The Seer and the Scribe Page 8

  “You read yourself the edict from the Bishop. Jutta of Sponheim is well-connected. She comes to us from a wealthy family of upper nobility. Furthermore, she served her three years as a novitiate under the tutelage of her mother Sophia and another widow woman, Uda, both by all accounts devout.” The Abbot went to his wine cupboard and pulled out a bottle, checking the date on its label. “Last December when her mother died,” he continued, putting the bottle back and selecting another. “Jutta wanted to make a dangerous pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Her brother, Count Meinhard, understandably intervened and arranged instead with the Bishop that she come to reside here with us at Disibodenberg as our Anchoress. Just between you and me, her brother is hoping this will be a passing fancy of hers and that after a short while she will be more willing to accept one of the many marriage proposals she has been given.” The Abbot, satisfied with the third bottle he selected, placed it on the table and went for the goblets. “You may remember,” he added, “Jutta and her young ward, Hildegard, were here last year. Apparently, they both left with a favorable impression of our modest monastery.”

  Volmar of course remembered. It was a rare moment of warmth in his life. How could he forget? It was a stormy day when he’d met Hildegard in the clearing, and now the dark clouds were gathering for this storm. Hildegard was the very reason why he protested this ceremony. He did not want her to be locked away with the Anchoress.

  “Do you think the Bishop will be traveling with more than two companions?” the Abbot asked, breaking Volmar’s ruminations, as he surveyed his modest collection of tarnished silver goblets. He selected one and began polishing it with his stole49.

  “I think in his letter he mentioned two young men would be accompanying him.”

  The Abbot placed four silver goblets on the table next to the wine bottle and returned the fifth one, making a mental note that he’d have the Cellarer50 use the mixture of ashes and soap to polish them for next time. “Volmar, you may stop frowning at me, I had nothing to do with this. The decision for this enclosure ceremony is out of my hands.”

  “Father, I was just thinking about something else . . .” Volmar hesitated, remembering his promise to Hildegard and Brother Arnoul. Deciding against caution, he blurted outright, “Do you recall a novitiate who lived at the monastery nearly eleven years ago named Judas?”

  The Abbot was used to Volmar’s peculiar conversational habits and thought nothing of the abrupt changes in their topic. He took a horse hair brush and used it to dust off the chairs. “Judas, you say? Hmm, the only Judas I remember was a young novitiate who left for Rome. I did not find in him a ‘worthy vessel of God.’”

  “You declined his desire to become a monk?” Volmar was both impressed and curious.

  “I did. Not everyone who begins the novitiate should become a fully professed monk. His attitudes provoked criticism and hostility from within our community. Come, come, Volmar, why would you be interested in such a person?”

  “No reason in particular, just something I heard.”

  “Well then,” the Abbot sighed, settling into his chair and appreciating the warmth from the roaring fire, “as for Jutta and her decision, I too think it is radical of her to go from an ordinary pilgrimage to a life as an ‘exile.’ Though, I must say, I admire her willingness to live the austere life as an Anchoress. Christianity warns us often that when one has all one cares to have, there is little need to think of an afterlife. Don’t get me wrong, wealth is a great blessing and a means of doing good. However, it can be a serious distraction in faith.”

  “Father, don’t you think it is a shame when the church is guilty of such a distraction?”

  The Abbot sighed. “Volmar, this arrangement isn’t all about these young women’s dowries. Besides, you know as well as I do, the additional land will allow us to plant more vineyards, and the extra monies will go a long way towards adding more wings to our library. These are all blessings. We can’t always come to expect funds from our anonymous giver.”

  “I know,” Volmar said, “and yet . . .” he stubbornly asserted, “I can’t help but feel the church is being mercenary.”

  “Brother Volmar, that is enough said. This is not like one of our lessons where there is a clear right and wrong answer. As you know, monasteries are homes for imperfect people to come and learn how to serve our most perfect Savior. I will take your objections into consideration. Nevertheless, the solemn induction51 ceremony you speak ill of will take place this evening after Vespers.” Abbot Burchard slumped forward in his chair. The skin on his bald skull left by his tonsure was so clear and thin you could see the pulsating blue veins below. Volmar had forgotten how old he really was.

