He regarded me with an almost apologetic expression, and it occurred to me that it was probably the prior and his backers who had been holding it up. I felt a pang of sympathy for Kuno, caught as he was between competing interests. But he was the abbot and he would have to make a decision, and I would not back down from what was best for us.
“I have,” he said. “We can spare a part of the smaller courtyard up to the old watchtower to enlarge your premises. I will make the announcement at the end of the month.”
I sat back. “Thank you, Father. I know how difficult it will be to justify this to. . . some of the brothers, but I assure you it will benefit all of us.”
Kuno closed his eyes in subtle acknowledgement. “We will use timber for the new buildings, as stone would be too expensive. Unless, of course, you want to pay for it out of Sister Burgundia’s dowry.”
“You know it would not be enough,” I replied coolly, ignoring the sarcasm and refraining from reminding him of my own gift to the abbey. But I was glad nonetheless; under the circumstances, just seeing the convent rebuilt and expanded would be a success.
“I am glad we understand each other, Sister. I am going to hire Master Albert.” He made a gesture to encompass his comfortable lodgings. “His skill and reputation are excellent.” The master builder, who lived in Disibodenberg, had supervised the construction of the abbot’s new house three years before.
“I will prepare a sketch of what I have in mind,” I said, reaching for a piece of pear baked in honey that had been served for dessert. “Perhaps we can discuss it at our next supper.”
“That would be good. Then construction can start as soon as the spring rains are over.”
As I walked back to the convent later, snow crunching under my feet, I wondered again about Kuno’s motivations. For unlike Helenger, whose hatred for me was clear, the abbot had been mostly kind. Fundamentally, he was a good man, but the abbey’s rising stature and the reputation of his table—both of which were costly to maintain—were important to him. Whatever it was, as long as he remained in good health, my relations with the abbey would be manageable enough.
By June, the new construction was underway, and I decided to make a journey to Jutta’s ancestral home at Sponheim, which I had wanted to do since she had died. It would be my first trip outside Disibodenberg in thirteen years, and I looked forward to putting some distance—if only for a few days—between myself and the place of so much recent grief.
I brought Gertrude with me, and we set out on the high road in the early morning the day after the feast of St. Johannes the Baptist. Our path took us between the still green barley fields before we entered the forest and turned northward. For protection, I hired Arno, a former man-at-arms who had recently quit the archbishop’s service after ten years of soldiering and now made a living escorting merchants to Trier and Mainz. The clear sky promised a serene day, and sparkling dew hung from the tips of the leaves, from which it fell like soft wet crystals on our heads. Even before we crossed the Nahe, I stopped our progress twice to collect a quantity of herbs, which I tied with strings and hung on the sides of the wagon to dry.
From the bridge, I looked back on the orchards and vineyards stretching along the river, its gleaming waters vanishing around the bend of Mount St. Disibod, crowned with the tower of the abbey church. On the other bank, the road sloped upward among the green hills of the Uplands, covered thickly by oak forest. By noon the breeze had died down, and a hot midsummer day settled over us. Each time we emerged from the shade of the woods onto a clearing, the heat drenched us in a dazzling cascade of white light, and the sawing of cicadas seemed to reach a fever pitch in the still air. With the weather so fine, we were likely to reach Sponheim before nightfall unless I found more herbs to collect.
Moving through the undulating country, whose forests were crisscrossed by narrow streams and broken up by meadows, I was reminded of the journey I had made from my own home all those years before. It had been cold then, a scent of winter in the air, but today was more like those carefree days I had spent with my siblings in the Bermersheim forest, vast and overflowing with a secret life, vigorous and green in the sunshine. I thought of Uda who was still with the family, caring for the grandchildren now. I would never partake in their lives, but reaching into the pocket of my robe, I felt the small box with the lump of salt, my link to them through distance and time.
As we entered the County of Sponheim, the road became flatter for a while, but the hills reappeared as we moved along the northwesterly course. We reached the town shortly before sunset, and I was impressed by the size of the Benedictine abbey Count Stephan had founded more than twenty-five years before that dominated the town with a gray octagonal tower. I had considered lodging there but decided to stay where Jutta had grown up. The last several hundred yards took us up a steep path toward the family’s seat—a solid-looking fortress protected on one side by the Ellerbach, a tributary of the Nahe, its walls shining wetly from an afternoon shower.
Our wagon rolled into the bailey. The keep was smaller in width than I had imagined, but at
