The Seer and the Scribe (19 page)

Feeling the pressure of time, he walked quickly to the stables. The distinctive livestock smell hit him as he swung open one of the large wooden doors. He lifted the iron latch and locked it firmly behind him so the wind wouldn't disturb the resting beasts. He couldn't help but notice two fine black steeds, handsome animals for mere villagers from Disibodenberg. He studied the insignia on the saddles, an eight pointed white star on a red shield, the same symbol he remembered from Atif's and his father Symon's rosary. They must be travelers from the Knight's Hospitaller visiting the monastery. There were two other horses without any insignia. Judging by the horses' care and breeding, there were two more visitors of importance. By the Benedictine Rule, the monastery was required to give food and shelter to any traveler who asked for them. Hopefully these strangers might leave a few coins as a gift to compensate for their brief stay. Generosity, though, could not always be expected, especially from those of power and position.

“Good day, Brother Volmar.” Brother Albertus' eyes fell upon the stool.

“God's Grace to you, Brother Albertus. Please inform Brother Hugo that his stool will be returned promptly before prayers will be said during Nones
⁷⁹
at three.”

“You're taking quite a risk there, are you not?” Albertus added with interest. “You of all people should know that Brother Hugo has a good arm with a whipping stick.” Albertus sighed, then started massaging his lower back.

Volmar waited, anticipating a comment about the weather. No one could forecast the weather with such accuracy as Albertus. His body was a remarkable gauge. An ache here or a pain there gave his predictions the exactness of a sage.

Sure enough, Albertus turned towards the leaden sky. “Ah, we should have snow tomorrow night. I should water,” he said, and added dismissively, “I'll mention the stool to Brother Hugo if I see him in the fields.” He took off down the hillside. Albertus looked after the kitchen gardens and the paradise garden outside of the monk's cemetery. It was his duty to keep the traditional altar flowers and the lilies required for burials. To Volmar it didn't make sense how Albertus always watered his tender plants before a freeze. Miraculously, though, it worked. The next morning they would lie well protected in a thin layer of ice.

Anchorage Window at Disibodenberg Monastery

Monday, 4
^th
of November, Mid-Morning, After Terce

Volmar approached the Anchorage. Samson showed up and curled lazily next to him as he sat on the milking stool in front of the small arched window. A panel at each end was hinged and was now swung open. The leather flap used to block the chill of the winter winds was rolled up and tied. Hildegard's face was obscure in the dark shadows of the window's opening. Hiltrud was sitting with her mending in her lap, illuminated by a beam of late morning light. Her presence was necessary in observance of the unspoken rule that a nun should never be alone with a man. There was a long and awkward silence between them.

Volmar took a moment to consider where they should begin. “Very well, Sister Hildegard, let's start with conjugations in Latin. Repeat
after me:
amo, amas, amat, amamos, amatis, amant.
⁸⁰
” Volmar listened to Hildegard's flawless recitations. As they continued the lesson, Volmar realized that he had greatly underestimated Hildegard's knowledge of Latin.

He concluded their lesson with the ninth stanza of an old hymn,
Vexilla Regis Prodeunt
⁸¹
. “
O Crux ave, spes unica, hoc Passionis tempore! Piis adauge gratiam, reisque dele crimina.
⁸²
” She had understanding far exceeding what he had expected of a young girl trained by widow women. It was incredible how she repeated the words, they were not entirely spoken. The recitations were being sung. Her voice sounded clear, tuneful and strong, the same haunting voice he'd heard in the tree, only richer and with more emotion. The music moved through her entire body and somehow reached out to his soul, calming his restlessness.

When the lesson came to its conclusion, Volmar furrowed his brow, noting his young student's distraction. “Did you receive my message about Judas?”

“Yes, a tragic tale of greed, power and betrayal. Do you feel, dear brother, he is in our midst?” she inquired, almost playfully.

