The Greenest Branch Read online

  Did he really believe it, I wondered, or did he want to avoid trouble? With Prior Helenger on constant lookout for real or imaginary transgressions, it was reasonable to be cautious. I saw that there was no point in pressing it further; besides, spring was still months away. Perhaps I could take small steps, make use of the herbs we already had, and learn more.

  My gaze wandered again to the three books on the shelf. “What about those medical writings?”

  “Ah.” Wigbert rose from the table with surprising agility, glad of the change of topic. “These are basic texts that come very handy.” He took them down and selected a small volume whose pages were bound in hard leather. “This is De Urinis, a translation of the work of Theophilus, a Greek physician who compiled existing information on urine analysis from a variety of sources. It serves as the definitive textbook on this matter for students and practitioners alike.”

  The second book was bigger and its cover was of better quality. It was an excerpt from Medicinale Anglicum, another definitive source. I examined each book reverently, but it was the last and largest volume that made me gasp. It was a translation of Galen’s treatises on diseases, symptoms, and pharmacology, a term that Brother Wigbert explained referred to medications.

  The subject matter may have been dense, but the presentation filled me with delight, for the book contained exquisite images. I gingerly turned the soft vellum pages and ran my fingers over the decorative first letters of each chapter, which showed philosophers and physicians at work examining samples in glass vials, or poring over medical texts. Each miniature was superbly detailed down to the last leaf on a tree bough, the smallest star in the sky, or the lightest crease in the robe, all painted in vivid greens, scarlets, yellows, and blues, edged in gold leaf. In addition to being breathtakingly beautiful, the book had to be very expensive.

  “This is my most precious possession,” Brother Wigbert said fondly, as if reading my thoughts. He went to the alembic to check on the lavender oil that was dripping slowly. “It was a gift from one of my teachers at Salerno. Abbot Kuno is good enough to let me keep it here since it serves me as a useful reference, but it should be in the library.”

  “There is a real library here?” I was stunned, although it made sense on reflection. Monks copied manuscripts in the scriptorium—right next to the oblates’ schoolroom, a place I could rarely think about without bitterness—and those copies had to be stored somewhere.

  “Yes. There is a small door in the back of the scriptorium that leads to it.” He returned to the table and gathered his books. “Access is strictly controlled.”

  “Why?”

  “Monasteries are repositories of knowledge through their collections of books, some of which may be unsuitable to uninitiated minds.” Seeing my puzzled look, he explained, “We have monastic rules, the Lives of saints, and writings of Church Fathers, but we also have a good number of Greek translations, including most of Galen’s works and some of Hippocrates, both of whom were pagans. It is their paganism that renders these writings potentially dangerous.”

  From that day onward, my thoughts became filled with images of the place—so close and yet out of reach—where the monks copied ancient texts and created a growing store they could peruse whenever they wanted. I had dreams in which I descended a staircase leading deep into the belly of the earth under the cloister to a large chamber with shelves piled high with volumes and scrolls. But when I opened them, the pages were always blank. Sometimes I saw Brother Bertolf in those dreams, seated at a desk covered with inkpots, bottles of dyes, goose quills, and brushes, a blank volume in front of him, and I would awake just as he dipped his quill and was about to put his hand to the parchment. Often, I would have trouble returning to sleep.

  One night on my way back from the infirmary, I halted before entering the enclosure. I had to do something, or I might not get a good night’s sleep again. I turned and ran to the workshop, fresh snow crunching under my feet. I opened the gate and paused momentarily, struck by the beauty of the winter landscape before me. The light that shone through the workshop window cast an orange glow on the pristine whiteness of the herb beds, and large snowflakes were falling slowly through the air, spreading a veil of calm over the world. The quietude was so profound that I felt a jolt of energy opening my mind to a greater insight. I was happy! I enjoyed Brother Wigbert’s favor, I had this plot of fertile Rhenish land sleeping under the snow until warmer days, and I was determined to make the most of it.

  Frost biting at my toes spurred me on, and I pushed the door open, inhaling the aroma of the sweet posset Wigbert made at Christmastime, a delicious mix of ale, eggs, milk, and spices. He turned from the stove, surprised to see me at that hour, but before he could say anything, the question tumbled from my mouth. “Brother Wigbert, will you ask Father Abbot to let me use the library?”

  9

  January 1118

  Brother Wigbert and Abbot Kuno had a private supper each month, and I was so anxious on the night of their first such meeting in the year 1118 that I knew I would not be able to sleep. It was already dark when we left the workshop, the infirmarian heading to the abbot’s house and I returning to the convent. The January sky was clear and speckled with sharp winter stars, bright and cold, and for a moment I considered following behind to see if I could listen at the door. Then I chastised myself for such thoughts and headed for the enclosure, Brother Wigbert’s promise to relate the conversation to me serving as my consolation. A promise, I need not add, that he kept faithfully.

  Brother Wigbert always looked forward to those meetings, especially on long winter evenings when the abbot’s large hearth burned brightly, and the food, prepared separately from the refectory fare, was of the highest quality.

