15  

THE brothers gathered in the chapter house, seated in order of seniority on the gradines, tiers of stone seats lining the walls of the house. The chapter meeting was the most important assembly of the day outside of the religious offices, for it was here that the temporal business of the community was conducted and matters regarding management, monies, appointments, and disputes were discussed. This was also where brothers who had committed transgressions of the rule were expected to confess their faults and be assigned their penances, or risk accusation by others.

Joan always came to chapter with a certain trepidation. Had she inadvertently given herself away with some incautious word or gesture? If her true identity were ever to be revealed, this was where she would learn of it.

The meeting always began with the reading of a chapter from the Rule of St. Benedict, the book of monastic regulations which guided the everyday spiritual and administrative life of the community. The rule was read straight through from beginning to end, a chapter a day, so that over the course of a year the brethren heard it in its entirety.

After the reading and benediction, Abbot Raban asked, “Brethren, have you any faults to confess?”

Before he finished uttering the words, Brother Thedo leapt to his feet. “Father, I do confess a fault.”

“What is it, Brother?” Abbot Raban said with weary patience. Brother Thedo was always the first to accuse himself of wrongdoing.

“I have faltered in the performance of the opus manuum. Copying a life of St. Amandus, I fell asleep in the scriptorium.”

“Again?” Abbot Raban lifted an eyebrow.

Thedo bowed his head meekly. “Father, I am sinful and unworthy. Please exact the harshest of penances upon me.”

Abbot Raban sighed. “Very well. For two days you will stand a penitent before the church.”

The brothers smiled wryly. Brother Thedo was so frequently to be found doing penance outside the church that he seemed part of the decoration, a living, breathing pillar of remorse.

Thedo was disappointed. “You are too charitable, Father. For so grievous a fault, I ask to be allowed to do penance for a week.”

“God does not welcome pridefulness, Thedo, even in suffering. Remember that, while you are asking His forgiveness for your other faults.”

The reprimand struck home. Thedo flushed and sat down.

“Are there any other faults to confess?” Raban asked.

Brother Hunric stood. “Twice I came late to night office.”

Abbot Raban nodded; Hunric’s tardiness had been noted, but because he admitted his fault freely and did not try to hide it, his penance would be light.

“From now until St.-Denis’s day, you will keep night watch.”

Brother Hunric bowed his head. The Feast of St.-Denis was two days away; for the next two nights, he must stay awake and watch the progress of the moon and the stars across the sky so he could determine as closely as possible the arrival of the eighth hour of the night, or two A.M., and then awaken the sleeping brothers for the celebration of vigils. Such watches were essential to the strict observance of the night office, for the sundial was the only other way of measuring the passage of time, and of course it was of no use in darkness.

“During your watch,” Raban continued, “you will kneel in unceasing prayer on a pile of nettles, that you may be sharply reminded of your indolence and prevented from compounding your fault with sinful sleepfulness.”

“Yes, Father Abbot.” Brother Hunric accepted the penance without rancor. For so grave an offense, the punishment could have been far worse.

Several brothers stood in their turn and confessed to such minor faults as breaking dishes in refectory, errors in scribing, mistakes in the oratory, receiving their corresponding penances with humble acceptance. When they were finished, Abbot Raban paused to make certain no one else wished to confess. Then he said, “Have any other infractions of the rule been committed? Let those who will speak, for the good of their brothers’ souls.”

This was the part of the meeting Joan dreaded. Scanning the rows of brethren, her gaze fell on Brother Thomas. His heavy-lidded eyes were regarding her with unmistakable hostility. She shifted uneasily in her seat. Does he mean to accuse me of something?

But Thomas made no move to rise. From the row of seats just behind him, Brother Odilo stood.

“On Friday fastday, I saw Brother Hugh take an apple from the orchard and eat it.”

Brother Hugh leapt nervously to his feet. “Father, it is true I picked the apple, for it was hard work pulling up the weeds, and I felt a great weakness in my limbs. But, Holy Father, I did not eat the apple; I merely took a small bite, to strengthen me so I could go on with the opus manuum.”

