It was still ten days to the Feast of St. Andreas, but the clean, sharp scent of winter already permeated the air. It had snowed a little in the last few days, the grayish patches melting over the shriveled autumn leaves as the winds turned milder again.
Wrapped in a cloak, I observed the countryside with interest, especially when the thick forest parted to reveal a farm or a village. Most of these were small and made up of ramshackle huts with thin wisps of black smoke rising from their chimneys. Among these abodes, skinny pigs and scrawny dogs mingled with children playing in the mud. The hamlets showed none of the prosperity that surrounded Bermersheim, with its whitewashed cottages covered in thatched roofs and abutted by vegetable plots. My father threw coins as we passed by, followed by watchful eyes staring from weather-beaten faces, dark with the perpetual tan of those exposed to the sun and wind all their lives.
In the early afternoon we stopped at an inn, a solid-looking timber structure with a tall column of smoke issuing from a single chimney in the middle of the roof. A small house, probably belonging to the innkeeper’s family, was attached to the back. Beyond the buildings, a small area of the forest had been cleared for pasture. As it was November, the sounds of its seasonal occupants were now coming from the nearby cowshed, which also apparently served as a chicken coop and a pigsty. The property had a modest but well-kept look.
The innkeeper, a stocky, black-bearded man in his thirties, emerged to greet us and introduced himself as Burchard. He bowed as he invited us inside and shouted in the direction of the stables, from which a boy of about sixteen, also short and starting to sprout a similarly black beard, came out to take our horses.
The establishment was neatly furnished with rough-hewn tables and benches. There was a sizable barrel of beer in one corner while the center was occupied by a large hearth. A cheerful-looking matron, plump and brisk, came out from behind the counter and called the maid to set a table.
I took off my cloak and went to the fire to warm my hands. I wore a new frock of fine brown wool. A short veil covered my hair, recently cut in preparation for my new life. Instead of the thick braid that used to fall to my waist, ash blonde strands were poking from under the veil, curling slightly.
When the food was brought in, the matron was joined by a girl of about ten, whose gaze drifted toward me even as she helped carry the plates of boiled ham, pea soup, and bread.
“Are you taking the child to the Abbey of St. Disibod, my lord?” the innkeeper’s wife asked as she set a jug of ale in front of my father.
“Indeed,” he said, nodding proudly. “She was accepted as an oblate.”
I noticed the young girl’s eyes widen and her mouth open as if to ask a question, but her mother was already on the way back to the kitchen and beckoned her to follow.
We attacked the meal with great appetite, but when wine and fruit pies arrived, I slipped out of the inn. A pale sun had come out, and I stood in the yard enjoying its light on my face, if not its warmth. After a while, amid the intermittent bleating and squealing coming from the barn, I heard soft footsteps squelching in the mud and turned to find the innkeeper’s daughter walking toward me with a bowl half full of grain.
She seemed shy for a moment, then mustered her courage. “I’m Griselda.”
“My name is Hildegard.” As she continued to regard me silently, I asked, pointing to the bowl, “Are you off to feed the chickens?” The coop was in the opposite direction.
“Yes.” Griselda blushed as she realized that I had seen through her ruse. “I do that sometimes when Warin is busy.” She pointed toward the barn, where a lanky, fair-haired boy, clearly a hired hand, was balancing a pitchfork heaped with hay.
I nodded. I had sometimes accompanied my father and his steward as they inspected Bermersheim’s estates and had seen peasants at work in the fields and with livestock. It was hard work, but I envied them the chance to be outdoors and observe nature as it went through its endless cycle of birth, growth, and decline. I had once asked to be shown how to milk a cow, but my father had responded that ladies did not do that sort of work.
“What’s an oblate?” Griselda asked. Curiosity shone in her green eyes, which were made even more striking by the whiteness of her skin and her dark hair. She was stocky like her father and had a heart-shaped face with a sharp chin that gave her a determined look.
“It means ‘a gift to God’,” I replied. “Someone who lives in a convent until she becomes old enough to enter the novitiate, which is when she learns to be a nun,” I added with an air of authority.
Her eyes lit up. “My papa once took me to the market at Disibodenberg,” she said. “It was a feast day, and there was a Mass in the abbey church that all the townspeople went to, and we went with them. I still remember the bells and the singing and the incense.” She flushed at