Volmar paused, intrigued once again by the thought that his new student possessed the ability to somehow see future events and to “hear” the thoughts of others. This, coupled with her obvious love of being taught new things and absorbing whatever he said with great enthusiasm, was truly remarkable. For a moment he had to catch his breath. It was something he had never attempted before. He was to be her mentor, her adviser, her faithful scribe. The thought brought him considerable trepidation. Of all people, he was most unworthy. How could one so contrary to acceptable wisdom and teachings be entrusted with such a great responsibility?

“Silence can speak volumes, you know,” Hildegard said with a smile.

Volmar grinned sheepishly, his heart beating rapidly. He was scarcely able to speak, so ensnared by her charms. Then he added slowly, searching for the right words, “I have something for you, for your studies.” Through the window's opening he passed a ten-stringed psaltery. “Brother Hans, the choral director, made me promise to give it only to one gifted in music. It is yours.”

“Oh, it is beautiful.” Hildegard had difficulty suppressing her joy. She leaned forward into the beam of light. Volmar could see how she cradled the instrument like a child. “Look, Hiltrud,” she said, lightly running her fingers over the strings, “there are ten of them, each with a different sound and when you hold the handle like this, the strings have even a richer, deeper sound.” She turned to Volmar. The look on her face far exceeded any repayment for the personal effort he'd gone to. “I will learn to play it right away. Thank you so much, Brother Volmar.”

“Music,” Volmar answered, recalling the old woman's prophecy. “I cannot fathom a sweeter mission to have, in a world lost to decay and disharmony.”

Infirmary at Disibodenberg Monastery

4
^th
of November, Late Evening, After Compline

Paulus drew back the blanket as Atif laid his old friend, Matthias, down onto the cot. The Infirmarian watched as the Persian leaned forward and whispered something in the older man's ear, which caused Matthias to smile. Atif moved away, frustrated that he could do no more for his friend. “Do all you can for him, Brother, I owe him my life.”

Sophie, in her nightdress and embroidered coat, brought Paulus clean towels and stared down at their new patient. “The miraculous healer,” she uttered in surprise. Sophie turned to Paulus. “He's the one I told you about, the stranger in the clearing, who healed my Grandfather two summers ago.”

Matthias met the young girl's eyes with recognition and a steady gaze, remembering too that night long ago in the woods. “I remember well the incident in the clearing . . . the last stages of holy fire. How fares your grandfather now?”

Sophie swallowed hard. “He died from a fall last year—he hit his head.” She hadn't mentioned her grandfather to anyone since the funeral.

“I'm so sorry.” Matthias leaned forward, attempting to straighten his hurt leg, and winced from the pain.

Sophie noticed that on both hands he wore thumb rings of gold. Quietly she resumed her duties, turning to the barrel and drawing out a mug of ale for the Arab foreigner. Paulus studied Sophie with consternation; rarely did he think of her as she once had been, a fragile little girl who showed up at the Infirmary clinging to her dying grandfather. Now she was like his right hand, sitting up late into the night feeding the elderly and wiping their feverish foreheads with tireless patience. Her sensitive nature made her a natural comforter for suffering women and children especially, who came to the Infirmary seeking
Paulus's help. As he predicted, her skillful hands could turn a mere wooden stick into a delicate instrument he could maneuver and use to hold back the healthy flesh while he cut off the dead or diseased parts.

Where he was lacking, she was not. When did she become this capable young woman? Was it the way she filled out her new clothes that accented her maturity, or had her rich wardrobe only brought it glaringly to his attention? This must be like the feeling fathers have for their grown children, Paulus thought, with fond admiration.

Paulus gazed down at his patient with renewed respect. “When you are stronger, I'd like to hear more of your remedies, especially in dealing with holy fire. For now, you must accept our humble ministrations; even healers need help now and then.” Paulus turned to Matthias's injured leg. “You seem to have suffered a bite of some sort, more than likely from a wild dog. Is that right, sir?”

Matthias grimaced and said between his clenched teeth. “A pack of them caught me by surprise two nights ago.”

“That must have been some fight. Some of those males can stand a full three feet high at the shoulder. It is a testimony to your courage that you survived.”

“I'm well protected,” Matthias said, mysteriously patting the pouch under his shirt. “I will not die so long as it's with me.”