  “I am sorry, Father. I understand that your hands are tied in all of this.” Volmar went and kneeled before his Abbot. “Forgive me.”

  The Abbot patted his shoulder good-naturedly, “Until I pass on, Brother Volmar, I am the chosen shepherd of the community of Saint Disibod.” He gazed over at the flames licking the grate. “It is my responsibility to feed the fire on the altar of the Lord. Remember this, my son, the three young women you speak so passionately for are of the age of consent and have asked for this life of prayer, celibacy, and praise.” He straightened his back as the distant bells announced the arrival of the first of their guests. “It is time.”

  Volmar rose and checked the water clock. Its steady, relentless drip reinforced the sense of inevitability. He went to the window and peered down into the Abbot’s garden. “I believe it is the Bishop and his entourage.”

  The Abbot straightened his cincture, thankful that the Bishop was of his generation and perhaps more forgiving of how one’s proportions are altered by time. “Many persons of high and low degree will be in attendance,” he said with some trepidation. “The entire village of Staudernheim will find these proceedings very curious, indeed. Come now, my son, we must put on a brave face.”

  CHAPTER 2: AIR OF MISTRUST AND SECRECY

  Abbot Burchard’s Private Quarters

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

  Moments later, there was a knock at the Abbot’s door. Brother Rudegerus, the Guest Master52, ushered in Bishop Otto and his two distinguished-looking traveling companions. All three had cloaks with ermine collars and hems edged in gold tracery. They had journeyed nearly two hundred miles from Bamberg to preside over this ancient rite.

  Bishop Otto breezed by Volmar, dropping his heavy cloak into the boy’s arms. His heavy-lidded eyes focused only on the Abbot. “Good evening, Abbot Burchard.”

  Volmar noticed how the Bishop’s thin, hawk-like features smiled continuously. To him it seemed artificial and tasteless. The Bishop extended his left hand.

  “Your Grace,” the Abbot responded, rising from his chair and bowing, kissing the ring on the Bishop’s middle finger in deference. For the first time, Volmar examined the face of his Abbot anew. Here was a determined man lacking the meekness, patience, and humility that he normally portrayed. It was as if the occasion had suddenly energized him, rekindling the Abbot’s spirit with a breath of fresh air. Maybe these visits were necessary, Volmar reasoned, if only to give the Abbot stimulating contact with the world beyond his monastery and with superiors he could confide in.

  “Abbot Burchard, may I present my traveling companions, Adalbert of Mainz’s son, Reginald, and his friend Atif.” Reginald was a short, stocky man, looking barely out of his teens, and Atif was taller, leaner, and at least a decade older.

  “Ah, it is an honor to meet you Reginald . . . Atif.” The Abbot extended his hand to both men in a hospitable gesture. “I hope you will find your stay at Disibodenberg a comfortable one.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Reginald answered for both of them, sourly noting the humble furnishings of the Abbot’s private chamber.

  “Atif . . . that’s an unusual name,” the Abbot mused aloud. “Tell me, do you know what it means?”

  Volmar rolled his eyes in amusement, finding his Abbot’
s obsession with names and their meanings rather eccentric. By far, he put too much emphasis on a person’s name being a window into their soul.

  “I am not sure, Father,” Atif said, bowing low, his dark eyes focusing above the Abbot’s head. “Does it matter? Is not a man supposed to be judged by his character instead of his name?”

  “Perhaps,” the Abbot answered with a feigned smile.

  Atif appeared genuinely ill at ease with everyone’s attention suddenly focused on him. Quietly he helped Reginald with his heavy cloak and approached Volmar with it. He smiled stiffly before draping his own cloak over the young monk’s arm.

  Volmar quietly slipped into the nearby dressing room to hang up the overcoats. As he was hanging Atif’s cloak on the hook, he heard the faint sound of something dropping to the floor. Kneeling discreetly, Volmar picked up a small rosary53 and studied it, surprised to find it had the distinctive markings of a crucifix from the Knights of Hospitaller54. He slipped it back into the hidden pocket he guessed it had been in, hung the cloak up on the hooks behind the door with the others, and returned promptly to the Abbot’s study.

