I left the cell quietly, not knowing that I was about to come close to losing everything for which I had worked so hard.
29
April 1129
We were awakened in the middle of the night by a loud banging on the gate. Gertrude ran to see what was happening and returned saying that the abbot had been taken violently ill.
Within moments I was dressed and rushing to his house. The rain had stopped, but water was still dripping from the roofs and eaves, their soggy splashes amidst the predawn silence providing an eerie background to my rapid steps. I was frantically trying to imagine what could be ailing Kuno. He had always been a healthy man, still robust and full of vitality at the age of fifty-four. But I was a healer—my duty to deliver the best care to my patient—and for that I needed to be clearheaded and banish all other thoughts, especially those crowding at the edges of my consciousness telling me what my future would be if the abbot died that night.
Kuno’s private chamber was crowded, but the monks withdrew when I entered, leaving only a bleary-eyed Brother Fabian and Prior Helenger, looking focused and alert as if he had never slept—or needed sleep, for that matter. The abbot was in the throes of a spasm that made him clutch his stomach as it heaved. A lay brother crouched by his bed with a basin into which the abbot emptied the contents of his stomach, their pungent, acidic odor filling the room even though the shutters had been thrown open. He was pale, beads of sweat stood on his forehead, and his skin was cool and clammy to touch. Those manifestations, their suddenness and violence, told me that the illness had originated from the food he had eaten.
I turned to Fabian. “Did he eat with the rest of you in the refectory last night?” I already suspected the answer as nobody else seemed to be similarly afflicted.
“No.” My assistant shook his head but clearly could not provide more information.
“Herr Emmerich sent a pair of rabbits yesterday, and the cook made a pie. Father Abbot dined on it alone in his parlor,” Helenger informed me.
Emmerich von Bernstein was a nearby landowner and a benefactor of the abbey, though his patronage was limited mainly to sending venison and smaller game to the kitchen every week, for he was an avid hunter. “He had invited me to join him, but I decided to go to the refectory because I don’t like rabbit,” the prior added, glancing with relief and faint repugnance as the abbot vomited into the basin again.
“Some of the meat was still pink, but it was well seasoned . . .” Kuno managed through clenched teeth when the lay brother wiped his mouth with a cloth.
That must have been the cause of the illness. The abbey rarely received rabbits—it had been years since Volmar had gone hunting and delivered them surreptitiously to the kitchen—and the current cook, with us for just over a year, probably had not enough experience to prepare them properly. A rabbit required thorough cooking before it was served.
“How long since the spasms started?”
“He first fell ill when we returned from matins,” Helenger answered as the abbot groaned again.
I took Kuno’s pulse. It was still strong, but as it was almost time for lauds, it meant that he had lost a lot of water from his body, and the vomiting had to be stopped.
I went to the workshop and returned with a draft of mint leaves and chamomile. I gave it to him to drink throughout the day, but he could not keep anything down. In the evening, I cut up my remaining piece of ginger root and sent Fabian down to Renfred’s shop for more. The ginger tonic seemed to calm Kuno’s stomach for a little while—he even fell asleep after compline—but by matins, he was awake and sick again, visibly weakening.
What I had thought was a simple indigestion was clearly more serious. Although not frequent, cases of death caused by excessive vomiting were not unheard of. It was important to make sure the patient drank, so I kept a jug of spring water at hand in addition to the medicine, and forced a few spoonfuls down his throat after each purging.
Toward noon on the second day, the abbot had fallen into a slumber, though his breath was labored and his skin waxen. Helenger entered the bedchamber with an ominous look. I felt my own stomach clenching.
“I convened a Chapter meeting this morning to keep the brothers abreast of Father Abbot’s condition,” he began without asking how Kuno was faring or even so much as glancing in his direction. “They all agreed that I should take over his responsibilities to ensure that the abbey is run without any interruption, and the transition—if such becomes necessary—takes place smoothly.”
I stared at him. “The abbot is not dead yet, and you are already thinking about the transition?” I managed finally, keeping my voice low both for Kuno’s sake and because I could not trust myself.
“He is not, but seeing how your treatment is going, he may soon be.” He dropped his voice too, finally casting a brief glance at his superior in which there was not a shadow of sympathy. “My duty is to this abbey first and foremost.”
The abbot groaned and clutched his stomach, and I was just in time to grab the basin and thrust it under his chin before he was sick again. After it was over, he lay back without opening his eyes. My hands shook as I wiped his mouth.
Helenger waited as I finished, then said, his voice still low but cutting like steel, “My first decision as acting abbot is to remove you from your post
