The Greenest Branch Read online

  The Greenest Branch

  A Novel of Germany’s First Female Physician

  BY

  P.K. ADAMS

  IRON KNIGHT PRESS

  The Greenest Branch

  Copyright © 2018 by Patrycja Podrazik

  All right reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN 978-1-7323611-1-9 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-7323611-0-2 (ebook)

  Cover designed by Jennifer Quinlan

  Iron Knight Press

  25 W. Howard St

  Quincy, MA 02169

  www.pkadams-author.com

  Twitter @pk_adams

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  CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  1 Bermersheim, Rhineland September 1115

  2 November 1115

  3 Abbey of St. Disibod, November 1115

  4 November 1115

  5 May 1116

  6 September 1116

  7 March 1117

  8 November 1117

  9 January 1118

  10 August 1118

  11 August 1118

  12 April 1119

  13 July 1119

  14 September 1119

  15 September 1120

  16 December 1120

  17 May 1122

  18 July 1122

  19 September 1122

  20 October 1122

  21 February 1123

  22 June 1123

  23 December 1124

  24 October 1125

  25 January 1128

  26 Sponheim Castle, June 1128

  27 July 1128

  28 April 1129

  29 April 1129

  30 December 1129

  31 January 1130

  GLOSSARY OF TERMS

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  PREFACE

  There is a lively debate within the historical fiction community as to whether, as authors, we must strive for maximum accuracy, or whether we are allowed artistic license in the service of a good story. I fall into the latter camp—within reasonable bounds. If the story is based on a real person’s life, that life should be recognizable. However, novels are judged on their pacing and flow, both of which can be affected if, for example, the historical timeline calls for a large gap in the narrative. Therefore, I believe we are justified in modifying certain facts or dates to fit the story we are telling. That said, the reader deserves to know if we do that.

  I wanted to make The Greenest Branch as historically accurate as possible. However, reliable record of what Hildegard did from the time of her enclosure to about the age of forty is scant (for her later life, which is the subject of the second book in the series, we have more solid historical evidence). Scholars can’t even agree on how old she was when she was first sent to St. Disibod: some claim as young as eight, others as old as thirteen. Most seem to accept that she spent around thirty years in a small convent with a handful of other women in an environment of great privations, according to the rules governing anchorite monasticism.

  I have always been skeptical of that. I cannot imagine that a young child separated from her family and subjected to decades of what can only be described (at least based on our modern sensibilities) as psychological abuse could re-merge, in her middle years, as an accomplished physician, writer, musician, theologian, and a correspondent of bishops, popes, and even a Holy Roman Emperor. Clearly, something happened during those years that allowed her intellect and creativity to develop. A dull existence in an isolated enclosure would have been too mentally devastating.

  The result of my skepticism is The Greenest Branch, in which I imagine what Hildegard’s life may have been like after her arrival at St. Disibod. To do that, I permitted myself a few timeline liberties. Firstly, I made Hildegard slightly younger—in the book she is born in 1104 rather than the more commonly accepted year of 1098. It helps the narrative flow more smoothly. For the same reason, I had Jutta von Sponheim die in the year 1124 rather than 1136, and I kept Archbishop Adalbert of Mainz in prison until 1117, although in reality he was released in 1115.

  That said, the main cast—Kuno, Helenger, Jutta, Volmar, and Ricardis—were real people (even if some of the events involving them are fictionalized). Brother Wigbert’s name is fictional, but the character is based on a real infirmarian at St. Disibod. Of the major characters, only Griselda is entirely fictional.

  Some people may be forgiven for wondering about the relevance of Hildegard’s story to the modern reader. Her experience may, on the surface, appear distant from ours; but I would argue that although women’s condition has improved significantly since the 12th century, many must still make the kinds of choices that men are not expected to make. This is especially the case when it comes to choosing between family and a career (while the romantic storyline involving Volmar and Hildegard is an invention, chronicles suggest that he was her life-long friend, confidante, and secretary. In turn, she wrote about him as “the man whom I had sought and found.” This makes my take on their relationship less than far-fetched).

  Moreover, in the workplace many women still feel that they have to prove themselves over and over and to justify their participation. Often (especially at St. Disibod) Hildegard was the smartest person in the room, but it was only by diminishing herself and her abilities that she was able to gain—and maintain—a seat at the table. I had not set out to write The Greenest Branch to underscore these points, but as the story unfolded I became increasingly convinced of these remarkable parallels.

  Throughout her life, Hildegard struggled with migraines, which in the Middle Ages were not recognized as a medical condition. It is well documented how physically debilitating those episodes were, and that has made me wonder about the nature of her religious visions. Her descriptions are uncannily similar to the auditory and visual hallucinations that accompany strong migraines (I am not a migraine sufferer myself, but I have spoken with people who are, and some described experiencing bursts of bright or shimmering light and even echoes or whisper-like sounds during episodes).

