“A little,” I admitted. “Sister Jutta’s reputation is strong in these parts and is likely to attract candidates who think bodily mortification is a virtue.” Despite my best efforts to keep it quiet, somehow word had gotten out that Jutta lashed herself with a leather whip until she bled. It was being further reported that the practice regularly led her to the brink of death, from which God mercifully brought her back each time so she could continue to be an exemplar of piety and sacrifice. The details and the magnitude of what went on were often distorted, but the effect was powerful. We were seeing more and more pilgrims with purses full of gold and silver coins, and wealthy parents were offering their sons and daughters to St. Disibod like never before.
“Would Father Abbot want that?” Griselda asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” But I could hear the uncertainty in my voice. Kuno had been concerned about Jutta’s practices before they had become common knowledge, but now that they were making the monks rich, I could no longer be sure.
“Do you think . . . that I could join the convent?” Griselda asked, her eyes boring into mine like two shining green gems. I was aware that for a few moments she was not breathing at all. “As a novice,” she added in a whisper.
I cleared my throat and moved toward the bench under the fruit trees, their branches covered in swollen buds on the verge of bursting into a fragrant white cloud. “You know that I would like that, but it is not possible,” I said as we sat down. How had I not seen this coming? “Not at the moment, anyway,” I added, seeing her face fall. “Things may be different in the future.”
“What do you mean?”
I thought carefully before answering. I did not have the heart to tell Griselda that any one of the women queuing up to become a novice could offer much more than she had saved from her kitchen wages. Instead, I tried a different tack. “You have been living here for four years as a boy; imagine the monks’ reaction if they found out who you are.”
“I suppose they would be very surprised.”
“Yes.” I nodded slowly. “And also angry.” I paused to let it sink in. “I doubt they would let you join under such circumstances.”
Tears rose to Griselda’s eyes, though she fought them back. “So now I will never be able to become an anchoress?”
I felt a wave of frustration. What kind of a world was this where the monastic life was often imposed by threat or force on those who did not want it and denied to those who did?
“I did not say that,” I said gently. “It may be possible, but you will have to go about it in a different way.”
“But how?” There was a note of helplessness in her voice.
I did not have an answer then any more than when I had first learned of Griselda’s disguise. “Perhaps by going away for a while,” I suggested. “You could find better-paying work and save more . . .” I faltered, knowing the futility of such a plan.
“But I don’t want to go away! There is nothing for me outside. My family has renounced me, or they think me dead. This is my home now.”
I was casting around for an answer when the gate creaked again, and Brother Wigbert walked in. He halted when he saw us and pretended to survey the garden, but I saw him glancing sideways at us. He beckoned me to join him in the workshop, and I rose from the bench as Griselda went to pick up our tools to return them to the shed.
Brother Wigbert was stoking the fire in the stove, for the afternoon was getting chilly, and wine was already warming on the top. He seemed pensive as he poured me a cup, and I wrapped my fingers around it, letting the heat permeate them as I sat across from him. His face was kindly but also serious.
“I feel obliged to tell you that your association with young Christian has come to the attention of the abbey.” He shifted on his bench.
“What association?” I was puzzled.
Wigbert cleared his throat. “You are spending a lot of time with this young man, and it may appear unseemly now that you two are no longer children.” He looked uncomfortable now. “It is not easy for me to talk about such things; they don’t often happen in a place like this.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Gris—Christian is very useful in carrying messages, helping me in the garden, and—” I broke off as comprehension dawned on me, and I felt myself blushing at the implication.
“I know you have not done anything wrong,” Wigbert hastened to assure me, “but it would be for the best if he did not come here anymore. It would save you suspicion from . . . some quarters.”
“Some quarters!” I scoffed. “I know exactly what quarters this is coming from.” I put my nose in my cup sullenly.
The monk reached across the table and patted my arm. “There, everything is fine.” I noticed that he did not deny my suspicions. “I just don’t want you to go down a troubled path. The boy is free to indulge in such fancies, but they are a distraction to a girl whose parents offered her to God.” He rose as the bell sounded a call to vespers.
“I still need help in the garden,” I said.
“I am sure I can get one of the novices to come. In fact”—he paused on the threshold, struck with a thought—“I hear that Volmar has done a fine job in the orchards; he might like this kind of work!”
* * *
On an early summer morning, I went to the town on errands, stopping first at Renfred’s shop for ginger root. He apologized for the stacks of crates piled along one wall—the consignment expected the previous week had
