The Seer and the Scribe (14 page)

Volmar's Cell

2
^nd
of November, Saturday, the Year of Our Lord 1112, Before Matins

Volmar tossed and turned on the narrow mattress, finding it impossible to surrender to sleep. Giving up, the young monk sat up and fixed his eyes on the crucifix at the foot of his bed without really seeing it. Volmar wondered whether he was now regretting taking his vows. Had he sworn to follow the Rule of Saint Benedict
⁷²
prematurely? The severity of monastic life had never troubled him before: The frugal diet, the lack of sleep, the life of service and contemplation. All of these restrictions had seemed perfectly normal. After all, he'd been blindly abiding by the rule most of his life. Yet now, his vows demanded that he control his thoughts as well as his deeds, and this he knew was impossible. Even the act of saying penance against the desire he felt for Hildegard seemed only to make his suffering stronger and more insistent. Cantilevered between Heaven
and Hell, a monastic existence demanded all worldly desires be rebuked, as he was only to lust for spiritual communion with God the Almighty. Illicit feelings and intentions were considered as worthy of censure as misdeeds; a glance, a gesture, or mere touch were strictly forbidden. Deep down, he knew, simple prayers and holy meditations were not going to be enough for him to exert control over his inflamed passions towards Hildegard. Volmar struggled to keep his thoughts pure, and yet the images kept tumbling out from the remotest places in his mind: The turn of Hildegard's neck, her full, parting lips, her deep sighs . . . so powerful was her hold on him that it could elude his reasoning and his resolve like a dream.

Silently he reached for the few worldly possessions he kept hidden under his bed in a simple wood box with an iron clasp. Usually, on a sleepless night, it gave him comfort to touch objects that revived memories of long ago. He opened the clasp. Inside was the leather pouch he had with him the night he arrived at the monastery with Anya. He emptied its contents out on his bed. In it were several gold coins, a locket of his dead sister's hair, a rosary, and the parchment disclosing Hildegard's secret alphabet. He laid it out carefully and, using it, translated the note she had written to him and left in the pocket of Sophie's cloak:

Try as I may, I cannot get Brother Arnoul's predicament out of my mind. Please come to me, Volmar, when you have a chance, so we can work together to free his tortured spirit. Your sister in Christ, Hildegard.

Volmar turned it over in his hands and smelled its lingering, heavenly perfume, thinking back over what the old woman had told him earlier about Hildegard's future. She was right about one thing, he thought, ruefully; he loved Hildegard deeply.

Attempting to redirect his sinful thoughts, the young monk turned to the rosary. He stared at the eight-pointed star below the head of Christ, the emblem of the Order of the Knights Hospitaller of Saint John. It was the same eight-pointed star on the rosary he'd seen earlier that fell out of Atif's traveling cloak. He ran his finger over the scrawled name of his father, Symon, etched in the ebony. A messenger had given this rosary to his mother a year after his father had left for the Holy Land. All he knew of his father was that he had given his allegiance to the Order of Knights Hospitaller of Saint John in Jerusalem.

Volmar had been barely three when his father left. Try as he may, he could not remember the man's face. Even his own mother's beloved face was blurred from time's inevitable passage. The thin straw pallet and single burlap blanket provided little comfort or warmth. Volmar reached for the overweight tabby sleeping at his feet and stroked Samson's soft gray fur. He thought back to the blind woman's revelations and remembered how Hildegard had happily declared him her scribe during the storm in the cave. It was like an eerie conspiracy. Everyone seemed to know of his future but him.

Samson stretched and yawned, knowing full well it was too early to awaken for prayers. He turned over while purring contentedly, his grey belly exposed and his paws extended straight up in the air. “I know, Samson, I know, but I can't seem to fall asleep,” Volmar explained. He leaned forward and aimlessly scratched under Samson's chin. “In a way,” Volmar mused, yawning, “those moles you love to hunt travel through a realm of silence and darkness, trusting their paths only to what they hear. Should we not act likewise? Should we not simply let go, listen, and trust God to direct our paths?” Volmar yawned again and curled up next to Samson, the rest of his words dying in his throat as a restless sleep finally overtook the troubled monk.

