“But Father Abbot, the infirmary!” Brother Wigbert protested.
“It worked before she arrived,” Kuno said firmly, “and it will work after she is gone.”
21
February 1123
“O nobilissima viriditas, que radicas in sole et que in candida serenitate luces.” The chant, my favorite, reminded me that nature—steady and reassuring in its timelessness even when the world of human making seemed to be falling apart—possessed an unfailing power to lift our spirits. “O noblest greenness, you are rooted in the sun, sparkling with bright serenity.”
“Tu rubes ut aurora et ardes ut solis flamma.” Among the chorus of voices was a new one, and it belonged to Gertrude, a girl of fourteen who had made the perilous winter journey from Swabia shortly after Epiphany to join our convent. She was quiet and obedient, but when it came to music, she filled the chapel with a pure and sublime sound. She had received a musical education at home including the principles of notation, and I hoped to use her talent to expand our repertoire of chants. “As morning’s dawn you glow and burn like the sun’s flame.”
The final notes climbed to their wavering heights when a loud knock on the gate reverberated throughout the enclosure. I rose and stepped into the sunless light of a February afternoon. The world around me had nothing of the verdant luxuriance praised in the chant, but I hoped the music would see me through the winter until the sparse vines animated with new leaves. Would my life be better then?
Since the previous autumn, I had been confined to the convent and found the long periods of silence broken by prayers hard. My vocation was meant to be an active one that would allow me to constantly improve my mind and better the lives of others in practical ways. But my existence was constrained and quiet, and it was not good for me.
The knocking resumed, sounding more urgent. I slid the bolt and saw the anxious face of a young monk through the grille in the door. In a nervous voice, he explained that I was to come see Brother Wigbert immediately. I asked no questions as I hastily wrapped myself in my cloak and followed him.
In the infirmary, he ushered me straight into the surgery where Brother Wigbert waited with a patient, a gangly teen with a broken arm. My medical instincts stirred immediately as I noted that the bone was dislocated but had not pierced the skin. The young monk stood quietly next to me, his eyes downcast and his face pale green.
“Thank you, Brother Edwig, that will be all.” Wigbert’s voice was calm, but I detected a note of irritation in it.
The monk withdrew hastily, and the infirmarian shook his head. “The boy has a weak stomach, and he cannot make drafts that would at least bring patients some relief as recompense for their poor taste,” he sighed.
“I am sorry to hear that.” I was struck by Wigbert’s decline. Since last I saw him, his movements had noticeably slowed. As he rubbed his joints, I noticed with dismay that his fingers had become more gnarled.
Our eyes met, and I knew that he had guessed my thoughts. “I sent for you,” he said, “because I can no longer set bones safely. I had hoped to guide Edwig through the process, but he almost fainted.” His face was serious, but his eyes shone with affection. There was also a glimmer of pain in them, and it was more than the physical ache of his sore joints. It betrayed the realization of fading away as a physician, a role he had embraced for most of his life which was probably more important to him than that of a monk.
I averted my gaze and set out to prepare for the procedure. Moments later, I was working under Wigbert’s experienced eye, although I had assisted him so many times, I would have been able to do it alone. When the bone was back in its place and the patient sent on his way, the infirmarian motioned for me to follow him to the workshop.
“I am glad to see you.” He lowered himself on to the bench with a groan, relieved to be off his feet. “You are the best student I have ever had.”
I flushed with pleasure at the compliment, and at the sense of our old camaraderie that I missed so much.
“Poor Edwig is trying hard, but he has two left hands with my glass vials,” Wigbert went on. “He cannot begin to comprehend the first thing about the balance of humors, and urine analysis repulses him. He is too soft.” He sighed. “Meanwhile, your talent is going to waste.”
My throat tightened, for he had echoed a frequent and desperate thought of mine over the last four months. “I am content.” I tried to sound convincing. “I have a great deal to do at the convent.” That part was true at least; Jutta was almost always ill with fever, and Juliana preferred that I lead them during services, even though she was my senior. And we were constantly receiving letters from candidates, which it was my job to review before passing any recommendations on to the abbot. “Sister Jutta needs me.”
But the old monk was not fooled. “It is a waste,” he repeated, waving his hand. “And as for Jutta, it is only a matter of time before she loses her life to those practices.”
“She may be misguided, but few women deserve to be called holy more than she does.”
A mixture of surprise and amusement crossed Wigbert’s face. “And to think that only a few years ago, you were rebelling against the self-flagellations while I was the one attempting to justify them.”
“I try to understand. It doesn’t mean I approve.”
“Are you taking a more indulgent view of St. Augustine
