
The month of July, when the feast of St. Disibod, the patron saint of the abbey, was celebrated, was always a merry time at Disibodenberg. Before High Mass, a procession of all able-bodied townspeople would follow the relics around the church, and afterwards the fair would officially open in the town square. The monks avoided the market, for it was hardly a holy event, full as it was of itinerant musicians, jugglers, soothsayers, pet monkeys, and hawkers of all manner of goods vying for customers’ attention. Only Brother Wigbert took interest—and only professionally so—by preparing the infirmary for the inevitable bloodied noses, cut lips, and broken arms.
For me, the day could not come soon enough. I still remembered that first summer when I’d had to listen to the celebration from inside the convent. This time I would go to the church with everyone and see the notorious Archbishop of Mainz.
But there was another reason for my impatience. For weeks I had been planning my most daring escapade yet—a foray into the town, dressed in my boy’s outfit and a hooded caftan procured by Griselda. It was a precaution I had to take because ever since Wigbert had started sending me on errands, I had become recognizable. I had even made friends with Renfred, the fruit and spice seller, who liked to regale me with tales of his adventures in the Holy Land when I stopped by for ginger root and cinnamon.
At Mass I had a clear if distant view of the archbishop from my perch in the novices’ pew. Amid the chants, the incense, the murmur of prayers, and the sermon about Disibod’s harrowing journey from Hibernia to the Rhineland, I was struck by how different he was from Bishop Otto of Bamberg. He was taller and carried none of the extra flesh that betrayed the other’s weakness for food and leisure. In fact, Archbishop Adalbert’s entire posture and spare movements exuded humility and modesty, which stood in stark contrast to Otto’s imperial manner. It was yet more proof that the Church and its men were not as uniform as I had been accustomed to thinking.
The afternoon was conveniently visited by occasional showers, which made wearing the hood less suspicious. I slipped through the breach and was soon walking in the town square among the stalls loaded with bales of cloth, embossed leather, hot buns, and sweetmeats. I admired the wares sellers were hawking from their trays, which included wooden flutes, ribbons, copper bracelets, and amulets to ward off evil spirits. An old hag was selling love potions in the form of a brownish liquid in little stoppered bottles.
I was reflecting on the irony of such spells being offered under the monks’ very noses when another hawker came within my earshot loudly extolling the benefits of pills that would “help a man last longer.” This promise set my inner healer on high alert, and I turned curiously, wondering what exactly they were for. Did they boost stamina for long days of work in the fields? That would be most useful as the harvest was to start in a few weeks. Or maybe these remedies gave men stronger heads for evenings of drinking at the alehouse? After all, so many women who came to the infirmary complained about their husbands coming home drunk out of their senses and being useless the next day. And what were these pills made from? I was about to ask the small, shifty-looking man who was shaking a box full of them at the passersby, when straight ahead of me I saw none other than Prior Helenger.
I froze in place; he was the last person I had expected to find there. Even Abbot Kuno would have made for a less out-of-place presence at the fair. Was he there to keep an eye on other monks? None were to be seen, and the prior was standing by a stall, looking over a cutler’s shiny tools with seeming interest.
However, as the pill seller came closer and raised his voice again in praise of his remedy, Helenger turned toward him slowly
