All at once I was transported to another summer day, when I had sat with Volmar under the big ash downhill from the abbey, telling him about the chant I had composed. O frondens virga had since become one of the convent’s favorites, preserving the memory of warmth and light during long winters, and celebrating the reawakening of life in the spring and its full glory in the summer. Gertrude was one of the most eager chantresses, and I particularly liked her interpretation, slow and steady at first, then rising to hover on one syllable through several notes.
“Tree branches in the summer have a certain musical quality about them,” I said musingly. “They inspire me more than anything else.”
“Do they?” My companion was a gifted composer herself, and it piqued her curiosity.
“Perhaps it is the way light and wind play among them. Their movement, this gentle swaying is such a pure manifestation of life’s greening force.” I closed my eyes. “O viridisima virga, que in ventoso flabro sciscitationis sanctorum prodisti.” O greenest branch, you budded in the saint’s gentle breezes.
Gertrude began humming softly, and the music matched our step, fluctuating in a pattern similar to the swaying of the wagon and the heaving and falling of the horses’ backs.
The images filled my mind. “Cum venit tempus quod tu floruisti in ramis tuis, quia calor solis in te sudavit sicut odor balsami.” When the time came, your boughs blossomed, for the sun’s warmth seeped into you like balsamic perfume.
And she sang after me, adding her favorite melismatic flourish at the end of each phrase.
“Nam in te floruit pulcher flos qui odorem dedit omnibus aromatibus que arida errant.” For in you the beautiful flower filled the air with sweet perfume, awakening all that was dry.
Gertrude let the melody scale upward to expand and fill the space under the trees as if it were the dome of a cathedral. When she finished, Arno tipped his hat without dropping the reigns of his horse, and clapped for good measure, making us giggle like little girls.
Toward midday, dark clouds from the west obscured the sun, and the birdsong ceased as a sudden stillness descended on the forest. Arno, an experienced traveler, suggested we look for shelter. Even before the words died on his lips, a distant rumble rolled across the sky. For an instant, it looked like the storm might catch us right there, but just then a wisp of chimney smoke came into view above the tree line, and we promptly turned in that direction. The rain began slowly, the first heavy drops tapping the leaves rarely, but as we entered the village, the spattering rose to a crescendo. By the time we reached the inn, it was falling in torrents that obscured everything beyond an arm’s reach.
Nature’s rage lasted all afternoon and included a brief hailstorm, eliciting a lament from the innkeeper’s wife that her vegetable garden would be ruined. The wind howled and bent tree boughs, and it was so dark that it seemed like the night had already fallen. By the time the last of the clouds had dissolved, the sun was low and we could not hope to reach St. Disibod before nighttime; I took two rooms, and we retired shortly after the sun went down.
The next day, as we approached the fork where the high road turned toward Disibodenberg, I beckoned Arno to my side. “I have a favor to ask you.” I took a silver coin out of my purse. “Take a message from me to the village three leagues from here across the Glan.”
“I will be happy to do it, Sister, after I have seen you safely back to the abbey.”
I shook my head. “It’s very important. We are but a short ride from Disibodenberg, and it’s only midday. Once on the high road, we will be within sight.”
“I don’t want to leave you unprotected.” He hesitated but relented when I pressed another coin into his palm.
“There is an inn at the entrance to the village run by a man named Burchard; find his daughter and tell her to come to the abbey after the harvest.” I heard a note of uncertainty in my own voice, for, in truth, I had no idea if Griselda had gone back to her parents.
But Arno did not seem to notice. He nodded, and when we came to the crossroad, he spurred his horse on toward the bridge while the two of us continued toward the town.
The sisters had just finished singing the afternoon service when Gertrude and I arrived. Even though we had only been gone a week, the construction had visibly progressed. The courtyard was cluttered with planks, wood shavings, and tools, but, as it was a Sunday, no work was being done. Juliana took me to the new dorter, almost complete and twice the size of the old one, though still bare of furnishings.
“I love the smell of new timber.” I inhaled deeply, running my hand over the walls that were yet to be whitewashed. “It reminds me of when we rebuilt the infirmary . . . that sense of being on the verge of doing more, reaching farther.” I looked around. “What else?”
“The roof replacement on the old dorter is finished, and the workers will move our beds out tomorrow so they can start converting it into the refectory.”
“Excellent.”
We stepped out into the courtyard again. “Oh, and”—Juliana stopped, suddenly remembering—“we had an unexpected arrival when you were away. Brother Volmar has returned.”
27
July 1128
“Are you feeling unwell?” Juliana eyed me with concern. “You have gone pale.”
“I’m fine.” I drew the back of my hand across my forehead, the summer heat suddenly intense on my skin. “Just a little tired from the road, that’s all.”
“Shall I send for some wine?”
I shook my head. “Thank you. I’ll manage.”
I left her and walked to the chapel to be alone with the confusion that assailed me. I knelt before the altar,
