The Seer and the Scribe Page 7

  Sophie froze. How did this strange woman know her by name? She held her breath and turned around to face the young woman’s flushed but relieved face.

  “I have a message I’d like you to give to Brother Volmar,” the woman said, handing her a rolled parchment tied with a golden string. Then she did a most astonishing thing. She took Sophie’s hands in hers, squeezed them and prophesized, “One day, you will achieve recognition for your gifts; hold fast to that as the darkness rises and the storm clouds gather.” She turned from Sophie and spoke to the space next to the young girl. “She is stronger than you realize. You’ve given her a great start in life. Go in peace, knowing this.”

  Before Sophie could question this woman’s insights into her future, a carriage, the same elegant one that nearly trampled her and Volmar earlier that day, stopped directly in front of the young woman.

  A footman dismounted and said with a sigh of relief, “My lady, we’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “Forgive me,” the young woman apologized meekly before turning to Sophie. “Your grandfather wants you to know he loves you very much.”

  “What do you mean?” Sophie sputtered. “How do you know of Grandda?”

  “I know, because he is there standing beside you.” The young woman hesitated, “and will always be there, he says, to look after you.” She smiled sadly and accepted the footman’s arm as he assisted her into the coach.

  The horses snorted, their warm breath coming out as small trails of smoke in the cool night air. Moments later, Sophie watched as the carriage clambered away down the darkened road leading to the porter’s gate and out from the protected walls of Disibodenberg.

  CHAPTER 10: THE DARKEST CORNER

  The Infirmary at Disibodenberg Monastery

  Harvest Festival, After Compline the Same Day

  Paulus’s very black eyes started watering and his cheeks grew red. He smashed his fist down on the table and muttered, “Send for Sophie. She’ll need to know right away.” Brother Paulus was unaccustomed to losing a patient and it took him more than a moment to find his composure.

  Volmar had only just returned from Compline to prepare the patients for bed when he found to his horror that Silas, Sophie’s grandfather, had died in his absence.

  Volmar gently shut the lids of eyes no longer dulled by the confusion of delirium and pulled the sheet up over the old man’s face. He said a prayer for his soul and remarked as if the value of the life suddenly lost needed to be reaffirmed, “Silas was a stone carver in Mainz. He and Sophie worked on a portico at Saint Martin’s Cathedral.”

  Paulus slumped forward, muttering absently, “The bump on Silas’s head merely hastened Death’s arrival. It was just a matter of time, really. When trees grow old they begin to lose their inner greenness. Likewise, when a man ages, his brain shrivels and dies chamber by chamber, eventually leaving the skull a hollow shell.”

  Paulus reached for the poker and used it to stoke the fire. There was such a cold finality to death, he thought, watching as the embers glowed with renewed warmth and life. He put on another log and stood back, watching as the flames devoured it slowly. The intense heat reddened his face even more and finally he drew back, unable to repress an unworthy flash of malice towards God for permitting such suffering. He lowered his head until he was able to conceal his private sentiment, the losing war he waged against God. Still trying to rein in his temper, he asked quietly, “Did you say that Sophie also knows how to carve in stone?”

  “Or wood,” Volmar said, genuflecting41 and making the Sign of the Cross. “She apparently finished the portico when her Grandfather’s hands started shaking.”

  “It takes skill, patience, and a great deal of artistic talent to sculpt in stone. I wonder . . . does Sophie have any other family?” Paulus queried, straightening his shoulders, gathering his resolve to help the living, rather than grieve over the dead.

  “I am alone,” a small voice answered him from the darkest corner.

  Brother Paulus blinked in momentary confusion, and saw in the shadows how very pale Sophie had become. “I am so sorry, my dear child. Your grandfather passed on a short while ago.” Paulus motioned with his head for Volmar to go to her. “She’s still afraid of me,” he said.

  Paulus stood back as Volmar approached Sophie. Both were surprised by her reaction. At first, Sophie gave Volmar her hand and a scowl that trembled very slightly. She then wrapped her arms around the young monk and held him snug to her small frame as if such an action made possible her desire to squeeze the life from one to nourish the other.

