After some moments, the upheaval began to subside. My mind cleared, though a new concern presented itself. Had Juliana noticed anything? The news had come so abruptly I had no time hide its impact, and what had Juliana’s stare signified if not a recognition of the truth? Was it condemnation I saw in her eyes? But Juliana, of all people, would have understood.
I was also unsettled by the fact that a mere mention of Volmar’s name had caused my pulse to quicken and cheeks to grow pale, only to burn the next moment. I had thought that chapter of my life closed and felt betrayed by my body that refused to follow the dictates of my will.
For two days, every knock on the infirmary door or sound of footsteps on the gravel caused my heart to leap to my throat. I dropped a glass vial when Elfrid entered the workshop to collect some powdered oak bark, and she looked on with surprise and concern as I fell to my knees to pick up the shards, laughing off my clumsiness. That evening I was to sup with the abbot to apprise him of my visit to Sponheim, and I walked to his house on weak knees hoping—or fearing—to see Volmar at any moment, but I did not.
Kuno made no mention of his return, and I began to doubt the truthfulness of the story. Perhaps Juliana had misheard, or he had paid a brief visit and was gone again. He might not have remembered me anymore . . . The idea filled me with dismay, but I could not bring myself to ask the abbot. I did not trust myself to be able to talk about Volmar as if he were merely an old acquaintance.
The feast of St. Disibod came and went with only a few broken noses and arms to set, and the morning after was relatively quiet. I had just administered drafts of lemon balm, lavender, and skullcap to several revelers to soothe the excess heat in their heads from drink, when a woman’s scream, prolonged and anguished, reached us from the abbey courtyard. It ceased as suddenly as it had started but rent the air again a moment later. Although muffled by the infirmary walls, it was still heart-wrenching; the next time it sounded, it turned into a pitiful wail before trailing off. I thrust the flask into the hands of a nearby patient and ran out to find a scene of confusion outside the church.
A young woman—a pilgrim by the look of her, and no more than seventeen or eighteen—was half-kneeling on the ground, her arms held by two men. Held, but just barely, because she was in a fit that seemed to endow her with a strength that was unlikely to habitually reside in her slender frame.
As I approached, she managed to wrest her arms free and fell to her knees, folding her hands and bursting into sobs. The younger of the two men who supported her was white-faced with shock, but the other, perhaps the father, tried to comfort the girl, though his soft words were being drowned by the wailing amidst which I could discern a few phrases, “Lord, save me . . . forgive my sins . . . do not condemn me to the fires of hell . . . I am damned . . . I am lost!”
The commotion began to attract curiosity as monks streamed out of the church, and the stable boys ran from their work to look on.
“What is happening here?” The abbot stepped in front of the group, looking alarmed.
“We came as pilgrims, Father.” The older man dropped the girl’s writhing arm and bowed deeply. Brother Fabian, who had followed me from the infirmary, took over from him and tried to keep her steady. It required some effort, although he was a big man at least a head taller than everyone else. “Since we arrived she has refused to eat and sleep, and we have been unable to reason with her,” the man added, his face a picture of tenderness and concern. “She knelt all of last night in the middle of the room praying, then this morning as we were preparing to take our leave, she suddenly ran outside and started screaming.” He twisted his cap in his hands with a puzzled and pained look.
As he spoke, I bent down and put a hand on the girl’s head. “What is your name?”
She ceased to struggle and hung her head. “My name is Sin, my name is Damnation.”
“Her name is Angmar,” the youth spoke for the first time, his voice shaking. “I am her brother, Simon. We came all the way from Brauweiler for the feast and to pray at Holy Jutta’s grave.” He looked to be a year or two younger, and like his sister, he was dressed neatly but not expensively. A trader family, I guessed.
Angmar began to wail again, softly at first, then in more agonizing tones. “We are all damned if we don’t repent! Pray for mercy on your sinful souls before He comes again in terrible judgment!” Tears were streaming down her face, red and contorted in a frightful grimace, and she was panting heavily.
Brother Fabian looked up at me, a silent question in his eyes. The girl was beginning to weaken, her struggle subsiding and her voice falling to a gasping whisper as she continued to mumble her exhortations.
“She needs rest and something to calm her nerves—”
“This woman is possessed!” Helenger interjected authoritatively, materializing out of nowhere. “What she needs is an exorcism!”
“Humors in her brain are out of balance, Brother Prior,” I said patiently. “It is an illness like any other—”
Before I had a chance to finish, Angmar burst out of the men’s loosened grip and ran toward the church, tearing at her clothes and hair. Two lay brothers intercepted her at the door, and she swayed between them, flecks of white