“Weakness of the flesh is no excuse for violation of the rule,” Abbot Raban responded sternly. “It is a test, sent by God to try the spirit of the faithful. Like Eve, the mother of sin, you have failed that test, Brother—a serious fault, especially as you did not seek to confess it yourself. In penance, you will fast for a week and forgo all pittances until Epiphany.”

A week of starvation, and no pittances—the extra little treats that supplemented the spartan monastic diet of greens, pulse, and occasionally fish—until well after Christ Mass! This last part would be especially hard to bear, for it was during this holy season that gifts of food poured into the abbey from all over the countryside, as Christians looked guiltily to the welfare of their immortal souls. Honey cakes, pasties, sweet roast chickens, and other rare and wonderful indulgences would briefly grace the abbey tables. Brother Hugh looked evilly at Brother Odilo.

“Furthermore,” Abbot Raban continued, “in grateful return to Brother Odilo for his attention to your spiritual well-being, you will prostrate yourself before him tonight and wash his feet with humility and thankfulness.”

Brother Hugh bowed his head. He would perforce do as Abbot Raban had charged, but Joan doubted he would feel grateful. Penitent acts were easier to enjoin than penitent hearts.

“Are there any other faults that need to be disclosed?” Abbot Raban asked. When no one responded, he said gravely, “It grieves me to report that there is one among us who is guilty of the wickedest of sins, a crime detestable in the sight of God and Heaven—”

Joan’s heart gave a leap of alarm.

“—the breaking of his holy vow made to God.”

Brother Gottschalk jumped to his feet. “It was my father’s vow, not mine!” he said chokingly.

Gottschalk was a young man, some three or four years older than Joan, with curly black hair and eyes set so deep in their sockets they looked like two dark bruises. Like Joan, he was an oblate, offered to the monastery by his father, a Saxon noble. Now that he was grown a man, he wanted to leave.

“It is lawful for a Christian man to dedicate his son to God,” Abbot Raban said sternly. “Such offering cannot be withdrawn without great sin.”

“Is it not an equal sin for a man to be bound against his nature and his will?”

“If a man will not turn, He will whet His sword,” Abbot Raban said portentously. “He hath bent His bow and made it ready. He hath prepared for him the instruments of death.”

“That is tyranny, not truth!” Gottschalk cried passionately.

“Shame!” “Sinner!” “For shame, Brother!” Scattered cries of outrage punctuated a chorus of hissing from the brethren.

“Your disobedience, my son, has placed your immortal soul in grievous danger,” Abbot Raban said solemnly. “There is but one cure for such a disease—in the just and terrible words of the Apostle: Tradere hujusmodi hominem in interitum carnis, ut spiritus salvus sit in diem Domini—such a man must be handed over for the destruction of his flesh, that his spirit may be saved on the day of the Lord.”

At Raban’s signal, two of the decani júniores, brothers in charge of monastic discipline, took hold of Gottschalk and pushed him to the center of the room. He offered no resistance as they shoved him to his knees and roughly pulled up his robes, exposing his naked buttocks and back. From one corner of the room where it was kept for just this purpose, Brother Germar, the senior deacon, retrieved a sturdy willow stick, at the end of which were affixed thick strands of knotted, wiry rope. Positioning himself carefully, he raised the scourge high and brought it down hard on Gottschalk’s back. The slap of the lash reverberated throughout the hushed assembly.

The scarred skin on Joan’s back quivered. The flesh has its own memory, keener than the mind’s.

Brother Germar raised the scourge again and brought it down even harder. Gottschalk’s whole body shuddered, but he clamped his lips together, refusing to give Abbot Raban the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. Again the scourge rose and fell, rose and fell, and still Gottschalk did not break.

After the usual seven lashes, Brother Germar lowered the scourge. Abbot Raban angrily signaled him to continue. With a look of surprise, Brother Germar obeyed.

