16
December 1120
I began to write differently: I was more thorough, checked everything twice, and made sure my Latin was as correct as it could be. Something that had been buried in the back of my mind since I was three and became lost in my family’s chapel started resurfacing in my daily thoughts.
My recurring headaches had started on that distant afternoon, but now I began to suspect that it was no ordinary illness. For, as it weakened my body, it made my mind sharper and more receptive to understanding. I still did not know what it was that had happened to me all those years ago, but I felt that I was getting closer. So I kept writing in secret from everyone except Volmar.
Then the day of my novitiate vows came.
Under the terms of my enclosure, I could become a novice only after my sixteenth birthday, which fell in October. Traditionally, the abbey held this ceremony the day after Christmas. Throughout the autumn, I had made an effort to immerse myself in the study of the Bible, but, outside of the hour I spent with Jutta each day, I had little time for it between working, attending services, and scribbling on parchment scraps whenever I thought no one saw me. So when I walked into the church on a snowy day of St. Stephanus, I was less clear on the finer points of the Holy Writ than on the best remedies for a tooth abscess or the ways to lance a boil while minimizing the pain.
Abbot Kuno, dressed in white priestly vestments woven through with golden thread, led the procession of the black-robed monks into the church. With the rest of the soon-to-be novices, I was seated in the front pew and could see melting snowflakes twinkle in the candlelight like tiny jewels on the brothers’ cowls. Behind the abbot, Prior Helenger marched in a plain robe, the expression on his face the same glum primness from my oblate blessing five years before.
As always, the Mass thrilled me with every soaring note of chant and every swing of the censer that discharged bursts of aromatic incense. I wondered if Volmar felt the same way, but his face was solemn and inscrutable. Perhaps he was worried that the novitiate would put an end to his secret hunting pastimes, as it is the Church’s view that no man can be holy who hunts. I was so engrossed in my own sensations and in thoughts of Volmar that I completely forgot about another friend, and only noticed her as I stepped down from the altar after receiving my blessing. Griselda stood in the shadows in the back of the church, observing me with admiration and a bit of envy, just as she had the day of our first encounter on the road to St. Disibod.
The snow had subsided by the time I returned to the workshop with Brother Wigbert, who was beaming with an almost paternal pride. He was pouring us wine when a servant arrived saying that Sister Jutta wanted to see me. I wrapped myself in my woolen cloak and stepped from the firelit warmth of the workshop, back into the swirls of snow the wind was still blowing from its piles.
As I walked, I was seized by a sudden fear that I might have to serve my novitiate inside the convent after all. It would be contrary to the agreement struck between the abbot and the magistra, but through Brother Wigbert I knew that the prior had been advocating my permanent enclosure. I was afraid he may have finally come up with some clever argument to achieve this, the more so since the abbot was known to give in to the prior if his own peace was at stake. Jutta could have changed her mind as well. As the founder of the convent and my superior, it was in her power to make the final decision.
As I knocked on the door, half-covered by snowdrifts, I thought I already felt a distant echo of a headache.
Sister Juliana let me in and motioned toward the chapel. Inside, it seemed to be lit by all the candles we had, and their glow made it feel cozier than usual.
I was surprised to find Jutta sitting in a pew instead of kneeling or lying on the floor. She gestured for me to sit by her side. “My heart is glad today,” she said. “You have taken the first step on the road on which I embarked many years ago.” My face must have registered some alarm, for she added, “I am aware that your vocation is of a different nature than mine, and that you will chart your own way.”
I swallowed. “Yes, Sister.”
Jutta spoke again in a tone that, for once, lacked the martyr-like quality. “I have been observing you since that night you stood before me for the first time, a mere child yet undaunted. You faced me and this life seemingly without fear. I may have wished for you to take a path similar to the other sisters, but I knew even then that it was not to be.” She paused, gazing pensively at the oil lamp at the foot of the cross. Something akin to a smile fleeted across her lips. “God bestowed a gift on you in your talent for healing, and you have made a good use of it. For a long time, I found it difficult to accept,” she added honestly, “but this abbey needs you, and it shall have you.”
Relief washed over me, but I was careful not to show it. “All I want is to make you and this convent proud.”
“You have been successful at healing broken bodies,” Jutta resumed, “but I hope that as you continue to perfect that art, you will also learn how to heal broken souls.”
I looked at her uncertainly. We had duties as women of the Church, but ‘healing souls’ sounded like something that priests