  Volmar whispered to her, blinking back his tears. “Sophie, do not let this grief steal your dream.”

  CHAPTER 11: A REMEMBRANCE CANDLE

  Saint Peter’s Altar at Disibodenberg Monastery

  Before Matins the Next Morning

  Uppermost in Sophie’s mind was the need to burn a remembrance candle and to say a prayer for Grandda’s soul. It troubled her how his illness and injury made him curse and say such wicked things, and she wanted to remind God that he was not himself the past year. Could God remember a man’s soul before it was spit upon by a demon’s sickness?

  Sophie couldn’t sleep, though she pretended to do so. Patiently she waited until everyone else went off to bed before quietly reaching for her tattered cape. So that no one could hear her footfalls, she slipped on her wooden clogs once she was safely outside. She then turned her back to the Infirmary and followed the moonlight as it directed her path to the church. She shivered uncontrollably as she entered the cooler sanctuary. Women were strictly forbidden to enter the church after Compline. Tonight, she didn’t care.

  It was much smaller than the Mainz Cathedral but imposing nevertheless with its looming ceilings, frescoed walls, and high, leaded-glass windows. Even on such a bitterly forbidding night, God’s house at that moment felt more welcoming and familiar to Sophie than the harsh world she’d left outside. Its serene stillness embraced her trembling soul and stilled her wayward thoughts. The stones beneath her feet smelled comforting, of lingering incense. After spending a year traveling, dare she allow herself to feel she had returned home at last? She knelt on the small knee bench and folded her hands. She had witnessed many ceremonies and knew she needed to make a vow42, promising to the Almighty her commitment to furthering His Kingdom on Earth for saving the soul of her Grandda.

  The alcove43 was dedicated to the memory of Saint Peter, the founding Saint of the Holy Roman Catholic Church. Surely Saint Peter would understand her suffering and intercede44 on her behalf.

  “Unworthy as I am.” She prayed in earnest, knowing very well that her presence before the altar might be interpreted by some as blasphemy. “I beseech thee, Saint Peter, to call to mind that sickness my Grandfather suffered. Pity me for my spirit is anxious. Thou, who art standing on the eternal shore, behold my dearest Grandda. When all others abandoned me, he stayed. Place him where light abides and life reigns eternally, and I swear to serve the Lord God Almighty with my gift cheerfully all the rest of my days.” Sophie breathed a sigh and knew the enormity of what she had just promised. Not many servants of the Lord, no matter how enlightened, would accept a stone-carver so young and especially one that is a female.

  She opened her eyes when she sensed a movement in front of her. There, in front of her, stood Saint Peter, glaring down at her as if she were a boil on the end of his nose. In the half-light she saw that he was alive and fully dressed as he once was, as a poor fisherman and not the revered saint. He watched her silently a moment longer. “Did you take my lamp?” he demanded. “I couldn’t see a thing down there.” A cold force emanated from his body.

  Sophie stood bravely despite the tears brimming over in her eyes. “Please,” she pleaded, “keep searching for my Grandda. Turn away thine anger, and have pity on thy servant’s frailty. Deliver him, O Saint Peter, from the malice of the Devil down there, and from all sin and evil, and grant him a happy end for thy loving mercy’s sake.”

  In a flash
of insight, the man who Sophie addressed as Saint Peter muttered, “Go, child, and speak nothing of this to anyone.” He waved her off with his hand.

  Sophie hurriedly left the Saint behind her in the sanctuary, feeling only a sense of secrecy and discordance emanating from him. There was doubt, too, as a disturbing awareness washed over her. Maybe what she had encountered was not supernatural at all. She would have to ask Brother Volmar; he would know if it was, she thought.

  CHAPTER 12: THE DEVIL IS STILL AFOOT

  Clearing Outside of Disibodenberg Monastery Before Compline

  Volmar sunk his hands into the sleeves of his robe and stood alone in the clearing under the old yew tree. His mind wandered back to Hildegard’s words and now agreed that people’s minds do create their own realities. The world is so much more than what he could experience.

