The river, low after a hot summer and lazily pursuing its course toward the Rhine around sandy shallows, sparkled in the afternoon sun. So this is how it feels, I thought, my body still holding on to this novel sensation, my heart slowing from its furious pace. I knew little about relations between men and women, except that they resulted in offspring whose birthing process was of considerable medical interest to me. But it was all shrouded in mystery, sometimes hinted at during those births in code words that were pronounced with embarrassment, or, alternatively, with ribald humor.
I remembered the couple in the alley during the feast of St. Disibod. I had wondered what made them so giddy and impatient, and now I knew. It was nice. Then I remembered how the Church—of which I was to become a consecrated member one day—viewed these matters.
Yet how could this sweet, tender thing be wrong? I stole a glance at Volmar, lost in his own thoughts with the serious look I liked so much, and I could feel no regret. He felt my movement and turned to me. For some moments, his eyes traced the lines of my face as if he were about to set off on a long journey and wanted to remember every detail of it. Then he reached and touched my hair, loose after my veil had slipped off. It had grown out long again now that Jutta’s frequent illnesses had caused her to abandon her rule about keeping it shorn. “It is like ripe wheat,” he said in a marveling tone as he ran his fingers down my tresses.
I closed my eyes, delighted by the comparison, and nestled next to him, basking in the glow that seemed to surround us. Against my thigh, I could feel the pressure of the little box in the pocket of my robe, and I imagined the pure white lump of salt inside, still unchanged even as I had grown and become a woman.
And then words flashed through my mind that sent me into a fit of laughter. Volmar looked at me quizzically but could not help smiling himself. “What’s so funny?”
“You won’t believe it,” I gasped, “but Brother Wigbert once warned me against this when he saw me alone with Griselda. He thought that she and I—”
“I can believe it!” He was laughing too, covering his face with his hands.
“Yet it has never occurred to anybody to keep an eye on us!”
The familiar twinkle of mischief returned to Volmar’s hazel eyes. “I suppose they trust novices more than they do kitchen boys.”
I grew somber again. “That was the real reason she had to go.”
“Because they thought that she—or rather he—fancied you?”
“That and the fact that she was almost grown up, and it would have been difficult to keep the secret much longer,” I said. “I felt it was my duty to tell her that, and she was heartbroken. It is my fault,” I added glumly. “I should have been honest with her from the beginning that it was a bad idea.”
“She had a few years of happiness thanks to you.”
“I told her there might be a way for her to return, but I am not sure I believe it. Not as long as—” I broke off, stunned by what had just occurred to me.
“Not as long as it is not your decision to make?” he finished quietly.
Once again, he had read my thoughts perfectly.
20
October 1122
The concordat may have been signed, but it was only when the written proclamation had reached Disibodenberg that the town resumed its normal rhythm, with the folk once again going about their business and visiting relatives in nearby villages without fear. At the scriptorium, Volmar and Bertolf worked ceaselessly, and soon I had a copy in my hands which I stayed up all night to peruse.
Awaiting the lauds bell as the gray light of dawn broke over the abbey, I set the parchment aside, rubbed my eyes, and tried to imagine the main characters in this power play. In the palace at Aachen, the emperor, wearing a trefoil crown, was poring over scrolls of vellum, plotting how to retain control over church appointments. In a parallel scene in Rome, the pope, dressed all in white and surrounded by his advisers, tried to determine how to wrest these powers from the monarchy while holding on to as much land as possible. The scope of the struggle was breathtaking, but the document before me seemed to suggest that all that scheming was finally at an end. And yet I was unconvinced.
Later that day, Abbot Kuno convened a special Chapter meeting where a report on the attack would be presented. He had invited me and Volmar, and as the two of us entered the chapter house for the first time in our lives, we found a chamber different from anything else within the abbey. It was round, and the four narrow windows around its circumference let in little light on that rain-whipped October day. Below the windows, tiered rows of seats formed a semicircle that faced an open area occupied by a trestle table and chairs, and illuminated by dozens of candles in iron holders. The abbot had yet to arrive, and a hum of subdued conversations filled the chamber, despite The Rule’s exhortation that the brethren keep silent. We took seats in the front row near the door, and a moment later, a snippet of a conversation reached our ears.
“Master Abelard’s book was condemned at a provincial synod and ordered burned,” a monk seated behind us was saying to his neighbor. “I have it from Hubert von Bernstein, and other pilgrims confirm it.”
Volmar and I exchanged curious glances. Herr Hubert was a local nobleman and an abbey patron who had travelled to Compostela in the spring and stopped at St. Disibod a few days before