  “You may recall,” the Bishop continued, “nearly two years ago, Adalbert went to Rome to arrange Henry the Fifth’s coronation as Emperor. The Emperor, in turn, has gratefully appointed him the Archbishop of Mainz.”

  The Abbot turned to Reginald and clasped both his shoulders. “I hadn’t heard. Give your father my heartiest congratulations. Tell him that he deserved such recognition a long time ago.”

  When Volmar returned, he noticed that Brother Rudegerus had moved quietly from his corner over to the Abbot’s desk. With pursed, thin red lips he began rearranging the correspondence Volmar had been working on. Volmar felt annoyed by this obvious intrusion and watched with disdain as Rudegerus furtively read excerpts from the Abbot’s personal papers.

  Rudegerus had that quality of not caring what other people think, or at least acting like it didn’t matter to him. In his late twenties, he had made it perfectly clear to anyone who would listen to him that he was infinitely more qualified than Volmar for the role of the Abbot’s personal assistant, and would have made a better choice than the precocious younger monk. Such back-stabbing remarks troubled Volmar, and now, silently, he made his way behind Rudegerus, snatching up the pages he’d been working on earlier. Rudegerus turned and glared at Volmar. Protectively and silently, the young scribe gathered up all of the scattered pieces of correspondence and locked them away in the Abbot’s desk drawer.

  Out of all the holy brothers, Rudegerus was Volmar’s least favorite and perhaps the most infuriating. Everyone knew that whenever Rudegerus was late for Mass, he was simply hiding behind his position, using it as an excuse to absent himself from holy affairs.

  Bishop Otto continued. “Well, it should come as no surprise that Reginald has expressed interest in the church and wanted to accompany me on this journey so he might observe one of our more arcane rituals.”

  The Abbot looked ruefully at Reginald and said, “Weren’t you one of the more persistent of Lady Jutta of Sponheim’s suitors?”

  Reginald replied stiffly, “Our families had discussed the possibilities of marriage. But Lady Jutta chose to keep her promise to God.”

  The Bishop took his cue and continued his introductions. “Atif is an Aramaic55 scholar from Rome. He is Reginald’s good friend and confidant. He is also interested in our practices and is considering the cloth.”

  Volmar checked his impulse to verbally disagree with the Bishop’s false pronouncement of Atif’s background. If he was who the Bishop said he was, then why would he carry a rosary of a very obscure and secretive society of monks from Jerusalem?

  “Please, join me in a drink,” the Abbot said congenially, scooting up two more chairs and placing them beside his and the Bishop’s. He uncorked the bottle and poured wine into four goblets. Handing Reginald his drink, the Abbot asked, “What were your father’s impressions of our new Roman Emperor, King Henry the Fifth?”

  “Truthfully,” Reginald said, sitting upright, his eyes luminous under his thick eyebrows, “my father regrets supporting the Emperor in his quest to regain the rights to investiture56.” He emptied the glass in a single gulp and set it down with an impatience that belied his outward appearance of calm. “Roman Emperors are all alike. They are dullwitted, egotistical, and completely ungrateful! It is shameful how this Emperor has systematically gained control of our imperial castles by enlisting the help of our own countrymen, bribing them with ridiculous privileges. If this continues, my father is seriously considering rallying all the bishops and leading them in an anti-Imperialist movement.”

  “I couldn’t help but notice the renovations you’ve made to the sanctuary, Burchard,” Bishop Otto interjected, visibly ill at ease with the sudden turn in the conversation. “I myself am deeply invested in the improvements for the Bamberg Cathedral. You may have heard that a fire left it in a smoldering ruin thirty-one years ago.”

  “I did,” the Abbot said, interested in the sudden air of fear that enveloped the room. “If Your Grace is willing, I would be overjoyed to show you and your companions around tomorrow shortly after Prime57. The Anchorage is but one of our more recent projects we’ve completed here at Disibodenberg.”