  That night was no different. The joint of beef was succulent and seasoned to perfection, and the spiced wine undiluted. At first the conversation revolved around the renovations of the abbey treasury which were to commence in the spring, then the infirmarian wiped his mouth and sat back. “There is something I need to tell you, Father.” After Kuno motioned him to continue, he told him of my work in the infirmary and my interest in healing, although he omitted the part about the wise woman and my considerable knowledge of herbs. “She has a natural talent and learns quickly,” he added. “I think perhaps we should find a way to foster this gift, especially since I am getting older and nobody has shown an interest in replacing me.”

  “But what are you saying, Brother?” The abbot looked surprised. “That we should train her as a physician?”

  “No, but she could learn basic theories from the books we have in the library, and I could give her further practical instruction. That would ensure continuity when I am gone until the abbey secures a new physician.”

  “I have never heard of a woman practicing medicine.” Kuno shook his head.

  “What I am talking about,” the infirmarian clarified, “are practical skills fortified with some of the theory found in Galen and Hippocrates.”

  “But can she read?”

  “She knows basic Latin and reads the Bible with the anchoresses.” In fact, I had been working my way through de Urinis since November and was more than half way through it. “Perhaps she could join the monastery school—”

  “The school?” The abbot’s eyebrows arched in astonishment. “But it is for boys!”

  “I don’t see why we could not make an exception; it would only be for a little while until she hones her skills.”

  But Kuno shook his head vigorously. “We cannot do that. Educating girls is unnecessary, and it is not what we do. Imagine the archbishop’s reaction if he found out.”

  “The archbishop has just been freed from prison,” Wigbert pointed out. “I think he has more important matters to attend to.”

  “That may be, but the Mainz canons are a meddlesome bunch, and they would not fail to lodge a complaint.”

  The infirmarian knew
it was true; the episcopal bureaucracy was notorious for being a nuisance, and it was best not to attract their attention. “I suppose I could give her additional instruction in Latin,” he offered. “Would you then allow her access to the library?”

  The abbot shook his head again, and this time it was clear that it was not just the canons he was concerned about but his fellow monks who might be scandalized. Wigbert could easily imagine Prior Helenger haranguing against it in Chapter.

  “You know as well as I do that it will not work.” Kuno considered his friend through narrowed eyelids. “You seem to have a high opinion of Hildegard’s intellect, but even if her Latin improves, what makes you think she can understand medical theories?”

  Brother Wigbert knew that I could. “I have spent a great deal of time with her; she is bright and methodical, and grasps connections between facts faster than most people. I do not have to explain anything twice. That is why I have no doubt that under proper guidance, she can benefit from these texts.” Then he added, musingly, “She tends not to accept answers as givens but wants to try for herself how things work. It is most unusual.”

  “So you are saying she is a skeptic?” The abbot picked up on it immediately. “What if she comes to question Church doctrines one day?”

  “I have not seen anything that would suggest that,” the infirmarian hastened to reassure him.

  “She questions scientific facts but never our faith?”

  Wigbert thought a while before speaking. This was as good a time as any to share with the abbot something else that was on his mind. “From some of the things Hildegard has told me about Sister Jutta, it seems that the rumors of bodily mortification are true. This may well be the reason why she does not want to stay permanently at the convent.” He paused, and a heavy silence ensued. “I explained to her the concept of asceticism, but I think she is still grappling with it.”

  Abbot Kuno nodded sympathetically, but the look of discomfort did not vanish from his face. “She is still a child, but if she has such an inquiring mind, we should keep an eye on her.”

  “That is why I thought that proper monastic education—and not just Jutta’s instruction—would be good for her.”

  Kuno sighed like a man out of options. “You may very well be right, but it would be problematic.”

  The infirmarian spread his arms in a gesture of defeat. But then the abbot added, dropping his voice although they were alone in the house, “I think, however, that you could borrow books to refresh your memory of natural philosophy.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “As well as of Church Fathers.”

  Brother Wigbert understood immediately. As they parted a short time later, Kuno felt it necessary to add, “We must ensure that Hildegard’s questioning does not lead her off the path charted by the Church. I leave it to you to oversee that, Brother.”

  That was how I laid my hands on my first library book, a translation of Lucretius’ De rerum natura, in which he wrote that in order to discover truth, one had only to look at the natural world. I chuckled when Brother Wigbert told me how he had interrupted the nap Brother Fulbert was taking at his librarian’s post, for the scriptorium at St. Disibod was a small and quiet place where only two manuscripts were being copied at any one time. Fulbert was therefore quite surprised to see the infirmarian appear before him, and more astonished still to learn that he had decided to reread major Christian texts. But he was also grateful for a relief from the tedium of his function, and he trotted off eagerly to fetch volumes of Ambrosius and Origen. Wigbert had asked for the Lucretius as if it were an afterthought, saying he needed to consult it on a medical matter.

  By the end of the winter, I had worked my way through Lucretius, and in the spring, I did away with the strawberry patch to plant more fennel. Brother Wigbert had consented, although we would still be sending a portion of our yield to the kitchen.

