Still, it was one thing to want independence and quite another to have the means and the support to achieve it. In order to relocate the convent, I would need significant resources which I did not have, and the abbot’s permission—and how likely was Kuno to give it?
But it did not matter. From that day onward, I knew I would do anything to save myself and the sisters, even if it meant breaking Regula Benedicti. Even if it meant establishing my own order, like Bernard of Clairvaux had done.
30
December 1129
“I have a proposition for you, Father Abbot,” I said as we settled down to our monthly supper a few days before Christmas. Before us was laid out another excellent meal of roasted partridge seasoned with garlic and thyme, in a sauce of honey, mustard, and ale, and the smell tickled my nose pleasantly. I had come with an idea to significantly increase the convent’s income, and the only thing that dampened my excitement was the unexpected presence at the table of Prior Helenger, a fact that always carried a risk of derailing my plans.
The abbot gave me an inquiring glance as he helped himself to a generous portion of the meat. He had almost fully recovered from his violent illness five months earlier and his appetite was back to normal, though there were still dark circles under his eyes, and he was thinner than before.
I cleared my throat. “It recently occurred to me that if I could have copies of my medical writings made, I could sell them to Benedictine houses throughout the Rhineland, perhaps even beyond—”
Kuno raised an eyebrow as he bit into the bird’s leg, sauce dripping down his chin. He promptly wiped it with the linen napkin the servant had laid on the side of the table.
I continued, “I have received inquiries from the infirmarians at Lorsch and the new abbey at Schönau, and also from Fulda”—I knew that the latter would make a particular impression, Fulda being an ancient, imperial foundation—“who are interested in acquiring volumes. I would share the proceeds with the abbey, of course.”
“That is preposterous!” Helenger had been chewing a piece of the fowl the way someone else might gnaw on a moldy potato skin. When he heard my words, he swallowed it with effort before offering his opinion. “It is unnatural for a woman to write about anything, but especially about herbs, the favorite tool of witches and sorcerers through which they seek to confound the faithful. The Church frowns upon the use of herbs for healing.” He looked at Kuno expectantly, the unspoked accusation hanging in the air.
The abbot closed his eyes with a sigh.
“Benedictine monasteries have kept collections of herbals for centuries,” I countered. “Hippocrates and Dioscorides wrote about plants extensively, in addition to surgery, bloodletting, and leech treatments. We have copies of both at St. Disibod.”
The abbot nodded once. By now I knew that when he refused to speak, it was a sign for the prior to drop the subject, which, to his credit, Helenger always did, though not without letting his dissatisfaction become apparent through headshakes, exasperated murmurs, or scowls.
“How do you propose to do that, Sister?” Kuno asked, taking a sip of the spiced wine.
I saw that my offer had piqued his interest and took heart from that. “With your permission, Brother Volmar could do the copying. It would take him about two months to complete one.”
“What price would a copy like that fetch?”
“I estimate eight silver marks.” I was ready with the answer. “With six copies done in a year, it would bring us about fifty marks.” A small fortune.
I studied his reaction as I took my first bite of the savory partridge. His bushy eyebrows went up, and underneath them his eyes showed me that he was already thinking about how such income could be spent—to the glory of God, of course. “We have four scribes now,” he said. “I think we could spare Brother Volmar?” The latter question was directed toward Helenger, but the prior pretended not to understand the abbot’s intention.
I smiled. It was time to get to the crux of my plan. “Eight marks is no small sum, but if we had each copy illuminated, it could sell for much more than that.”
“How much more?” The greed was now plain on the abbot’s face. Even Helenger’s eyes flickered with a faint interest.
“At least ten, maybe even as high as twelve marks, depending on the workmanship.”
The abbot scratched his chin. “We only have one illuminator,” he said unhappily.
“How about”—I threw my head back as if the thought had just occurred to me—“we train one of the sisters? Young Ricardis has a talent for drawing and painting; we could apprentice her to Brother Einhard.”
Ricardis had been with us since the summer, having turned sixteen in May, and had already captured our hearts with the bright and happy way she had about her. Already, we could not imagine the convent without her cheerful presence, perpetual smile, the confidence she exuded in her own charm, and the sense of occupying her rightful place.
She had become our pet of sorts, as we admired her glossy black hair and rosy, supple skin, caressing her cheeks after she read a passage or sung a chant, even though her voice was not nearly as beautiful as Gertrude’s. I delighted in Ricardis, finding her exquisite form a reflection of God’s basic principles for the universe—those of harmony and balance that tend toward perfection. She was eager to please me in devotions and study, and whenever I praised her, which was often, the pink of her cheeks grew deeper with pleasure.
“Absolutely not!” Helenger wiped his mouth with one vigorous stroke and threw