Three more lashes, four, five, and then there was an awful crack as the scourge struck bone. Gottschalk threw back his head and screamed—a great, terrible, tearing cry from the center of his being. The appalling sound hung in the air, then subsided into a long, shuddering sob.

Abbot Raban nodded, satisfied, and signaled Brother Germar to stop. As Gottschalk was lifted and half-led, half-dragged from the hall, Joan caught a flash of white in the middle of his crimsoned back. It was one of Gottschalk’s ribs, and it had completely pierced his flesh.

THE infirmary was uncharactistically empty, for the day was warm and breezeless, and the old ones and the chronically ill had been taken outside for a touch of healing sun.

Brother Gottschalk lay prone on the infirmary bed, half conscious, his open wounds reddening the sheets. Brother Benjamin, the physician, bent over him, trying to staunch the bleeding with the aid of a few linen bandages, already completely saturated with blood. He looked up as Joan came in.

“Good. You are here. Hand me some bandages from the shelf.”

Joan hurried to comply. Brother Benjamin peeled off the old bandages, threw them to the ground, and applied the new. Within moments, they were soaked through.

“Help me to shift him,” Benjamin said. “The way he’s lying, that bone is still making mischief. We must get that rib back into place, or we’ll never stop the bleeding.”

Joan moved to the opposite side of the bed, skillfully positioning her hands so that one quick forward motion would draw the bone back into place.

“Easy, now,” Benjamin said. “Half sensible though he is, he’ll feel it sharp. On my mark, Brother. One, two, three!”

Joan pulled while Brother Benjamin pushed. There was a fresh outpouring of blood; then the bone slid beneath the gaping flesh.

“Deo, juva me!” Gottschalk lifted his head in tortured petition, then fell back unconscious.

They sponged up the blood and cleansed Gottschalk’s wounds.

“Well, Brother John, what needs doing next?” Brother Benjamin quizzed Joan when they had done.

She was quick with the answer. “Apply a salve … of mugwort, perhaps, mixed with some pennyroyal. Soak some bandages in vinegar, and apply them as a healing pad.”

“Very good.” Benjamin was pleased. “We shall put in some lovage as well, as a guard against infection.”

They worked side by side, preparing the solution, the pungent smell of the new-crushed herbs rising headily around them. When the bandages were dipped and ready, Joan handed them to Brother Benjamin.

“You do it,” he said, then stood back and watched approvingly as his young apprentice firmly pressed the ugly flaps of skin together and expertly positioned the bandages.

He came forward to inspect the patient. The bandaging was perfect—better, in fact, than he could have done himself. Nevertheless, he did not like the way Brother Gottschalk looked. His skin, cold and clammy to the touch, had gone white as new-sheared wool. His breathing came shallowly, and the pulse of his heart blood, faintly detected, was dangerously rapid.

He’s going to die, Brother Benjamin realized with dismay, and the thought immediately followed: Father Abbot will be furious. Raban had exceeded himself in chapter and surely knew it; Gottschalk’s death would serve as both reproach and embarrassment. And if news of it should reach King Ludwig … well, even abbots were not immune from censure and dismissal.

Brother Benjamin searched his mind for something more to do. His pharmacopoeia of medicines was useless, for he could not administer anything by mouth, not even water to replenish lost fluids, while his patient lay senseless.

John Anglicus’s voice startled him from his reverie: “Should I start a fire in the brazier and set some stones to heating?”

Benjamin looked at his assistant with surprise. Packing a patient round with hot stones wrapped in flannel was standard medical procedure in winter, when the pervading chill was known to sap a sick man’s strength, but now, in these last warm days of autumn …?

“Hippocrates’ treatise on wounds,” Joan reminded him. She had given him her translation of the Greek physician’s brilliant work only last month.

Brother Benjamin frowned. He enjoyed doctoring, and within the limited medical knowledge of the day, he was good at it. But he was no innovator; he felt more comfortable with safe, familiar remedies than with new ideas and theories.