Atif was in such a dark mood and so engrossed in watching Paulus's ministrations that he didn't bother to question Matthias's strange assertion. He accepted Sophie's mug of ale with nothing more than a brief nod of gratitude.

Gently, Paulus removed Matthias's worn boot. Then, with a small knife, he cut through the cloth Atif had wrapped around the wound and, with a sponge, he slowly began bathing the wound in warm wine he had boiled and allowed to cool.

Matthias's eyes pinched closed in pain, but he said nothing.

“Atif,” Paulus said, “why don't you take that sweet substance there on the nightstand and simply rub it on Matthias's teeth while I dress his wound. It will help with the pain, and soon he'll be able to sleep.”

Atif lifted the small dish. “What's in it?” he said, sniffing it with interest.

“Believe it or not, the original recipe had at least 70 different ingredients. I've been playing around with the necessity of each of them for years.”

“Let me guess. There's honey, castor oil, opium, myrrh, frankincense, the dried flesh of a viper, and spikenard, the very ointment Mary applied to the feet of Jesus.”

“I'm impressed. Where did you learn of the healing arts?”

“I had a remarkable teacher. I was Matthias's young assistant, many years ago in a hospital in Jerusalem. Back then we called this mixture Theriac.”

“That it is. Galen's own recipe,” Paulus said with pride.

Atif carefully smeared it over Matthias's gums.

“The longer he stays off of that foot, the quicker it will heal.” Paulus rose and stood over Atif, watching as he administered the last of the salve.

Atif looked up. “Is that enough?”

Paulus nodded.

Atif put a hand to Matthias's forehead. “You'll feel light-headed in a moment, my friend; don't fight it. Give in to the sensation. It will help you sleep.” He extended his hand and gripped Matthias' frightfully cold palm in his. “Life is long. We will meet again another day, in a better place than this.”

Matthias nodded with understanding and struggled to reply. “You've been away too long from your own people. God be with you.”

Atif rose hesitantly. Paulus showed him a basin where he could wash his hands, and gave him a towel to dry off. “Come, we will know by morning if our efforts have helped. You need a good night's rest as well, my friend. The cot beside your friend is free for the night.”

“Thank you, Brother Paulus, you have been most kind. If my friend is better by morning, I'll take my leave.”

As was customary after Compline
⁸³
, Paulus left his new arrivals and began sprinkling each bed with holy water and saying a prayer. Sophie returned to bed, her sensitive nature deeply conflicted. She couldn't shake the feeling that something terrible was about to happen.

Infirmary at Disibodenberg Monastery

During the Night of the 5
^th
of November, Before Matins

Atif stretched out on the cot, appreciative of not having to sleep another night on the cold ground. With no need to seem strong for anyone to see, he lay down on the bed with a groan and curled onto his side. The fire in the hearth gave off a steady glow. For a while he listened attentively to the uneven breathing of Matthias. One good deed could not erase the damage he'd caused for so many, he thought grimly. This was certainly the last place he should have returned to. He thought again about his terrible treachery and how he had betrayed his friend Reginald's resistance to the Emperor's cause. Now they were wasting away imprisoned because of his own desire to return home to Jerusalem. Surely, the Abbot, a friend and ally of the Archbishop, would not take long to point fingers at him. The chasm of hatred he'd created could never be undone.

At long last, Matthias's breathing settled into a steady, predictable pattern. Atif sighed. His friend must be mercifully asleep. Shadowy movements of strangers settling down on their cots for the night suggested a world he was eager to leave behind as he too drifted off to sleep.

Atif awoke sometime during the night. He opened his eyes and saw two men staring down at Matthias. He watched in horror as they searched through his old friend's travel bag at the foot of his bed. Atif gingerly reached for his scimitar in the satchel by his knees. He drew in a hissing breath of anger and flung himself on the man closest to him. “Don't move,” he whispered into the ear of the thief, “or you will feel how sharp this blade is. You?” he muttered in disbelief. He turned the head of the man in his grasp. “What are you two still doing here, and why are you searching my friend's belongings?”