  While my book focuses on Hildegard’s achievements as a physician, it is worth remembering that it was her visions and the theological commentaries she wrote in later life that earned her widespread recognition and acknowledgement. I chart a delicate course in the book with respect to whether these visions were real or a ploy to allow her to speak out (and write). After all, aside from royal wives and daughters the only medieval women whose stories or writings were recorded were those who claimed to have visionary experiences. It makes for an interesting, if counterfactual, debate, and I will leave it to the reader to decide for herself or himself what to think.

  Finally, a note on the title. Hildegard’s creative spirit is perhaps most visible in the dozens of chants she composed, many of which contain at least some reference to nature, which she deeply loved and championed. “The Greenest Branch” is the title of one of her better-known chants (O Viridissima virga). It conjures an image of something new, fresh, and prolific . . . much like Hildegard herself.

  1

  Bermersheim, Rhineland

  September 1115

  The night I learned that I would be leaving my family home, the sounds of talk and laughter took a long time to die down. Finally, a growing chorus of snores from the hall told me that the guests from Sponheim were asleep. But there was a murmur of voices close by, and a faint light wa
s coming from behind the partition that separated my parents’ bedchamber from ours. Despite the late hour and the warmth of the bed I shared with my two sisters and a brother, curiosity got the best of me and I slipped out of it, stepping silently across the rush-covered floor. I pulled my nightgown closer about me, for the autumn night was chilly, and put my eye to a chink through which the light was seeping.

  On the other side, the hearth was burning low, the reflection of its flames dancing sluggishly on the walls. My parents, Mechtild and Hidelbert, sat facing each other across it. Their voices were low too, but they came clear and distinct through the crack in the wood.

  “She is still a child, husband, only ten winters old.” My mother’s voice was sad.

  “Almost eleven,” my father countered.

  With sharp strokes, my mother pulled a comb through the long strands of her graying hair. Normally, during her nightly combing ritual, those strokes were slow and deliberate.

  After a lengthy silence, my father spoke again. “Oblates enter monasteries at all ages. Some spend years there before they are old enough to begin their novitiate.”

  “You know as well as I do that it is not a common practice.”

  “The count’s offer to recommend Hildegard to his daughter’s convent is not to be passed over lightly.” Count Stephan von Sponheim and his wife, Sophia, in whose honor our feast had been held, were old family friends visiting Bermersheim on their way back from Speier, where the count had had a landholding dispute to settle. I had never met their daughter Jutta, but, like everybody in the Rhineland, I knew of the famous beauty whose abrupt decision to take monastic vows had dashed the hopes of eligible bachelors from Trier to Mainz.

  Silence descended on the chamber, during which my mother gazed straight at her husband with her big blue eyes—like mine, everyone said. This often had an unnerving effect on him, and the clipped tone of his next words indicated that it was so this time too. “Hildegard was pledged to the Church on her birth.”

  “I know,” she replied impatiently. As their tenth offspring, I belonged to the Church in accordance with a custom known as the tithe, a time-honored tradition that was a source of pride and prestige for families. So the question they disagreed on was not if I should enter the cloistered life but rather when. “The count’s offer is generous indeed, and there is no doubt that Jutta von Sponheim would be a fitting teacher to Hildegard. But you heard what Countess Sophia said—their daughter founded the convent and took the veil when she was eighteen years old, a grown woman.”

  “That is because she had not shown signs of a deeper sensibility of spirit before then, but Hildegard—”

  “Shouldn’t she be allowed to reach womanhood and take this step with full awareness?” my mother interjected in a tone that showed she did not care to hear that argument again. “We have been preparing her for it since she was born; she knows her destiny and will follow that path like the dutiful daughter she is. But to cut short her carefree days seems so harsh.”

  My father ignored the interruption. “Hildegard has shown signs of a holy vocation since that day in the chapel—”

  I knew the story well; in fact, I remembered it vividly, although it had happened when I was only three years old. One day I wandered into the family chapel out by the orchard and was dazed by the sunshine streaming through the narrow windows on both sides of the altar like two swords of light. It illuminated the wooden figures of the Apostles that my grandfather had ordered at Worms many years before in honor of Pope Gregorius’s reforming efforts. The brightness of that light caused my head to ache, but it also made me feel weightless as if I were lifted off my feet like a feather in the wind. Apparently, I stayed there for hours as the entire household searched for me frantically. It was my father who finally found me, and it was to him that I described my strange sensations in my tremulous, childish voice.

  But there was one thing my family did not know about—a remembrance of a command the meaning of which I did not understand at that time.

  Such reveries happened to me on several occasions after that, especially when sunlight flooded the dim interior of the chapel during Mass, and always ended in strong headaches that would send me to bed for days.

  “It’s a manifestation of the touch of the Holy Spirit!” My father’s voice rose enthusiastically, prompting my mother to bid him keep it down.