“The shock of violent injury,” Joan continued with a barely perceptible degree of impatience. “According to Hippocrates, it can kill a man with a penetrating chill that emanates from within.”

“It is true that I have seen men die suddenly after injury, though their wounds did not appear to be mortal,” Brother Benjamin said slowly. “Deus vult, I thought, God’s will …”

The intelligent young face of John Anglicus was alight with expectancy, seeking permission to proceed.

“Very well,” Brother Benjamin conceded, “fire up the brazier; it’s unlikely to do Brother Gottschalk any harm, and it may do him good, as the pagan doctor says.” He settled himself on a bench, grateful to rest his arthritic legs as his energetic young assistant bustled about the room, starting the fire and setting stones over it.

When the stones were hot, Joan wrapped them in thick layers of flannel cloth and carefully placed them all about Gottschalk. Two of the largest stones she positioned under his feet, so that they were slightly elevated, following Hippocrates’ recommendation. She finished by laying a light woolen blanket over all, to hold in the warmth.

After a short while, Gottschalk’s eyelids fluttered; he moaned and began to stir. Brother Benjamin went to the bed. A healthy pink tinge had returned to Gottschalk’s skin, and he was breathing more normally. A quick check of his pulse revealed a strong, regular heartbeat.

“God be praised.” Brother Benjamin breathed in relief. He smiled at John Anglicus across the bed. He has the gift, Brother Benjamin thought with an almost paternal pride, slightly tinged with envy. From the beginning the boy had shown brilliant promise—that was why Benjamin had asked for him as his assistant—but he had never expected him to come so far so fast. In just a few years, John Anglicus had mastered the skills it had taken Brother Benjamin a lifetime to acquire.

“You have the healing touch, Brother John,” he said benevolently. “Today you have surpassed your old master; soon I will have nothing left to teach you.”

“Do not say so,” Joan responded with chagrin, for she was fond of Benjamin. “I still have much to learn, and I know it.”

Gottschalk groaned again, his pinched lips drawing back to reveal his teeth.

“He begins to feel the pain,” Brother Benjamin said. Working rapidly, he made a potion of red wine and sage, into which he infused a few drops of poppy juice. Such a preparation required the greatest care, for what could, in small doses, provide blessed relief from insupportable pain could also kill, the difference depending solely on the skill of the physician.

When he was done, Brother Benjamin handed the brimming cup to Joan, who carried it to the bed and offered it to Gottschalk. Proudly, he pushed it away, though the sudden movement caused him to cry out in pain.

“Drink it, Brother,” Joan chided gently, and held the cup to Gottschalk’s lips. “You must get well if you are ever to win your freedom,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

Gottschalk flashed her a surprised look. He took a few sips, then drank rapidly, thirstily, like a man who comes upon a well after a hot day’s march.

An authoritative voice sounded unexpectedly behind them. “Do not place your hopes in herbs and potions.”

Turning, Joan saw Abbot Raban, followed by a score of the brethren. She put down the cup and rose.

“The Lord grants life to men and makes them sound. Prayer alone can restore this sinner to health.” Abbot Raban signaled the brothers, who quietly surrounded the bed.

Abbot Raban led them in the prayer for the sick. Gottschalk did not join in. He lay unmoving, eyes closed as if asleep, though Joan could tell from his breathing he was not.

His body will heal, she thought, but not his wounded soul. Joan’s heart went out to the young monk. She understood his stubborn refusal to submit to Raban’s tyranny, remembering, too well, her own fierce struggle against her father.

“All praise and thanks to God.” Abbot Raban’s voice sounded clear above the rest of the brethren.

Joan joined in praising God, but in her mind she also gave thanks to the pagan Hippocrates, worshiper of idols, whose bones were dust many centuries before Christ was born, but whose wisdom had reached across the distant years to heal one of His sons.

“THE wound’s mending nicely,” Joan reassured Gottschalk after she unwrapped the bandages and laid his back bare for inspection. Two weeks had passed since the day of his scourging, and already the broken rib had knit and the jagged edges of the wound sealed neatly together—though, like her, Gottschalk would bear the marks of his punishment for life.

