The trees were casting lengthening shadows onto the high road when we reached the final stretch leading to Disibodenberg’s gate. Bare fields lay on both sides of the tract, bordered by the forest to the south and vineyards to the north. About a mile ahead, at the confluence of the Glan and the Nahe, the abbey sat atop Mount St. Disibod, thickly forested and gently sloping toward the rivers. A small town walled by a wooden palisade hugged its western foothill.
A sleepy-looking watchman barely glanced at the abbot’s letter before waving us through. We entered the main street lined with timber houses, with only a few—occupied by merchant families, as I learned later—a mix of timber and stone. The side streets were already dim, candlelight beginning to seep through the shuttered windows of their smaller, simpler abodes. Farther up was the market square, where sellers were taking down their stalls and shopkeepers boarding up their windows for the night. A few glanced curiously as we passed in front of the parish church and took the road that ascended toward the abbey.
At the gate, my father dismounted and knocked on the iron-bound doors. A moment later, the porter opened the small grille. When he learned our business, he began to manipulate the heavy latch, and the doors squeaked on their hinges and opened wide.
“The abbot is awaiting you, my lord.” The monk bowed.
“Thank you, Brother.”
As we passed under the stone arch, I noticed my father taking stock of it with his soldier’s eye. The gate was new and solid, but the abbey wall was no more than a wooden palisade, much like the one surrounding the town. Despite the deepening dusk, it was obvious that it was in serious need of repair, with some of its logs rotten at the bottom and streaked with lichen, and weeds growing profusely in the cracks.
He clucked his tongue softly and made a motion with his head that I immediately recognized. I could almost hear him think, The abbot must be a persuasive man to have enlisted the Count von Sponheim as a benefactor.
Two months earlier at Bermersheim, the count had painted an intriguing picture of the Abbey of St. Disibod, where his daughter Jutta had founded her convent. Established more than four hundred years before by a saint from Hibernia who had brought Christianity to the Rhineland, the abbey had once possessed an impressive library that attracted monks from as far as France eager to cultivate their minds.
But a series of plunders by the Normans and the Hungarians had caused its fortunes to decline, and by the time the fourth Emperor Heinrich ascended the throne, the community had been reduced to fewer than ten monks, and the buildings had fallen into such disrepair that the brothers considered abandoning the place altogether.
The abbey continued its unremarkable existence until Abbot Kuno’s election five years before, after which he set out to increase the number of brothers in residence and undertake extensive repair works.
Although Count Stephan had at first thought of the abbey of St. Eucharius in Trier as the most suitable place for Jutta, he was sufficiently impressed with Kuno’s efforts to support her wish. “I had no hesitation in giving my consent, and I am glad her endowment is contributing to the reestablishment of St. Disibod,” he had told my father, before adding proudly, “In his letters, Abbot Kuno has praised her learning and piety.”
The courtyard was dominated by a bulky church with small, square windows through which dim light filtered onto the courtyard, where traces of snow melted between the flagstones. A pair of grooms carrying torches appeared from the stables. A moment later, a portly, middle-aged monk came out from a building located along the northern wall. He made his way toward us at a surprisingly brisk pace, his black robes fluttering around the knotted belt girdling his prominent belly. He was followed by another monk, tall and thin, with a cowl pulled low over his face. The shorter one had graying hair around his tonsure and a jovial red face, which betrayed a weakness for food, and perhaps drink too.
As soon as he was within earshot, he exclaimed cordially, “Mein Herr Hidelbert, I am
Abbot Kuno, and it is an honor to welcome you to St. Disibod.” He pointed toward his companion, whose face emerged from under the hood to reveal a younger man with finely chiseled, aristocratic features frozen into a haughty and forbidding expression. “This is Prior Helenger. We trust you had a pleasant journey.”
My father bowed slightly before addressing his hosts. “We set out early and rode most of the day, but God willed that we arrived safely and in good spirits, if a little tired.”
“I am sure of that.” The abbot nodded as if the exhaustion of long journeys was something of which he had extensive experience. “I had our guesthouse prepared and a meal laid out for you. After you fortify yourself, you are welcome to join us at vespers.”
“Father Abbot, this is my daughter, Hildegard.” My father turned to me. Thus prompted, I curtseyed, although under my cloak my heart was pounding against my ribs. But I lifted my chin, determined not to show the anxiety.
The abbot smiled and put his hand on my head. “God bless you, my child. We are happy that you are to join us on our spiritual journey, and we hope that it will be a fruitful one for you.”
Emboldened, I returned his smile, but when I turned to Prior Helenger, I saw that his face had not lost
