Predictably, that choice had run into opposition from the late emperor’s kin, and the conflict might have turned bloody but for the fact that Frederick’s younger and more ambitious brother Konrad, Duke of Franconia, was in Jerusalem during that time. Frederick lost the election to Lothair and never managed to rally enough supporters to attempt to take the throne by force.
I had followed those developments closely through intelligence gathered from our visitors, and it seemed to me that the concordat had done nothing to quell the proclivity of the temporal and spiritual powers to use elections, whether ecclesiastical or royal, as an opportunity to ascertain more control over the other’s domain.
“And no, there had been no comet in the sky the night the emperor died,” I whispered after I had recounted the events, smiling even as I swallowed a lump in my throat. Wigbert’s expression was as serene and trustful as that of a child listening to a bedtime story.
I blew out the candle, added charcoal to the brazier, and left for the convent. Often, that late night walk was the time when I felt most lonely, and when my thoughts instinctively went to Volmar. He had been gone for more than two years, and although I did not know where he was or what he was doing, I hoped that he was safe and happy. I still missed him, but I no longer felt the acute sense of loss that had followed his departure. Nowadays, the thought of him brightened my mood and helped dispel my solitude, even though there were times, especially when Wigbert was faring worse, when I wished he was there to offer words of comfort and courage for what lay ahead.
But that autumn night, I had reason to feel hopeful again, even excited. Just five days before, our convent had grown. It was not exactly an expansion—my plea for renovating and enlarging our premises had yet remained unanswered—but Jutta’s vacated place had allowed me to accept a novice, and I made my choice carefully. Elfrid was unlike the rest of us; she was a small, plump woman in her middle thirties, she had lived in the world before she had joined us, and she possessed a restless energy in her movements that betrayed a force to be reckoned with. She also had a worldly skill.
I knocked on the door, and from the short, rapid steps on the other side, I guessed that she would be the portress. Perhaps she had just returned to the enclosure herself. Indeed, as the gate squeaked on its rusty hinges, there she was, welcoming me with a bright smile on her wide face.
“How did it go?” I asked, alert despite my weariness. Everything about her was sure and lively, two traits absent from the convent. Her viriditas made my heart lighter.
“With God’s help, the babe was delivered safely and is living, though she is tiny and will require much care to thrive,” Elfrid replied. She had been a midwife in Rüdesheim and had decided to spend her widowhood as a nun. Her dowry—the money she had inherited from her mildly successful merchant husband—had been only fifteen silver marks, much less than a daughter of nobility would have brought. But I had not hesitated, for here was a chance to do something about the poor quality of maternity care that made the risky business of childbirth more dangerous still.
Surprisingly, Abbot Kuno had given his leave for Elfrid to go on house calls, though it was only because he wanted to avoid a battle over allowing women to deliver in the infirmary, an option I had deliberately suggested first. “It took so long that I had to use three measures of henbane to help her through it.” She reached into her scrip and took out an almost empty bottle to show me. Elfrid was also a competent herbalist, and her infusion of henbane in wine was highly effective in easing labor pains. “There was some bleeding afterward, but I put pressure on her stomach and held it for thirty Hail Marys,” she added. “In two days, she will be back on her feet.”
I was greatly relieved because the patient happened to be Renfred’s only daughter, the babe his first grandchild, and the old man deserved some cheer after he had buried his wife in the spring. I thanked Elfrid and turned toward the chapel to say a quick prayer before retiring; I had missed compline again. Elfrid headed for the dorter, but not before informing me excitedly, “Tomorrow, if I am not called to another labor, I will work on a remedy for husbands who suffer from marital difficulties. I have heard several women complain about it, and I have not been here a week.”
My hand flew to my mouth to cover my shock and a simultaneous urge to laugh. Then I composed myself, for the physician in me was curious, “What kind of remedy?”
“It requires the seeds of watercress, leeks, and carrots which are bound into a honey paste mixed with spices. There is ginger and a little bit of cinnamon in the workshop, but if we could get our hands on some cloves and pepper, we could make a lot of people happy.” She winked and was gone in a flurry of robes.
I reached the
