I had already planted box hedges along one side of the yard, all the way to the abbey wall, forming an isolated, rectangular space for ambulant patients to take the air. And benches had been placed against the infirmary wall and under the fruit trees that separated us from the herb garden.
“It is lovely out here,” Volmar said, “and will be even better when the trees are in blossom.”
We sat on the closest bench. “I believe that fresh air speeds up recovery. That is contrary to what many physicians recommend, but I simply don’t agree with those who want the sick to stay indoors away from the sun and the greenness. It is what restores vitality.”
“I was brought up to believe that the air had an ill effect on a weakened constitution,” Volmar admitted.
I sighed. There were so many misconceptions regarding nature and its purported evil influences on the health of the body and the soul; my experience had been quite the opposite. “I have noticed that patients who languish in bed take longer to recuperate than those who begin to move around as soon as they are able to.”
“I can see why. Three days in the infirmary and I was going mad.”
I felt warmed on the inside by our shared appreciation for the world out-of-doors. There was no other person with whom I had that kind of understanding—save Brother Wigbert, perhaps, but the intensity of it did not come even close.
It also reminded me of something. “When I was looking for a cure for Sister Adelheid, I read the sections of Naturalis Historia that deal with remedies derived from plants.” I lowered my voice, though we were alone. “It is fascinating, although—” I broke off.
“You are worried that it is a pagan work?” He put the question without disapproval. “Brother Rudeger says that is the reason we are not studying Pliny.”
“Well, he does recommend praying to the ancients’ gods, but . . .” I dropped my voice even lower. I had noticed that some monks who came to the infirmary gave me strange looks and watched me when I spoke with Brother Wigbert. The infirmarian himself had told me they were likely to report what they saw and heard to the prior, and that I should be careful. I was speaking in a near-whisper now, in case someone had wandered in looking for us. “He describes such a variety of remedies that I never knew existed that . . . I wonder if I should . . .” I hesitated again.
“Make them for your patients and try them without the pagan invocations?”
I nodded briskly. “There are so many useful applications. For example”—I started enumerating on my fingers—“wild mint juice can be used for jaundice and ear worms; rue taken with wine and mustard applied externally are both good for dropsy, as is the root of wild vine boiled in water and wine. Wormwood mixed with honey helps heal bruises, and mixed with raisin wine can cure defluxions of the eyes—”
“Ugh!”
“The point is,” I checked myself, “that even though the Church is suspicious of folk remedies, ancient texts talk about them all the time!”
I had told Volmar of Brother Wigbert’s distrust of herbal healing long ago, so he understood my dilemma. “I think whenever you have the ingredients, you should try them out,” he said. “The worst thing that can happen is Brother Wigbert will tell you to stop, but he will never denounce you.” Then he laughed. “They say that this infirmary”— he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder—“used to be a place people went to die. But now the monks are rubbing their hands at all the gifts that are going into their coffers. They probably no longer object to the use of wild herbs, though they won’t admit it.”
I smiled. He was likely right. “I started writing down recipes for herbal treatments and noting the results,” I confessed, my voice back to a loud whisper.
“What for?”
I explained that it was my growing belief that the essence of effective healing lay in observing the outcomes, and that it was necessary to consider each patient as a unique case because not everyone responded in the same way to the same treatment. Medical texts were mainly theory, even Galen, who otherwise noted the importance of observation. I was especially mystified by his stubborn endorsement of the practice of bloodletting. I was also skeptical of the insistence on treating medical knowledge as given once and for all, which compelled physicians like Brother Wigbert to apply it without giving the results much heed.
“I daresay it should be a success!” Volmar exclaimed enthusiastically. “Maybe one day monks will study from your book, not from Galen’s! What will you call it?”
I waved my hand. “It’s just a reference for me. Women don’t write books.”
His face crumpled into an I-hadn’t-thought-of-that look, but even as it did, a question pushed its way into my mind: why not? It was clear to me that despite what Prior Helenger—and even Brother Wigbert—would say, women possessed reasoning faculties just like men did. Besides, not everything men wrote was so great. There were many things with which I disagreed in St. Augustine, including his claim that unbaptized infants went to hell, even though they had not done anything to offend God. It struck me as unreasonable, therefore, that men could freely voice such views, but a woman was not allowed to write something that was useful.
A swell of enthusiasm filled me. The notion that I might write—really write, write for others to read—seemed daring, dangerous, and utterly thrilling. It would be a challenge unlike any other, but instead of terrifying me, it made me
