“Thank you, Brother!” Helenger interrupted sourly. He may have been as grated as Hippolytus by our presence, but even he understood its benefits. “Anyone else?”
As nobody spoke up, he hastened to close the Chapter. “I will defer to Father Abbot on this,” he said, looking somewhere above my shoulder. “You will have your answer soon enough.”
That night I asked Juliana to lead compline in my place, and as they sang, I reviewed the meeting again in my head. By degrees, it became clear to me that even under the most benevolent abbot—let alone Helenger, whose succession seemed a foregone conclusion—there would always be tension between us and the abbey.
And at the center of it would be money.
25
January 1128
The evening before the feast of the Epiphany was typical of a Rhenish January: blustery and cold but bright from the fresh snow underfoot and the clear stars overhead. Since I was a young child, the wintry aspect of the sky had made me wonder about those far away bodies and the source of their illumination. I was now convinced that it had to be the same as on earth, where God’s breath infused viriditas into stones and creatures alike, and that force was transferred from one body to another, from one object to another, in the never-ending cycle of rebirth and renewal.
As I walked to the abbot’s house it occurred to me, not for the first time, that the light of the stars must reflect that of the moon. And the moon? Its brightness could only be animated by the sun’s fire. Everything served something higher, and nothing exceeded its due measure.
I shook a few stray snowflakes off my cape as I entered the parlor. Tonight we had our monthly supper, an arrangement we had recently started so the abbot could stay abreast of the convent and the infirmary’s affairs.
The fire was burning brightly, and I crossed to the hearth to warm my hands, my eyes alighting on a pair of new wall hangings depicting the Annunciation and the miracle of the loaves and fishes, finely woven with colorful thread. I turned my face to hide my resentment; the abbey acquired new ornaments and relics regularly—all in the hopes of attracting more pilgrims, the abbot said—but no work had yet been done on the convent, although Kuno had given his preliminary consent the previous winter. I had even accepted a new novice, Burgundia, and ceded a third of her dowry to the monks as a sign of goodwill. But that was in the year 1127. We had just welcomed the new one, and all five of us were still living with no room to spare, a community that could grow no more.
As we sat down to a savory dish of veal stewed with carrots and onions, I took a long sip of spiced wine, letting its aroma pervade my senses as it warmed me. After a few moments, I felt the welcome sense of mellow detachment that only good wine can bring, but then a wave of nostalgia swept me.
“Brother Wigbert always looked forward to his suppers with you. They made him happy,” I said, emotion swelling in my chest. The old infirmarian had died the previous November, and although his spirit—that which had made him Bother Wigbert—had departed long before that, I felt the loss keenly. “I miss him.”
The abbot’s eyes glistened momentarily. “He is with God now and intercedes with Him on our behalf. We can only be grateful that he died so peacefully.”
I agreed. I had seen my share of death, and the way it had taken Wigbert, without the awareness of the end approaching, seemed the more merciful way.
“When a companion passes away, especially one not much older,” the abbot spoke again, “it puts mortality in a new perspective. It becomes less abstract, more personal.” There was a faraway look in his eyes. He was in his fifties, and I wondered what it must be like to be looking back at one’s life, rather than ahead. Was he proud and content, or were there things he regretted? He performed his duties well and had saved the abbey from oblivion, but he had also kept Helenger close all these years, tolerating his temper and behavior, which brought him into intermittent conflict with the other monks—and at times also with me.
The abbot shook his head as if to dispel the somber reflections and brought the conversation back to more mundane business. “Are you satisfied with Sister Elfrid’s work?”
“Greatly, Father. She is an excellent midwife and a competent nurse. Without her, I would not be able to manage the infirmary.”
“It is certainly busy.” There was satisfaction in Kuno’s voice. Our reputation was unrivaled in the Rhineland, and although in accordance with Regula Benedicti patients were treated for free, the wealthier ones always left gifts for the abbey. “I want to ensure that you have as much help as you need. I understand that Brother Edwig”—he was referring to the latest of my assistants—“is better suited to menial tasks than medical procedures?”
“Indeed. Not everyone has the calling for it.”
“That is why I am going to send Brother Fabian to you for training. He is a novice who joined us six months ago and has expressed a great deal of interest in medicine.”
An assistant with a disposition toward healing? That would certainly be a novelty. “Anything helps,” I said, “and if he turns out to have a talent for it, it will only benefit the abbey.” I had no illusions as to the self-serving nature of the offer. Kuno needed me and the infirmary more than ever.
“Quite,” he hastened to agree.
I decided to take advantage of the situation. “Father,