  Thanks to that arrangement, the mystery of the kitchen boy was finally solved. It happened when Brother Wigbert went to the town to buy ginger and cloves from the spice merchant. He was on his way out when he stopped at the gate. “I forgot to tell you.”

  I looked up from the herb bed I was weeding.

  “The cook is sending someone to pick up fresh herbs. They ran out of the dry stock and there have been grumblings in the refectory.” Without even realizing it, he patted his prominent stomach. “Would you prepare a few bunches of thyme, rosemary, and marjoram?”

  I nodded obediently, although the new crop had only just come up. I was of the opinion that the kitchen should grow its own herbs in the sizable vegetable garden across the abbey. But I picked a few sprigs and took them to the workshop to rinse and tie up.

  I was still at work when I heard a knock on the door. Without looking up from the basin, I bid the visitor come in.

  “Good day,” I said as the hinges squeaked behind me. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I am almost done.”

  “It is good to finally meet you, Sister.”

  I was shaking the water off the herbs and paused mid-movement as I realized I had heard that voice before. But I could not place it, so I laid the plants out on the counter and laughed. “I have not taken my vows yet, so you can call me Hildegard.” The words were barely out of my mouth when it hit me like a bolt of lightning. I whirled around so fast I almost lost my balance.

  The boy sprang up from the bench, a mix of fear and relief painted all over his face. We gazed at each other for a few heartbeats, then I managed, “It is you! The innkeeper’s daughter!”

  She joined her hands together. “Oh, please Sister . . . ah . . . Hildegard, please don’t give me away!” She was taller now, but the deep green eyes were unmistakable. “They all think I’m a boy.”

  I could see how—her stocky silhouette and the cropped hair over the heart-shaped face gave her a rather boyish appearance. “But what are you doing here?” I was still incredulous, even though I knew that she was the boy I’d seen enter the abbey on the day Arnwald had been released. “And why are you in disguise?”

  “I have always wanted to enter a convent.” There was a pleading note in her voice. “But we are too poor.”

  I nodded. I remembered our meeting well.

  Griselda continued, “After your visit, I could not think of anything else, so one day when my parents were away, I took my brother’s old clothes, cut my hair, and left.”

  “Your parents don’t know where you are?!”

  Tears welled in her eyes and slowly rolled down her cheeks. She shook her head.

  I patted her hand, too small for a boy, that rested on the rough wood of the table. “It will be fine.” But in truth, I had no idea how this could ever end well; it was only a matter of time before she was discovered. My first shock over, I felt a surge of compassion for this child who had a dream but no way of realizing it.

  “I really didn’t mean to go away like that.” Griselda wiped her eyes with the cuffs of her shirt. “But I want to be an anchoress, and I couldn’t bear the talk of marrying me off to the baker’s son.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “How long can you pretend to be someone you are not? And how is this going to help you accomplish your goal?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied miserably. “I thought I would be able to earn enough for my dowry, but I am paid two silver pfennigs a week. I mainly just wanted to come here, and I knew they would not admit me if I showed up as a girl.”

  That was true enough. But this situation was bound to cause a scandal sooner or later, and then what would happen to her?

  “Please don’t give me away,” Griselda repeated her plea. “I am happy here. The church is so beautiful, and Abbot Kuno gives such stirring sermons.” Her face brightened as if a cloud had lifted.

  The sense of kinship I had already felt during our first encounter more than two years before came back to me. I understood Griselda. “Of course not,” I said softly, my hand
still on hers, when the door opened and the frame filled almost completely with Brother Wigbert.

  On impulse, we jumped apart.

  “Welcome.” He did not seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary. “I see you are getting acquainted. What is your name, son? I think you told me when you were here last, but I am getting old and things escape me.”

  That was a good question.

  “Christian, Brother,” came the ready reply, and I had to stifle a smile. The girl was certainly resourceful; too bad she had not thought the plan through. I gathered the herbs and handed them to her.

  “Give our best wishes to the brother kitchener. We hope he will find these to his liking.”

  Griselda smiled. “Thank you.” She bowed to Brother Wigbert.

  “God be with you, my son.”

  When her steps died down on the gravel outside, the infirmarian frowned. “What an unusual boy. Quiet. So unlike those urchins who work around the stables. Sometimes we can hear them in the church, and those walls are thick.”

  “He seems nice.”

  “He does.” Wigbert replied, giving me a curious look.

  I made another friend that spring. It happened when the season had reached that stage just before summer when nature was brimming with its most lively viriditas, pleasing the senses with the yellows, reds, and violets of late-blooming flowers and their heady scents.

  There were still times when I felt sad about not being able to study in the monastery school, but the sight of the anchoress’s chapel, its faded wood rising above the pink flowers of the rose bushes that separated it from the herb garden, was a constant reminder that I had avoided a worse fate. So I spent every moment I was not tending to patients in the garden, always thinking of better ways to organize it so as to maximize the yields.