I shrugged. “His teachings on the virtue of moderation are similar to those of our founder, and I agree with them. But I find his stance on the issue of infant baptism unjust and unmerciful.”
“You are a thinker.” Brother Wigbert smiled. “And that is why I need you back here.”
My heart fluttered with a tiny glimmer of hope, but my reply was sober. “Father Abbot will not permit that.”
“He already has. We have had enough mishaps to draw his attention. Two weeks ago, a woman suffering from an excess of yellow bile almost died when Edwig made her a draft of milk thistle, black pepper, valerian root, and I don’t know what else. She convulsed on the floor, and it took two of us to hold her down to prevent her from choking. But I don’t blame the boy,” he added in his usual kind-hearted way. “He did not volunteer. Prior Helenger sent him. I should have overseen him better, but I am old and it is hard for me to keep an eye on everything.”
“I am sure you are still of great help to your patients.”
Wigbert shook his head. The pain in his eyes was gone, replaced by the same serene resignation I had seen in Sister Adelheid when she had faced her mortality. I wondered if I would have the same courage to accept the inevitability of passing when my time came.
“I am becoming useless,” he said, speaking over my attempt to protest again. “If we are to be able to fulfill our Benedictine duty to the sick, you must come back. The abbot recognizes that and has authorized your return. Besides”—he smiled with pride—“patients are asking after you.”
I could not help smiling back. “If I am needed, I will gladly accept the task.”
“It is decided, then.” He was visibly relieved, though his relief could not have been greater than mine.
“Brother . . .” I hesitated.
“What is it?”
“There are things we need at the convent—like charcoal and lamp oil—that we are unable to procure ourselves. We are out of funds.”
Wigbert looked dismayed. “I will have them sent today. Is there anything else you need?”
“Fresh rushes and some wool to mend our winter robes would be good too.” Then I added, “I don’t understand why we have no money, especially as Gertrude brought fifty silver marks with her not two months ago.”
I was certainly not prepared for what I heard next. “Sister Jutta cedes the anchoresses’ dowries to the abbey,” the infirmarian said. “I thought you knew,” he added, seeing my mouth fall open.
My mind reeled. Why would she do that? But I already knew the answer; Jutta believed in utter poverty and cared nothing for comforts. Yet her stance would only hurt us in the long run. “I must speak with Father Abbot,” I said, gripped by a sense of desperation. “Can you arrange that, Brother?”
“Speak about what?” He blinked.
“A permission to enlarge the convent.” I knew I did not have the authority to make such a request, but Jutta was beyond caring, and the convent could not go on like this for much longer.
To my surprise, he did not object to my raising the idea—perhaps the monks already understood Jutta’s waning role—but that did not mean that they would accommodate me. “I doubt he will agree.”
“Why not? It is too small for the four of us; we sleep, eat, and study in the same room.”
“You are arguing about the convenience of women who have chosen to lead an anchorite life.”
He had a point. “What about future income?” I asked. “There is much interest in our convent, and we could admit more novices if we expanded our quarters. And as things stand”—I could not help the bitterness in my voice—“the abbey would benefit the most.”
Wigbert chuckled. “Now that is an argument that might convince Father Abbot.”
Thus I returned to the infirmary. Brother Edwig was relegated to menial tasks, which he was only too happy to perform. I came every afternoon, and although I was no longer allowed to go into the town, I was nonetheless grateful to be able to practice medicine again. The abbot heard my plea for the expansion and promised to think about it, but if the abbey wall was any indication, nothing was likely to come of it any time soon.
All through those months Griselda was never far from my thoughts. I finally wrote to my mother to ask for a small loan to secure Griselda’s admittance. Afterwards, I sat listening to a May shower pattering on the roof, and my thoughts drifted back to my first year in the convent when I had been lonely and homesick. Those feelings had abated over time, but I still felt nostalgic every Christmas when the annual letter from Bermersheim arrived. The news had been mostly good: marriages, new nieces and nephews, good harvests, and salt production from the Alzey mine that continued to provide the family with a respectable income.
There had been only one mournful letter in those eight years; it had announced my father’s death the previous winter. My eldest brother Drutwin had taken over the management of Bermersheim, and my mother lived with his family on a small income from her widow’s inheritance. As I sealed my letter, I recalled one of the last conversations I had with her, about how unfair it was for poor people not to be able to pursue a religious vocation in the same way that wealthy ones could. A surge of pride welled inside me that I always felt when I thought about my mother who—even if she did not often get her way—had never been afraid of making her opinions known.
I smiled as sunshine pierced through the clouds, wondering whether my own stubbornness had come from her. It had to have, because my father, God rest his soul, had always preferred to stick to familiar traditions and the surety of unquestioned beliefs.
After the midday service I went to the infirmary. It was quiet, and Brother Wigbert informed me in