  “They are just spells.” She rolled her eyes wearily.

  “It is a gift.”

  “Another two or three years would prepare her better for the rigors of the cloister.”

  “The best way to prepare for it is to leave this world behind and devote herself to the duties of the contemplative life.” He added in a softer tone, perhaps sensing my mother’s desire to hold on to her youngest child for as long as she could, “Hildegard will be happy, and the Abbey of St. Disibod is only a day’s journey from here. She will be close, and we will feel it.”

  But my mother would have none of it. “You like the prospect of a smaller endowment,” she said accusingly. “You think that Jutta’s anchorite ways and the humbleness of her convent will allow you to pay less to secure Hildegard’s entry.”

  “That is not the reason,” he protested. “Our daughter has a gift that it is our duty to nurture.” Then his tone became irritable. “But there is nothing wrong with economizing. You don’t care for it because it is not your responsibility to ensure the wellbeing of this household. But you know as well as I do that salt prices have been falling for the past four years, and we are not earning as much from the Alzey mine as we used to. Meanwhile, the costs of educating Hugo at Mainz are higher than I expected, and the girls will reach marriageable age next year . . .”

  The draft was making my feet cold, so I crept back to bed to take comfort from the warmth of my siblings’ sleeping bodies. Roric turned over, and Clementia murmured softly in a dream; then all was silent again. After a while, the light in the bedchamber went out, and I lay in the dark listening to the screeching of mice in the rushes. Normally this familiar sound would have put me to sleep, but not now. My head was filled with too many thoughts.

  Leaving the family home forever would be difficult. There was a chance, of course, that my mother would prevail and I would remain at Bermersheim a little longer, but it was not likely. I knew very well that when my father made up his mind, there was no changing it.

  Listening to the steady breathing next to me, I was sure that I would miss Roric, although his chief entertainment those days consisted of chasing us with lizards and aiming them squarely down the collars of our frocks. I might even miss Clementia and Margaret, even though I found the pastimes that absorbed their entire attention boring. Unlike my sisters, I had no interest in sewing or embroidering amid giggly, half-whispered conversations about neighborhood weddings, and I was mystified as to how the ability to make one’s chain stitch even and round would help attract a good husband. Instead—to their unending astonishment—I asked for reading lessons from our mother’s Book of Hours or helped in the vegetable garden, planting and weeding alongside the kitchen servants, heedless of the warnings that I would end up tanned like a peasant.

  What I would miss most was the forest surrounding Bermersheim—full of ancient oaks and chestnuts and quivering with the droning of bumblebees, the song of the thrush, and the cuckoo’s calls on warm summer afternoons—and also the times when I would climb to our nurse’s loft to watch her sort and mix bunches of dried herbs for use in drafts or ointments.

  Uda was the niece of a healing woman who lived in the woods outside the village and from whom she had learned the best times to pick leaves and roots so they were swelled with juices at the height of their curative powers. Uda taught me to love and respect herbs, and it was in the heady atmosphere of her chamber, warm and rich scented, that I had first begun to marvel at the unseen power that seemed to connect all things in nature, nourishing and sustaining them. I called it v
iriditas after a word I had found in my mother’s small gardening book. It means weed in Latin, but also greenness, vitality, and freshness, and it is the perfect way to describe the secret, life-giving force flowing through the world. The thought of leaving my beloved forest and Uda’s loft behind filled me with deep sadness, and I felt two tears roll down my temples.

  Yet the prospect was also exciting. For one thing, abbeys ran schools; my brother Hugo had gone to one at Lorsch before moving to Mainz to train for priesthood at the great cathedral there. I had always envied him and now I would study too! The thought gave me a shiver of anticipation. Also, the idea of traveling away from the village where I had been born—and which I had never left, save for one trip with my father to Bingen with a consignment of salt from Alzey—seemed appealing. The occasional visitors to Bermersheim had brought news of the latest developments in the emperor’s long-standing quarrel with the pope about who should have the right to name bishops and of the emperor’s expeditions to Italy while his dukes schemed against him at home.

  These tidings filled my imagination with castles and knights like the raven-haired, dark-eyed Rudolf von Stade with a battle scar on his cheek, who was part of Count von Sponheim’s retinue, or the heroes of Uda’s bedtime stories, Siegfried and Roland, who wooed princesses and vanquished enemies.

  The Abbey of St. Disibod would be no royal court, of course, but still I imagined it full of pilgrims and visitors, certainly busier than the sleepy valley of Bermersheim with its ancient house and a cluster of peasant cottages hugging the small parish church. When considered that way, the prospect of moving to St. Disibod was quite intriguing, in fact.

  The crowing of the first rooster filled the air, and the eastern sky became a shade less dark through the shutters. Before long, the guests would be rising to take their leave and continue on to Sponheim. With the arrival of dawn, I felt the turmoil in my head subside and the heaviness of sleep descend on me at long last.