The year I turned sixteen, we built a new infirmary at St. Disibod. It had been paid for by a gift from a wealthy merchant who had been robbed and left for dead in the nearby woods. After he had recovered under Brother Wigbert’s and my ministrations, he left a purse of gold, and we had spent months pleading our case for the expansion against Prior Helenger’s argument that there were more pressing expenses. We prevailed in the end, for the abbot was a reasonable man who understood the benefits of a large infirmary, where, in addition to dispensing Benedictine charity, we could treat patients of means from Worms, Ingelheim, or even as far as Mainz.
By the end of the summer, we were getting ready to re-open our doors. As I carried bottles of medicines from the workshop to stack in the spacious new cupboards, I paused to admire the building for what seemed like the tenth time that day. The freshness of the new timber, the clean lines of the walls, and the solidity of the tile-covered roof gave it a welcoming aspect the old infirmary had lacked. Once flowering shrubs were planted and vines covered the walls, it would become an even more wholesome place. But that would have to wait until next year, as I was reminded by the cool eastern breeze; soon leaves would turn russet and gold, days would grow shorter, and all gardening work would stop.
Brother Wigbert was in the main ward, arranging piles of fresh linen on the shelves. He had aged lately; his hair, already thin when I had first seen him, was reduced to a few gray wisps about his skull. His fingers were more swollen at the joints, and he found it increasingly difficult to handle implements like knives or shears, so I had to relieve him of any work that involved those tools. He had also grown thinner in the way old people do; he had lost fat from under his skin, so it had become saggy and gave the impression of less bulk. But he had remained quite round overall and showed few signs of slowing down. “These will be kept in the surgery.” He motioned with his head toward a separate chamber opposite the front door where sounds of something heavy being moved across the floor could be heard. I guessed that was Thietmar, a strong, large-boned novice who had been helping us arrange the furniture.
I deposited the bottles in a large cupboard behind Brother Wigbert’s new desk and returned to the ward, still fragrant with the aroma of fresh wood before odors of disease would overpower it. It was nearly twice as large as the old one and had two sections—one for men and one for women—that could be further separated by a cloth partition. “I will talk to Father Abbot about sending us another assistant.” Wigbert smoothed the linens, scented with lavender oil, and closed the cupboard. “Ideally someone with an interest in medicine.”
“So not Brother Bertolf again,” I joked. Then I added, tentatively, “What if we hired someone from the town . . . a woman?”
“Why?” The monk’s still-abundant eyebrows went up in surprise. “There are enough people around the abbey, and some of them could do with a serious occupation.”
“Yes, but . . .” I was not sure how to breach the subject that had been on my mind. “I think there is more that we could do here as far as . . . women’s care.”
“What sort of care?” The infirmarian turned to the nearest bed and pressed his palms to the new straw mattress in three different places to check its strength and thickness. The mattresses had been delivered that morning. After examining the first one, he moved on to the next. There were ten beds on one side of the ward and ten on the other.
“Childbirth.” I followed him.
Brother Wigbert straightened up, looking genuinely perplexed. “Wherever did you get that idea from?” He went back to his work. “These are not matters for monks to concern themselves with.”
“But labor is a complicated process, and so many women die that it seems to me that an infirmary would be a better place for it than a home, with medicines and skilled staff—”
“It is not monastic business to deliver babes.” He was already at the fifth bed, and I saw him wince as he stretched his fingers. “The town has a midwife and many villages have their own. They have plied their trade for generations and certainly know more about it than I do.”
“But so many women do not survive! I have heard about some of these midwives who bring about the deaths of mothers and infants by their carelessness.” It was a common enough story among women, young and old, who came to the infirmary.
“Bring about their deaths how?” The infirmarian was growing impatient. “Women should always call on midwives they know and trust, and watch them at their work. A good midwife will do no harm. And if the mother or child dies, that is God’s will.”
I sighed inwardly. There was no arguing once God’s will had been brought up. But my instinct told me that the primary cause of childbed fever was of this world. I had befriended Bertrade, Disibodenberg’s midwife, and from her I had learned how unpredictable births could be; some women delivered quickly and without complications, while others of similar age and health died, often along with their child. Most puzzlingly, there were women who succumbed to a fever as much as two weeks after a seemingly successful delivery. Blood loss was often implicated in the quick deaths; as to the fever, the midwife was at a loss for an explanation, saying only that it seemed to happen more often in the warmer months.
I had visited the little shack where she lived and cared for some of her patients and noticed immediately that Bertrade did not concern herself overmuch with cleanliness. Her black fingernails and the linens of questionable freshness she kept in the bag