  After Terce, he’d looked in on Sophie and found her clearly agitated by an apparent encounter with Saint Peter. He had listened and concluded with her that she had seen a man, not the revered Saint, who had used the secret tunnel behind the altar. Her description could describe any one of the seventy monks at the monastery and that didn’t include the fifty-odd male attendants that worked at the monastery and lived in Staudernheim. The conversation fascinated Sophie and lifted her spirits. She had spoken animatedly of other secret passages she’d seen in various churches she and her Grandfather had visited. She’d also given him the message from Hildegard.

  In it, Volmar had read what he already had heard from gossip amongst the brothers. Jutta’s mother had fallen ill, and their party had to return to Sponheim immediately. However, it was gratifying to read that Hildegard regretted having to leave him without saying goodbye. She had also enclosed a secret code, a message only he could read. It ended up being an alphabet. Hildegard wrote that they could use it to communicate about Brother Arnoul, in a way no one else would be able to decipher. Volmar had folded it away and kept this secret even from Sophie.

  In the clearing, Volmar held his oil lamp high into the air. Its light danced back and forth in the restless chilly wind. It was an unusual gray twilight, caused by the reflection of the moon on the barks of the trees surrounding him. “Brother Arnoul, I didn’t find the book in our library,” Volmar said aloud, listening for a moment to any reply from the spiritual world. “Our Librarian,” he went on, “Brother Cormac, remembers you and Judas, and is convinced that your murderer left the monastery for Rome. I am not so sure. I sense that the Devil is still afoot within the monastery’s walls.” He paused, kicking at the rocks at his feet, trying to piece together all the known facts. “We’re making progress, though. Sophie met a man returning to the monastery late, using your secret tunnel. Hildegard and I had taken his lantern from the tunnel and he could not change back into his robes.”

  Volmar touched the back of his neck. Was it the cold presence of a dead monk or merely a chilled wind? He went on. It was indeed difficult to address someone he could not see. “There is no monk in the Benedictine order here at Disibodenberg who goes by the name of Judas. Perhaps, Cormac has it right and he has left for another monastery. However, I do not think so. I am suspicious that someone still uses the secret tunnel to come and go as they please.” He paused and concluded, “Brother Arnoul, I will not give up until justice is served and your good name is restored.”

  CHAPTER 13: BLACKBIRDS

  Cemetery Near St. Michael’s Chapel

  21st of October, Saturday morning, shortly after day-break, the Year of Our Lord 1111

  There were blackbirds everywhere. Their strong beaks pecked hungrily in the fallow fields surrounding the cemetery. One blackbird, set apart from the others, stood guard as it watched over the burial proceedings from the stone steeple of Saint Michael’s Chapel.

  A watery sun shone fitfully through the gathering rain clouds. A cold, weak light streamed down on a small group as they stood around the grave. Hot tears streamed down Sophie’s cheeks. Behind her stood Thomas, who had surprisingly put down his tools and crossed the pasture to attend the ceremony, without saying a word. Volmar and Brother Paulus stood on either side of her like great stone pillars. There was no money to afford a coffin. Her grandfather’s body was wrapped in a simple shroud. Several monks stood across from her and sang a tuneless psalm as the body was lowered into the grave.

  Sophie straightened her back and lifted her head as the scoops of dirt toppled onto her grandfather’s dead stiff body. She was so stricken by her grief, she could not even bring herself to respond to Brother Volmar’s or Brother Paulus’s caring gazes. She knew now that she was completely alone.

  Abbott Burchard concluded the simple funeral service and sprinkled holy water from a silver aspersorium45. As the other monks and Thomas left to continue their work for the day, the Abbot knelt beside Sophie, admiring her handiwork. She’d spent the last several days chiseling a plaque for her Grandda’s headstone. On it he read aloud the perfectly inscribed words: “Vale in Christo semper memor nostri amen,46 Silas of Cologne, 1053–1111. Do you know Latin, my child?”

  Sophie collected herself with an effort, hesitated and asked plainly, “Would it make a difference if I said yes or no?”

  “I suppose not, though it is highly unusual for a girl to know how to write and understand Latin.”