Courtyard and Common Room of Anchorage

2
^nd
of November, Saturday, the Year of Our Lord 1112, Before Matins

Jutta collapsed; her naked body had finally given in to the numbing touch of the cold air. The courtyard of the Anchorage had but one tree, and there she lay, crumpled like a leaf in a stupor of painless sleep. The moon still hung overhead, lending its ghostly light to the small courtyard, a time closer to midnight than morning.

Hildegard heard the noise and awoke in their sleeping chamber. Instinctively she rolled over and saw to her dismay that Jutta was no longer in her bed. This was worrisome, for Hildegard knew quite well what had likely happened. Rising quickly, Hildegard wrapped several blankets around her and went to investigate.

When she finally found Jutta at the base of the tree, the Anchoress was lying face down on the stone pavement, unable to be awoken. Hildegard sighed and wasted no time in wrapping the unconscious woman in several layers of blankets before going back in to enlist Hiltrud's help in moving her in from the cold.

Hildegard leaned over Hiltrud, whose eyes were still puffy and swollen even in sleep. She hated having to stir the young girl from her peaceful slumber.

“Hiltrud, wake up. I need your help.”

‘What's wrong?” Hiltrud sputtered, moistening her dry lips.

“Could you please start the fire and boil some water? It will be a long night, I'm afraid. Sister Jutta has wandered into the cold of the courtyard and has stayed out all night meditating in this dreadful weather.”

Once the fire was burning brightly, the two young women carefully carried Jutta in and laid her in front of its warmth, her body cocooned in multiple blankets.

“It's below freezing out there. Why would she do such a foolish thing?” Hiltrud asked, fumbling for the nearest jug in the fire's light, still bleary-eyed and half asleep.

Hildegard shrugged. “It is her way of coming humbly before our Lord and Savior.” She unlocked the leg iron and began to slowly clean the widening lesion with a soft pad of linen before adding more honey and applying a new dressing.

“If she keeps this up, she'll be standing in front of the Holy Throne before her time,” Hiltrud said resentfully as she set a jug of water on the grate above the flames.

Hildegard inclined her head, cognizant of the folk wisdom of Hiltrud's simple ways. Rolling the bandage over the wound and finishing it off neatly, Hildegard then felt Jutta's forehead and the back of her neck. Her temperature was dangerously high even in the cold. Her condition was becoming worse. Hildegard knew if she didn't get some
proper herbs to bring down her temperature soon, Jutta would not make it through the night.

Clearing Behind Guest Quarters, Disibodenberg Monastery 2
^nd
of November, Saturday, the Year of Our Lord 1112, Mid-Morning

Sunlight caught the blades as they twirled and sang in the air. Two men sparred without the protection of heavy armor in a small clearing behind the Hospice. Effortlessly they moved from one dangerous moment to another without fear or concern, their sparring looking so ingrained and natural that it seemed almost reflexive in nature. The sharp stinging noise they made was so regular and timed in such a way that it was obvious the two knew of each other's strengths and weaknesses. Back and forth they parried and returned strikes, acting like young wolves at play. It was a formidable dance that Volmar had witnessed only a few times at the monastery, and each opportunity fed in him a desire to learn to move with such grace, purpose, and agility.

To establish such a bond would have taken years to master, Volmar reasoned, as he sat down on the stone wall to watch. He studied the strangers' fighting movements, delighted by this unexpected diversion. He deserved a rest, having been back and forth three times since Terce delivering messages from the Abbot to Brother Andres concerning the winter's food supply for the poor. The younger of the two men suddenly took a scrape on his sleeve. Blood darkened the ripped shirt. Raising his free arm in a signal to stop the fight, he peered closely at the wound. The older of the two men started shuffling his feet, his sword down to the left side of his body. He moved from side to side, circling his opponent as if he were his prey.

“Tired, my friend?” the older man asked. His breathing was barely apparent as he kept his feet and wits agile in case it was a ruse. He had
broad square shoulders and a slightly dappled gray beard. He would have been considered a handsome man had his expression not seemed so sinister and somehow familiar. Volmar couldn't place him in his memory.