  The Abbot refreshed Reginald’s drink, and then sat back, perplexed over how to continue diplomatically. The cloud of animosity that had formed still lingered in the room. When distant bells announced the arrival of more guests, the Bishop gave a strained laugh and genuflected, motioning the sign of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. “In homage of the divine Trinity, I am ready to conduct this ancient rite.”

  Abbot Burchard’s gaze momentarily met Volmar’s eyes. His young assistant had moved to the wall opposite the Abbot and the seated guests and was propped up against the heavily carved wooden mantel, fully engaged in all that was happening. The Abbot then turned his attentions to his goblet. He twirled it around and around in his hand, staring down into it . . . wine was a rare indulgence. In a low voice he broke the tense atmosphere and addressed Bishop Otto. “Your Grace, enclosure is a frugal life for young women accustomed to being the daughters of a count and a knight. I must admit, I do not know how long their vows would sustain them under such hardships they are not used to. The Anchorage has but three small windows to the outside world, a pitiful substitution for life.”

  Bishop Otto shifted uneasily in his chair. “Are you saying, Burchard, that you are not ready for tonight’s ceremony?”

  “No, no. It isn’t that at all. We will be ready. I am simply questioning whether the three young women are ready.”

  “They are of the age of consent, and all of their dowries have been registered, approved, and taken care of. So, that is that . . . the ceremony is all that is left to do.”

  Abbot Burchard turned to Volmar and, with a resigned expression, signaled to him that there would be no more debate. “Brother Volmar, be sure all is in proper order and is prepared for tonight’s ceremony.”

  Volmar bowed formally as a sign of respect, though no one was paying particular attention to him. He turned and saw that Rudegerus had no intentions of leaving with him. Such political intrigue, he could tell, had the Guest Master mesmerized. Volmar then left his elders so they might converse further about the details of the ceremony.

  CHAPTER 3: ODD SORT OF INSOLENCE

  Preparation Room in the Chapter House

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

  Hildegard shivered as she stood next to the window. A steady rain blurred the cloisters below into a grey labyrinth of competing shadows and pools of water. A familiar cowled figure with the determination of youth cut across the knotted garden. Stopping, as if sensing her gaze, he lifted his head up towards her window. With only a light towel wrapped around her to cover her nakedness, Hildegard stepped back, more though from confusion than shyness. She could not meet his eyes. They were at the crossroads where their two paths were to converge.
However, it was not in the direction the young monk’s heart was willing it to go. Hildegard saw how Volmar stood motionless in the rain and knew instinctively, the young monk was grateful for the downpour, for it masked the tears welling up in his eyes. Nothing, though, could hide her own tears that streamed slowly down her cheeks. Quietly she reminded herself that her God was a sovereign God, and that if she bore direct witness of the Spirit, all strands of her tangled, muddled life would eventually come together.

  Hildegard’s turn was next after Jutta’s, who was sitting motionless on a stool, having her hair shorn. Jutta’s reddish gold locks fell to the floor like a heap of autumn leaves. They were preparing themselves to step from the lush green fields of Eden, the rich world Hildegard adored and knew she would sorely miss, into what would surely be like a parched landscape of the Egyptian desert: the stark, stony confines of an Anchorage. The enclosure ceremony would take no more time than it would take for a small mound of sand to accumulate in the base of an hourglass, and yet, for Hildegard, the vows she was about to make were to last a lifetime.

  Jutta had tried to explain it all to the servant girl, Hiltrud. “I am sorry to have to put you under such a strain,” she had said gently to the fourteen-year-old girl, “but there are causes greater than our own needs. By bidding farewell to an ordinary life, you will be given the opportunity to live at the gates of heaven.”

  Hildegard knew the truth. Jutta was headstrong and wanted to be the one devoted to God in a highly conspicuous way, to wield power as a spiritual intermediary for the faithful. As Disibodenberg’s Anchoress, Jutta would be sought after for her advice and her wisdom, becoming the focus for the communal religious life of the village. For an ambitious woman of twenty, who spurned the love of men, this was the answer to her dream, not Hiltrud’s. Hildegard thought of it as an odd sort of insolence that could hardly be reprimanded.