  “I’ve lived all my days in the hallowed grounds of cathedrals and have listened daily to the monks reciting their prayers. Grandda taught me all that he knew, so I could make my own way in this world when he was gone.”

  “He was a wise man, your grandfather.” The Abbot cleared his voice, clearly uncomfortable with what needed to be said. He searched and found the eyes of Volmar and Paulus lingering at the gate of the cemetery, watching respectfully from the distance. Both of the monks nodded to him, and he continued. “Err, I and another wise man, our Brother Paulus, have had a lengthy consultation on what to do with you here, Sophie. What he asks is contrary to our usual practices, but I do see the logic in the arrangement. Sophie, Brother Paulus requires many precise instruments to use in his healing practice and would like your help in creating these tools. In exchange, of course, you would receive room and boarding in the Women’s Guest House. I told him I would ask you if this arrangement suits your plans for the near future.”

  Sophie dropped her head into her hands and murmured a prayer.

  The Abbot inclined his head, and spoke hurriedly. “Evidently, I’ve offended you. I beg your pardon. It is an unusual request, my dear child, and made to you at such a delicate time. If you need time to consider our proposition . . .”

  “Oh no, Father,” Sophie blurted out, barely able to contain her excitement.

  “No?” the Abbot repeated, shaking his head dismally towards Brother Paulus and Volmar.

  “Wait, I mean, yes. The arrangement to work for Brother Paulus suits my plans and my promise to God, perfectly. Thank you so much!” She hugged the Abbot, flagrantly disregarding his esteemed status and his blushing discomfort towards such an outward display of gratitude.

  BOOK 3: Before God’s Throne

  CHAPTER 1: A TIME OF OUTRIGHT CORRUPTION

  Abbot Burchard’s Private Quarters

  One year on, Feast of All Saints, 1st of November, Friday, the Year of Our Lord 1112

  “All ages are troubled,” Volmar said, crossing his arms and warming his hands between the folds of his cassock’s sleeves. “. . . and ours is certainly no exception.” He nodded in disgust at his last entry in the monastery’s register.

  The last year had brought many changes. Sophie now assisted Brother Paulus in the Infirmary, and Volmar had been given the honor of assisting Abbot Burchard in his correspondence and recording of Disibodenberg’s activities. Volmar was grateful for this position, because it gave him a perspective on the outside world that few of the other brothers at the monastery shared. For one who had just turned seventeen years of age, it was an impressive yet daunting duty.

  “We cannot change the world overnight, my son,” the Abbot answered as he busied h
imself with his cincture47 in front of his full-length mirror and frowned. “I just don’t understand. No matter how I tie it, it still makes me look fat. How can I be gaining weight in the winter when we’re only allowed one meal?”

  Volmar persisted, unwilling to change the subject. “Father, we live in a time of outright corruption. King Henry the Fifth treats our Pope as a mere commoner, throwing him into prison when the Pope refuses to give in to the King’s requests to appoint the bishops he wants instead of the ones the church selects. Not only that, but just last month the Pope went back on his word and now the King has been excommunicated from the church!”

  “I wish I could say that all of this was unexpected, my son. Such bickering is in part how equally powerful institutions come to terms with each other. Eventually you’ll see that the church will settle a truce with the King. If you want my advice, son, hold your tongue around the Bishop when he gets here. From what I’ve gathered, he’s a shrewd politician and has been a staunch supporter of the Emperor, not the papacy.”

  “All of this is as foolish as trying to build a tower to reach heaven. How did we stray so far from the church’s original mandate to spread love and forgiveness, the very tenets of Christianity?”

  “Brother Volmar, you listen too much with your heart. We are only temporary travelers in this world. History is tension; in it we find the roots of our problems, our anguish, and yes, perhaps if we are fortunate, we even find the sleeping seeds of our salvation.”

  “And then there’s Jutta of Sponheim,” Volmar said, waving the parchment the Abbot had asked him to prepare for the evening’s ceremony. “Why must we allow an anchoress to live at Disibodenberg, and one who is a professed ascetic48? Does the church now condone self-inflicted mutilation? It is an archaic ritual. We’re living in the 12th century, not the 3rd!”