“No, it is but a scratch,” the younger man said with a grin, a thick Italian accent coating his words. Without any further delay, the Italian brought his sword well above the level of his head and swung down at the older man with considerable force, and the two were at it again. They each continued to parry every strike comfortably away from their bodies, allowing for the easy movements of their blades. Finally, the older man rotated his arm at the elbow to the left and brought his entire arm, sword in hand, pointed straight out onto his opponent's shoulder, making abrupt contact with the other's sword. At the other's quick block the older man's sword was knocked out of its line of attack and away from his opponent's torso.

“Ah ha, old man, thought you had me there,” the Italian gleamed.

Both men, clearly spent, collapsed to the ground. “You're getting stronger, my friend,” the older man admitted, breathing hard. “It won't be long before such play will become dangerous for me.”

The older man turned to Volmar, who had quietly witnessed this unusual admission. “Be careful who you choose as your friend, brother, for there are those who cannot draw a line between an adversary and a friend in competition.” He stood and extended his hand to his opponent and helped him to his feet.

“So tell me, my young brother, have you ever even held a sword? Or has a stylus been your only weapon?” the older of the two men said with a chuckle as he approached Volmar, handing to him the sword of his younger opponent. He appeared eager to amuse himself further.

“Words can be as powerful as a sword, if not more so, in my opinion,” Volmar said evenly, taking the younger man's sword in his hand. The young monk swung it in the air a few times, finding its heft, balance, and its maneuverability more satisfying than the wooden ones he'd been accustomed to when play fighting as a boy with visiting squires and knights. He took a stance that indicated he had more than simple book knowledge of how to spar and readied himself.

“Be careful, my young brother, you do not want to parry with this man,” the Italian man warned. He had a young face that had seen too much sun, with a light crinkling of skin around his dark, intense eyes.
“He is the one who knows no friend in competition. See?” the Italian slipped off his leather glove, revealing that he was missing both his forefinger and half of his middle finger on his right hand. The Italian man bowed graciously to his opponent and left the clearing, whispering as he passed Volmar. “So be it, it is your funeral.”

“Ha, you answer me with arrogance and nerve! Formidable qualities for a spineless holy brother,” the older man said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Tell me, what is your name, boy?”

“It is Volmar, Volmar of Bermersheim.”

At this the older man faltered, briefly betraying a look of agonizing insecurity. However, he recovered briskly. His cajoling demeanor returned, though it had a distinctive, more lethal edge to it. “Son of Katherina of Bermersheim?”

“Yes. Did you know her?”

The old man raised an eyebrow. “No one in this region, save those without eyes in their head, would claim not to have known her. She was a beauty and a viper.”

“How dare you speak of my mother in such a manner!” With that, Volmar sprang forward, catching his opponent by surprise and leveling a loud crack that could be heard from the Infirmary as the older man's sword met his. The commotion caused a few guests to step outside and congregate around the stone wall to view the sword play firsthand. The swords clanged even louder as the two matched each other's swings, Volmar clearly on the defensive. The old man laughed as he playfully deflected Volmar's best efforts. The crowd that had started to gather began to cheer for the obvious winner, encouraging him to put the inexperienced boy in his place.

“There is more to sword fighting than mere desire to win, my boy,” the old man said, his smirk still in place as he acknowledged the youth's enthusiastic, yet feeble attempts. “Keep moving. Do not stand still or you will become an easy prey.” He dipped forward, the tip of his sword barely missing Volmar's neck, as if to emphasize this very point.

Some who had gathered in the crowd started chanting for blood.

“So, you are Katherina's son, eh? Well, well . . .” the older man said over the uproar. His eyes clouded over and, in their gaze, Volmar saw something he'd never seen before: a desire to kill, and to kill without mercy.

“Volmar!” Brother Paulus shouted. His voice was thick with anger as he hurried into the clearing, “Both of you; stop this nonsense at once!” Paulus crossed his arms in the sleeves of his habit, clearly incensed by this brutal play, and stood immovable between the two. “I'd rather not have to stitch up another injury; one is quite enough!”