I turned the pages. The copy had been made recently, the ink still fresh, but its bare nature was striking. It had none of the colorful images typical of religious works.
“Abbot Bernard is apparently also against illuminations.”
“He rejects embellishments on principle. The scriptorium at Cluny is as big as our entire cloister, and the most talented illuminators from around the world work there with the finest paints and brushes, but he was adamant that nothing but basic copying work be done on his manuscripts.”
Despite myself, I was impressed with the cleric’s spirit and perseverance, and his seemingly inexhaustible energy and industry. The influence and recognition they had brought him had a powerful appeal to me.
“I have no doubt we will hear more about him,” Volmar’s voice reached me. “His dispute with Abelard is not over yet. They are both equally tenacious, and I suspect we have not seen the last of it.”
I studied Volmar again. He had been to a foreign land and lived at a great abbey where reform ideas and other weighty affairs were discussed as a matter of daily routine. “When are you going back?” I asked, unable to fathom any other course.
His gaze met mine. “I am not.”
The breath caught in my chest. “But St. Disibod must seem so dull now.” I loved the infirmary and the workshop and felt a certain attachment to the abbey, but all the same I was aware of its provincial character. “In a few months, you will change your mind.”
“I doubt it.” He averted his eyes, but the conviction in his voice was unmistakable. “I need a quiet place for my study, and the constant bustle of Cluny was a distraction.” He laughed briefly, and I thought I heard a note of relief in it. “It felt like the archbishop’s court at times.”
The dusk was deepening, and our sense of intimacy and isolation from everyone was growing. “We should get ready for vespers.” I rose as a memory buried in the recesses of my mind pushed its way into my consciousness, enhanced by the scented air of the summer night.
We crossed the garden in silence, but before we parted, Volmar turned to me. “I want you to know that no matter what the prior or any of the monks say about what you do with the convent, I will support you.”
I nodded, too moved to respond.
When I was alone again, I pressed the little book to my heart.
He had forgiven me.
Finally, I was at peace.
28
April 1129
The workshop table was littered with half-empty vials of liquids and bowls smudged with dried paste, and the washing bowl was full of used cups. I had been ill for nearly a fortnight, the pain in my head making my eyes hurt at the light and my body fold in on itself. But it was also the season of chills and fevers. The infirmary was overflowing with patients, and though I knew that Elfrid and Fabian were doing the best they could, I heaved a deep sigh. So much work to do, and I was still weak.
“I will clean it.” A voice spoke behind me, and I smiled even before turning.
Griselda, wearing a novice’s robe, stood in the door of the workshop, a rake and spade in her hands. It was the day before the Sabbath, when I normally did gardening work, but of course I hadn’t been able to when I was ill. And she had come, at this critical time of spring planting, to dig out old roots, cut dry stems off the shrubs, and loosen the soil for herbs to start growing again. She had even pruned the rosebushes. I gave her a grateful look—what would I do without her?
She had arrived at the abbey the previous autumn, barely able to contain her excitement at the chance she had thought would never come. I was excited too, but also nervous; what if someone recognized her, and her former subterfuge came to light? The charter gave me discretion over choosing my novices, but the abbot was my nominal superior and could, if he wanted to, make it difficult for me.
As it turned out, I had no reason to worry. Volmar knew, of course, but none of the others put it together. After Griselda’s blessing ceremony, I overheard one brother remarking to another that she looked familiar, but he could not think why. A few days later, an elderly monk came to the infirmary for an application of aconite oil for his sore joints, and swore that Griselda had to be related to a baron whose lands bordered those of his family further up the Glan. Something in her features reminded him of that nobleman, long dead he must be, but perhaps she was a granddaughter? He was so determined to review the family tree for me that it was all I could do to distract him from the subject, and I finally offered him a cup of undiluted elderberry wine. He drank it happily and fell asleep until vespers.
And so Griselda was with me once again, in the convent this time, and I had never seen her so content—I had never seen anybody so content there. She was perfectly happy not to have to leave the enclosure, devoting her time to serving our small community, but, as I could see now, she was as reliable outside of it as ever. Her offer of help and her very presence gave me great comfort.
I eyed the messy interior of the workshop. “Are you sure this is not too much for you? Maybe we could do it together.”
Griselda shook her head. “You had better check on the infirmary. Sister Elfrid says Brother Fabian has been a little lost.”
I sighed again. My monk assistant was
