I listened avidly as he described recent improvements to its famed cathedral, where the choir was bigger than the entire church of St. Disibod, and which boasted new marble floors and stained glass windows that gave the interior a multicolored glow like walking inside a rainbow. It was a change from his usual tales of the crusade, in which he, like my father, had participated more than twenty years before. I loved those tales of Christian warriors defending cities of the Holy Land from the Saracen, and Renfred was always happy to have someone with whom to share them, for most of his customers had no time or patience for anecdotes about foreign lands.
I could have stayed and listened for hours, but I had another errand to do, so before he could launch into another retelling of the siege of Antioch, I bid him goodbye and moved toward the potter’s shop to order clay bowls.
An urgent thud of hoofs rose over the stirrings of a new day when I was halfway across the square, and I saw peasants scatter in all directions as they pulled carts piled with vegetables and chicken crates to safety. A pair of knights rode through the gate at full gallop, barely slowing to shout a few words to the watchman, and continued on their foaming coursers through the main street and up toward the abbey.
Disibodenberg was a quiet enough town for this to stir curiosity among the traders opening their shops. Renfred had also stepped out and followed the riders with his gaze, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “On my way back from England, I met a merchant from Mainz who told me there were rumors of the emperor’s imminent return to Germany and a likelihood of a war with those loyal to the pope.” He crossed himself. “May God help us.”
My anxiety mounting, I looked around as if someone else could confirm or deny this. Just then, one of the vegetable-hauling peasants passed by, a thin, graying man with the bright eyes and alert face of a busybody, accompanied by a small, scared-looking woman. Seeing my monastic garb, he took off his hat. Perhaps in response to my questioning expression, he said in a half-whisper as if delivering a secret message, “There is a word of mercenary troops abroad, looting and burning.”
The news sent a chill down my spine. I exchanged a glance with Renfred—he had told me enough stories about the terrible fate of cities under siege to leave me with no doubt about the danger facing us. And Disibodenberg was no Jerusalem; it had flimsy walls and a population wholly untrained for combat. Clay pots forgotten, I ran back to the abbey. Just as I passed through the gate, I saw Brother Wigbert disappearing inside the abbot’s house.
I followed but stopped when I caught the sound of several voices inside. The knights were in conference with Abbot Kuno, who must have summoned the obedientiaries. This was serious. Just before I pushed the door open, it crossed my mind that this was not a place for a woman to be. But I was not going to miss anything that might affect the convent.
This is what a war council must look like, I thought. The abbot’s face was drawn with worry; next to him, Prior Helenger wore his usual haughty expression, which, for once, failed to mask his anxiety. Across the abbot’s desk, the two knights were about to start their debrief as several senior monks stood attentively on either side. In addition to Brother Wigbert, there was Brother Ignatius, a graying man of fifty, as tall as the prior but with a friendlier demeanor, who served as treasurer; Brother Odo, the small, lively bursar of about forty; and Brother Ordulf, the abbey’s matricularius, fat and pale, and bald as an egg. The abbot raised his eyebrows as I entered and made a small obeisance, and the rest of the group turned in my direction.
“Who is that?” one of the knights asked. His tone was curious rather than hostile, and he looked vaguely familiar.
“Nobody.” Prior Helenger’s voice rang out, prompting Brother Wigbert to send him a sharp look. “Just a novice who should not be here,” he added.
Abbot Kuno raised his hand, and Helenger fell silent but continued to glare at me from under his cowl. “Hildegard needs to hear the news, so she can keep Sister Jutta informed,” the abbot told the knights. Then he turned to me. “These messengers have been sent by the Count von Sponheim.”
I regarded the men who had come from Jutta’s father. Then I remembered—the familiar-looking one was Rudolf von Stade, the black-eyed squire who had accompanied Count Stephan on his visit to Bermersheim seven years before. I noted that the fresh scar on his left cheek had healed and was now just a pale line from his jawline to the ear. He had matured from his lanky youth and settled into the broader frame of manhood, and his raven hair had begun to thin at the crown, but otherwise he looked much the same. I, on the other hand, must have changed substantially, having outgrown my chubbiness and acquired at least two feet of height. Most likely, he did not recall me at all.
At a gesture from the abbot, the knights spoke. Emperor Heinrich had returned from Italy and accused the nobles of fomenting chaos in his absence. The papal faction had rejected those allegations as a pretext for grabbing even more privileges for the crown, to which the emperor responded by challenging Archbishop Adalbert to battle. The emperor was marching on Mainz after calling on all loyal men to join him in