“Thanks for the trouble you’ve taken, Brother,” Gottschalk replied, “but it will all be to do over, for it’s only a matter of time till he has me scourged again.”

“You only provoke him with open defiance. A milder approach would serve you better.”

“I will defy him with the last breath in my body. He is evil,” he cried passionately.

“Have you thought of telling him you’ll forgo your claim to the land in return for your freedom?” Joan asked. An oblate was always offered to a monastery along with a substantial gift of land; if the oblate subsequently left, the land presumably would revert as well.

“Don’t you think I’ve offered that already?” Gottschalk replied. “It’s not the land he’s after; it’s me, or rather my submission, body and soul. And that he’ll never have, though he kill me for it.”

So it was a contest of wills between them—one that Gottschalk could not possibly win. Best to get him away from here before something terrible happened.

“I’ve been giving some thought to your problem,” Joan said. “Next month there’s a synod in Mainz. All the bishops of the Church will attend. If you submitted a petition for your release, they would have to consider it—and their ruling would supersede Abbot Raban’s.”

Gottschalk said bleakly, “The synod will never contravene the will of the great Raban Maur. His power is too great.”

“The ruling of abbots, even of archbishops, has been overturned before,” Joan argued. “And you’ve a strong argument in the fact you were offered as an oblate in infancy, before you had reached the age of reason. I searched the library and found some passages from Jerome that would support such an argument.” She pulled a roll of parchment from under her robe. “Here, see for yourself—I’ve written it all down.”

Gottschalk’s dark eyes brightened as he read. He looked up excitedly. “It’s brilliant! A dozen Rabans could not refute so well made an argument!” Then the dark clouds rolled in again. “But—there’s no way for me to present this before the synod. He will never grant me permission to leave, even for a day, and certainly not to go to Mainz.”

“Barthold, the cloth merchant, can take it for you. His business brings him here regularly. I know him well, for he comes to the infirmary to fetch medicine for his wife, who suffers from headache. He’s a good man and can be trusted to bear the petition safely to Mainz.”

Gottschalk asked with suspicion, “Why are you doing this?”

Joan shrugged. “A man should be free to live the life he chooses.” To herself she added, And so, for that matter, should a woman.

EVERYTHING went off as planned. When Barthold came to the infirmary to pick up the medicine for his wife, Joan gave him the petition, which he bore away tucked safely in his saddlebag.

A few weeks later, the abbey received an unexpected visit from Otgar, Bishop of Trier. After the formal greeting in the forecourt, the bishop requested and received immediate audience with the abbot in his quarters.

The news the bishop brought was astonishing: Gottschalk was released from his vows. He was free to leave Fulda when he chose.

He chose to leave at once, not wishing to remain one moment longer than necessary under Raban’s baleful eye. Packing was no problem; though he had lived all his life at the monastery, Gottschalk had nothing to bring away with him, for a monk could not own any personal property. Brother Anselm, the kitchener, put together a sack of food to see Gottschalk through the first few days on the road, and that was all.

“Where will you go?” Joan asked him.

“To Speyer,” he answered. “I’ve a married sister there; I can stay with her for a while. Then … I don’t know.”

He had fought for liberty so long and with so little hope he had not stopped to consider what he would do if he actually achieved it. He had never known anything but the monastic life; its safe and predictable rhythms were as much a part of him as breathing. Though he was too proud to admit to it, Joan read the uncertainty and fear in his eyes.

The brethren did not gather for a formal leave-taking, for Raban had forbidden it. Only Joan and a few other brothers whose opus manuum brought them across the forecourt at that hour were there to see Gottschalk walk through the gate, a free man at last. Joan watched him make his way down the road, his tall, spare figure growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared on the horizon.

Would he be happy? Joan hoped so. But somehow he seemed a man fated always to yearn after that which he could not have, to choose for himself the rockiest, most difficult path. She would pray for him, as for all the other sad and troubled souls who must travel roads alone.