“Brother bursar, what say you?” He turned to Odo.
“I would have to know the estimated cost to make a definitive judgment, of course,” the bursar replied deferentially, “but I suspect it wouldn’t be cheap. Our income is not likely to allow for this kind of expense.”
The abbot turned to me. “We shall keep your suggestion in mind for when we receive a new endowment. In the meantime, we can set smaller sums aside for repairs.”
My heart sank. Had he forgotten our narrow escape? He had just talked about the need to learn lessons but was already thinking of half-measures. “But Father, if I may—you have said that these are uncertain times. Solid and reliable walls are a life-saving priority, not a luxury, and we forego them at our peril!”
Kuno did not miss my emphasis on the word luxury. “We are not a wealthy house,” he replied coolly. “A new chapel and new relics are our gift to the saints that they may continue to protect us.”
I sat down, defeated. I knew better than to argue, but it was a bitter pill to swallow. It was worrisome too, because as long as the peace held, however fragile, there would always be a more important vanity to indulge before practical considerations.
The abbot’s voice rang out again, “Now let us turn to the matter of the agreement recently signed at the Worms cathedral.” Forgetting my disappointment, I was suddenly all ears. For a moment, I expected to be asked to leave, but the abbot continued. “As many of you know, we received the text of the agreement struck between His Holiness Pope Calixtus and Emperor Heinrich, and our scribes have made copies, one of which will be kept at the library if you want to peruse it. My purpose today is to inform you of the chief benefits of the concordat for our Holy Church.” He paused for effect, and the tension in the room was palpable as all eyes watched his lips. “From now on,” he resumed, “the election of bishops and abbots will be left to their constituents—that is to say, cathedral canons and monks, respectively. No more arbitrary appointments of the emperor’s men and other loyalists.” An excited murmur rose over the chamber. “And the Church has been freed from the noxious control of secular authority by removing the right of kings to invest bishops with the insignia of spiritual power—the ring and the crosier.”
I glanced over my shoulder and saw the monks nodding with satisfaction, no sign of skepticism on any of their faces. I waited for someone to offer a comment or ask a question, but nobody did. The abbot’s complacent look suggested that he was not about to qualify his statement any further.
Before I knew what I was doing, I bolted from the bench as if pushed by an invisible hand. “But Father Abbot,” I protested, “the emperor retains the right of arbitration!”
A ripple of gasps swept the chapter house, and I felt Volmar tugging at my sleeve. The abbot frowned. His intention, it seemed, had been to present the concordat as a complete success of the papal faction. Still, he answered patiently enough. “That is less privilege than what the monarchy had previously enjoyed. It returns the emperor into the ranks of laymen and allows the Church to govern itself.”
That was true. The agreement was a defeat of the notion that kings were God’s anointed and as such imbued with the divine right to influence ecclesiastical affairs. Yet giving the emperor the right to have the final say in disputed elections was akin to preserving his right to appoint men that suited him, for, as everyone knew, episcopal contests were notoriously fractious. “The emperor will still invest bishops with the lance, after having witnessed their election in person or through his representatives, and perhaps having cast the deciding vote,” I persisted, firm in the opinion I had formed last night. “He effectively retains the power of appointment, and that means that little will change—his successors will take advantage of this right whenever possible, and the conflict will continue. This agreement solves little.”
A profound silence descended on the gathering as all eyes turned to the abbot, except Brother Wigbert’s, whose pleading gaze was trained on me from across the chamber. As Kuno weighed his response, a range of emotions crossed his face from irritation to amazement to impatience.
Prior Helenger, on the other hand, had no trouble deciding. “How dare you speak without permission?” He was barely able to contain himself. “We will not sit here and listen to your opinions on matters of state!”
“Chapter is a forum for an open discussion, and I was asked to attend, so I assumed that I had the same right to speak as anyone else,” I replied, lifting my chin. “And I have doubts whether this concordat will help the Church achieve a separation and autonomy from the empire.”
The prior scoffed. “You obviously don’t know what you are talking about. The Church does not want to be separate from the state. The Church must oversee the state because all power proceeds from God, and it is our task to ensure that the monarchy conducts its affairs based on Christian principles.”
In a flash, I remembered Brother Wigbert’s explanation of the origins of the conflict and how the fault lay on both sides. It suddenly made sense. Helenger’s words had revealed a complex game on the part of the Church, the mirror image, in fact, of the monarchy’s ambitions. After all, had not Pope Gregorius excommunicated the emperor’s father, denied his sovereignty, and instigated the appointment of an anti-king? The Church had been fighting for the same thing—the entirety of power, rather than its own separate domain.
